The lady of the manor (Volume 3)

SIXTH COMMANDMENT--THOU SHALT DO NO MURDER

The lady of the manor, finding herself again surrounded by her young people, asked one of them to repeat the sixth commandment, viz. "Thou shalt do no murder," which was to furnish the subject for conversation during the evening.

"I remember the time, and indeed it is not a very distant one," remarked one of the young ladies, "when I should have said, 'Here at least I am guiltless; here at least I am safe: I never committed murder, that is very certain.'"

"And would you not venture to assert as much now, my dear Miss Emmeline?" said the lady of the manor, smiling.

The young lady shook her head, and replied, "No, no; I have already been brought in guilty in every conversation, and now I dare not plead innocence on any occasion."

"Until we are made sensible of the spirituality and extent of the law of God, my dear young people," remarked their excellent instructress, "we may possibly buoy ourselves up with the idea that we have duly observed some parts of it; but those persons who have enlarged views on this subject cannot possibly deceive themselves in this manner. Hence the importance of studying the law, and regarding it as our schoolmaster to bring us to Christ: for when any individual is convinced that he is condemned on every side by the law, he sees himself compelled to fly for safety to the Gospel.

"But, to leave the law in general, and to recur to that particular part of it now chosen for our consideration, let us meditate upon these words, viz. 'Thou shalt do no murder;' and endeavour thoroughly to comprehend the nature of that thing from which we are here commanded to abstain.

"'Thou shalt do no murder:' that is, thou shalt not cause or countenance the death of any fellow-creature. The question then is, What is this death which we are forbidden to inflict?

"In reply, I remark, that, as man partakes of a two-fold nature, so that by which alone he can be wholly destroyed must also be of a two-fold nature. The first death is, therefore, two-fold, namely, temporal and spiritual; besides which there is a second death, that takes place when the first death is completed."

The lady then proceeded to describe the several parts and natures of the first and second death, and spoke to this effect--"Temporal Death is the separation of the soul from the body.

"Spiritual Death is the separation of soul and body from God's favour in this life, which is the natural state of all unregenerate persons, who are all destitute of the quickening powers of grace.

"Eternal Death (called the second death) consists in the everlasting separation of the whole man from God.

"And as the first death is two-fold," continued the lady of the manor, "and is followed by a second death so also is the first life two-fold, consisting of the natural and spiritual life, and these are succeeded by that which is eternal. Adam, by his disobedience, made his children liable to death in all its forms; and Christ, by his obedience, abolished death, and brought life and immortality to light. [2 Tim. i. I0.] All living creatures on earth are subject to temporal death; all unregenerate persons are under the dominion of spiritual death; and all men who die unrenewed will be delivered over to eternal death. Temporal death is the mildest and least to be dreaded of any of these modes of death: and hence the Saviour provides no exemption from this, which is, at most, but a light affliction, enduring only for a moment; but, on the contrary, calls on his children to submit to it with joy and rejoicing, inasmuch as it promotes their entrance into glory.

"I have now," continued the lady of the manor, "explained to you, my dear children, the nature of death; and will proceed next to point out the various modes in which that commandment which saith, 'Thou shalt do no murder,' may be transgressed.

"If," proceeded the lady of the manor, "I, through design or negligence, hasten the dissolution of my own body or that of any other human being, I am, in fact, guilty of murder. If I privately desire the death of any one in order to advance what I suppose to be my own interest, I am guilty of murder in thought and before God. For it is written, Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him. [I John iii. I5.] All ambitious and vindictive expressions partake of the nature of murder, and frequently tend to it in a direct way. All wars and fightings, except in actual self-defence, and after all other means have been tried without success to preserve peace, undoubtedly partake of the same character. But inasmuch as wars between nations are commonly beyond the province of females in retired life, I say the less on this part of my subject; only remarking, that it should be the object of every woman on all occasions to promote peace, and to inspire the mind of her husband, brothers, or sons, with the dread of occasioning death in any form.

"It is, I trust," continued the lady of the manor, "almost needless, in the present day, to remark that the practice of duelling is nothing more nor less than a genteel way of committing murder; and I am sorry to add, that I fear there are few duels of which women, if not the occasions, are not the instigators and promoters. It is astonishing how careless even some of the fondest mothers are in the sentiments which they utter before their sons on the subject of duelling, and how they maintain those sentiments of false honour which cherish this practice, so contrary to every principle of that religion generally professed in this country. It is remarkable also, that nearly all female novel-writers formerly maintained the necessity of duelling; and even some at the present day are guilty of the same offence against morality. This same cruel and bloodthirsty spirit may also be observed to pervade every page of the ancient writings of the heathen; and it is in this particular that I consider these writings as being more contrary to the spirit of Christianity than in any other circumstance belonging to them. Granting that it were possible to weed the classic writers from such passages as offend a delicate ear on other subjects, I maintain, that it would be as impossible to clear them of their vainglorious and cruel sentiments, as it would be to separate the warp and woof, and yet leave the weaver's work in any other state than that of a mere confused heap of threads and ends. But, as much has been said on a former occasion on the subject of heathen writers in your presence, my dear young people, I shall here be the less diffuse; and proceed to remark, that all historians, without any other exception than those of the sacred records, abet the cause of war, bloodshed, and murder. Not one of these, as far as I can recollect, explains the causes of war to be what they are, viz, the lusts and passions of mankind, or makes the proper distinction between the real hero, who gives up his life in defence of his country, and the conquerer who indulges his lust of victory at the expence of thousands of his fellow-creatures.

"It may also be observed," continued the lady, "that the greater number of the admired poets of the present day, like so many bloodhounds, (if the expression may be allowed me,) mingle in the same cry; and in their writings bloodshed and murder of every description are exalted to heaven under the name of glory. This spirit, so contrary to Christianity, mixes itself more or less in most conversations, and is as frequently supported by the smiles of females as by the approbation of the hardier sex."

Here the lady of the manor paused, and the young ladies expressed some astonishment, or, rather, something like alarm, at finding themselves, and even the whole world, implicated in one dreadful charge.

"My dear young people," returned the lady, "be not surprised to find yourselves thus condemned. Have I not from the first laboured to convince you of sin in general, and does it astonish you to find that you are also under condemnation in every particular? How is it possible for you so to have read the Holy Scriptures, as not yet to be convinced that you are individually guilty of the death of Christ, and that you repeat this offence whenever you commit sin? Every one who, after having known the way of righteousness, turns away from thence, crucifies to himself the Son of God afresh, and again puts the Holy One to open shame. Murderers then we all are, my dear young people, and by nature the children of him who was a murderer from the beginning."

"What you say, Madam, is certainly true," replied Miss Emmeline; "but I never saw this subject in such a light before: for it is only a very short time since I should have said with Hazael, 'Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?'"

The lady of the manor then proceeded to make the following observations. "The human race, my beloved young people, are, in the Scriptures, classed into two orders; viz, those who are led by the Spirit of God, and those who live according to the flesh. These are so mingled with each other in society, and are frequently so confounded by human weakness and the remaining influence of sin on the one hand, and worldly wisdom and cunning on the other, that no mere man, however discerning, is able accurately to distinguish, on all occasions, between the real child of God and the mere professor. As, we, however, are not to judge each other, it is not necessary for us to look any further into these matters than may be requisite to our right understanding of the Christian character in general. I have laboured, in our examination of those commandments which have already passed before us, to shew their spiritual nature and tendency; and not only to prove that we are condemned by each, but also to explain the faultless obedience which is required of every individual--an obedience which no mere man has ever yet been able to accomplish. It is now my wish to state to you the nature of that principle in the creature which, being followed up to its end, is neither more nor less than universal destruction, ruin, and death.

It is certain, that the Almighty, in his infinite wisdom, has allowed to all men (to speak only of this earth) their times, and the bounds of their habitation. Every mortal has his appointed season, and his allotted dwelling-place; and to walk his little time on earth in that his prescribed place, with humility and obedience, is the sum of human wisdom. To do that which the Lord would have him do, to mark the notices of the divine will, and to be ready to go and come at the divine command,--this is the substance of religion; and is dictated by that spirit, which, were it to become universal, would restore the glories of Eden, and make the earth one universal paradise. But the unregenerated man, and he who is but partially delivered from the bonds of Satan, is unable to understand this mystery. He cannot content himself with his situation on earth, and is always anxious either to quit his appointed place, or to vary its attendant circumstances. He always desires something which he sees in the possession of others; and is only restrained from depriving them of the objects desired, by want of power, fear of punishment, dread of shame, or, if he be partly reformed, by something like principle, which prevents him from actually causing that evil to his neighbour in which he still secretly rejoices when occasioned by another.

"But, in order to understand the ultimate tendency of this spirit, we must divest it of its restraints; we must remove the hedges of thorns with which the Lord, in his infinite mercy, so frequently encompasses the ways of those whose salvation he has sworn to accomplish: and we must endue the individual who is actuated by this spirit, with temporal power, with talents, and with health; and then we shall not long be left without a proof, that the character which aims to advance self is neither more nor less than that of a murderer, and that religion itself often proves too weak to restrain such an one from sacrificing every other feeling to that of his own exaltation.

"In order, my dear young people," continued the lady of the manor, "to open your minds on this subject, I would strongly recommend to your attention the study of history; beginning with that of the ancients, as it is found in Scripture, and proceeding downwards to the present day, according to the plan traced in the tenth chapter of Genesis: and you will then discover, that these records of ancient and modern times contain little more than the results of multitudes of experiments, made amidst a great variety of circumstances, by kings, heroes, philosophers, and more ordinary men, for securing happiness to themselves, and in their own way inducing others to embrace it: and you will also be convinced of the total failure of all these experiments; and, if the divine blessing attends your studies, you will grow wiser by these multitudes of examples, and will learn to be content in that situation in which God has placed you, satisfied to see yourselves excelled by others, and having no other wish than to be found standing in your lot at the end of your days.

"And now," said the lady of the manor, "as I have kept your attention for some time on what I should call a somewhat dry discussion, I will, if you will permit me, read a little narrative which I happen to have by me, and which I select from any other I could choose on this subject, because it does not affect the ordinary cases of the destruction of the body--a crime which is looked upon with a just abhorrence in civilized society--but relates to that more refined sort of destruction which consists in allowing selfish and ambitious feelings to interfere with the spiritual good of others, and by these means inflicts spiritual death, as far as it lies in the power of man so to do, upon our fellow-creatures; a species of murder supposed by some to be described in the Psalms, under the term of blood-guiltiness, from which the royal psalmist entreats the Lord to preserve him--Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation: and uphold me with thy free Spirit: then will I teach transgressors thy ways; and sinners shall be converted unto thee. Deliver me from blood-guiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation; and my tongue shall sing aloud of thy righteousness. [Psalm ii. I2--I4.]

"From the time when I first had the honour of becoming your instructress," proceeded the lady, "I have endeavoured to draw your attention to the defects of persons in polished life, and in religious society, where gross vices are seldom tolerated, and where sin must assume a decent garment in order to be endured; and it is with this view that I am about to treat of this subject of murder in its more recondite, but, probably, scarcely less fatal, form."

The lady of the manor then took out a little manuscript, and read--

THE STORY OF THE TWO MINISTERS

In a large manufacturing town in the north of England there formerly resided a certain tradesman, who, with his wife, obtained good employment, and lived in great credit, in the hope of long enjoying these advantages; when the worthy couple were both suddenly cut off by a contagious fever which at that time raged in the town. By their deaths, their only son Edmund was left an orphan at the tender age of two years; and, as little property remained after all the affairs were settled, the child would have been reduced to a very destitute situation, had not an aunt of his father, a single woman, of very excellent character, received him into her house with the intention of adopting him as her own child.

This lady, by name Mrs. Mary Stephens, had, through divine grace, been enabled to devote herself, for some years past, to the service of God. Her fortune was easy, and her wants few; and in order to have but little worldly care, and more time and money to devote to the service of her neighbours, she lodged and boarded in a worthy, though humble, family, and thus was disencumbered from the charge of providing her own table.

Mrs. Stephens, though not brought up in polished life, yet, having been early led by divine grace into a knowledge of that which is right, had been enabled to cast away those petty and unimportant cares and employments which too often fill the female mind, and had occupied herself for many years in reading such books, and performing such works, as rendered her best fit to administer spiritual and temporal help to those around her. She had become fond of reading. She took particular delight in Scripture, and also in profane history, because it threw light on certain obscure parts of Scripture. She loved sacred music and sacred poetry, and cultivated her taste for both. And thus, though plain in her outward appearance, and reserved in her general manner, there were at that time few women whose society was so delightful in private as that of Mrs. Mary Stephens.

The first recollection which little Edmund Stephens had of his infancy, was that of finding himself drinking tea at a small round table with the lady above described, The room in which they sat was very long and wide, though low. It was wainscoted with oak, and a large casement window at one end stood in a bow, raised from the rest of the apartment by a single step. It was winter time, and a fire blazed on the hearth. The chimney-piece was adorned with a set of blue Dutch tiles, all in perfect preservation, each of them presenting some scene from Scripture history; and a plate of toast-and-butter stood before the fire on a stand of bright black ebony tipped with silver.

This scene of the tea-table no doubt often recurred during the first winter of Edmund's residence with his aunt; but he recollected it as if it had only happened once: and he remembered also, that, after tea, his aunt took him on her lap, and gave him his first ideas of the immortality of his soul, of what his Saviour had done for him, and of the happiness of heaven and misery of hell.

The next thing he remembered, was a course of little lectures, which his kind protectress gave him on the subjects depictured upon the tiles; and no doubt these lectures were repeated over and over again, as, even in after life, he carried in his mind's eye the various groups represented on each blue varnished picture of the chimney-piece, from the representation of Adam and Eve in Paradise, to that of the Day of Pentecost and the cloven tongues, which finished the series. Nor was it historical information merely which this excellent woman gave her little nephew on the subjects suggested by the painted chimney-piece. She knew that the scheme of salvation by Christ runs like a golden thread through the whole tissue of Scripture, and she failed not to point out this golden clew to her little boy, and caused him, as much as she could, to seize it every where, and hold it fast on every occasion. Thus, of Edmund Stephens, as of Timothy, it might truly have been said, that from a child he was made to know the Holy Scriptures, which are able to make us wise unto salvation, through faith which is in Christ Jesus. For all Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness: that the man of God may be thoroughly furnished unto all good works.

Thus the good aunt adopted the first easy mode which suggested itself of convoying spiritual instruction to the mind of her little pupil; neither did she fail to follow up, by every other means which she could think of, that which she had so happily commenced. This sweet passage from the Prophet Isaiah was continually present with her, and afforded a perpetual motive of action--Whom shall he teach knowledge? and whom shall he make to understand doctrine? them that are weaned from the milk, and drawn from the breasts. For precept must be upon precept, precept upon precept; line upon line, line upon line; here a little, and there a little. [Isaiah xxviii. 9, I0.]

It was Mrs. Mary Stephens's wish that her nephew should become a minister of the Church of England; and as she was aware that, in order to his acquisition of that knowledge of the learned languages which is thought necessary for those who are to be admitted to ordination, he must, after a while, be in a great measure removed from under her eye, she was particularly anxious to make the best of those nursery years so precious to every tender mother or teacher, in which the beloved nursling is altogether her own. To lose no opportunity of inspiring her little boy with pious sentiments, to make him acquainted with the word of God in all particulars, was therefore her chief and constant object; and, during this interval, it was wonderful to observe the various points of view in which this excellent aunt caused him to search and examine the Scriptures. To trace the Saviour under his various types and emblems, was one of the favourite exercises in which she delighted to occupy her nephew.

At one time, she would point out to him the first appearance in Scripture of the second Person of the Holy Trinity, under the type of light, which, at the command of the Creator, poured itself on the dark face of the earth; and then she shewed him how this light was embodied, on the fourth day of the creation, in the substance of the sun, that heavenly luminary thus becoming the image of the God incarnate, who in the fifth millennial was revealed to man in human flesh in the person of Christ. Hence she led him to trace this emblem through Scripture, in all its various bearings, until she brought him to the completion of all things, when the man Christ, having finished his office, and delivered up all things unto the Father, it shall be said, The city hath no need of the sun to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. [Rev. xxi. 23.]

Another time she would point out to him the signification of the six days appointed for labour, and of the seventh set apart from the beginning of the world for a holy rest, and explain to him the typical meaning of the Sabbath; thus opening to his young mind such fields of beauty and scenes of glory in the latter days, as would fill his imagination for hours, and give him a subject for divine study and contemplation for days together.

Frequently, also, would she make him trace the notices of our blessed Saviour under the type of the lamb, from the period in which he first appeared under that emblem on the altar of Abel till he shall shine triumphantly in the New Jerusalem, having accomplished the mighty work of man's redemption, And, as the mind of the little boy expanded, she again drew his attention to the Saviour, not in his state of the victim only, but in that of the Conqueror and the King.

But there was no character of our Lord throughout the Holy Scriptures which she caused her little pupil to study with greater attention than that of the Shepherd; pointing out the disinterestedness and the devotedness of the True Shepherd for his flock, and continually holding up this example to his love and admiration. And then she would again lead him to those views of future blessedness held forth under the type of the Sabbath, when the promises shall be fulfilled; and the Lord will save his flock, and they shall no more be a prey; and he will set up one shepherd over them, even his servant David, and he will feed them, and be their shepherd; and they shall dwell safely in the wilderness, and sleep in the woods.

On these occasions, this excellent woman would give her little pupil such views of the last millennial glory, and of that blessed time when judgment shall dwell in the wilderness, and righteousness remain in the fruitful field, and the work of righteousness shall be peace, and the effect of righteousness quietness and assurance for ever, that he would often say, "Dear aunt, when will these things be? O that the chief Shepherd would come very soon, and gather his flock together!"

But, were I to enter into all the various views of Scripture which Mrs. Mary Stephens gave to her little pupil, I should be compelled to protract my narrative to an unwarrantable length. Suffice it therefore to say, that this good woman, always bearing in mind that she was educating a minister, considered, that if, through her negligence and ignorance, his character did not attain to that extent of usefulness which it might, otherwise, have reached, she might justly be numbered among those of whom it is said, Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh! [Matt. xviii. 7.]

Resolved, with the divine blessing, to set her whole heart to the work, and to spare no effort by which she might advance the spiritual welfare of her little nephew, when Edmund had entered his tenth year, his aunt thought she ought no longer to delay placing him under the care of some person who could carry on his education in those branches of knowledge, for the teaching of which she was herself incompetent. Accordingly, she enquired for the schoolmaster of the highest repute in the town, and placed her boy under his care as a day-scholar. By this arrangement, she enjoyed some of his company every day, and was able to continue her plan of religious instruction in some degree as formerly. She found, however, when her little pupil entered more into the world, and was made to learn most of his lessons in books the tendency of which was not religious, that she had a more difficult task in instructing him, than when all he heard was promotive of that which is right.

It is often asserted, that such and such a book is perfectly innocent, although its tendency is no way pious: but perhaps it may afterwards be found, that every book which is not written with a view, more or less, to the support of Christian morals on Christian principles, is so far from innocent, that it is decidedly hurtful. It was one of the maxims of Lycurgus, that every man must declare himself of one party or another, and that he who stands neuter, must be considered as an enemy to the state. And, to quote a higher authority to the same purport, our Lord says, "He that is not with me is against me; and he that gathereth not with me scattereth abroad." [Matt. xii. 30.]

Mrs. Mary Stephens had hitherto brought up her nephew with one simple decided view. She had directed his infant gaze to the Star of Bethlehem; and whenever it seemed to wander from that bright object, she had carefully endeavoured to restore its tendency, and had found some new resource to awaken its attention. She had cherished in the child a pure and simple state of feeling with regard to religion, which she had always represented as the only needful thing, to which every other ought to be entirely subservient. "Whether you eat, or whether you drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God," was the one single motive of conduct perpetually impressed on the boy.

Having therefore proceeded thus far with such decided simplicity and perfect success, she was very well able to judge of the effect upon the feelings of little Edmund, when, in the course of common education, ordinary motives of conduct were presented to his young mind. In order, however, if possible, to counteract the hurtful effects of the lessons he daily learned, she accustomed him, every evening, to shew his translations to her, or to construe his exercises in her presence; and she then endeavoured to explain to him where the heathen writers failed in their ideas of religion and morality, and pointed out in what manner Scripture treated the same subjects, and how it decided on the same points of morality.

Thus this excellent woman in some degree prevented her nephew from being corrupted by false sentiments and worldly instructions; notwithstanding which, she often had reason to lament those arbitrary decrees of the world by which the education of Christian children is so very far removed from Christian simplicity.

In the mean time, through the divine blessing on the pure instructions and conversation of his aunt, Edmund Stephens attained the age of fourteen without yielding to any of the temptations of a public school. Every Christian preceptor must be sensible, that when all that man can do for a pupil has been done, yet that all is so little, and so wholly incapable of effecting the requisite change of heart which must take place ere a soul can be received into glory, that we can hardly wonder if some should despair when they do not immediately see the blessing of God upon their labours. Nevertheless, those who have faith in Him who has said, I will pour my Spirit upon thy seed, and my blessing upon thine off-spring; and they shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the water-courses, [Isaiah xliv. 3, 4,] will not be weary of well-doing; but will persevere in planting and watering, doubting not but that the increase will be given in its due season.

Such, however, being the case, it should be a matter of peculiar thankfulness when a parent or teacher finds the divine blessing attending immediately upon his work. This was a favour especially bestowed upon Mrs. Mary Stephens; and her nephew, at fourteen years of age, displayed a decision of character not often attained by advanced Christians. Nevertheless, this excellent boy never pushed himself forward to public observation: his good qualities, therefore, passed unobserved, in general, by those about him; and if his masters and school-fellows thought of him at all, it was merely as of an harmless, inoffensive little fellow, who had nothing in him.

To be thought harmless and inoffensive, is, however, a matter much to be desired, although the world thinks little of it. It is what Christians should seek to be; and many greatly mar their usefulness by making themselves otherwise, either by over forwardness, or by a coarse and unamiable carriage. Edmund had been taught by his aunt, from his earliest childhood, that this world was not to be his home or his resting-place, and that he must, as a Christian, shun occasions of being praised or admired, or of bringing himself forward as an object of attention. On this principle he accordingly acted; and, in consequence, pursued his quiet course little regarded by any one.

Edmund had remained at school till his fourteenth year without forming any particular attachment; for there was so marked a difference between his general mode of thinking and acting and those of the other boys, that nothing like friendship had as yet grown between him and any individual among them: but at this time, a boy came to the school, a little older than himself, who had something in his general appearance which attracted Edmund, though he knew not wherefore.

This boy, by name Francis Parnel, was the son of a country curate. His father's family were esteemed pious, and Francis entered the school with the character of being a very religious boy; indeed, this character had been indiscreetly given of him by his father when he introduced him to the master in the presence of the other boys.

Whether Francis was or was not this pious boy at that time, we do not wish to decide; but certainly he wanted some of the best evidences of true religion. Although far from being a handsome or elegant boy, or even particularly clever, he had a high opinion of himself, and was acutely alive to every indignity which might be put upon him; nay, he was very apt to fancy some circumstance in the most common accident indicative of disrespect to himself. He was, in short, precisely such a character as the common run of schoolboys love to torment.

Young Parnel had been told by his father that he would be persecuted for his religion at school, but that he hoped he would stand firm, like the martyrs of old. From being thus indiscreetly addressed, the boy fell into two mistakes: one was, that he fancied himself to be a very advanced Christian; and the other, that every other boy in the school was a decided profligate, and that a violent persecution would infallibly break out against him as soon as he should evince his own decided Christian character. Agreeably, therefore, with these views of himself and of his schoolfellows, the first time it occurred to him that he ought to read his Bible, instead of quietly withdrawing to his usual place, and taking out his Bible without parade, he placed himself in a very public part of the room, and whenever any boy came near him, declared, in a determined and resolute manner, that he considered himself ill used in being thus frequently interrupted while reading the Scriptures.

This was indeed a spice of the same spirit as that which led some of the early Christians to the stake, when even their enemies would rather that they should have made their escape.

As might be expected, the spirit of persecution was soon excited against poor Francis to the utmost extent of his ambition, and he was made to undergo an incredible number of petty torments for one whole evening; all of which he endured with the patience of a martyr. But when these vexatious were renewed in the morning, poor Francis Parnel's Christian heroism wholly forsook him; and when Edmund Stephens arrived at school from his aunt's lodgings, he found the whole play-ground in an uproar, and Francis Parnel dealing out his blows in such right good earnest, that he had already endowed two or three of his schoolfellows with the marks of his prowess.

Edmund was not a little surprised to find the new corner (whom he had been taught to suppose was to set an example of every thing that was Christian-like) engaged in a warfare like this, and that with persons with whom he had scarcely spent twenty-four hours: but when he was made to understand the occasion of this furious contest, he was still more astonished; and particularly because he himself had been in the habit of carrying a Pocket-Bible, and using it publicly, ever since he came to the school, and had never met with any other symptom of persecution on that account, than now and then a significant glance or wink, given by one boy to another, with some kind of expression of mock commendation of Edmund Stephens's piety. Edmund was therefore much surprised to find the spirit of persecution suddenly grown to so formidable a height; neither could he help attributing it to the right cause, namely, the offensive manner of the persecuted party.

Edmund was, however, equally hurt by the little command which Francis Parnel seemed to have over himself, and by the open breaking out of profane expressions which this want of self-command in the young Christian had produced in the school; and by this scene he was suddenly and practically convinced of a truth which his aunt had often stated to him--that nothing so thoroughly and completely mars the influence of religion as the unsubdued passions of its protestors. Edmund, however, had no time to meditate on this subject; he now felt himself called upon to act, and to shew that part of his character which hitherto had not appeared, namely, courage and decision, of which few boys had so large a share. He walked up to the combatants, and seizing the arm of Francis with a firm grasp, he warded off all opponents with a strength which was found irresistible, saying, at the same time, with holy and invincible firmness, "I thought that you, Parnel, were a professor of the religion of the meek and humble Jesus! What then have you to do with combats of this kind?"

"And who are you?" returned Francis, with considerable agitation; "who are you, who take the name of Christ in this manner?"

"Edmund Stephens," replied the other: "and I require you either to give up your pretensions to religion, or to relinquish this mode of conduct."

While these few words were passing between Parnel and Stephens, the latter had to endure several blows from Parnel's adversaries; from which blows he only attempted to defend himself by keeping them off from his face, and by saying to the ringleader, "Let me alone, Johnson; you know that I never fight."

By this time the whole school were gathered round the three boys, and all with one accord called upon Johnson to let Edmund Stephens alone. And some of the nobler spirits among them said, "We dare to call any boy coward who attacks Stephens and his Bible; but as to Parnel and his religion, they are fair play. Parnel can give blow for blow with the best of us; he can use the same weapons as we do."

Parnel, who had by this time been brought somewhat to reason by the pleadings of Stephens, reddened violently on hearing these last contemptuous expressions concerning himself and his religion, and was about to break out again into some bitter invectives in return, when Edmund Stephens, who had never let his arm go, drew him from the crowd, and led him to a retired part of the play-ground. There he conversed with him very seriously upon his conduct. "You profess to be more than a nominal Christian, Parnel," said Edmund: "are you aware what such a profession requires of you, and how much injury you may do to the souls of your school-fellows by conduct so disgraceful, united with professions so high?"

Young Parnel endeavoured to excuse his conduct, which he well knew wanted excuse, by representing how much he had been provoked.

"Provoked!" repeated Stephens; "and did not you excite this provocation by your hot and irritable manner? Excuse my freedom, dear schoolfellow," added he, seeing the tears start in Parnel's eyes; "excuse me, Christian brother, and do not be offended, if I tell you that your religion wants the very corner-stone on which it should be built, and for want of which it cannot stand. Look less to Francis Parnel, and think less of him, and more of Christ who died for him; and you will then find fewer provocations and insults in the world, and you will be allowed to read your Bible and say your prayers without disturbance."

Edmund then took out his Pocket-Bible, which, by its worn and soiled appearance, indicated its having been long in constant use, and referred to several passages upon the subject of humility.--Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. A man's pride shall bring him low: but honour shall uphold the humble in spirit. [Prov. xvi. I8. xxix. 23.] For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones. [Isaiah lvii. I5.]

Edmund's pious discourse at length succeeded in composing the mind of young Parnel, and the two boys shortly afterwards entered the school-room together; where, in compliment to Edmund Stephens, Parnel was received by his schoolfellows as if nothing unpleasant had happened on his part: and being afterwards continually withheld by his humble friend from displaying his heroic spirit, he was allowed to read his Bible whenever he chose without further molestation. Francis Parnel had, however, conceived such a dislike to those boys who had expressed contempt of him and of his religion, that he never felt himself quite happy at school; and as he had attached himself very closely to Edmund Stephens, he became exceedingly anxious to become an inmate in Mrs. Mary Stephens's house, and attend the school as a day-scholar with Edmund. Accordingly, when the next holidays arrived, he made his wishes known to his father, and engaged him to ask this favour of Mrs. Mary Stephens.

This pious woman, whose sole object through life had been to do good rather than to consult her own feelings, was not inexorable to the entreaties of the father, or the wishes of the son; and, finding that it would not be unpleasant to Edmund, she allowed Francis to become a sharer of the little room and bed occupied by her nephew.

Things being thus arranged, after the Christmas holidays, Francis Parnel became an inmate of Mrs. Mary Stephens's house, and the constant companion of Edmund.

It now appeared, that Francis might be amiable, could he be brought to think less of himself and of the world, and to devote himself more entirely to the service of God. But the same error which pervades too many places of education in the Christian world had evidently been blended with the instructions that he had received. Mixed motives of action had been given to this boy, motives of action replete with spiritual death. He had been told that learning was necessary, not only for the elucidation of Scripture, (for which alone it ought to be valued,) but in order to advance him in his school, in the University, in society, and in the Church. He had also been taught that humility was requisite towards God, but that dignity of carriage and spirit were requisite from man to man; and while the character of the man Christ had been at times held up to him as the most perfect model of human excellence, the characters of heathens, as described by their own historians, had afforded the subject of his daily lessons.

Thus, in these and a thousand other instances, had contradictory motives of action been, either directly or indirectly, infused into the mind of this youth; in consequence of which, his conversation displayed a constant series of contradictions for whereas, through the divine mercy, some of the good seed had taken root and sprung up, the weeds and rubbish so choked them, that they could neither gain strength, nor bring forth fruit. And, in consequence, though Mrs. Mary Stephens believed that the root of the matter was in him, there was so much inconstancy and variableness in his character, that she feared be never would become a useful minister.

During the long winter evenings, after the boys were returned from school, Mrs. Mary Stephens always made a point of introducing such conversation as she thought best calculated to promote the spiritual good of the young people, both of whom were intended to become pastors of the flock of Christ; and on these occasions she used to point out the exceeding and awful responsibility of the ministerial character and functions. And, first, she explained to them that, as much as in man lay, the ministers of Christ were the appointed ministers of life; according to the words of the apostle, which saith, Who hath appointed us able ministers of the New Testament, not of the letter, but of the spirit: for the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life. [2 Cor. iii. 6.]

"Thus then," said she, "spiritual life and spiritual death are as certainly in the hands of the ministers of Christ, as the natural life is in the hands and under the command of the physician: and that minister, who, through an overweening love of self, through indolence, or any other motive, fails to deliver his message simply to his congregation, becomes as much the spiritual murderer of his people, as the man who in the days of famine withholds the public stores allotted by government to a starving population is the cause of their natural death. And this awful remark," continued she, "may not only be made in the case of ministers, but in that of parents and teachers, and of all persons in every situation of responsibility, or possessing any influence over any single individual of the human race. Those who, through selfishness, or the undue indulgence of any passion, be it pride, or be it ambition, or be it vanity, or be it sensuality, or be it what it will, if it in any way prevents their administering spiritual nourishment to those dependent on them, or over whom they have any influence from situation or other cause, become guilty, as much as in them lies, in a most awful sense, of the breach of that commandment which saith.--'Thou shalt do no murder.'

"But inasmuch," proceeded she, "as it may be said, that it lies not in the power of man to withhold spiritual life and light from his fellow-creatures, it being an accepted doctrine of the Church, and one upheld by Scripture and the very nature of things, that those who are to be saved were predestinated to salvation before the foundation of the world, according to the seventeenth article of the Church--'Predestination to life is the everlasting purpose of God, whereby (before the foundations of the world were laid) he hath constantly decreed by his counsel, secret to us, to deliver from curse and damnation those whom he hath chosen in Christ out of mankind;'--I answer, that if the salvation of the soul cannot be counteracted by the malice of man, neither is it possible for one individual, however resolute his hatred may be, to destroy, by death, the body of another, unless it is the will of God it should be so. For it is written in the book of Job, The days of man are determined, the number of his months are with thee. [Job xiv. 5.]

"Men, therefore, in either case, as ministers of life or of death, can be no more than instruments in the hands of the Almighty. To be instruments, therefore, of good is what we ought to seek; and though offences must come, we must recollect that woe is pronounced on that man by whom they shall come."

The excellent lady would then proceed to describe that state of mind which fits an individual for spiritual usefulness; and, though without intending it, precisely drew that character of which the world cannot appreciate the value.

And, first, she remarked, that a Christian teacher ought to have a deep sense of sin, which is absolutely necessary to his right estimation of the value of a Saviour. He that does not feel himself sick, will not require the aid of a physician, and he that has not felt his own sickness, will not know how to sympathize with another in the same situation.

"A man who would be useful," proceeded she, "as a Christian instructor, ought to have a very deep knowledge of Scripture, neither should he ever allow human learning to divert him from that one necessary study, though he will gladly and eagerly seek to discover and apply all the light which it may be able to reflect upon any obscure passage in the holy Word.

"The minister of Christ," added she, "should have no desire to be exalted upon earth, and no wish but for the general extension and stability of Christ's kingdom. He belongeth not to the kingdoms of the world, and has no part in them; and therefore, as the ancient Romans laboured for the exaltation of their city, willingly giving up their lives for its glory, so he, while exerting a similar spirit in a better cause, ought only to desire the prosperity of Christ's Church on earth, and wish alone that he might be employed in the promotion of this mighty work, if it were only in removing a little of the rubbish which encumbers the place of its foundations. He ought not to embroil himself with the petty discords of the day; but should make a point of taking every man by the hand who loves his Saviour and speaks in his name. And though he may be particularly attached to his own form of worship and peculiar household, yet he will not presume to mar the work, or weaken the influence, of any individual who gives evidence of his being on the side of the Lord, lest, haply, he should be found fighting against his God."

In this manner Mrs. Mary Stephens used to converse with these youths who were under her care, and she also took especial delight in giving them such views as prophecy would allow of the kingdom of Christ on earth, in that blessed period when the mountain of the Lord's house shall be established in the top of the mountains, and shall be exalted above the hills, and many nations shall flow unto it. [Micah iv. I.] It was her opinion, that were this unheeded doctrine of the millennium more studied, and received with a purer feeling of faith, it would prove a grand means of improving the motives of action of a young Christian. "A youth who has just finished his studies in some celebrated academy, or other place of education," she would often say, "is very apt to imagine that he knows all that is to be known, or at least that his acquirements put him upon a footing with age and experience; not being aware that there is no mode of education, however wisely arranged, no habits, however judiciously formed, and faithfully attended to, which can give the wisdom of maturity to young persons. Human learning is by no means found to produce this effect; and when the judgment is naturally weak, it is known often to have a contrary influence, as it has a frequent tendency to excite vanity. The state of mind, therefore, in which young people leave their studies is commonly an unfavourable one with respect to their well-doing as Christians; and it is often found that the mind of youth at this time is remarkably full of prejudices, and that the young individual is disposed to despise all conditions of men, all orders of government, and modes of society, which differ from certain views of perfection that he may have been led to embrace. He considers every man as a schismatic who does not worship God precisely in his own way, and counts every individual an ignoramus who has not passed through the same precise train of instruction as himself; neither can he believe that there may be other constitutions and modes of discipline, both in church and state, which may have some excellencies, though they differ from his own.

"By the sober part of young people such notions are commonly held; while by those who are otherwise, there is often cherished a mode of thinking directly contrary, and the young man, in the plenitude of his self-conceit, despises all existing institutions, and sighs for every novelty."

Such were the views which Mrs. Mary Stephens entertained of young people in general; and she would often say, that if such persons could be led to see from Scripture that a period is to come which, compared with the present age, will be as light to darkness--a period in which it will be proved that all human wisdom will be but as folly, and earthly pride no better than madness--they might, with the divine blessing, be brought thereby to open their eyes to the truth, and, leaving all things which are behind, to aspire only after that glory which is to be hereafter.--"But as long," she would add, "as Christians continue to close their eyes and ears to the glorious promises of Scripture with regard to Christ's kingdom on earth, and to fill their minds with the petty discords of the day, they cannot extend their views beyond the narrow views of this world, nor rise above a grovelling mode of thinking, by which their characters and conversation will be depressed, and the concerns of the Catholic Church proportionably injured."

Edmund and Francis had now spent nearly two years under the same roof, during which time their friendship seemed to have acquired such firmness and consistency as led those who knew them to hope it would never be disturbed.

Francis had apparently profited much by the holy retirement in which he had spent so many hours of these years, and the very spiritual conversation of Mrs. Stephens. But though his manner was warm, and at times devout, and though he might be urged to a participation in almost any act of piety and self-denial to which Edmund accustomed himself, yet now and then a degree of inconsistency was discernible in his conduct which grieved Mrs. Mary Stephens, and made her feel that he was not to be depended upon. He would sometimes let it appear that be hoped to be distinguished in the University for his learning and abilities; he sometimes would express a wish that he might rise in the Church, in order that he might do the more good; and he would now and then drop an expression by which he betrayed his hopes that when he had a family himself he should live in a more magnificent style than that in which his father did. Nevertheless, when urged upon these points, he would solemnly declare that the secret desire of his heart was to serve his God in simplicity, and to be separate from the world.

The young people had spent two winters together, and were looking forward to a third, when they were unexpectedly deprived of their pious old friend. Mrs. Mary Stephens was one morning found dead in her bed; and thus was this excellent woman suddenly removed from this world of trial into a state of glory.

Her loss was acutely felt by Edmund, to whom she had left all her little property, appointing Mr. Parnel as his guardian. Edmund found himself more attached than ever to Francis, from his affectionate behaviour on this sorrowful occasion; and therefore rejoiced the more when it was settled that the young men should be placed together under the care of a tutor till they were of a proper age to go to the University.

Edmund was not however altogether happy in his new situation. Independent of his grief for the loss of his aunt, he found almost every sentence he uttered in some degree ridiculed, either covertly or openly, by some of his tutor's family.

There are many people whom we believe to be pious, (for it would be hard to think otherwise,) whose opinions are of that mixed kind, between what we should call worldly and what is really right, that they cannot bear any plain, simple, straight-forward sentiments. In some persons, this is owing to a natural weakness and littleness of mind, which cannot grasp a great and glorious idea; in others, it is owing to a disputatious turn, which rejects every sentiment that at the first blush does not coincide with opinions already received; and sometimes, I fear, it is to be attributed to the secret wish of reconciling those things which cannot be reconciled, namely, earthly with heavenly sentiments.

It happened, that Edmund's tutor and all his family were precisely the kind of persons which I have described; and Edmund soon discovered that if he spoke at all while in their presence, he must be constantly subject to disputations. He therefore had recourse to silence, as being by far the less evil of the two: yet to live under a perpetual restraint was painful, and particularly so, as he saw his friend, after several violent contests, gradually sinking on many occasions into the ordinary way of thinking which prevailed in their tutor's family.

During the time that Edmund was with his tutor, he made considerable progress in that kind of knowledge requisite in the University, and was told that if he chose to exert himself, he might obtain some of the highest distinctions there bestowed. Whether this was the case or not still remains, however, to be shewn.

After a due time, Edmund and Francis removed to the University, but they were not both placed in the same college, as Mrs. Stephens, in her will, had named a certain hall as that to which she wished her nephew to be sent, on account of its head having a high character for piety, but which was not approved for Francis, as this hall was not generally esteemed in the world. On this account, therefore, the young men were separated, and saw very little of each other during their residence in college.

The hall at which Edmund was placed was not a situation in which he was likely to obtain much notice. He, however, in the mean time, passed through the University very quietly, and remained there till he was of age to be ordained, when a curacy became vacant in the very parish in which he had resided from a child. Edmund heard of this, and instantly wrote to solicit this curacy; and as he was able to procure every necessary testimony to his good character, the rector, who was very infirm, promised him the curacy, and gave him his title for ordination.

Edmund now left the University; and being ordained by the bishop of his own diocese, he immediately hastened to take possession of his charge.

In the mean time, I should say, that young Parnel had passed through the University with considerable éclat, had obtained several prizes, and, having received deacon's orders, was engaged as a tutor in a nobleman's family, about the time that Edmund entered on his curacy. The friends were therefore separated for a time; but they mutually retained a strong regard for each other.

As soon as Edmund Stephens had reached the town where his curacy was, he hastened, without loss of time, to pay his compliments to his rector, and afterwards, to obtain, if possible, the very apartments which had been occupied so many years by his aunt, and which were rendered dear to him by a thousand pleasing and pathetic recollections.

He heard with no small pleasure that the apartments had been unoccupied ever since his aunt's death, as the mistress of the house had resolved not to let them again. But when Mr. Edmund, whom she had known from a child, came to ask them from her, she could not refuse his request, and begged him to take possession of her own parlour, till the rooms were aired and duly prepared.

Twenty-four hours had scarcely elapsed after Edmund's arrival at the town, before he found himself settled in the very sitting-room so long occupied by his aunt, surrounded by the very furniture which she had been accustomed to use, the chair on which she had sat, the table on which she used to lay her work while he read to her, and the little stool which had served to support her feet.

Affected by all these objects, he could scarcely refrain from tears; but, sitting down, he sunk into a long and deep reverie.

During this period of abstraction, he called to mind the general tendency of the education which his aunt had given him, and he perceived, as at a glance, that its whole purport and object had been to fit him for the ministry of Christ on earth, and for the enjoyment of his kingdom in heaven; and, falling upon his knees, he solemnly and earnestly entreated that he might now be strengthened for the performance of those duties for which he had been so long preparing.

The prayers of this young man were heard, and he was indeed strengthened and assisted in a wonderful degree; so that he presently found himself engaged in such a round of duties, as left him no time either for company or any kind of study which had not some reference to his ministerial labours. His parish was exceedingly populous, being full of manufactories; and the houses of the lower classes were confusedly clustered together in narrow streets, blind alleys, and obscure courts. The young curate could expect no assistance whatever from his rector, who was paralytic, and nearly blind; neither had he any parishioners belonging to his church of such characters as could give him much assistance.

The first attempt of this young man was to acquire an idea of the numbers of his people, to make himself acquainted with the streets and alleys, and to begin, without loss of time, a course of visiting from house to house: and, as his fortune was easy, he also resolved to establish a rigid economy with regard to himself, and to devote all he could spare to the necessitous.

One of his first works was to hire a large house, and establish a Sunday and daily school; and because the church was far too small to admit, at once, one tenth part of the population, he added another service on a Sunday, and several others on the week days. He was happy in meeting with no opposition on the part of his rector, who had known him from a child, and being partial to him, was easily persuaded to yield to all his requests.

During his visits among his people, the young curate was presently informed that another denomination of Christians had established a chapel and schools in a remote district of his parish, in which their minister was labouring with considerable effect.

Edmund Stephens, in calculating the number of houses in his parish, and the time it would take to visit each, had already felt that his cure of souls was immense, and very far above the compass of one man's capacity, though he were to devote himself unceasingly to the work. He therefore felt it some relief to find that there was another labourer working in his great vineyard, and he resolved to make himself acquainted with this minister; and if he found that his opinions were such as in the main he could approve, he would offer him his friendship, hold out the right-hand of fellowship to him, and assure him, that between them there should be no other contest than a holy strife who should do most good, and win most souls to God. And thus he reasoned with himself:

"It is impossible for me to give individual attention to each of my parishioners, and yet, humanly speaking, some may be lost without this particular attention. This Christian minister, in another part of my parish, may be able to bestow that individual attention which I cannot always supply, and he may have a better method of instruction than I have. I know that he has more experience; but, granting he has only as good a method, how shall I presume to take upon me to deprive others of the benefit of his labours, when I perhaps have it not in my power to make it up to them by my own exertions? If I weaken the hands of a pious man, or stop his mouth, and thus hinder his usefulness, am I not, humanly speaking, accountable for the loss of any soul which may thereby perish for want of help, and thus become, as far as in me lies, a spiritual murderer?"

In this manner the young clergyman argued with himself: but as he considered also that there are some who dissent from our Church in points of such amazing consequence that true Christians can by no means extend their encouragement towards them, he determined to make himself quite sure that there was nothing of this kind in the minister in question; and having ascertained this point, he called upon him, and, opening his heart frankly to him, he asked his friendship, and gave him leave to do as much good as he possibly could in his parish.

The dissenting minister, who was a gentleman in manners and in education, and a person of true piety, was much touched by the frankness and simplicity of the young curate. He received his overtures with cordiality; and it not unfrequently happened, after this, that these servants of God would consult together, to bring to pass their little plans for the advancement of the glory of their common Master.

When Edmund Stephens had arrived at the proper age, he was admitted to priest's orders, and returned immediately to his labours of love, which he pursued with unabated ardour. And although he made several innovations on certain old customs, established, time immemorial, in the parish, yet on these occasions he either excited less animosity, or heard less of the anger he did excite, (which came nearly to the same thing,) than could possibly have been expected.

Through the divine blessing, he was particularly mindful of what his aunt had said to him on the necessity of keeping his own mind in a calm and heavenly state if he wished to do good; and in order to preserve this state of mind, he found that he must carefully observe several rules. One was, never to allow praise to reach his ears without cautiously guarding against those injurious effects that it is calculated to produce on his mind; because he found that, whenever he had taken praise to himself rather than carry it to the Lord, he immediately became acutely alive to blame, and more irritated against the person who had blamed him, than he had lately been pleased with him who had extolled him. On this account, when descending from his pulpit, he always carefully shunned such persons as were accustomed to meet him on these occasions with any complimentary expressions, and if he found it impossible to avoid such indiscreet friends, he never failed to declare to them, that he dared not to accept the honour which cometh from man. Another rule which this excellent young man was enabled to lay down for himself was, to keep his ears shut to the common reports and unmeaning tittle-tattle of the day; as he found that this unimportant and trifling gossip had a peculiar effect in lowering the standard of his thoughts, in producing listlessness in the exercise of his duty, and in loading his mind with that fear of the world which a minister ought above all dangers to avoid.

In consequence of the faithful observance of these rules, Edmund Stephens was enabled to preserve much composure of mind amidst a crooked and perverse generation, and was kept in a state of continued tranquillity, hidden, as it were, within the secret of the pavilion of his God: and being thus blessed with that peace which the world cannot give, he was constantly assisted in his endeavours to seek the mind of the Lord, and to bear in perpetual remembrance that sweet address of the Church to the Chief Shepherd which we find in the first chapter of the Canticles, and the seventh verse--Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions? Thus he continued to pursue his undeviating course of rectitude, walking in deep humility, and always giving the glory to God, till certain events took place, which I shall relate without further delay.

The town in which Edmund Stephens resided was one of those large manufacturing places which is continually receiving successive enlargements, and spreading its suburbs, its gardens, new rows, streets, squares, and crescents, over the adjacent country. The town had not formerly extended beyond the bounds of one parish, and this was the parish in which Edmund resided; a region of smoke and spinning-machines, containing many dark old houses, and intersected with narrow streets and miserable little alleys. But of late years, the new buildings had encroached upon another rectory, whose little modernized parsonage-house was now seen standing in a garden, between a square and a half-finished crescent.

This living had lately become vacant, and, through the exertions of old Mr. Parnel, it was procured for Francis, who, being recalled in all haste from abroad, had scarcely time to take priest's orders before it was necessary for him to hasten to-- to be inducted in his rectory.

Edmund Stephens heard of the success of his friend with unmingled pleasure, and anticipated such a renewal of their former intercourse as should render life even more sweet than he had already found it.

Edmund happened to be particularly engaged on the day that his friend was to be inducted, and was obliged to be out of town for some days afterwards; but immediately on his return he hastened to seek the companion of his youth, and having enquired for him at his parsonage, was informed by some workmen, who were engaged in the house, that he was to be found at a lodging-house in the neighbouring square, where he was to remain till all was ready at the parsonage for his reception.

