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Honim, IhMw ft C!o., PaunBRB, Wblumotom Sntur, TVvRomo. # ( Pxv£if^A.(J£* in th« , in the For this little work, reyised and enlarged, now presented a neoond time to the public, 1 ask its indulgent oritieiim, that ita many faults may be overlooked in consideration of the object for which it has been written. I have found that so many of the books forming S. S. libra- ries are as dead letters, such as memoirs, etc, etc, the children will not read them ; they are either too dry, or they do net in- terest them sufficiently to arrest the attention on the several virtues intended to be inculcated. The following events having been enacted under my own immediate observation, may, perhaps, by their truth, obviate in a measure this difficulty. My aim is to point out the good or evil which can be done by example — ^the many privileges en- joyed and the danger incurred by throwing such advantages away. I trust there is not a sentence to be found which could lead one little one astray, or one precept inculcated which could sully the purest mind. To the indulgence of the Clergy and Superintendents of Sabbath Schools 1 humbly submit this little volume, praying that God may bless my poor efforts to bring the consideration of His holy Commandments l)efore the young^ so that they may see what danger they place themselves in by lightly regarding the precepts contained in them. C. F. Thompson. I I 1 H ■$' » SKETCHES FROM LIFE. My Dear Young Friends, — Some yean since I published a small work on the Ten Commandments, and varioas texts q# . Scripture, illustrating each by a tale founded on a scene in Wf own life. Some of those of my pupils for whom these tales were originally intended have now become teachers themselves, others are married, and a few have passed away to that bourne from which no traveller returns. You all know how many years I have been a Sabbath School teacher, a work in which I have taken the most sincere interest. During the time in which Christ Church was being built, a lady (who then resided in the cily) proposed to gather all the children of the neighbourhood t(^ther at her own house, so as to have classes organised by the time a school-room should be ready for their reception. Under her superintendence, I had for some time a class of sixteen girls, whose ages varied from fourteoi to twenty ; it caused me much trouble to find how listless was their manner of repeating, Sunday after Sunday, the lessons appointed for their instruction, and I set myself earnestly to consider by what means I could interest them sufficiently, so as to be able to concentrate their thoughts on the lesson ap- pointed for the day. Having read a work called " The Lady B 2 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. of the Manor/' by which the authoress, Mrs. Sherwood (whilst preparing young ladies for confirmation), adopted the plan of reading a tale illustrating the subject she was aniMW to teach, I thought I would try the same, feeling sure that during my life I ha4jpMod through many scenes which, if written in the form of wee, could be made sufficiently interesting to arrest the attention of my pupils. I therefore proposed it to them, and promised that they should (after the Ten Commandments were illustrated) choose the verses from which I was to weave the tales. I found the plan succeed beyond my most sanguine hopes. Among my scholars was a young girl who was espe- *AuUy idle and troublesome, frequently acting in such a non- seniioal manner as to upset the gravity of the whole class ; although always punctual in attendance, and having her lessons generally perfect^ yet so lisUeii was her way of r^ating them, that I felt convinced nhe had but one object in view, viz., to say them and obtain her ticket. The tales were never intended to go beyond the scholars for whose benefit they were ex- pressly written, but having received great encouragement frt>m many Christian friends, I had them published and submitted to the public, after presenting a volume to each of my pupils. Some years afterwards the young girl who had given me so much trouble, and who had left London, died, after a long and very severe illness. On her death bed she desired that word should be sent to me " that the tales in the little book first led her to feel how she had neglected the many privileges enjoyed in her Sabbath School, how sorry she felt, and how happy she died, trusting in the mercy of her Saviour, who had promised ^ to blot out her sins as a whiok cloud, and remember her iniqui- ties no more. ^, M' ■'-i^ ;«■>. nrmoDUCTioN. Thus you see, my dvtkt girls, how bread east apon the watent was returned lifter many days. This emboldens me to try whether |*«feBnot interest you, and I therefore republish the work, and enlarge it by the addition of several new tales ; and «• as example is generally more forcible than prece||j^ I compose ' these tales from scenes in which I have myself eitlher been an actress or eye-witness, and can only trust that they may an- swer the end in view, viz., to impress on the minds of the young the danger incurred by lightly regarding Ood's holy laws. Yon have all from your earliest infancy been accus-. tomed to rehearse the Ten Oommandments, without once, I dare say, considering their application to yourselves. Yoo have doubtlessly thought (as many do) that it was not very likely you would set up a gr8.vQn image to worship, or swear, steal, murder, or covet your neighbour's goods. But you must remember that Grod seeth not ivs man seeth, and that all these sins may be committed in intent, though not actually by deed. Our Saviour declares, if you break one of the least of these commandments, you have broken all, and that the wish to commit the evil is paramount to the deed itself — for that is but the consummation of the thought, which is the greater sin ; for few commit thefb, murder, or adultery on the spur of the minute, although tticre may be exceptions; but, generally speaking, these crimes have been premeditated and dwelt upon, till the heart has become hardened to the consequences sure to follow, and with a full knowledge of the awful sin nourished in thought so long, it has found vent in the deed. As it is my intention first to lead you to a more earnest consideration of the beautiful service of the Episcopal Church of which you have, by baptism, been all made members, I shall leave the tales on r *1 4 8KETCHI8 FBOM UFE. the Ten Oomnuuidmento to be brought in, when considering the Communion Service, in their proper pkce. You attend church reguUu>ly every Sabbath, bal your con- . duct whilst there convinces me that you in reality take no part in thf beauty of its services ; you are either too indolent to repeat the responses, or you cannot deem that you have all and severally an interest in its prayers and supplications. Our church provides for its members the most beautiftil peti- tions, suitable to all their necessities ; and I feel sure, if you would give it your serious consideration, that you wiU join with me in confessing that it would be next to impossible to feel either indifferent or irreverent, did you in reality believe that you had an interest in all its forms and ceremonies. When the clergy enter the church, they conmience the ser- vice by reading one or two verses of Scripture, which are so ^ comforting to the contrite sinner ; no word of discouragement to the vilest, for all tell of the abundant mercies of our Qod, ** who is slow to anger and of great kindness, and who willeth not that one sinner should perish ; who will not despise the broken and contrite heart ; but who is faithful and just to for- give us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteouaness." After reading one or more of these sentences, our minister calls on his people to confess their manifold sins, with humble, lowly and penitent hearts, in order that they may obtain that for which they petition, viz., pardon of their sins. He tells them, that although they ought at all times to confess their sins, yet more especially should they do so when they meet to- gether to render thanks for all the benefits they have received; that they are assembled in His holy house for that purpose, to hear His word, and to ask for all things necessary both for ,# INTHODUCnON. body and muI U^ then calls on all to join him with pni^ hearts and hamble voice in making their public confession. Here onr Church desires that all should kneel ; but, alas ! how many remain in a sitting position. Is it one in which to seek Ood's pardoning mercy t Should we dare thus to ap- proach our earthly sovereign had we a petition to present t Most certainly not I How, then, is it that the cmifession of our manifold sins is offered to God, who alone can pardon them, in such an irreverent posture 1 with lips repeating what the heart refuses to acknowledge. We ask (}od " to restore those who are penitent, according to His promises declared unto mankind in Chist Jesus our Lord." If we felt ourselves, the sinners we confess ourselves to be with our lips, and really felt our need of the mercy we implore, and which we have justly forfeited, could any position be too humble in which to approach our merciful Judge 1 Oan anything be more in- : suiting to the Most High than the indolent posture and eare- less utterance of petitions so fraught with our eternal interests 1 How many continue whispering to each other and gazing around on the congregation, whilst the minister, rising from his knees, pronounces the absolution. Now, remember, that this applies only to the contrite and penitent. God has given power to His faithful ministers to pronounce pardon to all who with true penitent hearts return unto Him and believe His holy gospel The minister has no power to look into the hearts of his congregation, nor is he allowed to be their judge ; but I am sure he must often feel grieved when he sees the irreverent and indolent posture of some, who scarcely deem it worth their while to join in the responses, in which all have such an 'mmm' 1^^^ jpMIJpilipjl^..l|iin|»JP»IJP SKETCHES FROM LIFE. important interest ; it would seem indeed as though the ser- vice was intended solely for the minister, if wc judge by the cold, listless manner the responses are repeated, in which all should join. Then our beautiful service would be what it was intended by the Church — one universal lifting up of heart and voice in prayer and praise to Him who sittith upon the throne and unto the Lamb for ever. After the absolution follows the Lord's Prayer, in the com- mencemt nil of which God graciously permits us to address Him as " Our Father." The title so tender, so familiar to every child, is well calculated to banish all fear as we offer the peti- tions contained in it, so simple and yet so comprehensive. We desire t hallow or honour His holy name ; and pray that His kingdom may come, viz., that His blessed gospiel may be spread throughout the universe, and that His will may be done by us here below as the angels perform it in heaven. Q'hen we ask for our daily bread, enough for our present wants, as our Saviour taught His disciples ** to take no heed ''f the morrow, as God knoweth we have need of these things." Then follows the petition for pardon of our sins ; but with this petition there is a condition annexed, "As we forgive those who have sinned against us." Now, when we go to rest with anger rankling in our hearts against those with whom we are at variance, and rise in the morning still unsoftened, what a mockery is this petition ! is it not a breach of the Third Com- mandment, repeating with our lips words which our hearts refuse to respond to ? How can we take God's name in vain in a clearer manner than by asking Him to grant us what we have no intention of according to our fellow-creatures ) Let us all beware how we thus mock God, and remember His ex- INTRODUCTION. 7 press declaration, that " if we forgive not men their trespasses, neither will He forgive ours ; nor will He hold any one guilt- less who thus taketh His name in vain." The next petition, to be kept from temptation and deliver- ed from evil, is also but too often a mock prayer. Perhaps we are intending that very hour to indulge in the sin which does so easily beset us — to enter some place where the tempta- tion to sin is not easily overcome, or where the amusements, to say the least of them, are of a very questionable nature. If we are guilty of some fault deserving punishment from our earthly parents, could we with any justice ask its remission if we were conscious that we intended to act precisely in the same mannsr again 1 How, then, do we presume to ask God to deliver us from the evil to which we are fully determined to expose ourselves ? Remember this truth : " Wo might as well kneel down And worship gods of stone, As offer to the living God A prayer of words alone. " For words without the heart The Lord will never hear ; Nor will he to those lips attend, Whose prayers are not sincere." This beautiful and comprehensive prayer is then condaded by our confessing that "the kingdom, power and glory are God's for ever and ever. — Amen." After a few sentences read by the minister, and responded to, or ought to be, by the congregation, follow the Psalms in order as they are appointed, and which are so arranged that^ there being one or more for every day in the month, they are jj [■•irBn^iw.^liwV" ."'WV"- 8 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. read throughout at least fifty-two times every year, indepen- dent of any extra services which may be appointed. ^ Who can read the poetical language in which they are writ* ten without feeling the heart uplifted to the God whose attributes of power goodness and mercy, they portray so forcibly) « These sacred songs exhibit the sublimest conceptions of God, as the Creator, Preserver, and €k>vemorof the uaiverse.*' Many of them are also prophetical of our Messiah, and point out in unmistakable language the great pbun of man's redemption. It is indeed a book for everyone, because, whatever our circum- stances, trials or temptations, in it are to be found words of comfort which are just as if put there to suit every case. In them, L-^w strongly does David extol the attributes of the Almighty 1 He calls upon all to fear Him and magnify His name. How powerful is the language he uses, as he calls Him his strong rock and defence, his might, his shield and buckler, a place to hide in, his castle and deliverer, a very present help in time of trouble, his hope and his strength, a great king upon &$l earth ; and ends his beautiful songs by calling upon every- thing that has health to praise the Lord. Every Psalm, when read in church, ends with giving "glory to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be : world without end. Amen." After the Psalms are read, follows a chapter from the Bible, taken always from the Old Testament, unless special lessons are appointed for any holy day — such as Christmas, Easter, Whit and Trinity Sundays, etc. Then is read, or sang, the Te Deum Laudamus, or the acknowledging the praise due to God from all His creatures on earth: from the angels, cherubim and seraphim, from the glorious company of the apostles, the goodly INTRODUCTION. 9 fellowship of martyrs, and the holy church thronghottt all the world ; and ending hy a prayer to be kept mthont sin, for mercy to lighten us, so that we may nc^ver be confo^mded. The second lesson, taken from the New Testament, then follows. Now, when you consider thni two chapters from the Bible are read during both momiug and evening service, besides the Epistle and Gospel, you will see what an immense amount of scripture is read iihroughout the year, and must acknowledge how diligently our (yhurch sets before her members the blessed tidings contained in the Boo^ of books. Happily in this broad land of Canada there are but few who cannot read their Bible, but in England it was not always so ; and many poor creatures would never have heard its holy precepts and comforting wonls, but for the Sabbath service when they would drag their weary limbs to sit beneath the sound of the gospel, and drink in its sweet and precious promises for the salvation of their immortal souls. After the second lesson, the beautiful Psalm, calling upon all lands to be jo3rful in the Lord, to serve Him with gladness, to come before His presunce with a song, is read or sung. In it we are told, " to be sure that the Lord is Grod ; that He has made us, that we are His people and the sheep of his pasture — and exhorts us to go into His gates with thanksgiving and into His courts with praise : to be thankful unto Him, and speak good of His name." And why ? — " Because He is gra- cious, Hlb mercy is everlasting, and His truth endureth from generation to generation." This Psalm ends by ascribing glory to God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ; and is followed by the Creed, with which you are all familiar oven from your earliest childhood. In it you confess your belief in God, who i^ \\ 10 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. is the maker of heaven and earth ; in Jeans Christ His only Son, in his crucifixion, death and hurial ; in His ascension into heaven and His presence at the right htnd of God, from whence he shall come again to judge the quick and the dead — and again, in the Holy Ghost, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. I need only refer you to your Prayer-book to see that after the Creed is read, we are all desired to kneel devoutly, whilst the minister calls on the Lord to have mercy on all, and again repeats the Lord's Prayer,in which we are all commanded to join with loud voice, as also in the short sentences which immediately follow ; but how seldom do we hear more than two or three voices, responding to the cry for God's mercy ! Many are per- haps actuated by a fear of ridicule, especially among the young ; many deem it vulgar to speak aloud, and therefore whisper the responses to themselves ; while upon others they fall un- heeded on the ear. But we do not go to church for man's ap- proval, but for the worship of Grod, and therefore need no ex- cuse to come boldly to the throne of grace, and pour out our petitions to Him whose ears are never deaf to our cries, either for mercy for ourselves, or giving to Him, what is so justly due, all honour and praise. The beautiful Collects( which are short comprehensive prayers) here follow in order ; but as you repeat them, and have them explained to you every Sunday in your Sabbath School, I need not dwell on their exceeding beauty or adaptation to all our wants j but proceed to the consideration of that part of our Church service entitled the Litany, a form of supplicatory prayer in which every one should ji>iu with humble heart aud reverent INTRODUCTION. 11 posture, whilst we call upon God the Father, Qod the Son, Qod the Holy Ohost, and the bleas^ and glorious Trinity, to have mercv upon us, miserable sinners. Yes, we confess ourselves mis- erable sinners, and pray to be spared from all evil and mischief; to have the offences of our forefathers remembered no more ; from Qod's wrath and everlasting damnation we pray to be de- livered from, and we offer as a reason for our supplication that Christ has redeemed us with His precious blood — a plea from which God has promised He will never turn away. Again, we pray for deliverance from all the sins which doth so easily beset us, and then from the lightning and tempest, plague, pestilence, and famine ; from battle, murder, and sud- den death ; from sedition, privy conspiracy, and rebellion ; from all false doctrine, heresy, and schism ; from hardness of heart ; and lastly, contempt of God's word and commandments. Can w«) show greater contempt, whilst repeating all these evils, from which we cry continually " Good Lord deliver us," if we repeat them with our lips alone, whilst the eye is wan- dering over the congregation, and perhaps mentally remarking upon some peculiar fashion of dress or behaviour of our neigh- bours) Here then we again put in our plea for deliverance. By the mystery of the holy incarnation, nativiliy and circumcision ; baptism, fasting and temptation ; by the agony and bloody sweat ; by the cross and passion ; by the precious death and burial ; by thd to hear or answer the lifeless prayers which are repeated, Sabbath alter Sabbath. Reiaember, we cannot deceive Him; His all-seeing eye piercest the inmost recesses of our hearts, and He will surely turn a deaf ear to the prayers which are not sincere. « Let us then, as we acknowledge God's promise to be with even two or three if g' thered together in His name, join in all sincerity of heart in praying that our petitions maj^tft fidfilled as may be most expedient for us, that we obtain in this world knowledge of His truth, and in the next life eveilasting. The minister then concludes by praying that the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, ana the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, may remain with us all evermore. Amen. After a hymn is sung, follows the reading of the Command- ments, prefaced by the Lord's Prayer, and a Collect in which we acknowledge that to Almighty G^ all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid. We then ask Him to cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspira- tion of His Holy Spirit, that we may love ECim and magnify His holy name. How appropriate this prayer before reading the Command- ments, which you all know were written >by the finger of God, and given to Moses on Mount Sinai. Now, I propose here to illustrate each one for your instruc- tion, amusement, and I trust benefit, and may it, with Qod*B blessing, be instrumental in awakening your attention, and lead you to consider more earnestly the sin incurred by lightly regarding these Commandments. t" 16 SKETCHES FBOM LIFE. J ■ i - FIRST COMMA N.OM£NT. "Thou skalt have no other God." This commandment is fully understood by you all. You know there is but One. You also read in your Bible the judgments which those nations brought on themselves who, forsaking the worship of the true GU>d, bowed down to wood and stone. You who possess the inestimable privilege of living in a Christian land, where you can, without fear and trembling, worship the great and living God ; who on each succeeding Sabbath are invited to come into the courts of His house, think, I am sure, that you could never fall into the error of worshipping any other : still, we are all too ; prone to set our affections so firmly on earthly objects, that we * forget God, provoking Him to punish us by depriving us of our chraished idol. I will now rela^ ^ & case ot a very dear friend of mine, who, leaning too much on'an arm of flesh, gave to the creature what alone was due to the Creator. About a mile outside the beautiful village of Ilfracombe, Devonshire, England, there resided a gentleman with whose family we had been intimate acquaintances for years. Possessed of an almost princely fortune, he spent his time chiefly on his own estate, consoling his tenantry in trouble and rejoicing with them in prosperity. He was indeed one of nature's noblemen ; truth and honour were stamped on his countenance, and he justly gained the confidence of all Well do I remember the evening on which he brought home his young bride. Never had the bells of Badmosko Church rung out a more joyous peal than the one which welcomed HRST COMHANDMENT. 17 with their sweet chimes the lord of the manor to the princely home of his forefathers. All the villagers, in holiday attire, had •Msembled at the park gates, the children bearing baskets of flowers with which to strew the path of their beloved landlord. Every garden had been bespoiled of its richest blossoms to do honour to this occasion, and much happiness might have been augured for the young bride's future, from the bed of roses over which she passed into her husband's home. I, with my two sisters, had been staying a week with his sister, preparing every- thing for the reception of the bridal pair, and we now stood upon the terrace before the house awaiting their arrival The scene was almost oppressive with the intensity of beauty — ^what pencil could depict it, or who could gase on it un- moved ) The sun was just sinking in the glorious west, tinging all around with the golden hues of its departing splendour, the noble trees rich in their summer verdure, the thriving orchards, the velvet turf studded with flowers of evo^luw^ sloping down to the silver lake, on which quietly zeiled the stately swan. This, then, was the scene which greeted the eyes of the fair bride as she passed through the park gates. Every eye was strained to catch a glimpse of the future mistress, and loud and joyous were the shouts of welcome which fell upon her ears as she was lifted from the carriage and borne into the housA to me^t a double welcome there — " Oh I how wise is that decree Which hides from us faturity! " Gould that young and happy creature have then and there lifted the veU, how would that fair scene have faded into dark- ness and df spair. C 18 BKKTCHE8 FROM LIFB. k It would be impoMible for me to dwell on all the hAppineis enjoyed by this wedded pair, as hand in hand they walked together, administering to all the wants of the needy. Grace's winning beauty and gentle manner won all hearts; ever ready to listen, to sympathize and relieve all who walked in the humbler paths of life. Grace's love for her husband was nothing short of idolatry ; alas I she leaned on him, and him alone, content to rest solely on his strength and love. *' And only m he looked on high, Would raise her thoughts above;" forgetting God, from whom all her happiness was derived, and feeling gratitude alone to the husband, who, with unsparing liberality, lavished every kindness upon her. Alas, poor Grace ! terrible was the lesson taught before she saw the sin of setting np an earthly god. Within a year after the birth of a son, her idolized husband was stricken with brain fever, in consequence of a fall from his horse, and was hovering on the borders of the grave, when an urgent summons from Grace brought me once more to her side. Heartrending was the scene. Poor Grace's wild, almost insane agony was frightful to witness, as she dragged me to the bed- side of her beloved husband. I saw by the physician's face that he had given up all hope. All his skill, and the patient's wealth, so lavishly expended, failed to call back the spirit held in such iron bonds. The invalid lay wasted to a shadoi/i', burning with a consuming fever, which denied rest to his wearied frame. How melancholy to listen to the whispered voice, hushed FIRST CX>MMAirDMENT. 19 iitep and stifled sounds which heralded the deep quietness of death I — to see the traces of such intense suffering on the noble brow, the glassy eye which gave no answering look of love to the one who had so tirelessly watched by his sick bed I Poor Grace I it was sad to hear her words of wild entreaty to God for his life ; it was sinful. There was no meek submis- sion to His will as she poured out the anguish of her spirit, making as it were terms with God. " His life — she asked no more." All God's bounteous gifts she would gladly and wil- lingly resign for that one boon — " his life." Any chastening but this one — death ! Alas for poor Grace ! her rebellious prayer was answered ; the boon so mudly craved was granted ; the life so wildly prayed for was spared ; but with returning health reason's light was quenched for ever. I can find no words adequate to express the bitter anguish of the stricken wife, as the fatal truth struck with its stun- ning force upon her shattered nerves. She saw the idol she had bowed down to bereft of reason's powfer, and deprived of all those noble attributes which had so long caused her to for- get God, giving thanks to the creature before the Creator from whom all her blessings came. But God'a ways are not our ways; mysterious are His dealings with the children of men. It pleased Him in His own good time to sanctify this dreadful trial to my young friend. In the intensity of her happiness she worshipped an earthly God, but in the bitterness of her an- guish she found her heavenly one. With the deepest humility she acknowledged the justice of her punishment, and on bended knees confessed that God had bowed her rebel spirit down to His unerring will. mm 20 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. In this short tale you will see the danger incurred by break- ing this express command, that " we shall worship but one God." God will not suffer His glory to be given to another. From Him all good comes, and to Him alone belongs the honour. Let us, then, all beware how we so love our fellow-creatures as to exalt them above God, and thus provoke Him to deprive Ub by death of our cherished object ; or, as in the case before us, blot out that inestimable blessing — reason's light. SECOND COMMANDMENT. " Thou shalt not make to thyself any Graven Imagk" In this Second Commandment we are forbidden to set up an idol to worship. God declares in it, " for I am a jealous God, and will visit the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation." What a solemn warning to every parent ! Who can look upon their innocent children and not tremble at the contem- plitcion of being the instruments of bringing, by their wilful sin, such a curse as this on them ) And yet how many cases of drunkenness, disease and insanity do we meet with, in our daily walks through life, as transmitted by parents to children, to be by them yet further handed down to future generations. In considering this commandment you will remember how many cases are related in the Old Testament of people setting up idols to worship. Aaron made a golden calf for the Israel- ites, and King Nebuchadnezzar a golden image, and yen read how God punished them. Now, of course, we are not S'ilGOND COMMiin>MENT. 21 likely, as ia those days, to cut out images in gold, iron, wood or stone, and set them up as gods to worship and bow down to, because we know the utter uselessness of such an act ; but there is one thing all are too prone to make a god of, viz., gold — all acknowledge its mighty power, and the owners of it are courted and sought after for its sake. How often do we find people whose characters are very questionable, yet if they possess wealth their conduct is overlooked or leniently censured, and they are admitted into society which, but for their gold, would justly spurn them. You also see others, who, having been poor all t(heir lives, remain in obscurity notwithstanding their many excellent traits of character ; whilat others, who rise sud- denly from the poverty which the world despises to the enjoy- ment of unexpected wealth, are immediately courted and sought after by those who before this would never have noticed them. Whuo does Solomon say ? " What will riches profit a man in the day of wrath 1 He that trusteth them shall fall." And again, " A good name is rather to be chosen than gi-eat riches, and loving favour rather than silver and goldf" And our blessed Saviour exhorted His disciples " To lay not up for themselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt ; but in heaven, where neither moth nor rust can conupt, nor thieves break through nor steal." For He declares that " where your treasure is there will your heart be also." Alas I my dear young friends, we daily see the mass of mankind seeking diligently for the gold which perisheth, and too often neglecting, in their eager search after it, to lay up that treasure which is to consti- tute their eternal gain. I now wish to make this subject inte- resting to you by the short history of a roan with whom I was well acquainted, who, making an idol of his gold, died without 22 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. one hope for mercy ; he had shown none, but had made upto himself an idol to worship, had cruelly used its power, and found it could give no comfort in the hour of death. Mr. Tillett, who lived about a mile and a half out of the town where I resided, was, in the true sense of the word, a miser — loving gold for its own sake, and not for any good it gave him the power to do ; to relieve any distress, however urgent, either by a gift or loan, never, I feel sure, entered into his calculations. He had accumulated large sums of money by advancing it on mortgages, demanding usurious interest, and foreclosing without mercy as soon as they fell due ; he showed mercy to no man when money was the question. " His treasure was," as our Saviour declares, " on earth, and there was his heart also." He had an only sister, who lived some five miles distant from him ; this young girl had incurred his anger by uniting herself with a man who possessed no other means than his own industry, a thing altogether contemptible in his eyes ; and I feel sure he took a lAtvage delight in witnessing her struggles with poverty, when, after a few years of peaceful contentment with their lot, her kind husband was called away to enjoy the more lasting happiness of the world beyond the tomb. She made but one appeal to her brother — nothing but the sickness of her babes would have tempted her to have done so. This was a great triumph for Mr. Tillett, to have his sister sue for a portion of the wealth which she had denied as being at all necessary to ensure happiness, and had declared herself happier in her poverty than he was with all his wealth, wrung from the bitter necessities of his fellow-creatures. How he laughed her to scorn, and desired her to ask help of the unseen SECOND COMMANDMENT. 23 le upto found of the '^ord, a ^ood it )wever 3d into 5ing it 'losinsr 5rcy to was," heart listant niting IS own and I iJggles bment ►y the t the done sister )eing >rself rung 7 he seen God in whom she trusted, and not in the visible wealth she despise 1 ; for not one single sixpence would he give to save her or her i from the workhouse. Does not this shock you ) Can you fancy a brother condemn- ing his only sister and her children to poverty while he was steeped to he throat in riches? But did he not hurt himself more than he injured her he sought to persecd who gave it. A few words more and my tale is done. Mrs. Villiars gradu- ally faded away from the day of Marion's death. Remorse worked its slow but sure revenge on her delicate frame. She sought mercy with deep penitence and tears, and who shall dare to say that she found it not t As soon as she was committed to the grave I returned to my home, having been allowed, at the ear- nest request of Mrs. Villiars, to be with her till the last It was a melancholy scene which I had passed through, but it im- pressed more deeply on my mind the awful sin of breaking the fourth commandment, in which we are strictly bidden to " keep holy the Sabbath day." %■ 88 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. FIFTH COMMANDMENT. " Honour thy Father and thy Mother, that thy days ifay be long in the land which the lord thy god giveth thee." This commandment is, as you all know, the only one of the ten to which a promise is annexed. You read in the Bible of the severe punishments God always caused to overtake those who rebelled against their parents. Solomon exhorts his son to hear the instructions of his parents, assuring him that " a wise son maketh a glad father, but a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother ;" also, that " length of days, and long life and peace shall be added to him who forgets not his father's law." I can fancy no sin so likely to call forth God's anger as the disobedience of children to their parents. It would seem, indeed, as though they knew better than those whom God has appointed to be their guides and instruc- tors, if we judge by the saucy answers and rebellious looks of some young people when chided for their faults, or denied some amusement of which their parents do not approve. You should all remember this truth before setting at defiance the commands of your parents, that God will surely require at every mother's and father's hand the soul committed to their care, for He commands them to bring them up in His fear and love ; and if they will allow their children to walk unchecked in the broad path of sin, they will surely reap the seed of their own sowing. But from you, my dear young friends, I look for better things. You know what is due to your parents — the debt ci gratitude you owe, and which never can be paid — and I feel sate . IFTH COMMANDMENT. 