As the parsonage had lately been occupied by a very large family, Edmund could not clearly understand how it was that Mr. Parnel was unable to find in it a corner fit to put his head in. As this, however, was no business of his, he presently lost the singular impression which this seeming nicety of his old companion had at first made upon his mind; and having found out the lodging-house where Mr. Parnel then was, and obtained admittance, he rushed up the stairs, and a moment afterwards had seized the hand of his friend, and was shaking it with an ardour which proved that his kind feelings towards him had met with no abatement from absence.

Edmund was not one of those persons who are keenly alive to every slight, and who possess, in consequence, the quickest perception of every shade and degree of cordiality or want of cordiality in the salutation of a friend; yet he could not but perceive, on this occasion, that there was a certain something in Mr. Parnel's reception of him which threw a damp over his heart. He, however, endeavoured to recover from this sudden chill, and forced himself to suppose that it was only the effect of fancy. He accordingly took the seat that was offered him, and began to express the delight he felt in being restored to one from whose society he had formerly enjoyed so much delight. He spoke of his aunt, and of many sweet hours spent in her society; and remarked, that he had never, since her death, met with a person so entirely above the world as she was, and, in consequence, so truly charming: to all which Mr. Parnel replied, with a degree of restraint which but too strongly confirmed his friend in his first apprehension, namely: that his old companion had lost much of the strength and ardour of his early feelings.

Mr. Parnel was a man who, from the inelegance of his figure, and the contour of his features, from a certain something in his mode of elocution, and a want of natural grace in his movements, was never intended to shine, as a public character; while Edmund Stephens was, on the contrary, one who, from the actual symmetry of his person, from the extraordinary spirituality of his mind, the sweetness of his temper, the warmth and vivacity of his feelings, and the peculiar graciousness and humility of his manner, might, had he been so inclined, have easily acquired all that celebrity as a popular speaker or preacher, to which a person less gifted as to outward advantages must have aspired in vain.

It was, however, one of the greatest misfortunes to Mr. Parnel, that he wished to be admired by the world; and it is probable that he had always been sensible of the natural advantages which Edmund had over him, and that this thorn had long rankled in his heart, though it seems he felt not the irritation of the fester, till on the occasion of the meeting of which we are now speaking, when he found himself, though a traveller, and, as the world would say, a fortunate man, suddenly and entirely eclipsed by a poor curate, whose least perfections, he was well aware, were those which were most visible to the world.

It was a remark of one of the finest Christian characters which has appeared in the present age, (to wit, the holy and heavenly Henry Martyn,) that the minister or teacher who would be blessed in the instructions he gives, must first seek the divine blessing on his own mind; and although the Articles of our Church form this decision, that in case of ungodly characters having authority in the ministration of the Word, yet, forasmuch as they do not the same in their own name, but in Christ's, and do minister by his commission and authority, it is lawful to use their ministry, [26th Article] nevertheless, it is very certain, that, humanly speaking, there is nothing which retards the progress of the Gospel so much as the remaining eruptions of sin among the rulers of the Church, and among all such persons as are employed in the work of instruction. Hence the importance of a proper regulation of the passions among professors, and especially of those deeply destructive and even murderous feelings which consist in the desire of exalting self, and seeking the favour of man rather than that of God.

Edmund had been but a short time with Mr. Parnel, before he was well aware that his former humble friend made pretensions to be a man of fashion; not that he was, indeed, a ridiculous pretender of the kind, although his claims were supported in a way which appeared to Edmund wholly inconsistent with the simplicity and dignity of the ministerial character. Nevertheless he trusted that all was right at the bottom, notwithstanding this little appearance of what he could not relish. He therefore accepted Mr. Parnel's invitation to dinner, and tried to hope that he was about to enjoy a delightful season with the friend of his heart.

"And so, Edmund," said Mr. Parnel, "you are still at the old lodgings!--still precisely where I first knew you! Do you not find them rather dark?"

"By no means," returned Edmund. "Those rooms seem to me the very regions of light and life; and I have more pleasure in contemplating the well-known Dutch tiles, than I should have in beholding the finest marble chimney-piece in Europe."

"The effect of an old association of ideas, my good fellow," returned Mr. Parnel, somewhat pompously. "The associations of our childhood are very powerful!"

"Yes," returned Edmund, "they are powerful, indeed; and I pray that mine may never be disturbed."

The conversation then took another turn. Mr. Parnel talked of his pupil; of his adventures abroad; of Naples, and Paris; of the English society he had fallen into in these cities: and hence made it appear that he had suffered a great deal in the cause of religion among his irreligious countrymen abroad.

Edmund thought that this was very probable, and said, that his friend had reason to give glory to God for the support which had been vouchsafed him under circumstances of so trying a nature.

Mr. Parnel then spoke of the extraordinary coincidences by which at so early an age he was placed in his present very responsible situation; and, with an air of perplexity, said, that he foresaw certain peculiar difficulties which he should have to encounter--difficulties of no ordinary description, and with which he felt himself quite overwhelmed.

"How so?" said Edmund. "Wherein does your situation differ from that of other ministers who have the charge of souls?"

Mr. Parnel fixed his eyes on Edmund with a stare of astonishment, and said, "Surely, my good friend, you do not think my situation a common one, comparing it only with your own! Consider how much greater my responsibility is than yours. You are acting only for another. I have no one to whom I can look up for advice and direction. If any thing is amiss, I alone am to be blamed; while you are protected beneath the wing of your superior, and if fault is found with you, he is to share in your condemnation."

"Remember," answered Edmund, "that my rector is a man of eighty, and quite past all concern for his people."

"It may be so," returned Mr. Parnel, "that is, you and I know it to be so; but the world only knows you, Mr. Stephens, as the assistant of Dr. Fieldhouse, and you are always supposed to be acting under his sanction."

Edmund bowed, not feeling disposed to speak; and Mr. Parnel having waited a moment for his reply, proceeded to this effect.--"You do not appear, Edmund, by any means to be aware of my difficulties. Permit me to state them to you, and you will then be better able to judge of my situation.

"It is, I trust, and ever has been, my wish, in my character of a spiritual teacher, to act with faithfulness--to fear no man, and to seek only the glory of God. Nevertheless, my knowledge of life has brought me to this conviction--that unless I can preserve the respect and affection of my people, and the good opinion of the world at large, my usefulness will be utterly marred.

"Now, when I consider the state of my parish; when I am made to understand that all the best families of the town, nay, indeed, all those of any consequence in our society, are included in it; when I am told that all my people are persons of affluence, and some sort of fashion, that they have never been in the habit of hearing the truth, and cannot be expected to hear it, is it possible that I should be free from apprehensions? And, moreover, when I have this assurance, that if I am more diligent and decided than my predecessor, I shall also incur the displeasure of the clergy of the diocese in a body, and perhaps come under the stigma of the bishop, is it possible for me, I ask, to be without uneasiness?"

"In the first place," returned Edmund, "I do not see wherefore you should fear your congregation more than I and others do. Are we not all aware that the Gospel is disgusting to the natural man? and that, when first heard, it will awaken all the angry passions of his nature? But have we not this assurance, that, if we are not weary of well-doing, all these difficulties shall disappear? For is not He that is with us stronger than he that is against us? And, in the second place, I would say, that I think you are judging very harshly of your superiors and brethren in the ministry, many of whom will admire and commend your diligence, and others will imitate you; and if you do not first throw down the gauntlet, most of the rest will let you alone. For the admiration and respect of one, at least, I can answer."

"Meaning yourself, Edmund?" replied Mr. Parnel. "Yes, I trust that I shall always possess and deserve your affection; but I am speaking of the higher orders, the beneficed clergy of the diocese. If I introduce any thing new, if I make any innovation into the old order of things, I shall certainly draw them all upon me. I am assured of it; and I hope that I am prepared, though I am fully aware of the singularly difficult and painful situation in which I stand."

"O, brother! brother!" said Edmund, rising up, and smiling, "you have gone through the University with éclat, you have made the grand tour of Europe, you are converted into a respectable rector; and yet you are precisely the same Francis Parnel who was at loggerheads with his schoolfellows on the second day of his establishment at school."

"What do you mean?" replied the other, reddening violently: "Explain yourself. You, at least, have a lively recollection of my schoolday follies. Come, explain yourself."

"Do not be offended, my good friend," subjoined Edmund: "I meant not to hurt your feelings; and yet I foresee, that you will not have been a year in this place, before you will be at daggers-drawing--to use a strong expression--with every order and denomination of persons in the town and neighbourhood."

"How so, Stephens?" said Mr. Parnel.

"In the first place," returned Edmund, "you will set the irreligious world against you; not so much by telling them the truth as it is in Jesus, as by informing them that you expect their hatred. You will bring the higher ranks of the clergy upon you by letting them know that you expect their displeasure, and that you consider them as the enemies of extraordinary seriousness; and you will undoubtedly hit upon some other method of making yourself equally disagreeable to what is called the low Church. I know that it is impossible to please all men: but surely there is a wide difference between a mean and shuffling conduct, and that which breathes universal defiance."

"Universal defiance!" repeated Mr. Parnel: "why, Edmund, surely you cannot suppose that I shall reveal those feelings to others which I have uttered only in confidence to the oldest friend I have in the world?"

"Not if you can help it," replied Edmund.

"Not if I can help it!" returned the other: "why, Stephens, do you suppose that I have no discretion whatever?"

"I think of you," said Edmund, "as I should of any other man who should allow himself in the like reflections. By dwelling so much and so incessantly on your own concerns, your own trials, the opinion of others respecting you, and the persecutions to which you may be liable, your mind contracts a soreness which wholly unfits you for that contact with society to which every man is exposed. On the slightest touch and the gentlest rub, being so situated, you will naturally start and wince. In every casual circumstance, you will see the fulfilment of some of your apprehensions, and you will naturally be led to betray your feelings where you should not; and thus, in the end all will come upon you which you now (permit me to say) so causelessly dread.

"And then, my Francis," added Edmund, his voice assuming that expression of noble pathos which it ever did on occasion of his tenderer feelings being excited, "and then, my Francis, then where will be that usefulness which we so often promised ourselves in our early days? How will the image of the Saviour appear in your deportment and shine in your countenance, when clouds of care and anxiety--worldly care and selfish anxiety--shall rest upon your brow? Recollect the description of the parish-priest in that beautiful poem of Goldsmith's:

"'At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place:
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway;
And fools, who came to scoff, rernain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children follow'd, with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile:
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd;
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd:
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven;
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head!'"

When Edmund had repeated this beautiful quotation, Mr. Parnel, instead of making any reply, remained quite silent; neither could his friend in any way define the expression of his countenance. He saw, indeed, that his words had made a strong impression; but whether that impression was a favourable one, he was at a loss to decide. However, as Edmund (in common with most persons who are raised by true religion above the selfish considerations which actuate the greater part of mankind) was not easily disconcerted when he believed he was doing right, he proceeded to express still plainer his sentiments relative to the character of a minister, paying little regard to the variation of Mr. Parnel's countenance; though, in order to give him time to recover himself, he was careful that his remarks should be of a more general nature than those which he had made before.

"I was very much struck," said Edmund, "with an observation which I lately met with, in a work of a clergyman of the present day, who has with the most unremitting assiduity devoted himself to the study of Scripture. This remark related to the conduct of Aaron and Miriam, when they reproved Moses on account of the Ethiopian woman, and thereby incurred the displeasure of the Almighty. Whatever might have been their motives for this sudden attack upon Moses, whose marriage had taken place so many years before, we cannot presume to say, though they were, evidently, unwarrantable, from the anger that the Almighty himself displayed on the occasion; but the punishment inflicted on Aaron and Miriam, and the consequence of this punishment, together with the remark made upon this consequence, was that which so forcibly struck me in the work to which I allude--'Behold, the sin of these two professors delayed the progress of all the host of Israel for seven days. Armed hosts and intervening seas could not retard them; but sin, that evil and accursed thing, did what all the powers of earth and hell could not have done. O professor! think how many may be retarded in their progress towards heaven by one sin of thine! Remember what our Lord has said--Woe unto the world because of offences! but woe, most of all, unto him by whom the offence cometh!'"

Edmund was still proceeding with his remarks, (for Mr. Parnel yet remained silent,) when they found that a carriage had stopped at the door; and, a moment afterwards, a Mr. Harrison, an elderly gentleman of considerable consequence in the neighbourhood, and who was supposed to be favourable to religion, was announced.

Mr. Harrison on entering, very cordially accosted the two young ministers; and, on his being seated, the conversation took a general turn, till the old gentleman asked Mr. Parnel why he did not find him in his parsonage-house.

This question, as Edmund feared, led to a recital of grievances; for Mr. Parnel being thereby led to speak of himself, could not stop when he had informed his visitor that his parsonage-house needed some repairs, but proceeded to other matters, till, to the amazement of Edmund, he began fully to describe his situation, and the difficulties attending it, in precisely the same manner to Mr. Harrison, as he had shortly done before to himself, expressing his apprehensions, that all the world would be upon him as soon as he should commence to deal sincerely with his people.

"You are mistaken, Sir," said Mr. Harrison; "the truth is not a new thing in this place:" adding, as he turned to Edmund, "our young friend here has not thus kept us in the dark; and I have every reason to think, that you will have more to fear from the indiscreet flatteries of your people, should you prove faithful to them, than from any other cause. But Mr. Stephens will tell you more of these matters than I can possibly do, for he has had three years' experience, during which neither doctrine nor reproof have been spared."

"Sir," returned Edmund, "I am perhaps the last man to be addressed on this subject: the days of faggots and stakes are gone by, and I hear very little of what is said of me."

"But your church, Sir," replied Mr. Harrison, "your church overflows!"

"It does, Sir," replied Edmund, seeming unable any longer to contain himself; "and since I must speak, I think it but just to my parishioners to say, that I have met with nothing but kindness and affection from them since my residence in the parish."

"And I might add," rejoined Mr. Harrison, in a low voice, addressing Mr. Parnel, "it would be strange if he had not: for never, surely, was a man more worthy of esteem."

It is not known whether Mr. Parnel heard the whole of this whisper; for before it was half finished, he turned to Edmund, and said, "Surely, Stephens, you do not mean to assert that the tongue of censure has in your parish never been moved against you?"

"I make no such assertion," replied Edmund "I only know that little, either of praise or blame, has hitherto reached my ears. I know that it is not by the sentence of an earthly tribunal that I must stand or fall; and I endeavour to perplex myself as little as possible with what the world may say, though I consider myself bound to receive any reproof given in an open manner either by friend or enemy."

"Certainly," returned Mr. Parnel, affecting to laugh, "you have found out a good method of preserving your self-complacency, my good fellow; a capital way this is, indeed, of retaining one's own good opinion--refusing to hear all that is said against one! Then, you do not know that you sadly lost your popularity among the clergy of the diocese on one particular occasion which I could name? Mr. Harrison knows what I mean: I heard of it when abroad; and it was almost the first thing which reached my ears when I arrived at this place."

Edmund looked at his watch. "At what hour do you dine, Parnel?" he asked. "You will excuse me: I have an engagement which will detain me about an hour--I will be with you again before your dinner." So saying, he bowed to Mr. Harrison, and left the room, his fine features being all in a glow as he took his departure; though when he returned at the end of the hour, and found his friend alone, this glow had subsided, leaving only such a bloom as might be attributed to health and exercise, while the usual serene and holy dignity of his countenance was conspicuous.

We do not presume to say what had been passing in the mind of Francis during this interval, but his reflections were surely of a salutary nature; for his friend no sooner appeared, than he held out his hand to him, and said, with much affection, "Edmund, I have offended you. You left me in displeasure: what did I say? what did I do?"

"O, Francis! dear Francis!" returned Edmund, "my friend and brother! we have spent many happy days together, many precious hours, in that blessed period of early youth which passed away under the gentle influence of my much-lamented aunt. There was a time we had not a secret hidden from each other; and I looked forward to your return as a circumstance which would add many sweets to my journey through life: but unless you will here, my brother, promise never to trouble me with any of those idle rumours respecting myself, my neighbours, and my people, to which you just now alluded, I must from this moment forego all those pleasures which I promised myself in your society. I had, indeed, hoped that at the death of either of us, the survivor might have been able to give the same reason for his grief as he did who lamented his Lycidas--

'For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.'

But if this must not be, I hope that I am prepared to acquiesce in the divine will: for I must not, I dare not, depart from the injunction of my Master, nor from the rule which I have been enabled to lay down for myself, never to allow my mind to be darkened and my usefulness marred by entering into the empty and idle tittle-tattle of the professing world."

"You are warm, Edmund," said Mr. Parnel.

"I am," returned Edmund. "My feelings are naturally strong, and my temper ardent: I know them to be so, and I know also what I suffered before this constitutional peculiarity could be brought under the influence of grace. But should not this operate as an additional motive for my endeavouring to keep myself in a state of tranquillity?"

"But, Edmund," remarked Mr. Parnel, "how can you ever know yourself, unless you hear what your enemies say of you?"

"The lashes of the tongue," returned Edmund, "are, doubtless, useful in correcting the foul offences of the impious world, and the admonitions of a faithful friend are never to be despised; but, assuredly, the true Christian should rather seek self-knowledge by communing with his God in secret, than by listening to the voice of the multitude."

Mr. Parnel urged the argument no further, but, giving his hand to his friend, exclaimed, "O, Edmund! you make me feel little in my own estimation. Would to God I could be as you are!"

Edmund was melted even to tears: but, as those persons who possess the most tender hearts generally take the greatest care to avoid a display of their feelings, he hastily brushed away these tokens of affection, and, as if by mutual consent, other and less interesting subjects engaged the conversation of the two ministers during the rest of the day; and Edmund, on returning home, tried to think that he had derived much satisfaction from this visit.

The dusk of evening had arrived by the time he reached his humble apartments. His little tea-equipage was set ready, and on the table by it there lay his Bible, his Concordance, and his pen and ink. A bright fire shed its enlivening glow through all the room. He drew his chair to the table, and, sitting down, looked around him with an indescribable feeling of gratitude for this peaceful asylum which was granted him from the contending passions of the world. "O my aunt!" he thought, "when shall I meet with a spirit like yours? I have been blessed with the acquaintance of many sincere Christians: but where shall I find one raised, like you, above the world, and while still in the flesh, dwelling, as it were, in the third heaven? How did your exalted and sanctified genius travel over the whole course of the Gospel scheme, from the creation of the world till the moment in which the dying Saviour on the cross cried out, 'It is finished !' How sweetly would you trace the Saviour through every type and shadow of the Mosaic dispensation! and how did your faith expatiate at large, and, as it were, at will, among the glorious scenes of prophecy amidst the regions of the restored paradise! O that those Christians who enjoyed your society on earth were blessed with a portion of your excellent spirit, and that they would resolve to banish those selfish feelings, their indulgence of which must render their attempts at usefulness abortive!"

The next morning, Mr. Parnel returned Edmund's visit. The sight of the old room, and the many well-known pieces of furniture, with the oriel step on which he had often lounged with his Edmund while they studied their lessons, seemed to awaken all the tender and affectionate feelings of Francis. He forgot for a short time the young rector, with all his wonderful perplexities and peculiar situations, and talked for a while only of Mrs. Mary Stephens, and the happy hours he had spent in her society.

Edmund's little dinner was brought upon the table, served in the plainest way which strict neatness would permit. Edmund insisted on Mr. Parnel's partaking of it with him, and consequently the two friends sat down together.

Of that of which the heart is full the mouth will speak: and Edmund inadvertently entered upon some of those views which his aunt had often set before them relative to the duty of ministers,--simple, holy, and scriptural views--and depicted with all the force and vivacity which piety and ardent love for the Christian cause could possibly inspire.

Mr. Parnel remarked that these views were, indeed, beautiful, and he also spoke of the effect which Mrs. Stephens's conversations had produced on his mind, both at the time they were uttered, and even long after.--"But, my dear brother," he added, "the impracticability of their being realized did not then appear to us; we did not then perceive that these beautiful images were the mere creations of an imagination heated by enthusiasm. A very slight acquaintance with the world must convince any man, that your good aunt's ideas of the character of the Christian minister are no more than a fancy picture."

Edmund underwent a sudden shock on hearing this remark; but controlling his feelings, he said, "How so?--the character is drawn from Scripture!"

To this assertion Francis Parnel made no reply; but flying from the particular point in question, he fell again into the discussion of his own peculiar duties, and of what would be expected and required of himself in particular: and it is remarkable, that during the whole of the time in which he was thus engaged, he never once seemed to consider that Edmund Stephens had held for some years a situation nearly similar to that in which he himself was placed, and that he might, therefore, probably be able to assist him with the results of his experience. Edmund, however, remembering the heat which had been excited in his bosom during his visit to Francis the day before, and thinking that he had already spoken his mind with sufficient plainness, was careful not to express himself with warmth on the present occasion, especially as he was then in his own house; and therefore, after vainly making two or three attempts to introduce a more profitable subject, he contented himself with sustaining only a very inferior part in a conversation in which, from experience and natural abilities, he was certainly entitled to take the lead. And thus passed the hours till Mr. Parnel took his leave.

Edmund once more felt relieved in being left alone, and presently found consolation in pouring out his feelings before the throne of grace: but whether his prayers for Francis Parnel were answered we shall leave our readers to judge, when they shall have finished the perusal of this short, yet, we trust, not unprofitable history.

From that time there was, for several mouths, but little intercourse between these two young men. Edmund, finding that, when they met, his friend was always so full of himself and his own concerns, that they could not converse either on equal or profitable terms, at length resolved to seek him out no longer, but to return to the steady performance of his own pastoral duties, which were so arranged as to leave him but a few hours daily for study. And, in the discharge of his several duties, he still took particular care to avoid all those encounters with worldly persons which might tend to interrupt the pious tranquillity of his own mind, feeling that his usefulness depended, humanly speaking, upon his own heart being habitually kept under the influence of Christian simplicity and holiness. He found, from close and constant observation, that whenever he addressed his people in a high or self-sufficient state of mind, his discourse, however eloquent, however filled with well-turned and finely polished periods, however rich in scriptural allusions and elegant applications, failed of its effect in reaching the heart; while discourses which seemed to want all these perfections, if proceeding from a broken and contrite spirit, appeared to excite feelings which the former had utterly failed in producing. He did not, either in one case or the other, attribute his success to his own eloquence; but he believed that a divine unction was frequently poured out upon him when he least expected it, and that when he was in an humble and lowly frame, a blessing wholly withheld at other times often attended his ministry; for God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble. [James iv. 6.]

These discoveries taught him to regard it as the indispensable duty of every teacher of the Gospel to live close to God; neither was he unmindful of an awful remark frequently made by his aunt respecting those persons who take upon themselves the charge of souls, whether in the capacity of ministers, schoolmasters, catechists, or writers: who, if they, either from indolence, carelessness, or the indulgence of selfish passions, neglect the duties which they have undertaken to fulfil, become, in fact, spiritual murderers, being manifest transgressors of the law which saith Thou shalt do no murder, and are, it is to be feared, more heavy offenders than the man who commanded the destruction of the babes of Bethlehem, inasmuch as he could destroy only the bodies of these innocents, whereas, they who, professing to dispense to their fellow men the bread of life, virtually withhold it from them, become as far as in them lies, the destroyers of the more noble part of man.

In this manner did this excellent young man reason with himself; and thus he continued his humble, quiet, and laborious course, with little interruption, for more than twelve months after the arrival of Mr. Parnel in the town.

The former friends, in the mean time, met but seldom; and when they did so, Mr. Parnel always pleaded want of time and the pressure of numerous important avocations as excuses for his not indulging himself so often as he said he could have wished in the company of Edmund. Yet neither want of time nor numerous avocations was the real cause of this estrangement. The busiest man must sometimes relax. And had Mr. Parnel thirsted after the society of his friend, he would certainly have found many occasions for enjoying it. But the truth was precisely this: Francis sighed after popularity, and he therefore could not endure to witness in Edmund those qualifications which procured him, unpretending as he was, that favour for which he himself longed,--but in vain. Mr. Stephens was endowed by nature with many of those advantages which attract admiration. His appearance was unusually prepossessing; his voice melodious, full, and agreeable; his elocution clear; his manner graceful; and his very simplicity particularly attractive. Mr. Parnel envied him in the possession of all these attractions; and the more so, because the possessor himself did not seem sensible of them: and, therefore, soon after his own arrival in the neighbourhood, he attempted to solace himself by endeavouring to find out something to the disadvantage of this man so generally admired.

The weakness of Mr. Parnel could not long be concealed from those about him; and as there was no want of idlers and busy-bodies who viewed Edmund with displeasure, because they regarded him as keeping himself too much aloof from their society, they presently put it into Mr. Parnel's head, that Mr. Stephens, notwithstanding his apparent humility, was no less eager for popularity than other men: and to this motive they attributed his apparent zeal for religion, his conciliatory manner towards other denominations of Christians, and his readiness to promote every good work which was proposed in the town.

Mr. Parnel's besetting sin was vanity, or, in other words, a kind of selfishness which would never let him be easy when he saw himself surpassed in any pursuit in which he desired to be foremost. It had from early youth been the object of his ambition to be a popular preacher, to become the leader in many good works, and to be as it were regarded as a father in Israel. Had his ambition taken any other direction, he might probably soon have detected the evil of these desires for self-exaltation; for with all his faults, (and these were, indeed, grievous,) there was still reason to think that the root of the matter was in him. But when his desires seemed to tend to an object apparently so laudable, he entertained no doubt of their propriety; and thus he became the slave of envy and of various other evil passions of a like dangerous tendency, without being aware that he was departing in the smallest degree from the strict line of Christian rectitude.

How little do those persons who fail to ascribe the honour of their good deeds to God, how little, indeed, do such persons even suspect the tendency of their conduct! how little are they aware of the murderous character of their desires after self-exaltation! and how far are they from allowing that these feelings, if freely indulged, would inevitably terminate in the dissolution of all order, and produce death and destruction under every modification! Having already made a remark to this effect, we return to Francis Parnel.

The selfish feelings before mentioned constantly became stronger in the breast of this young man, and were soon blended with, or rather gave the direction to, all his actions; so that he was never easy unless he fancied himself engrossing the whole attention of whatever company he might happen to be in. He approved of no good work that might be going forward within his sphere of action in which he himself was not a leader. If he could not be the first in conversation, he would seldom speak at all. And as Edmund was the man who was most likely to be held up by the world as his rival, he gradually cherished such an alienation from his former friend, as to proceed at length to counteract, at first in an underhand, and afterwards in a more open way, every public work which the other attempted to accomplish. But inasmuch as he would not confess his sentiments with respect to Edmund even to his own heart, he still retained something like the language of friendship towards him when they chanced to meet; and it never could be discovered by those who were most intimately acquainted with both parties, whether Edmund had or had not discovered that Mr. Parnel had ceased to feel for him as in former days.

Some months had passed during which these young ministers had not met, when, one morning, Mr. Parnel called on Mr. Stephens. The moment he entered the room, Edmund was aware that his former friend was in a state of high excitement, though on what account he did not know. For this excellent young man was so entirely raised above the clouds and tempests of this lower world, that he could scarcely conceive the state of irritation into which weaker minds are often roused by the petty cabals with which they are continually embroiled. It was, however, evident to him, that his friend was by some cause or other strongly affected; and he therefore attempted to restrain the breaking out of his disagreeable emotions by speaking on the most common and least interesting subjects that then occurred to him, affecting at the same time a certain cheerfulness and concern which at that moment he certainly did not feel. A forced vivacity never has an agreeable effect, at least, with those persons who have even the weakest penetration. Accordingly, Mr. Parnel seemed to be more irritated than pleased by Edmund's manner, and presently discovered his displeasure by saying, "Upon my word, Stephens, you possess a wonderful flow of spirits. But I came here to-day on purpose to have some serious conversation with you, and I really wish that you would grant me an attentive hearing for a short time."

"Most willingly," replied Edmund, seriously; "and if I can be of the least service"--"You are very good," returned Mr. Parnel, dryly: "but I have no particular occasion for your services at present. It is about your own affairs, Edmund, that I am desirous of speaking to you at this time."

"I shall hearken with interest," returned Edmund, "to any thing which a friend may say."

"What," returned Mr. Parnel, "even should that friend venture to repeat some things which may be said by persons not quite so much attached to you as the man who is now before you?"

"I shall not refuse to hear any thing that it may be right I should know," rejoined Edmund. "I confess, that I do not like to trouble myself much with what the busy world may say of me; but I shall, of course, attend to any thing with which my friend judges that I ought to be made acquainted."

"So far, so well," replied Mr. Parnel; "I am glad to find that you are willing to hear reason. And such being the case, I shall proceed without further preface with what I have to say."

Mr. Parnel then proceeded directly to introduce the business on account of which he had made the present visit to Edmund's lodgings, and began, without ceremony, to call his friend to account for such parts of his conduct as did not entirely coincide with his views of propriety and prudence. And, first, he blamed him for his intimacy with Mr. Barret, the dissenting minister of whom mention was before made, conceiving that he might justly do so, on the score of his not belonging to the Church as established in this kingdom.

"You cannot regret that he does not," replied Edmund, "more than I do, brother Parnel."

"Indeed!" said Parnel.

"Because," returned Edmund, "I am sorry that so valuable a man should not be altogether with us."

"You surprise me, Edmund," returned Mr. Parnel.

"Do you thoroughly understand the points on which we differ from Mr. Barret?" rejoined the other.

"I never had any conversation with the gentleman in question," replied Mr. Parnel; "and therefore cannot give you an answer."

"Permit me then to say," said Edmund, "that there is no one point essential to salvation in which you, and I and Mr. Barret, could not go hand-in-hand. This was a circumstance with which I made myself fully acquainted before I offered him the right-hand of fellowship. I have, also, every reason to believe, that this man, speaking of him as an individual, is a true servant and child of God, and I know him to be a laborious and successful preacher."

"All this may be strictly true," replied Mr. Parnel, coolly; "but as this man differs from us with respect to the great article of church-government, and, also, in lesser points, I am unable to understand, Edmund, how he can be a suitable companion or coadjutor with you, a clergyman of the Established Church."

"Stop," said Edmund, "and permit me to propose to you one question. What, I ask, should be the object of a minister, either of our Church or of any other denomination? to make proselytes to his own particular form of worship, or to win souls for the Church of Christ? If the former, then I confess that I am wrong; but if the latter, I think you will find it hard to convince me that I have acted amiss in giving my countenance to such a man as Mr. Barret."

Mr. Parnel made no reply, and Edmund went on to this effect.--"I will explain to you, my dear friend, the motives which at first led me to regard with a favourable and even a thankful feeling the residence of Mr. Barret in my parish. When first placed in this situation, I took great pains to ascertain the numbers and necessities of the souls under my care, and found that the former amounted to at least five thousand, and that among these vast multitudes, (multitudes indeed to be all subjected to the pastoral jurisdiction of one man,) there were few who, in a spiritual sense, were not blind, and naked, and poor, and miserable. Having made this calculation, I next proceeded to consider my own physical powers, as an individual, for supplying, as far as lay in the use of means, the amazing wants of these poor creatures. And shall I confess, that, after having long and painfully reflected on the subject, it was not without pleasure that I heard of such a fellow-labourer as Mr. Barret. I took some pains to ascertain the principles of this good man; and when I found that in all essential matters they were such as I could most heartily subscribe, I no longer hesitated to pay him a visit, to assure him of my co-operation in every good work that he might desire to perform, and, to say that I hoped no other contest would subsist between us than that of an emulation in doing what is right. And I have reason to think that the candour and liberality of my conduct have been the means, on several occasions, of strengthening the hands of Mr. Barret, and enabling him to effect more good than otherwise he could have done."

"But you do not mean to say that there are no points on which you and Mr. Barret disagree!" said Mr. Parnel.

"Certainly not," replied Edmund; "there are several: but they are all matters of minor importance, and such as we have often canvassed together in perfect good will."

"Upon my word, Mr. Stephens," returned Francis, "your modes of thinking are in many respects so very irregular, that I hardly know what to say about them. But I have done a friend's part in speaking my mind: and if you will not take warning, you must abide by the consequences."

"I am very willing so to do," replied Edmund: "though I cannot conceive what I have to fear."

"You are a young man, Mr. Stephens," returned the other, "and are only a curate."

"I know it," replied Edmund.

"Enough then," said Mr. Parnel; "and I hope that you have made up your mind to get no more than a curacy while you live."

"I have, I trust," said Edmund, "made up my mind to stand at my post, be it what it may; and if I feel that I dare not attempt to weaken the influence or tie the hands of a man whom I believe to be a better Christian, and certainly a far more experienced minister, than myself, you, my friend, will at least give me credit for my intentions!"

To this Mr. Parnel made no reply, but proceeded to attack his old friend on some other points, one of which was the irregular manner, as he pleased to call it, in which he arranged his services, having an additional service on a Sunday, and one or more on a week-day.

Edmund pleaded the smallness of his church, the size of his parish, and his wish to do as much good as was possible.

Francis Parnel again brought forward the plea of irregularity, and hinted that he feared the desire of distinction was the secret motive for these innovations.

Edmund replied, that no man had any thing to do with his motives, and that he considered himself answerable for them to the Searcher of hearts alone.

Mr. Parnel's answer was, that a man's motives were often more visible to his fellow-creatures than the individual himself supposed.

"Well, then," said Edmund, with some heat, "let every man look to his own heart."

"You are warm, Edmund," said Mr. Parnel, whose reasons for this interference with Mr. Stephens were then not understood by the latter, though they appeared afterwards, "you are warm. What reason can I possibly have for my sincerity but your real good?"

"None, undoubtedly," replied the unsuspicious Edmund; "and I am to blame to be so warm. But if you knew, if you had the smallest idea of the internal struggle which I underwent before I could resolve to sacrifice all earthly prospects at the shrine of duty, you would not thus endeavour to renew the contest in my mind.

"Do you, can you, suppose, Francis," added the young man, "that I am not fully aware of the sacrifice that I am making of all worldly advantages to the line of conduct I have been induced to pursue? But, before I put an end to this subject now, and I hope for ever, let me but propose this single question. Granting, my dear Francis, that you could have sufficient influence to persuade me to give up my weekly services and other unusual efforts, and that you could by any means silence the warning and instructive voice of my brother Christian, what, my dear friend, would you propose to gain by this victory, but an amazing weight of responsibility?--for I maintain," added the young man, recovering his habitual good-humour and vivacity, "that in so doing you bind yourself, as a man of principle, to make up, by your own proper exertions, all the deficiencies which you shall have thus occasioned not only in my labours, but in those, also, of my pious coadjutor."

Mr. Parnel was going to make some reply; but Edmund plainly told him that, if he pleased, they would call another cause.

Francis Parnel left Edmund's lodgings in no very good humour; and these young men did not meet again for several months. At the end of this period, Dr. Fieldhouse died; and the parishioners (without the knowledge of Edmund) applied in a body to the patron, to give the benefice to their beloved curate. It seems, however, that the living, which was in the gift of the father of the young nobleman with whom Mr. Parnel had travelled, had long been destined for the tutor; and, in less than a week after the death of the old rector, Edmund was informed that his former friend had been presented with it.

The benefice was a large and very valuable one, and a curate had always been kept; Edmund was warmly attached to his people, and was, he hoped, in the way of doing good: he therefore resolved not to leave his curacy, unless dismissed by his rector, although he feared that there might be some points on which they would not agree. He determined, however, to try submission and patience in those things about which his conscience was not concerned: and he made these resolutions from motives of piety only.

Mr. Parnel gave up his former living, which was but inconsiderable in point of emolument, and was inducted into his new one, before he gave any hints to Edmund concerning his intentions with respect to the curacy. In the mean time, there was in his own mind a violent contest on the subject. He knew how greatly his parishioners loved Mr. Stephens, for he had heard of their application in his favour; he was sensible, also, that Edmund was his superior in eloquence, in ability, and in a fine exterior; and he felt that he could not bear to be thus excelled in the very place where he wished to be the person of most consequence. In the mean time, the humble deportment of Edmund, who did not at all presume on his former friendship, left him nothing to complain of; he was also fully assured of his great usefulness. The struggle, therefore, in his mind was powerful: previous friendship and Christian feelings were engaged in a hard contest with vanity and selfishness. But the latter at length prevailed: and when Edmund called upon him at his new abode, he told him that he should have no occasion for his further services in the curacy.

Edmund was thunderstruck. He grew pale and then red. He had now been the nursing-father of these poor people for nearly five years; he loved many individuals, and was in return beloved by all who knew him; he had enjoyed many sweet seasons in their society; he had been present during many of their scenes of joy and sorrow, and had proved their comforter under affliction, their faithful friend in times of adversity, and prudent guide in seasons of prosperity. Between himself and many individuals of this parish there existed the strongest tie which is to be met with on earth: he had been made the spiritual father of many; and his children in Christ were ready, had it been necessary, to lay down their lives for him. But now, all these strong and tender ties were to be suddenly and forcibly broken. And by whom broken? By a friend, a brother. Edmund felt that within him which would not permit him to speak. He arose, bowed, walked into the hall, took up his hat, and hastened to his lodgings; where we shall leave him, to return to Mr. Parnel, who, as soon as his friend had retired, sat down to write to a young man, with whom he had become intimate at college, probably thinking that by stating his conduct in a fair light to another, he should be able to still the tumults of his own conscience.

In this letter, he pictured himself (according to his usual mode of speaking) as a person who had, throughout life, hitherto, been placed in circumstances peculiarly arduous. He represented himself as living in a populous manufacturing town, whose inhabitants consisted of persons generally occupied in trade, some of whom, having acquired large fortunes, had, in consequence, risen into higher life, though they were still influenced by the contracted views of their former condition. The general mass of the population he described, as consisting of zealous and hot-headed enthusiasts on the one hand, and on the other, of persons who knew as little of religion as the savages of the desert; nor did he fail to add, that during many months past it had been his painful lot to stand alone among these people as the only representative of true religion. Various were the fiery ordeals through which, according to his own account, he had had to pass, and numerous the scoffs and railleries which he had endured; and if he did not add that he had fought a good fight, it was, perhaps, because he was aware that it was not altogether graceful for a man to praise himself.

The latter part of this letter was, however, that which included the most important particulars, and was worded as follows.--"You have not forgotten Edmund Stephens, of--Hall, a fine looking fellow, and by no means a dull one. Do you know, that when I stepped into old Dr. Fieldhouse's place, I found Edmund in the curacy, in which he had been fixed ever since his ordination. You cannot but remember our former intimacy. I should have rejoiced to serve him. But there is a wildness, an enthusiasm, a contempt of order about him, which rendered it wholly impracticable for me to retain him in his situation: justice to my own character, justice to my own people, made it impossible. I had previously, as soon indeed as I had a hint that I was destined to succeed to the rectory, taken the precaution to reason with Edmund about his inconsistencies; but I was not attended to. I had, therefore, no alternative, when I came into possession, but to dismiss him. It gave me exquisite pain; it was, indeed, a severe trial to me. I can give you no idea of what I suffered on the occasion: for, after all, he is a good fellow, and I have known him long. I must do without a curate till Stephens is provided for elsewhere. In the mean time, be on the look out for me, for the duty will be too hard for me in the long run, though I shall probably be able to get on for some months to come," &c. &c.

When Mr. Parnel had dispatched this epistle, he still found himself so uneasy, that he rushed into company, and there endeavoured to obtain further relief by striving to make his story good among his worldly acquaintance. Nevertheless, although there were some present who seemed to approve of what he had done, poor Francis Parnel could find no peace, and he returned to his house more unhappy than ever. The conscience of this young man was not entirely silenced, and its whisperings during that evening, and as he lay awake on his bed, were such as he was hardly able to endure.

Several days passed, and Mr. Parnel heard no more of Edmund. He spent part of this time at his father's house in a distant part of the country; and when he returned home, he was prevented by his pride from enquiring after him till the afternoon, when his clerk came to give him notice of a funeral; at the same time adding that a neighbouring clergyman would have been obtained to perform the duty, had not the rector unexpectedly returned.

"Where is the curate then?" returned Mr. Parnel. "Why cannot Mr. Stephens attend? Is he gone out of town without informing me?"

"O, Sir!" exclaimed the clerk, "have you not heard? I greatly fear that we shall never see the blessed face of Mr. Stephens any more."

Mr. Parnel started, and felt as if an arrow had transfixed his heart. "What!" he said, "is Edmund gone?"

"Not yet, Sir," replied the clerk; "not yet, we hope."

Mr. Parnel demanded an explanation, and awaited it as he would the stroke of death.

"Sir," replied the clerk, "have you not heard that he broke a blood-vessel a few days since, and his life is despaired of?"

"Impossible!" said Mr. Parnel: "for who, then, has done the occasional duty during my absence?"

The clerk mentioned the name of the clergyman who had been provided to assist Mr. Stephens.

"Oh! my Edmund! my Edmund! Oh! my brother! my Edmund!" said Mr. Parnel, at that moment awakened from his long dream of vanity and selfishness, and suddenly recovering all the vigour of the Christian character, as his better feelings returning, rushed tumultuously into those channels from which his pride had forced them, "Oh! my brother! Oh! my Edmund!"

More he could not say. But he had taken his hat, and was hastening to the well-known lodgings, when his course being arrested by the funeral procession, he was compelled to endure the anguish of committing a human creature, though a stranger, to the dust, at the moment when his feelings were racked by the apprehension of soon witnessing the death of one whom he had formerly loved as a brother, and lately treated as an enemy.

The sad report was not without foundation. Edmund had indeed broken a blood-vessel, and there was little hope of his life.

After having received the notice of dismissal from his curacy, he had returned home in great agitation of mind, and shut himself up for a while in his own apartments, where he no doubt used the means appointed by the Almighty for obtaining consolation: for he was enabled to summon the family together at the usual hour; and while reading and praying with them, appeared to be so perfectly calm, that Mrs. Goodman, his landlady, who had known him from a child, and who had been in the habit of watching every change in his fine countenance with something like a mother's tenderness, entertained not the least apprehension that any thing had happened to disturb him. In the middle of the night, however, this good woman was called to his chamber, where she found him bathed in the blood which he had thrown from his stomach.

Edmund had never enjoyed confirmed health, although his complexion usually displayed a beautiful freshness; and more than once, when a child, his aunt had been alarmed by strong symptoms of this very complaint, the violence of which now threatened the speedy dissolution of his frame.

From the moment of this attack he had been unable to leave his bed, and was ordered to be kept in a state of the most undisturbed quiet.

The report that he had received a dismissal from his curacy only the very day before his illness, was soon spread abroad, and every one about him attributed the accident to the agitation of his mind on the occasion.

But when Mrs. Goodman, in her zeal, uttered her apprehensions before him, he checked her, and solemnly asserted it as his opinion, that it had nothing whatever to do with his illness, and that he also believed it to be the will of God, by the gentle means he was now using, so to loosen, by degrees, the ties that held him to earth, that he should speedily be set free from all mortal cares and sorrows. He then spoke of his entire, firm, and unchangeable confidence in Him who had given up his soul unto death in order that he might bring many sons to glory; and added, that he had a full assurance that the Lord had, through his free and unmerited grace, appointed him to eternal happiness, and that even before the world began: in consequence of which every thing had been so ordered and established for him, that his salvation had been begun, carried on, and completed by the almighty wisdom of God, in a manner which had in nowise depended upon himself. To this effect, and in this way he frequently expressed himself; while his heart, his soul, and spirit, seemed, as it were, already elevated to heaven.

Mr. Parnel arrived at Edmund's lodgings immediately after a new and dreadful alarm had been excited by a violent recurrence of the terrifying symptoms which had taken place a few nights before. Francis found the door of the house unfastened, the surgeon having passed through it in haste a moment before. He therefore entered without knocking, and, going up into the large room above stairs, he proceeded to Edmund's bed-room, which opened into this apartment, and which was well known to him as the chamber in which he had been his sleeping-companion in their early days. The door of this room was standing ajar. Francis gently pushed it open, and thereby unfolded to his sight a scene so heartrending, that he could never forget it. He saw his Edmund lying on the bed, supported on one side by the worthy Mr. Barret, while the surgeon and Mrs. Goodman stood on the other. The physiognomy of Edmund was already that of a dying man. His features were exceedingly pale and sunk, though the colour had not yet left his lips, and there was a faint hectic on his cheeks. His eyes were expressive of something more than composure; they beamed with hope, with love, with joy, as he lifted them up to Mr. Barret, who was gently administering some of those sweet portions of consolation with which the Holy Scriptures so richly abound for those who are made one with Christ. Mr. Parnel stood a moment, and then stepped forward, half irresolute; for whereas his love for Edmund drew him onward, the stings of remorse held him back.

At the noise he made every one looked that way. Mr. Barret and the physician expressed surprise; Mrs. Goodman's face flamed with displeasure, and she motioned to him to retire; but the countenance of Edmund brightened with pleasure. A stronger hectic flushed his cheek; his eye sparkled; he would have spoken, but wanting the power, he could only smile: and such a smile--so sweet, so tender, so full of forgiveness, and even of compassion, surely never appeared but on the face of a dying Christian, of one, in a word, whose affections were, already above!

On beholding this, Francis could contain himself no longer; but springing forwards, and falling on his knees by the bed-side, he implored the pardon of his friend in terms so warm, so animated, so affecting, that every one present trembled for the effect which they might produce on the dying Edmund.

No very serious effect, however, followed. Edmund was perhaps past that period when earthly scenes could produce any very powerful influence on his mind. A tear, however, trembled in his eye, as he extended his arms to his friend; and in the effort which he made for this purpose his head sunk upon the bosom of Mr. Parnel. "O my Edmund!" repeated Francis, as he clasped his friend to his heart, "can you forgive me? O restore me to your affection, wretch that I am! O, live, my Edmund, and not only the curacy, but the rectory shall be yours, if I have the power to procure it for you by my resignation: and God is my witness that I am now sincere."

Edmund sighed, but made no reply; for a momentary faintness had come over him, and the surgeon directed Mr. Parnel to release his head gently from his arm to the pillow. When restored to his place, Edmund uttered another deep sigh, and those around him almost feared that he was dying.

An awful silence now prevailed in the chamber for some minutes, occasionally interrupted by the smothered sobs of Mr. Parnel, during which interval the surgeon was feeling the pulse of his patient, Mrs. Goodman was bathing his temples with vinegar, and Mr. Barret was engaged in prayer.

After a short time, some slight colour returned to the cheeks of Edmund. He opened his eyes. He looked at Mr. Parnel with an expression of unutterable love, and, taking his hand, placed it within that of Mr. Barret, attempting at the same time to speak; but though his lips moved, no voice was heard.

"I understand you, ever-dear Edmund," said Mr. Parnel; "yes, my Edmund, I now understand you. Your wishes shall be attended to. Mr. Barret, will you accept the friendship of the first and chief of sinners?"

The venerable minister (for Mr. Barret was an old man) could make no reply; but the starting tear in his eye, and the cordial grasp with which he pressed the hand of the repentant young man, spoke more than volumes. And before we cease all mention of Mr Barret, we rejoice in being able to say, that the bond of Christian brotherhood formed at the bed-side of Edmund was never broken, and that Mr. Parnel was ever afterwards enabled to love and honour those virtues in the character of Mr. Barret which the eye of prejudice had hitherto prevented him from distinguishing, although they had been so frequently pointed out to him by Edmund.

We might dwell long, very long, on scenes such as we have just described; but at present we forbear, trusting that little more can be added to shew the power of religion as it appeared in the character of Edmund and in the repentance of Francis.

For some days, Mr. Parnel, who scarcely left the side of his dying friend, flattered himself that his disease would not, as others seemed to expect, prove fatal. He ardently longed for an opportunity of making up to his beloved friend the injuries he had done him; and now that it was no longer in his power, he would have given the half of his substance to procure for himself the support, the assistance, and the guidance of such a man as his Edmund. He wondered what could hitherto have blinded his eyes to the Christian excellencies of this friend; and he asked himself, when too late, this question--"For what did I barter the friendship of such a man as this?"

But the prayers of Mr. Parnel for his Edmund were not heard: he was not permitted to have the opportunity he so much desired, of making compensation to this beloved friend for the injuries he had done him.

In a very few days after Francis's first visit to the sick chamber of Edmund, the latter was removed far beyond the reach of all the injuries of earth and hell, having entered into that glory which had been the object of his desire from the earliest years of his childhood.