39 your greatest delight will be to shield, by your loving care, their old age from any suffering you can prevent. I will now tell you a tale of a little boy whose short career on earth was characterised by the observance of this commandment, whose life was a sacrifice to his obedience, and whose patience under suffering and resignation to God's will leaves him as a bright example for children to follow in his footsteps. A young woman, who had been for years servant in our clergyman's family, formed an attachment to a mechanic whose name was Edward Maynard. He was an excellent workman, and found constant employment when sober, but he possessed such a love for ardent spirits that few liked to trust him. Jane having from her childhood lived in the best families, had ac- quired much of that taste which so unfitted her for the station she so foolishly chose for herself. In vain did all her friends, especially her good old master, remonstrate with her, pointing out the danger as well as the sin she was incurring by uniting herself to a man so addicted to drink ; but Jane, noor foolish girl ! fancied her influence would be all-sufficiont to wean her husband from this bad habit, and woke, as many have done before, from her dream of happiness, to find herself the neg* lected and ill-used wife of a drunkard. Poor Jane ! how bitterly she repented, now that repentance came too late ! She felt how wilfully she had closed her eyes to the sad fate all saw would be hers, and what sympathy could she claim ? Had she not walked into the snare in spite of en treaties and warning 9 and now she must bear a life-long burden of misery, doubly aggravated by seeing her helpless children suffering for her folly. The eldest boy, who is the hero of my tale, was a pretty, curly-headed, intelligent little fellow, in- heriting the natural refinement of his mother, of whom he was 40 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. paasionately fond, and for whose unhappiness he seemed to possess an intaitive sympathy from a very early age. He clang to her with an all-absorbing love, as if he fain would shield her from the brutality of his drunken father. His art- less efforts to render her lot less miserable was the only gleam of sunshine in her wretched existence. Many a night, when her brutal husband drove her with blows and harsh language to take shelter in her garden, would the little innocent boy fol- low her, and laying his head on uer bosom, speak words of love and comfort, and offer his artless prayer to Otod that this bitter cup might pass from his mother's lips. £dward was a great favourite with the clergyman, who took a most lively interest in all the youthful members of his flock ; but by the young wife of our kind physician he was almost idolized ; he was her pupil in the Sabbath school, and his intel- ligent mind was indeed fit soil in which to sow the seed of God's Word, sure of bringing forth fruit unto eternal life. Of ten did Mrs. Seymour discuss the character of her young pupil, but her love for him was always damped by the presentiment that he was not destined for this world. " He is too good, too bright," she would say, " to linger here." Alas ! how prophetic were her words ! When Edward was about twelve years of age, his father, who had long made use of his services, and tasked his delicate frame far beyond his strength, had insisted one afternoon upon his carrying a hui of brick up a ladder. The consequence was that the poor little fellow, overbalanced by the weight, fell just as he reached the top, and was carried home fearfully injured to his mother's cottage, who had but a few days previous added another infant to the miserable and ill-regulated household. Dr. Seymour and his kind wife did all that lay in their power FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 41 to alleviate the sufferings of the little patient, who bore without a murmur, for his mother's sake, all the pain caused by his in- juries, suppressing every moan lest she should fret because she was forced to yield the task of nursing him into the hands of others. It was with a heartrending burst of sorrow that Mrs. Sey- mour told me, about ten days after the accident, that her hua* band, who had hoped against hope all the time, had that morn- ing informed her that his injuries were beyond the skill of an earthly physician, and requested me to accompany her on a visit to her little favourite, whose short career was fast drawing to a close. As we walked along, Mrs. Seymour expressed to me the deep regret she felt at the anticipated death of the boy in whose wel- fare she had so long been interested ; although she could not but acknowledge the wisdom and mercy of that decree which would remove him from a life of suffering and misery to join the happy band of children who stand around our Saviour's throne. When we arrived at the cottage, I was struck with the sad change in the little patient. The sunken eye and labouring breath told a tale of fearful suffering. As Mrs. Seymour ad- vanced to his bedside, his eyes brightened, and with an excla- mation of delight, he endeavoured to raise himself from the pil- low. Mrs. Seymour gently raised him, whilst I fed him with some strawberries we had brought, w refreshing to his parched uid fevered lips. Poor £dward had that morning been told by Dr. Seymour of his hopeless state, and now he begged of Mrs. Seymour " to be kind to his dear mother for his sake." He said " her grief had been harder to bear than all his pain ; oh, try and comfort her, 42 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. my beloved fceioher ! " coatinaed the litUe boy. " Exhort her to be resigned to God's will. Tell her that my eonstant, earnest prayer since I lay here has been that Gk>d may change my father's heart, and make him kind to mother. I know ho>.' sorry he will feel when I am gone that he did not listen to my entrea- ties not to be sent up the ladder with such a heavy weight. I knew I should fall, for I felt so weak in my head that morning ; but it was my duty to obey my father, and I tried — ^indeed I did, dear teacher ; but my eyes got so dark that I missed the step, and could not recover myself when I felt the hod falling over. Father said, * I did it on purpose, so that I might have an ex- cuse to stay at home ; ' but you will not believe I could be so wicked — you who have taught me the beauty of truth, of Ood, of my Saviour. I can never repay the debt of gratitude I owe you, my beloved teacher ; but you will not forget me, and let your little boys sometimes visit my grave, and teach them the priceless value of the religion which takes from me all fear of death. My mother — ^my darling mother — ^is the only sting I feel" ** Say no more, dear Edward," exclaimed Mrs. Seymour, as the little boy fell back with exhaustion, ** I will, with God's help, never forsake your mother or the children, and will use every effort to reclaim your father. God will listen to your prayers, dear, and although it is His will that you should not live to see their fulfilment, you may rest assured in His promise, that * whatever you ask in His Son's name, believing, it shall be granted unto you.' " Mrs. Seymour then knelt down, and offered a short and sim- ple prayer adapted to the wants of the dying boy, who, clasping his poor little thin hands together, earnestly joined with feeble voice in the Lord's prayer ; at the conclusion he fell into a FIFTH COMMANDMENT. sweet sleepy whilst we walked into the other room to see the heart-broken mother, who, weakened by ill usage and her late illness, seemed unable to oope with the bitter trial awaiting her. " Oh, madam I what does the doctor say about my darling boy 9 " exclaimed the poor woman an we approached her bed- side ; " Oh, will he die Y " Mrs. Seymour, accustomed to witness all kinds of both bodily and mental suffering, whilst visiting her husband's patients, gently strove to prepare her for the sad truth which her husband had that day confirmed — violent sobs, and tears were all she could gain from the wretched woman. The certainty that her sole comfort was about to be taken away rendered her almost insane in her agony, and gladly did we hail the entrance of the dear beloved clergyman (her old master), who had just stepped in, his daily custom, to pray with the little sufferer. Sweetly did he talk to the miserable mother of ihst bright and glorious home to which her child was fast traveling, and of that compassionate Saviour who had called the little chil- dren to HinL He then prayed fervently to the GkMi of all power aud might, to give a spirit of resignation to the heart rebel- ling against His decree, and to grant that the stroke which was almost crushing the mother might in His own good time be the means of awakening her husband to a sense of his guUt, and bring him an humble penitent to the footstool of our Redeemer, who has promised, " Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow ; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool" The sobs of the poor mother became less violent, and she bore, with mure oompoeure than we expected, the doctor's visit. He told her, as he thought it beet, the truth, ** that there now existed not a shadow of hope, as mortification had already set 44 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. in, and the one comfort he oould alone give her was that the few short hours would be free from suffering." He then appeared very anxious that preparations should be made for the night, and asked who was to remain with the little boy ? Maynard's conduct had always been so rude and almost insulting to those who had kindly offered their services, that few were willing to subject themselves to it, and the nurse had as much as she could attend to, for the infant was fretful, owing to the restless state of its mother, and required constant care. Mrs. Seymour requested her husband to allow her to stay, and as I was only too glad to assist her, the doctor, after some little hesitation, consented, and after giving directions what he wished to be done, left us to keep our sad watch in the cham- ber of death. Dear Edward passed a quiet night, free from all bodily suf- fering ; although when morning dawned it was plain to all that on him another sun would never rise. It was beautiful to witness this young .boy's trusting faith. The idea of leaving his beloved mother to all her trials and sufferings, uneolaced by his love, had been the one great trouble which had weighed so heavily on his spirit during his sickness ; but now that anxiety seemed at rest, with such perfect confidence did he commend her to his Heavenly Father's care. About 8 o'clock in the morning Maynard rose to his break- fast, and coming into the room, asked in the most insulting manner what we did there ; that we were only encouraging that lazy boy in his £Euicy for lying on his bed and shirking all work; and declared that if he did not get up, he would pull him out of bed and compel him to go. A cry of agony from the mother told that she had heard the Finn COMM AKDMBNT. 45 the brutal threat. This so exasperated him that he went to the bedside, and was about to seuse the child, when I caught his arm and dared him at his peril to touch the boy. Whether the signs of death so strongly marked in Edward's face de- terred him, I know not, but disengaging his arm from my grasp, he left the cottage with an oath of defiance on his lips. A few minutes only elapsed ere the doctor and clergyman both arrived, and by their presence restored peace to our agitated spirits. The shock, however, to the little boy's exhausted frame proved too much for further endurance. He struggled to rise ; as Mrs. Seymour raised him up a stream of blood gushed from his mouth ; and, his head falling on her bosom, his redeemed and purified spirit returned to Him " with whom is no vari- ableness or shadow of changing." On the next Sabbath afternoon dear Edward was borne to his last resting place. Beautiful and most impressive was the address of the minister to his young flock as they surrounded the grave of their lost companion. How earnestly he exhorted them all to follow his bright example in the obedience he had shown in keeping the commandment to honour his parents. No treatment, however harsh or unjust, had tempted him to depart from the respect due to his father. His life had been given as a sacrifice to his obedience ; aud now, who could doubt that he was reaping a bright reward, in the land beyond the tomb, of life eternal and a crown of glory that fadeth not away 1 Some years passed before Maynard was brought to a sense of his wickedness, but, thank Qod, who doeth all things well, the prayers of his little son and the efforts of Mrs. Seymour were crowned with success, and he became as remarkable for 46 8KITCHI8 FBOM LIFE. his sober and good conduct m he had been for the contrary. He never forgave himself for being indirectly the cause of hit son's death, and endeavoured by all means in his power to follow the footsteps of his sainted child. Jane had at last the satisfiictioD of seeing her husband respected by those who had once both hated and feared him. Their children were well educaUnl, and they are now in their turn, teaching their chil- dren to obey the commandment of Qod which bids all '< to honour their father and mother, that their days may be long in the land." A SIXTH COMMANDMENT. "Thou shalt do no Murder. i You will, my dear young friends, wonder among yourselves how I can illustrate the Sixth Gommandment by any event in my life. You will not think it possible that I was likely to be placed in any scene where the crime of murder was per- petrated. But, alas ! it was my lot many years ago to be wit- ness of such a deed, and also to give evidence on the trial which followed its commission. But before I tell you the particulars of this sad event in my life, I cannot forbear pausing to make an urgent appeal to you all against the danger of yielding yourselves a prey to tur- bulent passions. No one can say where its consequences are to end. Remember the first murder that was ever committed, and the fearful curse pronounced. " And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy SIXTH COMMANDMINT. 47 iry. bif r to b the who well ohil- l "to slong jlves ^vent in likely ras per- be witr wbich brotVdr's blood from thy hand ; when thou tillest the groand, it ibftll not henceforth yield unto yon her itrength ; % fbgi- tiye and a vagabond ahalt thou be in the earth.** What oauaed thia dread deed 1 We read, " Gain waa very wrath." Yet, anger caused a brother to ipill the blood of a brother. The effects of anger are dreadful ! Do not make the vain boast that you are not likely to commit murder. Are we our own keep« ors 1 If we allow passion to be our master, who can say that we are able to keep it within bounds t It is in its effects at fatal as the mighty avalanche which sweeps all before it. I have seen so much ryi] from its effects, I have suffered. so deeply, that it makes me so much more urgent with yoU, my dear gurls, to shun its direful consequences. A blow struck in a moment of passion sent a beloved son of mine to an early grave— a boy in whose future so many hopes were centred, whose talents promised success in life, and whoso kind and amiable disposition endeared him to all. Never shall I forget that day ; he had left me at one o'clock to resume his studies, whistling a merry tune as he wended his way, little dreaming that he had looked his last on his home and mother. At three he was brought home in a lifeless state, and, without being able to articulate a single word, expired in about fifteen minutes. The anguish and bitterness of that hour — ^who can picture it 9 All my fond hopes for him blasted by that wicked blow, struck in a moment of passion. What a day of darkness and despair, in which all the kind sympathy I received from the peo- ple in St. Thomas (where this sad event happened) failed to give one iota of comfort ! A young man wrote some lines upon this sad event, which he had printed and sent to me ; they are so prettj, that I will here transcribe them for you, that you may feel convinced that \ * 48 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. this is not a mere made-up tale that I am writing on the Sixth Oommandment : — " I gazed upon thee yesterday, in all the hope and pride Of joyous boyhood, when the earth aeemed bright on every side ; /old ranny dreams were passing then, thy youthful spirit o'er ; But oh I I dreamed not that the sun should set on thee no more. " And when I gased upon thee, the future seemed to be One long and bright and joyous path of happiness to thee— A pathway deoked with many flowers, of beauty and of bloom, But oh I no cloud of death was there — no shadow of the ton\b. " Oh I God, how wonderful to man is Thy mysterious will t Oh ! teaoh us in Thy chastening hand to see Thy mercy still ; Teach us to rest our hopes upon the merits of Thy Son, To bow before Thy throne and cry, * Father, Thy will be done ! ' *' And thou, fond mother, though thy heart is crushed and sad to-day, Remember it is Gk>d who gives, and God who takes away. WheE this d^k pilgrimage is o'er, earth's sorrows and its gloom. Thy boy shall yet be with thee, in the land beyond the tomb." I will now proceed to tell you another scene of which I was an eye-witness, and which, I feel sure, will still more fully con- vince jou all of the danger of giving undue sway to^our wicked r>assions. Let us endeavour, with God's help, to stifle the evil in the bud, being encouraged by the promise that *' Gkxl is faithful, and who will not s.iffer us t? be tempted above that we are able ; but will, with the temptation also, make a way to escape that we may be able to bear it." Situated about sixteen miles from the town where we resided was an exc^ent inn, where travellers going to and fro from the town of I — •-— always stopped to dine or sup, or rest their horses. The landlord was a very respectable man, kept a good SIXTH COMMANDMENT. 49 Lxih de; re. U *. 11; lonel' d to-day, le resided I from the ftt their )tagood house, and carried on a Buooessftil business. He was, generally speaking, a quiet, shy man, although at times it was said he gave way to fearful bursts of passion ; but all allowed that his fits of anger were causod by the aggravating, sarcastic spirit of his wife. I knew nothing more of this couple than could be learned by staying occasionally a few hours at their house, when passing from one town to another. They were both ex- ceedingly civil and kind to their guests, and made every effort for their comfort. I was one evening with my brother and sister returning home from the town of I , where we had been enjoying the Christmas festivities, when a violent snow-storm suddenly overtook us, and so blinded the horses that it was nearly mid- night before we reached the inn. It wa& long after the time travellers would be likely to be expected, so the parlour fire had been suffered to die out, and we gladly accepted the land- lord's invitation to seat ourselves before the kitchen fire, in order that we might dry our wet clothes, which were saturated with the snow that had been falling for the last four houi-s. The landlord was most pressing on us to remain all night, but we know that they were expecting us at home, and as the storm seemed abating we were anxious to continue our journey As we required no supper, the landlord got us some biscuits and proceeded to mull some spiced wine, which is done by heating red-hot a poker and stirring it into the wine. He had been drinking himself, but was certainly not intoxicated, be- cause he talked very rationally to my brother about some law business which my father was transacting for him. As his wife had not made her appearance, according to bar general custom when females were in the house, we concluded that she had retired to bed ; and were very much astonished when she II jf.<,!m^fmfw^^m^^^mmmif^ wmm ■hm mm s > 50 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. entered the kitchen, and, without taking the slightest notice of OS, commenced lavishing on her husband the most insulting %nd opprobrious epithets, evidently in reference to some former dispute. Her husband, white as death, desired her to leave the room, directing her attention to us, but it was of no avail So bitter and sarcastic were the taunts which issued from her lips, that she seemed more like a demoA than a woman. She uriif have seen that her husband was trembling with suppressed passion. Why then did she tempt him i This 'a a question I cannot answer. I only know that before my brother could interfere, the incensed man, goaded on by passion seemingly beyond his control, had snatched the sharp red-hot poker 'm>m the fire, and hurled it, all hissing as it was, at the wretched woman. She fell ; the iron had penetrated the lungs, and she never spoke again. Fancy the fearful remorse of that man as he gaced on the body of his victim ! What would he not have done could he have recalled the life his hand had taken ! I trust that I may never be called upon to witness such another scene ; it was almost too frightful for contemplation. At the trial, we, of course, could not deny, as evidence, the extreme provocation he had received. We felt certain that the deed was done in the moment when, passion asserting its full power, reason had trembled in the balance. So deep and bitter was the remorse of the poor prisoner, that he died a broken-hearted man within nine months. As my father was well known to the chaplain of the gaol, we had no difficulty in obtaining free permission to visit the poor man. It was at first, he told us, almost impossible to impress on his mind that there could be pardon for him ; he could not realife the condescension of that love which, having bought his soul at 'i*W»ftllil4*«t;i»«,v:i iticeof lolting Fonner ^leftve »avaiL jmher . She tstioni r could >iningly er i^m retched Euidaihe on the lould he ktlmay ; it was moe, the that the gits full meif that As my ehad no rman. It IS on his otieaDxe is soul at SEVKNTH CJOMMANDMENT. «»<• that w»e hiB refiual to IlZt* ^ "" ««Jnii«tton, "~ived „ .„ „^ fo, ^ ^ »» 'he p„,««i„„ ^, ^ be 80 u„p„^ ,it^ ^^ »* hem of the poor penitent to «c««. for Mn«elf, bat eZ o^'f I '"' ""«*' *» ""*» no •»aity precluded aU .ttemZr/? "^ '*'"^ i hie deep h«. of hie wife, a«g„.v«Sii *" '"^ """"^ «» P'<« £:rjret^--^irT-^^^^^ blamelew .t the throne of oT *"" ""' P'«»nt him -''XtztTh3ra^'"'?'"*''»-'■'•- ^»yo„totheve.ee,inr^S^::;'»-«»' '""^ •low to «^er is of peat "d^^^ 1^ '^^ " H* *hM i, »wth, but grievone worded'. * '»*"»»"'•' turneth away endeavour to ,tifle..«;l^;j^,J«r; l*t „, then, aj the coneuttmation of the deed «,d wM *'^ "'*"»»W, ie«l to "^ty.andwiil .u«lyir;rtS""^'-ye.»eju« condemnation of that law whL ™« "' ""<•» the murder." "'' "'"'* "y - " Thou ehalt do no SEVENTH COMMANDMENT. "Tho,; SHALT NOT COMMIT Al,m.t«T" mmmmm mmm 6t SKETCHES FROM LIFE. are all old enough to understand that marriage was instituted by God, in the time of man's innocency, to signify the mystical union between Ohrist and His Church. You will also remember that it was at a marriage feast, honoured with our Saviour's presence, that he performed His first miracle, that of turning water into wine ; which event has been so beautifully expressed by a young clergyman in these words — ' ' fhe modest water, awed by Power Divine, Confess'd its Ood, and blushed itself to wine." Bfarriage thus being a sacred ordinance, instituted by God Himself, should never be lightly undertaken either by man or woman. If you read the marriage service appointed by our CShurch, you will there find that the most solemn obligations are entered into by both parties, to cherish and love one ano- ther till death parts them; there is no other reservation- death, and death alone, is to part those whom God has joined together, and therefore no man must put them asunder. Is it not dreadful to read of so many cases of divorce daily taking place t No excuse but the most frivolous ones ; they have taken the yoke upon them and will not bear it Husbands desert their wives, wives their husbands, thus causing the crime o^ adultery to run riot through the land. How many young people, deaf to the advice of their parents, rush as it were into matrimony, without a thought of all the serious and important duties which await them in their new sphere, simply because tl^eir home duties had become distasteful, and they craved a change ; finding out, \f^hen too late, that duties where neither love nor forbearance dwells are jnore irksome than those from which they had so undutifully fled. Some will make no eil- ' '"^»nini|liiMii iitiji itituted aystical nember iviour'a turning t)y God man or . by oar igations one ano- nation— B joined r. rce daily tiey have is desert crime o^ y young irere into nportant r because craved a e neither LOse from e no en- 53 SEVENTH 001ClCAm)MENT ^, r *<• '"• "«.oHty of .ZZ «Tr "" '"^ ""' '^ obey WW not binding on them^^ . . ' ^""^ "»««»« to «»»»«d that . wi/ell2rh,!r'* '*''' '• ■' »»' 6 d.yforthrdiSTL",?"'^'"" «*■" thett husband's home without »^ u ^ fi»«y ; and go to »» »•. «d I thin[:;:xtsr""r''''''«''^°- short distance from me r h!; u """ '"'^ ""d » very «frJ ; she was ve^r h Jh Jnt^ ."^ '^'^ «"»»*"• 'vhenT fortunately for hi. CVZ^T^^'"' »''»''*"'• ^n. twemh y«^ ,i^, ^,»;*- ^d just as she attained her -other was most needed to (Tn . ^ ""* ^"''''^»"' ««» of a A nmiden sister of her fi^.""* """•" ^er character. '^ of this motherless ^^ 1"."""" ''"-«'»««'7 to take '-oh . task could not havelJenl '^" "■"" ""«"«« for 54 SKETCHES FBOM LIFE. posaesBing no talent for training such a girl as Laura. Her faults were all nourished by'injudicions indulgence as, her aunt, proud of her niece's superior beauty and natural wit, never heeded the dormant beauties of her mind, which were choked by the weeds of her own planting. She was placed at a fashionable boarding-school without one principle to guide her, her highest aim being to deceive all those in authority over her ; and so well did she succeed that at the age of seventeen she eloped from school with a young man of whom she knew nothing except that he was remarkably handsome, and a delightful partner in the dance. Both her father and aunt were, as you may readily believe, ftiriou9 when they heard of her marriage ; but never paused to consider how much of the blame might justly be imputed to themselves. No, this was quite overlooked, and their fury poured out on the head of the erring girl, who, after all, was more sinned against than sinning. Laura, as you may believe, commenced her married life with no more idea of its sacred re- sponsibilities than a child of six years. There was no manner of regularity in the management of her household, foi those duties were a sealed letter to her. Too soon Mr. Granville found that lady-like manners and a pretty face were not all sufficient to render home happy ; he soon became indifferent to the loveliness which had enchanted him, and kept away as much as possible from his ill-regulated household. Laura would often come to me and pour out her complaints, but it was impossible to make her sensible that she was in reality the culprit. There was no principle to work on, con- sequently it was useless to reason with her — she resolutely closed her eyes to all her senseless folly. |She would call her husband " cold, cruel and heartless ; " and many^ instead of SBVENTH COiniANDMBNT. con- <»- a.0 topic of o„ ««.d.,7i to^*" «'«8«.me„ta be- I.«i» b««ae th. mother of. Ktl , "t <«»^ that I never tho^ {^^ ^""* * '^ <>•«- t" tut we began eo h^TCltoi""' "^ ,'•" «"y «»«-'«*■ <-?' H » to erJcte th, iTea ^T ''""'^ "^ lf]IAin>llEllT. «7 and haying made arrangemanta with me for the ftitoie of hii little daughter, procured a oomminion in a foreign regiment, and left England immediately. My dear little nuneling continued with me till she was eighteen months old, and was grown a fine healthy-looking girl A.hout this time a maiden sister of Mr. Granville's came, and informing me of th ; death of her brother, requested to have her infant niece cuufided to her care. I was most unwil- ling to part from darling Nellie, but I had no authority to keep her from her father's family. So we parted, and I never saw my sweet foster-child again ; she fell a victim to scarlet fever within a year tSUae her departure. Since I have been in Canada, I have heard of Laura's death. After yean spent in sin and folly, she died an outcast of so- ciety, without one real friend to smooth her dying pillow or whisper words of loving kindness in her ear. No bright assur- ance of pardon could have soothed her last moments, for deli- rium in all its horrors was the companion of her death-bed. This, then, was the sad end of one whose superior personal beauty and natural talent, had they been turned to account, might have rendered her an ornament of the society she out- raged. May this tale, my dear young friends, warn you of iho folly and danger of such a course. Is it not ridiculous to hear so many young persons declare that "they do not care what people think of them, or say of them, as loi^ as they are con- scious that they commit no crime 1 " Let me assure you, that that very fancied security under which you act is frequently your rain. No female can bid defiance to public opinion, and retain that respect which ought to be her saf^uard. Every appearance of evil should be as jealously guarded against as the 8» SKVTCHIS FBOX LITE. evil itself. It is no proof of your freedom from oriminality, becMM you are really pare, if your actions are of saoh a nature as to condemn you. The world is censorious ; therefore all need so to guard themselves that the whispered slander can^ not tarnish their fair name. Fancy such a death-hed as Laura Granville's ! Certainly we cannot, ought not, or dare to fix any limits to the mercy of the Almighty ; but still we can have but little hope in a death such as this. It was, indeed, a just punishment, and one that will sooner or later surely de* Bcend on the heads of all those who live and die in open defiance of the commandment which forbids us '^ To commit adultery." EIGHTH COMMANDMENT. *^TH0U SHALT NOT STEAL." Tms commandment, which forbids us taking anything to which we can lay no claim, requires our serious consideration. You know as well as I can tell you that many people imagine by just taking a trifle that they do not injure the persou from whom they take it, so that it lessens the sin ; they, perhaps, never go beyond what they call little thefts, and who, while they would neither take clothes out of a drawer, or money out of a purse, think it no crime to help themselves to tea, su- gar, fruit or any other nicety which they have taken a fancy to. But surely they forget that anyone who takes a trifle to- day may feel less scruple in seizing on something of greater value to-morrow ; and thus it is that from small beginnings, yice overjruns the whole character, and utter ndn but too fr^ \ IIOHTH OOmtANDMVMT. m quenily entoes. It ii in Tain for anj one to laj I do not intend to ran saeh lengths. The effect of sin ii powerftil — it it M miwhieyont m a small spark, whioh, when falling upon tinder, is not only sufficient to kindle fires in every chamber of a house, but eyen to consume the entire building. Oountless are the arguments advanced that so many have become rich by dishonest gains, and I do not seek to deny it ; but have they become happy 1 We only see fine houses,clothe8, and equipages, but we do not see the heart. The worm at the root of all the enjoyment — that is concealed from our eyes. Be- lieve this important truth, that people are really happier with honest gains, than those who are feasting on the prosperity of others, though they should disdain even to look at them. The day of retribution comes at last, though sometimes long de- layed ; and many who fancied themselves secure in the enjoy- ment of their ill-gotten wealth, have found themselves a scorn and reproach to all. Now, I will tell yon a short tale which will, I think, illua- trate this troth, that " honesty is the best policy," even in a worldly sense ; how much more so when we consider from whom the command came, " Thou shalt not steal." A gentleman who resided in the north of England, and pos- sessing large estates, left the management of them to a steward for a great number -of years in order that he might reside abroad, the death of his beloved wife having rendered the place distasteful to him, as reminding him of his irreparable loss. He left the strictest orders that all the good should be done among his tenantry as if he were amongst them himself. Sir Stanley Irwin was a just and upright master, kind to all his dependants, giving freely of his store for their happiness and coinfort. But he lacked submissiofi to the will of God^ 60 8KET0HI8 FROM LIFE. who had deprived him of his mott trearared idol, and left home to reside in a foreign land, to bnrj hii sorrow among strangers. His steward was bj nature morose and hard-hearted, with an eye solely for his own aggrandisement ; he was both hated and feared by the villagers, for he punished with unsparing hand any trespass on the game rights of the manor. After a period of 18 years he one morning received a letter from Sir Stanley, desiring him to have everjrthing put in order at the manor-house for the reception of himself, his widowed daugh- ter and children, and expressed a hope that he should find everything in a flourishing condition. That Sir Stanley would ever return to the scene of his great sorrow never for a mo- ment entered into the calculations of his steward ; and now thus suddenly to be called upon to give an account of his stew- ardship — how could he answer for the possession of flocks and herds and lands, without confessing that they had been pur- chased with the money entrusted to him by his master for the relief, comfort and assistance of the needy, sick and afflicted tenants on the estate? His salary, although very handsome and adequate to his wants, could not by any possibility have been so eked out as to justify him in the possession of so much wealth. Where was the good done among the tenants to be found ) Not in repaired cottages, for which the inhabitants were so often by him distrained for rent ; leaking roofs and unp^f^stered walls, broken doors and patched windows, told how little atten- tion had been paid to the landlord's wishes. He had been living in affluence for years — ^revelling in wealth wrung from the bitter necessities of others. He remembered how often the clergyman of the parish had besought him to write to Sir Stanley about ameliorating the condition of his tenantry^ an4 \ raOHTH COMMA]n>MENT. SO. Sir U to whom he had always held up Sir Stanley as aa hard a taak- maater aa Pharaoh among the Israelites. He had sown, by dis- honest and cmel conduct, ill-will and discontent among the people, and the once peaoefiil, simple tenantry had become a set of outlaws bidding defiance to both law and justice. The steward was in despair ; he saw the day of retribution at hand, and was too well acquainted with Sir Stanley's char- acter to hope for any less punishment than the loss of his situ- ation and a blasted name. He could not even do as we read the unjust steward did in our Saviour's parable, make friends among those he had oppressed ; for his unpopularity he could plainly read in the averted eye and half-muttered impre- cation whenever he came nigh. He had not one friend, for all had been equally oppressed. How was his noble, kind-hearted master to be met t Would he not come expecting, as he had a just right to expect, a flourishing village and happy tenantry rejoicing in the plenty provided for them by their generous landlord f A month — one little month — ^this was all that was given him to prepare, for how could Sir Stanley droam of all the wheels to be set in motion ? What was to be done f How could he stand face to face with his master and give an account of his stewardship t This was the dread question which he dared not answer. Had he not by usury and unjust gain increased his store, turned a deaf ear to the cries of the suppliant ? And now he found every- thing slipping from his grasp. It would be his turn now to sue for the mercy he had denied to others, and conscience told him how little he deserved it. Everything around proclaimed him a thief, and one of the worst stamp, for he had abused the trust confided to him by his master, filling his barns with the produce which should have been given to others. 