Mr. Parnel and Mr. Barret stood by Edmund till he breathed his last, and his soul was gently released from his body; they also followed his beloved remains to the grave in the parish church-yard, where they were deposited by the side of those of Mrs. Mary Stephens. Thousands of the parishioners of this excellent young pastor followed him to his last home; and to this day many of these persons cannot speak of him without tears.

But who lamented his loss as Francis Parnel did? When his departed friend was no more, he then became feelingly sensible of his numerous virtues, the review of which made him feel keenly, at the recollection of those evil passions which had induced him, as much as he could, to weaken the hands and counteract the efforts of this excellent young man. He also now perceived the exceeding sinfulness of that narrow and selfish spirit which induces the professor to obstruct and hinder the good works of others, regardless of the souls that may be lost through this pragmatical and cruel interference. Mr. Parnel now plainly understood and never afterwards lost sight of the drift of the many pious exhortations which Mrs. Mary Stephens had given, and particularly did his mind dwell on that sentiment so frequently and so variously expressed by her respecting the dreadful nature of selfish feelings of any kind, especially when indulged by professors. Neither did he longer question the fact, that these feelings, if pursued to their remotest consequences, must certainly produce murder in some form or other: for, is not the condition of every creature duly allotted and laid out for him by his Maker? and does not that man who indulges envious thoughts, who covets the fame, the honour, the credit, or the possessions of another, in fact desire injuriously to interfere with the existence of that other? and were his wishes granted him, would he not either wholly remove his rival out of his way or deprive him of those circumstances to which his existence owes its chief value? That this is the true character of worldly persons, do not the records of all past ages fully convince us? How many millions of the human race, who now lie low in the dust, were brought thither by the ambitious and envious feelings of their fellow-men! And although in the present state of society in this country the more open and atrocious forms of murder hide their diminished heads, yet it is to be feared that the seeds of murder still lurk in every heart, and that there is not a single individual existing who has not, at some time or other, indulged a murderous thought, or rejoiced in the misfortunes of a neighbour. But if those passions which lead to the invasion of our neighbour's property, and the destruction of the human body, appear so execrable, as to provoke even our detestation when we behold their operation in the characters and conduct of the openly profane, with what abhorrence must the searching eye of the Holy Creator contemplate the remaining power of these destructive sentiments, when they are allowed in any degree to operate in the breasts of professed believers! Would the camp of Israel have wandered so long in the wilderness, and the tabernacle of the Lord have made such a delay in the desert;--had the host of Israel continually marched forward in one mind;--had the strong endeavoured to support the weak, and the old to direct the young;--and had not discord subsisted even among the bearers of the sanctuary itself? would so many thousands have died before they saw the promised land?

Such were the reflections which habitually occupied the mind of Francis Parnel from the moment when he consigned his Edmund to the grave, until, at no very late period of life, he himself was also gathered to his people. Neither did these reflections of his solitary hours, directed, as they no doubt were, by the Holy Sprit, fail of producing such effects of a humble and holy walk through the remainder of his life, as caused him at his decease to be scarcely less regretted by his flock than Edmund had been before him.

And here we conclude this narrative, imploring our readers ever to remember, that he who forsakes the paths of humility is in the highway of offending, sooner or later, against that commandment which saith--"Thou shalt do no murder."

As the history of the two ministers had not occupied so long a time as several others which had previously been read by the lady of the manor, she indulged her young people, by allowing them to make a few comments on what they had just heard. Most of her juvenile auditors were vehement in their praises of Edmund; while others expressed their strong dislike to Mr. Parnel, though they said it rejoiced them to find that the death of his friend had produced so good an effect on him. Others spoke with seriousness on the view which had just been set before them of the nature of selfishness, and enlarged upon the sweet hope of being set free in a future state of being--freed from all selfish and angry passions; a sentiment in which their kind instructress most fully coincided. The evening was as usual finished with a prayer.

A PRAYER ON THE SUBJECT OF THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT

"O most blessed Lord God, who hast made of one blood all nations that dwell upon the face of the earth, and hast appointed unto all men the bounds of their habitation, bestow on us, thy humble servants, such a spirit of lowliness and contentment, as may enable us, on all occasions, and at all seasons, to be entirely submissive to thy blessed will, and perfectly resigned to thy fatherly pleasure, and ready, also, to fulfil all those duties which it may please thee to require of us, in whatever situation thou hast thought fit to place us. Remove from our hearts all envy, malice, and selfishness, by which we may be led to depart from that love of each other whereby thy servants are distinguished from the children of the Evil One. Let not, we beseech thee, any selfish desires of eminence and exaltation induce us to mar the usefulness of our neighbour, or to lament his superior excellence, in whatever way thou art pleased to employ him. Let not a contracted spirit prevent our rejoicing in that good, in the promotion of which we ourselves may not have been instrumental; and, especially, preserve us from that dreadful sin of excluding or withholding the light of life from any who may be ready to perish, by refusing our countenance to those who belong not to our own party, or who may have failed to court our favour.

"Preserve us, O heavenly Father, from spiritual pride, and from those high thoughts of self which are at variance with the love of our brethren, and which tempt us to sacrifice the everlasting welfare of our fellow-creatures to what we conceive to be our private interests, by which we are induced to the infliction of spiritual death, and brought in guilty of the murder of souls. As ministers or teachers, let us be contented, even though we might see ourselves excelled; and help us, as Moses did, to rejoice when others of our Lord's people are found among the prophets. Grant, that we may rather be desirous to use our single talent aright, than emulous to receive more talents; and expand our hearts with that most excellent grace of charity, which shall still flourish when faith and hope shall be no more, and which will be an essential constituent of our happiness when this earth shall be dissolved, and the heavens have passed away like a scroll. For charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail: whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.

"And now to Him who loved us ere yet the foundations of the world were laid,--to Him who prayed for his very enemies at the moment when he was suffering the anguish of the cross,--to Him whose gentle influences can overcome the most stubborn heart, and turn the murderous thoughts of man into those of universal love,--be all glory and honour, now and for ever, world without end. Amen."

SEVENTH COMMANDMENT--THOU SHALT NOT COMMIT ADULTERY

When the young people were once more assembled in the beloved apartment at the manor-house, the lady of the manor remarked, that the seventh commandment supplied the subject which was on that day to occupy their attention; and one of the young ladies, at her request, having repeated this commandment, she herself then proceeded to the following effect.-- "You are all, doubtless, aware, my dear young people, of the tendency of this commandment, and that it was given at once to enforce and inculcate the sanctity of marriage. But, as I am now addressing persons in well-regulated and polished society, I deem it here wholly unnecessary for me to enter into any particulars relative to such breaches of this rule of life as are too often committed by persons avowedly immoral; but I shall improve the present occasion by giving you some few rules and directions respecting your conduct in society as it regards your intercourse with persons of the other sex, which instructions, I trust, may prove advantageous to you, not only in this life, but in that state of being which is to come: inasmuch as, although in the resurrection we shall neither marry nor be given in marriage, but be as the angels that are in heaven, still, humanly speaking, we know not how our own future situations, as well as those of others over whom we may have influence, may be hereafter affected by our good or evil conduct in these respects.

"I have," observed the lady of the manor, "always considered, that those persons are greatly to be condemned who speak of matters relative to marriage in any other than a serious manner; and when I consider, also, how much of human happiness or misery depends on the propriety of the female character as it respects the other sex, I cannot help being surprised whenever any expression even of a playful, not to say a vain, tendency on subjects of this kind proceeds, in my hearing, from the mouths of persons who are counted either pious or prudent, I think I may venture to assert, that those young people are the most happy who are least occupied with subjects of this kind; but, inasmuch as such matters must, at one time or another, come under the consideration of every young person, and as I cannot but think that most of you have already heard these affairs spoken of either in a light or serious way, I have resolved on this occasion to present you with my views on these subjects. And having at this time before me a little narrative which contains much relative to our present purpose, I propose now to read it to you, my beloved young people, without further preface, hoping that you will find in the history of the amiable character which is there portrayed, an example which may prove beneficial in every trying circumstance which you may hereafter be called to encounter."

The lady of the manor then produced a manuscript, and read as follows.

THE HISTORY OF SOPHIA MORTIMER

In the southern parts of Yorkshire, there resided, a few years ago, a gentleman named Mortimer. He had, early in life, been married to an exceedingly lovely young woman, whose merits he, however, knew not how to appreciate, being himself but a coarse and ordinary character, while she was a woman of highly cultivated intellects. The marriage had on her part been forced from interested motives; and, hence, she, as is the case with most persons who act as she did, was not happy. But Mrs. Mortimer did not live long to feel her own unhappiness. Before the second year of her marriage was expired, she died, leaving one little girl, who inherited her mother's beauty. This little girl was named Sophia.

Mrs. Mortimer had a very intimate and dear friend, who was considerably older than herself, and who had lived with her from her infancy to the day of her marriage; and she, therefore, as a dying request, entreated her husband that this lady might be intrusted with the sole charge of little Sophia, until she should have attained at least her twentieth year. Mr. Mortimer had no particular regard for Mrs. Fortescue, (which was the name of this lady) but a man must be cruel indeed who, merely from prejudice, could deny the request of a dying wife; and as he had no stronger objection to make against Mrs. Fortescue, than that he did not like her, the old lady was accordingly sent for; and Mrs. Mortimer had the satisfaction, before her death, of seeing her infant in the arms of her friend, and received from her a solemn promise that she never would disregard the charge which she had been thus solemnly intrusted with.

Immediately after the funeral of Mrs. Mortimer, Mrs. Fortescue, who had no settled place of abode, consented to occupy two apartments at one end of Mr. Mortimer's large house, and from that period she became its constant inmate.

Little Sophie was not more than a year old when she was delivered up to Mrs. Fortescue, and, of course, she had no recollection of any time before that in which she began to regard this lady as a tender and beloved mother.

Shortly after his lady's death, Mr. Mortimer, having provided every thing necessary for the comfortable establishment of Mrs. Fortescue and his daughter, set off to York, where he took a house, and, soon afterwards, married a gay young widow, with three daughters, hoping to have a son added to his family; a circumstance which he earnestly desired because the whole of his property was entailed on the heir male, with the exception only of his lady's fortune, which devolved to her daughter, and which it was calculated would be about ten thousand pounds when Sophia came of age, after the expences of her education had been paid.

We shall leave Mr. Mortimer to enjoy himself with his new-married lady at York and in Town, whither he afterwards repaired, while we now return to little Sophia and Mrs. Fortescue in Yorkshire.

Mr. Mortimer's house was a very noble building--so much so, indeed, that its owner, whose second wife was very extravagant, had an income scarcely sufficient to occupy it in the style he wished, having some former debts not yet paid; and this was the real cause of his continuing, after his second marriage, to reside first at York and subsequently in London.

The present building consisted of an old house, to which, though itself sufficiently extensive to accommodate a large family, a number of new rooms in a very superior and costly style had been added. The old and new parts of this immense mansion were connected by a noble hall of the same height as the new portion of the building, and several long passages running in various directions. The apartments appropriated to little Sophia and her establishment were in the old part of the house, and consisted of a large room wainscoted with oak, and furnished with heavy old-fashioned chairs and sofas of damask, with window-curtains of the same material. Within this parlour was the bed-room in which Mrs. Fortescue slept; and beyond this room were two large light closets, one of which was appropriated to Sophia, and the other to Mrs. Cicely, a respectable servant, who had been Sophia's nurse, and was now become the waiting-maid of the old lady. From the parlour was one door which opened into this bed-room, another which conducted to the garden, and a third which served as an entrance into the long passage leading to the other parts of the house. An old housekeeper, two or three gardeners, a housemaid, an old butler, and a gamekeeper, were the only persons who occupied any other part of this vast building.

The situation of this house was exceedingly beautiful. It stood in the midst of a park, which was richly diversified with dark groves, waterfalls, shadowy glades, and sunny lawns; over which were scattered many deer, and a few herds of horned cattle. Immediately opposite that front of the house in which appeared the windows of the brown oak parlour already mentioned, was seen a broad gravel road, which, winding round a thick grove of trees, descended into a dell where a clear stream pursued its course, and was passable only in one place by a light iron bridge, the only approach to the house by the west. This winding path and bridge, and a handsome lodge built of white stone at the further end of the park, together with the various intervening groups of trees, and a range of blue hills on the very verge of the horizon, formed unitedly as elegant a landscape as any cultivated place in the kingdom could present to the eye.

We have now, I think, brought, as plainly as possible, before our reader, the scenes which lay extended before Sophia when first she began to be sensible of her existence. It is seldom that a little child asks itself who it is, or what may be its rank and situation in life; and Mrs. Fortescue, and, under her, the faithful Cicely, took care that nothing should ever be said to this little lady of the mansion-house which should make her conceive herself of more consequence than the poor children in the village school, whom she was sometimes carried to see. She was accustomed to call Mrs. Fortescue aunt, and was taught to admire and love the picture of her own mother, which the old lady had obtained permission to remove from its former situation over the drawing-room chimney-piece to the brown parlour.

Mrs. Fortescue loved to hear little Sophia, as soon as she began to lisp, call to this picture, and address it by the name of "Mamma! pretty mamma!" while the melancholy yet dovelike eyes of the beautiful portrait would seem to follow the lovely prattler in all her excursions round the ample apartment.

It is not the immediate purport of this little narrative to enter into a particular and comprehensive description of all that constitutes a Christian education. Those who are really acquainted with true religion will not deny that such an education, however, in inferior points, it may be modified according to the taste, feelings, and circumstances of those who conduct it, is, upon the whole, no other than a system of instruction that directly leads the pupil to the performance of Christian actions upon Christian principles, and which never admits for a single instant any other motive of conduct than a desire to please God.

Such was the nature of the education that was given by Mrs. Fortescue to Sophia Mortimer; neither did this pious woman fail daily, nay almost hourly, to implore the divine blessing upon her labours. And she had reason to believe that her prayers were heard: for as this little girl advanced in years, she evidenced a considerable degree of piety, and the fruits of the Spirit were discernible throughout the whole of her demeanour.

It is seldom found that so long a period of life passes so sweetly, so calmly, and so satisfactorily, as did the first sixteen years with Mrs. Fortescue, after she had undertaken the charge of Sophia. The only interruptions which she had met with to this delightful calm, were occasioned by one or two visits from Mr. Mortimer, unaccompanied by his lady, in the sporting seasons; at which times he had filled the house with roaring country squires, and had, also, considerably disturbed the delicate severity of Sophia's usual habits, by introducing her to his visitors, and setting her to ride upon his foot, which occasioned her sometimes to meet with an overthrow upon the carpet, which downfall was usually cheered by the roaring huzzas of the visitors. But as these interruptions to the usual routine of things were very rare and of short duration, they were not seriously injurious to the child; nevertheless, these visits, and some little attacks of illness, were the only troubles which Mrs. Fortescue experienced through this long course of years: although, had her occasional trials been considerably greater, they would have been amply compensated by the delight she enjoyed in contemplating the divine blessing attendant on her exertions, and in seeing the child of her heart growing up as one of the polished corners of the temple. When we consider the amazing number of accidents to which man is liable in this present state of being, and all the inward disorders occasioned by sin, we ought to cultivate a strong feeling of thankfulness at the close of every day, if we have passed that day in a state of tolerable calm, and freedom from pain. How much more then should we cherish the liveliest gratitude towards the Giver of all good gifts, when, on reviewing our past lives, we can recount, not only many peaceful days, but weeks, months, and years, in which we have known only petty troubles and trifling sorrows!

Had not Mrs. Fortescue possessed a faith which could not be shaken, she might indeed, as these years glided away, and the period approached when she must resign her interesting charge of Sophia, have had some uneasy thoughts; for she well knew that it was only in compliance with the promise which he had made, that Mr. Mortimer submitted to leave his daughter in her hands, and that he would certainly, when that promise should cease to be binding, remove Sophia from under her care, and pursue with her a course widely different from that followed in her education.

It is, indeed, true, that Mr. Mortimer had seemed to think less of his daughter since his second wife had brought him two sons; still, however, he had taken care to let the old lady know from time to time that he by no means approved of the retired and methodistical way in which she was bringing up his child.

But Mrs. Fortescue was not one of those persons who trouble themselves with approaching evils. To make the best of the present was her only care; and she, therefore, lost no opportunity of giving her dear child such lessons of wisdom as in her estimation might lead to her well-being, not only in the present life, but also in that which is to come.

There was a promise of exquisite external loveliness in Sophia. Her person was elegant; her movements were graceful; her features regular; her eyes dark and brilliant; and a bloom, varying with every change of feeling, delicately tinged her cheeks: and when Mrs. Fortescue looked on this lovely young creature, and considered that in case of her death she would be left without a single protecting friend, (for the coarseness of her father and the levity of her step-mother were too well known to allow her to hope any thing from them,) she felt it necessary that Sophia should be endued with more than common prudence, in order that she might be enabled to meet and sustain the trials which probably awaited her in a world where she was likely to be an object at once of admiration and envy.

Mrs. Fortescue well knew that unless the defence of her beloved pupil was of God, who saveth the upright, [Psalm vii. 10,] no earthly wisdom could preserve her; still, however, she judged it right to employ every appointed means, in order to fit her for those encounters with temptation to which she could not but be exposed. And with this view she frequently conversed with her on those subjects which may fairly be regarded as included within the general command--"Thou shalt not commit adultery:" which command, as interpreted by this excellent lady, embraced every obligation relative to the government of the affections.

And first, she explained to her that this and every other divine commandment has a literal or obvious, as well as a spiritual sense, and that this commandment so particular admitted of several subdivisions.

The commandment, she represented in the literal sense, as first signifying the prohibition of that crime which a married person commits, on forsaking a husband or wife, and forming a connexion with another individual; and, secondly, as forbidding that offence which is committed by those who indulge in the worship of idols, or who, forsaking the true God, adopt other objects of public or private adoration. And, in the spiritual sense, she explained it, as, first, prohibiting such wanderings of the affections in married persons as are pointed out by our Lord in the fifth chapter of St. Matthew, twenty-eighth verse;--Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her, hath committed adultery with her already in his heart;--and, secondly, as a denunciation of the divine displeasure against the admission of any created object to that place in the heart which ought only to belong to God.

Mrs. Fortescue then proceeded to point out to her youthful charge, that of these four subdivisions--viz. that which pointed out the sin of conjugal infidelity, that which forbade the commission of actual idolatry, that which forbade the wandering of the affections in married persons, and, finally, that which required the devotion of the first affections of the heart to God,--there was one only, namely the last, to which she desired to draw her attention, as being that alone with which a young person in her situation was immediately concerned; and as that, also, which, if it were duly attended to, would involve within itself the right performance not only of all the rest, but of every other duty which both the Law and the Gospel might require.

Mrs. Fortescue then proceeded to recite those passages of Scripture in which the Church, or the congregation of the redeemed among the Gentiles, is addressed as a wife chosen and beloved; selecting, amidst a thousand others in which this emblem is used in Scripture, that beautiful passage in Isaiah, which for sentiment and pathos exceeds all that was ever penned by unassisted human intellect--Fear not; for thou shalt not be ashamed, and shalt not remember the reproach of thy widowhood any more. For thy Maker is thine husband; the Lord of hosts is his name; and thy Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel: the God of the whole earth shall he be called. For the Lord hath called thee as a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit, and a wife of youth, when thou wast refused, saith thy God. [Isaiah liv. 4--6.] And then, she went on to point out other passages, in which the Lord addresses the Church in displeasure, and reproves her for her adulteries, or idolatrous regard towards other gods. And hence she took occasion to enforce the duty which is incumbent on every member of the Church of the redeemed, of so guarding and regulating the affections, that none shall have in the heart a place above Him to whom all love and gratitude is due. "Whosoever," she observed, "proceeds straight forward towards one exalted point, with his eyes ever directed to that point, will assuredly keep his body erect, and will advance with a firm step. He will comparatively disregard the trifling interruptions and occasional stumbling-blocks in his way. The former he will scarcely observe; and if the latter sometimes cause him to fall, he will rise and advance again ere yet the enemy will have observed that he has stumbled.

"So it is," continued she, "with every young person whose affections are fixed on things above. The world, to such a one, will lose half its enchantments, and the power of the enemy will be considerably weakened.

"Love thy God, my child," would this excellent woman always say; "allow no mortal to become his rival in thy affections, and I need give thee no other lesson of wisdom."

"But, dear aunt," Sophia would often reply, "how am I to love him? My heart is so cold and dead with respect to heavenly things, and my eyes and thoughts so busy about worldly matters."

On these occasions, the old lady generally repeated, though seldom in the same words, that comprehensive lesson which she had endeavoured, even from the earliest infancy of Sophia, to impress on her mind; viz, the lesson consisting of those solemn truths which make up the entire and perfect outline of religion: the nature and attributes of the Deity being the foundation of these truths, together with the mysterious doctrine of the three Persons in one God. From which fundamental instructions she led her pupil to consider the natural relation which subsisted between the Creator and his creatures ere sin had yet been conceived and brought forth by the father of lies, even by him who once shone foremost among the glorious hierarchies of heaven.

She taught her, moreover, that the origin of sin in the breast of the first offender, was a mystery which no mortal could either comprehend or explain; that, still, this truth was, however, revealed in Scripture, and, as the existence of sin could not now be questioned, nothing better remained to man than for him to receive the doctrine as unquestionably true, at the same time endeavouring, in the use of those means appointed by the Almighty, to secure his deliverance from its power in the present state, and its consequences in the world to come.

Neither did this holy instructress fail to point out those means appointed for man's recovery ere this fair creation had yet been called out of chaos; while she painted in glowing and animated colours, such as faith only can supply, that divine love by which the Father predestinated many sons to glory;--that infinite pity by which the Second Person of the Trinity was induced to undertake their ransom;--and those almighty operations of the Spirit by which the redeemed are progressively prepared for the glory provided for them. "I do not urge moral obligations on you, my child," would this excellent lady often say, "I do not encumber you with numerous prudential motives, in order to guard you against the temptations of life; but I entreat you, my beloved one, to seek that internal holiness which is the best and in fact the only preservative from the snares of Satan. For they that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength: they shall mount up with wings as eagles: they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint." [Isaiah xl. 31.]

In this manner did Mrs. Fortescue frequently instruct her beloved Sophia; and from time to time, fearing that she might perhaps fatigue her pupil by dwelling too long on subjects of this kind, she committed her thoughts to writing, and laid the little manuscript aside, proposing to make it a dying gift to her beloved pupil. But while Mrs. Fortescue thus laboured rightly to inform the mind of her charge, in reference to things of the first importance, she by no means neglected her education in inferior matters. She was herself well acquainted with music, was an excellent needle-woman, and had a general and accurate knowledge of geography and history, &c. possessing, at the same time, an acquaintance with such parts of English and French literature as are usually requisite for females in polished society.

In the acquirement of useful knowledge of various kinds, in pleasant excursions in the beautiful environs of the Hall, and in frequent visits to the poor, had many years of Sophia Mortimer's life now been spent, since Mrs. Fortescue had undertaken the charge of her education. And, having now entered on her eighteenth year, she was in many respects such as her adopted parent could desire.

At this period, Mrs. Fortescue became sensible of such a change in the state of her own health, and was aware of so many alarming symptoms, that she could not but feel assured, that her cares for her beloved Sophia must soon terminate.

Such feelings as these in the breasts of persons who have an habitual confidence in God, partake more of the tender sentiment of sorrow than that of bitterness and dismay. "I know my Sophia will be taken care of when I am no more," she would often say to herself: "I shall leave her with entire confidence in Him in whom the fatherless find mercy, and yet I know that I shall not part from her without some natural tears."

During this summer, however, the old lady had such an abiding impression that she must soon part from Sophia, that for many weeks she could hardly bear to have her out of her sight; and as Sophia's attachment was equal to her own, their enjoyment of each other's society became greater every day.

Many were the hours which they spent together this summer in different parts of the park and garden, sometimes reading, and at other times conversing; and Mrs. Fortescue seldom failed to direct both their reading and conversation to the promotion, as far as she was able, of the spiritual benefit of her beloved child.

As the days shortened, Mrs. Fortescue began to complain of such a diminution of strength as entirely precluded her from taking exercise, and which soon after confined her to her bed, where, at the expiration of a few months, she closed her blessed earthly career.

Long as Mrs. Fortescue had been ill, her death came rather unexpectedly on the inexperienced Sophia, and was the more severely felt by her, as her time, during several weeks just passed, had been exclusively devoted to attendance upon this excellent lady, who had supplied to her the place of a mother.

Immediately on Mrs. Fortescue's death, Sophia wrote to her father, in consequence of which, she, in a few days, received a formal letter of condolence from her step-mother, with an invitation from Mr. Mortimer and herself to come to them in Town; adding, that it was their intention, in the ensuing autumn, to visit Yorkshire, where they might probably make a long stay at the family mansion.

Sophia, whose spirits were greatly dejected, shrunk from the very idea of a journey to London. She therefore wrote again to her parents, requesting permission to remain alone in Yorkshire till the time appointed for their visit should arrive. Her request was immediately granted; and Sophia enjoyed the comfort of looking forward to six quiet months, during which she hoped that, by the divine blessing, she might be enabled still to follow those plans of life prescribed by her revered monitress. For this pious woman, though dead, yet spoke to her, not only through the medium of the manuscript already mentioned, which that excellent lady had, only a few hours before her death, put into the hands of her Sophia; but, also, by a thousand tender recollections and associations which occurred every moment to her mind.

Sophia, after Mrs. Fortescue's death, found a peculiar consolation, in doing every thing precisely in such a way and in such order as she thought would please her were she still alive. She arose at the hour formerly prescribed to her, she had her simple meals brought to her with the same regularity, she pursued the same objects of study, walked out at the old hours, and returned again at the same; and, since her late beloved governess was no longer present to hear her read and play, she encouraged her old servant before mentioned to bring her work into the parlour and sit by her, while she varied her lectures in order to suit the simple but pious taste of this respectable person.

There is a certain kind of grave and intelligent modesty, perfectly free from asperity or affectation, sometimes seen in young people, which, when it is natural, and the effect of a sober, thoughtful, and well-regulated mind, is extremely delightful, adding strikingly to beauty where beauty exists, and giving comeliness in cases where beauty is not found. This gravity naturally belonged to Sophia, and appeared to become her in no ordinary degree; and her smiles, when she did smile, were the more captivating, because they were not at hand on every light and foolish occasion, nor ready to offer themselves even without any occasion at all.

The remains of Mrs. Fortescue had now been laid in the grave nearly three months, and the grief of Sophia had acquired that soft character which time only can give to sorrow, when the eventful occurrences took place which I am now about to relate.

It was about the latter end of April, on one of those days in which nature seems to put forth all the charms with which poets have decked their Arcadia, when a poor old woman, from an adjoining parish, came to say, that a widow, who had lately come to lodge in a cottage beyond the furthest boundary of the park, was dying, and desired particularly to see Miss Mortimer.

When Sophia had seen the woman, and endeavoured to ascertain the exact situation of the cottage, she summoned Mrs. Cicely, who, since the death of Mrs. Fortescue, had been the constant companion of her walks, and hastened to obey the summons of the dying person.

As they walked, Sophia asked her companion many questions relative to this widow. These cottages, however, were not in the same parish with the Hall, but at a considerable distance, having the whole extent of the park, which was very large, between them. Mrs. Cicely, therefore, could give her no satisfactory information.

When Sophia and her attendant had reached the further end of the park, they entered into the turnpike-road by a flight of wooden steps, which were carried over the park-paling; and being got out into the road, they saw the cottages before them. Sophia requested her companion to go up to the first of them, and make enquiry for the dying person, while she herself would stand waiting at the garden-gate.

While Mrs. Cicely was gone into the cottage, a young gentleman in a clerical habit approached in a direction opposite to that which Sophia had come, and drew near the young lady just as Mrs. Cicely came out of the cottage complaining that she could learn nothing there for there were only children to be seen.

The gentleman then spoke, and bowing politely, said, "I presume I am now addressing Miss Mortimer?" adding, "if you will permit me, Madam, I will conduct you to the person you wish to see."

Sophia now looked up, and for the first time saw the gentleman, whose near approach she had not before observed. She saw, also, that he was young, was a clergyman, and had a remarkably pleasing countenance, added to a fine person and genteel air. The surprise rather heightened her colour; and as this gentleman was altogether unknown to her, she could not at once resolve what answer to make to this proposal.

The gentleman saw her embarrassment, and probably imagining its cause, he said, "My name is Edward Sackville, Madam; I am rector of this parish of Fairfield: and though I have never before had the honour of speaking to Miss Mortimer, yet perhaps my name, at least, may be known to her."

Sophia knew the name, and had always heard its owner spoken of in the highest terms by those who well understood the nature of true piety. Recovering herself, therefore, from her embarrassment, she thanked Mr. Sackville for his obliging offer; and, repeating to him the message she had received in the morning, asked him if he knew the poor widow from whom it came.

He replied, that he knew her history well, and that she was an object well deserving of the liveliest commiseration, and had once known better days, but had been reduced to the utmost need by inevitable misfortunes; to which he further added, that there would probably be a speedy end put to all her sufferings, as she could not live many days. He trusted that she possessed that firm confidence in her Saviour which was a sure promise that death would prove to her the beginning of everlasting joy.

Sophia then asked Mr. Sackville if he supposed the dying widow to be in want of pecuniary assistance.

To this he replied, that she perhaps might, indeed, have some wants of that kind, but that he felt assured there was some other motive for her requesting to see Miss Mortimer. He then told Sophia that this poor woman had one little girl whom she had hitherto educated with great tenderness; and that he thought it possible that it was in order to interest her in the behalf of this child, that she had expressed so strong a desire to see her.

The tears started in Sophia's eyes when she heard this conjecture; but she had no time to reply, for the party having been seen from the upper windows of the cottage, were now accosted by a decent elderly woman who was employed in nursing the dying person, and were led by her through the small kitchen into an inner chamber, where the invalid was stretched on a little couch. The poor woman exhibited all those evidences of approaching dissolution well understood by Sophia from her acquaintance with the similar scene which she had so lately witnessed.

The dying widow thus first attracted the attention of the young lady. But her eyes presently wandered from the pale countenance of the mother to the blooming and dimpled face of the little daughter--a child of about four years of age, who was sitting on the bed near the head of her parent, and looking upon her with an innocent expression of wonder and sorrow.

Mr. Sackville presented Miss Mortimer to the dying woman, addressing her at the same time in words of tenderness and sympathy. The poor widow thanked her for attending so soon to her request, and proceeded instantly, with all the eagerness of one who feared she might not have breath to utter that which lay nearest her heart, earnestly and humbly to implore her protection for her child.

"I have heard of you, Miss Mortimer, I have heard of you," she said; "I have been told that you are pious and tender-hearted. O hear the widow's prayer. Take my child, and see that she is brought up among pious persons."

The suddenness and vehemence of this address agitated Sophia. She looked alternately at the mother and at the child; and then, turning to Mr. Sackville, she said, "I am dependent on my father's pleasure; and should he, when he comes, disapprove of what I have done, what can I do?"

"In that case," replied Mr. Sackville, " I am ready, Miss Mortimer, to be your substitute."

The widow clung to these words. "Then you will take her under your care, Miss Mortimer? you will protect my little Annette?" she said; "you will see that she is piously brought up in her humble station? you will be a friend to her?" And thus she spoke, gasping for breath between every word.

"I will, I promise you I will," said Sophia, bursting into tears. "I will do all for your child which I possibly can. Make yourself easy on that account. I will love her. I will be kind to her. I promise you I will."

I shall not enter into further particulars of this scene in the cottage, nor describe the pious gratitude of the poor widow. Suffice it to say, that after Mr. Sackville had read the prayers for the sick, and Sophia had kissed the little Annette, they left the cottage.

Mr. Sackville accompanied Sophia only to the park gate, where he took leave of her in the most respectful manner, assuring her that he considered himself bound to relieve her from the charge of the child at any time when she might signify the slightest wish of the kind.

She thanked him; adding, however, with warmth, that she hoped she should never he compelled to give up an engagement into which she had entered with so much delight.

"And are you not cruel," said he, smiling, "to withhold from me even the smallest part of an employment in which you take so much pleasure? May we not consider ourselves as partners in this work of kindness?"

Sophia did not know what answer to make to this remark, or how to take these expressions, whether seriously or in jest. She therefore made no answer, but wished the young gentleman a good morning.

As Sophia was walking home, her thoughts were so deeply engaged by the scenes through which she had just passed, that she scarcely heard one word of a long story which Mrs. Cicely addressed to her on certain domestic subjects in which the old servant considered herself as being particularly well skilled; and she was not sorry, on her reaching home, to be left entirely to her own reflections.

What these reflections were it would be hard to describe; but this was certain, that she repeatedly called to memory, during the rest of the day, every word which Mr. Sackville had said to her. She also fancied that she had discovered a likeness between this young gentleman and an old portrait of the Duke of Monmouth, which hung in the great hall, and which she, when a little child, had been accustomed to admire.

So few had been the events which had varied the life of Sophia, that it were not to be wondered at if her thoughts were entirely engrossed by the circumstances of her walk this day; neither should it excite any surprise, though she did not immediately distinguish the agitation into which she was thrown by the prospect of her new and interesting undertaking from other feelings of a nature not to be indulged.

Sophia did not sleep quite so well as usual during the following night, and the next morning she thought of the Duke of Monmouth's picture. She immediately after breakfast, however, renewed her accustomed employment: but she had scarcely begun to feel herself interested in her engagements, before a servant came to say that a gentleman wished to speak with her.

"With me!" said Sophia, rising in haste.

The servant, who was an ignorant girl, and employed under the housekeeper merely to assist in cleaning and airing the house, answered, that she was sure he was a gentleman, from his appearance, and that he desired to see Miss Mortimer. "He now waits in the hall, Madam," she said.

"And why," said Sophia, "did you not take him into another room?"

She then called Cicely, and went to meet her visitor in the hall. It was Mr. Sackville, and he held in his hand the little Annette, who evidently appeared to have been crying severely, but now had ceased from shedding tears, probably from wonder at her new situation, and the various extraordinary objects about her.

Before Sophia had time to speak to the child, Mr. Sackville, addressing himself to her in a manner indicative of much feeling, presented her with the little girl, saying, "Miss Mortimer, I have brought you a little orphan. Her poor mother died during the night; and I found the child, this morning, weeping at the foot of the bed on which the corpse of her parent was laid."

Sophia was much affected by this description; and as she looked upon the child, and recollected that she herself had also been left at a very early age without a mother, she could not refrain from tears.

Mr. Sackville was evidently touched by the tokens of sympathy that escaped Sophia on this occasion, though he made no remark on the subject, but merely assured Miss Mortimer, that if, upon reflection, she had found it would not be in her power to provide for the child, he was ready to take her in his hand to his own house.

Sophia politely objected to this proposal, but thanked Mr. Sackville for the generosity of his offer. She then would have taken the hand of Annette, but the little girl shrank from her as a stranger, clinging to Mr. Sackville, as the person with whom she was best acquainted.

The reluctance of the child caused Mr. Sackville to lengthen his visit; and while he lingered, he endeavoured, in a manner which Sophia thought peculiarly tender and condescending, to reconcile the little weeping orphan to her new situation. At length, Mr. Sackville found it necessary to take his leave; although there was a something in his manner which shewed that he did not go without reluctance.

After he went from the door, Sophia, standing in the hall with the little Annette, was left in a state of mind of such mingled pain and pleasure as she had never before experienced. Mr. Sackville had gone some distance from the house before she recollected herself sufficiently to consider that, if he should happen to look back, it might seem strange to him to see her standing where he had left her. She therefore suddenly raised up the little ragged orphan in her arms, who was once more weeping bitterly on finding herself again left with a stranger, and hastened into her own parlour, where she mingled her tears with those of the child.

How long this pair might have continued weeping together, had they not been interrupted by the careful Mrs. Cicely, is not known; but she, suddenly appearing, produced a complete suit of infant's clothes lying across her arm, which habiliments she had drawn from some deep hoard or repository of her own, such as may generally be found in the possession of elderly housekeepers and ladies' maids; her other hand being armed with a formidable apparatus of combs and brushes, and other implements of the same description: while the housemaid followed her up, with a tub filled with warm water, and a large piece of soap.

The little girl, though once kept neat by a tender mother, now too evidently bore the symptoms of long neglect, and Mrs. Cicely's plans of lustration were, therefore, the more needful. When, however, the good woman would have separated the child from Sophia, the little creature, now in total despair at this third change of companions, set up a roar which made every chamber and passage in the old hall ring and resound again. Sophia had no idea of carrying this contest to any purpose, and was about to take the child up again on her lap, when Mrs. Cicely, seizing the little rebel by main force, carried her off into that quarter of the offices in which she had purposed to carry on her operations, leaving her young mistress to meditate at her leisure on the events of the last twenty-four hours.

It was more than an hour before Mrs. Cicely again appeared. The good old servant's eyes on this occasion were beaming with delight and triumph. In her arms she carried the little orphan, whose infant charms now appeared in all the lustre of perfect cleanliness. Her pretty flaxen curls, newly combed and arranged, were parted on her forehead, and hung in ringlets over her delicate cheeks and fair neck. The tears, forgot as soon as shed, had given way to the sunshine of delight; for in her hand she carried a piece of bread-and-butter, over which Mrs. Cicely had sprinkled a little sugar: and, as Mrs. Cicely set her down at the door, she ran up to Sophia, and, stroking down her clean frock, called on her young protectress to look at her nice dress.

Sophia was not now afraid of returning her infant caresses; and as she clasped her in her arms, she entered into discourse with Mrs. Cicely respecting all the arrangements which she intended should be made with regard to Annette.

And now, what a bustle was excited! for young people are pleased with a bustle: and much experience and regulation of the mind is necessary, before we can learn to practise this injunction of our blessed Saviour--Let not thy left-hand know what thy right-hand doeth. [Matt. vi. 3.] Through the advice and direction, however, of Mrs. Cicely, every thing was settled respecting Annette before the evening. Mrs. Doiley, an old servant of the family, who now resided in the lodge at the park-gate, was sent for, and engaged to take Annette at all such times when Sophia might find it impossible to attend to her. As Mrs. Doiley was a superior person, who had no children, and was exceedingly kind and attentive to the poor in the adjacent village, Sophia did not doubt that the little orphan would be happy with her whenever she might be compelled to devolve this charge upon her, notwithstanding certain little symptoms of fretfulness which sometimes appeared in the old lady's face.

Mrs. Cicely had convinced Sophia, that Annette ought to be dressed plainly, and early accustomed to such little services as might keep alive in her mind ideas which were suitable with her real situation in life. Agreeably therefore with this plan, the materials which were to be procured for her clothes were to be quite plain, and one of the servants from the Hall was dispatched to the next market-town to make the purchases.

As Sophia expected her father and step-mother at the Hall in a few weeks, she yielded to Mrs. Cicely's advice, and sent the little girl every evening to sleep at Mrs. Doiley's, employing a decent labourer, who came from the village to the Hall at an early hour every morning and returned every evening, to carry her backwards and forwards.

These matters being duly arranged, and the little girl's clothes cut out, Sophia found great delight in her new charge; and had she not been guarded by a few hints now and then from Mrs. Cicely, she would undoubtedly have injured the child by allowing her to find herself of too much consequence with her.

Sophia had enquired the day and the hour of the poor widow's funeral, which was to take place in the parish in which she had died. It was her intention that the little orphan should attend it; and as Mrs. Cicely wished to be also present, one of the men-servants undertook to carry Annette to the church of Fairfield while the old housekeeper walked by his side. The little girl was dressed in neat mourning: and when her new clothes were put on, and the man stood waiting to take her up in his arms, she came smiling to Sophia, full of glee at the idea of going out, and utterly unconscious of the purport of this excursion.

The little creature had now been four days with her new friends, from whom she had received so much kindness, and had found so much comfort, that she was now quite at ease, and the remembrance of former objects of affection, and of former afflictions, were passing away swift as the shadows of the morning.

The gay delight of the little Annette met with no interruption during their walk; and she had much to say about the deer in the park: and as it was not needful for the party to pass the cottage in which the widow had died, the little orphan seemed not to connect any thing that was passing in the church-yard with the memory of her mother, until the people were about to lower the coffin into the grave; on which she suddenly shrieked, ran forwards, and endeavoured to clasp the coffin with her infant arms, calling on her mother in the most beseeching and moving accents. Every one was affected: and as the child could not easily be appeased, Mr. Sackville, as soon as the service was concluded, took her in his arms, and carried her to his house, having invited Mrs. Cicely and the man-servant to accompany her.

Mr. Sackville resided close by the church; in an old-fashioned and respectable parsonage-house standing in a garden abounding with fruit and flowers. He honoured Mrs. Cicely with an invitation into his parlour, and requested her to preside at his tea-table while he endeavoured to amuse the little child by such little devices as his own affectionate feelings suggested. After tea, he went into his garden, and brought from thence a nosegay of the choicest flowers, which he requested Mrs. Cicely to deliver to Miss Mortimer with his most respectful compliments.

When the party returned, the gay flowers were delivered to Miss Mortimer; and Mrs. Cicely, being much pleased by the polite manner in which she had been received, was induced to depart in some degree from her usual discretion in expressing her admiration of Mr. Sackville, to which opinions Sophia attended with a ready ear. And when Mrs. Cicely added that he was as well-looking as he was good and pleasing, Sophia asked her if she had ever particularly observed the picture which hung over the marble slab in the entrance hall, adding that she thought it bore a very striking resemblance to Mr. Sackville.

Now as Mrs. Cicely had often been employed in shewing the Hall to strangers, and had received many half-crowns and five shillings on such occasions, it was not to be supposed but that she could tell the names and some little of the histories of the best portraits which ornamented the walls of Mortimer-Hall. She was therefore somewhat surprised to be asked by Sophia whether she had ever observed this picture, which was counted the finest in the house: and turning round therefore somewhat quickly, she said, "Why, dear Miss Mortimer, surely you can't suppose that I have forgotten the handsome Duke of Monmouth! Why, he was one of the finest looking men, I have been told, who ever wore a boot, or carried. a sword. And, now you speak of it, Mr. Sackville is like him, only making allowance for the black coat."

Nothing further was then said on this subject; and good Mrs. Cicely walked out into her own domain, utterly unconscious of the indiscretions of which she had been guilty: and as Sophia from that time seldom mentioned Mr. Sackville to Mrs Cicely, the good woman was not induced to make any observations which might lead her to think that she had contributed in the smallest degree to excite in the mind of the young lady (whom she loved with something like maternal tenderness) any feelings which might tend to render her unhappy.

And in this place I cannot refrain from paying my tribute of respect to that class of persons, one or more of whom may, I trust, be found in every long-established and worthy family of consequence in England, Scotland, and Ireland. I mean, that class of faithful servants who, having lived long in a family, and seen the births and watched the infancy of children, are become, as it were, incorporated with the family itself, and have no interest more warm, more tender, and more sincere, than the well-being of those whom they serve. Sometimes, indeed, such persons may err in their judgment; and may, on some occasions, injure where they wish to benefit. But, notwithstanding the little flaws which are sometimes found in such characters, it cannot be questioned that the children of a family owe something like filial duty to these old and faithful servants of their parents, and that the comfort of their declining years should be the object of their tenderest care.

From the day of the funeral for more than a fortnight Sophia was left in the undisturbed enjoyment of her little plaything. The child was pretty, and remarkably engaging, and soon made it appear that she had received from her mother ideas which proved that the poor woman had been accustomed to what is called better life. With what glee did the little prattler appear in the morning at the foot of Sophia's bed! and how sweet were her gentle salutations when summoned to return in the evening! "I am coming to-morrow," she would say, "very early. You will let me come to-morrow, lady, will you not?" This was constantly her question, till by experience she became more assured of her being allowed to come back the next day.

One evening, Sophia having been obliged to send Annette to Mrs. Doiley's rather earlier than usual, as the little girl was standing at the door of the lodge, Mr. Sackville happened to come by; and immediately recognizing her, he dismounted, for he was on horseback, when, entering the lodge, he discoursed awhile with the child, and, during the conversation, told her, that she was the happiest little girl he knew, for she had the loveliest and best mamma in the whole world.

It is not to be supposed that Annette remembered these words so as to convey them with any consistency to Sophia; but Mrs. Doiley made an errand to the Hall, the next morning, for the very purpose, and failed not when there to repeat them in a manner which by no means deducted from their force.

Simple and unimportant as this little circumstance may appear, it was not without its effect on the mind of Sophia. From the first moment that she had seen Mr. Sackville, his superiority to all the young men who had hitherto come under her observation was sensibly felt by her; and all that she had since heard of him tended only to strengthen her prepossessions in his favour. But it was not till Mrs. Doiley had repeated this speech which he had made to Annette, that the young lady whom it so highly commended became sensible of the extent of her partiality for this young man; neither was she, till this moment, aware that the time was come which called upon her to prove whether she was indeed a worthy pupil of the excellent Mrs. Fortescue, or whether she had hitherto been merely a professor of religion, while, in fact, her heart remained estranged from her God.

She felt that it was, indeed, a painful moment when she first saw how far her mind and heart had already been allowed to wander from that object of supreme regard, on which Mrs. Fortescue so long continually laboured to fix them; and when, on her first looking inwardly, she could not but see how powerfully certain thoughts relative to a young man and a stranger had lately occupied her mind, and mingled themselves, more or less, with all her duties, but especially with those very acts of love and tenderness which she had shewn to the poor orphan.

What a casting-down of any high thoughts of self, which she might possibly have entertained and cherished, respecting her kindness to this little deserted one, was it, when the convictions of the Spirit, flashing on her conscience as the light from above on the jewels of the breast-plate, led her to see how much of self, how much of earthly feeling, how much of the desire of appearing interesting and worthy in the eyes of the only man who had ever yet attracted her attention or pleased her fancy, had united and mixed itself, as poison, with this her sweetest work of charity.

O how humbling, how degrading, in her own judgment, were these reflections! and how did they constrain her to turn away with secret anguish from the voice of every one who would have commended her for what she had already done, or might intend to do, for Annette.

While looking on this little fair creature, she would often say to herself, "Yes, little lovely one, you do deserve to be loved for yourself alone: and I will love you for yourself alone, the Almighty helping me, through evil report and good report. I desire to love you; and I will pray that my motives with regard to you may be purified and rendered wholly independent of all earthly feelings. But, alas! while in this sinful body, who can hope to be pure? who can hope to be clean? who can wash himself from his secret sins?"

It was at this period that Sophia, for the first time, consulted the little manuscript left by Mrs. Fortescue: for, by the advice of this excellent woman, it was not to be opened till the young lady found herself in need of such directions as a prudent, pious, and delicate maternal friend alone could give.

The few first sheets of this manuscript contained certain tender expressions of love and affection; and then proceeded to the following effect.--"I have requested you, my child, not to open this little volume till you actually stand in need of my advice relative to subjects on which, from the delicacy of your feelings, you would not easily be induced to speak to another. I therefore may now suppose myself to be addressing you at the crisis when you feel that some danger exists, lest your affections should be unduly influenced by an earthly object. Under the best circumstances, and in case of an affection which is reciprocal and authorized by parents, there is undoubtedly room to fear that the heart may be drawn downwards, and that the more spiritual affections may be regarded only as secondary to those whose sources and objects are upon earth; nevertheless, it is certain, that the more those affections to the creature (which are authorized and legitimatized by divine and human sanctions) are connected with duty, and confessed to the world, the less liable are they to withdraw the mind from God. The danger then to be apprehended for the spiritual welfare of a young person, in the formation of earthly connexions, is not at the period when the affection is authorized and acknowledged, or when love becomes a duty, as after marriage, but at that crisis when the heart is looking out of itself for happiness; when the imagination is busied either with the real or fancied perfections of the comparative stranger; and when all the anxious and ambitious feelings of the mind propel the individual to endeavour to look into futurity, and to influence her own fortune. This then is the time in which the young female should be most on her guard, and here is the trial of her faith,--if that grace be in her possession. To cast on God all her concern about her future settlements should be the object of her endeavours. In this case, as in every other, the Christian should be ready to adopt that most difficult of all sentiments, 'Thy will, O God, be done!' It is true, that in her own strength she will never be able to put up that prayer; yet in the strength of her God she may and can do it. And having so done, with what dignity and ease will she be enabled to tread the thorny mazes of life, divesting herself of a thousand cares which continually perplex and enervate those persons who will not make God their confidence. 'I am ready, O my God, to be what thou hast ordained,' should be the language of every female heart. 'I cast my cares upon thee; and I desire never more, of myself, to resume the burden of them. Whether single or married, I desire to be thine; and I would wish never, without thy guidance, to take a single step, either to the right or the left, by which I might by any means influence my own lot.'

"And now, my beloved Sophia, let us but suppose what effect a secret and sincere devotion of this nature to the Almighty, would have on the carriage of any young woman. What modesty, what simplicity, what ease and artlessness, would be the result of such a state of mind! Would not faith of this kind impart a polish to the manners, and shed over the general character a lustre and a loveliness, which the most laboured artificial education would in vain attempt to imitate?"

Sophia meditated long and closely on these passages cited from the manuscript; and thus, having fully found out what line of duty to pursue, under her present circumstances, she resolved, with the divine help, to set herself more earnestly than ever to the furtherance of her own improvement, and of that of Annette; to think as seldom as possible of Mr. Sackville; and to endeavour to forget her little difficulties by active, cheerful, and useful employment.

She wrote to her father, stating what she had done respecting Annette, and promising that the child should never be a burden to him. In answer to which, he returned a few lines, intimating, that he considered her adoption of the child as a whim, which would pass away in a very short time, and which was not worthy of his notice either one way or other: for he concluded his letter with this expression--"Amuse yourself as you like, child; but don't plague me with your pets, whether they may be monkeys, lap-dogs, or beggars' brats."

Sophia was very thankful for this consent or acquiescence with her will, however inelegantly it was signified, and she secretly determined to keep Annette, as much as possible, out of her father's sight.

Towards the end of the fifth month after the death of the excellent Mrs. Fortescue, Sophia received a letter from her step-mother, informing her that it was the intention of the family to be in Yorkshire in less than a month. The letter was concluded with many strong expressions of regard, which Sophia could not well comprehend, as this very affectionate step-mother had sometimes allowed a whole year to pass away without taking any notice of her even by a letter. Reflecting, however, on the duty which she owed to her father's wife, she resolved that she would endeavour, if possible, to love her and her daughters. Still, she could not but regret, that her happy days hitherto spent in retirement must now in a short time come to an end; and she wept to think that, in all probability, she would be compelled to diminish, in a great measure, her attentions towards her beloved Annette. The very thoughts of this were so painful to her, that she would often take the little girl into her arms, and give way for a long time to her sorrow.

The summer was gone, and autumn had considerably advanced, when a coach full of female servants arrived at the Hall, to prepare every thing for the proper reception of the family.

Sophia still kept possession of her own apartments, and pursued her own simple and unostentatious plans, always admitting her little Annette by the glass door which opened on the lawn, being herself, as usual, constantly attended by Mrs. Cicely. But, remote as her rooms were from the rest of the house, many unusual sounds of loud voices and slamming doors reached her ears, which disturbances she deemed, too truly, but the precursors of a more general interruption of her repose.

During this interval, Sophia received a message, through Mrs. Doiley, from Mr. Sackville, urging her, in very polite terms, if she found the charge of little Annette likely to be at all inconvenient to her, to commit her to his care, assuring her that he would be ready to give her up again whenever she might require it.

There was something so kind and considerate in the feeling which must have dictated this message, that Sophia felt herself greatly obliged to the young gentleman for it. She, however, declined his kind offer; adding, that, at present, she foresaw no inconvenience whatever, likely to arise from her little charge, but that, in case any difficulty should occur, she would not fail to apply to Mr. Sackville.

On the morning of the day fixed for the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, and the three Misses Clifford, the daughters of the latter, Sophia spent, as usual, several hours in instructing her little Annette, and she was still engaged in this agreeable task, when she saw several outriders approaching through the park, followed immediately by a sociable, and a travelling-post-chaise. Sophia started, changed colour, and, calling Mrs. Cicely, she begged her to stay in her room and attend to her little Annette; "For now," added she, bursting into tears, "now--now--I can do no more for her."

"Nay, my dear young lady," said Mrs. Cicely, who was as much afraid of innovations as her young mistress could possibly be, "do not be so much alarmed. We shall not, surely, be interrupted in these rooms, which you may say have been yours ever since my poor lady died! And if they do but leave these to us, we shall then do vastly well. And I am sure I shall never go out to trouble any of them, if they will let me alone here."

By this time, the gay train of equipages had reached the house, and were wheeling round to the front door. A moment afterwards, the shrill voices of the fashionable young ladies were re-echoed through the long passages; while Sophia, in visible agitation, kissed Annette, who was prevented from following her by Mrs. Cicely, and hastened to meet her parents. In a few moments, she found herself in her father's arms.

Mr. Mortimer's expressions of admiration and affection at the sight of his daughter were loud, and, like himself, of the coarsest sort: for although he was something of a man of the world, yet perhaps few persons were gifted with a smaller number of refined notions. Mrs. Mortimer's reception of Sophia was not, at least apparently, less warm than that of her father; neither were her daughters behindhand in their expressions of regard, although the beauty and simply elegant carriage of Sophia were by no means calculated to give them pleasure.

As soon as the first compliments had passed on both sides, Sophia had leisure to contemplate her newly-arrived relations, who were all busy in counting the packages they had brought with them, and giving various orders respecting them; after which, they proceeded to the dining-room, where a cold collation was prepared.

Mrs. Mortimer had been very handsome, and still, though near her sixtieth year, was, with the assistance of rouge and false hair, what the world called a fine woman, though such a figure as a serious Christian would contemplate with many bitter feelings. For what can be so lamentable, as to see one who, in the natural course of things, must soon resign this world, and enter into a new and eternal state of everlasting joy or sorrow, clinging closely to temporal things, and adorning, with all the vain and deceitful decorations which fashion can supply, that body which must in a short time be food for worms?

Mrs. Mortimer had had, by her first husband, six children, three only of whom were living. Her eldest daughter, Catharine, was at this time nearer forty than thirty years of age. She had never possessed any part of her mother's beauty excepting a tall and commanding figure, which of late had been spreading rather too much into the en bon point. Her face was large and broad, naturally very pale, and slightly marked by the smallpox, her large eyes were of a grey colour, her mouth was extremely small, and her nostrils were wide; the whole forming a very unpleasing assemblage of features. Notwithstanding which, a fashionable mode of dress, a quantity of rouge, an amazing degree of effrontery of manner, and a knack at repartee, rendered her generally acceptable in society, particularly as she was able to conceal under the cloak of entire openness and unblushing assurance, a character extremely artificial and designing. But though this lady's passion was ambition, she now had sense to discover, that her own person was not such as to warrant any hopes of her advancing the family dignity by a high marriage in propria persona. Her present object, therefore, was to establish her two younger sisters: and for this purpose, in conjunction with her mother, she had made several skilful manœuvres, and had actually got at this time in her web a foolish young baronet, who had professed some regard for Miss Juliana Clifford when in Town, and who was even expected that very evening at the Hall: for the sapient mother and daughter judged that they should here be able to bring the whole artillery of Miss Juliana's charms to bear more directly upon him than in London, where he was subject to the attacks of other mothers and daughters, as cold-hearted, ambitious, and cunning, as themselves. Judge, then, if you can, what must have been the dismay of these ladies, when they discovered that the wilds of Yorkshire contained in Sophia a more powerful rival than any that they had had to fear in St. James's. However, nothing was to be done but to put a good face on the business: for which reason, Miss Clifford lavished on Sophia no small portion of compliments and caresses, by which she hoped, in time, to gain her confidence, and obtain from her an avowal of her most secret inclinations. What use she meant to make of such an avowal (could she obtain it) will hereafter appear.

In my description of the family party which now took possession of Mortimer-Hall, I have said nothing of Mrs. Mortimer's younger daughters, and for the plain reason, that there was little to be said about them. They, indeed, were passably good-looking, but, through affecting much delicacy, they were ready unreservedly to lend themselves to the ambitious and worldly views of their mother and sister. Strangely mixed as was this party, it was thought necessary by each individual to appear well with the rest. Yet there were certain feelings between Mrs. Mortimer and her daughters, who formed one party, and Sophia, who stood alone, which both parties were willing to conceal, but which they would still have found considerable difficulty in doing, had it not been for the boisterous humour of Mr. Mortimer, who could hardly restrain his triumph on finding his wife's daughters so entirely eclipsed by his own.

"Why, Sophia," he exclaimed, as he cut a succession of enormous slices from a monstrous round of beef which stood before him, "you would do credit to the head of any man's table! A prince need not be ashamed of such a companion to share his throne with him. Believe me, I never thought that old dame Fortescue would ever have made so much of you as she has done. Upon my word, you credit the old girl's management. But what! what's that long face? O! I must not talk of your old governess, I see. Well, well, then, I won't. Come, child, look up, and don't pipe and whine. However, I am glad to see you, and that's the plain truth. Give me your hand, child: I don't know that I have seen any thing I have liked so well, these twenty years."

"Twenty years, Mr. Mortimer!" said Miss Clifford, laughing; "you forget how many times during the last twenty years you have looked at me!"

"And at my bay mare, too," said Mr. Mortimer: "and yet, I still stand to what I first said. Sophia here pleases me as well as--nay, even better than any thing I have seen these twenty years." And he confirmed his assertion with an oath, which made Sophia's ears tingle and her heart sink.

The conversation was then forced into another channel by Mrs. Mortimer, who declared that if she remained at the Hall, she must absolutely have the dining-room newly furnished--an observation to which Mr. Mortimer only replied by a shrill whistle, at the same time throwing the contents of a plate of beef on the floor-cloth, causing a violent contention among half-a-dozen or more dogs, that had followed the party into the room.

When the travellers had appeased their hunger, it was proposed that they should explore the house, and settle what apartments they might choose to occupy. Immediately they were all in motion: and Sophia, availing herself of the confusion which ensued, approached her father, and took his hand, just as he was leaving the dining-room, and, raising it at the same time to her lips, she told him that she had a favour to ask.

"And so," said he, turning good-humouredly round, "you are already presuming on your pretty face to wheedle and coax me. But I tell you, Miss, that I will refuse you whatever you are going to ask."

"Then, dear father," said Sophia, "will you please to turn me and Mrs. Cicely out of the brown parlour and the rooms within it?"

"No," said the good-humoured Squire, "no, I will not, saucy one!" And as he spoke, he chucked her under the chin. "You sha'n't have your way, I promise you. The brown parlour is good enough for such as you; and there you shall stay: so don't be coaxing me."

"But I will," said Sophia, again kissing his hand, and receiving at the same time a cordial embrace from him.

"What's all this?" said Miss Clifford, looking back. "What is little Miss about now? Come, come; I must look into these matters."

"Secrets in all families, Miss Clifford!" said the Squire; "and some you must not look into."

Miss Clifford laughed, hit her step-father a tap on the back, and secretly resolved that she would have a watchful eye over both the father and daughter.

The examination of the house was the more speedily concluded, as the baronet already mentioned, and his friend Captain Dalrymple, were expected at dinner; and Sophia was not sorry when she was dismissed from her attendance, and permitted to return to her own apartments, which, with the offices, were the only parts of the house that Mrs. Mortimer and her daughters had not inspected.

She returned, however, to her own rooms, full of joy, in the persuasion that she should not be turned out of her favourite asylum. And she found Mrs. Cicely so ready to participate in her satisfaction, that the good old woman even requested permission to take her meals in her closet, or in one corner of the parlour, in order that she might be left the more to herself. Sophia joyfully acquiesced in this proposal: and as Cicely's services were to be devoted wholly to her, both the maid and the mistress began to hope that they should still enjoy much peace and comfort during those intervals in which Sophia might not be required to join the family.

As some hours yet remained before dinner, which was to be ready at six o'clock, Sophia gave her little Annette another lesson. She also read to her a little story from the Scripture, and prayed with her. And then, having, with Mrs. Cicely's help, arranged her simple dress, she left Annette to drink tea with the old servant, and, giving the child a kiss, she repaired to the drawing-room, where the family were by this time assembled.

Sophia now, for the first time since her recollection, entered a room superbly lighted with patent lamps and wax candles, and found herself introduced to such a scene of fashionable life as she had hitherto only known through the description of Mrs. Fortescue.

In the drawing-room were several sofas, on one of which, in a remote part of the room, sat Miss Juliana, lolling apparently at her ease, and discoursing with a young gentleman who sat by her, and whom Sophia supposed to be Sir James Horton. Miss Clifford was standing with her back to the fire, talking to Mr. Mortimer. And Mrs. Mortimer and her younger daughter, seated on another sofa, were engaged in a very animated conversation with Captain Dalrymple, who stood before them.

Sophia had been a little surprised at the dashing mode of dress of these ladies when she had seen them in the morning, and she had trembled lest any authority should be used to compel her to adopt the short petticoat, the showy half-boot, and the blowsy head-dress, on which she had looked with such disgust. But what were these in comparison of the bare shoulders, the naked arms, and thin silk stockings, which now met her eye? The postures, too, of all the females, accorded so little with her old-fashioned ideas of decorum, that she stood at the door, not knowing which party she was to join, or by whom she was to take her place.

Her entrance was not, however, unobserved: and all admired, though some not without bitter envy, her modest dress, her gentle aspect, and her sweet expression of humility and innocence.

Her father was the first who spoke. "What! my sweet Sophia!" said he, as he went to meet her; "my little elegant peasant! Give me your hand, and let me lead you to your mother." So saying, he conducted her to Mrs. Mortimer, who made room for her near herself, with a parading kind of alacrity, by which she endeavoured to conceal her inward mortification.

The ceremony of introducing the two gentlemen to Sophia had scarcely taken place, before the dinner was announced: and Mrs. Mortimer, taking Sophia fondly by the arm, told them that they should not separate her from her newly-found child. And thus, by a skilful manœuvre, she left the baronet with her own daughter.

Nothing particular happened at dinner. Sophia, seated between Mrs. Mortimer and Miss Clifford, was nearly concealed from Sir James, who was entirely engrossed by the two younger Miss Cliffords. And the Captain, being devoted to the sports of the field and the pleasures of the table, was so entirely in his element in the society and at the board of Mr. Mortimer, that he never lifted his eye from his plate, nor devoted his faculty of hearing to the remarks of any other person present than those of the jolly Squire himself.

The ladies sat the usual time after dinner, and then withdrew; when Sophia, full of joy at being able to make her escape, retired to her own apartments, where she found Annette asleep in Mrs. Cicely's bed, and the good woman herself at work by the bed-room fire.

"Miss Mortimer," said she, "I have kept Annette tonight, because I was so dull without you. O, my dear lady, that we could but call back the happy days that we spent together before this company came!"

Sophia made no answer; for she felt her heart rise to her throat, and she was also much afraid of saying too much: for, surely, (she thought,) my father was at liberty to marry again; and who can dispute his right to come to his own house?

Sophia sat down by Cicely, and read to her a few chapters in the Bible, till she was called to tea; when, begging the good woman to go to bed, and not wait for her, if she should be late, she took her neat work-bag, and returned to the drawing-room.

Sophia, on opening the door, became fully aware that the ladies, who had not yet been joined by the gentlemen, were engaged in some very warm discussion; for although the contents of their elegant work-boxes were spread before them, yet these were wholly disregarded, and they were (to use a common yet expressive proverb) all putting their heads together over the table, and speaking with great vehemence. As Sophia, however, advanced into the room, every head was suddenly drawn back, and an immediate silence followed, which would have appeared even more awkward than it did, if the never-blushing Miss Clifford had not turned to Sophia, and begged her, if she could, to solve their difficulties. "Can you tell us, dear Miss Mortimer," she said, "how far we are from York?--for my sisters will insist upon it that it is fifty miles, and I am as obstinately determined that it shall be only forty: and here we are, at ten miles' distance, quarrelling with each other about this knotty point, and resolved not to budge an inch to come to an accommodation."

Sophia smiled, but was not, however, quite such a novice as to suppose that all the heat and anxiety that she had seen manifested, and which were indicated both by voice and countenance, were engaged about no other object than the distance of Mortimer-Hall from York. Nevertheless, supposing that it was not any business of hers to look further into this matter, she sat down and took out her work, which happened to be a frock for Annette, it never having occurred to her that such an employment could possibly give occasion for any comments. Works of charity, however, being less common some years ago than they are now, it was not to be supposed that the little garment would pass unobserved, or that Miss Clifford would lose this opportunity of indulging in her favourite style of remark, which consisted of a kind of drawling and stupid commendation, concealing, at the same time, real disapprobation.

"How I do love Christian boldness!" said she. "I do love to see people who are not afraid of letting the world behold their good works: for such a sight so rarely occurs. Most people are afraid of having their charitable actions known. It is well, my dear Miss Mortimer, that you, at least, have not this defect of character; and I trust that we shall be enabled to profit by your example."

"Surely, Miss Clifford," said Sophia, blushing, "you forget that we are here only a family party, with the exception of one or two gentlemen, who are come to see my father. And men, in general, do not trouble themselves with ladies' needlework."

"True, my dear," said Miss Clifford, drawing up her small mouth to a point: "very prudently observed: I had forgotten."

Sophia smiled, (for she could not help it,) though vexed, and answered, playfully, "Well, when I have done my plain work, you shall teach me some of this fine embroidery, and then I shall be fitter to sit in company; but in the mean time I must finish what I have to do:" and she continued to stitch with her usual quiet and elegant diligence.

The remarks on the unfortunate frock having apparently produced no sensations, another subject was presently called by Miss Clifford, though with such seeming ease, that it had not the air of being lugged in by the head and shoulders, as it surely would have appeared, had it been brought forward by a less skilful manœuverer. This subject was one that too frequently engages the conversation of young women whose minds are not right towards God,--namely, those unsanctified wanderings of the affections and fancy which are falsely ennobled by the general name of love.

Miss Clifford, having rallied both her sisters by turns on these topics, suddenly turned round to Sophia, and staring her full in the face, exclaimed, "And now, my pretty shepherdess, it behoves me to look a little after you. Are there no Strephons nor Colins in these fair wilds? Come, now, be a good girl, and tell me who it is that bears away most hearts in this place. Who is the favourite shepherd in the Arcadia which surrounds Mortimer-Hall? There can be no question respecting the shepherdess, as I presume that my little Sophia here has not many rivals among the Yorkshire damsels?"

Sophia looked up for a moment, on hearing this address, and replied, with a smile, that she knew of no shepherds in that neighbourhood, but one who belonged to her father, and who, being very old and rheumatic, always wore a Welsh wig under his hat.

"Monstrous!" said Miss Clifford; "it is almost as shocking to see a shepherd in a wig, as a shepherdess in a bell-hoop. But, my dear little sister," added she, with a laugh, "if you have no shepherds hereabouts, certainly, this sweet retirement must contain some favourite friend, whose name you would not now mention for all the world, but on whom, however, it is your chief delight to meditate when walking alone, and when you sit in silence, guiding your needle, as you may now be doing, in the favourite parlour, when the moon is shining, and the owls hooting, as I suppose they sometimes do in the neighbourhood of Mortimer-Hall."

"For shame, Kate," said Mrs. Mortimer, "you make your sister Sophia blush. She is not used to your saucy ways."

"Why, now you mention it, Ma'am," said Miss Clifford, holding up her quizzing-glass to her eye, (for this young lady was short-sighted when she chose to be so,) "I really do perceive that my little Sophia is blushing. Why, my dear Miss Mortimer," she added, "have I actually put you out of countenance? have I really made you blush?"

"Yes," replied Sophia, looking up; "but not for myself."

"Witty, upon my word," exclaimed Miss Clifford, and she again drew up her mouth into the form of a round O, from which position it suddenly relaxed, and the lady, bursting into a loud laugh, added, "Upon my word, my little Sophia Mortimer, you are the prettiest demure little thing I have seen for these hundred years; and the best of it is, you would have us think that you have never yet beheld the man you could like, and that for your part you have a much more sincere affection for old Mrs. Cicely and Mr. Perry the butler, than for any young gentleman you ever saw in your life, or ever are likely to see, and so forth. But let me tell you, my little girl, you will not get any credit here for all your pretty little pretensions."

"I make no pretensions," replied Sophia, modestly, "I don't presume to be either wiser or better than my neighbours; but as I think that the truth is always best spoken among friends, I will confess that it is my wish never to be joked upon subjects of this kind. It was the request of poor Mrs. Fortescue that I would never speak of these concerns, unless in a serious manner, and when necessary: and as I have now no occasion, either to speak or even to think of them, I should be sorry, when I have neither cause nor temptation to do so, to neglect the injunctions of this my maternal friend."

"O," said Miss Clifford, drawing up her mouth, and protracting the exclamation to a ridiculous length, "indeed! I beg pardon. I am sorry. Had I known so much before, I trust that I should have been more prudent. I would have died rather than have touched this tender subject with so rude a hand. To some persons I know that the affairs of the heart are matters of great importance. Perhaps they were so to Mrs. Fortescue; perhaps they are so to you. You may depend in future, my dear Miss Mortimer, on my forbearance; only excuse me this once:" saying which, she held out her hand to her new sister, at the same time assuming an expression of the ridiculous pathetic, at which Sophia could hardly refrain from smiling, though she experienced so strong a sentiment of distaste as wholly deprived her of the power of being amused by those peculiarities in Miss Clifford which few could look upon without mirth.

When the gentlemen appeared in the drawing-room, the conversation of course took another turn. Mr. Mortimer was in high and boisterous spirits, and the Captain was ready to second him in all his humours; the baronet being the only quiet person of the party, the young gentleman having swallowed a sufficient quantity of liquor to make him more than commonly stupid.

After tea, Mr. Mortimer called for music, and asked Sophia to play.

Sophia could play, and sing also, with considerable taste; but it was sacred music to which her attention had been chiefly directed, and she was, therefore, unprepared for any thing of a lighter sort. She stated this difficulty to her step-mother; when Mr. Mortimer observing her whisper, and desiring that her whisper might be repeated aloud, a burst of laughter from the good Squire himself, with certain fainter expressions of merriment from the young ladies, was the immediate consequence: while the father, clapping his daughter on the back in a manner something similar to that with which he would have caressed his favourite horse, bade her look up, saying, that she need only put herself under the tuition of Catharine Clifford, and she would teach her to sing to many new tunes.

"And would you wish me to learn all the tunes which Miss Clifford might be able to teach me?" said Sophia, turning to her father, and speaking in a low tone.

"You are a sly rogue, in spite of that little demure face of yours," replied the father, with a loud laugh.

"Ay, ay, Miss Catharine, you may look: but I'll match my Sophia against you any day, deep as you may be!"

"Deep!" repeated Miss Clifford, being, for once, more out of countenance than she wished to be thought.

In the mean time, as Sophia could not, with advantage, shew off her musical talents to the present party, Miss Juliana and her younger sister were led in triumph to the piano-forte; while Mr. Mortimer, who hated every thing relative to music beyond a hunting song, settled himself to sleep in a corner of the sofa near Sophia, leaving the Captain (as the baronet was not wide awake) to the severe duties of extolling the Italian airs and recitatives, which he detested even more heartily than they really deserved.

While things were in this train, Miss Clifford and her mother left the room, Mr. Mortimer presently snored aloud, and the baronet began to rouse himself: while Sophia was lost in meditations, which turned first upon the characters of her newly-introduced relations; secondly, on the conversation which had passed before tea; and thirdly, by, a natural connexion, on that forbidden subject of thought which for some time she had so successfully avoided, namely, the various supposed or real excellencies of Mr. Sackville, and the peculiar resemblance which he bore to the portrait of the handsome and gallant Duke of Monmouth.

Thus had evil communications in some degree commenced their baneful operations on the heart of this young lady, and had rendered her power of resistance against that which was evil, less than usually strong. For worthy and estimable as Mr. Sackville was, his excellencies were as yet nothing to Sophia, neither did she know that they ever would be. He had hitherto made no avowal of regard for her, and she knew not that he would ever do so; nor was she sure that if such an avowal were even to be made, it would be sanctioned by her father. She had, therefore, every reason that both religion and prudence could suggest, to restrain her thoughts from this object; and hitherto she had been in a great measure enabled to keep her mind in a proper state, and to cast every care on her God: but, as I before remarked, the light society into which she had fallen already had an injurious influence in lowering the hitherto high tone of her moral feelings, and thus rendering her more susceptible of temptation.

More than half an hour had passed in this manner, during which the baronet had first yawned, then stretched, then shook himself, then kicked the dogs from before the fire-place, then got out of his chair, then stood where the dogs had been, with his back to the rest of the room, then turned round with his back to the fire, then looked at one and another of the company present, and, lastly, lounged to an empty chair beside Sophia, where he began to play with her scissars, which lay on the table.

Sophia was indulging her own thoughts, as I before hinted; and though she had certainly seen Sir James move, she was scarcely sensible that he had settled himself so near her. Having twisted the scissars round his little finger for some time, the young man at length ventured to speak, and to ask the young lady if she had ever been in London.

At the sound of his voice so near her, Sophia started, and was obliged to ask him to repeat his question, before she knew what to answer.

"You were never in Town, I think, Miss Mortimer?" said Sir James.

"I believe not, Sir," replied Sophia.

"Not within your recollection?" said the other.

"No, Sir," returned Sophia.

"Then you were there in infancy?" said the baronet.

"No, Sir," said Sophia.

"Then you were never in London at any time?" subjoined the other.

"Never, Sir," replied Sophia.

"Indeed," said the baronet, "I thought so."

"Sir!" said Sophia, trying to rouse herself to something like attention.

"I really did think," said the baronet, lisping, and trying to look sentimental, "I really did think, that you had never been in Town."

"What answer am I to make to this?" thought Sophia. "Does he mean to be polite, or merely to laugh at me?" And as she could not decide on this point, she did not venture any reply.

"London spoils the complexion," said Sir James.

"I have heard so," replied Sophia.

"I am sure you have not been in any place to spoil your complexion," remarked the baronet, making a violent effort to utter the most civil thing that he had ever ventured to address to a lady in his life; and as Sophia was wholly unprepared with any answer, it was some moments before his faculties were enabled to recover the equilibrium from which they had been violently thrown by this unusual effort. A cessation of conversation therefore ensued for a few seconds, which interval was interrupted only by the hard breathing of the sleeping Squire, and the pathetic quaverings of Miss Juliana's voice. At length, the baronet spoke again. "You are working for the poor, I see, Miss Mortimer. I like to see ladies work for the poor. My sisters are often employed in that way."

These last were the only sentences which the baronet had uttered that had pleased Sophia. She accordingly looked up and smiled.

Sir James thought her smile very sweet, and was thinking how he might deserve such another, when Miss Clifford, who had returned into the room a minute before, and had been closely considering this tête-à-tête between Miss Mortimer and Sir James, thought proper to call upon the young gentleman to play with her at backgammon: soon after which, Sophia took occasion to beg permission of her mother to withdraw; a favour which was readily granted her by Mrs. Mortimer, who begged that she would always consider herself at liberty to retire whenever it was agreeable to her.

As Sophia had gone to rest at a later hour than usual, she awoke later the next morning; and the first thing she beheld, on opening her eyes, was her little Annette, sitting by her bed-side, working with her needle. This was a consolatory sight to her, and seemed at once to banish all uneasy thoughts. She arose in haste, and endeavoured to make the best of her time in instructing the child till called to breakfast.

It was apparent, when the family party met again, that the eyes of Sir James were more frequently directed towards Sophia than to Miss Juliana, though there was nothing in his conduct relative to either of these young ladies which was by any means particular. His slight preference of Sophia, however, was quite sufficient to alarm Mrs. Mortimer and Miss Clifford; and immediately after breakfast, these ladies had a private conference upon the subject, in which the latter told her mother that she had a scheme in her head by which she hoped to avert the danger which threatened them.

Miss Clifford was one of those women who, being herself destitute of any idea of the state of mind of a pious young person, could not suppose it possible for any young woman to have attained the age of eighteen without having formed some attachment, and who, therefore, felt convinced that Sophia must have some object of preference in the country. She, consequently, determined to divert her attention from the baronet by bringing this person before her, and encouraging the connexion either openly or clandestinely, whichever might be judged by herself or her mother most prudent. But the difficulty was, to find out this person, particularly as Sophia was not to be bantered upon the subject of love. Miss Clifford was, however, too good a politician to be deterred from her purpose by a trifling obstacle; and she, therefore, when Sophia appeared in the drawing-room after dinner, accordingly began her operations. "And now, my dear Miss Mortimer," said she, "as you have lived all your life in this country, do tell us who are our neighbours. And first, who lives at the large white house on the top of the hill? and who at the new brick house on the road between this place and the last stage? Are there any young people in either of these mansions?"

Sophia answered all and each of these enquiries with such perfect ease and simplicity, that, although questioned and cross-questioned again and again, she betrayed no indication by which Miss Clifford could draw any conclusions whatever.

When the gentlemen came in, the subject was continued, and Mr. Mortimer very unsuspectingly lent his assistance to Miss Clifford in her enquiries. "And who lives at the Old Hills now?" said Mr. Mortimer; "and who at the Barn Elms? and what family is now at Horsford?"

Sophia answered all these questions to the best of her power, and thus every thing went on quite smoothly till Mr. Mortimer asked, "And who is rector of Fairfield at this time?"

"Fairfield!" repeated Sophia, as if she had never heard of such a place before.

Miss Clifford then fixed her grey eyes on Sophia, and Mr. Mortimer replied, "Why, child, don't you know the parish at the higher end of the park? The rector was a very old man when I was last in this neighbourhood. Is he living still?"

"No," said Sophia.

"And pray," said Miss Clifford, in a drawling, stupid voice, "who holds the living now?"

"A Mr. Sackville," said Sophia, using her needle with particular diligence.

"Sackville!" repeated Miss Clifford, in the same stupid voice, "I think I remember him at York:--an elderly man is he not, and remarkably plain?"

"No," said Sophia, but speaking as if something choked her, "no, not particularly old."

"Well, I do not know that he was so very old," subjoined Miss Clifford; "but features particularly ordinary make a person look older than he is."

Sophia was busy with her needle, and unusually shortsighted: she was, therefore, obliged to look close to her work.

"Mrs. Mortimer," said Miss Clifford, addressing her mother, "you remember Mr. Sackville at York; a remarkably plain man, but very agreeable. We must cultivate his acquaintance. I only beg, Juliana and Harriet, that you will not fall in love with him."

"But how do we know," said Mr. Mortimer, "that the rector of Fairfield is the same Sackville you knew at York? Have you seen him, Sophia? Is his appearance so remarkable as these ladies say? Is he any ways an odd-looking man?"

"No, Sir," said Sophia, "I believe not."

"Is he an agreeable man, Miss Mortimer?" asked Miss Clifford. "Our Mr. Sackville was an agreeable man: what is yours?"

"I have seen very little of him, Miss Clifford," replied Sophia, gravely.

"But one may sometimes form no incorrect opinion of a person from one or two interviews," returned Miss Clifford, looking exceedingly hard in Sophia's face; and then suddenly and abruptly introducing another subject, being perfectly satisfied of all she wanted to know upon this.

The next day being Sunday, the family appeared at church, and on the Monday following, many of the neighbouring gentry paid their respects to them at the Hall. None of these guests were, however, seen by Sophia, as she had walked out, after breakfast, with Mrs. Cicely and Annette, on an errand which took her to a considerable distance.

Among these visitors was Mr. Sackville, who had for once broken his resolution of never seeking any acquaintance beyond his parish, in order to pay his compliments to Mr. Mortimer. What his motive might have been, he perhaps hardly understood himself: but Miss Clifford, who was confirmed in her suspicions by his appearance, suggested to Mrs. Mortimer, that she could not do better than invite him to dinner, and thus provide at once an admirer for Sophia, and convince the baronet, by ocular demonstration, that he had no chance with her.

The invitation was accordingly given and accepted for the next day; when the unsuspecting Sophia was not a little astonished, on her entering the drawing-room, to find Mr. Sackville conversing with her step-mother.

During the evening, every arrangement was made by the manœuvering mother and daughter to throw these young people in each other's way; and Mr. Sackville seemed so well pleased with the opportunities thus given him of conversing with Sophia, that every hour seemed but a moment to him.

Although Sophia's manner was perfectly modest and artless, yet it was sufficiently evident, to such observers as she had about her, that her feelings for Mr. Sackville were very different from those that she discovered towards Sir James. Nothing, however, passed between this young lady and gentleman but what was lovely, holy, and of good report. They first talked of Annette, and Sophia repeated many little anecdotes relative to her which she thought interesting; and such was the warmth with which she expatiated on this subject, that, without observing it, she had drawn upon herself the eyes of many in the room, who had never before seen her so animated. Mr. Sackville then described some particularly beautiful flowers which he had in his garden, at the same time promising Sophia some roots and seeds of them; and he afterwards gave her an account of some persons who had lately died in his parish in a very happy manner.

When Mr. Sackville took his leave this evening, which he evidently did with considerable reluctance, Miss Clifford afforded him an opportunity of coming again by requesting the loan of a new publication which he had accidentally mentioned.

As this narrative has unavoidably extended itself to some length, I shall not increase its bulk by describing either the various means which Miss Clifford, in connexion with her mother, employed to bring Mr. Sackville continually to the Hall, or the various methods which she took to keep alive the remembrance of him in the mind of Sophia in his absence.

"How could you think," said she one day to Sophia, "of calling Mr. Sackville a plain man? In my opinion he is remarkably handsome."

"I do not remember having mentioned the subject," replied Sophia, colouring deeply.

"Then I am, indeed, mistaken," said Miss Clifford. "I am sure I thought you had affirmed as much." And then, because Sophia would not allow herself to be addressed on such matters, this talkative lady proceeded to warn her sister Harriet, in Sophia's hearing, against falling in love with him, saying, that handsome men were always vain, and adding, that she was sure he had some design in coming so frequently to the Hall.

In the mean time several weeks had passed, while the baronet evidently betrayed an increasing preference for Sophia, and more and more uneasiness in the presence of Mr. Sackville, of whose advantages of person and manner he seemed perfectly sensible.

Mr. Mortimer at first did not appear to know what was going forward in his family; and Miss Clifford hoped he would continue in ignorance. But on Sir James becoming more open and decided in his attentions to Sophia, her father began to think that it would be her own fault if his daughter did not become Lady Horton. The idea pleased him: and, from that time, he endeavoured to promote the connexion to the utmost of his power. His attention being thus drawn to what was passing, he was not long in observing that Sophia, though always modest and dignified in her manner, betrayed a much greater degree of pleasure in being addressed by Mr. Sackville, than by Sir James; and, in consequence of this discovery, he did every thing short of absolutely forbidding him the house to discourage Mr. Sackville's visits.

While all these things were taking place, Sophia found reason to lament the loss of that peace of mind of which she had once enjoyed so large a share, although her retired apartment and her little Annette were still as dear to her as ever. She now remembered with anguish the days when her heart had been sincerely and continually devoted to her God; when it was her highest pleasure to read her Bible, to dwell upon the merits of her Saviour, and to seek the presence of the Holy Spirit. But now she found that a mere earthly passion was acquiring a growing influence over her mind; and that this passion was constantly fed either by the presence of the favoured object, or by her hearing him continually spoken of. She was at this time made sensibly to experience what Mrs. Fortescue had often told her, that the young woman who allows the encroachment of any passion which has not received the sanction of duty, utterly destroys her peace for the time being, if not for ever. "But are there no means," said she, "of overcoming this evil? Shall I patiently submit to be the slave of feeling? No, no," she added, "I will consult my late beloved Mrs. Fortescue's book, and I shall no doubt be directed to what will supply a remedy for my present uneasy state."

Sophia did as she resolved. She read over, again and again, the little manuscript left by her deceased instructress; and, thus, was she led, under the divine blessing, to a sincere and hearty repentance, to a renewed devotion of herself to God, and to a more active and lively exercise of her various duties.

Sophia now endeavoured to give less of her company to the Miss Cliffords, and more time to her Bible, her general improvement, and her attentions to the little Annette.

But while these things were passing in the mind of Sophia, and she was gradually recovering her mental vigour, Sir James, being hurt by a hint purposely given him by Miss Clifford, respecting Sophia, who she pretended cherished an invincible dislike to him, took himself off without making the offer expected by Mr. Mortimer; at which, the angry father declared that he would shortly leave Yorkshire, and take his whole family to Bath, in order, he said, to separate his daughter from the young man to whom he too plainly saw she was attached.

It was a severe blow to Sophia, when she was informed of this proposed visit to Bath, and she tried to persuade herself that all her sorrow on this occasion arose from her reluctance to leave Annette: for she had come to the conclusion, that she thought no more of Mr. Sackville but as of a friend, with whom she might probably have no further conversation. But it was necessary, on account of Annette, that Mr. Sackville should know of this intended journey; and although Sophia very properly objected to entering into an epistolary communication with him on the subject, the matter might, however, easily have been settled through the medium of Mrs. Cicely: yet Sophia chose rather to fancy that there were some objections to so simple a mode of arranging this knotty point, which she supposed could be managed by nothing less than a personal interview with the party concerned; and therefore, as Mr. Sackville did not, as formerly, now come to the Hall, she allowed day after day to pass without making the requisite communication, or forming any arrangement for the comfort of the child while she herself was to be absent.

In the mean time, the engaging little creature wrapped herself more and more closely about the heart of her protectress, and the child's entire freedom from apprehension respecting the approaching separation daily increased the sadness of Sophia. "O my little Annette!" would she often say within herself, "must I leave you? and will nobody love you, and bear with you, and please you, as I do? Cicely must go with me, and I know that Mrs. Doiley is sometimes cross with you; and then you will have no one to whom you may tell your little sorrows, or who will wipe your weeping eyes. Ah, little orphan, I shall often think of you when far far away."

Such were the reflections of Sophia; in spite of which she still hesitated to allow Mrs. Cicely to acquaint Mr. Sackville with her concern about the child, though the good woman was very willing to convey to him any message which her lady might wish to send.

Such was the state of things, when, one fine clear morning in December, Sophia went out to walk in a remote and retired part of the park, holding Annette by the hand; and, lost in melancholy reflection, having passed the more open part of the inclosure, they turned into a path leading to a deep dell or dingle, that was shaded in the summer season by the thick foliage of many trees which grew on its sloping sides. At the further end of this dell was a waterfall, which, tumbling from the higher grounds, fell dashing and foaming into the depths of the glen. At the present season of the year, the trees were leafless, and the full glare of day shot into the very bottom of the valley. The cold, however, had been severe; and the feeble December sun which now appeared in the vaporous sky had not sufficient power to dissolve the hoar frost which spangled every bough and spray, and rendered the moss of the unfrequented pathway short and crisp beneath the foot. Many long and brilliant icicles were hanging like cones of crystal from the rocky sides of the cascade, and the whole scene of the dingle was not now as beautiful as it would appear in the heats of summer, inasmuch, only, as the ideas which it suggested were less promising of enjoyment in the open air.

"Look, dear Ma'am," said little Annette, pointing her finger to the cascade, "look at those long pieces of glass which hang down by the brook: look how bright they are! May not I carry some of them home?"

"Not now," said Sophia: "it is wet and cold; we cannot get down to the side of the water."

"Then we will come again by and by," said Annette. "When the winter is gone, we will come and fetch them, shall we not, Ma'am?"

"Come again, my little Annette!" returned Sophia. "Ah, little girl, they will be gone before the summer comes, and gone perhaps with them may be all your happy days--melted away, possibly, like those sparkling icicles before the rays of the summer sun. For O, my child," she added, "I shall then be far beyond the reach of your infant cry, and your gentle calls for my notice and protection." This exclamation was made by Sophia, as she stood near a tree under which there was a bench placed in such a situation as to command a view of the waterfall: and so acute were the feelings of this young lady at the moment, that she sunk upon the bench, and throwing her arms round the neck of the little girl, burst into an agony of tears.

Little Annette had not yet formed any idea of the cause of Sophia's distress; but she well knew that tears were in general the tokens of sorrow, and she instantly took up her little muslin apron to wipe her lady's cheeks, while her own sparkling eyes became suffused with crystalline drops.

At this moment Sophia heard an approaching step, which, from the hardness of the frosty ground, resounded, as it came nearer, more plainly through the valley. She started, and looked up; and before she had time to change her attitude, Mr. Sackville appeared before her.

This retired dingle was no common haunt of the young clergyman's: but he had happened to pass through it that morning, as a shorter road to a house on the other side of the country, where he had been paying a visit.

At the sight of Sophia and Annette, his cheeks became suffused with a sudden glow of pleasure; but when, on a second glance, he perceived the traces of sorrow on their features, his own countenance instantly changed, and, as it were, reflected the uneasiness which theirs expressed, just as the clear mirror of some glassy lake reflects the variations which every passing cloud or vapour occasions in the heavens above.

"Miss Mortimer," he said, "can it be Miss Mortimer? But why these signs of sorrow?" And coming up more closely to her, "My dear Miss Mortimer," he added, "how is it that I see you thus uneasy? what has happened? can I do any thing for you? have you met with any accident? is all well at the Hall? can I assist you? how can I serve you?"

Sophia endeavoured to wipe away her tears, to look more cheerful, and to command her voice so that she might at least speak with composure; but failing after several efforts, the tears again gushed forth, and she laid her head on the shoulder of Annette, whom she had taken upon her lap.

Mr. Sackville then, in his alarm, addressed the child, and begged her to tell him what was the matter. From Annette, however, he could get no satisfaction: and becoming more alarmed, he grasped Sophia's hand, and entreated her to relieve his anxiety.

Sophia, being quite ashamed of her weakness, endeavoured to rouse herself. She looked up, and said "I am afraid, Sir, that you will think me very silly--very much to blame: but,--" and she hesitated.

"Think you silly, dear Miss Mortimer!" rejoined Mr. Sackville; "O how little you know my heart. But, I beseech you, set me at ease. Let me know the occasion of these tears. Something, I feel persuaded, has greatly afflicted you: and you will make me miserable, indeed, if you send me away in this state of anxiety. I beseech you, tell me the worst. Is it what I apprehend? Is it what I most dread? Are you going to leave the country?"

"Yes, Sir," stammered Sophia; "yes, Sir, I am going; and my heart is almost broken-because--because of little Annette."

"And you are going with Sir James Horton?" asked Mr. Sackville, suddenly turning quite pale.

"With Sir James Horton!" replied Sophia, reddening violently, "with Sir James Horton! No, never, never, while I live."

Mr. Sackville seemed to breathe again, and his colour returned. He tried to make some apology for the strange question he had asked; but made such blundering work of it, that he found it would be best to leave all apologies alone, as they only served to make Sophia the more sensible of the singularity of the question he had so unwarily put.

"What could make you think of Sir James Horton, Mr. Sackville?" asked Sophia, as soon as she could recover her speech. "He is nothing to me, nor me to him. He has left us some days: and when he was here, he had nothing to say to me; he was not my acquaintance."

"I am most sincerely rejoiced to hear this," said Mr. Sackville.

"And wherefore, Sir?" asked Sophia, whose astonishment increased every moment. "Do you dislike Sir James?"

"No," said Mr. Sackville, "not exactly; but--I am glad that he is gone."

Sophia looked earnestly at him; and then, turning to Annette, heaved a deep sigh, and wiped away another tear.

"But you are unhappy, ever dear Miss Mortimer," said Mr. Sackville; "and you are still shedding tears. You are going from this place, you say. Let me entreat you to explain the cause of all this. O how many, many sorrowful hearts you will leave behind you: and none, none more sad than mine!"

Being thus urged, Sophia informed Mr. Sackville of the intended journey to Bath, and her consequent separation from Annette, which must ensue.

It was not Mr. Sackville alone who was affected by this explanation: for Annette now, for the first time, comprehended the evil with which she was threatened; on which, throwing her arms more closely round Sophia's neck, she burst forth into such bitter cries that for a few minutes neither Sophia nor Mr. Sackville could appease her.

Annette, when thoroughly excited, was violent; though it was but seldom that occasions of such excitation occurred; and it is certain that this poor little orphan had already had experience enough of the unkindness of the world, to give her a rational dread of being left again with strangers. "You shall not go from me, Ma'am," she said; "no, never, never. I will not live with Mrs. Doiley; I will stay with you."

"You shall come to me," said Mr. Sackville; "I will take care of you, my dear Annette, till Miss Mortimer returns, and you shall not live with Mrs. Doiley."

Annette was silenced by this promise; for, next to Sophia, she best liked Mr. Sackville: and Sophia looked up to the young gentleman with such an expression of tearful gratitude as he prized more highly than any words she could have uttered.

"Make yourself easy on Annette's account, my dear Miss Mortimer," said Mr. Sackville; "I promise her my best services. Poor though they are, and far inferior to yours, you well know that I consider myself bound by every consideration capable of influencing a human creature, to be the guardian of this little girl. When you can no longer give her your personal attention, I will take her to my house, and place her in safe and careful hands. But must you go?" he added. "Well, if it must be so, it is my duty to submit. Will you, however, come back, and make us happy?"

"I hope so," replied Sophia, faintly.

"No, you never will," returned Mr. Sackville, sorrowfully: "you will be too much loved and valued. Never, till this moment, was I ever induced to wish that I was more than the humble rector of Fairfield."

Sophia was silent; and her head was bowed on the neck of Annette.

"I cannot suppose," said Mr. Sackville, "that a young lady of your rank, and fortune, and various advantages, would condescend to think of one so humble as I am; and yet I have sometimes almost ventured to hope that you would not altogether despise me. Your tastes are so simple, your pursuits so adapted to a retired and domestic life, that I have at times even presumed to think that my humble situation, were there no other objection, might not entirely preclude all hope on my side."

This was plain speaking, and such as Sophia could no longer misunderstand; but she had some difficulty in giving her answer, merely from the want of the power of utterance, not from any hesitation about what she ought to say. At length, however, she spoke, and said, that it was her fixed resolution never to enter into any engagement without her father's approbation, and that being so very young, she would wish Mr. Sackville to allow her time for consideration: adding, that every proposal of this kind must henceforward come to her through her father, and that she believed it would be best that the affair should be dropped for the present.

It is not necessary that I should now repeat what Mr. Sackville added further to Sophia. Suffice it to observe, that the few words which the young lady said in reply were of such a nature as to convince him that he possessed her esteem, and, indeed, more of her regard than it was consistent with those principles of delicacy which had been impressed on her mind, for her to avow. Had he doubted this even a moment before, he must, however, have been convinced of it by the deeply sorrowful expression of her countenance when she took leave of him.

We do not presume to describe the state of Sophia's feelings as she returned home. What had passed had certainly tended in some degree to relieve her mind of its anxiety respecting Annette: neither was it by any means a painful discovery to her to find that she was, confessedly, so dear not only to the best but to the most pleasing young man she had ever known. But, on the other hand, she was not without some uneasy thoughts, arising from the conviction that her father's views for her were far higher than a union with the rector of Fairfield; while her uneasiness was increased by the additional persuasion that if she allowed herself to take a single devious step in this affair, she could not, and, in fact, she dared not, to expect the divine blessing upon it. In meditations of this nature, Sophia occupied the remainder of the afternoon; and was scarcely come to any resolution before she was called to dinner.

During the meal, she was full of thought and perplexity; but suddenly, the course that she ought to pursue seemed to be clearly laid open before her mind, and she immediately resolved to seize the very first occasion to attempt that which she now thought it right to do.

It happened, that there was no stranger present this day at the Hall; and when the family party removed from the dining-table, and were seated round the fire, as soon as the servants had left the room, she began to carry her purposes into effect.

"I have been in the park this morning," said she; "I went to see the old cascade, and I think I never saw it look so beautiful." She then added some incoherencies about icicles, liquid diamonds, and hoar frost; looking, however, so little like an icicle herself, while speaking, that Miss Clifford began to prick up her ears, and open her eyes.

"Humph!" said the Squire, as, raising his glass of port to the candle, he looked through the ruby-coloured liquor with one eye, while the other was closed.

"I met Mr. Sackville in the dingle," proceeded Sophia, resolved at once to speak out.

"You did!" said the Squire, setting down his glass, and looking in high displeasure. "By appointment, I presume?"

"No, Sir," returned Sophia, "by accident."

"A very common accident, I reckon?" said the father.

"No, Sir," answered his daughter; "I never met Mr. Sackville in the park before."

"Where, then, were you used to meet him?" asked the Squire.