11 62 SK1ETCHES FROM LIFE. Time, however, does not stand still, and swiftly did it seem to travel to the wretched man as on the day appointed Sir Stanley Irwin once more stood in the halls of his forefathers. A few days sufficed for an investigation of his estate, and to his surprise and indignation he found that he had ranked in the mind of the clergyman and of his tenants as a cruel, hard master, who refused to aid his people. The guilt of the pale trembling culprit as he stood before his judge was sufficiently depicted in his countenance. Confession was needless, and he was by Sir Stanley immediately dismissed his service with the ignominy he so well merited ; but first he was made to make what restitution lay in his power, and thus was he driven in his old age from home with the brand that he had himself stamped upon his brow, because he had refused to obey God's commandment that — ' * Thon Shalt not steal. " NINTH COMMANDMENT. "Thou shalt not bear False Witness against thy Neiohboxtr." This commandment, my dear young Mends, of the six which are devoted to duty to our neighbour, calls, I think, for very serious consideration, for it is so frequently broken. Hardly a day passes in which we do not hear of irremediable mischirf being caused by its influence among the dearest friends and acquaintances. Suraly all who practise this sin forget the heinousness of it in the sight of the God of truth, and who has "•■*»"t»W**C" NINTH GOMMANDMSNT. :hy fcble Inds the I has erpreealy declared that " lying lips are an abomination to the Lord." How careful should we aU be, when repeating anything, to be strictly truthful in our narration. Some people indulge in such a habit of gross exaggeration, that they ever speak only in a hyperbolical manner ; others misrepresent facts from a careless, thoughtless habit ; but many, I am sorry to say, do it for the real loye of the mischief which they are well aware will follow. Some are so fond of repeat- ing everything they hear said against another, and finding ready listeners, add little by little every time, thus making a mountain of the molehill, and it is impossible ^o tell where the consequences wiU end. , Tou have, I dare say, ail read the laughable story of the ** Three Black Crows," simple in itself, but a very conclusive argument against the sin of exaggeration. My object in this little work is to point out the danger to which we all expose ourselves when deviating from the right path. I am going to tell you a tale on this particular subject, and I trust it may act as a warning to all young people, and prove the necessity of truthfulness in your recitals of any event passing under your notice. But before I commence I will just pause here to tell an anecdote which happened a few jears since, the fidsily of which cooled a friendship which has never revived its former warmth. A lady with whom I used to visit, and be on very intimate terms with, was remarkable for her very untidy dress and ha- bits ; but such was the natural grace of her form and manner, that it was not so much noticed as it would have been, I dare say, on a less pretty-looking person. We had always been warm friends, but I perceived after a whUe a great and marked coolness in her manner towards me ; she came less frequently 64 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. to see me, and asked me as seldom. It was some time before I heard the reason, and then a lady informed me that " I need not wonder at Mrs. 's coolness, for I had made use of a very unkind and unladylike expression concerning her to Miss L " Not having the slightest recollection of having done so, I requested to know what it was that I had said, and was told that in the presence of two or three I had made the remark to Miss L , " that Mrs. always looked like a dirty dishcloth." After considering for a while, I distinctly remembered that one afternoon some ladies were, in my presence, making remarks upon the untidy appearance of Mrs. , on whom they had just been calling. Miss L joined very ill-na- turedly and sneeringly into the debate against her, and I, feeling provoked that she should thus speak of one with whom she visited, and I knew had been very kind to her, made the remark, that " it certainly was a pity she was so careless, but they must all allow that did she but tie a dishcloth round her waist, she would still look the lady." Now you see how these words were misrepresented by Miss L , causing a coolness to spring up between two people who had always been friendly with each other. Of course I received an apology from Mrs. for having allowed herself to be so prejudiced, and I accepted it, but there was always afber> wards a restraint between us, though probably by this time Mrs. has forgotten all about it. I will now proceed to tell you another event in my life, which will, I think, fully illustrate the misery which can be caused by breaking the commandment now under our consideration. About a mile from the town in which I resided after I was married, there lived a lady to whom I became exceedingly at- Jj' 1/ NINTH COMMANDMENT. 65 tachod ; she was my senior by twenty-four years, and being both wise and clever, was a friend any young person might have felt proud of possessing. I certainly was, for she was noted for being extremely particular in the choice of her associates. To me she was all kindness and generosity, and with the tender loving kindness of a mother did she act the part of a sincere friend. She would frankly tell me of my faults, and advise me against their repetition. Fortunately for me, I had the sense to value her friendship, and endeavoured to profit by it, although many of my younger companions would sneer, and ask " if I were willing to be kept in leading strings all my life ) " But as time went on, my affection for Mrs. Stanley increased more and more with my better knowledge of her. I had, with my nurse and three children, been spending a few weeks at the sea-side, and had been home about three weeks, when I began to wonder why Mrs. Stanley, who had always before this been the first to welcome me home, had not paid her accustomed visit ; and I was the more surprised, because she had stood sponsor for one of my twin daughters, who was named Florence after her, and in whose welfare she had always taken the sincerest interest, frequently telling me that " as she had no children of her own, I must spare this little one to hei-." Fancying she might be from home or unwell, I determined to drive over and see what was the matter. Accordingly I did so, and to my utter astonishment was told by her footman that " his mistress was engaged with company, and could not conve- niently receive me." This message perfectly petrified me. How often had I gone to see her when some of her most distin- guished guests were there, and she would take no excuse firom me, that I did not know she had company, but insist upon me F m SKETCHES FROM LIFE. coming in and joining her party ; and now she would not even see me. What could occasion this change 1 I was so mortified that I could scarcely command myself sufficiently to drive from the door. On my way home I thought over everything that I could possibly think of which could have given offence ; always having loved her so fondly, I could not dream of a word or action which could have caused her displeasure. I felt quite ill ; the more I thought of her conduct, the more unaccountable it appeared ; but as I was conscious that I had done nothing to merit her cool treatment, I was determined to avrait patiently the unfolding of the mystery. Weeks passed away, and I saw nothing of Mrs. Stanley ex- cept at church, and then it seemed to me that she studiously avoided me, a cool bow being all the notice I received. I had a very large circle of acquaintances, but there was not one indi- vidual amongst them all whom I loved like Mrs. Stanley. This was of course well known, and the coolness now subsisting be- tween us "became a topic of conversation among those who were not a little jealous of the familiar notice she bestowed on me. Mrs. Summerville, the wife of our curate, and who had with Mrs. Stanley stood sponsor for the other twin, was the only person who ventured to mention the subject to me, and offered, with my permission, to ask an explanation of Mrs. Stanley for conduct so galling to me, and for which she thought I had a right to demand a reason. I had fretted so much about it, that I had become nervous and ill, and therefore gladly ac- cepted Mrs. Summerville's offer, although I had but faint hopes of buoefiting by it. A few days elapsed before Mrs. Summerville called upon me , NnrrH GOMHAMDMENT. 67 a it. >e8 le ! agam, and gave me an aoconnt of her meetiilg with Bin. Stan- ley. I give it in her own words. " When I requested Mrs. Stanley, as her minister's wife, to inform me why she had pursaed snch a coarse of conduct to- wards one whom she had always loved, or professed to do, she was unwilling to give her reasons, although she seemed to consider them amply sufficient to justify the course she had pursued. I thought differently, and told her so ; also, that to treat any one with such marked coolness, without giving a rear son, was an a«st of injustice tiiat I had too good an opinion of her character to think she would persist in : it was due to you that she should at least give you a chance of defending your- self. Mrs. Stanley, at last, feeling convinced that I was right, told me, that * during your absence at the sea-side she had re- quested the assistance of the young ladies in town to help to decorate her rooms for a' dance which she was giving. While they were engaged, she had expressed regret that you were not there to help, because you were so fond of arranging flowers,' &c. Miss Vicars then asked Mrs. Stauley ' how she could think so much of you 1 declaring thnt the regard you professed for Mrs. Stanley was nothing but hypocrisy, put on fpr the sake of what you gained by it,' and added, that ' you yourself had told her that you would never have asked Mrs. Stan- ley to have stood sponsor for your little girl, only you expected some handsome presents ;' adding further, that you had said ' it was the only thing to render palatable the lectures you were sure to receive from her as a godmother.' Again, that 'you had expressed a conviction that Mrs. Stanley i^as jealous of you, for she had herself said so ;' and more ill-natured Uiings Miss Vicars said^ which I have no patience to repeat *< Mrs. Stanley then asked Miss Vicars * whether what she 68 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. had asserted was ih reality troe, because if so all most be at an end between yon/ This was evidently all Miss Vicars required ; to sever the friendship between you seemed her aim, and she again and again positively asserted that you had said all this to herself. Mrs. Stanley, both her pride and af- fection wounded, and not suspecting any one would dare to tell a deliberate falsehood, unfortunately took for granted what Miss Vicars had told, and the conversation dropped, Mrs. Stanley appearing so hurt that the young people were afraid she would g* ve up the party, a thing they by no means desired. " This, then, is Mrs. Stanley's account ; it now remains for you to contradict or confess its truth." Words would be all inadequate to express my horror at this t&ie of slander, and it was so long before I could compose my- self to speak that Mrs. Summerville thought it best to leave me for a few hours ; and, promising to return in the evening, left me to ponder over a tale which well-nigh drove me frantic. But it was not the slander, bad as it was, which so hurt me ; it was the feeling that Mrs. Stanley could believe me capable of such duplicity. Had she, then, so little faith in my love and gratitude that she could condemn me on mere assertion? Could she thus cast me off without a word of defence, which even the law grants to the vilest criminal t This was the bitter sting, and it was long before I could calm myself sufficiently so as to be able to remember what I had really said to Miss Vicars. I recollected distinctly being asked by that young lady "why I had not had Mrs. Stanley for my little boy's sponsor," and that I had told her that as he was the first grandchild, I had wished my parents to stand, which they did, and he was called afber my father ; but I should d<)arly like to ask Mrs. Stanley to stand for one of my twin daughters, but that I felt diffiduit ' NINTH COMMANDMENT. 69 aboat asking her, as I well knew, from the many conversations we had had together upon the subject, that she entertained a very serious sense of tho responsibility incurred by undertaking the office of sponsor in baptism. I knew her idea was, that spon- sors should feel the responsibility which our Church originally designed that they should feel ; and that parents do not as a rule consider that by appointing any one to the office that they ac- tually give them authority to inquire into the religious train- ing of their children. Another reason I had — I dreaded lest she should think I was expecting too much from her generous affection, for she was always loading me with proofs of her love both for myself and little ones, and I possessed a morbid horror of imposing on her indulgent kindness. Miss Vicars, I recollect, at the time laughed heartily at what she was pleased to term " my squeamish affectation," and remarked, *' that Mrs. Stanley was the very person I ought to ask, because she was rich enough to make her godchUd handsome presents." Such an idea never for a moment had the slightest influence with me. I only thought of the real value of the advice she would be sure to give in the training of her godchild, and felt sure that, should anything happen tc me, my little baby girl would find a mother in my dear friend. However, I was spared the task of asking her by herself requesting to become the sponsor. Gladly did I consent, for I knew well that she would fulfil to the very letter all the promises made at the font, and what greater boon for her child could a mother wish for? As regarded the other foolish assertion made by Bfiss Yicars, that " Mrs. Stanley was jealous of me," I could only account for it in this way (knowing that such words had never passed my lips). One afternoon, during a visit from Miss Vicars, Mr. mm .•»•»"! "J'l>l I 70 BKKTOHES FROM LIR. and Mrs. Stanley had driven up. Mr. Stanley had just stepped in to give me instructions about some rare plant of which he had brought me some cuttings, when Mrs. Stanley, in her usual playful manner, declared that "she was getting quite jealous, for Mr. Stanley had refused to cut the plant for her." Some pretty compliments from Mr. Stanley must have excited Miss Vicars' envy, or she could not have so misrepresented this simple affidr and borne false witness against me. On Mrs. Summerville's return in the evening, I related every- thing exactly as it happened, and as nearly word for word as it was possible for me to remember. She then invited me to accompany her on a visit to Mrs. Stanley, to which I gladly assented, and she promised to drive me over the next afternoon. Miss Yioars was at this time staying with a lady to whose husband's brother she was soon to be united. I felt extremely reluctant to visit Mrs. Stanley unless armed with a more tangible proof than my own denial. I therefore drove over early in the morning to Mrs. Wentworth's, and requested an interview with Miss Vicars. I cannot tell all I said, or how she endeavoured to deny the charges brought against her; but they were all too well-founded, and it was useless for her to contend against the proof of her false dealing. I insisted that she should make full and satisfactory reparation, either by ac- companying me in person to Mrs. Stanley's, and retract all she had said, or write a note at my dictation. If she refused either of these alternatives, I said that I would acquaint Mr. Went- worth with the whole transaction. I sought no revenge, bat justice demanded that she should act as I required. It was some time before the guilty girl could be brought to choose between the two evils, both being equally derogatory to herself. At last, I suppose from the fear of Mr. Wentworth I ^MRMi«B«a«llii ■H ' NINTH COMMANDMINT. mmm 71 ■he decided upon the latter coone, and penned a note entirely exonerating me firom the falae charges she had brought agains'* me. Armed with this missive, and my own conscious innocencti, I, accompanied by "Mn, Summenrille, drove over to Mrs. Stan- ley's, who, having received intimation oFoor visit, was awaiting with some anxiety our arrival The day had been intensely hot, and I was so ill from nervous excitement that it was with difficulty I could keep mysdlf from ainting ; so, requesting Mrs. SummerviUe to be the bearer of Miss Vicars' note, I sat down in the cool hall to recover my composure. Only a very few minutes elapsed ere the arms of my dear friend were thrown around me, and I felt that every kiss was an acknowledgment of my restoration to her love. I can- not tell you of all the sorrow Mrs. Stanley expressed for her injustice. I was only too happy to grant what she so earnestly pleaded for — my forgiveness. A low nervous fever attacked me after such a length lened period of suspense and misery. Most tenderly did Mrs. Stanley attend on me through that time of trial, and ever after was she my sincere and warmest Mend. It was a lifelong lesson to her, for never during the remainder of her existence could she have been bribed to listen to a tale, let it be false or true, against her fellow-creatures. She bitterly mourned her one act of in justice, and ceased not to exhort all her young friends to turn a deaf ear to the voice of the slanderer. Nothing ever happened again to cool the sincere love existing between us till death parted us which event took place some six years after the tale that I have here told you. Miss Vicars' conduct by some means er other became known to Mr. Wentworth, and she was left, and justly so, to the stings of her own conscience, he declaring 72 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. ihftt ** he would mtke no woman his wife who could he guilty of thus deliberately injuring a fellow-creature." Now, my dear young friends, will not thia true tale warn you of the danger of repeating anything falsely ) You can by so do- ing merit nothing but the contempt of your felUw-creatures, which is nought in comparison with the just anger of Gk>d, who has declared that ** the lit ^r shall have his portion in the lake that bumeth with brimstone and fire." We all know the evils which result from an unruly tongue. St. James calls it « a fire, a world of iniquity ; it cannot be tamed, it is full of deadly poison." And here again I would remind you that when there is some truth mixed with falsehood, that is the worst of lies. See what the poet Tennyson says on this subject : — " That a lie which is half a tenth is ever the blackest of lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight." What will be the feelings of one who indulges in this sin when on heror his death-bed — ^when the recollection of the habit is brought fresh to their memories ) Clever lies, little lies, or white lies as they are called, will then look what they really are — sins against the Gk)d of truth — sins which He has forbid- den, and which He will surely punish. The best lie that was ever invented, even if it delivered you from the greatest punishment a fellow-creature could inflict, will afford no satisfaction to remember, when the tongue that uttered it is stiffening in death. Let us, then, all beware how we repeat things falsely. We may for a time succeed in injuring another, but it will be registered against us above, and bear witness at Qod's right hand. Yes, the envious tale ** will its testimony bear, for us or against us i TENTH COMMANDMENT. 78 there,'' and sooner or later will bring us under the just con- demnation of that law which forbids us to " bear false witness against our neighbour." I TENTH COMMANDMENT. " THOU SHALT NOT COVET OTHER MEN'S GOODS." We have now come to the consideration of the tenth and last commandment, in which we are forbidden to covet or ilesire anything that belongs to another. How often does this sin lead to crime I and how seldom does it fail in the end to bring misery and wretchedness on any person who indulges in it ! One sin, my dear young friends, leads to another ; and if we covet what cannct justly be ours, who can say where the desire is to end ? How often do we read of daring robberies being committed, and sometimes blood spilt, for the satisfaction of such unbridled desires. When once they take possession of the mind, it leads to endless wants ; nothing can satisfy its insatiable cravings. Let us, then, be content with what Gbd gives us, and then we shall not fall into any snare spread by Satan, who delights in our footsteps straying from the path of reiQti- tude. I will now illustrate this commandment by a short sketch in the life of a young girl who lived as under-nurse with me> before I left my native shores to live in Canada. Mary Eldred was just seventeen years of age when she entered my service to assist in the nursery ; her mother, being a widow, with three other children to support, was only too glad 74 BKRCHn VBOM LIFI. to leihir eldeii dMghtw go oat to lervioe. Mmtj wm m •xoMdini^ypnttygirl, and anfortoDAtelyknew it ; oonaaqnently, iMr Tiiiity WM the fint evil we had to contend egainit A greftt portion of her time, which ought to have been devoted to the children, was ipent at her looking-gUuc, and ihe was very much annoyed at not being allowed to spend her wages on beads and flowers and tawdry finery, instead of giving a portion to her hard-working mother. Now, here I would pause a moment to remark upon the fool- ishness of some girls, who, instead of saving their earnings for useftd purposes, expend them on useless finery — it is useless, because it does not answer any purpose for which it is intended. If, for instance, a girl wishes to a^r)pear like a lady, she will be disappointed, " for something more is wanted to complete that appearance than fine clothes.** By going out of our station we become objects of contempt, not by remaining in it, be that station ever so humble. Dressy girls are not aware bnw vulgar they look when decked out with flowers, feathers, l^t>oches, earrings and necklaces. No lady cares to hire such a one, because she would naturally suppose that much time and money must be spent in acquiring such, and that she who is extravagant in her own concerns would not be very likely to be frugal with her mistress's. How many a hard-working parent might be relieved by the sums spent in this manner by their vain and foolish girls, who, after all, seldom possess a comfortable under- garment or warm stockings to protect them from the cold. I have, my dear young Mends, seen so much harm result from this love of fine dress, that I feel there is no end to its evil efiecta when persisted in. I can assure you that it has been a source of the deepest anxiety, as well as trouble, to me> in my Sabbath school class. I have seen ihe children whose i I TDITB OOmCAVDinilT. 76 Its ie> hftls we(e adorned, or rather disiigared, by paltry feathen and gandy flowen, shmg np their ahonlden, torn up their noees, and whic,per the unkind word, and reftiae a aeat next them- •elTei to the one who had on nothing bat a pUin atraw hat and brown holland slip. I had some yean ago two girla in my ohwa who had the miifortone to have no mother, and a good- for-nothing drunken father. They knew nothing but poverty and wretohednesa at home ; still they were always regular in their attendance, and the best behaved in the dass. But they were poor, and always thinly and miserably olad. The elder of the two was particularly sensitive to the ridicule of her school-mates, and always shrunk from entering the pew in which the finely- dressed children sat I suppose they must have made some com- plaint to their eldest sister who was at service, for, to my surprise, after two Sundays' absence, they appeared at school with their hats so completely smothered with bright pink flowers that it was almost impossible to tell of what material the hat itself was composed, and dresses, though flounced and trimmed, evidently made of some half-worn-out finery. The smirk of satisfkction on the faces of these two little girls, as they looked round for admiration, was most painfiil to me to witness. I saw how ridiculous they had been made, and I felt sure that their duties would be entirely neglected, for all their thoughts would be concentrated on their unaccustomed finery. Of course, as might be expected, they did nothing but take off their hats to show their schoolfellows the flowers, whenever they could elude my observation. It was with deep regret that I felt that Sunday's hour was a lost one both to me and my scholars. But alas ) the evil did not end there ; the children were never again the quiet, attentive scholars they had been when clothed in their plain but dean appareL The mmmmm mmmmm 76 SKETCHES FBOM LIFE. love of finery had been inculoated, and nothing conld convince them of their folly ; the sneers of their schoolmates at their poverty had been the cause of this evil, and all my admoni- tions on the subject feU on heedless ears. How often has this insatiable desire for fine clothes led girls to step aside from the paths of virtue in order to procure them. Let me, then, affectionately exhort you all to pay less attention to the outward adorning of the frail body. Do not, during the short hour in your Sabbath school, waste time by thinking who is better dressed than yourself, nor grieve your pastor and teacher by turning a deai ear to those instructions which are to fit you for eternity. But to return to my stoiy. Mary, fortunately for herself, had a very sensible mother, who would excuse no such folly in her daughter, and requested me to purchase her clothes, which I .took care should be both neat and comfortable, and suitable to her wants rather than her wishes. Mary had most luxuriant soft brown hair, but she could not endure to have it confined under the neat cap always worn by English servants. She was scrupulously neat and clean in her person and habits ; but even Jiis invaluable characteristic soured her temper, because if the little ones rumpled her clean apron, or baby'4 hands soiled her cap ribbon, she would give way to fits of sulky temper, very disagreeable for us to put up with; but for the sake of her poor mother, I patiently tried to root out her vain and -foolish pro- pensitiei» ^ She had Been with me six months, when another little baby being added to my household, I was necessarily absent some weeks from my nursery. I heard from my nurse that Mary, had given a great deal of trouble to the upper nurse, who «p- peared to have no control over her since the eye of heV mistress TENTH COMMANDMENT. 77 had been withdrawn. She had formed an intimacy with the housemaid of a lady, who had filled her head with such a lov« of fine dress that she had foolishly contracted a debt of sixteen shillings in order to enable her to purchase some flimsy dress, which was both useless and unbecoming her station ; and al- though she had not gone quite so far as to discard her caps, she had trimmed them with gaudy ribbons, and allowed her hair to fall in ringlets over her neck. I immediately sent for her mother, who insisted tipon Mary's hair being again braided up under her cap, or she threatened to cut it all off. Mary knew her mother too well to disobey, so after a great many s;Uy arguments on her side, to which Mrs. Eldred paid no at- tention, she did so, and a neat calico dress was substituted for the flimivy fabric &.h6 had been wearing. Although after this Mary did not fly into open rebellion, it was very plain to see that the sin of coveting any article of dress finer or better than her own was still the ruling passion of her nature ; but we gave her no opportunity of gratifying her sUly taste. But I had that year to contend with a far more serious trouble than any Mary was likely to give me. That fatal scourge, scar- let fever, was raging fearfully in the town during the summer ; the death bell wai) toLUng from mom to eve, and hundreds of little ones fell victims to its ravagea Four of my little ones were attacked, and I must give Mary the credit to suy that she for once forgot to think about her personal appearance in her ewnest endeavours to nurse the little invalids. But how vain was all our care ! Ten days of intense anxiety passed away, and three of the little sufferers were released from pain, twenty-four hours only elapsing from the death of the first when the two others joined their sainted brother in that bright sphere where 78 SKETCHES FBOM LIFE. thaj noTT finrm « part of that happy band of children whose sins are all forgiven, and who stand around oar Savionr's throne. When I went into my nursery and saw ihe three little coffins stand ride by ride, I thought I could never be happy again. I oould scarcely be persuaded to listen to one word of comfort, and thought my good nurse heartless and cruel when she told me that " perhaps the day was not far distant when I should thank God for taking them.'' I have lived to see that day, though then it seemed so far away. I know now how sinfv' I was — how sel- fish was my grief; for was not my loss their eternal gain ? But I rebelled against the fiat which had rendered my home so desolate, for my twin girls had died some two years before. But my cup of sorrow was not yet drank to the dregs, for the sods were scarce- ly placed on the grave ere it was again opened to receive the re- mains of my infant : thus in a few short days the grave closed over my darlings, for only one survived the fatal fever. Many were the homes as desolate as mine ; the emphatic words of holy writ might well be used to describe the grief of that fevernstrioken town — " For there wph heard lamentation, and weeping and great mourning ; Bachei creeping for her children, and would not be comforted because they are not" How my heart clung to my sole surviving child you may well believe, and how earnestly I prayed that God would spare me him. He was spared to be my comfort until fifteen years of age, when, as I told you when conridering the rizth commandment, he was killed by a blow given him at school. My dear young friends, we are poor judges of what is good for us. Had the little fellow followed his brothers and sisters to the grave then, sad as it would have been, the anguish Mid bitterness of that hour in the ftiture would have been spared me. Ooidd I have then withdrawn the veil, how should I have shrt nk firom the eoii- u TENTH COMlCANDMEirr. 79 u \ templatioB of endnriiig w mnoh miaery. My rebellious spirit fought against the Dirine decree whkdi had defNriTed me of all the little lovmg fiwea at one blow, forgetting in my angaish the exceeding weight of glory they were so early called upon to en- joy. But you wiU be anxious to hear what became of Mary. She was, poor girl, after the death of the children, herself attacked with the feyer ; she recovered, but became so petulant and dis- agreeable, always lamentii^ the loss of her hair (which had been out o£f during her delirium), instead of being grateftil for the life spared when she had been in the midst of death. Of course I had now no further occasion for her services, and as I was leav- ing town for the benefit of my little boy's health, which was much impaired by his late illness, I thought it best to send her home to her mother. During my absence Mary obtained a place in the city of N , the very worst situation she could have been placed in, as the mistress took little heed of the character of her servants provided their work was done. It was all eye-ser- vice with her domestics ; they cared little how their duties were performed as long as they escaped a scolding. No restriction was laid on their manner of dressing, so Mary was exposed to every temptation which could lead to the indulgence of her besetting sin. She soon fell back into her old habits ; there was no kindly warning to restrain her passion for purchasii^ what she coveted, and which her wages did not warrant. Upon my return home, her broken-hearted mother called to tell me that Mary was in prison for thefl, and besought me so ear- nestly to go and speak for her on her trial, that I could not re- fuse, for I had never known her to be dishonest — only silly and vain. It appeared that her mistress had missed some very valu- able jewels, and that they had been found in Mary's box, who had mmm mmm mmmm 80 SKJm^HES FROM LIFE. 00 excuse to offer only that she had borrowed them to wear at a party, and meant to have put them baok. She pleaded hard for meroy, bat her mistress was too indignant to listen to her plead- ings, and she had her sent to prison. Her trial took place, but in consideration of her previous good character she wae sentenced to only three months' imprisonment. The look of shame and agony on poor Mary's face, as the judge passed sentence, was most pitifol to behold, and I could scarcely Jielp winhing it passed on her careless mistress, who had taken no pains to guard Mary ftt)m the temptation which her own slothful habits left open to her servants. However, time passed away, as time will do with the miserable as well as with the happy, and Mary returned to her mother's house. As she seemed very penitent, great kindness was shown her by the ladies of the town, who gave her plenty of employment for her needle. In a year's time Mary was married to a very respectable mechanic, and we all hoped that she would now be cured of her folly ; but as soon as the ever> watohful eye of her mother was removed, Mary b^an to show symptoms that the evil was very far from being eradicated. For some time after their marriage, John Benson would bring home his wages and give them to Mary to provide for the wants of the household. He had furnished his cottage with everything neces- sary for her comfort, but she began to covet articles which were very much out of place in her home, and for which she had not the slightest occasion. Benson was a steady, hard-working man, willing to give his young wife every comfort necessary for her, but he could not patiently brook seeing his hard earnings frittered away in obtaining useless luxuries for which there was no need, and which he scarcely knew the use of ; while he himself was de- prived of comforts which his wages fully justified him in pro- ' curing, TENTH GOMMANDMEMT. 81 I never eould lose my interest in Mary, and used to visit her frequently, and was too often a witness of the disputes between her husband and herself upon her sinful and lavish waste of money, which he wanted laid up against a rainy day. Nothing could persuade Mary that it was really dishonest to spend her husband's wages in beautifying her person and cottage ; she would not listen, and I am sure you will not be surprised to hear that her wicked persistence in her folly at last worked her complete ruin. A lady driving from the town one day was thrown from her carriage so close to Mary's cottage that she was taken in there till a doctor could be sent for. As the lady resided some ten miles distant from the place where the accident happened, and being badly hurt, besides severely fracturing one of her arms, the doctor would not hear of her removal. Everything that could add to her comfort was procured, and Mary, assisted by her mother, nursed her kindly and tenderly. The lady was not removed home for a month, and Mary re- ceived a very handsome remuneration for her trouble from the husband of the invalid. A few days after she had left I received a note from her, in which she lamented the loss of a very handsome chain and locket, which, being a family relic, she was extremely annoyed at losing. She expressed her conviction that she had them on when carried into Mary's cottage, and requested me ia the most courteous manner to walk over and ask if they had been left there, adding that, supposing they were in her trunk, she had never thought of looking on the morning of her departure. The moment I read this letter I folt sure Mary was the cul- prit ', however, I walked over to Mary's and read her the letter. She turned very pale, but positively denied ever having seen ■ t»'.W.»*<,.v|.iiB««.»''*Wir»«l» .«.