"I never saw him but twice," replied Sophia, "till he came here, by invitation, to dinner."

Miss Clifford drew up her mouth, and looked as if she would have said, "That's false."

"Well," said Mr. Mortimer, breathing short, "and what passed between you and the young man?"

"We first spoke of the little girl, Sir, of whom you allowed me to take charge; and Mr. Sackville undertook to provide for her during my absence."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Mortimer, holding in his indignation with no small difficulty; "and so, you and Mr. Sackville are in partnership in this concern! A pretty prudent arrangement, truly!"

"Pathetic and tender, at least," said Miss Clifford; "quite romantic!"

Sophia's heart was beating violently; but she was strengthened by the hope, nay, the assurance, that she was doing right: and thus she was enabled to give a straight-forward and simple statement of her first accidental meeting with Mr. Sackville, and of the engagements into which they were then drawn.

The Squire puffed, and swelled, and swallowed a bumper. And Miss Clifford, laughing outright, said, "Pretty enough! The opening scene of a romance! O for the pen of a Richardson, to work up this beautiful commencement into some sentimental denouement!"

"And so," said the Squire, "you first talked of your mutual protegee!--and then, what else? what was the next subject?"

"Mr. Sackville," replied Sophia, "said, that he regretted--that he was sorry--that--that I was going to Bath."

"Did he so?" said the Squire. "And did he not ask you to stay behind, and assist him in taking care of the beggar's brat?"

"Not exactly, Sir," replied Sophia, trembling; "but something to that purpose."

Every eye was now opened wide, and fixed on Sophia.

"And what might be your answer to all this?"

"I referred him to you, Sir; because I am resolved never to accept any offer without your consent."

"And you are now come to ask it, I presume?" said the Squire.

"No, Sir," replied Sophia; "I have nothing to ask of you but a continuance of your affection, of which I should have felt myself unworthy had I attempted to conceal, either from you or my mother, what had passed this morning."

Mr. Mortimer looked at his daughter for a moment, as if he knew not whether to be pleased or displeased with her straight-forward manner. At length, displeasure prevailing, he broke forth with a voice as loud as if he had been calling a pack of hounds from a false scent, and wished Mr. Sackville every misfortune which a vindictive or passionate man commonly desires to imprecate upon the object of his resentful feelings; and, at the same time, rising from his chair, he turned his back to the fire, kicking his dogs, and holding his sides with his hands.

"And so," said he, recovering from the first burst of passion, "you did not tell the young man that he was a presumptuous fool, but made a courtesy, and thanked him for his good opinion of you. Was it not so?"

Sophia made no answer: on which, he turned shortly round to her, raised his fist as if he would have struck her, and bending his face down to hers, "Tell me, I say; do you like the man? Say you do, and I renounce you. Why don't you speak?"

"What, Sir," said Sophia, gently, "and be renounced by my father! Surely, no man living ought to be so dear to me as my father."

"You are an artful hussy," said the Squire, with abating displeasure. "But remember, child, that you don't deceive me. I hate deceit: and it would break my heart to be deceived by my child."

"No, my father, no," said Sophia, bursting into tears, and throwing herself on his neck, "no, I will never deceive you (the Almighty helping me) nor any one here present. I own that I respect and--and--esteem Mr. Sackville; but I should hate myself, if I could be guilty of any thing like art on his, or, indeed, on any account; and this was my motive for entering upon this subject in the present company."

The Squire returned the embrace of his daughter with even more than his usual warmth, exclaiming, "You are a good girl, Sophia; and I am proud of my girl; and I do believe every word you utter: and that's more than ever I would say of any other woman under the sun."

"Under the sun!" said Miss Clifford, laughing. "That would be saying a great deal, had you been speaking at noonday."

"At noonday!" said the Squire, letting go his hold of Sophia, and turning to the other, "what do you mean by that?"

"Why, is not the sun above us all at noonday, papa?" said the young lady, in an affectedly childish accent; "and is it not below us all at midnight? And so, as it happens, there are none of your dear connexions under the sun precisely at this moment."

"Why, there now," replied the Squire; "what is this but one of your feminine fetches and roundabouts? I am sure that my good girl here would never have had such a crooked thought as that you have just uttered. But," added he, "as I stand here, whether under or over the sun I know not, nor care; and as my name is Cockspur Mortimer, she shall not have the parson: and here I am, ready to stand to it. So go to your room, girl, wipe your eyes and smooth your brow, and let me never again hear the name of Sackville as long as I live and breathe."

So saying, he popped himself down in his chair, bade Sophia ring for a pipe, and looked, at the same time, towards the door, and then at his wife, as much as to say, "You had best now be going to your own quarters."

It was with a heart comparatively easy, that Sophia returned to her room. She felt that she had been enabled to do right; and she was now further enabled to commit the entire affair respecting Mr. Sackville into the hands of God, being well assured that all would be ordered for the best. And here was an exercise of faith; an exercise of a kind, to which many, if not all persons are called, at some stage of their youthful progress. Happy, then, thrice happy, are those whose religious feelings are such as Sophia Mortimer's;--who are enabled to bring their faith to bear on matters of this kind;--and who, instead of repining, either at the necessary or unnecessary restraints to which they may be subject in their parents' houses, are led to be habitually thankful for the blessings and comforts they actually enjoy, and are supported in their endeavours to throw their cares upon their God.

In the mean time, Mrs. Mortimer and her daughters being assembled in a room into which Sophia had no access, were engaged in conversing on what had just taken place, and in discussing the character of the young lady.

Miss Juliana and Miss Harriet seemed disposed to think that she wanted sense; but Mrs. Mortimer was rather inclined to the opinion that it was not sense which she wanted so much as experience and knowledge of the world. "She certainly is attached to Mr. Sackville," said she, "and he to her; and they both wish the match. I therefore cannot conceive what could have been her motive for breaking the matter so abruptly to her father, and arming him, as it were, against herself: for she could not have expected from him any other answer to the proposal, than that which he gave her."

While the rest were speaking, Miss Clifford looked unutterable things; and when she had heard every opinion, she burst out to the following effect.--"Indeed," said she, "I wonder at you all; yet not so much at my sisters, as at you, Mrs. Mortimer. If Sophia Mortimer is a fool, I am one; and if she is a simple, undesigning character, so am I. No; depend upon it, she is as deep as the grave, and does nothing without design. There are no characters so profoundly artful as those who conceal their art under the semblance of truth. Depend upon it, Sophy knows the length and breadth of her father's finger, better than either you or I do: and, notwithstanding his storming and raving as he did, I do not think she could have taken a wiser step towards the promotion of her end, than what she did this evening. The Squire loves an open, straight-forward manner; and Sophia knows that he does, and she acted accordingly. She was well prepared for his bluster, and armed against it. And I think I never saw a prettier piece of acting in my life, than the scene between the roaring country Squire--the good-hearted John Bull--and the pretty, modest, blushing daughter."

"Kate," said Mrs. Mortimer, "you are a naughty one. 'Set a thief to catch a thief!'--is there not some such proverb? But I will not have you take such liberties with my husband, your honoured father. I won't have him called a roaring country Squire."

"Well, then, I won't repeat the words again, my dear mother," replied the daughter.--And so saying, the ladies adjourned to the drawing-room, and called for coffee.

I have said nothing of Mr. Mortimer's sons, and my readers may suppose that they therefore occupied but little of their father's attention; but the truth is, that they were at school near London, and were not to come home during the Christmas holidays, because their parents had engaged that they should spend them with Mrs. Mortimer's sister, a lady who lived near Windsor. Sophia was therefore obliged to postpone the pleasure she had promised herself of becoming acquainted with her brothers.

From the eventful day of which I have given so full a description, until that fixed for the journey to Bath, was only one short fortnight, during which every thing passed smoothly between Mr. Mortimer and his daughter. Nevertheless, Sophia felt herself still uneasy, on account of her little Annette; particularly as the child still continued to weep bitterly whenever the journey was spoken of.--"Oh, Ma'am, dear Ma'am," the child would often say, "my mother is dead, and you are going away. What will become of little Annette?"

"I hope that I shall come again," Sophia would answer: "and then we shall be so happy." And, on these occasions, she would try to direct the thoughts of the child to that great Being who is the Father of the fatherless.

As soon as the precise day for their journey was ascertained, Sophia sent Mrs. Cicely to Mr. Sackville, to give him information of the decision. And this she did without any attempt at secrecy: at once telling Mrs. Mortimer what she had done, and her motive for so doing.

Mrs. Cicely, however, came back in very low spirits, informing Sophia that Mr. Sackville was very ill, and, in consequence, confined to his bed.

Here was new cause of trouble to Sophia: and the several days previous to her journey were, therefore, very unhappy ones to her; though she endeavoured to bring her mind to all that might happen.

At length, the dreaded morning came; and the sociable and the travelling-carriage were driven up to the door.

Sophia breakfasted in her own room, with Annette; and Mrs. Doiley was in readiness to take the child, in case no message should be brought from Mr. Sackville. One only consolation at this time offered itself to Sophia: and that was, that her father, followed by his groom, had gone forward at daydawn, and would not be present to be irritated by the tears she could not repress.

At length, she was informed that the ladies were ready; and, giving a last sad look at the brown oak parlour, she proceeded into the great hall, followed by the sobbing child, whom Mrs. Doiley in vain attempted to hold back.

The ladies were already in the sociable, and Sophia was kissing her beloved Annette for the last time, when Mr. Sackville himself, having passed the carriages, entered at the great door, and approached the weeping pair. He looked exceedingly pale, and was evidently much dejected; but the joy which both Sophia and Annette expressed at beholding him brought back the colour to his cheeks.

"O! Mr. Sackville," said Sophia, "are you, at length, come? and are you better?" And then, scarcely knowing what she did, she extended her hand to him, adding, "I shall be happy now I have seen you again, and you appear so much recovered. To your hands I commend my little Annette. You will bear with her, and you will love her. You must indeed love her. She is worthy of your affection, and you can hardly conceive how dear she is to me."

"If she is dear to you, beloved Miss Mortimer," he said, "she must be so to me. She shall never know what it is to want a friend as long as I live." And as he gently strove to draw the little girl from Sophia, he added, "O, could I but hope that you would sometimes think of us when far away, I should be the happiest of human beings."

Sophia said nothing; but the sad expression of her modest eye spoke more than words could have expressed.

Mr. Sackville then led her to the carriage, but neither of them spoke. A new flood of tears gushed from the eyes of Sophia as she gave her parting look to Annette and Mr. Sackville; and then, covering her eyes with her handkerchief, she felt truly thankful that this scene had discovered no more to her step-mother and sisters than what they previously knew, and that, although they might charge her with folly, they could not condemn her for deceit.

The carriages now moved off, and in such a direction that the house and park continued in view for some time; and as Sophia looked back for the last time, she saw Mr. Sackville, at a considerable distance, conducting little Annette across that part of the open lawn which led them towards Fairfield. She heaved a deep sigh, wiped away the fast-flowing tears, and now, for the first time in her life, heartily acquiesced in Job's declaration, that Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards.

The journey to Bath was performed in three days, and the change of scene had a considerable effect in tranquillizing the mind of Sophia.

Mr. Mortimer had taken the precaution to secure a handsome house in the upper part of the city; and Sophia was exceedingly well pleased to have a small room appropriated to herself, with a light closet for her servant. "And now," said Mrs. Cicely, (who was much pleased with this arrangement,) while she was attending Sophia, "had we but our little Annette here, we might be tolerably happy."

Sophia sighed, and answered, "Annette would be a great comfort; but this place can never be like our beloved home."

Sophia had not, for some days past, been able to comprehend the state of her father's feelings towards her, for he had dealt largely in a kind of enigmatical phraseology, to this purport--"Never mind, Sophy, my dear: when we get you among us in Bath, we shall put all things to rights; and then we shall forget all our odd ways, and be more like other people:" these expressions being either followed up by an oath, or some sporting term, to which Sophia could attach no meaning whatever. The truth is, that Mr. Mortimer admired his daughter very much, and loved her more; but there was a something in her character which made him uneasy, because he thought it too serious; and he feared that her simple, Christian state of mind might stand in the way of her advancing herself in marriage. He flattered himself, therefore, when she was removed from the place of her education, and introduced into a gay society, that her prejudices would give way without any trouble: he was, therefore, not a little surprised, when, on the morning after their arrival in Bath, the public balls being made the subject of discourse, Sophia, with much simplicity, asserted, that, as she did not know how to dance, she, of course, could have no share in these amusements.

This declaration seemed to startle the whole party, but especially Mr. Mortimer, who, having left the management of his daughter's education to Mrs. Fortescue, had never conceived it possible that she should have omitted an accomplishment which he considered so essential as that of dancing. He set down a dish of tea which, at that moment, he was just raising to his lips, and blamed Mrs. Fortescue for this negligence with a vehemence which made the tears start in the eyes of Sophia: she, however, said nothing, till her father asked his wife whether she thought it might not still be possible to repair this injury by procuring a dancing-master for Sophia.

Before Mrs. Mortimer could reply, Sophia calmly remarked, that she hoped her father would excuse what she was about to say, but that she thought it best at once to confess that it was impossible for her to partake of any of the amusements which are commonly followed in the world; adding, that the principles in which she had been brought up were so entirely opposite to every thing of the kind, that if she entered into any of them, it would be at the expence of subverting the whole system of her education.

This remark excited such general amazement throughout the party, that for a few moments no one spoke. At length, Mr. Mortimer, looking at her with smothered indignation, said, "Why, surely you do not mean to say that you will not go wherever I and your mother choose that you should?"

Sophia was silent, and looked down.

He repeated his question in coarser language, and a louder voice.

Sophia replied, "I know my duty to my earthly father, and I know that his authority is inferior only to that of my heavenly Father."

"Amazing assurance! and that from you, Sophia?" said Mr. Mortimer, his lip quivering with rage.

Sophia trembled, but made no answer.

He repeated her name several times over, and asked her if she did not mean to reply when spoken to.

She looked up, and said, "Sir!"

"Repeat to me," he said, "your late bold assertion: repeat it, and then leave this house, and let me never see you more."

Sophia still remained silent; and Mr. Mortimer breaking out with increasing violence, his lady interfered, endeavouring to soothe him and to reason with Sophia, who, however, she secretly hoped might prove unpersuadable: for she could, by no means, endure the idea of being obliged to carry with her into every society, one whose superior beauty and attractions could not fail of totally eclipsing the charms of her own daughters.

Sophia replied to her mother's reasonings with much temper and sweetness; alleging, that the strict Christian principles in which she had been educated put it entirely out of her power to enter into any of the public pleasures of the world with satisfaction.

Mr. Mortimer, however, was not in a humour to bear these reasonings. He called his daughter a Methodist, and expressed a hope that Mrs. Fortescue might be already tasting the punishment of her hypocrisy.

On hearing this, Sophia, who, notwithstanding her assumed composure, had, no doubt, been violently agitated during the whole debate, burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed so violently, that Miss Clifford, who pretty well knew all her mother's secret thoughts on this occasion, took her by the hand, and led her out into the next room, where she contrived to soothe and console her, and in some degree to restore her tranquillity; although, when left alone, Sophia could not, on reflection, discover whether her comforter approved or disapproved of what she had said to her father.

In the mean time, Mr. Mortimer had expressed himself with so much violence against his daughter for her obstinacy, and against poor Mrs. Fortescue for the methodistical and queer education which, he said, she had given her, that Mrs. Mortimer was obliged, in order to soothe him, to promise to take the matter on herself; and she expressed her assurance, that she should soon be able to bring the young lady to reason--this lady being well aware, from long experience, that it was always more easy to manage her husband by seeming to acquiesce in his opinions than by openly opposing them.

When Mr. Mortimer had received this assurance from his wife, he went out, and proceeded to the pump-room, in order to discover, from the book which is kept there, whom of his friends he was likely to meet with in Bath. The first person he met in the public room was Sir James Horton. Mr. Mortimer did not expect to see this gentleman, and was therefore the better pleased.

The baronet enquired after the ladies of the family, particularly mentioning Sophia.

At the sound of her name, Mr. Mortimer's anger was again aroused, and he gave Sir James an account of the contest he had had with her in the morning at breakfast.

"Comical enough," said the baronet; "but I do not know whether I don't like her the better for it. And I'll tell you what, Mr. Mortimer," added he, looking sagacious, "I don't know whether I am not half of Miss Sophia's opinion myself: for I really think that it would be almost as well if the young ladies in these days were not quite so fond of dancing in public, and those kind of things."

"And is that your real opinion?" said Mr. Mortimer.

"Upon my word it is," replied Sir James; "and I'll tell you what, too, I have heard other young men say the same."

This conversation went a great way towards soothing the mind of Mr. Mortimer, who did not part from the baronet till he had engaged him to dinner; an invitation which the other was glad to accept, being pretty well assured that he should not meet Sophia elsewhere than at her father's house.

Sophia, in the mean time, had returned to her own room, where she spent the greater part of the morning in reflecting on what had passed; and though she felt satisfied that the thing that she had done was in itself right, she still deplored the mode in which she had done it, charging herself with abruptness, want of respect in manner, and a variety of other failures, by which she felt herself condemned.

Thus must every sincere Christian find reason more or less to lament a large mixture of depravity blended with even his best actions, and be ready, in his most triumphant moments, to complain, "When I would do good, evil is present with me."

When the hour of dinner arrived, Sophia went trembling into the presence of her father. What then must have been her amazement to find him in perfect good-humour, and her old acquaintance, Sir James Horton, by his side!

As Sophia had never regarded this gentleman in any other light than that of a common acquaintance, she received him graciously; and thus good-humour seemed to be restored to the whole party.

From that day, several weeks passed in a dull round of nothings. Sophia was, indeed, never asked to go out, but then, as Sir James continually visited at the house, she found herself constantly engaged in conversation with him, at home, if conversation it could be called; for, though he always sat by her after tea, he seldom ventured to say any thing, and she as seldom lifted up her eyes from her work. She saw less of the three Miss Cliffords than when in the country, as they were out every evening; but Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer remained much at home, and received Sir James and other friends at their house. Sophia spent her mornings in her own room, with Mrs. Cicely, to whom she often read, and with whom she talked much of Annette, and of the poor people she used to visit, but seldom mentioned Mr. Sackville's name.

At Christmas, she made up a box for Annette, containing a variety of clothes made by her own hand, and a five-pound bill; all of which she sent off by a servant of the family, who was returning into Yorkshire. In answer to which, she received a letter, written by the old housekeeper at the Hall, containing Mr. Sackville's thanks, and several little anecdotes of Annette, who had, she said, been to see her several times.

Sophia, on reading this letter, could not help shedding tears; and from that time, and for several successive days, she frequently indulged in thoughts about Mortimer-Hall and Fairfield, meditating on these things in bed, and forming imaginary plans of happiness, from which neither Annette nor Mr. Sackville were, of course, excluded: and to these thoughts she continued to give way, knowing at the same time that she was doing wrong, till dissatisfaction with herself, and with every one about her, was the consequence. She fancied that her relations and connexions possessed qualities even more unpleasant than they really did.

Mrs. Mortimer, though wholly a worldly character, had never been unkind to Sophia, nor interfered with her in the execution of any of her plans; and though Sophia, had she known her motives, would perhaps not have owed her many thanks for her forbearance, yet, judging from appearance, she had no reason to be dissatisfied with her step-mother, and, to say the truth, she had never felt herself very uneasy with her, till at this period in which she had yielded in secret to self-pleasing. As to Mr. Mortimer, he was precisely the same as he had always been, and as Sophia had always known him to be; yet it was not till now that she began to experience, from his coarseness, a kind of disgust which a daughter ought by no means to acknowledge to herself, and a sentiment of displeasure at his second marriage, although that step was certainly justifiable. Once or twice, about this time, Mrs. Cicely enquired if she was unwell; and, one day, on her coming up from breakfast in a very disconsolate mood, the old servant asked her if any thing particular had happened that had affected her spirits. "Surely my dear Madam," she said, "you have had no bad news out of Yorkshire?"

"No," replied Sophia, sighing; "but I hate this Bath: and Mrs. Mortimer looks so coolly upon me: and my father is so rough: he gets worse and worse every day."

Mrs. Cicely looked hard at her young mistress, and then said, "Why, surely, my dear young lady, you are not expecting to find heaven upon earth?"

"Not at Bath," replied Sophia, fretfully.

"Nor any where else," returned Mrs. Cicely. "If you do, Miss, you will be sadly disappointed. There are troubles in every situation of life; and I hope that you will not be one of those young ladies who make more than they need, by supposing that they are not well used, because their parents and friends have something else to do than to think of them, and be always striving to look pleasant and make themselves agreeable to them."

"Cicely!" said Sophia, looking at her with astonishment.

"Perhaps I am too bold," returned the old servant. "But, my dear Miss Mortimer, you cannot have forgotten that I was your nurse, that I closed the eyes of your dear mother, and that I enjoyed the privilege of being present whenever that best of women, good Mrs. Fortescue, gave you your lessons; and though I never pretended to understand many things which she taught you, yet, when she gave you religious instructions, grace was given me to comprehend a great deal of them. And thus some light was put into my mind which otherwise I should not have had; and by this light, my dear Miss Mortimer, I am led to see that it is sinful to give way to fretful and uneasy tempers, especially when we consider that this life is but a passing state, and, as the Pilgrim's Progress explains it, but a road or pathway to a better world. To be sure, my dear young lady, you have some trials; but can you not leave your cares on God? Do, my beloved Miss Mortimer, make the trial."

While Mrs. Cicely spoke, Sophia stood swelling, partly with anger, and partly with grief; and when the old servant was silent, the young lady walked out of the room, and down into the drawing-room, where, at that hour, she expected to be alone. A book was lying on the sofa-table. She took it up, and her eyes ran over some pages, but she knew not a word she read. She had never before felt so wretched; she had never hated herself so thoroughly, or esteemed Cicely so much. At length, unable to bear her own reflections any longer, she dashed down the book, ran up to her own room, fell on her knees before Cicely, threw her arms round her neck, and, bursting into tears, acknowledged all her faults, and even went so far as to beg her pardon.

The worthy old servant clasped her young mistress again and again to her bosom, made a thousand apologies for having spoken so freely, and for some moments wept without restraint over the darling of her heart.

This little incident had the most blessed effect on Sophia in restoring the equilibrium of her mind. Her father had allowed her music and drawing-masters: she now set her whole heart to improve by them. She employed Cicely to find out poor people, whom she relieved from her pocket-money, buying and making clothes for the needy. She cast aside all amusing books which had not a decidedly religious tendency, for there are certain states of mind when these act like poison on the feelings. She read the Bible, and the commentators upon it, aloud to Mrs. Cicely; and so wholly occupied all her powers both of mind and body, that she fell asleep the moment she laid her head on her pillow, and ceased for a length of time from all speculations on her future plans of life.

In the mean time, while Sophia was endeavouring to think as little as possible of Fairfield, any further than as it was connected with the interest she took in Annette, Miss Clifford, who had not been a careless observer of the manœuvres of the baronet, dull as they were, was not inattentive to the good policy of keeping up the remembrance of Mr. Sackville in the mind of Sophia: not that she ever addressed her directly on the subject of her regard for this young gentleman; still, she was never at a loss for some occasion, either of speaking of him to her sisters in Sophia's presence, or alluding to something which must necessarily bring him to that young lady's recollection.

And here we have an additional proof of that which every well-meaning young lady must already have discovered--that there is often much more danger to be apprehended from indiscreet or designing persons of their own sex, than from their intercourse with the other. A young woman of correct views will seldom find it difficult to check the forwardness of any person who calls himself a gentleman: but she will find it to be by no means so easy to silence the poisonous insinuations of a female companion, or to shut her ears against those evil communications which corrupt good manners, too often proceeding from persons of her own sex.

In the mean time, the tardy baronet had made up his mind to ask Mr. Mortimer for his daughter, which, one morning, as the two gentlemen were walking together to the pump-room, he accordingly did, with as little ceremony as he would have ordered a new pair of boots; never having dreamed of the possibility of his being refused.

The father received the overture with the greatest satisfaction; for Sir James was not only very rich, but of a rank to make his daughter a titled lady: besides which, he cherished the idea of outwitting Miss Clifford, with whose desires respecting Sir James he was better acquainted than he wished to have it thought. Accordingly, he gave the baronet every encouragement, and returned home in high glee, which he evidenced by kicking up an uproar among his dogs, as soon as ever he had set his foot within the doors of his temporary dwelling.

The communication respecting Sir James's offer was made immediately to Sophia, and the young lady was told at the same time, by her father, that he expected her acquiescence, and would hear of no denial.

It cannot be said that Sophia had never thought of Sir James in the character in which he was now offered to her, for it must be remembered, that Mr. Sackville had suggested this idea in the glen. But Sir James had evinced so little interest in any conversation he had ever held with her, that she had been led to consider Mr. Sackville's alarm on his account to be altogether without foundation, and she therefore received the communication with unfeigned surprise: neither was it till after she was in some degree recovered from this amazement, that she could find words wherein to state her objections to Sir James in language at once sufficiently gentle and decisive to use in the presence of her father.

The Squire at first heard her with some degree of patience; but when he found that she was not to be brought over to his purpose by any arguments which he could urge, he broke out into such a storm of indignation, that Sophia was almost ready to faint with terror. Still, however, she adhered to her first declaration, and maintained her resolution never to accept of Sir James.

"What," said the Squire, "because you mean to have the parson? Now hear my words:" and, walking close to her, he held up his clenched hand before her face--"You sha'n't have him,--that you sha'n't. If I ever hear of your thinking about him again, I'll take you out to live in my dog-kennel."

"I promised you, Sir," replied Sophia, "when in Yorkshire, that I never would marry him but with your approbation; neither will I carry on any intercourse with him unknown to you. I will also endeavour to think as little of him as possible, and I never willingly mention his name. But while I feel a distinguishing preference for him, I must persist in refusing every other man who may honour me with his notice."

"Distinguishing preference!" repeated the Squire; "what fool's language is that? Can't you speak out at once? Say that you like the man, and you won't have any other man, and then I shall understand you, and know how to deal with you." And he raised his hat again, with such a threatening aspect, that Sophia retreated to the door, trembling from head to foot.

On seeing this, the Squire burst forth again; and so loud were his menaces, that Mrs. Mortimer, who had been listening at the key-hole, thought proper now to come in. And as she opened the door, Sophia glided by her, and escaped to her own room.

Sophia never knew what then passed between her father and mother, for she was not called down till evening, when she found her father in a state of highly sullen displeasure; and the rest of the family looking more or less uneasy. Mrs. Mortimer, however, was the only one who accosted her with any kindness when she came into the room; but as this lady seldom betrayed her real feelings, Sophia was left in a state of uncertainty respecting her sentiments on the late transaction.

From that time, Sir James was never more mentioned to Sophia, and his visits were discontinued, though he was known to be still in Bath, and was often seen by the Miss Cliffords.

Sophia had hoped that her father's sullen humour towards herself would have cleared up after a few days: but this was by no means the case. The Squire continued to retain his displeasure against her, and often allowed his anger to break out in a very coarse and unseemly manner; insomuch, that the young lady herself began, after a while, to feel offended, and to yield to dissatisfaction in her turn; forgetting that unreasonableness in a parent is no excuse for want of a cheerful acquiescence on the part of a daughter.

About this time, to add to Sophia's discomfort, Mrs. Cicely was taken ill; and, as Mr. Mortimer's groom was going back into Yorkshire, it was deemed advisable that she should return with him, Mr. Mortimer having taken it into his head that she encouraged Sophia in her attachment to Mr. Sackville. Mrs. Cicely was therefore sent to Mortimer-Hall, and another servant was provided for the disconsolate Sophia. Mr. Mortimer, also, either from irritation of mind, or from being deprived of his usual exercise, became unwell; and as Mrs. Mortimer had her particular reasons for not wishing to go far from Bath, nothing would serve him but he would go to the Hot-Wells; with which arrangement she complied, leaving her daughters with a certain old dowager lady of quality, her acquaintance, in the house in Bath, which had been taken for six months, four only of which were expired.

It was with a sorrowful heart that Sophia left Bath, to accompany her parents to the Hot-Wells; for she looked forward to nothing but melancholy in the society of her incensed father.

Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer had taken their lodgings on St. Vincent's Parade, in a situation which commanded a view of the river and the beautiful rocks called St. Vincent's Rocks, near the Well-House and small crescent adjoining it. The scene was lovely; but it wanted both the rural simplicity of the environs of Mortimer-Hall, and the magnificent gaiety of the more fashionable parts of the City of Bath.

There had now subsisted a coldness between Sophia and her father for several weeks; in consequence of which, she avoided his presence as much as possible, seldom seeing him but at meals, and habitually spending the rest of her sad hours alone, not even having her old and faithful servant with whom to converse.

Spring was now advancing apace. The flowers were budding, the hedges becoming green, and many young lambs were sporting on the heights. Such sights and sounds were but too well calculated to recall to the mind of Sophia, as she walked solitarily under the rocks, or climbed the steeps which led to the Downs, the remembrance of her happy early days: and though, in these walks, she met many persons, yet all were equally unknown to her; and she often experienced that peculiarly sad sensation, of feeling herself alone in the midst of a crowd.

At this time, every thing around poor Sophia apparently conspired to prepare her mind for the indulgence of those dissatisfied and melancholy feelings, which such persons as deal in works of fancy commonly dignify by the name of love,--a sentiment, which they delight to trace through all its windings and modifications, and to describe as irresistible. These feelings, in fact, did for a short time powerfully influence the mind of Sophia on her first arrival at the Hot-Wells; when looking round on the beautiful objects of nature, with which that place abounds, she remembered her native woods and her little Annette, her thoughts, at the same time, dwelling much on one whom it was more dangerous to think of than ever, because she had solemnly bound herself never to form any connexion with him without the approbation of her father, and there was little room for the hope that this approbation would ever be given. But after awhile, although she had no human guide at hand, that Holy and Blessed Spirit, whose secret influence is equally above all human wisdom and control, made her sensible that this state of mind was not such as that religion which requires the devotion of the whole heart of God could by any means justify. She was, therefore, once again induced to make a strong effort to overcome her feelings; she applied herself once more to the little book of directions left her by Mrs. Fortescue, and was particularly struck by this expression--"What is commonly called love, is a selfish feeling, and frequently shuts up the heart of the person under its influence from every object but the one by which it is particularly excited: therefore, when love of this kind seizes the mind, it generally leads to the neglect of our duties, and perhaps, under superior motives, it could not better be contended with than by an immediate, consistent, and persevering attention to these duties, which should be persisted in till love has lost its power, and the heart is restored to peace."

"But what duties have I here," said Sophia, "in the pursuit of which I might divert these sad thoughts? Where is my little Annette? where are my poor people? where is my harpsichord? or my little school?" Here she burst into tears; but, quickly checking these rebellious thoughts, she, on again considering her situation, said to herself, "I have a Saviour whom I may seek, and to whom I may unite myself; a heavenly Father, whom, through my Saviour, I may dare to love; and a promised assistant and comforter in the Holy Spirit, to whom I may freely open my heart. And by these shall I not, on earnestly praying, be led to see my duty, and to overcome these morbid feelings, by which I am rendered at once miserable and useless?"

From that day, Sophia strove earnestly to check these dangerous feelings; not allowing herself to indulge in the use of any kind of book or employment which could either strengthen or encourage them.

She committed to memory many hymns and texts of Scripture, besides daily reading with care such portions of the Sacred Volume as suited her present situation. She was earnest in prayer, and employed the remainder of her leisure in working for the poor, and other innocent occupations. By degrees her mind recovered its strength, and she became sensible that its late state had been far from right. She also now saw what she wondered that she had not sooner discovered--that her silent acquiescence in her father's coldness had by no means proceeded, as she had supposed, from a humble state of mind, but, on the contrary, from pride and sullenness. Prompted by this conviction, she now endeavoured, without loss of time, to alter her conduct; to seek the society of her father and mother, and to pay them every little attention in her power. Her advances were not ill received by her mother, who was at this time particularly pleased with her for having refused the baronet, and Sophia now found much assistance from her in restoring her father's good-humour.

She had still much to bear from the coarseness and irritability of her father; notwithstanding which, she gained upon him so much, that, at length, he began to joke with her, and that, sometimes, before visitors, upon her rejection of Sir James, and her contempt of titles and fortune: and he once or twice even went so far as to wish Mr. Sackville had but a little more of the good things of this world, for his daughter's sake.

"My dear father," Sophia would sometimes answer on these occasions, "I desire to have grace to think of none of these persons; but to be kept in that state of mind in which I may be ready at all times to acquiesce in any thing that Providence may have appointed for me."

A loud laugh, or some coarse expression, was the general reply to a remark of this kind, from Mr. Mortimer; and Mrs. Mortimer usually expressed her doubt of the sincerity of young ladies when they made professions of this kind, with a gentle hint that she thought it might be quite as well if her dear Sophia were not so anxious to conceal from her friends her real sentiments.

Notwithstanding Sophia's conviction that she did not possess the entire confidence of her parents, she still felt that, during the latter part of her residence at the Hot-Wells, she had succeeded in making herself agreeable to them; and, sensible that she was thus in the way of duty, she became daily more cheerful.

While things were going on with Sophia in the manner which I have described, the Miss Cliffords remained at Bath, and were managing their affairs quite as successfully as they could have wished. Sir James had, indeed, taken flight; but Miss Juliana was addressed by a gouty old lord, and had every prospect of having the honour of being his third wife; and Miss Harriet was in the high-road of becoming the lady of a certain Nawaub or old Civilian from the East Indies, who was reported to have more rupees than wit. These were circumstances which greatly elevated the spirits of Mrs. Mortimer, and made her, therefore, vastly better company than she would otherwise have been.

And now, the month of March was gone, and April was come in, with her wreaths of hawthorn, her violets, her primroses, and her mildest zephyrs. Sophia, as I before remarked, had been seeking, for some time, entirely to resign her own will to that of her heavenly Father, and had, in consequence, been blessed with a considerable degree of peace, when certain circumstances, which I shall hasten to relate, successively took place.

It is at this time, I imagine, scarcely necessary to tell my reader, that, if Sophia had found it difficult to avoid thinking of Mr. Sackville, this good young man had also the same difficulty to encounter with regard to her. That he respected and loved her more than any other young lady he had ever known, was very certain; but whether it was right for him to indulge this affection he knew not, as he had every reason to believe that his addresses would not be approved by her father. He, too, had, therefore, endeavoured to put the affair into the hands of Providence, with an entire resignation of his own will.

The winter, however, passed with him in, at least, an uneasy manner: for, although he was at home, and had many consolations, and many interesting duties; yet he was more than once troubled by reports respecting Sophia, and was almost afraid that Sir James might in the end carry away from him that prize which he valued more than all that the world could give him besides. In the month of April, however, a sudden and unexpected change was made in his prospects by the death of a distant relation, who bequeathed to him a property in the funds, fully worth three hundred a year, with various articles of household furniture, plate and linen.

Mr. Sackville, although the next heir to this person, had never built upon receiving any thing from him, as he was a humorist, and it was, therefore, supposed would have found some other objects to whom to bequeath his property. The young gentleman was, consequently, the more surprised when made acquainted with this increase of his fortune. And now, finding himself in possession of at least seven hundred a year, over and above his pretty parsonage and glebe, he resolved to take courage, and, without loss of time, to make known his wishes respecting Sophia to her father. With this view, therefore, he put on his best coat, and took his seat in a coach which was to convey him to the Hot-Wells.

It may be supposed that he found the journey long, and his progress slow, towards the haven of his wishes: he, at length, however, arrived at Bristol; but it being near midnight when he got there, he was obliged to bear his suspense till the morning. In situations of this kind, a mind chastened by habitual piety will be more than any other under the influence of self-control: nevertheless, there are occasions in which the heart, though lifted up in constant prayer, is unable to express itself in words; and this was one of those seasons with Mr. Sackville. During his walk from Bristol to the Wells, he heard and saw nothing but the servant of the inn, whom he had engaged to guide him along the intricate labyrinths of new and old buildings through which he must needs approach the precincts of the Hot-Wells in the shortest way.

By this time, Sophia had entirely won back the good graces of her father, and she was pouring out his coffee, and sweetening it to his taste, in the breakfast-room, at the moment when the Yorkshire footman came into the room, and, with a countenance full of satisfaction, announced the name of Sackville.

"Sackville!" repeated the Squire, with one of his usual rough expressions.

"Yes, Sir," said the servant, "Mr. Sackville from Fairfield. It is Mr. Sackville, to be sure."

All that was in Sophia's hand fell from it at that moment; and it was well that it was not her father's dish of coffee, instead of a silver spoon full of soft sugar.

In the mean time, Mr. Sackville was introduced, and kindly received by Mrs. Mortimer; while the Squire, though he begged him to sit down and take some breakfast, had not quite made up his mind what sort of humour he meant to be in for the next twenty-four hours.

Whether Mr. Sackville spoke to Sophia, or whether she made any answer, no one present could have ascertained: but certain it was, that, unless Mrs. Mortimer had exerted herself, nothing could have been more embarrassing than the scene which, on this occasion, was witnessed at the breakfast-table; and if Sophia did not burn her mouth with a scalding dish of tea, it was because she swallowed down the liquor so hastily, that her lips escaped while her throat was almost on fire.

At length, this troublesome breakfasting was over, and Mr. Sackville requested a private audience with Mr. Mortimer, which was afforded him by Mrs. Mortimer taking her daughter out of the room.

I do not mean to enter into the particulars of the conversation between these two gentlemen. Suffice it to say, that Mr. Mortimer's mind for a short time hung in doubt between the pleasure of making his daughter happy, and the chance of seeing her a titled lady. At length, the recollection of Sophia's late sweet and amiable deportment obtained a triumph over his ambition, and he permitted Mr. Sackville to endeavour to obtain his daughter's approbation. "But I will tell you what, young man," added he, in his boisterous way; "I should be heartily glad if I thought there was no chance of your succeeding."

Those persons who have read the former part of this story will, of course, have no expectation that Mr. Sackville would meet with a repulse from Sophia: on the contrary, he met with all the encouragement which the most perfect modesty would admit; and, after a few days' residence at the Hot-Wells, he returned, to prepare his humble dwelling for his lovely bride.

It had been suspected by the inhabitants of Fairfield and its neighbourhood, for what purpose his journey to the Hot-Wells was undertaken; and when he returned home with a smiling countenance, and began to add some simple decorations to his house and garden, what had before been a mere matter of conjecture now became a certainty, and a cause of great rejoicings throughout the parish.

Mr. Mortimer had presented Mr. Sackville with two hundred pounds, desiring him to add two convenient rooms to his house; and this improvement was commenced with all possible expedition, as Sophia's father declared that he would not part with his daughter till they were finished.

In a few months, this work was accomplished, at least, as far as was possible till the walls were sufficiently dry to admit of interior ornaments; and every thing within and without being set in order, Mr. Sackville prepared himself for a journey into the south, in order to bring back his beloved Sophia.

On the day of his departure, having previously given all requisite orders to his man-servant and housekeeper, who had hitherto performed a variety of offices, but who now was to be relieved by one assistant, he turned to the little Annette, when, taking her in his arms and kissing her, he said, "And now, my beloved Annette, I am going away for a little time; but I hope to come back very soon, and bring you a mother, from whom I hope you never may be parted while you stand in need of a mother's care."

The child clasped her arms round his neck, and, pressing her damask cheek to his, exclaimed, "No, no, Sir, no, no: I do not want a mother; but I want my own dear, dear Miss Mortimer."

"Sweet child!" he replied, "I hope and trust your wish may be granted: and I will write to you the day before I come home; and you shall put on your best frock, and be ready to run to meet us, when we get out of our carriage."

Annette smiled, but wept again when Mr. Sackville tore himself from her arms.

Mr. Mortimer's family had left their houses in Bath and at the Hot-Wells, and were at a watering-place on the Devonshire coast. Mr. Sackville had therefore a long journey: but his impatience was rewarded in the end by a sight of his beloved and smiling Sophia. He found her in the midst of the gayest society, still blessed with her late simple and holy state of mind.

I shall not give an account of her marriage, which, by her own desire, was performed as quietly as possible, but shall describe to my readers what I think may perhaps be more interesting to them, namely, the arrival of this happy young couple at their own home.

It was a fine evening in the month of August, when Sophia first again discerned the high grounds and woods in the neighbourhood of Mortimer-Hall. The look which at this moment she gave to Mr. Sackville conveyed more pleasure to his pious and simple heart than is experienced by a vicious mind through the longest and most successful life. "There," said Sophia, "are the beloved woods; and you say, my dear Edward, that they are within a very pleasant distance from your house?"

"Not my house, my beloved Sophia," he said, "but yours. Henceforward, all that I have is yours."

Sophia looked down, and her long dark eye-lashes concealed the tears which suffused her gentle eyes; but there was a sweet smile on her lovely lips. "My little Anisette!" she said, "my sweet little Annette! And is she grown? Does her pretty flaxen hair curl as it used to do?"

"It was a happy day, my lovely Sophia, when we first saw Annette," replied Mr. Sackville; "and, though it should please God to bless us with many children, we shall still, I trust, consider our little Anisette as our eldest and not least beloved."

The tears gushed unrestrained from the eyes of the grateful Sophia, as she heard these words,--tears of joy and ineffable thankfulness to the almighty Bestower of all good, for his infinite mercy in granting her a partner for life, whose piety and charity were such as are but rarely to be met with even in this Christian country.

And now the carriage approached the outskirts of the park, while every moment some old well-known object presented itself to the delighted recollection of Sophia.

They now drew near to the lodge; and through the iron gates Sophia had a momentary glimpse of the bridge and gravel road leading to the Hall, terminated by the house itself, half concealed by trees, yet disclosing the windows of the oak parlour to full view. Sophia saw, too, the spot where she had beheld the little Annette for the last time, in the hand of her now happy and beloved husband.

Scarcely had they passed the lodge, when they heard the bells of several churches sounding from different quarters. The cheeks of Sophia flushed when she understood the cause of this rejoicing; and, turning to Mr. Sackville, she said, "O, what a call is this upon us so to act that these poor people may have reason to rejoice indeed that we are come among them!"

And now they had proceeded a long way in a line with the park-paling, and were come to that place at the upper side of the park where the road took a direction towards Fairfield. The carriage now began to ascend, till it reached an eminence from which was seen the little village itself, almost embosomed in trees, and standing in a fertile plain, while just beyond, upon a rising ground, appeared the church and pretty parsonage house. The bells rang loudly and merrily as they entered the village street, and many persons were collected at the doors of the houses, to welcome, by respectful bows and courtseys their beloved minister and his lovely bride.

Sophia recollected, among these, many of the poor people from the neighbourhood of the Hall, and their innocent joy affected her even to tears.

The carriage had now passed the village, and ascended towards the rectory, which, though an old-fashioned dwelling, yet, from its being stuccoed with stone colour, and adorned with a green latticed verandah in front, situated in a garden abounding with the choicest shrubs and flowers, presented a very pleasant appearance.

But the sweetest flower, in the eyes of Sophia, which there presented itself, was the little blushing and sparkling Annette, holding good Mrs. Cicely by the hand, who, as Sophia afterwards found, had taken a small dwelling in the village of Fairfield, and was living on the fruits of her long services.

Sophia and Annette could hardly wait the opening of the carriage-door, before they were in each other's arms weeping abundantly, and thus relieving themselves from that excess of joy by which they might otherwise have been overwhelmed.

The happy party were then led by Mr. Sackville into his favourite room, a large old-fashioned apartment, which served as a study and dining-room, having one window looking towards the village, and another into the blooming and fragrant garden. Here a handsome collation had been set out and decorated with many sweet herbs: and nothing would serve the young and affectionate pair but that the faithful Mrs. Cicely should sit down with them and share in the repast; while the little Annette became almost boisterous with excessive joy.

The evening was finished with a prayer of thanksgiving to the bountiful Giver of all good gifts.

And now, having described the happiness of this pious young couple,--a happiness, surely, never to be tasted by young persons who allow their minds before marriage to be carried away by any feelings unauthorized by religion, or who deliberately and perversely allow their own unsanctified desires to interfere with their duties either to God or their fellow-creatures,--I shall proceed to say, that the promise of happiness given to this young pair did not prove delusive; and time, as it passed with Mr. Sackville, only tended to prove to himself, and to all who knew him--"How much the wife was dearer than the bride."

In order to have the more means of doing good, and to preserve themselves as much as possible from anxious cares, the young people set out in a humble way of living; and though Sophia had brought her husband an ample fortune, and at different times afterwards received some very handsome presents from her father, yet she always preserved the most humble habits, and desired to be expensive only in her charities.

Annette never lost her place in the affections of her adopted parents, though they were blessed with many lovely children of their own. From the day of their marriage, they resolved to lay aside certain little savings for the use of this dear child when she should come of age: and they would rather have chosen to reduce their own modes of living, than to have departed from their original intentions respecting her.

Sophia bestowed upon this her eldest child, as she always called her, the best instructions which she was capable of giving, (and of what is not a pious and tender mother capable?) and her labours were returned in kind in a much shorter time than she had foreseen: for Annette being so much older than the eldest of her own children, she was enabled so to guide and direct them in their hours of recreation, that she proved an essential benefit to them.

Mrs. Cicely spent the remainder of her days in her small house in the village of Fairfield, having sufficient to maintain herself in great comfort without labour. But as her health had been better since she had seen her young lady happy, she, after a while, began to be weary of total want of employment, and made herself very useful in visiting the sick among the poor, besides sometimes undertaking an office of the same kind in the families of the more affluent; and thus adding a few guineas every year to her small income. Her Sunday afternoons were, however, usually spent at the rectory, on which occasions, Mr. Sackville always insisted on her taking her place at his own table.

Mr. Sackville and his beloved Sophia had, it is true, some sorrows, in common with all other mortals. Among their trials, was the loss of several infants in the cradle. But perhaps of all afflictions attendant on man's state on earth, this is the one which best admits of the consolations of religion. The loss of a beloved infant inflicts, in truth, a deep and bleeding wound; but for wounds like these there is a balm which, when duly sought and applied, presently assuages the smart, and restores the wounded heart to perfect health.

And now, before I conclude my narrative, it may perhaps be expected that I should say something of the Squire and his family; the elder part of which remained in or near some one or other of the most fashionable public places till the old gentleman wished all these public places sunk in the sea, and even Mrs. Mortimer herself became weary of her own and her eldest daughter's manœuverings.

At length, an end was put to all these schemes by the marriage of Miss Juliana to her old lord, and that of Miss Harriet to her rupees: after which, the two brides, having each quarrelled with her elder sister, to whom they were both in some degree indebted for their splendid settlements, it was agreed that the Squire, with the mother and single daughter, should return to take up their abode in Yorkshire; in pursuance of which plan, they arrived at Mortimer-Hall about twelve months after the marriage of Sophia.

In the course of time, Mrs. Mortimer became somewhat heavy and infirm, and sunk into excessive indolence. Miss Clifford took upon herself the management of the house, and spent some of her superabundant activity in hunting with the Squire, scolding the grooms, and putting all the lower offices into confusion.

Mr. Mortimer frequently visited his beloved Sophia, and took extreme delight in her children. At first, he ridiculed Mr. Sackville's religious principles, but at length he was brought to tolerate them, even so far as to put his sons under his tuition; and, in his old age, his daughter had the happiness of believing that a very decided change had taken place in his mode of thinking: while she enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing her brothers grow up as real gentlemen and sincere Christians.

We now close the history of Sophia with this request--that our young female readers will study her character, and endeavour, like her, to cast all their cares, with respect to their future establishment, on Him who knoweth what is best for them; for in this confidence in the Almighty all true wisdom consists. And let us remember, that the time is short: it remaineth, that both they that have wives be as though they had none; and they that weep, as though they wept not; and they that rejoice, as though they rejoiced not; and they that buy, as though they possessed not; and they that use this world, as not abusing it: for the fashion of this world passeth away. [I Cor. vii. 29-3I.]

As the lady of the manor finished this story, she looked at her watch, and saw, with some surprise, that she had considerably exceeded the usual time. She therefore, without commenting on the narrative, requested her young people to join her in prayer.

A PRAYER FOR A HOLY AND HEAVENLY STATE OF MIND.

"Blessed and glorious Lord God, we sinners lie at the door of thy mercy, beseeching thee to forgive all our innumerable offences, for the sake of that blessed atonement which the Lord Jesus has made by the sacrifice of himself. O Lord, what a world of corruption and vanity wilt thou find in our hearts! O take out thence every evil thought, and subdue every sinful inclination. Mortify all the vicious principles which thou seest in us. Let thy blessed Spirit renew our souls, sanctify all the powers of our nature, and make us holy as God is holy. Strengthen our pious resolutions under all the frailties of youth, and against the assaults of temptation; for though we would willingly avoid every thing that displeases thee, yet we know our own weakness, and therefore we humbly put ourselves under the constant protection of thy grace. Preserve our younger years from the pollutions of the world, and guard us throughout this dangerous stage of life. Help us to set a more careful watch over our thoughts, our lips, and our actions, that we offend not our God, and have continual cause for bitter repentance. Choose thou, O Lord, our inheritance for us, and our portion in this world, and be thou our portion and happiness in the world to come. Let not our hearts be set on worldly pleasure and riches; but fix our affections on things above, where Jesus Christ sits at thy right-hand.

"O Almighty God, we are not sufficient for these things of ourselves; for who, among the children of men, has yet been enabled to cry out, 'O God, thy will, not mine, be done?' whoever has been enabled to cast his cares at the foot of the cross, and leave them there undisturbed? or who, even among the faithful, has been enabled to place his infant Moses among the bulrushes without setting one to watch what may become of him?

"O Father, we know that perfect faith is able to triumph over every trial appointed to man on earth: but where is perfect faith? Where was it of old? and where is it now? Lord, what then remains for us to do, but to cry, 'Lord, we believe; help thou our unbelief?' We desire to possess holy hearts and pure affections; we desire to be raised above the love of earthly pleasure, and that idolatrous regard for any temporal object, by which our hearts may be drawn away from thee. Our lives have hitherto passed in restless longings after some imaginary worldly good; and in pursuit of these we have lost many opportunities of doing thy holy will and pleasure, and enjoying those innocent delights and quiet satisfactions, the means of which are profusely shed in the path of every individual of the children of Adam.

"Heavenly Father, relieve us, we beseech thee, from these wretched longings after sublunary joys, and lift our affections on high, to the object of supreme love and everlasting bliss. Teach us to seek present happiness only in the way of duty; and though we may find some dark and weary steps in this path, yet grant us grace to pursue our journey till light shall break upon our steps, and peace be shed upon our hearts.

"And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, be all glory and honour, both now and for evermore. Amen."

EIGHTH COMMANDMENT--THOU SHALT NOT STEAL.

"I am now prepared, my dear young friends," said the lady of the manor, on occasion of the next meeting at the manor-house, "with a narrative on the eighth commandment which will probably introduce you to higher life than the subject seems to promise."

The young ladies smiled, and Miss Emmeline remarked, that, a short time since, she should not have expected to be introduced into high life by a disquisition on the subject of stealing, but that she could not now feel much astonishment, even if such a subject were to bring persons of elevated rank under her notice.

The lady of the manor then ordered tea, which was no sooner dispatched, than she commenced her little narrative.

The history of Frederick Falconer

The Earl of P-- had two daughters; the eldest of whom, Lady Charlotte, was very handsome; while the younger, Lady Anne, was as remarkable for her ordinary appearance, her person being clumsy, and her face spoiled by the small-pox: in consequence of which accidental circumstances, Lady Charlotte, soon after her presentation, was married to the Earl of V--, and Lady Anne was obliged to take up with Mr. Lambert, who had not only the misfortune to be a commoner, but was also so unhappy as to owe his immense fortune to the lucky speculations of an uncle who had been in trade.

The seat of the Earl of V--, called Clifton Castle, was situated in one of the finest counties in the west of England; and Mr. Lambert's beautiful villa and flourishing estates lay so near to those of the earl, that the families attended the same parish-church, and the sisters, who were very fond of each other, were enabled to meet almost every day--the countess being reconciled to the inferiority of Lady Anne's marriage in point of rank, on consideration of Mr. Lambert's immense riches, and the magnificence of his establishment.

Mr. Lambert was, also, an inoffensive character, when considered merely in the light of a neighbour, and as far as concerned those persons to whom he thought he ought to look up. To those whom he regarded as superiors no man could be more servile and submissive: whether he was equally accommodating to his inferiors will appear in the course of this narrative. He had himself been brought up to trade, and, some persons pretended to say, behind the counter of a linen-draper. But, be this as it may, he was extremely ignorant with respect to every branch of gentlemanly knowledge, excepting, indeed, such as may be acquired in high society by the most superficial observation; and to these minutiae he paid such close and unremitting attention, that, before he had been many months in his new situation, he was a perfect oracle in all matters of ordinary etiquette. He knew the precise place which each person ought to take at a large dinner-table, who ought to walk out of a room first, who should lead the dance at the county balls, how many dishes and how many removes it was necessary to put on a table on such and such occasions; with a thousand other impertinences, on which a real gentleman would never bestow a single serious thought.

At the same time, his private studies consisted of books of heraldry, court calendars, treatises on ornamental gardening, and such parts of the daily newspapers as treated of the anecdotes of fashionable life. His highest ambition was to have a fine place, an elegant equipage, to be thought intimate with the great, and to be particularly well dressed; and he would have deemed it a more serious evil to be detected in a breach of etiquette, than to be found guilty of the most grievous offence against morality: at the same time, it must, however, be understood that he was by no means what the world calls an immoral man. He neither drank to excess, nor gambled, nor kept bad company: but this was not because he had any horror of vice, but simply because he happened not to feel any inclinations that prompted him to the commission of gross offences of this nature. He was, moreover, excessively timid, and retained his original character of a man-milliner even when at the head of an immense establishment, and connected in marriage with a lady of noble family.

It happened, however, that the wife which Mr. Lambert had chosen was a truly respectable woman. I say "happened," because Mr. Lambert had by no means selected her on account of any good qualities he had observed in her, but because she was the only single lady of title with whom he was acquainted, and it had entered into his head that Lady Anne would have a very agreeable sound in connexion with Lambert.

Lady Anne was very young when she married Mr. Lambert; she soon, however, discerned his foibles, and managed them so well, (her rank giving her an influence over him which the most charming woman, without a title, never could have acquired,) that, during her life, he acquired a respectability in society which he never totally lost, although she was spared to him only a short time.

Mr. Lambert earnestly desired a son, and it was, therefore, felt to be some disappointment that he had no prospect of a family for more than a year after their marriage. At length, however, the hope of an heir was given: but on the very day that Mr. Lambert saw the fulfilment of this hope in the birth of a son, he was deprived of his valuable wife, and the countess of a sister whom she dearly loved.

On this occasion, Lady V-- acted like a true friend. She took the infant (who was called Robert after his uncle) to Clifton Castle; and, having provided him with a nurse, kept him under her care till he was seven years of age: at which time he was restored to his father, who had procured a tutor for him, a gentleman who, as it proved, was in every respect calculated for the important office--a circumstance which, speaking after the manner of the world, I should call very lucky: for Mr. Lambert had required nothing in the preceptor of his son but good manners and a thorough knowledge of the classics, and had found in him, in addition to these qualifications, a truly pious and amiable companion.

In the mean time, Lady V-- had presented her husband with two children, a son and a daughter. The daughter, Lady Augusta, was three years younger than Robert Lambert, and, from her earliest infancy, promised to possess more than her mother's beauty.

Mr. Lambert no sooner heard of the birth of this little girl, than he fixed upon her as the future wife of Robert; and so much was his mind filled with this idea, that he failed not to impart it to his sister-in-law the countess, who admitted the proposal with a degree of alacrity which was perfectly ridiculous, when we consider that the bride-elect was still in her cradle.

Lord Clifton, the son of the Earl of V--, was not born till two years after his sister: and, as he advanced in years, nothing remarkable appeared in his character, neither was there any thing particularly attractive in his exterior, but an elegance of manner and general politeness in his carriage, which marked the young nobleman.

Thus, in as concise a manner as possible, have I stated the situations and circumstances of the several persons who are to act some of the most conspicuous parts in the following history; and I shall now at once proceed to that part of the narrative in which my history may properly be said to commence, which was at the time when Robert Lambert was brought from Clifton Castle, and placed under the care of his appointed tutor, Mr. Day.

As many of the events which I am about to relate seemed, humanly speaking, to depend upon the character of Robert, I think it right to give my reader a very particular description of his character, and also of the general appearance of the boy; appearances being circumstances of no small moment in the circle in which he was destined to move.

Robert Lambert was one of those coarse, dark complexioned boys who sometimes turn out much better looking than could possibly have been expected of them when mere children. His features were strongly marked, his eyes large, and his lips prominent. His person was strong made and thick set, his temper hasty, and his manners were incurably rough; though he wanted neither understanding nor feeling, and was sensible of kind treatment, but, at the same time, violently rebellious and untractable when harshly used. He shewed, at an early age, a decided aversion to every kind of dissimulation, and prided himself upon a degree of openness which amounted even to rudeness.

While residing at Clifton Castle, he had accidentally overheard some remarks made upon his father's character, and certain ridiculous allusions to his formality, preciseness, and awkward imitations of the great man. These observations were, undoubtedly, never meant to reach Robert's ears: but they had reached them, and had thus awakened sensations which could never be destroyed, and which co-operating with the natural bent of his own mind, tended to produce a character as directly contrary to that of his father as two characters could possibly be.

When Robert was placed under the care of Mr. Day, that excellent man soon made himself acquainted with his pupil's dispositions; and, observing the errors into which he had been allowed to fall, he set himself to counteract them by instilling into his mind, as soon as possible, those pure Christian principles by the exercise and application of which the valleys are exalted, the mountains brought low, and the rough places made plain: and, through the divine blessing on his labours, there is no doubt that Mr. Day would, in time, have succeeded in rendering his pupil all that he could have wished, had there not been a counteracting influence continually at work to undo all that the good tutor was endeavouring to effect.

Mr. Day possessed sufficient authority to keep Master Robert out of the way of the flatteries of the servants and dependents of the family; but he could not protect him from the misplaced and ill-timed interferences of his father, who considered himself dreadfully scandalized by the roughnesses of his son's deportment, and was, therefore, most eagerly desirous to see the little boy as delicate in his appearance, and as graceful in his manners, as some of the puny sprigs of nobility with whom he had become acquainted at Clifton Castle.

It was in vain that Mr. Day continually reasoned with Mr. Lambert on this subject, and advised him to wait until the operation of a good and gentlemanly education should have produced its usual fruits of gentility and politeness in his son. On this point Mr. Lambert would hear no reason. He insisted upon it, that Robert should be polished first, and educated afterwards; and, in favour of his own views, he pleaded the example of several children whom he had seen at Lord --'s, whose elegance of manner had been evident from the cradle.

To these remarks, Mr. Day would reply, that, in the present imperfect state of human nature, all natural perfections were never found in the same person, some children being endowed with one pleasing quality, and others with another; some being born with a certain elegance of carriage which others can acquire but with difficulty, and that only in an imperfect degree, even by a long course of tuition. "Your son Robert, Mr. Lambert, happens not to have this natural elegance," added Mr. Day: "but there is, however that in him which, with the divine blessing, will make a valuable man and a gentleman; yet, by endeavouring to force him out of his natural line, we shall only render his manners constrained and awkward. Let him see nothing but what is in good taste, let him be required to render civility to every one about him, and to give a proper attention to the cultivation of his mind; and there is no fear but that, in time, his outward deportment will become gentlemanly and graceful."

Mr. Day's arguments were good; but they were quite above the comprehension of Mr. Lambert, who could by no means think of waiting to let Robert grow up, before he should become such a gentleman as he wished him to be. He therefore, as I have said, continually marred the simple and pious plans of the tutor, and kept up a perpetual irritation in the mind of his boy, by constant, ill-timed, and injudicious interferences.

Instead of leaving little Robert in peace to study in Mr. Day's apartment, to walk out with this same beloved tutor when the tasks were concluded, to dig with dirty hands in some obscure corner of the shrubbery, and to amass snail-shells, painting-stones, and string, in his own way; he was continually forcing him into view, and then reproaching him, if, when thus dragged forth, he did not appear with all the ease, freedom, and propriety, of easy confidence of a first rate jockey. "There is Lady V--'s carriage," Mr. Lambert would say: "fly, Robert; hand her ladyship through the hall. But, stop: are your hands clean? Mr. Day, look at the boy's hand. Where is Cox? Where is your valet, Robert? Why did he suffer you to come to breakfast with such hands? O, you have been grubbing for snail-shells! No excuse at all: pity you were not born among the beggars. You never will be a gentleman; you were never intended for a gentleman. You are using your fork, Master Lambert, instead of your spoon. Cox, a spoon for Master Robert: not a large spoon; a dessert-spoon. What! did you never sit down to dinner with gentlemen before?" And then would commonly follow pathetic calls on the butler, the gentleman out of livery, and every footman, in his turn. "Is there no one here who can give Master Lambert a spoon?--Llewellyn, Burton, John, Thomas,--is it impossible to make interest for a spoon? Not a tablespoon, I beseech you. Does no one here know a dessert-spoon from a table-spoon? Mr. Day, my dear Mr. Day, I beseech you, do see that the boy does not contract such horrid habits."

In this manner Robert was tutored from day to day, from hour to hour. It is no wonder, then, if the boy's prejudices against his father's peculiarities grew stronger every moment, and if, notwithstanding the counteracting influence of Mr. Day, he still retained his natural roughness and untractability of character.

While things were proceeding thus, an only sister of Mr. Lambert's, the widow of a clergyman, died; leaving a son, about one year younger than Robert, of which son she appointed her brother the guardian, bequeathing the whole of her property, which was something more than three thousand pounds, to his care, for the use of her child.

Mr. Lambert had been fond of his sister, though he had not seen her for many years. As soon, therefore, as he heard of her death, he sent for the child, purposing to educate him with his own son, and to allow his fortune to accumulate for his use against he came of age. He accordingly sent one of his servants for Frederick Falconer; and, as Mr. Day gladly undertook his tuition without an increase of salary, every thing was speedily arranged for the reception of the orphan, while Robert looked forward with pleasure to the prospect of having a little companion of his own sex.

Lady V-- was in Mr. Lambert's drawing-room, conversing with her brother-in-law on their favourite scheme, which was the marriage of Augusta and Robert, and Mr. Lambert was expressing a hope that Augusta would be enabled to give the polish he so ardently wished to see in her intended husband, the want, however, of which Lady V-- did not greatly regard, as she felt much rather desirous that her future son-in-law should continue what he was, than be in the least like his father; when the carriage which brought little Falconer drove up to the door.

Robert and Augusta were, at the same time, playing in the hall, from whence they ran with glee into the drawing-room to announce the little stranger.

"Bring him in, bring him in," said Lady V--, with vivacity: "let us see what kind of creature he is."

"He is very pretty, mamma," said Augusta, whispering in her mother's ear: "I have seen him."

The servant now appeared, bringing in Frederick, who was dressed in a new suit of deep mourning, with his shirt-frill as white as snow, plaited neatly, and giving an elegant finish to his dress. At the door he bowed, and stood still till desired to approach.

This little boy had been brought up under the eye of a widowed and intelligent mother, and possessed also in an uncommon degree all those exterior perfections, the want of which had so embittered the life of Robert Lambert. He was tall for his age, elegantly formed, and, instead of having hair which, like poor Robert's, either stood directly upright, like bristles on the back of a certain inelegant quadruped not to be mentioned in genteel company, or hung over his forehead in inglorious confusion, was arranged by nature in the most picturesque curls, parted on the brow, and shading the sides of his blooming cheeks. These ringlets were of the darkest and richest auburn, his eyes were deep blue, his eye-lashes long, his features regularly beautiful, and his complexion was fair, though glowing. In short, it was impossible to behold a more graceful or lovely boy than little Frederick Falconer; and when he was introduced to his uncle, there was a mixture of affection and timidity in his manner which was peculiarly captivating, and remarkably adapted to his friendless situation.

"Is he not pretty?" said Augusta, whispering to her mamma. "What is his name?"

"Frederick Falconer," replied. Lady V--.

"And may I play with him?" asked the little lady, looking upon him as a new and delightful toy.

"He is tired now," said Lady V--.

"Are you tired, little Master Frederick?" said Augusta, stroking his face with her dimpled hand. "Will you play with me when you have rested?"

The little boy smiled, but did not speak.

"And may he come to Clifton?" said Augusta.

"In a few days," replied Lady V--.

"Will you come, Master Frederick, in a few days?" said Augusta, repeating her mother's words, while she held out her hand to him.

The little boy took the offered hand, but at the same moment burst into tears.

"Why do you cry, little Master Frederick?" said Augusta: and she looked at Lady V--, as if for an explanation.

"Why do you shed tears, my little dear?" asked Lady V--.

"Because she looks so like my little Emily; and Emily is dead."

"Emily!" repeated Augusta; "what Emily?"

"My little sister Emily," said the orphan boy, sobbing; "and Emily is dead."

Augusta could bear no more: her tender bosom swelled, and a gentle colour suffused her whole face; for her feelings had not yet been rendered callous by the cold, prudential system of a worldly education. Her lovely eyes at the same time became filled with tears, and she hid her face in her mother's bosom.

In the mean time, Robert stood looking on, being touched with the tears of his young companions, and having no apprehension of the consequences which might ensue from the arrival of his handsome little cousin.

Little Frederick was, soon afterwards, sent into Mr. Day's apartment to partake of some refreshments, and thither the other two children followed him.

"What a charming boy that is!" said Lady V--, as soon as the children were out of hearing; and she ran on for some time in the warmest praises of his beautiful eyes, elegant shape, and gentlemanly air.

In reply to this, Mr. Lambert expressed his regrets that Robert did not resemble him, and concluded by bitter complaints of the awkwardness and ungracefulness of his son and heir.

Lady V-- answered, as she really felt, that she thought Robert a fine boy, though, certainly, not so handsome as Frederick. "But what is beauty in a man," she added, "provided he has the manners and sentiments of a gentleman?"

I wish my reader to observe, in this place, that little or nothing has hitherto been said on the necessity of religion to complete the character of a gentleman, or, rather, to form the basis of it. But Lady V-- and Mr. Lambert knew little more of religion than its name; it therefore cannot be supposed that they would enter upon the subject in familiar conversation. Lady V-- took her leave that evening; and the next morning. Mr. Lambert, his son, and Mr. Day, being at breakfast together, the following conversation took place--little Frederick Falconer having not yet arisen.

"Mr. Day," said Mr. Lambert, "what do you think of Frederick? He is precisely the style of boy I admire. My sister was happy in having such a son."

Robert was deeply engaged in forming the semblance of the arch of a bridge with a crust of bread when this conversation commenced, and, therefore, did not at first hear a word of what was passing.

Mr. Day answered, that he had seen so little of the child, that he could form no notion as yet of his character.

"But his person, Mr. Day, his person," said Mr. Lambert, (who judged of human beings as he would have done of a piece of silk--by its effect on the eye,) "you must have observed that his person is uncommonly fine?"

At this moment Robert looked up, as if attending to what his father was saying.

"What is person in a child, Sir?" said Mr. Day. "It is a mere accidental circumstance, which is of no consequence either one way or the other."

"I by no means agree with you, Mr. Day," replied Mr. Lambert: "a good person is a letter of recommendation to a man or woman in any company. I wish, Robert, I wish," he added, "you were more like your cousin."

"I am as I was made," said Robert, sullenly, now first feeling the symptoms of dislike to his young relation.

"Not entirely so, Robert," returned Mr. Lambert: "you have, by your neglect of good manners, made yourself much inferior to what you were by nature. If you would but hold yourself up, be attentive to strangers, and learn to make a graceful bow when you enter a room, there would not be quite so shocking a contrast between you and your cousin."

Robert reddened. He seemed inclined to speak; but, observing the eye of his tutor upon him, and understanding its expression, he was silent: yet, endeavouring to do something to hide his embarrassment, he took up his dish of scalding tea, and, having filled his mouth as full as it could hold, he was compelled to get rid of the hot liquor, which he could not swallow, by returning it back into his cup, to the great horror of his father, who, rising up and ringing furiously, exclaimed, "Robert! Robert! you are an incorrigibly low-bred boy! At the moment even when I am speaking to you on the very subject, you are guilty of the most abominable breach of politeness."

"I could not help it, papa, indeed, papa," said the little boy, who was now really frightened; "the tea was so hot."

"And who," said Mr. Lambert, "compelled you to take the scalding tea into your mouth!"

"I did not think that it was hot," replied Robert.

"The grossest boor on earth, who offends against the most common laws of good-breeding, may plead excuses of this kind," said Mr. Lambert. Then addressing, by turns, Mr. Day and the footman, who had come in, in answer to the bell--"I hope, Mr. Day, you will take cognizance of this behaviour of Robert's. I really cannot have the boy at my table, if he acts in a manner so offensive to all the general rules of propriety. Here Llewellyn, put a clean napkin before Mr. Lambert, and bring a clean cup and saucer, and another plate, and remove that bread-and-butter, and those rolls."

"I don't want another cup and saucer," said Robert, striving to restrain his tears; "I have done breakfast."

"Come, do not be sullen, Master Lambert," returned his father; "you have had nothing yet. But I really believe, Mr. Day, that he would prefer living on bread and cheese, and dining under the hedge with my day-labourers, than be obliged to take his meals in a proper manner at my table."

"Indeed, papa," said Robert, (and he was going to add, "Indeed I should;") but a look from his tutor again restrained him, and he left his sentence unfinished.

"Indeed what?" said Mr. Lambert, who, when he was got into the teasing mood not uncommon to little minds, never left the work half done; "indeed what, Robert? What were you going to say?"

Robert was silent; for it was no part of his character to say any thing he did not think, though his tutor had influence enough to prevent him from always saying what he did think.

"So you will not speak?" said Mr. Lambert.

"Sir," said Mr. Day, "will you permit me to take Master Robert aside? And I shall, I hope, be able to make him sensible of the duty of accommodating himself in every point to his father's will." So saying, he arose, and took the boy out of the room.

As soon as Robert got into his own side of the house, he gave way to a violent burst of indignation, beginning with the following exclamations: "I hate Frederick Falconer; and I hate good manners; I never will be a gentleman; and, when I grow I will not live in this house; and I had rather starve than be so tormented; and I wish I was not Robert Lambert." So saying, he burst into tears, and threw himself upon a couch in an agony of passion.

Mr. Day felt really hurt for his pupil. He went close up to him, and, sitting down on the couch by his side, extended his arms to receive him. The boy sprang towards him, and, putting his face in his bosom, wept for some time, but it was more gently.

"Robert, my boy, you know I love you," said Mr. Day: "try to be calm, for my sake."

"I will, dear Mr. Day, I will," said Robert. "But do you mean to punish me for not swallowing the scalding tea?"

"No," said Mr. Day, "because I think you have suffered enough already. And now compose yourself, and put on your hat: we will take a long walk. I have some business to transact at a cottage beyond the park; and, as we walk, we will talk about some of these things, and I will point out some little matters which you ought to attend to, in order to please your papa. Little boys should always try to gratify their parents: it is a Christian duty. You know how often I have shewn to you, that our Saviour, when on earth, submitted to his mother, though, as he was God in human flesh, and she only a sinful human being, he must have seen many inconsistencies in her conduct."

"But you will not take Frederick with you?" said Robert.

"No, not to-day, Robert," replied Mr. Day, "because he is tired with his journey."

Thus Mr. Day succeeded in soothing his pupil on this occasion: but, as his father persevered in his injudicious and irritating ways, Mr. Day found it every day more and more difficult to control the feelings of the boy. As Robert grew older, he not unfrequently allowed his father to see that he resented his teasing conduct. He shewed also a kind of petty revenge and obstinacy by disregarding his injunctions in little matters. He allowed his independent and haughty sentiments to discover themselves on many occasions, and more than once told his father plainly, that he would rather renounce all that he could give him, than be continually subject to a tyranny which made him completely miserable.

In the mean time, the little stranger, whose beautiful appearance we have described, made his way among these various tempers in a manner which might surprise those who are not aware how safely and sweetly an unenvious and unsuspicious Christian temper will carry an individual through the storms and trials of life. Frederick Falconer had strong sense, and a quick perception; but he possessed, also, a spirit which either did not see, or scorned to enter into, the low cabals of meaner souls. He had been piously educated by the tenderest of mothers; and, when he could no longer enjoy the fostering care of that dear parent, he transferred all his regard and confidence to the equally worthy Mr. Day, who won his heart on the first day of his arrival, by coming to him when he was in bed, and kissing away the tears by which his little cheek was moistened, and by telling him how happy he would be under his kind uncle's care and with his dear cousin Robert.

If, after that time, Robert sometimes seemed to be cross and unkind to his cousin, little Falconer had a summary way of settling the matter in his own mind. "Robert," he would say, "is cross to-day: every body is cross sometimes. I will let him alone till he is in a better humour." He never entered into the causes of this ill-humour, the ideas of envy and jealousy appearing to be utter strangers to his mind. The writer of these memoirs has once met with a character similar, in this respect, to Frederick, and can only attribute this peculiarity to a natural nobleness of spirit, aided by simple Christian principles, and the strong yet secret influences of the Holy Spirit, which shewed themselves in this remarkable manner. But to return to our narrative.

Thus, though Frederick Falconer was surrounded by a variety of discordant characters, and was himself the object of envy and other evil passions, he rose triumphantly above them all, and retained, in a greater degree than could by many persons be deemed possible, the respect and love of all about him. The blessed and unsuspicious spirit of this amiable boy might perhaps, however, have been perverted, had it not been for the care of Mr. Day, who unceasingly laboured to preserve his mind in a state of composure, and to continue that happy ignorance of the evil passions of those about him in which he had hitherto remained. If Mr. Lambert flattered him, at table, for being superior to Robert in those respects which the old gentleman deemed of most importance, Mr. Day would make light of the circumstance in some subsequent conversation with the little boy, pointing out other things in which he was excelled by Robert, and thus, as it were, balancing the account in such a way, that the two children appeared to be equally worthy of praise or blame.

If, however, when all things were considered, Robert at any time happened to be out of humour, Mr. Day would take occasion to remark on his many good qualities, and to assure Frederick that his cousin loved him sincerely, though he might sometimes give way to feelings of ill-humour towards him. And this was, indeed, no more than the truth; for, had Robert been left to himself, he would, no doubt, have formed a sincere and ardent affection for his amiable little cousin.

When Robert was about eleven years of age, the following occurrence excited a very strong and painful feeling in his mind, which feeling there is reason to think was not overcome for many years afterwards.

He and Frederick were invited to spend some days together at Clifton Castle, where, it being summer time, the children were allowed to play in the pleasure-ground, from which they frequently made their escape into a little coppice, which shaded a dingle by the side of the park. In this dingle was a hut or root-house, in a retired situation, and also a small edifice built in imitation of a Grecian temple, which standing on the brow of the hill, commanded the whole range of the dingle, with its water-courses and cascades.

One day, when these little boys were playing in a Gothic window in the drawing-room, and Lady Augusta with them, they proposed that she should go the next day into the dingle, and choose each of them a house or habitation; "And we will adorn our house with flowers, and prepare a feast in it, and Augusta shall come and see us."

"No," said Augusta, "I will not come and see you, but I will live with one of you: you shall be the lord, and I will be the lady."

"But you cannot live with both of us," said Frederick.

"No," returned Augusta, "I will choose one of you, and live with that one; and then we will visit the other."

"But which will you choose?" said Robert. "Will you choose me?"

"No," said Frederick, "you must choose me."

"I'll tell you what I will do," replied Augusta; " I will choose the one who makes his house look the prettiest, and who has the nicest feast."

"O, very well," said Robert: "then we will get up in the morning very early, and we will see who can make the prettiest house."

Accordingly, the little boys very early the next morning set off into the dingle; and Robert, having chosen the temple, and Frederick the root-house, they set to work to adorn their habitations in the best manner they could.

Frederick stuck bunches of flowers in the thatch of his house, and set forth his fruit, which he begged from the gardener, in little baskets made of rushes; but Robert adorned the pillars of his temple with wreaths of roses and honeysuckle, and set forth his feast on dishes made of vine leaves, garnished with roses.

When all was done, the little boys compared each other's houses, and even Frederick confessed that Robert's house was much superior to his own. Augusta was then called, and conducted first to the temple, and next to the grotto; and, after having hesitated a while, looking at the same time very much vexed, she gave her vote in favour of Frederick's house, saying to Robert, as a kind of apology for her injustice, that she loved low places better than high ones.

The boys were both surprised, not expecting this turn of affairs; and Robert, calling young Clifton, who had followed them to the dingle, gave up his house on the hill to him, and walked back towards the Castle in high displeasure.

Augusta and Frederick looked after him for some minutes. At length, Frederick said, "Call him back, Augusta, pray do: don't make him unhappy. I know his is the prettiest house."

"No, I will not," said the little girl. "If he chooses to be angry, I can't help it: but I won't live with him."

"And why?" said Frederick.

"Because I don't like him," replied the young lady.

"But you ought to love every body," said Frederick.

"What, when I can't?" said Augusta.

"But you promised to live with the person who had the prettiest house, and indeed Robert's is the prettiest."

"Well, I don't care," returned Augusta, "I won't live with him: but I will run after him, and call him back to play."

She did so but he refused to come back, and retained his ill-humour for some days, manifesting it by great coldness towards his little playfellows.

While the impression produced by this circumstance yet remained on the mind of Robert, the little boys returned to Mr. Lambert's villa, where Frederick was suddenly attacked with a violent cold and cough, and an inflammation on the chest, which in a short time reduced him to such a state of weakness, that his uncle and Mr. Day expected nothing less than his speedy death. During this illness, the little patient discovered so much gentleness, and such an entire acquiescence in the will of his heavenly Father, with such perfect confidence in the love of his Redeemer, that he rendered himself more and more dear to his excellent tutor; and his uncle, who considered him as an ornament to his family, and who really loved him for his gentle and amiable deportment, was very uneasy, and laid aside in some degree his usual formal observances when standing by the bed of the drooping boy.

On this occasion, Robert, however, shewed a degree of inveteracy against Frederick, which grieved and distressed his tutor, particularly as the little boy could so well account for this dislike to his inoffensive cousin: for nothing, perhaps, is more irritating to the human mind, than constantly to be called into competition and brought under comparison with any individual, and to find oneself continually losing by being thus compared. It seems that, notwithstanding the gentleness of Frederick, and the counteracting influence of Mr. Day, poor Robert had suffered more severely from this cause than his tutor had supposed; insomuch, that he one day said to his valet, "How is Frederick to-day? I really wish he may not recover. But do not tell my tutor what I say."

Mr. Day, however, was informed of this speech of Robert's, and took occasion to speak very seriously to him on the subject. But first he went with him into Frederick's chamber, and made him look at his little cousin, extended on his bed, pale and emaciated, and his lovely face resting on his pillow. He made him touch his burning hand, and observe the labour with which he drew his breath. Then leading him out of the room, he pointed out to him the sinfulness and selfishness of his conduct, in wishing that his poor little companion might actually expire under his present sufferings, in order that he himself might be relieved from an object of envy and jealousy. The good man then took occasion, to point out the natural depravity, and even murderous dispositions, of the human heart, and the need we have of an entire change of nature, in order to render us fit for the society of angels.

Robert wept when his offences against his cousin were thus solemnly laid before him, and apologized for his bad conduct, by saying how perpetually irritated and hurt he felt by the continued comparisons which were made between him and Frederick. "I am sure," added he, "that my father loves him more than he does me; and Augusta, too, she does the same."

Here poor Robert burst afresh into a flood of tears; and Mr. Day, seeing him much softened, said, "My dear boy, even supposing what you say of your father and Lady Augusta to be true, why is Frederick to be blamed? Have you ever seen any thing in him but the utmost kindness, gentleness, and affection? Is he to be condemned for what others think of him and feel for him? Ought you to hate him, Robert, because he is amiable?"

"Oh! Mr. Day! Mr. Day!" replied Robert, in an agony of grief, "I am very wicked; I know I am. May God change my heart!"

"Go, my boy, then," said Mr. Day, "go, and pray for a new heart. Call on Him who is never deaf to those who apply to him in sincerity."

Poor Robert withdrew to his room, and prayed earnestly: after which, he came to his tutor with an altered countenance, and begged to be permitted to wait on his sick cousin; which office he performed for many days with a tenderness which did him honour, and which proved to Mr. Day that his feelings towards his little companion were, for the time being, entirely changed: and, notwithstanding the presents of fruit which came every day from Lady Augusta, who was inconsolable while her little companion was thought to be in danger, no new feelings of jealousy seemed again to arise in the breast of Robert.

Many weeks had elapsed before Frederick Falconer recovered his health and strength: but Mr. Day was extremely glad to see, that, during the time of his recovery, Robert remained perfectly calm, and, indeed, was beginning to lose some of his awkward ways: for, as the little boys were, during this time, much in their own rooms, and took their meals apart, young Lambert was spared the frequent comments of his parent on his want of elegance, which never failed to create either awkwardness and embarrassment in the little boy, or a fit of obstinacy equally unfavourable to his appearance as a finished gentleman. Nevertheless, when health was again restored to his family, Mr. Lambert recommenced that kind of injudicious conduct by which he had formerly excited the irritation of his son. "Frederick looks better than ever since his illness," said Mr. Lambert, one day, to the viscountess. "What would I give, if this dull boy of mine had half young Falconer's gentility of carriage!"

"Why then do you not try what a dancing-master would do for your son?" replied Lady V--.

"A very good thought, Lady V--" said Mr. Lambert: "and I hope, Robert," added he, turning to the boy, "that you will be attentive to the instructions of your dancing-master; for I shall procure one for you immediately; though I certainly entertain some fears that you will prove to be little better than a dancing-bear."

Robert looked sullen, and all his old feelings seemed again to revive. The viscountess observed his change of countenance; and, therefore, in order to restore his good-humour, she promised him a ball at Clifton Castle as soon as he was able to lead down a country-dance. Robert had heard balls spoken of by his father as very delightful amusements; so that he, consequently, hastened to his tutor to tell him what had passed.

Mr. Day could have wished that pleasures of this kind might not be held forth to his pupils; but this excellent man filled a situation in which, not having the power of acting as he would with regard to them, he was compelled, in order to their good, to do the best which circumstances would admit. He therefore made light of the ball, saying, that he considered it an amusement which he thought Robert would not much like; at the same time, he pointed out to the boy that it would be his duty to submit to learn to dance, if his father required it, and to pay attention to his lessons.

The dancing-master was sent for, notwithstanding some private expostulations of Mr. Day: and, as Mr. Lambert insisted upon being present at Robert's lessons, they afforded one continued subject of dispute between the father and son; Robert becoming sullen, and Mr. Lambert constantly carrying on the comparison of the bear, by which he every day assimilated the manners of his son more and more nearly to those of the ungraceful animal in question.

It appeared likely to be long before Robert would be able to claim Lady V--'s promise of the ball; and, indeed, he had taken such a dislike to dancing, and to whatever had any connexion with it, that when Lady V-- declared her intention of giving a ball on the arrival of Master Lambert's birth-day, which happened in the Christmas holidays, when he would enter upon his thirteenth year, he received the information with dismay, and even ventured to ask his father to excuse his presence on the occasion.

Mr. Lambert elevated his eyebrows, and shrugged his shoulders, with an air of the most lively astonishment, when he heard this request of his son. He expressed amazement at his peculiar taste, his extraordinary whims, and his singular fancies. "Robert Lambert," he said, "you will never be like other people: I have always predicted it, and I am now convinced that my predictions will be true. However, Robert, I shall not indulge you in this whim: you will, if you please, go to the ball, and I hope you will there behave like a gentleman."

Robert was extremely sulky from that day till the one fixed for the proposed amusement, and seemed determined to fulfil his father's predictions. He quarrelled with Frederick, was inattentive to his tutor, and absolutely impertinent to his father.

When Mr. Day expostulated with him on the roughness of his manners, he replied, "My father says I am a bear, and an oddity, and unlike a gentleman. How then am I to behave like any other person?"

The great day of the ball at length arrived, and Robert and Frederick were dressed with the utmost care, and required to accompany Mr. Lambert to Clifton Castle.

On this occasion, however, poor Robert disgraced himself dreadfully in the eyes of his father. He could not be persuaded to walk across the room, and make a low bow, and ask Lady Augusta, in form, to dance; though, had he been left to himself, he would have done it in his own way, and in a manner much more befitting a boy of twelve years of age. In consequence of this, his father became very angry; and such a violent fit of sullenness took possession of Master Lambert, that he could not recover himself all the evening, and therefore acted his part of the bear to a degree of perfection which almost did credit to his father's discernment in suggesting the simile.

In the mean time, little Frederick, who had none of poor Robert's difficulties to encounter, and who was not allowed to dance on account of his health, made his way with an ease and simplicity which pleased every one; and Lady Augusta said more than once to him, during the evening, "I wish you might but dance, Frederick; I should so like you for my partner."

The evening concluded without Robert's having made any considerable departure from the character he had adopted, and consequently, long and severe were the reproofs which he had to experience on his return home.

I am sorry to add, that on this occasion his tutor could not restrain him from breaking out into various impertinences against his father, whereby he irritated his parent so much against him, that Mr. Day the less regretted a change of plans respecting the boys, which was suggested about that time by the countess, who had sense enough to see that Mr. Lambert would ruin his son if he were left continually under his control.

The parish in which Clifton Castle and Lambert-Hall were situated was very extensive, the living was remarkably good, and the parsonage-house, though old, was large and beautifully situated. This benefice was in the gift of Lord V--, and it had for some time been arranged between the two families, that it should be given to Frederick Falconer when it fell vacant. Whether Mr. Lambert was to make any pecuniary acknowledgment to the earl on the occasion does not appear: but it was not expected that the incumbent, who was not a very old man, would die before Frederick Falconer should be of an age to be inducted. The living, however, became vacant about this time; and it was suggested that Mr. Day should be requested to hold it for his pupil, and, at the same time, that Robert should be placed in a public school; while Frederick, on account of his health, was to remain with Mr. Day, who proposed to remove to the vicarage.

Mr. Day was sorry to part with Robert, whom he really loved, and pitied with equal sincerity. He, however, felt convinced, that almost any change from the present state of things would be for the best, and he therefore quietly acquiesced in the whole of the plan.

Robert evinced much of the natural warmth of his feelings when he took leave of his tutor, and he seemed for the moment even to have forgotten all that he had ever found unkind towards him in the conduct of his father. He also embraced his cousin with restrained tears, and sent a present of dried flowers and a pair of living doves, with his best love, to Lady Augusta.

And thus I conclude the early stage of the histories of Robert Lambert and Frederick Falconer, and shall proceed immediately to certain circumstances of their more advanced lives, in which my readers may perhaps take a livelier interest.

We will now fancy several years to have passed away, during which Frederick lived quietly with Mr. Day at his parsonage, and Robert made his way in a public school. Lady Augusta and her brother, at Clifton Castle, were continually acquiring new accomplishments, and advancing more and more towards the characters of a fine lady, and a fashionable gentleman. In the mean time, as if by tacit agreement of all parties, the young people saw less of each other than they had formerly done.

During this period the earl's family was much in London. Frederick visited his uncle daily, and, without entertaining any further view than what was merely suggested by filial piety and gratitude, he daily won more and more upon his affection. Mr. Day about this time employed some of his leisure hours in beautifying the house and gardens of the parsonage considering them as the future possessions of his beloved pupil. In this work he did not, however, spend much money, although he exercised much taste; for he was a man of a humble Christian spirit, and earnestly endeavoured, with the divine blessing, to inspire his pupil with the same.

It was his constant maxim, that a humble and thankful disposition--a disposition free from ambition--should habitually be cultivated by a Christian pastor; and he often took delight in drawing the character of a minister in such true and lively colours as he trusted might impress themselves on the heart of Frederick. "The very word minister, my Frederick," would this excellent man say, "denotes the nature of the office of the Christian pastor. A minister is one who serves, waits, and attends on another; as we find from the twenty-fourth chapter of Exodus, the thirteenth verse, wherein Joshua is described as the servant, or minister, of Moses. A minister of Christ is one who is appointed to fulfil the service of God in his Church, to dispense and administer faithfully and wisely the word, the sacraments, and other holy things. We have, in the first epistle to the Corinthians, the fourth chapter, and twelfth verse, a short and simple exhibition of the ministerial character--And labour, working with our own hands: being reviled, we bless; being persecuted, we suffer it. Furthermore, Christ our blessed Saviour, when he undertook the accomplishment of man's salvation did not scorn the character of the minister and servant of his people; and hence the same mind should be in you, my son, who are to be a minister of God, which was also in Christ Jesus: Who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God; but made himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross. [Phil. ii. 6-8]

"Contemplating, therefore, the character and office of a minister, and the example of Christ, can we suppose it possible that the pastor of a Christian flock can be too humble, too much separated from the world, and too devoted to his people? He ought to consider, that his reward is not to be expected upon earth, and that his crown is a celestial one. He should view earthly honour, distinctions, and pleasures, as things in which he can consistently take no part. He should delight himself in simple and humble habits. He should make the welfare of his flock the object of his most ardent pursuit; and he should be at every instant ready to deprive himself of his earthly goods, in order to administer to the temporal wants of his people."

In this manner Mr. Day continually conversed with his pupil, and habitually set before him the glory of the spiritual world, and a union with his Saviour, as the grand end and object of his pursuits. The literary instructions which he imparted to him were also equally pure with those of a doctrinal and practical nature. He gave him a deep insight into biblical knowledge, causing him to study the sacred writings in their original languages. He introduced him to an enlarged view of history and prophecy; and, without presuming to speculate on the modes and manners of future events, he continually laid before him the promises of Scripture respecting the glorious kingdom of Christ upon earth, which is to be established in the latter times.

Such were the instructions communicated by Mr. Day to the youthful Frederick, while the recreations with which he supplied him were of a nature fully compatible with these instructions. He daily associated him with himself in his pastoral visits to his people; he allowed him to be the bearer of his alms and donations; he permitted him to assist in instructing the poor children; he engaged him in the pleasant work of embellishing his garden, in building root-houses, and in rearing trees and flowers, in collecting specimens of wild plants, and cutting paths in the deep recesses of the woods which adjoined the parsonage-garden and belonged to the glebe. He encouraged in the youth a talent for drawing; and, as he had also a taste for music, he procured him an organ, and delighted to witness his efforts to render the praises of God acceptable and pleasing during the period of family devotion.

And here let me pause for a moment, to make an observation on the propriety of Mr. Day's general procedure with his interesting charge; for it is highly important that, when the Christian preceptor interdict to his juvenile pupil those worldly pleasures in which youth naturally delights, he should carefully direct his attention to other objects, of an exciting and pleasurable nature, by which he may be fully occupied and innocently delighted; since there is in youth a fund of vivacity, a natural restlessness, which, if not properly directed and suitably employed in promoting some salutary purpose, will assuredly discover itself, it may be to the temporal, and even to the spiritual, disadvantage of the person in question.

While Frederick was thus enjoying the instructions of his tutor, he mixed little with any worldly society, excepting on the occasions of his visits to Lambert-Hall. But his uncle--I may say providentially--was not the kind of man whose sentiments were likely to become agreeable to young people: therefore, though all Mr. Lambert's principles were worldly, and, in consequence, low and grovelling, he never succeeded in making his nephew adopt one of them.

It was necessary, also, that Mr. Lambert should have an object upon which he might indulge and spend his natural petulance. This object he had for many years found in the character and person of Robert. But Robert was now absent; and, as no other immediately presented itself, he now began to divert the channel of his petty malice towards his favourite Frederick.

It was impossible, with any show of truth, to call this elegant and handsome boy a bear, or to compare him to a bull-dog, or to address him as an awkward fellow and a blunderer: but Frederick's fair complexion, brilliant eyes, and prompt politeness, would admit of comparisons of another nature, and of a kind no less disagreeable to a boy. "What a pity, Frederick," Mr. Lambert would say, "that such a complexion as yours should be exposed to the sun! Do, my good boy, carry a parasol when you go out of doors, or, at least, wear a large hat lined with green." And, again, the old gentleman would add, "Master Frederick's carriage would do him honour at court. Mr. Day, we must make him a page to her majesty. How well he would look in an embroidered suit, with a plume in his cap! There now, Falconer, there is Lady Betty's carriage at the door. Run, my page, and hand the lady out: bestow upon her one of your elegant bows. Well--vastly well--politeness itself! I dare say Lady Betty was amazed. Don't eat so much beef, Frederick: do restrain that enormous appetite. You will never do to perform the lady's maid, when Mr. Day and I act a play for the amusement of the county, unless you take care of your shape."

In this manner, and to this purpose, the old gentleman went on, till jokes of this kind became quite stale, and even Frederick could hardly bear them with good-humour: but when his good-humour began to fail, the recollection of the humble, pious, and grateful principles so carefully instilled by Mr. Day would come to his aid; and, therefore, when addressed by the appellation of Miss Molly, and told to keep his hands smooth and delicate, he would often turn the matter off with a laugh, tell his uncle he would not fail to obey his injunctions, and request a present of cold cream and violet soap.

When, however, after a time, Frederick was observed habitually to conduct himself in this manner towards his uncle, and to endure all his teasing ways with great good-humour, there were not wanting those who attributed to the boy motives from which, through the divine assistance, he was perfectly free: for, so far from his expecting to receive from his uncle any pecuniary benefit beyond that which he had already been fully encouraged to hope for, Mr. Day had carefully impressed him with the idea that Mr. Lambert meant to do no more for him than to put him in possession of the living, which the tutor very properly represented as being what was very generous and handsome. As I, however, have just remarked, credit was not given to Frederick for freedom from cunning and artifice, in thus accommodating himself to his uncle's humours; and some persons were even so mischievous as to write to Robert, to warn him of his cousin's designs, and to advise him to take care lest young Falconer should in the long run win so much on the affections of the father as materially to injure the son.

In answer to these suggestions, Robert replied, with his usual injudicious violence, that if his father chose even to disinherit him, he must abide by the evil; that he never would stoop to Falconer's meanness of conduct; that, thank Heaven, he had an independent spirit; that he had hands to work with, was no fine gentleman, but a true Englishman; and that he could be as happy in a cottage as in the finest palace in the world, &c. &c.

It appeared, however, when Robert again saw his father and Frederick, that, notwithstanding his boasted carelessness and independence, he was greatly irritated against them both; and that, though he still refused to stoop to wheedle his father, as he called the common respect due from a son to a parent, he yet felt not a little angry at witnessing the favour with which Frederick was regarded at Lambert-Hall, and evinced more coldness and haughtiness of manner towards his cousin than he had ever before done.

Thus, notwithstanding the high boast which he had made about his utter disregard of his future situation in society, he was, perhaps, one of the last characters that would with dignity submit to any thing like degradation.

--But to return to our narrative.

The Earl of V-- and his family had, as I before said, been much in Town for some years, and, during that interval, Frederick had seen nothing of Lady Augusta; but when that young lady had just entered her seventeenth and Frederick his nineteenth year, the family returned, for a few months in the summer, to Clifton Castle. Robert Lambert was, during that period, at the University.

As soon as Mr. Day heard of the arrival of the family, he went to pay his respects at the Castle, and was invited to dinner by the earl. He accepted the invitation; and when he met the ladies in the drawing-room, he was greatly struck with the improvement in Lady Augusta's appearance. She had always been beautiful, but she was now more so than ever; and added to her natural loveliness, not only the elegance and dignity of high life, but a certain simplicity of manner and intelligence of countenance, which rendered her exceedingly attractive.

The young lady seemed greatly pleased at the sight of Mr. Day, and accosted him with a degree of warmth which would have been very flattering, had not the good gentleman entertained some idea that all this kindness was not to be set down wholly to his own account.

Mr. Day was hardly seated in his chair, before Lady V-- asked after his pupil.

At the sound of Frederick's name, Lady Augusta started, and looked anxiously at Mr. Day.

"Frederick is well," said Mr. Day: "I left him with his books. It behoves him now to study hard, or he will do me little credit when he goes to the University."

"Is he grown?" said Lady V--. "Is he altered or is he the same handsome and pleasing Frederick Falconer that he ever was?"

On hearing this question, Lady Augusta looked down, and the colour in her cheek was evidently heightened.