^-.., \\ 82 SKETCHES FBOM LIFE. thft articles, and was very indignaat at being scupected ; bnt ahe did not look like an innocent person, and displayed too mnch temper in her protestations to in'lace belief. I insisted on being allowed to examine her drawers, boxes, etc., which at first she resolutely refosed, but upon threatening a search- warrant she consented. I found nothing but a night-dress of Mrs. Vincent's, which Mary declared she had given her, and as I had no authority to look for anything but the jewels, I did not consider myself justified in taking it, although it strength- ened my suspicions about the more valuable articles. I wrote to Mrs. Vincent, telling her of the non-success of my errand, and thought it right to mention the affair of the nightd, and of His Son Jesus Christ our Lord, and that the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son 80 8KR0HI8 FBOM LIFB. and the Holy Ghoit» mfty be unongtt 11% and remain with us always," do you not think that a few minntea on our kneei ia doe to God, in whioh we may thank Him for the opportonity we have enjoyed of attending Hii public aenrioe— one we may never have again ? But it always aeema to me that the words are soaroely said when a rash is made for the door, as though the holy sanotnaiy could not be left too soon. Should we go out of the house of God as out of any place of public amuse- ment) Let us not by such conduct show how nngrateftd we are for the opportunities which are denied to many, but let us enter the courts of God's house with humble and contrite spirits, and leave it with reverence and godly fear, thanking God for the inestimable privilege we have enjoyed of being allowed to worship there. Then we may all feel and ezdaim with David, " I was glad when they said unto me, we will go into the house of the Lord." I will now proceed to the Scripture verses, as chosen by my pupils for illustration, from the various scenes and characters with which I had been familiar. I will commence with one which, being too late for publication, did not appear in the first series — the subject being. tt Feed my Lambs." This command of our blessed Saviour, St. John tells us, was addressed to Simon Peter, the son of Jonas. We are told in this (Gospel that He had shown himself three times to His disciples after He had arisen from the dead, and that He was dining with them when Be addressed Peter in the following manner : " Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou Me more tha^ these f" The answer was, "Yea^ Lord, Thou knowest that 1 love Thee." Our Saviour then commanded him " To feed Hie *'WEXD mr LAMBS." Iambi.'' Three timet He addreiMd him in the lame manner, received the same aniwer, and gave the aame command. It would eeem that Peter felt grieved when asked the third tune, for he anawered more vehemently than before " Lord, Thou knoweat all things ; Thon knowest that I love Thee." You all know that Peter had denied his Master three times. This very probably arconnts for onr Saviour addressing him three times in the same words ; and, perhaps, the remem- brance of his great sin made Peter feel so grieved as he an- swered the Lord. How sad he mast have felt when he looked back to that time when he had so nigently denied being one of His disciples, feeling how little faith was to be placed in his present avowal If you refer to the event as related by Si. Matthew, you will find that he thus speakp to Jesus: " Though all men shall be offended because of Thee, yet will I never be offended ; " and in a short time after he, with an oath, denied any knowledge of one for whom he had professed such exceed- ing great love. Deep as his penitence was, it could never efface from his memory the base ingratitude of which he had been guilty, and, doubtless, the remembrance of this was a bitter sting to Peter, as our Saviour addressed him thrt^e ditterent times in these words — " Feed my lambs." This command addressed to Peter is applicable to us all We can all do something, use some influence, in bringing little children into the fold of the Great Shepherd. Here let me im- press on your minds the inestimable privilege you enjoy in your Sabbath school Every Sunday a portion of Scripture is both read and committed to memory, in which some event in the life of our blessed Saviour is fully set before you as an example to imitate ; and surely if you do not through the year gain a large amount of scriptural knowledge, it must be lud to V o*^, ^. \^ ir IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 ^^ ta itt I2i2 g2.2 ■" uo 12.0 I.I 1^ U4 iyil!4i4 Sciences CorooraliGn 23 VnST MAIN STMIT «VnSTM,N.Y. 14SM (7l6)t73-4S03 ? * 4^ .V .V <^ live the Sabbath afternoon ; that they should with these wild untan^t children be as fleeting as the shadows ; and she b^- ged in her sweet persuasive manner that her mother would allow her to go amongst them during the weekly afternoons to tiyto bring them to think more seriously of those truths tsni^t them eveiy Sabbath. Mrs. Darville gave her pemus- skm, provided she neglected no duties of her own, and many were the opportunities I eigoyed of watching Hilda sitting amongpit her wild pupils, whilst she taught them in her own sim^ manner of Christ their Saviour. 90 SKRCHB FBOM UFI. llMiy wwe the hindnnoes onooaiitered by HiU^ in hir good work, Imt ihe nevar flagged in the perfonoMioe of her aetf-impoe od talk. How meny older penona would have given ap rather than battle with diiBciiltiea which aeemed inmr- moontable. Bat Hilda looked on these poor little ignorant children as lambs to be brought into the fold, and etfrnestly did she pray for etrength to enable her to persevere in her la- bour of bve. It was a few days before my return home, that, Hilda hay* ing attained her fourteenth year, I was anxious to present her with a small gift, and I walked to the cottage for the double purpose of presenting it to her and bidding her farewelL When I airived, I was distressed to see the little girl in an agony of tears, while her mother was trying to fasten on her cloak and hat. Aboystoodby her side urging her to be quick, and from his incoherent tale I learned that one of Hilda's pupils, in her search for some peculiar flower growing on the cliffs, had ven- tured too near the edge, and had been precipitated with great violence to ite base. Being severely iigured, she had sent her brother to request tha presence of her young teacher. Hilda struggled to compose herself, and I, at her mother's request, accompanied her to the poor home of the sufferer. We were immediately taken into the room, where, on a pallet bed, lay the invalid, a girl apparently about eleven or twelve years of age. Her moans were fearful to hear, as she vainly struggled .against the approach of the King of Terrors. All was confiision in the cot ; the poor mother was crying hysterically, while the younger children stood around, awe^itruck with the knowledge that Mary was to die, and go where they could see her no more. The doctor left as we entered, but whispered to me that there \ FUD mr LAMBS.* 91 WMDO liope— lome irery ferero internal iiqaiy was fittt bear- ing her awaj lirom her earthly home. The fint wofda uttered by the poor girl when ihe beeame oonaeioQs of Hilda'i preaenoe were almoet aereamed oat— ^'* Oh I Miaa Hilda» oome here and tell sne ean I go to heayeo t Oh t why did I not think more of Jesoa t Bat I never thoa^^t of dying ; and yet^'* oontinned the poor girl in a Ikinter tone of Yoiee^ '' I httfe thought a great deal more about what you have taoj^t me than you will belieye. I have not felt bo idle, nor to CKM8 to my brothers and sisters as I used to be. I know I have been a sad, naoghty girl, and given poor ciLOiher a good deal of trouble, but I feel such sorrow for it all now. Won't you kneel and ask Jesus to forgive me 9 " Hilda was ahnost choked with emotion as the poor mother told her how much her gentle influence had dwelt in her cottage home. Mary used to be so rude and idle, but since Miss Hilda had taught her, she had been altogether a different girL Here the poor woman bunt into fresh tears, as she blessed the young teacher, whose heart leaped for joy as she thus saw the first fruits of her earnest teaching. Here was one of the little stray lambs she had tried to bring into the fold, expressing her sorrow for her past sins, and imploring pardon. Most beautifiiUy in her simple trusting faith did Hilda assure the dying girl that her sins were washed dean in the blood of the Lamb slain to take away the sins oi the world ; that all that was required cf her was to believe and trust in this great and wondrous truth. ** I feel happy now. Miss Hilda," said the little girl, after some minutes of perfect silerce. " I believe Jesus is going to take me ; will you kiss me, and let me thank you for all your care for met Don't foiget me, dear Miss Hilda, when I am dead ; put some pretty flowers on my grave^ and perhapi I 9t 8KCTQHU raOM UWM, thaU hflAT the loiiiid d your feet when yon walk near bm. Sing to me, dear. It ia getting ao dark I cannot aee." Hilda bent down to kiis the ohild, her warm tears foiling on the ftoe on which the thadea of death were gathering; bat she whifpned loving words of her Saviour into the fiMt deafening ear as she wiped the death damps from off her brow. The son was just setting; its bright beams gilding the lattice window seemed to pUy as a halo around the heyA of the dying girL Her eyes opened, and a smile of inexpressible beauty parted her pale lips as she whispered, '* Oh, mother, let me go I " That was all, and her spirit stood in the presence of her Maker. Mrs. DarviUe most Undly sent every assistance^ to the poor broken-hearted niother, and paid all the fhneral expenses. Mary was borne by six of her playmates, among whcrn a few days before she had been the merriest, to the pretty chnrchyard, and laid to lest under the shade of the beantifiil elms, and from whence the soft murmuring of the distant waves made sweet music for Hilda as she sat many a day after by the side of the little grave, and where she, with the minister's permia- sion, gathered her young flock and drew her simple lessons from this sad evint I continued my visits every summer till Hilda attained her seventeenth year, and found each succeeding one bearing on its bosom fresh fruit of Hilda's loving care for her little flock. But now the hour was at hand when she was to drink her first cup of sorrow. Her mother, her beloved companion, her patient monitor, her consoler and guide, was to be taken away. " The place that had known her was to know her no more." Mrs. Darville had been attacked with severe inflammati thair handa. Some young girli have that ezoeedingly diiagrwiabla habit c* aneering and toeaing their heada when reproved by their Sabbath lehool teachera. Now, ean anything be more ridieoloos t It ia not at all likely that the teacher carea for eo ailly a way of ihowing temper, aa far aa henelf ia oonoemed; ahe oan only feel aorrow for the girl, who harta henelf a great deal more, beeanse she cannot retain either the love or reepeet of her inatmctreta. I hear so many young people firaquentl|y make use of the expression, "What do I caret for what oor teacher thinka t " Well, you should care, as we all should, of what people think qf our conduct. Is it not fur more pleasant to know oursdves liked than didiked t — ^though this question ii certainly doubtftil if we judge by the pains so mauy young people take to be disagreeable in manner and impertinent of speech to their elders and superiors. " Who are my bev'stera t " I waa once asked by one of my pupils in the Sabbath sgheoly some years since, as she was repeating that part of the Ohuroh Catechism which bids us " to order ourselves lowly and re- verently to all our betters." Did not the question prove the ign(«ance by which it waa dictated t A very prevalent idea among young people is, that by being respectfhl to their eldeta and teachers, that they are lowering their dignity, and causing the objects of their courtesy to fancy that they do so because they acknowledge their superiority. What a silly idea ! Every person is entitled to respect unless they have themselves lost daim to it, and a rude impertinent manner causes you to lose the dignity you pride yourself on. A girl once came to me to dictate for her a letter to her late mist v'ess, asking for a character ; in ending it» I signed it "Yours H M ■EiioHM raoM Lira. iMpNtfttUy." W«U,tli0giilr0AiMdto]«iitgOi *KJ 102 SKETCHES FROM UWE, happy ; whaterer her hnshand's faults had been, it foimed no ezciue for the inanimate nae^ ^'life into which she tank, kar- in^ the gcudanoe of her children to servants and govemeases, who, whatever might have been their individual merits, took little pains to teach them their duty to Qcd — ^their obedienoe proceeded from fear, and not from the principle which onght to have been their gniding star. Lady Clifford's death was sadden, and in the midst of the christening festivities ; there- fore I iSslt how short a time had been granted her for repent- ance. Bat no one has a right to set a boand to that merqr which, we are all taught to believe, may even be foond in the eleventh hoar. Ellen sat Of all night with me after my aunt's death, and talked so long and earnestly of the compassionate love of our Divine Redeemer, that hard, indeed, must have been the heart which could have remained untouched by her gentle influence ; and during my stay I took more delight in her society and thau of her beloved nurse, who had flown to speak words of comfort to the sorrow-stricken girL A year had scarcely elapsed, after the death of my aunt, ere Sir Anthony brought home a young girl not out of her teens, as his wife. I recollect how I pitied my cousins when I heard this, for I entertained a childish horror of a step-mother, and expecte4 to find them all very miserable when I accompanied my parents on their first visit to her. What was my astonish- ment, to find them perfectly enchanted with their step-mother. She evidently exerted the greatest influence over her fiikther- like husband, who seemed now to be ruled instead of ruling. She had insisted, upon her arrival, that the girls should, be entirely emancipated, during the summer, from the rigours of M REHKIIBKB NOW THT CBBATOB. 108 the ichool-rooiiif and the oyeitasked governeis sent home for a few monthe* racreation. Being young and exceedingly pretty, she wai more like a otter than mother to my oouains ; she enterad witii the avidi^ of a child into all their amusements, and hei' cheerfol temper made peipetnal sunshine in a house where gloom had so long reigned supreme. I was quite fascinated with the courteou best laid plans frustrated^ and sometiine^ u RKMKIIBKB NOW TST CBBATOR." 105 when we feelmoet leeiire of th«r fblfilment i Lady Oliffoid had l^een yeiy delicate ell winteri and toon after the birth of a son, became so aerionaly ill as to create the greatest alarm in her fiunily. A celebrated physician was immediately summoned from London, and their worst fears were confirmed by his pro- nouncing her disease cancer in its most painful form. Here it was again that Ellen's Christian character was brought out. Putting aside all preparations for her wedding without a mur- mur, she took her post in the sick chamber of her step-mother. She bore meekly all the yain repinings of the poor, fretftil in- valid, who had never yet been called upon to pass through the ordeal of sickness. Now it was that EUen earnestly sought by day and by night to turn her thoughts to that world whence she was fiwt hastening. With tireless seal did she supplicate at the throne of grace for the poor sufferer, and that Divine power which caii penetrate the hardest heart at last brou^t conviction to the sinner, who now, when she found that life with all its brightness must be exchanged for the dark and lonesome grave, gladly turned to hear of that mercy which alone could make it yield its victory. Eagwly did her ears drink in the sweet assurance of her Saviour^s love from the lips of her gentle step-daughter. How bitterly did she regret her frivolous life ! how different every pleasure appeared now it was mirrored by a dying eye ! ) ow intense was her gratitude to EUen for her loving care of her never-dying soul. And she patiently repressed every groan of anguish which could cause a pang to her gentle nurse, whose fair prospects had all been so cheerfully resigned, for the purpose of becoming her con- soler, and the instrument in Ood's hand (for to Him gave she all the glory) f directing her thoughts to that crosi^ which we t^ ^11 bid4eii to take up, «-ai5r«*Wr '■ ■a8m triak >ty in beau- Igaide fur and wide. Fanny and the last babj had died within a year after Lady Clifford. Bat poor Ellen's greateat trial was yet to oome, and it waa one which, hat for her faith in Gk>d,woald nirely have crashed her to the earth. Her beloved hasband was killed by a railway aoddent only a few dayi after she had been called apon to resign her eldest boy ; his little body still laid nnbaried awaiting his father's arriTsl, who had been sent for, and who was hastening home to poar sweet comfort into the stricken mother's breast, when one of those fesrfol collisions took place which harried him into eternity, there to meet his bo> whom he was destined to see no more on earth. I did not see poor Ellen at that time, bat heard from a friend of hers how, with her asaai anselfishness, she had stifled all her sorrow to administer comfort to her poor broken- hearted old fiither, who had become almost imbecile, and totally depending on her for support It was when she had been a widow some three years, that, my hasband having basiness in that part of the country, I accompanied him to see my cousin Ellen. 1 found her very much changed in appearance ; it was so grievous to see that beautifol hair confined under the close border of the widow's cap; but, although her face had lost much of the brilliancy of youth, there rested on it the same sweet smile, though of a sadder cast, which had always characterised it She talked long and earnestly to me of the trials she had been called upon to endure, and proved, past all doubt, that it was her perfect fidth and trust in God which had enabled her to bear up under them. Attending on her peevish, discontented father was a task almost any one wou}d hi^ve shrank from^ because his meqti^ ■■TT - ' .T ' i ' J ^ . -;- , — ■ 108 snetcEoa moM Lm. powen wffn to wMkenad that nothing ooold nlidy hhn. No fond mee of a beloved hneband wai there to aoothe her, for that waa silent in the grave ; no ehildiah voice to liqp mamma, for both her little ones had died ; and yet there was no ^oom in Ellen's household ; she delighted in the soeietj of the yonng people of the parish, visited the poor, administered to all their wants with an unsparing hand, and had a smiling weleome foraU. Ton have seen people^ I am sue, who, when thej have been called upon to endure any trial, have so wrapt themselves up in their own selfish sorrow as to make eveiy one round them miserable. I have known many who^ after some beloved child has been taken away, close up theb shutten, hardly suffering the sun*s rays to penetnte into the g^oom which pervades the whole household ; the merry langli of children is checked al- most before uttered, and the once cheerful voice is changed to a pining, discontented whine. Is not this as much as to say, God has no light to afflict me 1 Shall we then r.eceive all good at His hand, and no evil t Can He not recall what He gives t We are not forbidden to weep for our lost ones^ for our Saviour Himself wept at the grave of Laiams ; but we are forbidden to sorrow as those who have no hope. It may be almost impossible at first to say'* Thy will, not mine. Oh God, be done;" but if we remember that He not only does not willingly afflict the children of men, but that He doeth all thing} well, we should be meeker under Hib chastisements, instead <>f rebelling against His unerring will I remonber being much strudc by hearing of a lady who had lout her onty son. She closed up the shutters of her house, and for three >^ years darkness and mourning reigned supreme. At the end of thut tim? a ^ntleipan of the Quaker persuasion called to see her. **8UFFEB UTTLl CHILDBIir TO CN>in UMTO MB." 109 «sd aiie aoeotted him Uiut : " Yoa find m« itiU moondrg for my boloTed one.'* ** Yen, madnm," replied the genUemnn, " nnd I nm grieved to find that yon hnTe not yet forgiven GKmI Almighty." This reproof, lo simple yet so bitter, had its effect upon the lady. She ordered the light of day again to illnmine her house, and bowed in deep humility her rebellious spirit to the inevitable stroke. In this short tale, my dear yonng friends, yon will see the effect of the verse on which it is founded. Ellen had remem- bered her Gk)d in the days of hf«r youth, before the evil days came upon her; it was not in times of trial and sorrow that she had to seek Him ; consequently as her years increased she found pleasure in Him whom she had sought in her young days. Yes, she had remembered her Creator in the midst of all the pleasures of youth, and she is now a living monument of the truth that ** He has not foijjotten her age." hvionr ato not only Idoeth lents, iber only Ithree I her. *' Suffer UtiU ehUdrm to come wUo met t^d forbid ihem not, for of smk is the kingdom of heaven." — St Matt. zix. 14. This beautiful verse is, as I am sure you know, repeated by all the EvangelistB. What a source of delight it must have been to the mothers, when rebuked by the disciples, to hear such blessed and comforting words from the Saviour 1 Does it not then bohove every parent to bring their little ones to Ohrist t Who can resist such a beautiful invitation—*' Suffer the little children to come, and forbid them not f " Now, there is not one of you, I am sure, who has not at some time or another witnessed the- rite of baptism performed f 110 8KCrOHE8 FBOM LSfE, by our clergyman ; bat did you erer oonnder itt inttitutiOii t Probably yon have joit looked upon it aa a pretty aigbt to see a little in&nt held at the font to reoeiTe ita name, or, what is more probable, have laughed to hear ita oriea aa the oold water was sprinkled on its tby fisoe. Now, if you will look into the sixteenth yerse of the sixteenth chapter of St Mark, you will find that our blessed Saviour there declares that " none can enter tb« kingdom of heaTen, except he be bom again of water ; " and also, that ** by His own baptism He did sanctify the element of water to the mystical washing away of sin." " Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptising them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and lo I am with yon alway, even unto the end of the world,** was the command given and promise made to Hii disdples just before His ascension. Our church urges on all the duty of br nging their children to be baptized as soon after their birth as possible, and it always appears to me a very sad neglect when I see whole families growing up, whose parents have never yet thought it worth their while to bring their little ones to Ohrist, by having them received into His church as members of the same mystical body. I wish now to relate a scene I was eye-witness to, in which a dear little babe was baptised just before he was called upon to receive that crown of glory which fiE^eth not away. This little babe had been seriously ill for several days, and I was one night keeping watch with the young mother;, when at Jiidt night the kind physician intimated to me the necessity of having the rite of baptism administered to the little creature, on whom it was plain to see death had set its marble seal But who could undertake to tell the weeping mother that all hope was over, and that she must resign her beautiful babe to the " 8UFFBB UTTLK CHILDREN TO COm UMTO MB." Ill n cold embraoe of desth t She alone appe«rad uneonMioot of danger. However, ai there was no one there hut my.^ to perform thia painftd task, I told her as gently as I conld, that as all infantine diBea>es were more or less nnoertain in their results, her husband wished to hare the babe baptiaed, and that the clergyman only awaited her orders. I took the little creature from the cradle and, placing him on my lap, waited till he should be summoned up-stairs. A few moments only elapsed ere he came, and, without one word of comfort to the stricken mother, commenced the service. I foncy he saw the necessity of haste, for surely there was no mistaking the grey hue which had gradually, for the last few minutes, been over- shadowing the infant's face. At many baptisms have I been an interested witness. I have held at the font the long-desired heir of a noble house, as well as him whose inheritance was nought but poverty and sorrow. It is always to me a beautiful sight to see the little innocents of whom our Saviour declares ** of such is the kingdom of heaven," receiving the sign of that cross under which they swear by their sureties to fight manfully and boldly against the world and the devil. But there was something so touchingly| solemn in this midnight baptism that I could scarcely control my feel- ing8.» The deep and silent agony of the father as he strove to 'ivhisper words of crimfort to the young mother which he was so far from feeUng, fell with painful intensity on my ears, which had listened to the same so ofken. The rites were at last con- cluded, and the dear babe signed with our Saviour's cross — a cross he was never to bear, for without one effort for victory the crown of eternal life was within his reac h. The words fal- tered on the dear old minister's tongue as he ylowly pronounced the blessing on the sweet babe just passing • *vay. No pain lis SKRCfHIB FBOlf UfE. disturbed him ; hj hia fidhi breAlhiog alone eould 700 tell that life etill lield dominion there. Bat soMcely fifteen minutee e l ap eed After he h«d been reoeiyed into the ** erk divine" when little Edward's eyes opened on a glorious eternity. " The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord I " exclaimed the minister as he gently strore to soothe the agony of the young mother's first grief '* Oh 1 think of that glorious rest which your babe is now enjoying ; hard it is I know to resign him, but from your arms he goes to his Saviour's. Your treasure is now sheltered by Him who said, ' Bricg them to me.' What earthly love can compare with that he is now in ftill possession of 1 Remember it is Gk>d who gives and GK»d who takes away. Oh ! pray earnestly to Him to give you strength to stand — ' In faith and hope and tb«l«M aeal, Till th« hMurt'a fafokan chain, In Unloi of entrlaating lore. Be blended onoe again.'" The young grief-stricken mother was led by her husband from the room, and I was left to assist the nurse in preparing little Edward for his grave. How lovely he looked in his pure white shroud ! I could scarcely believe it was death I looked on ; but, alas ! all was cruel reality, and nothing left to lell of his welcome birth but the sighs and tears of his bereaved parents. After seeing all arranged as I felt the young mother would wish, I went home, desiring the nurse to say that 1 would return in the evening. It would be impossible for me to dwell on all the events of that sorrowful week, at the end of which dear baby was buried. Such a day of grief must be en- dured, to be felt in all its harrowing bitterness ; no one but a parent can express the agony of seeing the beloved one shrouded UthAft dnatea "when be the ' itroTe "Oh! joying; goes to m who sompare bi8Gk>d lestly to **SUmM UTILI OHILDBIlf TO OOMB UMTO m.** 118 for the graTe, the bright eyes doeed, and the wirm tint of health exchanged for the grey hne of death. To f Ml bofw fain » fatlicr^i pnyw«» How Tain a mollMr^ tom { To think Iho oold gtw now mind oIom O** whaA WM ooot tht oUtf Of aU tliair traMnurtd J^ri on Mrth,— TUi i* n mother^ giltL The bell tolling the awftil requiem for the early dead ttmok with painfhl force on the hearts of the bereayed parents. They felt the desolate void of their home. What could console them for the vacant crib and nnrsery t Nothing, I knew, so I pre- sumed not to preach resignation, which God alone can grant ; for it is only — Wben the flmt wild throb is o*«r Of ftngoiah and despair, That we lift the eye of faith to heay'n. And feel our darlings there. This beet can dry the gnihing tear, Thie yields the heart relief, Until the Ohristian's pions hope O'eroomca a mother's grief. It is, of course, many years since this event took place, and several little boys and girls have been sent, I trust, a comfort to my bereaved friend. Yet I will venture to say that this midnight baptism has never been forgotten, and that little Edward still lives in his mother's memory, and will do so till she is called to join him on that happy shore where adieus and farewells shall be heard no more, and where, as the first of her household band, he will welcome her to the joys he was so early called upon to partake of by Him who invited the little children to come unto Him, and so beautifully declared that *' of such is the kingdom of heaven." I mmm ppppiiii mmm 114 SKETCHES FECm LIFE. ** Oatl % breadvpan (he waters ; for ihou thaUJkid U after many dayt" — ^EcdeeiasteB xi. 1. ThiB injanction, yoa all know, was giyen by Solomon, the ■on of David, in the book called Eodesiastes, and is well worthy your seriouB attention. We are all of us able to show kindness of some sort or other to onr fellow-creatores ; and we are assured that tiie smallest one shown for Ohrist's sake shall not go unrewarded. Our Saviour^s own words, " Yerily I srty unto you, that inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me," is a bright assurance which should inspire every one with an ear nest heartfelt desire to relieve the necessities of their fellow creatures. I will now endeavour to illustrate this voTse by re- lating a scene which was enacted under my own immediate ob- servation, and I trust to interest you sufficiently, so that you will never throw away an opportunity of doing good, but cheerfully endeavour to obey your Divine Beedemer when He bids you to *' go and do likewise." A young girl wbc resided with her widowed mother on the outskirts of the town in which I lived, was returning rather late on Saturday night from taking some work home, on the finish, ing of which she had depended for their subsistence for the next week, when she was startled by hearing a groan of pain pro- ceeding from a person who was lying by the roadside. At first Rose felt inclined to go on, for she had heard of cases where men, disguised as females, excited the sympathy of the passeje-by, by their groans, only to rob and perhaps murder them. However, Rose's heart was too tender to suffer her to pass without first ascertaining whether any one really needed her assistance, and stooping down, saw to her surprise that a ''CAST THT BREAD 0PON THE WATBBS." lU Momy Dy the i well (show uidwe eihaU f I any of the e,"i8a •near fellow- B by re- late ob- hat yoa )d, but rhen He on the Lher late lie finish. Lonezt pro- Le. At lof casei of the murder ^r to pass led her that a young woman, with an in&nt in her arm% laid then almoafc unable to move. Rose lifted her up» and with a great deal of difficulty succeeded in assisting her to walk acroai the field which divided the road from her mother's oottafjie. Her mother^ who was a poor, sickly, weak-minded woman, wmh down by trouble and poverty, was shocked when she saw the addition Rose had brought to the cottage ; and I am sony to add, that instead of assisting her in her good work, die com- menced blaming her for not having sent the woman to the Union House for relief. Rose made no answer until she had got the unfortunate stranger comfortably settled in her little bed. She then, in her own sweet way, expostulated with her mother, and reminded her of our blessed Saviour's injanctieo, that " we should bove pity on the poor." She talked alio about the parable of the good Samaritan, till her moth w could no longer refuse the charity for which her daughter pleaded ao gently, and she consented to prepare some nourishment for the invalid, while Rose undressed the unfortunate baby and fed it with some warm milk. As soon as she had accomplished this task, and laid the baby down in a sweet sleep, she requested permission of her mother to be allowed to fetch the doctor, aa it seemed impossible to arouse the stranger from the stupor into which she had fallen. Her mother was extremely unwfl- ling to allow her to go into the town alone at that hour, but Rose declared that *' she had no fear ; she trusted in God to protect her from danger," and started on her errand of meiey. She arrived at the house of my brother-in-law, and fortunately found him just come in, so bidding her step into his gig he drove her quickly home. It was from him that I heard the account of this affair, when he called the next morning, asking me to accompany him to w 116 8KRCHI8 IBOM UFE. felw ootUige, and I thai beoame aa ^76-witnMi of the fdiieh I wiih to make iwa of in order to illnatrato the Teiae unto our Gomideration. The anfortanate yoang person had died early in the morning, withoat havisg loiBoiently recov- ered her pciiren of ipeeoh as to enable her to tell who she was, or where she came from. A coroner's inquest was held on the body, which was that of a yery young and delicate female, who had evidently never been used to tread in the lower ranks of life. The verdict returned was, " That she had died from ex- hanstion, in consequence of exposure to the indemenqr of the weather." A very careftil investigation was instituted by the authorities, and advertisements inserted in all the local papers but nothing was elicited at the time which could throw any light on this strange affair ; therefore the body was committed to the grave, and there the matter rested After the funeral, a consultation was held as to what was to be done with the baby, a sweet little fellow, apparently about six weeks old. Bose's mother strongly urged ito being sent to the Union houses but her daughter as resoiiitely opposed it, dedaring "that she had earned her right to it by saving ito life, and nothing should compel her to part with it She would be a mother to it until ito lawful guardians could be found ; she felt so sure that the ladies would never let her want tiie drop of nulk, and she trusted to Gk>d for the rest" It was really bcmtlfol to witness the trusting faith of this young girl — ^how she put to shame those who prided themwlves on the charity given out of their abundance. But here Rose stood alone, with nothing but her faith in Gkkl's promise, ** that he is blessed who provides for the poor and needy." Her earnings were scarcely sufficient to keep want from the door, and yet she willingly took upon herself a burden which she felt was a burden of lova No ** CAST THT VBMkD UFOH TBE WATEBB,* 117 on had noov- liewM, on the loywho •nkiof romez- of the by the papen owany mnitted fimenl, riththe iks old. nhonae, ; "that lothing itherto 80 Bore Uk,and itiMto » pat to ven oat nothing ^rovidea ifficient »kapon No promlae of help did ahe aak, hat ehMping the litUe innorent babe to her boaoj, ezdaimed, *'Qod ao deal with me and mine, aa I deal tenderly with this motiierleaa bahe^" So the infimt waa left with her, and yon may readily beUere ahe waa not Boffned to want either dotheB or milk for her narding. fiat ahe never aaked help from aoy one ; ahe worked eariy tud late, never neg^eeting her daty to her mother, who reqaired many oomforta in her ailing state, wbich Bobo, ir her nnBelfiah love, woald deprive herself of neoessariea to procare. How few of the great onea of onr land, who revel in wealth and Inxaiy, would deny themselves comforts with whieh half their life is sarfeited, to act as Bose did t I waa so maoh interested in Rose and her little prot^, that I freqaently ased to rhslt her. It was amnsing to aee how beantifally dean she always kept him ; she delighted in diess- ing him in white, and woold wash and iron for him long after other people were soondly deeping. Bose would often tell me that *'8he waa sure he was of no low birth, and if his ftther ever came to daim him, she would like thdt he should find him kept like a little gentleman." This wa&> a very pardonable pride in poor Rose, who had carefully put the dothea away he had on when found, in order that they might be itdoitified, and they were certainly made of materials which justified Rose in her suspicion, frr th^ were very unlike any used by the poorer dasses in England. Of course the prevalent idea that hia young mother "had borne unhusbaodeda mother's name,'* had prevented many of the worldly righteous from upholding Boae in her loving care of the little stranger, and I am sony to say, that as the ezdtement of the affair died aw&y, her patn>nsgrew lukewarm in their sympathy. But Boae never waverBd in her adf-imposed task, and why was this f She ■•»*'■ ':*^ mrmtw^mm^m^ ilfip I.H.WILII JW , TT^ """7^ 118 tuuRuuu VBOM un. •oughl no earthly iMed of pniM ; and her purely diainterested ehaiity we may all feel sore waa regiatered on high. Her life waa one continued aoene of aelf-denial ; a marmnr never eacapeit her lipa aa the wanta of her little nnraling grew more pressing ; bat she managed him so well that he required less nursing ^han any babe I ever saw. Biany a mother would do well to take a lesson from Rose, and thrrowfu], and why t Becanae he had great possessions. To path from his wealth waa a trial he could not bring his mind to. It was too great a aacrifice to be required of him, and our Saviour exclaima, *' Verily, I aay unto you, that a rich man shall hardly enter the kingdom of heaven." Now you must not fall into the error of auppoaing that our Saviour meant that becauae a man waa rich it waa hard for him to enter heaven ; it waa not the actual poaaesaion of riches, but the undue value which he aet upon theoL tt "THB BIOH HATH MAHT miKirDS.'* Its rtndoed this young mun, yoa find, indifferent to the nnseenh- able liohet of Ohnnt. Thii wm the an ; the treamre in hetTen which oTiT Sanoar piomiied wm leoondaiy to hie eirthly poe- Miuons, for you read, ** he went awiy eonowing." There ia no donbt that riohea debaae the minds of many, rendering them Lard-hearted and selfish ;' they hare many friends, as our text decbres, bat it is the friendship of the world. David says, " A little that a righteons man hath is better than the riches of the richest." Again he says, that << A man heapeth up riches and knoweth not who shall gather them ; consequently he walketh in a vain show." Again, that "they trust in their wealth, and boast themselves of the multitude of their riches." How numerous are the texts of Scripture which 1 could bring to prove the truth of this, and I do wish that you would read them over before you proceed to read the following tale illustrating the one chosen for our present consideration. Any subject leading you to search the Scriptures, provided yon ask the assistance and guidance of GKkl's Holy Spirit, must result in your benefit. How awftd is the denunciation pro- nounced by our Saviour in the 24th verse of the 6th chapter of St. Luke's Gospel, ** Woe unto you that are rich 1 for ye have received your consolation ;" and surely you have all read the parable of the rich man and Lasarus, but you may perhaps read it with more interest if ( explain it to you. The rich man, we are told, " was clothed in purple " — ^this colour in those times was the dress of the rich and high-bom only — and that ** he fared sumptuously every day." Now see the contrast be- tween him and Lasams : ** He was a beggar, full of sores." It was a common custoi^n in Jerusalem and throughout the East* to lay a cripple or leper at the door of some wealthy man, or to place him in a public thoroughfare, stretched on his mat, or v\ 184 SKITOHn FBOM UWE, m wooden Utter ; Mid thk hkkofy toUf III *< that Lannii laid ftt 1^ rich niMi'i gate. Mid deiiied to be fed with the erambi whioh fell from the rioh mMi'i table.'* Now, among the andenta napkini were not uaed for wiping the handa, bat they were dipped in dishes of water, and wiped with the soft part of the bread, which was afterwards thrown to the dog^ — and this bread poor Laiams craved ; but we are not led to believe by this parable that it was even granted him, for we are told that ** he died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bo- som." NoWythis phrase probably bears alloaion to the caitom at Jewish feasts o! several guests lying on one conch, the head of one being placed near the bosom of another. It signifies a high state of felicity, for we are told in the 13th chapter of 8t John's gospel, that the disciple whom Jesus loved leaned on his breast at supper. But what is the fkte of the rich man t * He lifts up his eyes in hell," and begs that mercy of Lasarus which he had denied him on earth. What answer does he re- ceive t '* That he in his life-time had received good things, and Lasarus evil things ; " the same contrast in their fates still existed, only reversed: '*he was tormented, Lasams com- forted." Had he used the talent committed to his care in re- lieving the needy, feeding the hungry, he might be with Lar sarus oigoying the joys of heaven.; but he had shut his ear to the voice of mercy, and ^is riclies had rank him into the depths of helL Does this parable not prove to you how vain is the possession of wealth if it hardens the heart t What value does it possess only as it enables us to administer to the necessities of othersj As the rich use the power given them, so will they have to answer for it But I will now proceed to relate an incident which came under mine own immediate ob- *'THI UCH HATH MANY FRICVIMw*' ISff mmtion, and I think ti will amase and inatniet yon at mneh aa it did ma at the time it happened. Yeiy near my honae there lived in a amall cottage a middle- aged single lady. She waa exceedingly plain in her person, and very eccentric in manner; hot ahe wt^ kind-hearted, gentle and benevolent, with a heart overflowing with gener- odty and good-will to alL It waa a sonrce of wonder to me how bhe managed to live and keep up so respectable an ap- pearance upon her very limited income, which did not quite count forty pounds per annunt She was always happy and cheerful, the merriest of old maids, ever willing to fly to the aid of the sick and destitute, to whose wants she ministered with unsparing hand what, if she had in consequence less comfort at home, for the sake of giving it to another, it only made her more grateful to Qod, who h&d enabled her to carry relief to any one more needy than herself. Many a bitter win- ter's night have I known her to leave her bed, and, through torrents of rain, go on her errand of mercy to the hovel of some poor dying creature, whose last moments she would smooth by assurances of her Saviour's love, and whose weak faith she would encourage as she passed firom the poverty of earth to the eternal riches of heaven ; and then she would return wet and shivering to her own desolate home, with the sweet snulo of bonevolence on her lips, and plans of future comfort and help in her large, loving heart. Miss Thome was of course of too little consequence to be noticed by the high and rich families who resided in the town. How could a poor obscure old maid, who lived in a small cot- tage meanly famished, and keeping no servant, expect to be even thought of ) Whethei* she felt this or not she gave no sign ; she quietly pursued her own path, relieving the poor, visiting "^"^w^^mmnff w IM mwKmm wmm uri. tlM tieki and adfifiiig Um trriog. Foigttftil of itlf, the ImU •on the eron tenor of her waj, ontil nn erent ooeurred whieh Worked » etmnge metainorplMNU in her hitherto friendleee posi- tion. I WM tddng tea with her one evening when the poetnuui hrooght her a letter from a Uwyer in the city of N , re- qneiting her to meet him at his offloe on the following day ; enclonng a ftTe pound note for her ezpenies. We talked and wondered what this oould poseibly portend, and MIm Thome laughed heartily at my iuggeetion that she must have fiJlen heir to some fsbulous property, ano deoUred that ** she had not a relation in the world that she knew of." However, the next morning she hired a post chaise and started on her jour- ney, which, although but a distance of nine miles, was quite an event in her hibherto uneventful life. She was absent two days, and then called to tell' me the welcome tidings, that an old unde whom she had never seen, and scarcely even recollected as having gone out to Lidia when she was a child, had there died, and bequeathed to her, as the only surviving child of his twin sister, the munificent income of twelve thousand pounds per annum. The cslm manner in which Miss Thome announced this pufided me. Here was a step from poverty to affluence which might have overwhelmed a fiur atronger-minded person, but she was as cool and collected as though she was only just drawing her quarterly allowance of nine pounds. Of course this news soon spread through the town, and the poor des. pised old maid rose. twelve thousand pounds in the estimation of her aristocratic neighbours. She must, as a matter of course, be taken into their society, and be noticed by their august body. They could afford now to overlook her eccen- TBI BIOR HATH MANT FBIBinNk" 117 tridte in ooniidintioii of bar wttlth, mm! it was i«allj •moling to lee with wluift Mtoniahing npiditj friondi and aflqaaintonoM roae np, ntv that MiM Thome naedad n«iih*io put on " bowels of mercy, kindness, meekness, long suffer- ing," etc. St Peter also speaks of ** our lively hope by the re- surrection of Jesus Christ, which is according to His abundant mercy ; " and again, Solomon declares that " he that despiseth his neighbour sinneth, but he that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he ; " also, " He that honoureth God hath mercy on the poor ; " and again, the prophet Micah declares that " God "BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL." 181 retaineth not His anger for ever, because He delighteth jn mercy." David implores Qod to be mercifhl onto him, because he felt that He ^as plenteous in mercy to all that call on Him. Many texts which declare the mercy of God could we find, had we time to consider them, but I think I have given you a suf- ficient number now to prove this beautiful attribute of our Divine Redeemer. I will therefore proceed to illustrate this by a scene in my dear father's life, and may it inspire yon all to try to earn the bright reward prosnieod to the merciful, via., that " they shall obtain mercy." A great many years have elapsed since these events took place which I am now about to relate, but they are as indelibly impressed upon my mind as though they only happened yes- terday. A widow lady, who resided in a most beautiful place about five miles from my father's house, had been left by her husband dependent upon her only son, who was about twenty-two years of age at the time of his father's death. He was travelling on the continent when the news reached him, and he hastened home to take possession of his inheritance. He hod been much pampered and indulged by his father; therefore this alone should have been a sufficient reason for Hfr. Steward's making a separate provision for him, as Us indulgences had fostered the seeds of selfishness, which were not likely to add much to his widowed mother's comfort My father bad been for years the legal adviser of Mr. Steward, but when called upon to make his will steadily refused to be made instrumental to what he always looked upon as a deep wrong. A will of this kind my dear fitther was never known to make, for he con- sidered it both unjust and cruel " You never can tell," was his aigomenty ** how your children are to turn out, and surely SKirrCHES FBOM LIFE. the wife who has borne with you the cares and hardens of life ought not to be left depending on the caprices of her children." Mr. Steward was very unwilling to call in another lawyer, but as my fother resolutely refused to act, he was obliged, and Mrs. Steward and her two daughters were iei^ entirely depend ing on her son, to Whom all was left, with an injunction, cer- tainly, to provide for his mother and sisters. My father thought this a most unjust will, as the idle habits of young Steward, added to his late extravagant style of living on the continent, were not likely to be conducive to the interests of either mother or sisters, fle loved them as well as any one so fond of self could love, and in the first burst of grief for his father's death was willing to promise anything. My father, who still continued the legal adviser of the family, earnestly exhorted Mra. Steward to have some settlement made on which she could depend, now that the feelings of her son were softened by his Other's unlooked-for generosity. But unfortu- nately }Sjn, Steward felt afraid that it would look Uke distrust of her own son, and refused to follow my father's advice, who, knowing young Steward's selfish character, felt sure that she would before long bitterly repent her not having done so. For the next three months young Steward remained at home with his mother, and the sisters continued their studies as usual. But at the end of that time he began to find home and its quiet duties extremely irksome to him. Having been brought up to no profession, time grew weary on his hands, and he once more Atarted for the continent. We were upon very intimate terms with this family. The Misses Steward would very frequently stay a week with us and we with them. It was not long after Mr. Steward's death be- fore a great change was observable in the house, which had "BLESSED ARE THE MBROIFUL." 133 always been kept up iiP' " BOA8T NOT THYSELF OP TO-MORROW." 145 in I walked along whether Frank had attended to my reqaest ahont the railing of the bridge; and some strange presentiment seemed to take possession of me, which I vainly endearoared to shake off I coold not acoonnt for the feeling. I was in my usual health and spirits, and everything around me was teem- ing with life and beauty. I sauntered slowly along under the trees, for the afternoon was very hot, auu I fdt unwilling to emerge from their grateful shade. I came at last in sight of the bridge, and the first tlnng I saw was that it was unpro- tected by any railing. Hastening on, I found, to my horror* that the little cart in which my Amy used to ride was in the water, and when I stood upon the planks I could plainly dis- tinguish the little girl herself Ijring at the bottom of the stream. The cart had evidently run against the rail, which had given way under the pressure. It was the work of but a few minutes to draw Amy from her watery grave, for it was not deep, and almost any child could have got out, but Amy, being a cripple, could not extricate herself, and consequently was drowned, for life must have been extinct some time ere I even reached the grove. There was no person near, anil I felt unwilling to leave the little corpse until some one coulf l>e sent to carry the sad news to the mother's cottage. Fortunately a boy passed just then, who was looking for some sheep, 9Ad it struck me in an instant that it was his carelessness which was partly the cause of the accident. The sheep had probably rushed over the bridge at the same time with Amy, precipitating her conveyance into the water, by tearing down the unsteady railing. I despatched the boy for help, which was soon sent, and Amy was borne home to her mother. Of course her %gony was dreadfril to witness, and she told me that " Frank was coming home the -i 1 ipmnMPipi mmmmmmmiimflltKllimf'i^fm^^ m 146 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. veiy next Saturday, haying obtained a holiday for the express purpose of meading this railing, for he said he had no time to do it properly before he went, and he felt quite sure that it would not break down by that time/' and probably it would not if the sheep had not gone oyer it But it was Frank's place to guard against any accident happening ; but, with his usual procrastinating carelessness, it was put off till a more conye- nient season, thus preying fatal to the darling sister, for whose life, I belieye, he would willingly haye giyen his own. Of what ayail now were all his self-reproaches; lus remorse, as he hung oyer the corpse of his darlmg ) But eyen then I felt sure he would leaye the grave ¥dth the curse still clinging to him ; for he made altogether too light of a fault which had already caused so much sorrow and pain, and instead of imputing the blame, which was justly his, he sought to lay as much as possible on the boy whose duty certainly was to have kept his sheep on the other side of the stream. It was, of course, after all, mere con- jecture ; the marks of their feet were by the bridge, and they were oyer the stream when I reached it, where they had no right to be if the boy had attended to his duty of watching them, instead of Ijring 8leepii||imder the hedge. This was the amount of the eyidence I gii#(l at the inquest ; but, let the cause be what it might, the result was the death of the little girl ; that truth was there in all its painful certainty. Frank returned to his place soon after tho fimeral, and I heard yery little more about him. Time passed away, and he became his own master, and returned to his natiye town to commence business for himself. He had muried a yery re- spectable young girl, who had been seryant for years in his master's family, and she made me smile the first time I saw her, by telling me that " the very day they married Frank had " BOAST NOT THYSELF OF TO-MORROW." 147 to re- his actually to leave the inmister waiting at the altar whilst he ran to the shop to purcha«e the ring, he having intended baying it the day previooa, but, thinking there was plenty of time, put it off, till at last he went to the church without it. Fortunately for Frank, his wife was a very pious young woman, and I felt sure she would try to torn his attention to sometiiing beyond the mere danger he incurred by his procras- tinating habits in worldly matters. For, alas ! Frank, like many others, thought there was plenty of time to think about religion. But oh I I ask you, are any of you too young to die f It would take me too long to tell of all his wife's struggles to bring him to the serious consideration of the more lasting things of eternity ; but his habits were too deeply rooted to be easily erased, and he became quite angry at times when she would commence the subject She was a very superior young woman, and having for many years attended the Sabbath school, the necessity of seeking God had taken deep root in her mind ; and she most earnestly desired that her husband should, with her- self, partake of the joy and peace of believing. Frank was exceedingly kind to his wife, and willingly grant- ed her every indulgence hit ||i»ns would allow of; he was very temperate, and shunned ii^^iyid company. This, he thought, was quite sufficient claim to. heaven, like the vaiu Pharisee who thanked Qod that " he was not as other men were." Frank was self-r^hteous, and prided himself upon his freedom from all great sins, his generous actions, etc., thinking, alas ! as too many do, that his own good deeds were all-sufficient to ensure an entrance into the kingdom of heaven. Frank Mildmay, I am grieved to be obliged to tell you, would not be persuaded of his fault, and as he grew older he grew more careless, until he was suddenly brought to convic- fmm '•''''''^^mmmmmiiiifii. 148 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. tion by an aooident which cost him his life. Then he would have gladly given all his earthly possessions to have been able to recall his wasted time ; maddened by pain and remorse, his sick bed was an awful lesson on the sin of procrastination. He only learned, when it was too late, the worth of the blessing by its loss ; time to him now would have been what it is said to have been to Queen Elizabeth, when, on her death-bed, she exclaimed, " Oh 1 time i time I a world of wealth for an inch of time I " Oh ! my dear young friends, be warned whilst time is yet yours. Seek Qod while He may be found, for the night Cometh when no man can work. I was with poor Frank all the night before he died j his fevered hand grew cold in mine as I prayed with him through those solemn hours, which were so soon to close on him for ever. How painfully was the verse verified in his case, that we may not " boast of to-morrow." He went forth to his work in the morning, blithe as a lark, with no cares on his mind, neglecting, as was his usual custom, to ask Gk>d's blessing on his lawful occupation, and in a short time was struck to the earth by the fall of the building on which he was engaged. Three short days were alone left him to nudie his peace with Gk>d, and as I closed his eyes I could only tblnk of the lines which seemed to me so painfully exemplified in his case : " Time was, — ^is past,— thou canst not it recall ; Time is,— thou hast, — improve the portion small; / Time future is not, nor may ever be ; Time present is the only time for thee." "SLOW TO AMOEB.*' 149 ** He thai w alow to anger is better than the trUghiif ; and he that ndeth his spirit than he that taketh a eity"—PToy. of Solomon, xvi. 32. This verse, my dear young Mends, is taken from the six- teenth chapter of the Proverhs of Solomon. Perhaps there is no book in the Old Testament which contains so many precepts ad- monishing yottth against the exceeding folly of indulging in bad temper. Not only does it make the person who gives way to it unhappy, but it destroys the peace of a whole household. Those wiio do not naturally possess a good temper, or whose dispositions have not been properly trained at home, will have to endure much misery when they go forth into the world, for they will find a groat deal to try them, as all do, whether rich or poor. Besides, bad temper is frequently discomposed by things as well as persons. If any little circumstance happens to cross, even when no one is to blame, every one within reach must suffer for it, as if all things as well as all people were to be in constant subjection to it. Can anything be so ridiculous as for young people, when thej are corrected for any fault, to pout and mutter, an exceed&^|^ disagreeable habit, which many girls make a practice of f If what is said is fit to be heard, it might be spoken aloud ; if otherwise, nothing is gained thereby but the gratification of ill humour, and those who indulge such a temper always injure themselves the most by it. I often wonder whether young people imagine them- selves to be too wise to be wrong. Any one would suppose so, to see how impatiently they listen to the reproofs of their teachers. I often feel inclined to ask how they came by their wisdom, or how it comes to pass that they already know all wmt ■""WiiliiiillMiPHi wmmm 150 SKETCHES FBOM LIFE. that is to be known. A girl with saeh m anhappy temper may, indeed, torment her teacher, and oocanon her a great deal of trouble and vexation ; bat it will prodnoe fur wone consequences to herself, by keeping her in ignorance, and causing herself to be universally shunned. Solomon also de- clares, ** Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit, there is more hope for a fool than him." On the other hand, good temper is its own reward, and those who are disposed to con- quer an evil one may be encouraged by the verse which we have chosen for our consideration. But as I know you will feel more interested in my admonitions if made interesting to you by iUustration, I will proceed to show you how much misery and unhappiness was caused in a famUy by one of its members, who was constantly giving way to temper on the most trivial occasions. After recovering from a severe attack of fever, being in very delicate health, I was sent away from home on a visit to a dis- tant relative of my mother's ; this place being selected on ac- count of its proximity to the sea. Mrs. Fairfax had often visited my dear mother, to whom she was fondly attached, and it was during one of her visi|t that she offered to take me home, instead of my being sent to some other place which was first proposed. I was delighted at the prospect of enjoying a few months of the beautiful sea-breezes, and the freedom from my scholastic duties, for the doctor had insisted on all cessation from study. The close confinement to the school room had im- paired my health unusually that summer, till I at last was quite prostrated by a low nervous fever ; but I forgot Ul-health and every discomfort when I stepped into the carriage which was to tear me away from my hated studies. Mrs. Fairfax must have thought she was taking some wild "BLOW TO ANGBK." 151 girl away, bat she was lo gentle, and kindly allowed me to en- joy the full bent of my exuberant spirits, till they were checked by utter exhaustion. It was quite late at night when we ar- rived at Mrs. Fairfox*s dwelling, and as all the young people had long retired to rest^ 1 was only '.oo glad to follow their example, although the sound of the waves dashing up by the cliffs kept me from sleeping, so anxious was I to witness their wild beauty. When I rose the next morning a beautiftd sight met my eyes. Mrs. Fairfax's dwelling was situated on the summit of a tall cliff: a garden, bright with innumerable shrubs and flowers, laid just under the window, whilst the magnificent ocean rolled beyond in all its wild splendour, and washed with its foaming billows the base of the cliff. The merry voice of the fishermen, as they were preparing to launch their boats, mingling with the noise of the waves as they dashed on the shore, was music to my ears, and I could scarcely tear myself away from watching the beautiful ships whose white sails were glittering in the sunshine, to attend the sum- mons to breakfast. < Mrs. Fairfax was seated at the table pouring out the tea, and kindly made room for me next to her, while she introduced me to her three daughters, Alice, Katy and Ellen ; the two elder were twins, about fifteen years of age, while Ellen was a year younger than myself. They were all pretty-looking girls, and received me very kindly. As this was their holiday time, it did not take very long for us to get acquainted with each other, and immediately after breakfast we were sent to amuse ourselves on the beach, accompanied by an elderly ser- vant who always waited on these young ladies. We spent our time very pleasantly, picking up shells, jet, amber, and the different sea weeds with which the beach was 152 SKETCHI8 FROM LIFE. strewed, until it wm time to retuni to dinner, after which meal Bire. Fairfax proposed that we should amuse ourselves in the garden and plantations till tea time. But all our enjoy- ment was marred by Alice's temper, which she showed me for the first time ; and I now found to my disnmy that she was peevish, discontented, selfish and exacting to a degree, and beyond all this she was so sulky that she would not speak. , This afternoon something was proposed ^hat she did not like, therefore she would not play, or walk, or sit down on the beau- tiftil gfMsy knolls, or in fact do anything we wished to do. Her sisters, used to her temper, paid no regard to her, but proceeded to their own amusements ; but I had been so unac- customed to such displays that it spoilt &11 my pleasure, and these freaks of temper were so often indulged in by Alice, that I was always glad when they confined her to the house. She could be the most agreeable girl when she was pleased, but that was so seldom that all our pleasure was marred by her selfishness and sulky fits. It was about a month after my arrival that the twins at- tained their fifteenth year. Mrs. Fairfax always made these anniversaries gala days to them, by inviting all the young people of the neighbourhood, and giving them a pic-nic in the beautiful grounds. It was the seventh of August, and a glo- rious day. I had been so happy all the morning assisting in conveying fruit, flowers and all kinds of confectionery to the place appointed for our meeting, and arranging them on the rustic tables put up for the occasion. Alice had been detained in the house assisting her mother, and I was just finishing the wreaths intended to be worn by the twins, when Alice in a^ passion of tears entered the arbour where I was working, and throwing herself down on the grass, declared that she was the 41 ^BLOW TO AMOBB. 15S most ill-used girl in the world. When I could prevail on her to speak, what was my surprise to hear that all this trouble was occasioned by the dressmaker, who, having received a Sudden demand for mourning, had been unable to finish the dress which Alice had intended to wear that afternoon. I was so thunderstruck at the idea of a girl giving way to such a burst of passion about a dress, that I could not answer her, and all my beautiful flowers fell to the ground as I attempted to raise her up from the place she had thrown herself. All my anticipated pleasures in the amusements of the afternoon van- ished as I gazed on Alice, her face inflamed by passion, and her whole frame shaking with agitation. I t.Ied to persuade her that no dress would be so pretty as her white one, but her anger knew no bounds, as she stamped her feet, and accused me of being jealous, lest, as she said* " she should look better than myself." Now I had never been brought up to think much about dress ; our dear mother used . to keep us all neat, but very simply clad, and we never dreamed of disputing her will, thinking that she must know best. Besides, girls in those days thought a great deal more of an afternoon's freedom from study than they did of their per- sonal appearance, and I never recollect the time when it caused me the slightest anxiety. That afternoon I had never even asked Mrs. Fairfax what dress I should wear. I was too much interested in the making up of the bouquets, for which I always possessed a passion, and twining the wreaths to deco- rate the table. I therefore was quite unprepared to hear my- self accused of harbouring a feeling I scarcely knew the mean ing of. Katie and Ellen, who soon joined to assist in clearing away the litter^ added their entreaties to mine that Alice would not spoil our afternoon's pleasure by giving way to such mm m 154 HKETCHn FROM LIFR. ill temper, and tried to penuade her how maoh freer she woald feel to e^joy her play if she was not afraid of spoiling her dreM, and* Katie declared "she was quite glad of the chance which prerented her wearing hers." Bat it was use- less to talk, so we left her to the enjoyment of her evU dispo- sition, and proceeded to the house to dress ourselves. About two o'clock the young people arrived, and Mrs. Fairfax left us to the unrestrained enjoyment of all the various amusements her kindness had prepared for us ; and happily, indeed, would our day have passed had it not been for Alice, who would not join in one game which was not proposed by herself. Some were for giving way to her, but others thought that it was un- fair and unjust that Alice should rule everything. She would not be crowned, because she said " I had purposely woven the best roses in Katie's wreath." I thought I had made them exactly alike, till the difference was pointed out to me ; one or two of the roses were larger, that was all. I then proposed that Alice should take the one that she thought was the best, Katie giving up hers most cheerfully. Alice immediately snatched it out of her hand, and trampling it under her feet, declared " that neither of them should be worn." Katie sub- mitted, as she usually did, but the peace of the day was broken ; a cloud had crossed our path, and nothing could restore the bright anticipations of the morning. And now what was the cause of this 1 It is well worthy of your attention, and I do beg of you not to pass it lightly over as a thing of no moment. The day was beautiful. Wealth contributed its means to our full enjoyment ; every luxury was at our disposal ; gay, happy, joyous spirits were there, revelling in their freedom from scholastic duties, which had so long and would so soon again bind them to the stem realities of life. Nature in all ''BLOW TO ANQIR." 155 her magnifieent grandeur decorated the loene, and yet one ill spirit waf the came of all the evil there ; bright nnilei were exchanged for diacontented peerishneet ; light hearts grew heavy under their burden ; joyooa ipirits flagged, and torbn- lent paniona and vain leproachee destroyed all the peace of the day. All this was the work of one bad temper ; Alice had by selfishness and wilftil discontent made ns all so nnhappy, that we were glad when the shades of evening called ns to dis- perse. Many such scenes did I witness daring my stay at Mrs. Fairfax's, and I was really glad to return home, for there the voice of discord was never heard ; to love one another, to be kind and obliging to every one, to give np our most cherished wishes if it would benefit another, were the precepts taught us by our dear mother. Every tendency to selfishness was checked, in the bud by her bright example, for she was the most unsel- fish of human beings. I returned home the latter end of October, much benefited in health by sea bathing and breezes, and I trust also warned by the example of Alice to shun all occasion of grievous words, which we are told ** stir up anger ; for better is a din- ner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred there- with." . I have one more scene in Alice's life to relate. Although I was not eye-witness to it, I can assure you of its truth, and you will see how bitterly she was punished — how just the retri- bution her evil temper brought on herself. When she had at- tained her nineteenth year her hand was sought in nuurriage by a very wealthy gentleman, who, having lately purchased property in the neighbourhood, was much struck with Alice's beauty. Sir Charles Mauvee was much sought after, and Alice's triumph was complete when she received an offer of mmm MPJIPHI|i| ^^ 156 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. his hand. Sir Charles was a retiring man, and of a yeiy serious torn ; he had therefore little chance of hearing of Alice's temper, as he was by no means a person any one would have dared to approach with a tale of gossip ; and as Alice always appeared to the best advantage before him, he doubtless took it for granted she was amiable as she appeared ; but he was suddenly woke from his dream of security by a scene to which I now call your attention. The wedding had. been fixed to take place early in the spring, and Sir Charles had occasion to go to London to make some final preparations for this event, and had taken a tender leave of Alice the night previous to his departure. But some- thing or other delayed his journey for a day, and he thought he might as well go over in the morning and spend a few more hours with Alice. As he was frequently in the habit of en- tering the drawing-room by the window which opened on to the lawn, he did so now. As he approached he was struck by hearing the voice of Alice, not in the soft tones he loved so well, but raised in the highest pitch of anger. So intent was she on the subject which had excited her stormy passions, that she never saw him, as he stood a spell-bound witness of the disgraccfril scene. It happened that her lac^y's maid had been summoned to her presence about some trifling mistake in her dress, and Alice was giving full vent to her anger in words very unbecoming to a lady, when she suddenly turned round and met the startled glance of Sir Charles, whom she thought that instant was a hundred miles away. A look in which mingled sorrow and ucom were strongly blended met her astonished gaze, but without one word of ex- planation he quickly vanished from the spot, leaving Alice* with the comfortable essurance that he had heard e/ery word « LET TOUB LIGHT SO SHINE. f> 157 of her unchristian'like altercation. She sank down on the sofa overwhehned with shame, for she felt that her fiite was sealed, and she possessed now not a hope of Sir Charles ever making her his wife. And she was right A letter was giyen her the next morning, in which he released her from her en- gagement, telling her that he dare not link his fate with one who could so far forget herself, adding that he ialt God coold never bless his union with her. Thus yon see how the long indulgence of evil temper mined all Alice's fair prospects ; overwhelmed with shame and con- fusion, she could offer no excuse. She tried to bring pride to her aid, but as she really was attached to Sir Charies, it did nothing towards alleviating her misery, and as she grew older she became the prey to her own evil disposition. I never saw any of the family again, as upon the marriage of the two daughters and death of Mrs. Fairfax, no communication was kept up with Alice. I can now, in conclusion, only call upon you to ponder over the moral contained in this tale, and if any of you have hitherto indulged in evil temper, ht me beseech you to be warned of the consequences ere it is too late. Go and learn of the meek and gentle Jesus, who, when He was ro> viled, reviled not again ; whose own beautiful words declare that " blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of God." mmm^^ 158 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. " Lei y&ur light ao thine h^ore men that they may see yowr good works, and glorify your Fatlter which is in heaven.