"He is, Madam," said Mr. Day, "precisely the same that he always was. But," added he, "as his lot must necessarily be humble, I think it would be best, in submission to the better judgment of his friends, not to introduce him too fully to a sphere of life in which he cannot expect to sustain a part. His tastes are at present humble; he seems free from ambition; and appears quite contented with his condition: I therefore think that we should carefully endeavour to prevent his incurring habits and cherishing desires which may in the least degree interfere with his properly sustaining the character of a country parson."

"You judge correctly," said Lady V--, at the same moment slightly glancing at Augusta, but in a manner so delicate that no person would have observed it, who was not so intimately acquainted with the secrets of the family as Mr. Day.

The name of Frederick was not mentioned during the rest of the day.

When Mr. Day returned to the parsonage in the evening, he found Frederick working in his garden, and full of glee about some circumstance relative to a favourite plant. He, however, threw down his hoe, to enquire after the family at the Castle; and his benevolent tutor, who had but just now felt all anxiety lest his beloved pupil should insensibly be drawn in to admire the intended wife of Robert, now felt that there was equal danger in allowing the young lady to see much of Robert's cousin: for, notwithstanding Frederick was in his gardening-jacket, with his crisped hair deranged by the heat into which he had been thrown by exercise, there was so much of the gentleman, of the elegant scholar, and so many interesting indications of Christian and manly virtue in his appearance, that he thought it scarcely possible for any young lady to be intimate with him, without feeling disposed to regard him with preference. He felt now more than ever rejoiced that he had spoken so explicitly, to Lady V--, and he hoped that, by this precaution, he had obviated the danger which every discerning person must have foreseen.

"And Lady V-- is well?" said Frederick, in answer to some remark of his tutor: "I am glad of it. And how does Lady Augusta look? Is she much grown? Is she altered?"

"She is grown and improved," answered Mr. Day, "and looks amiable. I hope she will make our dear Robert a good wife: for, though Robert is somewhat singular, he has many valuable qualities, and really deserves a worthy partner."

To this remark Frederick answered, with warmth, "I think, Mr. Day, that I should hate any body who was unkind to Robert: I could not bear to see Robert unhappy."

Here the conversation dropped, and Frederick said no more on the subject of the earl's family till the next day; when he asked Mr. Day when he would take him to see Lady V--.

"My dear boy," returned Mr. Day, "you must mind your studies, and I must attend to my parish: we have little time for visiting."

Frederick pressed the matter no further; and spoke, immediately afterwards, with animation, on a subject altogether irrelevant.

Thus things passed off till Sunday, when it was impossible to prevent the young people from meeting at church, without giving some reason for so doing. During the service they had no opportunity of seeing each other, but immediately after they left the church they met, and their meeting was full of warmth and affection. Mr. Day heard Lady Augusta say to Frederick, "Why don't you come to see us, Mr. Falconer? Have you forgotten your old haunts, and the wild glen, in which we used to play so happily?"

Frederick replied, that he hoped Mr. Day would soon accompany him to the Castle, adding, that he would request him so to do.

Something then was said by Lady Augusta relative to Frederick's love of gardening: on which, the young man shewed her a sprig of some geranium which he had in his bosom.

Lady Augusta took the flower, and admired it, though there was nothing remarkable in it; and, as the earl's carriage drew up at the moment, she was handed into it by Frederick, still holding the geranium in her hand.

There was nothing to a common observer in all this, but it was enough to awaken and engage the vigilance of Mr. Day.

During the course of the next week, young Falconer more than once asked Mr. Day to go with him to the Castle; but the careful tutor always found some excuse for putting off the visit.

In the mean time, he told Mr. Lambert, that if he still intended to bring about the marriage between Lady Augusta and Robert, he thought it would be best in a quiet way to keep Frederick from Clifton Castle. "Not in the least," added he, "because I doubt the honour of Frederick, or question the uprightness of his intentions: but human nature is weak, and Lady Augusta might perhaps be struck with his very pleasing manners and prepossessing appearance."

Although there was something implied in this speech which did not greatly tend to exalt Mr. Lambert's son, yet it caused the old gentleman to exult and rub his hands with a feeling of self-complacency, because he had, as he said, always foreseen that Robert would be eclipsed by Frederick: and nothing pleased him so much as any thing like a tribute paid to his sagacity; and the more unwilling this tribute was rendered, the better was he pleased, and the more complete was his triumph. "And so you are come round to my opinion at last, Mr. Day?" said he. "I could only wish that you had seen the thing in the same light that I did years ago. You are an excellent divine, no doubt, Mr. Day; but it is not by study, it is not from books that men acquire a knowledge of life: the world must be seen in order to be understood. However, your advice," added the old gentleman, with increasing pomposity, "your advice, on this occasion, is good, and I admire your prudence, Mr. Day. Let Frederick Falconer be kept away from Clifton Castle, since you now allow that in all matters relative to the exterior, in all such things as strike a lady's eye, he is so much superior to Robert. Poor Robert! I wish I could see any thing in him like a manner, like the appearance of a gentleman. But I always foresaw that he would turn out just as he has done. I never could account, Mr. Day, for the strange perversity of his humour in rejecting every kind of refinement, bred up, as he was, under my eye, and with such pains as I took to break him of his low habits. Why, my good Mr. Day, Robert Lambert never will know either how to come into a room or to go out of one."

"Robert has many excellent qualities, I still maintain," said Mr. Day; "and may yet make a valuable man."

"I hope so," said Mr. Lambert; "I hope so; I hope the University will do something for him: he sees good company there. I think he will be cured of his mauvaise honte, at least, at college. Most young men are, unless they are incurably awkward; eh, Mr. Day?"

"Sir," said Mr. Day, "you know that I was always an advocate for your son."

"I know it, I know it," returned Mr. Lambert: "and let me tell you, Mr. Day, no person's opinion in the world has more weight with me than yours; and I much approve the advice you have given respecting Frederick Falconer, and shall, without loss of time, communicate your ideas on the subject to my sister, Lady V--."

Mr. Day felt his mind relieved in having acted thus openly with Mr. Lambert, and resolved, if he found it necessary, to deal as plainly with Frederick, and to point out to him the necessity of repressing his feelings of admiration for the destined wife of his patron's son and early friend. Frederick, however, never once mentioned the name of Augusta during the remainder of the week, and Mr. Day hoped it would not be necessary for him to mention the subject.

But when Sunday morning arrived, while the bells were ringing, more in token of the day, than actually to call the congregation to church, Mr. Day withdrew, as his custom was, to a retired grass walk in his garden, to meditate upon the subject of his discourse. He had not been long there, before he observed Frederick walking thoughtfully into that part of the garden especially appropriated to flowers, and which Mr. Day could see from an opening between the trees which encompassed the grass walk. He saw him gathering several flowers, after which, the young man, still appearing to be lost in thought, drew nearer that side of the garden where his tutor was. Mr. Day went to meet him, and, seeing in his hand the bud of a beautiful moss rose, with a sprig of jessamine, elegantly arranged, he extended his hand to him, and said, "Frederick, will you give me those flowers?"

Frederick blushed, but presented his tutor with his elegant little bouquet.

"Frederick," said Mr. Day, "you have always been open and sincere with your tutor: tell me, my boy, for whom did you make this beautiful assortment?"

Frederick blushed again, and hesitated: but, as his tutor seemed determined to wait his answer, he, at length, said, "For Lady Augusta."

"I thought so, Frederick," said Mr. Day, at the same time returning the flowers to him. "And now, my dear boy," he added, "consult your conscience, consult your God; and do with these flowers what your Christian principles may dictate."

Frederick took the flowers, and presently threw them, with force, over a neighbouring hedge into a narrow lane on the other side.

"You have done right, Frederick," said Mr. Day: "and so may the Almighty give you grace to repel all temptations, and thus to overcome the powers of darkness."

Mr. Day then proceeded, in a plain and simple manner, to set before Frederick that line of conduct which it became him to pursue with respect to Lady Augusta Clifton. He first pointed out to him the strong obligations under which he lay to his uncle, who, when he was deprived of his parents, made up the loss to him in the kindest manner, having provided not only for his education, but also for his future respectability in society; he then proceeded to display the baseness and ingratitude of his conduct, should he attempt by any means to deprive his uncle's son of that amiable and accomplished wife who had, been purposed for him from his infancy.

"I did not intend, I had not thought," replied Frederick, hesitatingly.

"I do not suspect you of having had any evil intentions," said Mr. Day; "I cannot suppose that such a thought as that of supplanting your cousin has yet entered your mind: but what, my son, has been the tendency of my instructions to you from your infancy, but to point out the depravity of the human heart, and to shew that there is no crime, however atrocious, into which it may not betray its possessor. The inclinations of the heart may be understood by the divine injunctions given by Him who knows the secrets of every heart, and by the commands which are laid upon us to beware of such and such offences. He, therefore, who thinks himself to be in no danger of committing idolatry, murder, or theft, charges his Maker with ignorance, and says to Him, as Hazael said to Elisha, 'Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?' [2 Kings viii. 13.]

"The sin of theft, my dear Frederick, is deemed a low and contemptible one, and is commonly believed to be committed only by the most needy and most despicable individuals in society. But this is a serious error; and I fear that, at the last day, it will be found that many are deeply involved in this crime, who would scorn to number themselves with the common housebreaker and highwayman. Whoever, Frederick, either by force, by address, or by dissimulation, obtains that which is or ought to be, the property of another, is guilty of this crime. Augusta Clifton is not yet, it is true, the wife of your cousin; but the marriage has long been determined by the parents on both sides. Robert Lambert, I have reason to think, desires it. You have known of this intended marriage for years: and if you feel within yourself the slightest reluctance to see this union take place, you are already under the power of temptation; and if you are a Christian, you will fly the trial, as you would the resentment of an angry God."

Frederick answered again, as he had done before, "I did not think, I never intended, I have never considered--."

Mr. Day waited till he should finish his sentence; but, as he added no more, the good tutor proceeded:--"I repeat to you, my boy, that I have not the slightest suspicion that as yet the idea has entered your head, of standing in the way of poor Robert Lambert; you are, therefore, to be excused, since you have erred only through ignorance. I have now stated the case to you in plain language, and you can, therefore, no longer err in this matter from ignorance: and I must, consequently, suppose, that if you do not now adopt every means in your power to shun the danger which I have pointed out to you, you have not that horror of sin which I have hitherto ever believed you to possess."

"Oh, Mr. Day!" exclaimed Frederick.

"Go, my son," said the tutor, "withdraw to your closet; make this affair a matter of prayer; and return in half an hour, to declare to me the result of your application to the throne of grace."

I have already said, that the parish of which Mr. Day was the incumbent was a very large one; and there was at one remote extremity of it, among some woods belonging to the Earl of V--, a little village called Farewell Village. Here, on a small rising ground, was a chapel of ease, served by a curate of Mr. Day's, and here he had established a Sunday-school.

On returning to his tutor, Frederick still appeared somewhat thoughtful, but the expression of his countenance was placid, and he thus addressed his instructor:--"While Lord V-- is in the country, I will attend Farewell Church."

"Give me your hand, my beloved boy," said Mr. Day. "Always act in this way, and the Lord will bless you."

From that moment, Frederick recovered his usual animation; and, taking his favourite volume (viz. Herbert's Country Parson) from his pocket, he set off to walk slowly to Farewell, or, as the country people call it, Forrell, occupying himself in reading, as he wound his way through many a shadowy glade and embowered path, till he reached the place of his destination.

It does not appear what Lady Augusta thought, when she looked in vain for Frederick and his little offering of flowers, as soon as the church service was finished; but certain it is, that, when she went home, and had reached her own dressing-room, she put fresh water to the sprigs of myrtle and geranium which he had given to her the last Sunday, and sent them, early on Monday morning, to the gardener, with an order that he should exert the utmost of his skill to cause them to live and flourish in flower-pots; neither could she be turned from her purpose, although the gardener sent word, by her maid, that the sprigs were of the most common sort, of which he had innumerable samples in the green-house.

"Tell him," said Augusta, "that he is mistaken; and, at any rate, he may do what he is bid, without giving his opinion."

Frederick saw no more of Lady Augusta during that summer, and he gave evidence, by the cheerfulness of his manner, that if she had made any impression on his heart, it was nearly effaced.

In the autumn, Mr. Lambert took a house in Town, intending to spend the winter there; in consequence of which, Robert and Frederick did not meet as usual, during the Christmas vacation.

While residing in Town, Mr. Lambert, through the interest of Lord V--, was created a baronet: on which account, we shall henceforward call him Sir Anthony Lambert, his Christian name being Anthony; which, as he said, had a very respectable sound in conjunction with Lambert.

After Christmas, Frederick was entered at Cambridge, it being thought, that, as Robert was at Oxford, associating with the higher circles, and spending much money, it would be more to his cousin's advantage that they should not be together. Mr. Day still continued at the parsonage, where it was settled that Frederick should spend his vacations.

Another year passed away, during which Robert came of age; and Sir Anthony Lambert spent the long vacation with his son at a sea-bathing place, and the Christmas holidays again in Town; and, as Clifton Castle was undergoing repairs, the earl's family did not come down into the country.

Robert was now removed from the University, and it became the common talk that his marriage with Lady Augusta was to take place in the summer season, when both the earl's and Sir Anthony's family were expected to be in the country.

But in arranging this plan the good gossips were much mistaken; as the marriage was by no means in that state of forwardness which was believed. Everything, indeed, had long been agreed upon by the parents on both sides, and Robert was extremely anxious that he might not be disappointed; but Lady Augusta had as yet evidenced no manner of partiality for him, and her mother had her serious doubts that her daughter herself would never consent to the union. The two families, however, arrived in the country at the expected time, which was precisely at the commencement of Frederick's long vacation; and Lady V-- brought with her one of the daughters of her brother the Earl of F--, who some years ago, on a tour to the Continent, had offended her father past recovery by marrying an indigent French nobleman, by whom she had been left a widow, and almost without resources, a little more than eighteen months past.

This lady (whom we shall call Lady Frances Courbillon) was about twenty-eight years of age; but with those who could not detect the various arts by which she contrived to disguise the injuries which the lapse of a few years produces even in the fairest form, she might easily pass for eighteen. She had all that gaiety and ease of manner so peculiar to the country in which she had resided for the last ten years; she was sprightly in conversation, full of wit and repartee, had an innumerable fund of French anecdotes, played delightfully on the harp, and appeared to be the most simple and undesigning creature in the world, having attained the perfection of art, which is, to seem to have no art at all.

There can be no doubt that the society of a lady of this character would be very acceptable in a large country house, the heads of which thought of nothing but of passing away their time in an agreeable manner, and that, by her highly fashionable air and free manners, such a companion would, as she in fact did, occasion what is called a very lively sensation among the country families who visited at the Castle. "Have you seen Lady Frances Courbillon?" said one lady to another. "Is not she beautiful? is not she elegant? is not she interesting?"

"A charming woman!" said another: "and so young to have known such sorrows! She even looks well by the side of Lady Augusta Clifton, and no one can doubt that she is in many respects vastly superior: for she is so free, so communicative, so pleasant in conversation; while Lady Augusta is, on the contrary, altogether as reserved and impenetrable."

Sir Anthony Lambert and Mr. Day were the only persons who decidedly disliked this lady. We do not wonder at Mr. Day, who was a man of deep penetration, not relishing an artificial, worldly character, of the kind we have described; but how she happened not to obtain the good-will of Sir Anthony, when we consider what pretensions she had to rank and fashion, would not so easily appear, unless I were to tell my reader, that the old gentleman thought he had detected her in making some attempts on the heart of his son Robert the summer before, at Brighton, where she then appeared, just come over from the Continent, in the interesting character of a young, beautiful, and afflicted widow.

Sir Anthony had charged his son with having manifested some partiality for this lady, and had represented the few civilities he had shewn her as so many affronts to Lady Augusta; the consequence of which strong statement of the case was, that Robert's indignation boiled over. He unequivocally charged his father with being suspicious, and at the same time decidedly refused to break off the acquaintance, as Sir Anthony desired.--"Not," said he, speaking on the subject to one of his young companions, to whom he commonly opened his heart when his father displeased him, "not that I care one straw for Lady Frances; but I cannot bear to be tutored and lectured on every occasion, or to be led about, at my age, like a child in leading-strings, or a bear in chains."

"Ay, Lambert," repeated his companion, laughing, "like a dancing-bear, with a monkey on his back."

Robert was in a passion; he was angry with his father, and he allowed the simile of the monkey to pass without reproof, which at another time he perhaps would not have done: for, with all his roughness, his impetuosity, and his untractableness, Robert Lambert had some good qualities, some sense of religion, some benevolence of heart; and, had he from his infancy been generously and affectionately treated, he would probably have been a very different character from what he then was.

Mr. Day and Frederick happened to be at the Hall when Sir Anthony and his son arrived, and Mr. Day instantly perceived a decided improvement in the appearance and manners of Robert. He was now become far from ill-looking, and his demeanour was easy and gentlemanlike. He accosted Mr. Day with kindness, but Frederick with so much coldness, that the latter could not but observe it, though he passed it off with the ease and good-humour natural to him. In consequence, however, of this reserve, Mr. Day withdrew with his pupil as much as possible to the quiet rectory, leaving the great people to manage their affairs in their own way.

In the mean time, the two great families were constantly together, and nothing was heard of in the neighbourhood but of sumptuous dinners, rural galas, water-parties, excursions to the fine seats in the vicinity, &c.: but whether Robert made any progress in the good graces of Lady Augusta no one was able to ascertain.

The two families had been more than a month in the country, when, one morning, as Lady Augusta, attended by a livery servant, was riding through a wood at no very great distance from her father's castle, the very wood, in fact, which led to the village of Forrell, her horse took fright at the sight of two gipsies who suddenly appeared from among the trees; and the creature, after rearing and prancing for some moments, would inevitably have thrown its rider, if Frederick, who was returning from his little school at Forrell, had not happened to come up at the critical moment, and, by his timely assistance, saved the lady from a dreadful fall. He seized the bridle of the horse, delivering it into the hands of the servant, and lifting Lady Augusta down, set her on a mossy bank which was near at hand: for the young lady was greatly terrified; and it was some time before she could speak to Frederick, or answer the. servant's question., whether she would choose to mount again, or permit him to take the horses home, and send the carriage.

"Take back the horses," she at length said, "but do not send the carriage, lest my mother be alarmed." Then turning to Frederick, "I had intended," said she, "to have quarrelled with you, Sir, when we met; but you have compelled me to exchange my expressions of resentment for those of gratitude. I thank you, Mr. Falconer, for what you have done," she added, at the same time extending her hand to him: "you have perhaps saved my life:" and while she spoke, she changed colour several times, and seemed considerably agitated.

Frederick muttered something about satisfaction, honour, pleasure, &c. hoping that she was not hurt, not very much frightened: but not being able to finish a single sentence, he stopped, and looked down on the ground.

"I see, Frederick," said she, with more tranquillity, "I see you are ashamed to meet me, conscious, as you are, of your marked neglect of all our family, and of me in particular, who was the companion of your early days, who lived with you, in fact, as a sister, and a sister who once thought herself beloved."

"A sister!" repeated Frederick, sitting down on the bank near her. "If you will still consider me as a brother, and still honour me with your sisterly regard, I shall be happy; but--"

"But what, Frederick?" said Augusta. Frederick added no more. "Tell me, Frederick," said the young lady, "tell me, I beseech you, why you do not come among us as usual. What is the meaning of this estrangement? Have I done any thing to offend you? I am sure I never intended it. Have my parents displeased you? Explain to me the cause of this coldness." So saying, she fixed her beautiful eyes upon him with a look of earnestness and anxiety, which greatly added to his embarrassment, putting it, at the same time, altogether out of his power to offer any kind of excuse for having so entirely withdrawn himself from her society. "Well," she said, suppressing a sigh, "I see, Frederick, that you will not grant me your confidence, and perhaps I am to blame to ask it. But only satisfy me in one point--have I offended you? have I displeased you?"

"No, dear Lady Augusta," said Frederick; "no, never,--never in the least:" and he was about to add, that he never felt his affection for her warmer than at the present moment; when, recollecting Robert, he hesitated, stammered, and was again silent.

She smiled. "O, Frederick, Frederick, what an enigma you are! but, as you have assured me that you are not angry with me, I will rest contented." So saying, she arose, adding, that she wished to return home, lest her mother should be alarmed.

There was no alternative for Frederick; he could not but accompany her.

As they continued to walk together, the young people seemed both to become more easy; and Augusta, purposely leading the way to the subject of her proposed marriage with Robert, said, "I do not think, Frederick, I ever can bring my mind to consent to it."

Frederick started.

"You wonder, perhaps, at my saying so," she added: "but, though I have some friendship for Robert, I dread his violent temper; I fear I could not be happy with him."

"You must judge for yourself in this respect," said Frederick. "No one, in such cases," added he, "can decide for another."

"Not in points of mere taste, I grant," said Augusta; "but every one may judge of the effects of a violent temper. Tell me, Frederick, what do you think of Robert Lambert? Is he a man calculated to make a woman happy?"

Frederick had never felt a stronger struggle in his mind than at this moment. Robert had lately behaved to him with extreme insolence, and it was now in his power to take a signal revenge: but he hesitated not a moment on the subject, secretly praying that he might be directed to say what was best on the occasion. He turned to Augusta, by whose side he was walking, and, looking steadily at her, "You ask my opinion, dear Lady Augusta," he said. "I will give it you sincerely--I think there is much that is valuable in Robert Lambert; and I think that a wise, affectionate, and virtuous wife, might render him at once, humanly speaking, a good and happy man. He has had great difficulties to encounter, which may account for what seems unpleasing in his character. But I have this persuasion, that if you should condescend to honour him with your hand, you would have no reason to repent of your choice."

"You seem very warm in Robert Lambert's cause," said Lady Augusta, reddening; "you seem very anxious to see me married to him."

"I wish to see you happy, and Robert also," answered Frederick.

"Then, if you wish my happiness, you must not unite me with Robert Lambert," returned the lady, pettishly.

"And wherefore?" asked Frederick.

"Because I have no proper regard for him," she replied. "I dislike him; I like others better."

"O! that alters the case," replied Frederick. "If you actually like any other person better, no friend of yours, or of Robert Lambert's, could wish you united."

Lady Augusta blushed. She had said more than she meant to do, and she was at that moment unable to speak from vexation.

Frederick looked at her, and a tear was trickling down her cheek. "My dear Lady Augusta, my sister," he said, "have I offended you in pleading for Robert? But you introduced the subject yourself: I never should have ventured on such a liberty."

"Nobody accuses you, Frederick," replied Augusta, "of being impertinent, interfering, or forward; your friends, perhaps, think you just the reverse, and would sooner charge you with distance and coldness: but at any rate, Mr. Falconer, Robert Lambert is much obliged to you, and it is not your fault if I do not marry him."

"And make him the happiest of men?" said Frederick.

"No, Mr. Falconer," said the young lady, "I should never make Robert happy, were I to marry him. Unless persons are happy themselves, they can never administer to the happiness of another."

The conversation was now becoming every moment increasingly painful to Frederick, and he hardly knew how to carry it on, or how to control his own uneasy feelings; when he was relieved by the appearance of Mr. Day, who, having met Lady Augusta's servant and horses, and heard of the rencontre in the wood, hastened to put a period to a tête-à-tête of which he dreaded the consequence.

Mr. Day and Frederick attended the young lady to the Castle-gate, where they took leave, notwithstanding the entreaties of Augusta, who would have had them spend the rest of the day with her parents.

Some slight rumour of Lady Augusta's accident, and of the adventure in the wood, had reached the Castle before her arrival. Lady V-- was anxious to hear if her daughter were hurt. But as soon as Augusta had assured her parents that she had escaped entirely uninjured, the subject was dropped, as if by general consent, nor was the least reference made to it either by the earl or Lady V-- during the rest of the day.

This circumstance, in connexion with some others which she had observed, rather puzzled Augusta, and led her to form certain conjectures relative to Frederick, of a nature quite different from any that had previously occurred to her mind. She now thought she saw at once the reason of Frederick's being so entirely kept in the back-ground, and of the apparent coldness of her family towards him; and she also concluded that she had now found the clew to his excessive embarrassment, when she questioned him in the wood on the cause of his withdrawing himself so entirely from the companions of his youth. "However," said the young lady to herself, "all these arts are totally unnecessary. I ought never to have seen Frederick, if I was ever to become Robert Lambert's wife."

It happened, that Sir Anthony and Robert were to dine at the Castle on that very day. Whenever Robert was present, Augusta made a point of being particularly silent and reserved: and as she had almost resolved never to accept of the young man, we cannot blame her for the adoption of this line of conduct; nay, perhaps it would have been better if she had acted in a manner still more decided, and put an end to the hopes of Robert, through her parents, even before he had made her an open declaration of his regard. But Augusta was not a pious young woman; she had great vanity, and some degree of pride. The immense fortune to which Robert was heir had many attractions in her estimation; and even at the moment when her heart was powerfully inclined towards another person, she felt it almost impossible for her to renounce those elegancies and that splendour which would attend the wife of Robert Lambert.

Another reason which made her unwilling to destroy at once all the hopes that Robert cherished of obtaining her was, that she plainly saw there was a person who was even more anxious than herself to become the mistress of the immense property to which he was heir; and this person was no other than Lady Frances Courbillon, who was secretly detested by Augusta, as one who dared to contend with her for the palm of universal admiration, although she was sufficiently polite to conceal this dislike from every person but the object of it.

Lady Frances was, however, fully convinced of Augusta's dislike of her; but, as it did not suit her, at that time, to appear to recognize this feeling of her cousin's, she affected to have it supposed that she believed herself to be the object of her tender regard. She therefore always addressed her in the petted language of a spoiled child, she prattled to her apparently with the most amiable simplicity, she pretended to open all her heart to her, and even to make confession of her faults, and ask her advice.

It was in the evening of the same day on which the adventure took place in the wood, (while the ladies were assembled in the drawing-room, and at the moment when the gentlemen might be expected to join them,) that Lady Frances, seeing her cousin seated in a pensive attitude, in one of the Gothic windows of the apartment, drew towards her, and, placing herself by her side, began, in apparently the most undesigning way in the world, to amuse her with some of her little expressions of fondness, and professions of pretty helplessness and want of prudence. "Dear Augusta," she said, "I have been so giddy, so very thoughtless; I have affronted that good lady who sits by Lady V--: I don't recollect her name; but the lady in the wreath of white roses. Well, I have affronted her, past forgiveness, by asking her from what shop in the town she got her rouge; adding, that I thought the tinge beautiful. And what do you think she declared to me--that she never used rouge; that the colour was entirely her own, perfectly natural; and that she would not use rouge on any account whatever."

"But don't you know, Lady Frances," said Augusta, "that English ladies don't like to have it supposed that they rouge?"

"O, I know it; that is, I should know it: but I have been so long abroad, where, with all their faults, they are as open and undisguised in this respect as in many others, that I had forgotten all your punctilios. One is not fit for England when one has been for any length of time abroad: but you must tell me, my dear, when I transgress--when I am injudicious; you, who are all dignity, all decorum, all sweetness." So saying, she laid her hand, with an expression of fondness, on Augusta's arm, and added, "But perhaps I tire you; you look fatigued. I fear you have not overcome your feelings of alarm. Well, we have reason to be very thankful that you were not hurt. But I have not heard how it was: let me know something of this knight of the wood."

Lady Frances was aware, though Augusta was not, that within the last minute the gentlemen had entered the room, and that Robert Lambert had advanced towards the place where they were seated, and was standing in the rear of their little couch, which was turned towards the window with its back to the company, in that style of elegant carelessness that has been in fashion for some years past; and she had timed her question so accurately, that the first words which Robert heard as he approached were, "Now do let me hear something of this knight of the wood:" to which request Lady Frances added, "You cannot think, Augusta, in what glowing colours I have painted this hero, this youth who seemed to drop from the clouds so apropos, at the moment when the danger was most urgent. I know that he must be tall and fait à peindre: but I have been at a loss, whether to give him dark blue eyes or black, for on this circumstance, you know, the colour of his hair and complexion must depend. I have been used to dark hair in France, but, as our hero is an Englishman, I am inclined to give him the blue eyes and the brown hair of the Saxon; and I fancy him rushing from the trees, at the instant when you were in the most imminent danger, and seizing the bridle of your rampant steed, &c."

"O, Frances," said Lady Augusta, interrupting her, "what nonsense you are talking."

"Nonsense!" said Lady Frances, "what is life without nonsense? But, seriously, who is the young lad who saved you from being thrown from your horse, and perhaps breaking your neck, this morning?"

"Who is he?" said Augusta, "why Sir Anthony's nephew, Frederick Falconer."

"And what kind of young man is he?" asked Lady Frances, carelessly.

"O, I don't know," replied Augusta, endeavouring to seem equally careless; "have you never seen him?" At that instant Augusta, perceiving that Robert stood behind her couch, stood up, and turning to him, said, "Sir, I hope you have been amused with our conversation."

"I have heard little of it," replied Robert, somewhat sullenly.

"O, what? you are there?" said Lady Frances, looking up to him from her seat on the sofa; "how long have you been in the room? But you are the very person to satisfy my curiosity. Who is this Frederick Falconer, who saved Lady Augusta from that dreadful accident this morning?"

"I have heard nothing of any accident," replied Robert; "it is strange that no one should have mentioned it to me:" and he looked at Augusta with an expression at once reproachful and suspicious.

Augusta replied, that she conceived every one must imagine that he would not feel much interested in an affair which could not concern him. "For even now," she added, "now that you are told of it, you never ask me whether I escaped unhurt."

Robert endeavoured to recover his temper, and to make some polite enquiries, saying, that it was impossible for any one really to conceive that he was not deeply interested in every thing which affected Lady Augusta Clifton.

"Well, Sir," said Augusta, with more assurance of manner than became so young a lady, "if you are so much interested in all that relates to me, you shall have an exact account of what happened this morning." And she immediately recounted to him all the circumstances, as they had taken place, excepting some particulars of her conversation with Frederick.

As she proceeded, Robert reddened and appeared violently excited; notwithstanding which, he did not speak till Augusta had finished her story, and Lady Frances had added, "Is it not wonderful, Mr. Lambert, that this knight-errant should have appeared at the very moment in which his presence was most needed?"

"Probably," returned Robert, "had the accident happened an hour sooner or an hour later, he might have been equally at hand."

A glance of extreme contempt was the only reply Lady Augusta made to this speech; and she was walking away, when Robert seized her hand and begged her pardon, uttering some incoherent expressions about sincere regard, which is always hasty.

"Sincere regard, Sir," replied Augusta, "cannot exist without respect; and no man respects the woman whom he can suspect of dishonourable conduct."

Robert assured Lady Augusta that he never suspected her in the least.

"Then, Sir," said Augusta, "whose honour do you doubt? If it is Frederick Falconer's, you are mistaken; you never were more mistaken: for no man ever had a more faithful or a warmer friend than you have in Frederick."

"How do you know that, Madam?" said the impetuous Robert.

"I am not yet, I thank Heaven, compelled to answer every question you choose to put to me, Mr. Lambert," replied Augusta: "I am not yet your wife."

Robert apologized again, expressed a hope that he had not yet offended past forgiveness, pleaded the unhappy warmth of his temper, and, in short, urged his suit with so much vehemence, that Augusta, who had not quite made up her mind to renounce all the splendours which might be procured by Sir Anthony's fortune, allowed him to suppose that he was forgiven, and, then walking to the other end of the room, placed herself so close to her mother, that it was impossible for him to intrude any further particular conversation upon her.

But although Robert supposed that he now stood as high, or nearly so, in Augusta's good graces as he had done before this unfortunate conversation, yet he felt so much irritated by the account of what had happened in the morning, so filled with undefined ideas of jealousy and suspicion--that he could scarcely command his composure so long as it was necessary, in order to effect his escape from the company; and when he found himself alone in a retired walk in the shrubbery, in which he had taken refuge, he vented his indignation upon Frederick, in exclamations of no very specific tendency. However, as there were no other creatures besides naiads and wood-nymphs to hear these complaints, and as Echo was not at hand to repeat them, these murmurs of indignation passed away without effect, and Robert was returning in a more tranquil state to the Castle, when he overtook Lady Frances, who was walking alone and in a pensive attitude, apparently thinking as little of Robert as he was of her.

At the sight of him, she started with very well feigned astonishment, exclaiming, "Mr. Lambert, is it you? Why, did I not leave you in the drawing-room but a quarter of an hour ago!"

"Impossible," replied Robert, "for I have been to the very end of the shrubbery."

"Well," said Lady Frances, "then I never was more mistaken in my life."

Mr. Lambert then joined Lady Frances, who began to converse with him on the common topics of the day; being fully aware, from her knowledge of his character, that he would presently bring up the subject of his recent thoughts, namely, the affair in the wood, and his slight altercation with Lady Augusta. Neither was Lady Frances mistaken: Robert, soon breaking away from all topics foreign to the late occurrences, came to the point in question; and, being drawn on by his artful companion, made a full and explicit avowal of his real feelings and sentiments respecting Augusta and Frederick.

This was precisely the object at which Lady Frances aimed, namely, to induce Robert to make her his friend and confidante; being well aware, that, if she could accomplish her end, he would frequently seek her society, and thereby abundant opportunity would be afforded for bringing him within the influence of her allurements.--But to return to Frederick.

There was nothing so very remarkable and opportune in the meeting of this young man with Lady Augusta in the wood, as should induce us to suppose that Frederick was actually one of those heroes of romance who is always in the right place at the critical moment when he is required to be so: for the truth is, that Frederick had been in the habit, for some weeks past, of going every day, at a certain hour, to visit his little school at Forrell, and had been accustomed to take his books, and study as he went sauntering along. Of this circumstance Lady Augusta had been informed, and, we are sorry to add, that she had chosen the wood for her ride on that very account. It was, therefore, by no miraculous intervention of supernatural agents that Frederick happened to be where he was expected to he, and where the young lady had purposely gone to meet with him. But Frederick was a pious young man, and, consequently, humble: he did not, therefore, entertain the slightest suspicion, on this occasion, derogatory to the honour of Lady Augusta; but represented the whole affair, as he walked home with his tutor, in a light entirely favourable to the young lady. "But, my dear Mr. Day," he added, hesitating as he spoke, "from what has happened this day, I have had such an insight into my own heart, that I conceive I should do well to leave this place till she is married. Sorry as I shall be to lose so much of your society, yet I think it would be best for me to be absent from this neighbourhood for the present."

Mr. Day highly commended this resolution of Frederick's; pointing out the wisdom of fleeing, rather than braving temptation; and, accordingly, the rest of the day was employed in arranging a little tour, which was to occupy Frederick for two months to come. Things of this kind admit of no delay: accordingly, Frederick set out early the next morning, intending to make his first stoppage at the house of a college friend in Yorkshire, and to proceed from thence to the Lakes.

On the morning of his pupil's departure, Mr. Day rode over to Clifton Castle, where he knew he might expect to find Sir Anthony and Mr. Lambert; being charged with a message from young Falconer to his uncle, apologizing for his abrupt departure.

The family at Clifton Castle were at breakfast when Mr. Day arrived. He was received, as usual, with much cordiality by the earl and countess; but Robert looked sullen, and Augusta melancholy. "You are on the wing betimes, Mr. Day," said Sir Anthony; "this is a rare circumstance with you; for, I believe, you make a point of always devoting the first hours of the day to study."

"I have been up, Sir Anthony," said Mr. Day, "ever since five o'clock; at which time I started Mr. Falconer for the north. He intends visiting the Lakes this summer, and I am come charged with his respectful remembrances to this noble party, and his particular enquiries respecting the health of Lady Augusta."

As Mr. Day expected, this news of the flight of Frederick excited no small sensation in many individuals of the polite circle which surrounded him. Robert Lambert's countenance spoke much, very much; Lady Augusta turned pale, and with difficulty appeared to be able to command her feelings in any tolerable degree; Lady V-- and the earl seemed resolved to express nothing, and, in consequence, primmed up their features and looked impenetrable; while the formal and slow-minded Sir Anthony was the only person who was at that moment able to remark on the intelligence which Mr. Day had communicated; and that he did to the following purpose:--

"Frederick Falconer started this morning, you say, for the Lakes of Westmoreland, and without giving me the smallest notice of his intentions. I am amazed, Mr. Day; surely I ought to have been apprized! I am astonished! But young people are so uncertain in all their motions,--so hasty,--so rapid. But I am sorry. I have, you well know, Mr. Day, one of the best maps of Westmoreland now extant, and the Guide to the Lakes, with views of all the most beautiful scenes in the country. Frederick would have obtained many fine ideas if he had taken time to study these books before his departure."

In this manner the old gentleman descanted somewhat to the relief of the rest of the party: and, after breakfast, Mr. Day found means to reconcile him to this step of his nephew, by the simple statement which he made to him of the truth.

After the departure of Frederick, Mr. Day, who now went more frequently to Clifton Castle, found himself much puzzled to make out the manœuvres of the young people there; for, although he was very far from wanting penetration, yet their conduct was influenced by such mixed motives, that it was impossible to say how they would act on any specified occasion.

Lady Frances, whom I mention first as being the eldest, was exceedingly anxious to be at the head of the immense property possessed by Sir Anthony Lambert. Had Sir Anthony no son, she would not have made the least objection to have married him, with the hope of soon breaking his heart; but as there was a son in the way, and as she thought him much less disagreeable than his father, and at the same time more approachable, his fiery passions frequently leaving him without guard against a designing foe; she, in consequence, directed all her attacks against him, and was daily acquiring more influence over him, while she pretended nothing but friendship and esteem; but this under-plot was to be kept altogether out of the sight of Lord and Lady V--, Sir Anthony, and Augusta, and was managed with so much art, that it was only suspected by the last. In the mean time, Lady Frances kept up her public character, of thoughtless levity and indiscretion, with surprising success: and although she rendered herself very disagreeable in the eyes of Sir Anthony, by her French manners and contempt of forms, yet it by no means appeared that he had any definite idea of what might be the consequence of her artifices. At the same time, poor Robert was under the influence of many painfully contending feelings. He had a sincere regard for Augusta. Her coldness excited very unpleasant sensations in his breast, and often put him out of humour with himself, filling him with vindictive and jealous emotions respecting Frederick Falconer, to whom he persisted in attributing all his want of success with Augusta. In the mean time, being dissatisfied with himself, he was irritated against his father, whose manner was always ungracious towards him; he was suspicious of Mr. Day, and, in short, uneasy with every one but Lady Frances, whose secret blandishments and well-timed flatteries were ever ready to restore his self-complacency when he was under the influence of angry and irritable feelings.

Thus we have entered into the most secret views of Lady Frances and Robert. Lady Augusta Clifton only remains to be spoken of; and we shall perhaps find more difficulty in describing her state of mind, than that of any other of the party, because two opposite and very violent feelings were raging within her breast: the one of these was a strong and deeply rooted affection for Frederick, the other was ambition. Whenever she thought of giving up Robert, she regretted the loss of all those elegant and splendid circumstances which she might secure to herself by a marriage with him; and when she thought of accepting Mr. Lambert, then Frederick Falconer appeared before her in that perfection of person, of mind, and of general character, which raised him in her estimation so far above every other young man whom she had ever known. Thus this unhappy young lady, being destitute of correct religious principles, was continually halting between two opinions: while her conduct, in consequence, was variable and inconsistent, and, as far as Robert was concerned, unjust.

While things were in this state, Robert, unable to bear suspense any longer, and being urged on by his father, made an explicit declaration of his regard, together with a formal tender of his hand to the young lady.

It was now become necessary for her to decide in her choice between the man she loved, on the one hand, and the house, estate, and equipage, which were almost equally dear to her, on the other: but it is believed that her regard for Frederick would have obtained a complete triumph, had she not foreseen that there was one at hand ready to seize upon the worldly advantages which she was about to reject; and the prospect of living in the same parish, in a character inferior to this person, was an idea so humiliating, that love itself, she felt, could not make it palatable: therefore, when Mr. Lambert made his formal profession, she gave him, it is true, a denial, but such a one as no man but the fiery and hot-brained Robert would have received as such, particularly from one so young and so lovely as Augusta.

Robert's passions, however, took fire. He fancied that Augusta despised him, and herein he was not far from the truth. He flew to pour his sorrows into the ear of Lady Frances; and my readers will not be surprised to hear that the end of this indiscreet and ill-placed confidence was a runaway marriage--the two young people having made their escape to a place where being speedily united for life, they had nothing left to do but to repent at leisure.

Although events of this kind will sometimes happen in real life, there being no kind of sin and folly into which the natural man is not liable to fall; yet these are scenes on which my pen by no means delights to descant. I shall, therefore, satisfy myself with describing the effect of this mad scheme upon the friends which Mr. Lambert had left behind him at Clifton Castle and Lambert-Hall.

Lord and Lady V-- were highly offended, and evidently deeply disappointed. Sir Anthony was almost furious, and, in his anger, he solemnly renounced his son, and declared that he should never be one penny the better for him. Few persons, however, believed this declaration of the angry father's, and every one trusted that time would bring about that reconciliation which all Robert's friends so ardently desired. Mr. Day was greatly afflicted by Robert's imprudence, and the more so, because he had an exceedingly bad opinion of Lady Frances.

My reader will probably be anxious to know what the feelings of Augusta were on this occasion. I think I may say that they were, on the whole, pleasurable, though she also joined in the general censures of the young people, and used every means in her power to soothe and console Sir Anthony.

Sir Anthony had refused to receive any letters from his son after his marriage; and, in order to prevent the necessity of any further communication, he informed his steward that he wished Robert to receive an annual income to the full amount of the interest of his mother Lady Ann Lambert's fortune, which had been about fifteen thousand pounds, declaring his determination never to add a shilling more.

On this occasion, Mr. Day pleaded earnestly for his pupil; but finding that all he said did but increase the irritation of Sir Anthony, he thought it best to let the matter rest for the present. He also thought it advisable to write to Robert; which he did, pointing out to him, in a truly paternal way, that line of conduct which he should now adopt, to render himself again acceptable to his father. "You have done wrong, my dear pupil," said Mr. Day; "you ought not to have deceived your father. But I feel persuaded, that, if you and your lady will now submit yourselves to circumstances, and will settle quietly down in some retired situation, on the thousand a year which you can command from the interest of your mother's fortune and Lady Frances's property, you may still enjoy all the comforts, and some of the elegancies, of life; you may moreover render yourself beloved and respected; and may, in the long run, recover the affection of your father."

But Robert Lambert had married a woman who was by no means disposed to yield to untoward circumstances, or to sit down quietly in a country place, on a thousand a year. She maintained, that the best measure which she and her husband could adopt in the present state of things was to go to Paris: and she wrought so effectually on Mr. Lambert's mind, that to Paris they went; and thus persevered in a kind of conduct which tended to keep up the irritation of Sir Anthony, who, with a true old-fashioned English spirit, hated France, and all things appertaining to it.

While these various events were successively taking place, in rapid succession, Frederick Falconer was travelling in the north; whence he was recalled by his uncle, and received with a very marked cordiality at Lambert-Hall: where he no sooner appeared, than he was invited to Clifton Castle, and had frequent opportunities afforded him of conversing with Lady Augusta.

"My dear Frederick," said Mr. Day, on a certain occasion, to his pupil, "you ought to consider well what our good friends at Clifton Castle are about, and what you are about yourself. There are several enquiries which I think you should seriously make, before you yield your heart to the fascinations of Lady Augusta. In the first place, would Lord and Lady V-- consent to her marriage with a man in your humble condition in life? and, if you could obtain their consent, is Lady Augusta a fit character to become the wife of a man of moderate fortune? And, finally, is she a pious woman? You must not trust yourself, Frederick, with a partner who is not so. The greater her attractions, the greater will be your danger, if she wants those principles which are especially requisite in the help-meet of a minister of Christ."

"I have reason to think," replied Frederick, "that Lady Augusta has a lively sense of religion."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Day: "if it is so, I am not aware of the fact. But you, probably, have some grounds whereon to build your opinion?"

"Only from some little things which have dropped from her own lips," returned Frederick, "and from observing a little elegant pocket Testament lying on her table, when I, one day, dropped in by accident."

"Far be it from me, my dear Frederick," said Mr. Day, "to pass a harsh judgment on any one; but still I think it very possible for a young lady to have an elegant pocket Testament, and also to utter some pleasing religious sentiments, when it suits her purpose so to do, without her having, after all, the slightest feeling of genuine piety. True religion shews itself in actions, not in words; and I cannot believe that Lady Augusta Clifton could have trifled with Robert Lambert in the way she did, had she possessed the fear of God. However, my dear Frederick, inasmuch as we poor human creatures are infinitely short-sighted, and liable to be deceived in various ways, not knowing what tends to our real good, and what to the contrary; my advice is, that you should place the whole concern of your future life in the hands of God, seeking the divine help to enable you to sit loose to the possessions of the world, and holding yourself in readiness to renounce every thing which you cannot retain consistently with your obligations as a minister and a Christian. And, at present," he added, "I advise you not to commit yourself by any strong professions of regard for Lady Augusta; and, on this account, avoid being alone with her. In a few days, your vacation will be at an end; you will then return for the last time to college; your examination and ordination will take place in February; and you will perhaps think it best not to come among us during the Christmas vacation. In the mean time, I shall be a careful observer of Lady Augusta's conduct, and I may, moreover, be able to form some idea of what the views of her parents may be respecting her."

Frederick Falconer approved of Mr. Day's advice, and was so anxious to adhere precisely to it, that he refrained from going to Clifton Castle till the morning previous to the day of his departure. He then set out, accompanied by Mr. Day: but when arrived at the Castle, they unexpectedly met Sir Anthony Lambert in the hall, who, seizing hold of Mr. Day, conveyed him into a private room, to communicate certain intelligence relative to Robert; and Frederick was, in consequence, obliged to go alone to seek the family, and say adieu.

The footman ushered him into the room that was usually occupied by the family during the morning: but it was empty. Frederick, accordingly, took a book, and sat down to read. This apartment, which was entirely in the Gothic style, opened into a kind of wilderness of flowering shrubs, beyond which were seen the higher regions of the park, crowned with clusters of trees, which seemed almost coeval with the Castle itself. The distant cawings of the rooks in the summits of these trees, and the gentle murmur of the breeze through the strings of a harp standing before the window, were the only sounds which broke the silence. Frederick had taken up a book, and had opened it; but though he held it in his hand, he had not paid the smallest attention to its contents: on the contrary, he was deeply engaged in meditation, and not unfrequently occupied in short mental prayer and earnest supplication, that assistance might be afforded him to resist the temptations with which he was surrounded.

While thus engaged, he heard a step, and, turning his head, he saw Augusta, who had advanced a considerable way into the room without observing him; but who, when, at length, she did discover him, manifested such natural and lovely expressions of delight, that he, for a moment forgetting all his tutor's cautions, sprang from his seat, seized her hand, and uttered he knew not what; but which proved, however, to be certain words of a tendency so unequivocal, that the young lady was no longer left in doubt of the impression she had made on his heart.

Her reply was, also, such as encouraged him, and led him on to add more to the same purpose; and, in consequence, when a moment of reflection returned, he was astonished to find that he had already committed himself so far, that it no longer depended on himself to reject this alliance. He, however, on this occasion, was not forsaken of Him on whom he had recently called with so much earnestness; but was enabled to see, now that he had thus incautiously involved his fate with that of the young lady, what next was best to be done upon the occasion. "Lady Augusta," said he, "I have been impelled, by circumstances, to make an avowal of feelings which but a moment before I had resolved not to acknowledge: but, since it is so, permit me now to open to you the whole of my heart; to explain the motives of my conduct for some years past; and to point out certain difficulties which I even now, in this moment of ecstacy, but too plainly foresee lying in the way of our being happy with each other."

Lady Augusta blushed, and seemed uneasy; but allowed Frederick, however, to lead her out of the room into the shrubbery, where they hoped to be enabled to converse some time without interruption.

Having reached a sequestered spot in the pleasure-ground, they sat down on a garden-seat, when Frederick entered into a full explanation of his views and plans of life, of his determination, with the divine aid, to devote himself to the service of God, and to reject the vanities and pomps of this life, though he expressed himself as intending not to renounce the real elegancies and charms of society; and concluded by representing to Augusta, that, unless she could resolve to adopt his views, to turn away from all mere earthly pleasures, to repress ambitious views, and to endeavour to obtain and cherish a serious sense of the obligations of religion, he believed it would be better that he should resolve never to see her more, than that both of them should be rendered unhappy by a union of hands and hearts where the tastes and feelings were so irreconcileable.