** — St. Matt V. 16. In these words^ which fonn a portion of our Divine Saviour's sermon on the Mount, He exhorts His disciples so to act that they may encourage others to follow their example; for if people hear great professions made, and see none of the effect, they are not likely to admire or follow a religion from which springs no fruit. Our blessed Lord declares, " Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father." How many bring shame on their religious professions by Uie way in which they make it a cloak for sin! You read how much this was the case with the Scribes and Pharisees, who by their extraordinary devotion insinuated themselves into the confi- dence of the people, defrauding the widows and orphans of their rights. Our Saviour addresses them as " blind guides, which strain at a gnat and swallow a camel." This is a proverb signifying exactness about little matters, while neglecting those of greater moment, and originated in the custom of the Phari- sees, who attempted with a fine cloth to strain out the small animalculsB when they took their wine, lest they should trans- gress the law which forbade the eating of any creeping things; they were also very diligent in cleaning out their diinking-cups and dishes for food, as required by their traditions. If you will look into the seventh chapter of St. Mark, second verse, you will find that they found fault with our Saviour's disciples, because they saw them eat bread with unwashen hands. Our Saviour addresses them on this occadon as making dean "LET TOUR LIGHT SO SHINE.' 159 the oatdde of the platter, but within they are full of extortion and ezcess ; and again aa whited sepulohres, which appear beantifol without, but within are full of dead men's bonee and all ui ieanness ; and again our Saviour says, " Woe unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites ! for ye pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of law, judgment, mercy and faith : these ought ye to have done, and not left the other undone." It is very evident by what we read of these men in Holy Scripture, that the outward form of religion was strictly observed, but that justice, compassion and piety were quite lost sight of. Their good works did not spring from the love of pleasing Gk>d, but that they might stand high in the opinion of their fellow-men. I have now a short tale to relate, which will, I trust, prove to you that a man can spend his whole life in the strict observance of the ordinances of religion — ^that he can give largely of his means for the further- ance of religious objects — Cleave thousands to charitable insti- tutions, and yet, after all, be found among those whom our Saviour declares will be addressed by Him in these words, *' I never knew you ; depart from me, ye that work iniquity." In England, in one of those lovely places for which that country is remarkable, dwelt a gentleman, who, nursed in the lap of luxury from his earliest infancy, inherited at a very early age, by the death of his father, the magnificent estate which had descended for generations in his family. You who have never been in England, can form no idea of the supreme beauty of these estates. The beautiful parks with their noble trees, the streams of pure water, the hUls and valleys, and rich pastures, form a scene of picturesque beauty of which you can scarcely dreauL There is no grandeur in English acenoy, but alnott every stranger is struck by the air of quiet happi- : ^ 160 SKETOHBS FROM LIFE. 11688 which 8eem8 spread over the whole landBcape, giving you an ideBk of peace and rest which is seen in no other country. The gentleman who owned the estate of which I speak was a tall, fine-looking handsome man, his manners courteous and gentlemanly ; but there was with all this an austerity of self- righteousness about him, which was anything but pleasing to those with whom he came in contact. In a word, he was one of those persons who looked upon every one with the jaundiced eye of suspicion. He had resided abroad for several years, and was the father of two sons and three daughters before he finaUy settled on his own estate. His wife was a very lovely woman, forming a striking contrast to himself, and was regarded by him much in the same light as he looked upon his chil- dren, vis., slaves to <^.o his will. Such strict propriety of con- duct was insisted upon, that the girls were mere walking auto- matons, hardly speaking above a whisper ; as to laughing or playing, it was considered too vulgar and unladylike to be indulged in. The idea of going beyond the prescribed routine of a regular measured walk on the broad gravel paths of their magnificent garden, never for a moment occurred to them ; to run under the trees in the park, and seat themselves beneath their grateful shade, whilst they read or worked, was a thing not to be thought of ; even to stop on the rustic bridge which spanned the lovely stream dividing the garden from the park, to feed the pet swans, would have been considered a great dereliction of dignity. Every act was prescribed by rule, and Mr. De Vere flattered himself, in his pompous selfishness, that all his belongings were patterns of rigid proprieties. Mr. De Yere gave libenlly to all charities and religious institutions, for it flattered his vanity to see a subscrip- tion list headed by his donation of ten, twenty, or fifty pounds. **hVt TOUR LIGBT SO SHINE." 161 .'.! M the case might be, and ascribed to his generous benevolence His name figured in all lists for missionaries, Bible societies, hospital funds, or any other charity in which he saw himself described as the most liberal of patrons ; but his ear was deaf to the voice of mercy did it come in the shHpe of some poor widow, or orphaned child, who asked a small portion of his bounty ; no transgression was overlooked, no erring one en- couraged ** to go and sin no more." Did he not attend church three times every Sabbath, have family prayers, etc. t Gould it be expected that he should come in contact with sin and unclean- ness ; could he touch pitch and not be defiled 1 The two young De Veres were at college, the daughters were educated at home, under the strict surveillance of their father, for the meek and loving mother dared not interfere. Her natural kindness would have led her to relax the stern iron rule under which her children were educated. It would have pleased her more to see her girls romping amongst the trees and flowers, their cheeks glowing with the tinge of rude health, than to see these pale misses of propriety with never a smile parting their ruby lips, or hearing the joyous laugh of childhood ringing in her ears. Poor Mrs. De Yere felt how false and hollow was the system of her children's training, but with such a domineering spirit ruling her whole household she felt how powerless were all her efforts to] stem the current on which her dear ones were floating. What were they being fitted for 1 neither for time or eternity ! The system under which they lived incul- cated no kind feelings of sisterly affection ; they never disputed, 'tis true — that would have been too vulgar ; they were as stu- diously polite to each other as to the most exalted visitors ; bat to sacrifice their wishes to please another, or show Mhj idnd- nesi which had not self for its basis, they took no pleainre in. L ■i 168 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. Nothing was natural ; everything they did was mechanical, for they were mere working machines under the stem guidance of their father and governess. A mother's tender love had no place there. My dear father being Mr. De Vere's legal advisw, we were frequently brought in contact with these young ladies, and I remember one afternoon receiving a very severe lecture from Madame Drucourt, their governess, for daring to ask the Misses De Vere to join me and my sisters in a game of hide-and-go- seek. She gazed with great contempt on my not very tidy dress, which having in my play come in contact with the shrubs, had many unsightly rents, very visible in spite of my efforts to disguise them ; and my hair, which hung in long natural curls, was certainly guiltless of any degree of order ; my hat» which in my eager desire to find the object of my search, had fallen off, and now hung down behind, kept in its place solely by the ribbon attached to it. Madame was horrified, and contrasting the young ladies' spotless dresses and elegant French hats with my appt itfance, proudly demanded " How I could presume to sup- pose that they would be allowed to make such figures of them- selves f " The poor girls' pale faces certainly was a sufficient gua- rantee that a healthy game of romps had never been included in their catalogue of proprieties ; and although I was not in the least fishamed of my play, I must own to feeling a little, when the contrast of my appearance was made so palpably visible to mine eyes by Madame Drucourt. Yet in the shame of this I could not help feeling certain, that it would have been long ere our dear mother would have dressed us up like dolls, and sent us to ttiake morning calls with our governess, It was some weeiks alter this vi£t that I met Mr. De Vere coming up the garden with a piale face and bewildered manner. He addressed me with 4 " LET TOtJK LIGHT SO RBINK." 168 his Qsual overwhelming poIiteneM by asking if my father was at home 1 adding, that " he 'had called at his office but could not see him." I knew my father was just then in the orchard with the gardener, superintending the planting of some trees, and I offered to go and call him, requesting him to walk into my father^s study whilst I did so. With all his pompons politeness, which he neyer lost sight of, I could see that some- thing had gone wrong with him, and concluded, in my usual hasty manner of deciding, that some of his human machines had most likely got out of order, so he required legal advice. I was only too glad to escape from his stem sense of propriely, which led L.m to overwhelm even a child with it^ and quickly sent my father to his rescue. What transpired between them I did not hear for some time, but it appeared that his two sons had been leading a very reckless life of extravagance and folly at college, and in conse- quence had been both expelled. The disgrace to a man of Mr. De Vere's strict propriety was dreadftd, and in his anger he swore, that " he would never receive his sons home again." In vain was he advised that, however culpable their conduct, that that was not the way to reform them, but only likely to drive them to further acts of desperation. It was not the sin in the eyes of God which was the sting to this proud father, but the disgrace in the eyes of men. He who had always been noted for such strict justice, such fur dealing, to have dirty, shabby bills sent him from the Jew money-lenders, who, know- ing his wealth and pride, gladly lent on such sure seeurily to the reckless youths, who, fireed from the severity 4lf Iheir father's eye, only too willingly borrdwed and spent in idle and boisterous dissipation large sums of money which they obtained so readily, and it was not till an order expelling them from 164 SKETCHES. FROM LIFE. college reached them, that they awoke to the fear of their father's just anger. • Nothing could exceed the fearftd wrath of Blr. De Vere, as bill after bill was sent, demanding payment He would listen to no reasoning. Gould he then have been made to look his own error in the face, what amount of suffering might he not have escaped ! But no -, he had bowed to the world ; the opin- ions of men had always swayed him ; he had neyer sought mercy from God ; why then should he show it t His sons had disgraced his name, and involved themselves in debt from which no hand but his could free them. What right had they to ask or expect pardon f What was their bitter penitence to him 1 Gould it wipe away the stain on their name ? No, they had wilfully brought shame on it, and now they must ikbide the punishment In vain did Mrs. De Yere try to persuade him to reverse the dread decree which exiled her sons from home. The fond mother's courage rose as she pleaded for her boys, for she felt how much of their error was to be attributed to their father's false and hollow system of education. It had not fitted them to be launched into all the gaieties of college life. They had been, 'tis true, liberally provided with pocket money, but it was because it must not be sud that the young De Veres were niggardly supplied ; and they were generous on the same principle, and not for the good they might be enabled to do with it Religion at home had never been pre- sented in its own pure, attractive form ; consequently, at school it was neglected just in proportion to tlie opportunities of eluding the vigilance of the teachers. Is it to be wondered at that these young men fell into temptation, the real sin of which had never been implanted in their hearts as a path to shun 9 ** LVr TOUB LIGHT HfliSHINB.* 165 Mr. De Vera^ in the midtt of hit uiger, pftid withoat ft single deduction his sons' liftbilitiee, which ftmoonted to three thon- sftnd pounds, but he sternly warned the creditors thftt it would be the last time. Then, with a heart in which pride and anger held undisputed sway, he sat down and wrote his sons' dis- missal from his roof as coolly as if he were asking them to dinner. He named a sum for which they might draw upon him annually, but added, that if it were overdrawn at any time, the whole would be discontinued. Thus the sons were exiled from their home, and the father was seen, as usual, in the house of God, the most devout listener there, the most constant and attentive attendant on all its sacred ordinances. But did his conscience never smite him as he prayed " Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us 1 " The young men, on receiving their iiEither's letter announc- ing their exile, had written to their mother, saying that ** they intended going to sea and ende&vouring to carve out for themselves such a name as might perhaps be the means of obliterating «dl remembrance of their youthful folly." They had not erred from a real love of sin, but for lack of that inherent principle being ingrafted on their minds which would have kept them from fidling ; but this the father could not see — whence hb stern, unrelenting denouncing of his sons. Nothing was heard of these young men for nearly three years, wad then news reached the parents that tibey had both perished by shipwreck. What Mr. De Yere felt he made no sign of; he still continued the same stem administrator of jus- tice, the same liberal subscriber to all religions institutimis, the same arrogant stickler for propriety. The heart-broken mother silently and uncomplainingly drooped away , her fond heart IM BKKIPIIB raOM UFB. had oiling thioogh ftll the not ft well-known fact, that to her erring boyi ; for is it Tean oannot ohMiffe, nor woiihleam«M r«move, Nor guilt imp«ir, m moihcr'i holy 1ot« ? It twiiiM aronnd thr moat ungrfttefnl hcMt : Tho' thanklcM »U, it will not thenoe depart Mrs. De Vere's sileni* laffering was painful to witness ; there was no sympathy with her grief, and all felt that death was a meroy, bringing her the peace she knew not on earth. Few knew until she was laid in her grave her gentle charities, of the kind and loving sympathies that had sought to lead the erring back to the path of virtue ; no one feared to go to her, although they shrank terrified from her pompous husband ; hers was a religion to be felt, his to be seen ; she condemned the sin, he the sinner ; she spoke kind and gentle words to the penitent) he crushed them with the weight of his wrath. He stood aloof, for who would dare to accuse him of any wrong 1 Oould he not pray, " Lord, I thank thee that I am not as other men are^ extortioners, unjust, adulterers; I fast twice in the week, and give tithes of all that I possess 9 " But who can tell what feelings wrung his heart with anguish as through the long, dark, wintry nights he wrestled with his great sorrow 9 His pride was wounded in the most sensible point as he remembered that he had now no son to inherit his beautifcd domain. His very name must sink into oblivion, for the eldest son of his sister would inherit what now aplpeared to him invested with threefold value, and, what was still more repugnant to him, he was the son of a gentleman whom he hated with a bitter hatred, for he was one who had made him feel his superiority. A man of no particular standing in soci- ety, with not a tithe of his wealth, making him feel that his " LET TOUB UOHT SO 8BINK. 167 •aperior wm there, was not to be borne, and now hia son wm the sole heir to the inheritance of his lost children. He had no power to will it, for it wai strictly entailed on the male hein ; and he felt all the punishment of his own unrelenting pride and anger. Had he not exiled his sons fh>m home 1 Had he not coolly consigned them to death? Could anything have power to erase this cruel knowledge t He tried to deaden *Hhe still small voice/' but it loudly asserted its power. What were the few thousand pounds spent by his sons, to a man of his wealth ) He recollected, when a lad at college, having fallen into a similar error ; his dear father not only paid his ddbts, but had affectionately pointed out his error j no word of harshness in his reproof ; and in order to prevent his again falling into temptation, he had generously increased his allow- ance. Why then had he acted so differently 1 He punished his sons, not for the actual sin, but merely because his pride was wounded, his strict ideas of propriety outraged ; in a word, the world would know that his sons had dared to act as other men's sons — as the common herd. This so hardened his heart that he hushed the soft pleadings of nature, and turned a deaf ear to the gentle voice of the meek and loving mother. But now conscience asserted its power, ruled him with an iron rod, and the strong man was as a willow bending beneath the blast. The satisfaction of seeing his sons carried with all the pomp of pride to the family vault, and their names inscribed on the iBtoried urns was even denied him, for the wild waves had sung their requiem as they sank to rise no more. No one could tell the anguish this man endured — he bd, so uses his wealth and power, that in the happiness he diffuses around him, he so lets his light shine before men, that they acknowledge the goodness of Gk)d and glorify and praise His holy name. ** Thou Ood seest me.'* — Genesis xvi, part of 13th verse. These words, my dear young friends, which have been chosen to form the subject of this tale, were uttered by Hagar whep she fled from the face of her mistress, Sarai, Abram's wife, ^he holv writings inform us that Sarai had doalt hardly with "THOU OOD BBOT Ml." 109 hu, thai die fled into the wilderneee, and whilit there, the (btnre of her unbom son wm told to her by the angel of the Lord ; and that Hagar called the name of the Lord who tpoke ai)to her, " Thou God teeet me." It ia a solemn knowledge for oa all— from Hit all- teeing eye there it no etoape, not a thought of our heartt oan be hidden. Read what David tayt, Ptalmt czxxiz. ** For lo, there it not a word in my tongue, but ThoQ, Lord, knowett it altogether. Whither thall I go then from thy spirit 1 or whither thall I go then from thy pretence I* If I climb up into heaven Thou art there : if I go down to hel Thou art there alto. If I take the winga of the morning, and remain in the uttermott parts of the tea ; even there alto thall Thy right hand lead me. If I tay, Peradvcvnture the darkneat thall cover me ; then thall my night be turned into day. Yea, the darknett io no darknett with Thee, but the night it at clear as the day ; the darknett and light to Thee are both alike." How much tin would go uncommitted if we alway t kept thit tolemn truth before our eyet ! — how much lett of envy, and bickerings and cruel tayingt and thoughtt would be indulged in, were we in reality to realize thit all-important truth ! I will now tell you a thort tale, the perusal of which I truttwill convince you, that we can have no greater tafeguard in our courae through life, no greater incentive to ahun the evil and choote the good at thit certain feeling dwelling with ut — " Thoa Ood feeit me." About three mOee from the town where I wat bom, th«re retided a farmer, a man of great worth and retpectability ; he wat one of the old tchool, and resolutely set himself against what he called ''new-fangled notions." For instance, he al- ways spoke of -Jm wife as Dan^e Mercer, and kept hia two ■^^""nWTCP wmm'i'i'mmmf 170 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. daoghten very busy in the dairy, who were fmt Mid wide re- nowned for their sweet golden batter, which ever found a ready sale when conveyed by himself and dame twice a week to the town. Mr. Mercer's was the best managed fiurm in the neigh- bourhood, and on it he had two acres entirely devoted to the raising of that very superior and delicious strawberry, called " the Keen seedling." He spared neither time nor expense in their cultivation, and it was his custom, during their season, to have parties come and spend the afternoon in a beautiful gar- den laid out for the purpose, and eat strawberries and cream. By this plan he paid, himself much better than by sending the fruit to market Many were the parties formed to go and eat the beautiful fruit fresh gathered fr^m the vines, accompanied by jugs of rich cream, and delicious cakes which the good dame always made for " the little folk." I recollect how we used to look forwarc. to this season ; we were always sure of one half- holiday, and then not only did the kind farmer and his wife see us well supplied with fruit and cake at a table by ourselves, but swings were put up in the immense bam, and any quan- tity of clean st aw spread for our amusement, and the two rosy-cheeked daughters were always ready to wait on us, and indulge us in all sorts of fun and frolic. There was one son, a fine handsome-looking boy, but evi- dently possessing no ambition to be tied all his life too the plough. We heard that he was very wild and resorted to often to the town, where he made the acquaintance of some youths whom he did not dare to bring to his father's house, for he well knew that they would not suit the strict notions he enter- tained of truth and honour. My father had heard complaints made about him from the master of the school to which he went as day boaider. but nothing so serious as to n^tke him \ 4» i IMKMI ■■■■I . It "THOU OOD SEEST ME." 171. feel jnstified in telling Mr. Mercer. He was always ww behaved, kind and obliging to us all when we were there ; his father was very proud of him, although I do not believe he acknowledged such a feeling even to himself. It was during one of these strawberry feasts that Mr. Mercer showed my father a letter which he had received that same morning, announcing the dying state of his only sister, anil her wish that he should receive hei only child, a boy of about fif- teen years of age. The clergyman of the parish in which she was dying wrote the letter, and mentioned the good education this boy had received both in a worldly and spiritual soise. His poor mother had nothing to Wve him ; her means of sup- port died with her; and she now remembered the kind brother from whom she had been parted for so many long yean, and had spent her small remnant of strength in trying to rmch England that she might see him before she died and commend her son to his kind protection. Her strength had &iled with fearful rapidity the week after she had arrived, and she found ,> it impossible to reach her brother's house, and had gratefully K taken advantage of the clergyman's kind offer to write to Mr. ';Mercer. Mr. Mercer was rich in this world's goods, and expressed great delight that he was able to take his nephew. " Bless the boy," said the kind-hearted man, "he shall never know the want of a home as long ae his old uncle has a roof to cover him; and ae will just give Edward what he wants — a home com- panion — for I have been told he finds some who are not exact- ly the right ones, and this will set all things right. I will take the early coach to-morrow, and I trust I shall be there time enough to receive him from his mother, and cheer her with the mmmm WWISfPI "^'^"^mrm'ii'ifmmmmHmim 172 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. knowledge that her orphan boy shall never want eitiher home or friend." I thought as I listened to these words how noble he looked, although he had only a coarse hat on his head and the imple- ments of industry in his hands. He did not allow the sorrow he felt for his suiter to interfere with the comfort of his guests, and we were allowed to enjoy ourselves running about the lovely meadows, fishing in the clear streams, gatherinp the pretty wild flowers, and wandering through the beautiful gar. den which had all kinds of secret bowers at the end of the thick shrubberies ; and then the crowning delight of all, to sit down in the cool arbour formed entirely of hondysuckle and roees, wherein was a table spread with Mrs. Mercer's best china, heaped up with the luscious fruit, glass pitchers of rich cream and all kinds of delicate biscuit, cake and lemonade. To us it seemed like fairy-land. The roses and honeysuckles always smelt the sweetest, and to this day the scent of these flowers vividly recalls the memory of those days, and the de- light I felt when Mr. Mercer ordered his daughters to gather "a posy for us to take home." It so happened that my aunt and godmother came to pay us a visit during this season, and, another party being formed, I obtained (upon her intercession) leave to accompany my parents and friends a second time to the strfiwberry feast. We had heard previous to this that Mr. Mercer had arrived in time to find his sister alive, and, after remaining to see her committed to the grave, had brought his nephew to the home which was to be his in future. When we arrived at the farm he came out with his uncle to meet us, and kindly assisted uk to alight He won my dear mother's heart in an instant by the ten- der manner in which he lifted my little two-year-old sister, car^ •^•"'m'm'mmmim ^immmmmmmnf' mmmmmmmmmm "THOU GOD SBEST ME.** 178 ried her into the house, and proceeded at once to disencumber her of her doak and hat Every one was pleased with Frank, as he was called. He was a very delicate-looking boy, tall, slight, very pale, with large, soft, dark eyes and a profusion of silky hair, which curled close to his head. He fonped a strong contrast to his cousin, which was not to the advantage of the latter, al- though in point of size and strength Le was by no means Ed- ward's equal Mrs. Mercer told my mother in the course of the afternoon " that she thought Frank would be a great comfort to them, for his mother had taken the most infinite pains so to form his principles that there seemed little danger of his going wilfully astray." She added that " on her death-bed she had bid her son never to forget these words, * Thou God seest me ;' that whatever he thought, said or did, he was never to banish that conviction from his mind. Nor does he," continued his aunt, "for I believe it constantly dwells with him and guides all his actions. I find him docile, obedient, and ever ready to oblige all ; no- thing seems to ruffle the serenity of his temper, no, not even the taunts of the farm hands , who call him the little saint. I saw no moi'e of either Edward or Frank until the follow- ing strawberry season. Mr. Merce? had occasion to leave home that day, and had left Edward to act as his representative in receiving the usual moneys charged for the afternoon's amuse- ments. The two young lads always gathered the fruit, and I happened that afternoon to wander away from my companions, and sitting down in a shady spot near the hedge which divided the strawberry patch from the rest of the grounds overheard the following conversation between the cousins as they gathered the strawberries: — ''The people who come here," said Edward, « are all well off, 174 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. and can well afford to pay us more than my father charges, and we who have all the trouble of picking the fruit actually get nothing." " But if your father is satisfied with the sum paid," replied his cousin, " it would not be right for you to ask more ; it would not only be a great sin, but wronging your visitors and your father as well, as they of course would suppose you acted by his sanction. And then, suppose they ask you why you charge more to-day, what answer could you make t Oh ! remember, dear Edward, those words, * Thou Otod seest me/ and fear to do this great wrong." "Well, I want the money," said Edward, "and what is more, I must have it. I promised to go to town to-night with it, and I shall be expected." " Why not wait till your father returns, and ask him for the money?" " Because," replied Edward, " he would want to know for what I wanted it He keeps his purse-strings too tight for my taste, and I do not choose to tell him how I spend my money." " Your fear of your father's disapproval, Edward, should be a sufficient warning to you of the wrong you are about to commit; it is the still small voice of conscience speaking to you. Do not stifle it; you may be sure th;[^t your sin will find you out. It is stealing, Edw^vd, and the worst kind of stealing, for you are betraying your father's trust. Oh ! if you would only remember that (Jod's eye is upon you, you would surely pause ere you plunge headlong into such a sin." Frank stood up as he thus spake to his cousin, his pale hoe flushed with crimson ; he looked like an angel of light try- ing to save some fallen sinner from sinking yet deeper into the abyss opening at Mb feet. Edward, however, did not reply, as "THOU OOD SEEST MB. n 175 their task was finished, and taking up their baskets they pro- ceeded to the house by a path opposite to the hedge under which I was sitting. What influence Frank had exerted over his cousin to prevent his first design I did not hear till some three or four weeks afterwards, when, sitting with my mother ore morning, I was astonished to hear my father ask her " Why she had not paid Edward Mercer at the hist strawbeny feast ? " My mother expressed her surprise at the question, and replied that she " had done so," and turning to her house book, showed my father the sum as charged to that month's account. "It is veiy strange," he remarked; "but Mr. Mercer, in settling some law account that morning, had deducted the amount, say- ing that you had told Edward yon had forgotten your purse, but would pay any time when they came into town." " There must be roguery somewhere,'' replied my mother ; and the:i I, recollecting the conversatioii I had overheard be- tween the cousins, thought it best to tell my father, although I remember receiving a very severe reprimand from him for placing myself in a position to hear a conversation which was never intended for my ears ; but as I had not repeated it to any one, he warned me not to do sc now unless it was necessary. A week after this, Mrs. Mercer called herself with the butter and e^s, instead of sending them, as usual, by her son when he came to school. My mother, by my father's advice, informed her of the late transaction, thinking it might be for Edward's benefit that she should know it. Mrs. Mercer received the communication with less emotion than could have been ex- pected. She did not by a single excuse endeavour to palliate her son's conduct. She seemed to ^itertain only one fear, that being lest his father should be informed of it wmmmmm mmmmmmmm 170 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. She said also that " several times lately she had received but part of the pajrment for her farm produce fi'om several of the ladies whom she supplied, and had until this morning always supposed it had not been paid to Edward ; but applying to a lady for some considerable arrears, she had been shown by the book that her son had received the total amount She evidently felt very angry and annoyed at Edward's conduct, but it was very plain to perceive that the great sin did not trouble her so much as the disgrace it would be to him should his father be told of it. " For you know, madam," she said, " his honest name never had a taint" My dear mother, in her usual gentle manner, advised Mrs. Mercer not to hide it from her husband, lest Edward, in his present security, should resort to worse means to obtain money, and bring far greater shame on them and ruin on himself Mrs. Mercer seemed to entertain great fear of her husband, while I could not fancy any one being afraid of that good-natured, jolly man, who used to speak such kind words to children, and never came to see us without filling his pockets with apples, nuts, and sweets for the " young folk." It would have been better had Mrs. Mercer acted on my mother's advice, but she did not, and Edward escaped the pun- ishment so justly deserved ; although she threatened, if ever he was found again guilty of such acts, that she would no longer screen him. But Edward was shrewd enough to read in her lecture more fear of his father than anger against himself. Mr. Mercer had himself missed small sums of money from time to time, but a shadow of suspicion as to his own son being the culprit, never I am sure, crossed his mind they rather pointed to the nephew, although, had he known how un- justly, ho would sooner have cut off his right hand then have non- "THOU OOD SKKOT MS.** 177 rished them. He determined, however, to watch him itricUy, bat coold detect nothing which could reconeile the whole tenonr of his Ufe with that of a thief. That the boy lived under the shadow of that great truth, ** Thou Qod seest me," was evi- dent in all his transactions. His uncle loved him fondly, but still how was this question to be answered. Why had nothing been missed before he came to live with them t Perhaps, had he consulted his dame, she might have opened his eyes ; but although he acknowledged her to be one of the most notable of housewives, he did not entertain that high opinion of her mental powers which could advise on such & subject ; so /le kept his own counsel, as she had done hers, and it is no wonder that it worked its own evil for the boy for whom they would either of them have given their lives to save from guilt and its consquent disgrace. Edward had too readily found both means and ways to allay the suspicions of his mother, and was very careful not to bring upon himself the reproofs of his cousin, which he was conscious he so well merited; yet, bad as he was I feel sure he would have been skcjked had he known that the pure, high-prin- cipled boy was suspected of his crimes. But soon his com- panions whispered how easy it would be to cast suspicion on one whom they hated, because they knew full well that he sought earnestly to keep Edward's feet out of the snare spread for him. Some *Jme after this Mr. Mercer had a considerable sum of money l}dng idle in his house, which had been paid him at various periods by his tenants. This coming to the knowledge of the two young men who were Edward's boon companions, they used their utmost eiSbrts to persuade him to obtain pos- session of it, and join them at some place they named, and M 178 8KKTCHBS FROM LIFB. from whenoA they ooald eaaly nil for Amftrioa before the hoe and cry ooold reach them. Edward knew his father intended to bank this money on the following Thursday when he went to market, and also that he was to be absent from home one night, for so he had told both Frank and himself that morning. He now felt himself com- pletely enveloped in the toils of these men ; they knew too many of his evil deeds ; and if he turned back now, they would betray him, he felt certain. He had so long listened and acted on their evil counsels, that he now felt himself powerless to resist their stronger wiU. Yet he could not banish from his guilty soul thoughts of his beloved parents made desolate in theii old age, their grey hairs brought with sorrow to the grave by their ungrateful son, who was meditating leaving the tried love of seventeen years for the untried friendship of the wicked. The probability was, that once the money was in their possession they would leave him to struggle alone with the danger so sure to follow, with the guilt which would turn and sUng him. What would it be to them, even if he were brought to the scaffold, so that they made safe their escape t His tempters saw their power and his moments of weakness. They soon deadened the still small voice by plying him with that soul-destroying beverage which has hurled so many, and is still hurling its thousands into the deep pit of misery and crime. The night fixed upon for this daring deed was one fitted by nature for such a aeed. It was dark and stormy ; the thunder was loud and frequent, with lurid sheets of lightning illuminating all around ; the wind howled among the trees, making weird and unearthly sounds. Mrs. Mercer and her daughters had long retired to their rooms, leaving Frank and Edward sitting ISy a cheerful tire in the kitchen. Frank per- • **THOU GOD SBB8T HI.*' 179 oeiTed that his oonthi had been drinking freely, and wiahed to get him to bed. He felt nneasy aboat his uncle's absence whilst the money was in the house, and had on his own re- sponsibility requested two of the farm hands to sleep on the premises, for he had several times during the afternoon seen two suspioious-looking men lurking about the lanes, which he felt sure boded no good ; yet he did not like to mention this to Edward, who obstinately refused to go to bed. Poor Frank ! What would his feelings have been had he known that his undo, whose property he was so anxiously guard- ing, was even then concealed in a closet in the room where the money was kept, for the express purpose of finding out whe- ther his were the hands that robbed him. Mr. Mercer was determined to find out who was in the habit of robbing him, thinking it likely that so large a sum of money would not es- cape an attack. He had therefore given notice at the break- fast table that he was going out, and might not return till next day. He accordingly left about six o'clock in the evening, and returned again about eleven, entered his house without any one hearing him, and concealed himself in a closet where his good dame stored away many a dainty web of her own and daughters' spinning. He remained there undisturbed, except from the howling of the storm, till after the old kitchen clock had tolled the hour of one; then he fancied that he heard small stones thrown up against the window, also a slight rustling behind the heavily curtained bedstes i. He was, however, determined to do nothing rashly, so waited patiently till the signal was again repeated. The door of the room softly opened, and he saw some one enter, who, in the uncertain light, he could not recognise, and throw- ing open the window speak a few words. The answer was wmmm wm w 180 SKETCHES FBOM UFE. dittincUy «idibl« to Blr. Mercer : ** Throw the bagi down, and we will wait for yon by the other tide of the sweet-briar hedge." Mr. Mercer was jutt about to ipriog from his conceahoMnt when he was arrested by the words, " Thou God seest me," and to his astonishment he saw his nephew Frank, who coming from behind the bed, seiied the arm of his cousin as his fingers grasped the heaviest of the bags, and exclaimed, " Oh ! Edward, pause ere you commit this great sin. Would you rob your kind Hud loving father, and bring disgrace on his honest name t I feared some attack this night, but not from you, so I was determined to j guard my uncle's property even with my life. My dear, kind, indulgent uncle, this knowledge will kill you." « Unhand me, Frank," almost shrieked Edward, as he vainly endeavoured to free himself from his cousin's grasp, " I have gone too far to turn back now : there are those without who will stand no trifling." " There is One above, Edward, whose all-seeing eye is upon you; pause ere you bring down His curse on your head — desist from this sin. I toll you I will fight till I fall dead at your feet before one shilling of this money shall be touched. Go quietly to your bed ; leave me to deal with those without. I have no fear of them ; I go forth under the shadow of God's protection, and fear no evil. Yield, Edward, and I give you my solemn promise that your father shall never know his only son was about to rob him." Edward was just about to answer, when, to the astonishment of the two young men, Mr. Mercer stood before them. He came to confront his guilty son. With a start and a scream of horror, Edward freed himsdf from his cousin's relaxed grasp, and bounded out of the window, fiEdling with a fearful crash on the stone pavement be- neath. A frightful scream of tinguish and a murmur of confused voices was all that met the ears of Frank and his uncle, and "THOU OOD SECflT MB." 181 then all wms giill. Mr. Mercer closed the window, and bidding Frank make no noiie, but follow him, they went downstairs, and, proceeding to the place where Edward lay, racceeded in bringing him in. Not a word was spoken, bat Frank saw that his ancle's face was as white as thoagh the hand of death was on him. He compelled him to swallow a glass of wine, and forced him into a chair. Poor Mr. Mercer looked ap into Frank's face, and burst into an agony of hjrsterical sobs and tears. Frank attempted no consolation — he felt that it was not the time, but let him weep on till exhausted by the violence of his suffering. In the meantime he despatched a man for the doc- tor, and, seeing that water was put on to heat, sponges, towels, etc., all put ready to hand, proceeded to examine the senseless form of his cousin. One arm hung down, crashed, broken and helpless, and a large contusion on the forehead was already swelling and blackening fearfully, and his face, inflamed from drink, contrasted strangely with the livid paleness of his lips. This, then, was the sight which met the mother's gaze as, sum- moned by Frank, she now entered the room. He begged her to be calm, and assisted her to prepare everything for the doc- tor. It was d>\ylight before he arrived, and then to the watchers the time seemed almost interminable whilst he was examining the injuries sustained by the unfortunate young man. At last everything was done, and the strictest quiet enjoined. A strong opiate was administered to Mr. Mercer, who had never spoken ; he seemed completely paralyzed both in body and mind. It was not till some time after this event took place that I heard the particulars which I have here related, althoagh I have written them as they took place at the time. Mr. Meicer came to my father and told him, and I heard him tell my IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 4^ ^ 1.0 1.1 11.25 14 1 14 •^ 6" ^} V Photographic Sdences Corporation .^^ m \ V ^ 23 WIST MAIN STRUT WIBSTIR,N.Y. MSSO (71«)t72-4S03 '^ r ,^ iV 188 SKKTOHK FROK LIFI. mother thai *' he never witnetied, and hoped he never should again, nioh angniah as shook the strong fame of Mr. Mercer, as he poared out all the pent-np agony of his soul." Upon inqoiry it was foond that Edward's aoeomplices had left that part of the oountiy, and in oonseqaenoe my father strongly orged Mr. Mercer to keep the matter quiet ; no one was iLjured bat himself, and my fiither well knew what a sense of shame wrung the poor man's heart, as he saw his honest name disgraoed by his only son. He wu a man universally beloved for his kind and generous dealings with all, and hard indeed must have been the heart that could have rejoiced in the public disgrace of Us guilty son. He had been blessed with f bundanoe, and his heart . swelled with gratitude to the Oiver of all his bountiftd gifts ; so when he gathered in his harvest, like Boas in Scripture, his young men were bid ; " to let fiJl some of the handfuls," and the poo> gleaners in their lowly cottages blessed him as they ate the bread provided by his bounty, and prayed Qod to add to his store. It seemed strange that his son should have been such a different character, but Mr. Morcer was indulgent to his only sou, and probably never suspected the existence of those loose prineiplfls which so well-nigh brought him to public shame. Had Mrs. Mercer aoed on my mother's advice when he kept back tiie strawberry money, or had Mr. Mercer confided his suspicions of Frank to his wife, all might have been well, and this last crime unattempted. But we cannot tell : it might be necessary to humble the farmer'spride of character —-perhaps he trusted too much in himself. £dward's accident happened in Febmaiy, and when the strawbeny season came round again, he was still lying on his bed of pain ; his injuries, both external and internal, had been much more severe than was at first THOU OOD SnST MM^ 18S thought^ and thff) doctor told as thai ** he thought hit raeoToiy veiy doabtftil : at the bett^ he would be a erippW ibr the n- mainder of hit ex*'steiioe.*' When I went into the room to see him, I started with ondisgoiied amaiement at his altered appearance. Was it possible that this pale, emaciated being could be the bright, strong, athletic youth who used to toss the stntw-stacks down for oar amasement, and swing as with such untiring eneigjr t What a sad change for the poor young fellow I and how trae it is that " the ways of the transgressor are hard.'* What had sin done for him t Crippled his strong limbs, crushed the arm that should have been his mother's stay in h«r old age, and laid him for four weaiy months on a bed of acute suffering, with a conscience torn by remorse which denied him all rest He could now see, when too late, the beautiful consistency c^ his cousin'scharacter— realise thesolemn truth under whose shadow he lived and acted, "Thou Ood seest me. He felt how im- possible it would have been for Frank to have acted as he did under the powerful influence of that ever present knowledge. He could scarcely bear to see either his father or cousin, so deep was his debasement. He could not but acknowledge to himself that the life of crippled uselessness before him was but a small tithe of what he deserved ; and had Gk>d caused his fall to have killed him, he felt that it would have been only a just punishment for his manifold transgressions. The fond father was there to forgive, the kind cousin to whisper hope to his fainting spirit, and Edward, with God's blessing, was at last able to rest upon the gracious promise of pardon for all who seek it in His Son's name. The benign influence of his cousin fell like dew upon his guilty soul, and eagerly did he listen to wmm 184 SKrrOHBS BAOK LIPB. the words which proolaimed peaoe and pardon to the poor con- trite uniier. It mm the kst week in September, that, being out driving one afternoon with my brother, he propoeed that we thoold nstom home by Mr. Meroer'a and inqoiie for Edward, my brother laying that ** he had ht»rd the doctor had been hastily summoned during the but nighty and had not yet retomed." When we arriyed, no one came out^ as atoa], to welcome us ; ao my brother said *' he wonld drive into the barn-yard and in- quire of some of the farm hands how he was." Just then the servant girl came out of the house, and saad that ** her master had seen us, and begged us to step in;" *' Master Edward," she said, '* was terrible bad ; and the doctor was still there." Bfr. Mercer met us in the hall. How changed he was ! He looked an old broken down man. He invited us into the parlour, and told us that ''Edward had been seised at midnight with a violent hemorrhage which it was impossible to check, but that he was perfectly calm and happy, if we would wish to see him." My brother, who never could endure to witness suffering when he could avoid it, declined, but gave me permission to accom- pany Mr. Mener if I wished. I did so — and when I entered the room it needed not a second gUmce to see that Edward was dying ; there was no mistaking the grey hue of that dread shadow which always precedes death. Frank stood by his cousin's side, wiping the lips which were stained with the life-/ blood of the young sufferer. The poor mother was bowed down at the foot of the bed, her heartrending sobs mingling with the tears of the affectionate sisters as they knelt by the other side of the bed. '^ It was such a lovely afternoon, the windows of the sick room , were open to the ground, and the delicious scent of roaes and "THOU GOD 8BE8T HE." 185 jasmine was wafted in bj every breeie. The rioh meadow- landsy Uuoagh which a pure stream of water flowed, laid jast oatslde the garden hedge ; a pretty white rastie bridge spanned the stream, over which the rosy-cheeked dairy-maids were bear- ing to the hoose their flowing pails of rich milk ; while the sleek cows were lying almost hidden by the lazoriant grass. It seems so sad that death should enter into so lovely a scene* I remember how short a time it was since the poor invalid had played with ns amongst the hay in those meadows, and had carved for ns tiny boats to launch in the mimic lake. Every- thing was as fair and beantif ul to-day ; he alone was changed ; and my tears fell fast as I gaied on the sad wreck before me. All were silent, the groans of the poor father and the sobs of the mother alone breaking the deep silence. After a few minutes Edward lifted his hand and pointed upwards. *^ See" — it was the only word we could hear. That he saw something glorious I never doubted, so bright was the livid ftce for an instant ; then light and life faded out together, and nothing was left of Edward but the senseless clay. Now, my dear young friends, in conclusion, I would here most affectionately exhort you all never to lose sight of the great and important truth from which Ihaveendeavouredto draw this tale. <*Thou Gk>d seest me," should encourage the faint hearted and deter the guilty. Let us all keep it uppermost in our thoughts . let us not cast it away, and think that our sins are too small for God's notice. Let us no longer walk as those who have no light ; but whether we eat or drink, or whatsoever we do, may this important truth dwell continually with us ; let it be about our bed and about our path, that we may so act that we shall not fear to jay, '* I am not afraid, for ' Thou Gk>d ceest me.' f w 186 8KBI0H1IB raOM LITI. ** CmKs rniio Me, att ye thai lah(mr and are heapjf laden, and IwUi give fou fwt"— St MaUhew xL 28. Tbii vene, mj dear young frienda, m one of die moat bean- iifaly aa well aa oomforting, of all oar Savioar^s promisee. Are you weaiy with triali and ain, borne down with the weight of yoor own goilt 9 Oh, hear thia aweet invitation from ocr lov- ing Saviour, ** Come onto Me, all ye that laboor and are heavy laden, and I will give yon reat." Best^ the peace of God, which paeaeth all understanding ; where on this earth can you find rest like this t — ^rest unto your souls. How lovely was the ezAmple Christ set us during His ministry on earth — peace and good-will to all 1 Should it not teach us to hush our tuiv bulent passions, to subdue our evil desiTes, that we may walk in His footsteps f If you carefully read His history as related by the four Evangelists, you will there see that in every in- stance where sin was brought before Him how gently He spoke to the erring one, ** Qo, and sin no more." ''Thy sins are for^ given thee, go in peace," were the gracious words He used to two women who were marked for their sinful course. Again, He proclaims these gracious words, ** I come not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." Is it possible that any one can be indifferent to all the promisee of pardon and peace which proceeded from His mouth — the mouth of Him who spake aa never man spake before % Alas I how painful is the truth that thousands reject the offered mercy. Is it* because it is offered without money and without price, that it is thus cast away as if a thing of nought ? Let me beg of you, my dear young friends, to ponder well over the gracious invitation of our Saviour, while I endeavour to show you what peace and happiness it brought to one I knew, who, paming through the "OOm UMTO MB." 187 fiery fiunace of AflUetion, wm eaiMed to eaii aU her onre on Him who gave this predoni invitafeloo. Not very far firom the town in whieh I rended dwelt two sittere ; they were both pMt the meridiMi of life when I firrt beceme noqnainted with them. Their father had been onoe a very proeperoiu tradeeman, bat rsvertee after reTenea had come upon him, till a mere wreck of his property was left for the maintenance of his widow and daughters. An only son had gone abroad some years before, in order, as he said, to push his fortune ; this boy was perfectly idolised by his sisters, and they had not ceased to mourn his absence. One sister had been married very young, but being widowed within two years of her marriage, she had returned home, and was, with her little girl, living with her mother and sister when I first made her acquaintance. She had been recommended to me by a lady as a person who would be very glad to obtain needlework, and I having, just at that time, an overplus on hand, gladly took the advantage of her wish to earn a trifle. I was much pleased with the gentle manners of the two sis- ters, who willingly undertook to do my work for what I con- sidered a very small remuneration. The poor mother was a dreadful sufferer from chronic rheumatism, which had en^rely confined her to her bed for some years past. Pain rendered her peevish and discontented, but the dutiful daughters nursed her with untiring tenderness and patience, and when, at length, it pleased God to release her, regretted sincerely that their la- bour of love was ended. Mary and Susan, upon the death of their mother, removed into a small cottage not very fiur from where I lived. As they were very much respected they obtained as much neodlework as they could do. Nothing could exceed 188 SKBTOHn raOM LIFE. the care they took of little La^, who was really a beaatilhl, in- temting child ; it would have been hard to pronounce which loved her beit, her mother or her annt. When she was about ten yeait of age, her mother called on me one afternoon and ahowed me a letter which she had jost reoeived fton. her bro- ther, tmn. whom they had not heard for years. He toM them that he was on his way back, and intended paying a vint to his old home. Now, ^here was something in the whole tenor of this letter which I did not Hke. J conld not aoconnt for the feeling of distrast which seised r.'.e, for I had never seen him, and he was a mere lad when he left home. Mary talked long and eagerly of her delight in having her darling brother to live with them as a protector, and I listened attentively to her relation of all '•he good qnalities he possessed. Bat Mary seemed quite to foiget how many years had passed ; that the boy was now a man, and might have become totally forgetful of all those good principles which had guided him when under the watchful eye of love; but I did not,of course, venture to express my opinion. It would haye been cruel to crush all Bfiary's fond hopes, on the mere suspicion engendered by his letter. A few week afterwards I heard that John Hastings had ar- rived, and I certainly wondered why Maiy had not been over to tell D»e the god news ; but supposing she was so overjoyed to see her brother, I thought I would go myself and inquire for some work I was just then much in need o£ As I approached the cottage I was astonished by hearing loud screams from Lucy, whom I scarcely ever heard cry, for so gently had she been nurtured that tears were almost strangers to her eyes. I knocked several times ere I was heard, and then the door was opened by a tall, rough-looking young man, whose face was so ,.^_..: COMB UNTO MS. 188 dugnimd by % qointity of bkok hair that I oonld witfoely •• tingnkh his featnnt. Upon entering and inquiring for Maiy, •he came forward, and with teait in her ^ea aaid, ** This is my brother. Madam ; and I am afiraid yon will be displeased at my keeping your work so long, but I ha^e not fdt well enoo^^ to finish it, but will do so as soon as possible." I eLpiessed my willingness to wait a few days longer, and then turned to speak to her brother, who, to my astonishment, held out his dirty hand, and accosted me with the most insolent familiarity. Fearing to hurt poor Bfary's feelings, I took no notice of this* but asked her " What occasioned the cries of her little girl t for I feared she was hurt" Before she could answer me^ John Hastings declared that ** the little brat should be locked in the coal-cellar, for she screamed for nothing, only because he had attempted to kiss her.** I remarked that ** Lucy was so unaccustomed to see any one so rough, and suggested that if he shaved himself perhaps his little niece would be more reconciled to his caresses." He laughed loudly and insolently, and said that " he did not intend indulging her in any of her fimciea, and he would before long show both her and her mother who was master there." I turned to gp, not wishing to prolong a scene whirJi I knew poor Mary felt as so degrading, but it was with a heavy heart, for I already saw the shadow of shame and miaeiy de- scending on their once peaceful home, and in the most painftd shape, as coming from the hands of him whose absence had been mourned for years, and whose unexpected coming was hailed with such joyful anticipations. But to tell of all the wretchedness brought on the two sisters by this dissipated young man-would take up more time than I could spare. It was sad to see the once clean and neat cottage disfigured w9m mmm wmmm 190 3KETCHIB FBOM Uplr by pipes and tobaooo and all their dii^lMliia|f^iitMndagef ; tlie little ronnd mahogany table, which had alwaya been Ml|to delight to have ahine like a minor, destroyed by the beer spilled on it It seemed as if John actually took a savage delight in diigusting his si'ters, by bringing as much mud as possible on his boots into the pretty little comfortable room where his sisters used to sit and work. This room was kept expressly for the accommodation of those ladies who employed them ; birds and flowers added to its beauty, and proved the nice delicate taste of the sisters. Poor little Lucy soon lost all the bright look which consti- tuted her chief beauty ; her eyes were now constantly swelled from crying, and the gloim of fear had settled on her once joy- ous little £sce. As long as John resorted to no actual vio- lence it was difficult for the sisters to dislodge him. He had brought home plenty of money, which, to do him justice, he was very liberal with ; he told his sisters that it was ** price money," but it was discovered afterwards that he had robbed his master, and made his escape by concealing himself on board a ship homeward bound. A man like John, with plenty of money to spend, was not long in making friends (if the word can be so desecrated) amonjg; the most profligate young men of our town ; and many a night did the poor sisters tremble with fear, as they Ustened to the wild orgies of these unprincipled fellows. But such a state of things could not be endured for ever, and at last> by my advice, the sisters told him that " if he did not alter his course of conduct, that they would apply to the magistrattf^^^for protection. They asked no help from him — they were both able and willing to provide for tiiemselves. They would gladly give him shelter if he would try to reform, but the sanctity of "com UMTO m." 191 w by his for K>th hoDM ihoiild no longer be inftded bj hit drunken oom- pMiioni. Already," Mary said, ** leTend of the ladiee who had so kindly aieisted them began to ahnn coming to a place where they were sure to meet with aome kind of inaolenee from him. He had brought home nothing but wretchedneu, and the time was now come when they felt that they owed to them- selves a duty, which was, either to insist upon a diiferent course of conduct, or his dismidsa! from their h pnblie soon snnk into oblinon. Happy would it have been for al^ ooold it hare remained so for eyer ; but Lucy hayingoeeasion to go into her ande's room one morning, foand a portion of the missing articles, and immediately informed her mother and aont of the discovery. The horror-strack women were both in his roomdiKossing the affiur when he unexpectedly made his ap- peaianca Now that John saw that there was no need of farther con- cealment, he burst forth into one of his fearful passions, the more violent for being so long suppressed. In vain hit iriiaters endeavoured to stem the torrent of his wrath ; having drank firee* ly he was in no mood to listen, and maddened by the fear de- picted on Lucy's face as she tried to make her escape from the room, he struck her a blow, which, in her effort to avoid, made her miss her step, and precipitated her with great force into the room below. In the oonfosion which followed, John made his escape, and in a short time I was with the sorrowing sisters, awaiting the doctor^s opinion as to the injury she had received. A painful one indeed — ^her spine was pronounced injured be- yond the possibility of human aid. The absence of John restored in a measure the peace of their cottage home ; but poor Mary's trials seemed to accumulate, for her sister Susan sunk under the shame and pain inflicted by the band of her brother. Her health, which had never been very good, gave way under the pressure of misfortune, and Mary was H wmmimmmmm 194 SKETCHES FBOM LIFE. left with her crippled girl to bear all the burden of her increased irouble. NoUiiog more was heard of John for some time^ until one evening, when reading the paper, I saw thtkt one John Hastings was in prison, awaiting his triid for some aggravated mnrder of which he ivas supposed to be the perpetrator. I wondered if Mary knew this, and felt reluctant to tell her, for it seemed to me as if her burden was already too great for her to bear. Her dear darling child had been sinking rapidly for some time past, and her ''oath was hourly expected ; but this shameful one to which her brother would surely be condemned if convicted, would it not crush her down under its weight of guilt and ter- ror f Of course, such an event was soon made public through the medium of the newspapers, and Mary received a letter from her lnother requiring her presence. Poor woman ; how my heart >>l ally sank beneath its power. I attended on her sick bed for weeks, and thanks be to God, who enabled me to do so with all my many cares. But Mary's death-bed was a scene well ealoalated to instmct and improve any person, so strong was her fidth in the Gkispel promise. I was with her in that Awftd ''CONSIDER THE UUKS OF THE FIELD." 197 hour of mingled hope and fear when her M>nl took ita diMiii* bodied flight Peace had descended on her heart again, after hours of struggling with the bsmpter's power. Many a text from the Holy Book had I read to her that night» bat not one could brighten the eye and cause the lips to smile equal to that which I, at her request, repeated as the breath faintly departed — " Gome unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'* ** Consider the lilies ofthefieldf how (hey grow; they ioU not, neiiher do they spin : and yet I say imio you, that even Solomon m aU his glory was not arrayed like one of these.** — St Matthew yl 28, 29. These words were addressed to His disdples by our ll^iBsed Saviour whilst preaching his sermon on the Mount How simply beautiful is the language in which this discourse is clothed throughout ! how mild, yet how solemn, are the pre- cepts contained in it ! These beautiful lilies of which our Sar viour speaks are found among the wild flowers of Palestine, delighting travellers with their profusion, beauty and fragrance. It is a spring flower, and appears in all parts of the Holj Land, They are often alluded to in the Old Testament ; they formed part of the ornamental work of Solomon's temple ; are em? ployed as a symbol of lovdiness, and applied to a bride in all her various perfections. Did you ever see anything ma^e by man, however useful, beautiful or wonderful in itself, tiiat could in the slightest degree bear comparison with either a blade of grass or the leaf of a tree or flower t If you oould only examine them through a microscope, you would be struck 'TO--;-''y",?^i'| 198 8KET0HB8 FROM LIFE. with Mtoniihment at the regnUrity Mid delka^ with which eyeiy leaf is intersected by tiny veinfi ; the more powerful the magnifying power, the more perfect you will find the work of the Greator'a hand. How beantifiil muat these lilies be, for yon hear our Saviour declare, " That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." " They toiled not, neither did they spin;" bi:(t, fresh from their Maker's hand, they stood unrivalled in the exceeding delicacy of their beauty. It is evident, in this part of our Saviour's discourse, that He wishes to impress on His hearers the exceeding folly of taking too much thought about adorning the poor frail body — alas f but too often at the expense of the immortal souL He exhorts them ** to seek the one thing needfril, the rest shall be added unto them.'* It is a lamentable fact that the young people of the present age pay too much attention to the outward adorn- ing of the person, which but too often serves to distract their attent'/on from their morid serious duties, and creates a great deal of trouble in our Sabbath schools. Every child, no mat- ter how poor the parents, or what their station, must have flounces and feathers and flowers, their little red fingers dis- figured by paltry rings, till their attention is so concentrated on their appearance that their teacher finds it next to impossi- ble to fix their minds on the all-important lessons for the day. And ** 1 have nothing good enough to weaa " is the too fre- quent excuse made for staying away Sunday after Sunday, thus losing all the good taught in their schools. But as, in my illustration of the Tenth Commandment, J showed the dai^? of this love of dress, and what it led to, I will novT endeavour to pmve to you that, though it may not always le^vd to the crime of theft^ it may equally work dugraee ''CONSIDER THE LIUBS OF THE FIELD." 199 and niin to thoie whoBe sUtion in life renders it highly unbecoming. Alice was the only child of a Bfr. and Mrs. Sheppard ; they resided in the same town irith myself, and kept a store for the sale of toys and all kinds of fancy articles. Three little ones had passed away from their earthly home, and Alice, be- ing bom some five years after the death of thr last, seemed to the parents a gift of such inestimable value that the mistaken idea took possession of both her parents, that every indulgence was necessary to keep this treasure from following their lost ones to the grave. She was a fine, lovely infant ; but could her fond parents have seen her future revealed, they would, I think, have rejoiced to have laid her to rest under the sod which grew so green on the graves of their lost ones. But we will not anticipate. When I first settled in this town Alice VTas about eight years of age, a bright-looking girl, but totally spoiled by the foolish fondness of her parents ; she was a regu- lar little tyrant, fuUy aware of her power, and making every- thing and every one in the house subservient to her capricious temper. One afternoon, having a little niece staying with me, to whom I had promised a doll, we walked down to Mrs. Sheppard's store in order to purchase one. Mrs. Sheppard showed us a great variety, ^md Nellie chose a large dark-haired wax one, and I was just about to pay for it when Alice, with a scream, rushed from behind the counter, and snatching the doll from the little girl, declared that mamma should not sell that one. Of course I expected that Mrs. Sheppard would insist upon Alice restoring the doll, but to my surprise she only began to urge my niece to choose another, saying that ** she did not think Alice woi^ld care for that particular doll, as she had so many," 200 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. and tben proceeded to coax Alice to give it up, promiBing her Kay other article in the store instead of it ; bat Alice resolutely refused to part with it, and commenced to crj and stamp, causing the silly mother to give way to the determined spirit of her wilful daughter. This is but one instance out of many which I could relate of the pernicious effects of Alice's bringing up ; her fits of passion would be so frightful, if contradicted, that her parents were absolutely afraid of her, and yielded (although they were con- scious it was wrong) rather than bring on one of her much-dread- ed fits of ill-humour. She at a very early age displayed great love for fine dress, and so ridiculous did she maka herself appear at times, that she always reminded me of the fable of " the daw with peacock's feathers." Often, in gratifying this fancy, she would spoil articles of value which she insisted upon having out of the store. At last her parents found it impossible to check the evil, and resorted to all kinds of deception to guard their property from their rapacious daughter. As years rolled on, Alice's love of finery increased, but she displayed no taste, and only made herself a laughing-stock. A variety of coloui«, with flowers and beads and rings, were so profusely used in decorating herself, that she used to look like a walking parterre. Alice was very handsome, as far as regu- larity of features and a profusion of silky hair could render her so ; but her beauty, in my opinion atr least, entirely de- pended on her temper for the minute. The demon of discon- tent sat too often enthroned on her brow to make the general ex- pression pleasing, she also had a habit (very common with young people) of scowling when spoken to, which at times made her u^ly and repulsive-looking. Her character was a mixture of "CONSIDER THE UUES OF THE FI£U>." 201 pride, Tuiity and selfishneM, and as she never would endure the discipline of a school, she grew ap ignorant in mind and un- formed in manner. As the town enlaiged, several opened fancy stores, so Mr. and Mrs. Sheppard no longer monopolised this particular branch of trade, and few rjared to deal where they had no security against the article chosen beuig appropriated by Alice, did her sickly fancies tend that way. It would be impossible for me to tell of all the follies perpetrated by Alice, or I should fill a volume, or what unhappiness she createO at home by her selfish whims and insatiable wants. When Alice was about eighteen years of age, a rumour was afloat that Mr. Shep- pard was on the eve of bankruptcy ; creditors became pressing, and one morning the poor man was found dead in his bed. ''Apoplexy" was the verdict rendered, but remorse and a broken heart would have been a fitter one. Upon examination of his affairs, it was found that the widow and daughter would have been left entirely destitute had it not been for the sum of three hundred pounds settled on Alice by her grandmother. This would have enabled them to go into some small business, but Alice would not hear of it, and Mrs. Sheppard, having no will but that of her daughter, gave up after a few faint attempts to change her resolution. As Alice cared only for herself, it was not to be expected that her grief for her father's death would outlive his interment, her chief concern being to have her mourning made handsome and becom- ing. I happened to be at the dressmaker's at the time Alice was ordering her dress. I had just lost a dearly loved sister, and deeply regretted the cause which obliged me to resume the sad garb which I had so lately cast aside. There stood Alice, without one apparent feeling of grief for the indulgent ft^tber SOS SKRTCHB8 TBOM LIFE. visible in either look or nuuuier. She wore oat the patience of the workwomen hj orden given and oonntermanded almost in A breath ; she was damoroos in her desire toliave her mourn- ing made the first In vain the dressmaker pleaded prior claims. Alice gave but one answer — either do it, or some one else shall. During the period of mourning, Alice could not so well in- dulge her love of finery ; therefore she soon cast it off, as too sombre for her taste. Her money was melting away appa- rently without procuring any comfortS; for Alice found it im- possible to obtain credit for the numerous fancy articles which she c\jse to fisncy were indispensable to her happiness. Her time, which ought to have been spent in endeavouring to assist tho overtasked mother, was devoted to dress and visiting among those who made her the butt of their idle jokes, which she was too ignorant to perceive. It soon became evid^it to Mni. Shep- pard that something must be done, ere Alice had entirely frit- tered away every sixpence of her three hundred pounds ; but how to find any plan suitable so Alice's wishes was the great difficulty. When consulted, she only pouted and declared that ** she had a just right to spend what was her own in any man- ner she chose." She never considered how much of her vain, selfish folly had contributed to ruin her fsther, and I fear her mother never acknowledged to herself how much of her injudicious indulgence had done towards the consummation of the evils brought on her by her daughter. Parents might as well expect to gather grapes off thistles, as to expect comfort and obedience from a child when they have withheld the rod of correction, and suffered all the wilful sins of the natural man to go unchecked Like the summer rill swollen by the heavy rains, it rushes on its impetuous course "CONSIDER THE LILIES OF THE FIELD." 