I do not pretend to repeat the words of Frederick on this occasion, but merely to convey his sentiments; doubting not that he would know how to clothe these sentiments in language at once elegant, affectionate, and decisive.

Lady Augusta Clifton heard him throughout without interruption, but, at the same time, with such feelings of enthusiasm towards the speaker, that she felt, for a moment, that, had he asked her to live with him in a cottage on bread and water, she could joyfully have yielded her assent.

When he urged upon her the duty and importance of a serious attention to religion, her admiration of his character increased, and his impressive manner affected her. The tears trembled in her sparkling eyes, and made their way down her glowing cheek; and, at length, overcome by a variety of emotions, she gave way to a burst of tears, and exclaimed, "O, Frederick! dear Frederick! I will, indeed, endeavour to do, to learn, to be,--all you can desire."

Thus terminated this scene; and Frederick and Augusta, as they walked towards the Castle, resolved to wait till his final return from the University before the affair should be mentioned to Lord and Lady V--: and this was proposed, not from any motive of deceit on the part of Frederick, but because he wished that further time should be allowed Augusta for due reflection on the step which she was about to take; and by which she would sink in the estimation of the fashionable world, and enter within a sphere of life totally different from every thing with which she had been hitherto conversant.

As soon as Frederick Falconer was alone with Mr. Day, he related all that had passed between himself and Lady Augusta.

Mr. Day was sorry that things had gone so far, although he could not blame the young people; and he felt that, if Lady Augusta could resolve to sacrifice her ambition and lay aside her loftiness of manner, for the sake of Frederick, she would indeed render herself worthy of him.

The next day, Frederick took leave of his uncle and Mr. Day, and proceeded to the University; where he remained till he had passed his examination, and was admitted to deacon's orders.

In the mean time, Lord and Lady V-- were in Town for some months, but they returned into the country about the time when Frederick Falconer was expected home.

It was the general report, that Lady Augusta had refused a very advantageous match in London; but what reason she assigned to her parents for so doing was not known. When she revisited the country, Mr. Day thought that she looked exceedingly amiable. She treated him with marked affection, borrowed several religious books from him, and was known to take an interest in the welfare of the poor, and to engage in serving them with an activity which she had never before evinced.

When it was known that Frederick's ordination was over, and while his friends in the country were eagerly looking for his return to their society, notice was suddenly brought them, that he was so seriously ill as not to be able to leave his bed; and the intelligence was the more alarming, inasmuch as his complaint was of the same nature with that which had terminated the life of his mother, and had already brought himself, when a child, to the borders of the grave.

Sir Anthony expressed more feeling and less selfishness on this occasion than he was supposed to be capable of; and Lady Augusta was so violently affected, that she had no longer power to conceal her attachment for Frederick from those about her. She wept continually while the least danger continued, and, as her mamma reported the case, she was constantly engaged in prayer.

It is always a good sign when affliction leads an individual to prayer; but it is much to be lamented, when that individual ceases to pray as soon as the affliction is withdrawn.

Mr. Day had hastened to his beloved pupil immediately on receiving the account of his illness, and he remained with him till he was able to be removed, and brought home to his house.

In the mean time Lord and Lady V-- had had sundry private discussions with Sir Anthony, which were held, it was supposed, on the subject of the attachment now known to be subsisting between Frederick and Lady Augusta: and though the result of these discussions could not be precisely ascertained, yet they were considered to be of a tendency favourable to the marriage, as Lady V--, not many days after the return of Mr. Day, with his pupil, to the parsonage, appeared, in her open carriage, with her daughter, at the gate of the garden.

Mr. Day no sooner saw the carriage, than he hastened to the gate, and invited Lady V-- to alight. The lady consented, and, followed by her daughter, was led through the well-ordered shrubbery and wide old-fashioned hall of the parsonage, into a large room with an extensive bow-window, which supplied the double office of a dining-room and study; the books being arranged, with great neatness, in their proper places, while certain fine old busts and prints constituted the only ornaments of the apartment. Frederick was extended on a sofa, near the fire, when the ladies were introduced. He was dressed in black, and, though considerably reduced, he never looked handsomer, the reflection of the crimson window-curtain giving a glow to his complexion which almost resembled the flush of health. He arose with haste to meet his noble guests, and, as he extended his hand to Lady Augusta, she burst into tears; when, so far from meeting with a reproof from her mother, she consoled her in these terms-"Why weep now, Augusta! Our Frederick is restored to us, and we may soon hope to see him in perfect health."

All this appeared so fair, so open, and so disinterested, on the part of Lord V--'s family, that even Mr. Day was pleased, and said to Frederick, "I rejoice to see the high notions of our old friends, Lord and Lady V--, giving way, and that they appear willing to make their daughter happy at the expence of their own magnificent earthly prospects."

This visit of Lady Augusta and her mother seemed to refresh and exhilarate Frederick so much, that he rapidly regained his health, and, as the spring advanced, was enabled, as usual, to visit his uncle and the family at Clifton Castle.

And now prosperity seemed to attend Frederick on every side. He appeared to have been daily growing more and more dear to Sir Anthony since the delinquency of poor Robert. He was the favourite of all at Clifton Castle; and though Lord V-- had never given him a decided promise of his daughter, he was considered by every one as an accepted suitor, and permitted to enjoy Augusta's company whenever he pleased.

About this time, Mr. Falconer was deprived of the society of Mr. Day, who, hearing that Robert Lambert and his lady were going on in a very heedless manner at Paris, resolved to undertake a journey to see his pupil, that he might endeavour in person to profit him by his advice. Frederick was now able to perform the duty of the church; and excellent as Mr. Day was in the pulpit, still, in the opinion of Lady Augusta at least, he was greatly excelled by his pupil. Mr. Falconer, however, had far humbler ideas of his own powers as a Christian teacher, and was fully aware that a babe in Christ cannot instruct like a father of the Church. He endeavoured however to tread as closely as possible in the steps of his tutor, and was careful never to allow his private feelings or pleasures to interfere with his duty as a pastor. Thus, by the divine blessing, he was led on in the way of holiness, and became strengthened in the performance of every Christian duty.

Mr. Day had scarcely been absent one week, when a circumstance, wholly unforeseen, took place in the little society which he left behind him. This was no other than the sudden death, by a fit of apoplexy, of Sir Anthony Lambert. Frederick had been with him only an hour before, and had left him in apparent good health, little thinking that he should never again be permitted to look upon a living uncle.

Frederick was particularly shocked at the unlooked-for decease of this poor man, because it had never been possible to bring him for a moment to any thing like serious reflection on religion or a future state. His mind had always been, and continued to the last, so filled with the empty and circumstantial nothings of life, that he appeared to be incapable of receiving an idea which was not connected with these; and, as he had advanced in life, he seemed more and more devoted to such follies.

To persons thus occupied, a sudden death seems, indeed, a great evil, although we are assured, that a protracted disease or a lingering dissolution would not have the least power of correcting these follies, and bringing such characters to serious reflection, unless attended with a blessing from on high.

As soon as Sir Anthony had been taken ill, Mr. Falconer was sent for, but, as I before said, he did not arrive till the old gentleman had expired. Lord V-- had also been sent for at the same time; and, soon after his arrival, Frederick put his seal, in the presence of that nobleman, on all Sir Anthony's papers and valuables; then, ordering a lead coffin to be made for the remains of Sir Anthony, he dispatched a special messenger to Paris for Robert, now Sir Robert Lambert.

Frederick calculated that it was possible Sir Robert might arrive in about fourteen days; he therefore resolved to delay the funeral till he should come, and, consequently, the body was laid in the coffin, which, by Frederick's orders, was placed in the handsomest apartment of the house, in such state as he thought the deceased would have approved, could he have witnessed what was passing: and during the time that the family were waiting for the arrival of Sir Robert, in order to solemnize the funeral, Frederick continued altogether at the Hall, and kept himself in entire privacy, admitting only Lord V--, who came to him every day, treated him with particular respect, and spoke of his marriage with his daughter as a measure already resolved on, and one which might be expected to take place as soon as the mourning for Sir Anthony was over.

Young people, especially pious young ones, are not apt to be suspicious: yet Frederick, had he reflected but a little, must surely have thought that there was something extraordinary in this excessive politeness.

In the mean time, Mr. Day was proceeding to Paris, where, when he arrived, he found his pupil in a state of misery of which he before had scarcely an idea. He was living in a wretched lodging, almost without the decencies of life, exposed to perpetual fear from creditors, and in a state of the most violent irritation of mind. To add to his distress, Lady Frances Lambert was exceedingly ill, and confined to her bed in a chamber adjoining to that in which Mr. Day found his pupil; she having been brought into this state by uneasiness and disappointment, working on a proud and highly ambitious mind.

At the sight of his tutor, Robert burst into tears; and, throwing himself into his arms, "O my friend! my father!" he said, "I have not deserved this kindness. I am a lost and undone man. I have ruined myself by my own folly. Though all my debts were paid, and I were in possession of a fortune equal to my father's, I must still be miserable: for I have united myself with a woman destitute of principle, and even without affection."

Mr. Day was much touched by this statement of the truth of which he had no doubt, and he immediately set himself to ascertain the extent of the young man's debts, and to discover what could be done for him. He also endeavoured to persuade him to a reconciliation with his wife, to whom it seems he had not spoken for several days; and the good man was the more anxious to bring this about, because, immediately on his seeing the sick lady, he plainly perceived that her constitution was giving way, and that Robert would be set free from his imprudent connexion sooner than he could naturally have expected.

Mr. Day had provided a sum of money more than sufficient for his own wants; and he resolved, by as strict an adherence to economy as decency would permit, to render his purse as useful as possible to Lady Frances, she being unprovided with any other attendant than her own maid, who was as helpless a poor creature, and as entirely overcome by the afflictions in which she saw the family involved, as it was possible for a woman in that situation to be. Mr. Day's presence seemed, however, to encourage her; and Lady Frances herself was, it appeared, particularly affected by his attentions.

While Mr. Day was exerting himself to ascertain the actual state of Robert's affairs, and endeavouring to bring the young couple into a state of mind more in accordance with their circumstances, the entire aspect of affairs was suddenly changed by the arrival of the messenger from Lambert-Hall. It was necessary for Robert to set out immediately, and he now found no difficulty in prevailing with his creditors to allow of his departure: for Mr. Day having advised him to make his situation known to the English ambassador, his Excellency very kindly spoke to them, telling them that the money should be paid immediately; adding, that Mr. Lambert, by the death of his father, was now come into possession of resources so ample, that his present debts would be scarcely an object of consideration to him.

Being thus set free, Robert Lambert thought of nothing but returning to England, and set off post the next morning, leaving Mr. Day behind him; that excellent man having declared his determination not to leave Lady Frances till her husband's return; as her health was becoming daily more and more precarious, and her spirits were now reduced to a state of such deep despondence, that they were wholly incapable of a revival, even in the near prospect of that worldly prosperity which she had hitherto so ardently desired.

Thus is it ever found, that earthly possessions produce no real comfort, unless they are accompanied with the divine blessing: and hence may be seen the folly of endeavouring to obtain, by any artful or dishonest practices, those worldly goods which ought to be the property of another.

A man who really desires and aims at the enjoyment of true peace of mind, will receive the commandment--"Thou shalt not steal," in its largest and most extensive acceptation. His conscience will be delicately tender on this point, and he will admit of no saving clauses wherewith to reconcile his mind to the appropriation of the smallest thing which ought to belong to another. And, inasmuch as nothing but scriptural views of true religion can enable an individual to sit down habitually easy and free from care with respect to the possessions and honours of this world, he will endeavour to keep his eye stedfastly fixed on a future life, and the glories of an eternal state of blessedness.--But to return to our story.

Sir Robert Lambert travelled night and day, and arrived at Lambert-Hall some hours earlier than Frederick had calculated upon.

When he drew near his late father's domains, the young man was considerably affected by the various recollections of his parent, and his heart smote him with the many acts of disrespect and disobedience of which he had been guilty towards him. He thought much also of Frederick, and tried to persuade himself that the superior attention and respect of his cousin's conduct towards Sir Anthony was merely the result of interested motives: "for he could not," thought Robert, "have been blind to my father's singularities, he could not but have seen his weaknesses, and felt his irritating ways. But he had an object to gain which I had not: he had his way to make, and his private interests to promote; and he wanted dignity and spirit sufficient to set him above a mean submission to the whims of those by whom he expected to be the better. I have no doubt," thought Sir Robert, "that if my father has left a will, it will be found that Frederick is handsomely provided for. But be it so: I would not deprive him of the fruits of his assiduities."

Thus Robert hardened his heart against Frederick, and arrived at the Hall in a state of mind full of irritation, not only against his cousin, but against all those whom he supposed to be at all attached to him.

There was a gloom and silence pervading every part of the domain, as Sir Robert advanced through the park to the Hall; and the sight of the hatchment placed over the front door affected him even to tears.

The first questions that he asked, as he sprang from the chaise, and entered the hall, the door of which was opened by an old servant, were, "Is my father yet buried? and who has taken the management of every thing?"

"Your father is not buried, Sir," replied the servant; "and we have looked to Mr. Falconer for our directions."

"Where is Humphreys? where is the steward?" asked Sir Robert. "Let him be sent for."

"He is at this moment with Mr. Falconer in the library."

"Humph!" said Sir Robert, and immediately walked forward to the library, the servant hastening before him to open the door and announce his arrival. Sir Robert found Frederick and the steward busy with certain papers.

At the sight of Robert, Frederick sprang from his seat, and ran to meet his cousin. "I am glad to see you, Robert," he said: "but we did not expect you till to-morrow."

Robert extended his hand coldly towards Frederick, and, glancing his eye over the table, "You seem very busy, Falconer," he said, "deep in affairs!"

"Business must be done by some one, cousin," replied Frederick; "and when the head of the family is not present, it must devolve on others."

"Certainly," returned Robert. "I am much obliged to you for taking the trouble." And, so saying, he threw himself on an easy chair, and began to question the steward on the occasion of Sir Anthony's death, on the arrangements which had been made for the funeral, and other matters of the same kind, without taking any further notice of Frederick.

This behaviour was so pointed, that even the steward seemed embarrassed by it, and made every answer by a reference to Frederick, saying, "Mr. Falconer knows, Sir; Mr. Falconer desired it should be so and so; it was by Mr. Falconer's orders."

In the mean time, Frederick seemed resolved not to be offended, if possible: but, placing himself again at the table, he said, "Robert, I shall finish the arrangement of these papers: they are merely household bills--things of little consequence; but it will save trouble to wind up these unimportant matters."

Sir Robert made no observation on this, but gave orders for refreshments, continuing to speak to Humphreys as if no third person were present.

Frederick, in the interim, completed his business, tied up and wrote memorandums on the papers, and then, delivering them to Mr. Humphreys, "There, Sir," he said, "they are all straight, and ready for Sir Robert's inspection at a future time." Then rising, he came up to Robert, gave him his hand, and told him what he had done with regard to sealing up the papers in Lord V--'s presence, expressing his wish that they might be opened before the same person; and added, "I am going, now, my dear Robert, to return to my own house, where my presence is required, and I shall expect that you will send for me whenever you want me. I must, therefore, bid you adieu."

Robert hesitated, and seemed not to know how to act; but while he still remained undecided, Frederick left the room: and, having given one look at the coffin which contained the remains of his uncle, whose memory at that moment was more precious to him than ever, he returned to his peaceful home, full of sentiments of gratitude to that uncle, through whose kindness he was possessed of such a home, and was in a state of such perfect independence of the humours of his cousin.

The funeral of Sir Anthony took place the next day and was attended by most of the gentlemen of the county, Sir Robert and Frederick being the chief mourners.

The day after the funeral was appointed for opening the seals; on which occasion, Lord V-- was requested to be present, and Frederick thought it his duty to attend. Mr. Coleman, Sir Anthony's solicitor, was also of the party, and some other friends of the family. Lord V-- called on Frederick in his way to the Hall, and took him up in his carriage. He appeared to be in high spirits, and addressed Frederick as one whom he regarded as his future son-in-law.

Frederick, however, was dejected, and said to his Lordship, "I do feel my cousin's coldness; I cannot but feel it; and I fear it will embitter much of my future life. But he is to be pitied. He thinks I have stood in his way in a case where his heart was deeply concerned; and perhaps there is not a severer trial to a man of any feeling, than to be compelled to live in friendship with a successful rival."

Lord V-- smiled, and replied, "You have hit upon a good excuse for Sir Robert's insolence; but I believe that the world, in general, is not inclined to judge so favourably of him as you do."

When they were arrived at the Hall, Lord V-- and Mr. Falconer found the rest of the persons who were to be present at the opening of the seals, assembled in the library, partaking of some refreshments. The party consisted, not only of several gentlemen of distinction in the neighbourhood; but Mr. Humphreys the late Sir Anthony's steward, and Mr. Coleman his solicitor, the latter being a man of great importance in his own esteem, and one who had been introduced to Mr. Lambert some years before by Lord V--, were among the number present.

Sir Robert bowed coolly to the earl, and nodded haughtily to Frederick, as they entered; while Mr. Coleman, in his well-powdered wig and creaking shoes, bustled forward to meet the earl's offered hand, at the same time exchanging a glance with him which was not lost upon Sir Robert, whose uneasy feelings rendered him more than usually quick in observing the change and expression of every countenance. "Lord V--" said Sir Robert, "I am glad to see you; we have been waiting for you some time, and as soon as you have refreshed yourself, we will, if you please, proceed to business."

"I am at your service at any time, Sir Robert," returned the earl, "but, upon my word, this ham looks so temptingly that I must taste it. I believe that the air must have given me an appetite, for I am excessively hungry."

The earl then took his seat at the table, and Mr. Coleman began to shew his skill in cutting the ham, while Lord V-- called for mustard, Chili vinegar, and pickles, exciting such a bustle, that poor Robert was almost ready to wish that some of these good things might stick in his throat. "Do try this hung beef, Lord V--," said Mr. Coleman, "it is most excellent."

Sir Robert, who all this time was walking, or rather stamping, about the room, suddenly stopped, and turning round, desired Frederick, with some haughtiness, to ring the bell.

"What do you want, Sir Robert?" said Mr. Humphreys, running before Frederick to the bell; "can I get any thing for you? Perhaps it might not be so well to introduce the servants, as we are likely to be engaged in business."

"Business!" repeated Sir Robert, "I see no chance of our commencing business at present: Lord V-- and Mr. Coleman are otherwise engaged."

"Did you speak to me, Sir Robert?" asked Mr. Coleman.

"No, Sir," returned Sir Robert; "but when you have satisfied your hunger, we will, if you please, proceed to business."

"Sir, I shall be ready immediately," answered Mr. Coleman; while he and Lord V-- continued to cut slice after slice of the hung beef, evidently enjoying the impatience of Sir Robert, who seemed scarcely able to repress his angry feelings.

"I say, Lambert," said Lord V--, "have you any beef like this in Paris?"

Sir Robert bit his lips, and could hardly find words to answer. Mr. Coleman then took up the subject of French cookery, and ran a parallel between that and English, till at length Frederick became uneasy, and hinted to Lord V-- that he was keeping Sir Robert in pain. "O, true," said Lord V--, looking at his watch, and rising from the table.

Sir Robert appeared as if relieved by this motion, and led the way to the room where Sir Anthony had kept his papers, and which had been locked up by Lord V-- and Frederick.

"Perhaps no man," said Sir Robert, "knew my poor father's arrangements better than you did, Mr Coleman. Is there a will?"

"Yes, Sir," said Mr. Coleman, "there should be one."

"You are acquainted with its contents then, Sir," rejoined Sir Robert.

"I cannot say that I am, Sir," returned Mr. Coleman; "though I was present when it was executed."

Lord V-- looked closely at the seals on an iron chest and scrutoire, all of which were in perfect preservation. The scrutoire was first opened, but it contained nothing of consequence, excepting the key of the strong box. The strong box was next resorted to, and there was the will, which, from its date on the envelope, in Sir Anthony's own hand, appeared to have been made a little after the marriage of Robert; a circumstance which filled the young man with such violent apprehensions that he could scarcely command his feelings till the document was opened.

It was agreed that Mr. Coleman should read the will; and the old gentleman accordingly seated himself, in due form, at a small table, causing the company to arrange themselves around him, and stopping, very deliberately, to wipe his spectacles before he began. At length he unfolded the scroll, and cursorily ran over the preamble, but without the least variation of countenance, during the time of his doing which poor Robert was in agonies. At length the old gentleman began to read, and, after certain long-winded and formal preludes, such as are commonly found at the head of documents of this kind, he proceeded, in an unaltered tone, to these important words:--"I, Anthony Lambert, Baronet, &c. &c. being in sound mind, &c. &c. give and bequeath to my well-beloved and dutiful nephew, Frederick Falconer, the only surviving child of my late sister, Barbara Falconer;" here Mr. Coleman was troubled with a cough, which was, however, the less to be wondered at, as the old gentleman was sometimes known to cough on other occasions, and, being thus put out of his course, he was obliged to begin anew, and to proceed leisurely from the commencement of the above-mentioned weighty clause, till being again come to the name of Barbara Falconer, he went on as follows: "the whole of my landed estates, my personal property, goods, and chattels, &c. &c. to be by him possessed, without condition or encumbrance: and to my son Robert, the whole of his mother's fortune, being ten thousand pounds in the five per cents, with the saving thereupon, &c. &c."

Mr. Coleman was proceeding, when he was suddenly and violently interrupted by the exclamations of several persons in the company; while those who were particularly concerned, started, turned pale, and spoke not a word. "Would you wish to hear these clauses again, Lord V--?" said Mr. Coleman, on his Lordship hinting that he did not understand them. The earl nodded assent, and there was a dead silence in the apartment, while Mr. Coleman recapitulated what he had before read: but he had scarcely come a second time to a conclusion, before Sir Robert, wildly awakening from the state of stupor into which he had been thrown by this sudden and dreadful downfall of all his prospects, rose up, and fixing his fiery gaze on Frederick, who was even more astonished than himself, and was become pale as death from agitation, poured upon him such a volume of bitter execrations as made every one present tremble with horror; "Contemptible creature! mean and creeping villain!" he exclaimed, "are you now satisfied?"

"Robert," said Frederick, "I have not deserved this, I solemnly declare!"

"Fawning hypocrite!" rejoined Robert, interrupting him, "approach me and I will fell you to the ground, and trample you beneath my feet!" and the young man as he spoke stood trembling with rage, and looked as if even murder was not far from his thoughts.

Mr. Humphreys, the venerable steward, at the same instant, took hold of his young master's arm, and hinted something about command of temper; on which Robert pushed him from him, with a violence which made the old man reel backwards to the wall, while he himself again burst forth in a torrent of such furious invectives against Frederick, that even Lord V-- and Mr. Coleman were forced from their pretended calmness, and were, with others present, obliged to use their utmost strength to prevent the rash young man from rushing upon his cousin, and giving such a turn to the scene as no one had foreboded.

"Hear me; only hear me, Robert," said Frederick. "I was as little aware--I had not the least suspicion.--"

"Had not the least suspicion!" replied Robert, taking up Frederick's word in a tone of bitter scorn. "Yes, I believe you; so far I believe you:--you were not aware perhaps, of the complete success of your vile machinations; you had not even hoped that you had succeeded so far as to make me a beggar. But, villain as you are, you shall not enjoy your triumph. I deny the authority of the will; I will contest it in a court of law. You shall never know an hour's enjoyment of your ill-gotten property."

"The will has been duly executed, Sir Robert," said Mr. Coleman, looking at the seals and signature: "it cannot be contested; no law will give it in your favour: the property is not entailed; it must go as the will directs."

"Permit me to speak," said Frederick. "Hear me; only hear me, Robert."

"I have heard enough, I have seen enough, despicable villain!" again interrupted Robert: "more I will not hear."

"But you shall hear me, my brother! my friend!" rejoined Frederick; and he would have added more, had not Lord V-- forcibly drawn him back, Mr. Coleman, at the same time, beseeching him not to provoke his cousin to strike him. "I do not want to provoke him," said Frederick, "if he would but hear me."

"But," said Lord V--, drawing him still further off, "don't you see, my dear Falconer, that, by attempting to speak to him now, you may bring upon yourself some insult which a gentleman never could pass over: he would not hesitate to strike you. Do, pray, my good Falconer, be ruled by me:" and the earl held his arm so firmly, that Frederick could not extricate himself without violence.

While this was passing at one end of the room, the friends of Robert were labouring to keep him within bounds at the other; for he was endeavouring to break through to Frederick. At length, however, the furious young man, finding that he could not prevail, many being against him, tore himself from them, rushed down stairs and out of the house, called for his carriage, and, shortly afterwards, was seen passing the gate into the park, with the utmost speed to which the horses could be urged.

Frederick had not observed the moment of Robert's quitting the room; but when apprized that he was actually gone, he would have followed him, and was hardly restrained, by all who were present, from rushing after him. The earl, however, and his friends, had interest enough to detain him till Robert was altogether beyond his reach, and the gates of the park were closed upon his carriage. Frederick then ceased to dispute the point; and, with a paleness and dejection of countenance which astonished every one present, sat down quietly to hear the remainder of the will, which was of little importance: after which, he requested Lord V-- to do the honours of the house towards the company assembled, and requested the favour of being left awhile to himself.

As soon as the gentlemen were withdrawn, Frederick threw all the papers into the strong box, locked up the scrutoire, and retired to that apartment of the house which he had always occupied when visiting his late uncle; and there, closing the door, he made such an application for the divine direction on the present trying occasion, as assuredly could never be made in vain to Him who hath said, "Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out."

While he was thus employed in earnest and ardent prayer, his mind was promptly enlightened to perceive how he ought to act; and he was also brought to the determination of doing that immediately which he considered it right to do as his last resource. He, accordingly, rang his bell, called for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the following letter to Robert.

"MY DEAR SIR ROBERT,

"You think ill of me, and I confess that appearances are against me. You are persuaded that I have injured you: it remains, therefore, now, for me to vindicate my character, by assuring you, that it is my fixed resolution to take no advantage whatever of the bequest of your father. Give me but your friendship and your confidence, Robert, and I shall be perfectly satisfied, and even most happy, in the consciousness of having acted with integrity, and evinced the power of God, as operating in an earthen vessel, to the eyes of all these who hitherto may have doubted his ability for raising his unworthy creatures above the temptations of the world.

"Return, then, my dear Robert, return to your own home: and God grant that you may prove a blessing to all those who might hereafter depend upon you for comfort and assistance!"

This letter being signed and sealed, Frederick called for his own servant, a very trustworthy young man of sound principles; and, giving it to him, besought him that he would endeavour to trace Sir Robert, and deliver the deposit into his own hands. He also particularly charged him not even to hint to any one whom he might see, before he left the Hall, the object of his intended journey.

As soon as Frederick had dispatched the servant, he felt his mind so greatly relieved, that he returned to the library; where, on finding that Lord V-- and Mr. Coleman, with the other gentlemen, had left the Hall, he called all his servants together, and simply stated to them, what they were all fully apprized of already, that his uncle had left him in entire possession of the estate, having made his will at the period when he was at the height of his resentment on account of Sir Robert's marriage. "According to this will, therefore," said he, "I am entitled, by the laws of my country, to accept and retain this property. But, my friends," he added, and seemed much affected as he spoke, "as a Christian, I have undertaken to submit, not only to the laws of man, but to the laws of God: and although, in taking from Sir Robert his rightful inheritance, I should not, indeed, transgress against the letter of the law which saith--'Thou shalt not steal;' yet, in the spiritual and enlarged sense of that law, such conduct would be a breach of this commandment, and I should, by such a measure, forfeit, in the opinion of every simple Christian, that respect which alone can render me useful as a minister. I should lose my peace of mind, my confidence in my Redeemer, my trust in God; and, in fine, the whole comfort of this present life, and perhaps the happiness of the next."

Frederick paused, and was astonished at the powerful effect which his discourse produced on those present. Some melted into tears, some blessed him, and others praised God for thus displaying his power in this his devoted servant; and all united, as if with one voice, in requesting him to retain his authority over them, acknowledging that they were all rejoicing, but a moment before, in being subjected to that authority.

"I cannot, I dare not, grant your requests," replied Frederick. "Cease, therefore, to urge me, my friends; and doubt not that you will find Sir Robert a kind and generous master, and one who will shine more in power and prosperity than he has in adversity."

While these things were passing at Lambert-Hall, Lord V-- had returned to Clifton Castle, to relate the events of the day to his lady and daughter. I do not use the word news of the day, because it so happened, that Lady V--, her noble husband, and their beautiful daughter, had been fully apprized of Sir Anthony's intentions with respect both to his nephew and son, from the period of Sir Robert's delinquency and although Lord V-- had proceeded throughout the whole of the business with a high degree of worldly wisdom and discretion, yet it was, in a great measure, owing to his influence and that of his lady, together with the blandishments of their beautiful daughter, that Sir Anthony's resolution of disinheriting his son remained fixed, till such time as his sudden death rendered the act irretrievable.

Lady V-- and Augusta were walking in the park at Clifton when the earl's carriage entered it, on his return from Lambert-Hall. He no sooner saw his wife and daughter, than he ordered his servants to stop, and springing from the carriage, hastened to meet them, with such an air and expression of countenance as proved, before he spoke, that all had turned out at the Hall just as they wished it. Augusta's fine face was flushed with pleasure; and Lady V-- exclaimed, "I am glad to see you, my Lord, so cheerful. How did Robert bear it? Was he very indignant?"

"Indignant!" said his Lordship, "how could he be otherwise? A cooler temper than our friend Roberts would have been inflamed by a less thing than this. But the scene was capital. That arch hypocrite, Coleman, who, you know, has detested young Lambert ever since he was insulted by him, some years ago, at a public dinner, was so cold, so impenetrable, and so immoveable; old Humphreys stared so, and seemed so puzzled, between the old and new master, his love and regard pulling him one way, for he is very fond of Falconer, and habit and custom drawing him the other, that it was really quite diverting."

"And Frederick," said Lady V--, "how did he behave? Had he any idea, do you think, before the reading of the will, of the great things which were to be done for him?"

"I verily believe," said Lord V--, "that he did not expect sixpence from the will: and he was so violently affected by the distress of his cousin, that, had Robert shewn the slightest self-command, had he not behaved altogether like a brute on the occasion, I verily believe that young Falconer would have made concessions by which he would have lost all the benefit of the bequest."

"Well," said Lady Augusta, laughing, "I could almost be sorry for poor Robert, if I were not so very glad."

Lord and Lady V--, with their daughter, continued in conversation to this effect till they returned to the Castle; where, meeting with some visitors, they were obliged to change the subject, and to affect that fashionable ease and carelessness which persons used to polished society are enabled to assume on every occasion. These visitors dined at the Castle, but left it early after dinner; and they were no sooner gone, than Frederick Falconer arrived.

The moment he entered the drawing-room, Lady V-- hastened to congratulate him on the acquisition of his immense fortune, and Lady Augusta welcomed him with her sweetest smiles. But Frederick, instead of evincing an increased animation, or shewing any unusual elation of spirits, seemed agitated and embarrassed, and there was a something in his whole appearance which alarmed Augusta, though she scarcely knew wherefore. His cheek was considerably flushed, his hair disordered, and care and solicitude sat on his brow. He took no notice of the compliments paid him by the countess, but requested the favour of a few moments' private conversation with Lady Augusta, which request was instantly complied with by her mother, who walked out of the room, and, closing the door after her, left the young people together.

Augusta, when left with Frederick, seated herself on a sofa in a recess of the window, waiting patiently till her companion should speak: but he kept her for some moments in suspense, while he paced the room, evidently in violent agitation. At length, turning suddenly towards her, and looking upon her with no small expression of disturbance within, "O, Augusta!" he said, "you whom I have loved from my infancy, you who alone, of all women, have ever possessed my heart, tell me, now,--must I forfeit you, together with the great possessions which I am about to deliver up to their rightful owner? or will you fix upon me an eternal weight of obligations, by sharing with me my sacrifice to justice, and partaking with me the humble lot to which I was destined at my birth?"

Augusta trembled, blushed, and hesitated. At length, she said, "Frederick, I do not understand you: what is it you propose?"

Frederick approached her. He seated himself by her on the sofa; he also took her hand and pressed it to his lips. He looked earnestly upon her. Her beautiful face was covered with blushes, and a tear stole down her cheeks. "Augusta," he said, "I have written to Robert, and I have declared my determination of delivering up to him the whole of what his father left me."

Augusta started. She drew her hand from his. Anger inflamed every feature; and recoiling, as it were, from him, as he sat near her, "You have done this, Frederick?" she said. "You are actually resolved to reject the good fortune which was offered you, and you expect me to encourage you in this folly, and to prove my regard by upholding you in an act of the grossest absurdity?"

"I did not expect all this from you, Augusta," replied Frederick: "I anticipated no difficulty on your part, and I believed that you would have assisted me in reconciling your noble parents to that step which I am determined to take."

"You had formed a very high opinion, then, of your own perfections, and of my regard," returned Augusta, with a smile of contempt, "if you supposed that I should think a marriage with you such an object, that I should be ready to take you in one hand, and beggary in the other."

"Beggary!" returned Frederick, rising from the couch; "beggary, Augusta! Have I not a thousand a year, a comfortable house, independent of any fortune you might have had? Oh, Augusta! Augusta!" he said, "you have awakened me from a dream, a dream of delight, in which, had it lasted much longer, I might have ceased to look forward to the happiness of another world. But all is right," he added, striking his hand on his forehead, and then clasping both hands together, and looking upwards, " all thou ordainest is right, O my God. Henceforward may I love thee, and thee only!" Then turning again to the young lady, and holding out his hand to her, "Shall we part, my beloved?" he said. "Must I renounce either my integrity or the woman I have loved from childhood? Will you give your hand to the humble Frederick Falconer, and attach him to yourself for ever by this condescension? or will you renounce him, as he has done the fortune which he could not accept without injustice and ingratitude? Speak my beloved; speak but one word, and make me the happiest, as I shall be the most highly favoured of men."

The young lady wept violently. Frederick thought she was deliberating in his favour. He drew nearer to her, and was about to take her hand, when, rejecting him with scorn, "No, Frederick," she said, "I repeat to you, that I will not uphold you in the folly you meditate. No, if you can resolve thus to throw away my future comfort, I cannot suppose your regard to be such as it ought to be. That I love you, Frederick, that I have always loved you, I do not deny: but I cannot, I never will, consent to the foolish sacrifice you are about to make. Let us now part, and it will depend on what you resolve, whether we ever meet again in any other character than that of common acquaintance." So saying, she arose, and, while still weeping, left the room.

The eyes of Frederick followed her, as she passed along the splendid apartment; and, as soon as she had shut the door behind her, he left the room by another outlet, quitted the Castle, and, making the best of his way to the parsonage, shut himself up in his own chamber, where he was confined a few days with a slight fever, occasioned by the excessive agitation which he had endured for some hours past.

Five days had passed during which Frederick had been obliged to keep his chamber, in which time he enjoyed much peace of mind, the consequence of the divine blessing upon his honourable intentions. When able to leave his room, he had several visits from Lord and Lady V--, which ended only in increased displeasure on the part of these noble individuals, who represented his determination of giving up the estate to Robert as an act of the grossest folly, and assured him that they never would consent to his marriage with their daughter, if he persisted in this absurdity. But, through the divine blessing, he was enabled to adhere to his first determination, and was almost brought to feel, that Augusta was not the woman who would have made him happy, though her peculiar loveliness had hitherto blinded him to this truth.

It was on the occasion of the last visit of this noble pair to Mr. Falconer, and at the moment when they were about to take their leave, that a travelling-carriage drove up to the door of the parsonage, from which sprang Sir Robert Lambert. Frederick hastened into the hall to receive him, and was about to take Robert in his arms, when the young man fell at his feet, embraced his knees, burst into tears, and exclaimed, "O my brother! my friend! my Frederick! you have, at length, more than conquered me. I see your merits, and my own injustice. Oh, pardon, pardon your Robert. Give me your friendship: give me my father's legacy, and retain your estate; you are more worthy of it than I am. Yours it is, and yours it shall be: my father judged wisely: you alone deserve it."

Lord and Lady V--, who, from the inner apartment, heard all that was passing, looked at each other, and were astonished. They saw Frederick lift up Robert and embrace him, and heard him declare that he never would deprive him of his natural rights. "I do not want these possessions, my dear cousin," be said, "they would not make me happier; I am content with what I have.--A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth." [Luke xii. 15.]

In this manner, and to this purpose, the young men had for some time persevered in their contest of generosity, when Lord and Lady V-- interrupted them, by passing through the hall to their carriage. Robert started at the sight of them, bowed, and drew back, but Frederick stepped forward to hand Lady V-- to her carriage.

The noble pair took a formal leave of Frederick, who stood at the door of the house looking at the carriage till it was out of sight. Then, fetching a deep sigh, he returned to Robert, who began immediately to renew his entreaties that his cousin would at least share his father's fortune with him.

"My dear Robert," said Frederick, "we have, in the excellent Mr. Day, a common friend and father, whom we may hope to see in a few days. I insist on giving up the estate to you; and what you shall do for me shall be left to the arbitration of this friend. I repeat to you, that I want nothing. I have already all I require for myself, and even much more. At one time I thought of marrying, but at present my views on that subject are altered. But we will leave this matter now. Make me but your friend, my cousin; grant but your confidence; and henceforward may we be as dear brothers who have but one interest, and who may hope to spend a happy eternity together when these perishable scenes shall have passed away."

I shall not repeat all that Sir Robert said in reply to this. Suffice it to add, that the removal of his suspicions of Frederick seemed to have, with the divine blessing, a sudden and happy influence upon his whole mind and character. He now was enabled to see and to honour the beautiful and glorious effects of religion on the human heart; he was also made to perceive the violence, impetuosity, and injustice of his own conduct through life; and he was, in consequence, humbled, being rendered dubious of his own judgment, and willing to submit it to that of his friend, whose character, as I before said, was now discovered to him in its true colours. But to proceed with our narrative.

Robert, for several days after his arrival, still remained with Frederick, resolving to await the return of Mr. Day before he proceeded to the arrangement of his affairs, or the further inspection of papers. It appears, that Lady Frances had by her conduct so entirely forfeited the respect of her husband, that it could no longer be required of him to pay her the attention due to every reputable wife: and it therefore can be no matter of astonishment that he received the account of her death, which was forwarded by Mr. Day, and arrived a few days after Sir Robert reached the parsonage, with sentiments, if not altogether of thankfulness, at least of a mixed feeling. Mr. Day informed him, in the letter which brought an account of his lady's death, that it was his intention to follow this letter as soon as possible after the funeral: and he accordingly appeared within twenty-four hours of the time intimated.

The meeting between Mr. Day and his two pupils, after so many eventful occurrences had taken place in the family, was very affecting; and when he was made acquainted with the noble conduct of Frederick, and the present generous and penitent feelings of Robert, the good, gentleman melted into tears, and exclaimed, while lifting up his eyes and hands, to heaven, "O my God, I thank thee that thou hast heard my prayers: I am, indeed, blessed in my children!"

When Mr. Day had somewhat recovered the fatigue of his journey, he entered into the business of arbitration between his pupils, having first insisted that they should abide by his determination.

"I have by me," said Mr. Day, "the outline of a will made by your poor father while you, Robert, were at the University; and I think that we cannot do better than abide by this will, supposing the last not to be in existence with respect to yourself and Frederick. By this first will, Frederick was entitled to ten thousand pounds; and I certainly think it but just that he should now receive this same legacy, and not, at any rate, be a loser by your father's too generous intentions towards him.

Robert begged to be permitted to double the sum; but Mr. Day remarked that there was to be no appeal from his decision, and the matter was thus amicably and wisely arranged, Frederick, however, assuring Mr. Day that he should have been perfectly satisfied although he had not been one shilling the better for his uncle's will.

From that period I am happy to say that Sir Robert Lambert never forgot the obligation he owed to Frederick; and all uneasy feelings being removed, his admiration of his character and love of his excellent qualities seemed, with the divine blessing, to effect such a change in his heart as seemed to render him a new creature.

While things were thus happily proceeding at Lambert-Hall and the parsonage, and peace restored to the minds of the two cousins, (Frederick and Robert both having been brought to feel that in missing Augusta they had perhaps escaped a woman whose ambition might have rendered them miserable,) the death of Lady Frances had wrought a mighty change in the politics of Clifton Castle.

Lord and Lady V-- found themselves completely baffled, and were made to feel that the very steps which they had taken to secure a particular situation for their daughter were the very means of her losing this situation. Lady Augusta, however, was still in the first bloom of her beauty, and might expect to marry a man of higher rank than Sir Robert Lambert: they therefore resolved to leave the country for a few months, and to try their daughter's fortune elsewhere, not recollecting or supposing it possible that Augusta might still retain such a regard for Frederick, (whom she had never even mentioned since he had refused to oblige her by sacrificing his integrity to her ambition,) as would render it impossible for her ever to think of another person.

But the truth was, that the noble and disinterested conduct of Frederick towards his cousin, and the anguish he expressed when compelled to sacrifice the object of his tender regard to his sense of duty, had so raised him in her esteem, that she would now have given up every earthly prospect, had it been possible thereby to recall the past, and render herself loved and respected by him as she once had been.

"O Frederick, my Frederick," she would often say, when left to her own private reflections, "Oh, had I but shared with you the glorious sacrifice, how blessed, how loved, how honoured by all, should I now have been! and in what peace might I have dwelt with you in your humble yet fragrant dwelling, where, as in a second Eden, I should have employed myself in the presence of my beloved, the assistant and sharer in all his innocent labours and works of charity! But ambition and covetousness have proved my bane and destruction. O miserable, lost Augusta!" In this manner would the young lady bemoan herself; while she still could see no menus of retracing her steps, or of making her present feelings known to Frederick, consistently with the delicacy of her sex.

Thus did this fine young creature become the prey of secret sorrow: the colour faded from her cheeks; she grew silent and pensive in company; and, when unobserved, was continually in tears.

In the mean time, she was removed by her parents from Clifton Castle, and carried first to Bath, and afterwards to Town.

And now, weeks had rolled round, and nearly eight months had elapsed since the death of Sir Anthony. Robert had been established some time at the Hall, and habitually conducted himself in a manner which obtained for him the respect and love of all his dependents.

The months of spring at length arrived, and the gardens of the Hall and parsonage were beginning to look gay with the buds and blossoms of the renewed year; Mr. Day and his pupils were full of schemes of Christian love and benevolence; and the amiable Frederick was preparing himself for priest's orders; when suddenly there appeared in him symptoms of that alarming disease which had twice before threatened his life.

To describe the anguish of Robert and Mr. Day on this occasion would be impossible. Frederick himself was now the only one who could speak a word of comfort. "My father, and my brother," he said, "I may recover as I have before done; I may overcome this attack, if the Lord permits, and live to be a hale old man: but if not, my Robert, if I must go, what then? I shall indeed be parted for a little while from you, and from my adopted parent; but I shall be the gainer: I shall be there, where my home and my heart have long been, praised be He who drew that heart unto himself, and opened to my view such scenes of glory in a future world, as with the value of which no earthly possessions could admit of the least comparison.

"But who," added the young man, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven, "who wrought this mighty work in me, and sent his Holy Spirit to dwell within this polluted temple, making his strength apparent in my weakness, and causing his holiness to shine amidst the deepest natural corruption? Who, but that God who willed my salvation ere yet my body was fashioned out of the dust, or the spirit of life breathed into my nostrils? God the Father loved me, and prepared for my salvation, ere the foundations of this earth were laid, or the morning stars had sung together. That salvation was complete when my Saviour cried out, It is finished. And I trust that God the Holy Spirit has been fitting me, through many years past, for the glory provided for me, by his regenerating and sanctifying grace, although I long resisted him with the whole strength of a corrupt nature and an unconverted will."

"Oh, my son," Mr. Day would reply, "my Frederick! God give me strength, if needful, to yield you up; for I feel that I cannot do it in my own strength."

Robert could not speak on these occasions, but repeatedly, when Frederick spoke of the probability of his death, did he rise in haste, leave the room, and return again after a while, his eyes red with weeping, and with an expression of sorrow which he was unable to conceal.

Frederick's disease, which was upon the chest, had, in his two former attacks, been so acute, that, in a few weeks, the result in both cases was decisive; but on this occasion it operated much more slowly, and was more variable in its effects, favourable symptoms at times presenting themselves, and again disappearing. The young man, in the mean time, grew daily more emaciated, his strength and appetite gradually declining, and his power of exertion growing less and less; while, however, the sweet peace which he continually enjoyed was habitually such that he declared himself as being only too happy. He described himself as enjoying an unshaken trust in his Saviour, and a bright hope of future blessedness, which was uniformly unclouded, though at the same time utterly independent of any idea of self-confidence. That noble act by which he had secured the admiration of all who knew him, he seemed at this time wholly to have forgotten, inasmuch as he never once adverted to it; and if any one hinted at the subject in his presence, he would reply, "How could a Christian, or even an upright moral man, have acted any otherwise than I did on that occasion? You lower the tone of mere morality, my friend, by representing an act of this kind as any thing more than a common duty. Would you praise a man for not robbing on the highway, when I tell you that a common highwayman is a superior character to one who takes advantage of circumstances to deprive a neighbour, a distant relation, or a brother, of his just rights?"

I could with pleasure write many pages relative to the blessed state of mind of this truly noble and pious young man during the few last weeks of his life. His decay was so gradual, that even his nearest friends were not fully aware how soon they would be required to give him up. His last evening was spent in his favourite apartment, the library of the parsonage; where, as he lay on the sofa, with his beloved tutor and Robert seated by his side, the brilliancy of his eyes, and the hectic glow of his cheeks, added to the natural beauty of his features, rendered his aspect so far from deathlike, that, although his pulse throbbed violently, and his breath was alarmingly oppressed, the idea of his very speedy dissolution did not by any means occur to his anxious friends. The window of the room was open, it being summer, and some of the little children from his school at Farewell had come to bring him an offering of fruit.

When their little presents were brought, he took a single strawberry from the basket; and, having eaten it, begged that the children might be ranged around, without the window, to sing a favourite hymn which he had taught them. His request was complied with; and while they sang, he seemed pleased, and even affected. "Ah, dear children, I shall never hear your voices again," he said; "I shall never more visit your little village: but I thank God for the happy hours I have spent among you." He then added these words:

"'These are the joys he makes us know
In fields and villages below;
Gives us a relish of his love,
But keeps his noblest feast above.'"

On that very night, at twelve o'clock, this blessed young man finished his short but glorious course, in the arms of Robert Lambert, while his tutor, with several old servants, were kneeling round his bed.

Frederick Falconer's death took place exactly one year and six days after that of his uncle; and when, had he accepted the bequest of Sir Anthony, he might have been in possession of the estate precisely one year, wanting nine days.

Frederick Falconer had been laid out in the handsomest room of the parsonage about eight hours, and his fine features were settled in death, although the hectic glow had scarcely yet forsaken his lips and cheeks, while the most beautiful flowers from the greenhouse and hothouse, belonging to the Hall and his own garden, were profusely scattered over the sheet with which he was covered, when suddenly a carriage appeared at the gate, from which rushed the unhappy Augusta in a state little short of frenzy.

Robert Lambert met her as she entered the hall.

Her step was hurried; her hair disordered; and her cheeks were in a glow. "Where is my Frederick?" she said, addressing Robert, but not seeming to know the person thus addressed.

Robert was silent, and seemed violently agitated at the sight of this young lady.

"Where is Mr. Falconer?" said Augusta, turning from Sir Robert to a servant who entered the hall.

The servant's eye directed her to the stairs. She approached them, and ascending rapidly, met Mr. Day at the door of the room, where rested all that was mortal of the late elegant and amiable youth.

"Lady Augusta Clifton!" said Mr. Day, with astonishment.

"Where is Mr. Falconer?" repeated Augusta; and pushing by Mr. Day, she entered the room, and hastened with a quick step towards the bed, but stopping short at the sight of the corpse, she clasped her hands, turned pale as death, and remained a moment motionless. Then looking, as if appealing for pity, at Mr. Day and Robert, who had followed her into the room, she approached the corpse, and stooping over it, addressed it in the following words.-- "Yes, my Frederick, I have resolved, I have determined upon doing all that you required.