203 < till all are overwhelmed under ita ini§^«7 power. Thni it with Mrs. Sheppard. She saw, when it waa too late, all the guilt of her own mismanagement ; she found it totally impoasihle to get Alice to consent to any project, however neoessaiy and reasonable. Want and rain stared them in the face, and the poor weak mother sunk into an utter state of despondency, which terminated her existence in a few months. It would not perhaps be fair to say that Alice felt no grief for her indulgent mother, but as it was unaccompanied by remorse for her o«rn undutifnl conduct, its violence soon abated, and she fell back into all her habits of slothful indolenc ^ Alice soon found, now that she had no mother to protect and shelter her, that her friends quickly deserted her, for they feared her aakiug help, which they were by no means willing to grant. Bent and provisions had to be paid for, and Alice saw her few pounds melting away. Her landlord, finding out how matters stood, gave her notice to quit, and where was she to go t In the days of her prosperity she had never, by any act of kindness or generosity, given herself a claim to any one's hospitality. She had never given herself the gratification of one good deed ; she had sneered at advice, and set the opinion of the worid at defiance. She was too slothfiil to work, but, driven by dire necessity, she applied for a situation with a lady whose servant having left her in the midst of sickness, readily engaged h«r, when at any other time, I feel sure, she would scarcely have given her house room ; but being herself in great need, a hasty bargain was made and no questions asked. As Alice could work when she pleased, and saw no altem»- tive between it and starving, she did pretty well for a time, but when she again cast off the symbols of mourning, her old love of finery returned with the opportunity of display. Her mistresa S04 SKETCHES mOM LIFE, ramonttnted in vain with her agunit a habit Ukelj to be lo pemioioiia to her well-doing. But no penuasion could alter her mode of dressing ; in other respects she gave no cause for complaint. Here Alice might have remained, had not her mistress engaged a young girl to assist in the nursery, whose head she filled with such nonsensioal ideas of fashion and dress, that her miaticss was forced at last to part with her, which, however, she did not do tiU she had used every effort to in- duce AUcc to discontinue the evil. Alice found it next to im- possible to get another place ; her tawdry dresses, feathers and mock jewellery, so spoiled her appearance of respectability, that no one would hire her. At last she went to the City of N about nine miles from the town, and I lost sight of her for some months, although I knew she had taken service at a low tavern, where her appearance would not be much re- garded so long as she did the work required. It was whilst there that Alice contracted that dread disease, small-ppx, and as she never would be vaccinated, of course she had it in its worst form. Never having laid by a sixpence against the hour of need, she was sent to a house outside the city walls, called the Pest House, where all cases of small-pox were nursed. Here the poor girl endured all the. horrors of this frightful disease, without one friendly hand to moisten her burning lips. The hired nurses wore neither tender nor kind, and many a life, I feel sure, was sacrificed to aeglect It is a disease from which all, even those who love you, will shrink with fear ; what, then, must it be for those who, like poor Alice Sheppard, had no friend 1 She recovered, however, but such was her state of frency when she saw all the beauty of which she was so vain lost in the trightful seams of this dread disei^ie, aU her beautiful hair "CONSIDEB THB LILIES OF THE nELO." 206 ■born oil oloae to her heai that they were forced to put her imder reitndnt to preyent her laying riolent handi on henelf. She lonk at Ust into a state of moping idiotoy, fh>m which the never recovered ; she was perfectly harmless, and the Poor Onar- dians had her removed to the Hoose of Industry, where I used occasionally to visit her. She spent all her time in twining dirty pieces of ribbon round her neck and waist, and would pick up the feathers dropped by the fowls, in order to stick them in an old straw hat, which was her delight to place upon her head when anyone went to visit her ; the ruling passion strong even in madness. This, then, was the sad end of Alice ; and may her fitte, my dear young fHends, strike deeply into your minds, that you may shnn the folly which ended in her ruin. Do not imagine that I think you shcfuld pay no attention to your personal ap- pearance. To be neat and modest in dress is a duty we owe to society as well as to ourselves, but it is too often lost sight of in the eager desire to possess what is neither fit or becoming our station. Much time and money is spent in the outward adorning of the perishing body, which must go down into the darkness of the grave, while the immortal soul, which ascends to Gkxl, is but too often neglected. I do not mean to say that Alice would never have had the small-pox, or even been left an idiots had she never loved dress ; but of this one thing I am certain, she might have had a home in her great need, because she conldhave paid for one ; but all her means were spent in adorning, or rather I should say disfiguring, her person, which nature had made lovely, till her claims to respectability were but too frequently doubted. Let me now, my dear young friends, in conclusion, exhort you to listen to the voice of your parents. Happy for you if 206 8K1TCHI8 FBOM LIFI. they tpare not the rod of oomotion. Ood givee eyery parent Authoritj to keep their ehildren under rabjeetiony and if they wilAilly tnuiigreM this Uw, they will rarely ftnd to their bitter ooet, " How imioli iilMrp«> than m MrptnVa tooth It ifl, to h*T« m thaoklMt ohild." Children know right from wrung at a very early age^ and although their little hearts may rebel even against the punish- ment they know to be just, they grow up with a respect for their parents' word which the spoilt child never does, and they are the first to sting by their ingratitude the hand which has indulged them. Let me then ask you to read over carefully the beautiful discourse from which this tale is written. Let us not seek to dress unseemly the frail body which must — and we know not how soon — ^lie down in the dust, J)ut rather earnestly endeavour ourselves to fit the soul for the robe of immortality, remembering our Saviour's declaration, that the humble lily of the field is more glorious in appearance than was Solomon in the midst of all this earth's splendour. **As the cold of enow in the time of honesty so is a faithful messen- ger to them that send Atm."— Proverbs of Solomon, zxv. 1 3. This verse for our consideration this afternoon should im- press on your minds the necessity of being faithful to any trust reposed in you, whether it taxes your generosity, honour, or simply your memory. Ood entrusts us aU with talents : to some He gives wealth, to others health, to others plenty of time to apend in doing good, and all these he will require at our hands.. AS TBI GOLD OF SNOW.' 207 Memory u another Uleot which all young people would do well to enltivate. How often do we hear the wordi, " OhI I forgot ;" and how often have the moit eerioai eonieqaencee been the remit Yoang people hare to few caret ; they are provided by their parents with neccMary food and dothing — ^ia it not then prepoiteroGs to hear them, when they come to their Sabbath school, allege as an excuse for the non-performance of their duties, that " they had forgotten t '* This carelessness is the cause also of the losses we snitain in our Sunday school libra- ries — *' I forgot to faring it, or i forgot where I laid it," being the frequent excuse, till at last the book is lost altogether. I wish I could impress on your minds the privileges you eigoy by the loan of these books. If I could make you think of it as a real good bestowed on yon, you would be more careftd, and the loss to our schools would be but trifling. Another thing, every one should endeavour to deliver carefully any message entrusted to them ; much serious mischief has often been the result of the contrary. The tale I am now about to relate will, I trust, convince you that yon cannot attach undue importance to this subject. Clara Vincent was a young girl who used to visit a great desl at our house ; as she had no mother, she was more with us than any other young lady in the town. She was very good-natured and kind, but the most careless girl about remem- bering anything that I ever saw. "Oil forgot, quite forgot all about it," were the words constantly used by her, till not one of us ever had the slightest confidence in her promises. So inveterate was this habit, that she was generally looked upon as untruthful, yet she was not so ; she had as great a horror of Iklaehood as any of her companions, and fully meant to keep her word when she promised, but she was careless of exercising mmmmmm»mm 208 SKETCH2S FROM LIFE. her memory — consequently her word could not b«i depended upon, and you will hear what baneful influence it exercised over her future life. Having no mother to guide her, Clara was cert inly very much to be pitied. Her father, immersed in busineM, could not be expected to see those faults which require the ever watchful eye of a mother. Clara had also been much petted and spoiled by the old nurse who had had the care of her from her birth, and who could not bear to hear her blamed by the very excellent governess who was procured to teach her ; so, unfortunately for Clara, she was left too often unrebuked for this serious fault in her character. I remember, when I used to spend the day with her, she world constantly be running to ask the old nurse to find such and such a thing which we required for our play, Clara not being able to recol- lect where she had left it ; our enjoyment would be marred by this, as half our day would be spent looking for articles which she had first misplaced, and then quite forgotten. It would have been well for her had she been required to find the arti- cles she had lost, but her old nurse was always ready to wait on her darling, till Clara thought there could be no occasion to think for herself. Her governess used to talk very seriously to her pupil upon this subject, for, said that excellent woman, " A life might be lost, through your inveterate habit of careless inattention to what you promise." Alas ! how little did Clara then think that her governess's warning would not only be fulfilled to the ve*7 letter, but that ix, would be a life-long cause of misery to her and one connected with her. It was when Clara had attained her sixteenth year that the clergyman who succeeded the one who had been minister ever since we were children, commenced to establish Sunday schools in his parish, and Clara, who really was a veiy clever girl, had tt AS THE COLD OF SNOW. 209 a class assigned her. She was very much attached to her pn- pils, and they would ha^e been to her, I feel sure, but for the bad habit which I am sorry to say had only increased with her riper years. I had been married and away from home for some time, but was spending a few weeks with my mother, when, on Sur.day morning, I accompanied my eldest sister to school before the morning service. I wished much to see Clara ; but as she had not yet arrived, I sat down dose by her class, and the following conversation soon convinced me of the truth of what I had heard, viz., that her ruling fault was by no means lessened by her riper years. « I am to have a new Bible to^y," exclaimed one of the Utile girls, whose bright eyes sparkled with dolight at the an- ticipat I gift. " Who told you so f " inquired one of her com- panions. ** Miss Vincent said so last Sunday," replied the child, " because I learned all those extra verses." At this, almost all the dass burst out laughing, and one of the elder girls declared that she stood small chance of her Bible if she had only Miss Vincent's promise to depend on, for," she con- tinued, " she has promised me one for this last six weeks, and mother seems to think I never deserved it Miss Vincent is veiy good to make promises, but she never remembers to per- form them ; so it will be with your Bible— now see if my words are not true." The co**^' rration here abruptly terminated, as Clara approached her class. Only a few minutes were spent in asking after her health, etc., as I did not wish to interrupt her in her duties, I sat down, rather curious to hear what excuse she would make about the Bible. Her usu&l plea, " Oh, my dear, I quite forgot all about it," was just repeated, when her eye caught mine ; she blushed crimson, but tried to assume in- difference, as she sought to soothe the disappointment of the t „ 210 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. little girl; by telling her that " she might call at her home for it on the morrow." Now, my dear yonng friends, I want you just to pause here and consider how a fault like this, persisted in, in rc^ty becomes a sin. You see the effects of it in Miss Vincent's class. Her pupils had not only no dependence on her word, but their parents were apt to think that the prizes promised and not given wereinreiiUtif not deser/ed. Now, here were two serious evils proceeding from one cause, and both parents and children injured by it ; she never possessed the respect of her pupils, because they considered the non-performance of her promises as untruthful ; she also lost all influence over them, because, if they pleaded forgetfulness of any duty she demanded, they thought it injustice to be punished for a fault of which she was so frequently guilty herself. It would be impossible for me to tell you of all the misery this young girl brought on herself, or I should lengthen this tale beyond the appointed limits. I will therefore hasten to the sequel, as the consummation of the evil I wish to warn you all against. At the age of twenty-one Clara was married to a very gen- tlemanly man, who had lately come to practise as a doctor in our town. He was many years older than Clara, and every one considered it an excellent match for her, as he would be likely to rule this hitherto unchecked girl. A very short time after his marriage, Dr. Stanhope found what serious errors this fault of his wife's would cause her to fall into, and earnestly set to work to root out this evil. He never spoke an unkind word, he ruled her by love, but it was almost impossible to break her of a habit indulged in for so many years. The doctor was in despair, for frequently messages left with her, requiring his immediate attendance, were either altogether forgotten, or "AS THE COLD OF SNOW." 211 or if remembered when some other medical man had been ei}\ed in. He endeavoured, in the most serious manner, to point out the injury she wm doing him in his profession, and what fatal consequences might be the result of her oare- lessnesit. Claras who was passionately fopd of her husband, would promise better for the future, only to forget it on the very next occasion. Clara became the mother of a sweet little boy, and Dr. Stan- hope fondly hoped that the necessity of being ever watchful to all the wants of infancy would in time exert an influence over the young mother, so that the habit which caused him so much distress might be obliterated for ever ; but it pleased God that Clara should pass through a fiery ordeal before she gave herself up to the serious consideration of this great fault. One morn- ing during the doctor's absence, as Clara was walldng in her garden, with her baby, now a lovely boy of six montibs, a poor man came through from the surgery and asked to see the doc- tor. His face was very pale, as he told Olara of the sudden illness of his little child — "a boy," he said, " of the same age as the one she then held in her arms." She expressed great sympathy with the man's distress, and said "she was sure the doctor would be in almost immediately, and she would send him." ** You won't foi^t, madam," said the poor man, as the tears rained down his face. Clara bid him hasten home to his child, with the promise of sending her husband directly he came in. My sister and myself were engaged to spend the day with her, and we arrived shortly after this, just as the doctor did, in time for luncheon. Clara was all smiles, the tale of sorrow had vanished from her memory, and she was delighted to show off her baby, and compare him with mine, who was just one week older. Oh ! why did she not think of another .#1 p', 4) IP mmmmmmmmmmmmu 212 SKETCHES FROM UFB. little innocent, who, even at that moment, wab in the death straggle with that fatal disease of croup 1 Dr. Stanhope, in perfect unconscionsness of having been sent for, watched with evident pride the young mother as she exhibited all the beau- ties of her fii^t-born. At last he rose .to go, saying "he had many patients to visit," and laughingly expressed a hope that ** we should have decided upon the respective merits of our babies before he ratorned home to dinner." As he went into ike haii for his hat, 1 saw a man come with all speed to the surgery door, and pointed him out to Clara, who, to my astonishment, turaed so deadly pale that I feared she was going to faint. In a minute the doctor re-entered the room, and laying his hand on his wife's shoulder, asked whether the man's tale was trae, that she had faithfully pro- mised to send him some two hours since I" Poor Mrs. Stan- hope could only look the guilt she felt ** For your sake, Clara, I hope it is not too late," exclaimed the doctor, as he looked at her with a tuoe in which grief and anger straggled for mastery. However, no time was lost then ; the doctor hurried the man into his carriage and drove rapidly off, leaving us the not very pleasing task oi listening to all Clara's vain repinings and self-roproaches. When the doctor roturaed, the words " Too late I" were scarcely uttered, ere Clara fell forward in a fainting fit It was long beforo she could be recovered from it, and then so deep was her romorse that reason trembled in the balance. I romained with her some time, and as I was nurs- ing, performed, at the doctor's request, that duty for his boy, until the mother was in some degree recovered. Clara never forgave herself that dreadful error ; she heard from the doctor that timely assistance might have saved the dead baby. He wisely spared her nothing ; he told her of the ''AS THE COLD OF SNOW/' 213 parents* revilings of her as the cause of their misery, and of his own lacerated feelings, when he found upon his arrival that through the ignorance of the neighbours, nothing had been done to relieve the little sufferer, who was just gasping its last as he entered the room. This was a lesson Clara never forgot. It was long ere her husband could restore her to his love and confidence, and a severe mental illness was the consequence. But she rose from her bed a sadder, wiser woman. She sought help where al ^ne it could be found, and at the throne of grace humbly sued for pardon and strength to amend. As soon as she could go out, her first visit was to the mother of the dead child, and there, at her feet, she so humbled herself that the poor woman bade her rise, and go in peace, declaring that " she never now sorrowed for her babe, because she was enabled by God's grace to look on him, not as he had been here, but as he now was, a purified spirit in the realms of light, rejoicing in the presence of the blessed Saviour who had redeemed him with His own most precious blood, and had so beautifully de- clared that * of such was the kingdom of heaven.* *' When I WM in England, some years since, I saw lifos. Stan- hope and her son. I could scarcely believe that the fine young man who drove his mother over to call on me, could be the baby I had nursed during that never-to-be-forgotten period of trial, which even at this distance of time makes Clara sad to think of, and never fails to send her, at each succeeding anni- versary, an humble penitent to the footstool of our compas- sionate Saviour, trusting in His gracious promise that He " will blot out our sins as a thick cloud, and remember our iniquities no more." V ', 214 SKBTCHE8 FROM LIFE. " The Lord is my Sliepherd — therefore can I lack nothing^ pBalm XXIU. 1. The beaatifal Psalm from which this verse is taken must be productive of great comfort to all those who are in " trouble, need, sickness, or any other adversity." Our Saviour declares, " I am the good Shepherd, the good Shepherd giveth his life for the sheep ; " therefore David ex- claims, " The Lord is my Shepherd, I can lack nothing." How perfect was his faith ! He expresses his firm conviction of being fed in green pastures, and led beside the waters of comfort ; of the mercy and loving-kindness of GU)d following him all the days of his life, so that in the end he will not fear to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, because he felt that even there God would be with him. Oh, that we all had more faith ! — ^how much less would our sufferings be ! How pure wae David's belief in God's power and willingness to lift him out of the deep mire of affliction ; and this faith caused him to break forth in the beautiful acknow- ledgment, that as '< the Lord was his Shepherd, he need not fear." Is it not very sinful to be always repining At misfortunCf which nine cases out of ten we bring on ourselves, either by our improvidence, carelessness or wilful neglect of our most sacred duties t How many, by violating the laws of nature, deprive themselves of the enjoyment of the inestimable bless- ings of health ; others neglect to take advantage of the means given them for advancement ; whilst more will spend their wealth and time in amusements debasing to both soul and body. How diligently the mass of men seek the gratification of the \ II THE LORD IS MT SHEPHERD. » 215 senses, as if there was nothing nobler to strive for ; the narrow path which leadeth to eternal life is shunned, while thousands travel the broad road which ends in destruction. I will now, in a short tale, endeavour to interest you in the fate of a young girl I once knew, who being struck down in the midst of life's fairest prospects, bore with meek submission that decree which doomed her to months of fearful suffering, but who, in the midst of all, could and did exclaim with David, '* Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me ; thy rod and thy staff comfort me. Ellenour Maitland was the only daughter of a gentleman and lady with whom I was intimately acquainted. She wai' a very lovely girl, clever and talented, and well worthy the love of all who knew her. By her brothers she was almost idolized, till she was wont to say that " she feared they would all spoil her." But she was one of those amiable characters which it seemed impossible to spoil ; she was too grateful for indulgence to abuse it, and too unselfish to wish to rule where all were willing to be her slaves. Mr. and Mrs. Maitland were remarkably kind and pleasant people, and what the world would call religious ; that is, they were strict observers of all the forms of religion, moral and upright in conduct, just in all their dealings, charitable to the poor, and kind to all. Ellenour had been educated at home by a widow lady, whose husband had left her almost entirely des- titute, rendering it necessary that she should seek some means of support, and she gladly undertook to superintend the educa- tion of Miss Maitland, who was only eight years of age when she entered on her duties. Mrs. Masters found a most amiable and docile pupil in the little girl, and seeing how she was idol- \ ', 216 SKETCHES FBOM LIFE. ixed by her puents and brothers, sought to imbne Ler inlRnt mind with such pure Christian principles as would tend to crush all that was selfish in her nature, and fill her with loving kindness to all. Mr. and Mrs. Maitland sought popularity ; they were very generous, but frequently did more harm by their indiscrimi- nate kindness than good ; they could not bear to be thought unkind, theretore often relieved people when it would have been far better to send them to work, for by such means idleness was encouraged, which is the root of all evil. Mrs. Maitland was one of those persons who had not sufficient courage to say, No ! and it was well for her daughter that she was so early placed under the guidance of such a superior mind as Mrs* Masters possessed. The litUe girl was taught to see every- thing in its proper light, and soon learned to do good simply because it was her Saviour's command, and not for the praise of men. EUenour had attained her seventeenth year before I became acquainted with her, and was, of course, emancipate*! from the regular routine of school-room duties, although Mrs. Masters still continued to reside with her as her friend and com- panion. Ellenour was so attached to her beloved instructress that her par«'*«^4 felt it would be cruelty to separate them. Mrs. Masters love^i her young pupil with the most devoted affection ; her Christian character was the fruit of her own good training, and she felt how richly Gk>d had rewarded her labours. Ellenour was now launched into the gay world ; her beauty and talents could not fail of bringing her universal homage ; but Ellenour valued it at its own price, and infinitely preferred the quiet of her own happy home to all the gaiety of the world outside. Mr. Maitland was very ambitious, and consequently anxious, that his daughter should make what the world calls a good «.l raE lord's my 8HBPRIRD." 217 match, and his pride wasgratifiedwhan he foand Ellenoor't hand sought in marriage hy the eldest son of a buronet, who had been the college friend and companion of her elder brother. The haughty baronet smiled most graciously on his elegant daughter-in-law, and the marriage was fixed to take place as soon as Ellenour should attain her nineteenth year. Mrs. Masters, happy in the increased happiness of her beloved pupil, was most cordiaUy pressed by Mr. Stafford to remain with Ellenour after her marriage. He could not be insensible to the value of such a friend for his young wife, or to the beauty of that religion which had done so much to form her character. Mrs. Masters could not resist Ellenour's gentle pleading, which tallied so well with her own wishes, and she joyfully acceded to a request which she felt was dictated by affection, and given in all sincerity. Thus everything was settled to the satisfaction of all parties, and bright and happy were the prospects awaiting this young girL No cloud darkened the horizon ; all was fair and serene ; the parent's ambition was gratified by the irank of the suitor; the brothers' most cherished wish, that their friend should win their sister, was granted ; no jealous or envious bickerings dis- turbed the peace of the household. The cup of happiness was filled to the brim ; all was joy and gladness, with no shadow of fear to darken the brightness of the future. I wish I could leave Ellenour here, secure in her happiness ; but, alas ! my task is a sad one — to tell you of all the sorrow which descended on that bright home. It was on its most cherished idol, its most loyely gem, that the storm descended, scattered at one feU blow all the fond hopes, the £ur prospects, —dashing with unrelenting hand the full cup from the lips ere its happiness was half tasted. 218 SKBTCHB8 FROM LIFE. It WM just three weeks before the time appointed for the wedding that a large party assembled one morning at Mr. Maitland's for the purpose of enjoying a pic-nic in the beauti- ful old Abbey grounds, some seven miles distant from the town. It was a most lovely day in June, anJ we all started in the highest spirits, "on eager pleasure bent." I had the gratifi- cation of driving Mrs. Masters ; she was a most delightful com- panion, and I never saw her in such exuberant spirits ; as she talked long and eagerly to me about the bright prospects of her darling Ellenour — a theme she never tired of She also expressed great gratitude for her own happy lot, for she told me when her husband died that she had not the wherewith to procure a meal, and now, should anything happen at any time to part her from Ellenour, that she possessed a competency which would render her independent for the remainder of her life. Her gratitude to God, the all-bountiful giver, was intense, " for had He not fed her in green pastures, and led her forth beside the waters of comfort." We spent a most delightful day wandering about and explor- ing all the ruins of that romantic place. We felt an unwilling- ness to part, till a dark cloud, spreading over the heavens, warned us of an approaching storm, and all saw the prudence of at once enueavouring to get home before it burst. The carriages were quickly brought,and we all started for our respective homes. The storm, however, increased rapidly, the rain descended in torrents, and the blinding lightning and heavy thunder caused more than one heart to quake with fear. Mr. Stafford and Ellenour, with her eldest brother, had started the first of all, and I, knowing what spirited horses he drove, tried to persuade Mrs. Masters that they would probably arrive home before the storm was at the worst Mrs. Masters seemed "THE LORD 18 MY SHEPHERD." 219 to be all on a sudden improssed with some sense of danger, for •he fell on her knees in the carriage, and exclaimed, ** O ! God, save her ! " It was as much as I could do to prevent the ponies I was driving from running ^way; it needed all our presence of mind in this fearful storm. I knew that we were within two miles of the gravel pits, and my terror was great lest, if I slack- ened the reins, the ponies would in their fright run over the bank. But before we reiiched the pits the storm had exhausted its fury, the thunder rolled at a distance, and the sun, bursting forth, shone with its glorious rays on a scene which froie my blood with horror. Mr. Stafford's carriage was overturned on the very edge of the bank, and the horses were kicking fu- riously in their eflforts to extricate themselves. Looking over the bank we saw Mr. Stafford and young Maitland bearing the insensible form of Ellenour up the steep ascent, which was not accomplished without the greatest difficulty, as it was impos- sible for either Mrs. Masters or myself to render them the least assistance. But at last they reached the place where we were standing, and laid poor Ellenour down on the grass, with her head resting on Mrs. Masters' lap. The agony of these young men was painful to witness as they gave us an account of the accident " The horses," they said, " had gone very quietly for a while, but as the vividness of the lightning increased, they had become alt(^ether ungov- ernable, and backing down the hill with fearful rapidity, had overturned the carriage and precipitated poor Ellenour with great violence down the steep declivity into the gravel pits below." Assistance was kindly rendered us by the inmates of a farm- house near, as soon as they heard of the accident ; the horses 220 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. were released from their periloui poeition, and a litter pre{»ared to convey the poor unconioioua girl to the home which the had left a few hours since in such exuberant spirits. Can you not fancy the agony of the parents as they hung over the in- sensible body of their idol child, in whom appeared no sign of life, although the doctors declared that the vital spark had not fledl Ellenour lingered for dajrs in this mournful state, hovering between life and death, and when she awoke, it was to the sad consciousness that she wt»\s doomed to be a helpless cripple for the remainder of her existence. Injury of the spine caused her at times such frightfid suffering, that the mind almost gave way under the intensity of the anguish ; and yet a murmur never escaped her pale lips. She used her most earnest endeav- ours to comfort her parents, who, in these words, rebelled against this dread decree : ** What had she done that her young life should be thus crushed out of her t " Mrs. Masters at this sick bed reaped the fulfilment of the promise, that ** what a man soweth he shall reap." She had so hedged this young girl around with the sense of GUkI's love, so filled her with trusting faith in His dealings, that although she left all the brightness of life for a bed of fearful anguish, yet she feared no evil, for she felt that the everlasting arms were around her, that the loving kindness of Qod rested with her, and that " He would yet lead her forth beside the waters of comfort." I used frequently to go and sit up with the poor girl in order to enable Mrs.Ma8ters to snatch a few hours' rest^ for she could scarcely be persuaded to leave the dear sufferer for an instant. Mr. and Mrs. Maitland could not look on her struggles, which were such as appalled the stoutest heart ; and Ellenour, in her '^THK LORD 18 MT SHEPHERD." 221 onaelAih wish to tpwe othen pun, would Mk to be left alone ; but her faithftil firiend ttood hj, doing all that oould be done, ■nothing her witl* I^Ting words and wiping the damp* of agon j from off her brow. I have itood by her during theee dreadfiil parozyuns, and prayed that her spirit might pass away in the fearful struggle. But Ellenour had yet to drink the cup to the dregs. Mr.Maitland had some time before this entered into a specu- lation, which I well remember ruined many of the landed pro- prietors by its total failure, and in order to raise money had heavily mortgaged his estates without the knowledge of any of his family. Ruin now stared him in the face, just at the time when all «he comforts of a home were needed for his suffering child. A manufacturer, who had accumulated large sums of money by trade, was the one to whom the homestead had been mortgaged. His upstart wife had long been uiging him to foreclose the mortgage^ as she was ambitious to show off her newly-acquired dignity by playing the lady of the manor, and her husband, a coarse, narrow-minded, uneducated man, very much under the dominion of his would-be lady wife, intimated to Mr. BfaiUand this intention, unless he were not paid his money immediately. Poor Mr. Maitland, who had no security to offer in exchange for a loan, and too proud to solicit Sir Edward Stafford to af- ford him any relief, found himself obliged to inform his wife that their beautiful home had fallen into the hands of strangers, and that they must now seek an humbler one. Mrs. MaiUand's consternation when she heard this is not to be described, nor is it necessary for me to enter into these details, as my object in this tale is merely to point out to you what faith in Gk>d's promises will do for those who trust in them, and what suffer- 222 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. ing it enables us to bear. I will therefore leave you to fancy all Mrs. Maitland felt, and proceed to tell you how Ellenour acted when she heard that she mub': be removed from the lux- ury which had hitherto surrounded her. Mr. and Mrs. Maitland could not but feel the value of such a friend as Mrs. Masters, or the beauty of the religion she pro- fessed. It was now, when in trouble and distress, that she proved the sincerity of her love for Ellenour, her gratitude to them who had years before lifted her from the bitter waters of affliction. She insisted upon hiring a pretty house and receiv- ing them as her guests, until Mr. Maitland should in some measure have recovered from his difficulties. She then under- took to be the bearer of the tidings of the sad change to Ellenour, which was done in such a manner that the poor girl only saw in it a fresh instance of God's tender meroy in providing for her helplessness. The removal was what all dreaded, but I was delighted to find her no worse when I went to see her the next day. What she felt in parting from the happy home of her childhood was known to none but (}od. She added no re- proach to fill up the measure of her father's grief. ** How good God is to me," she said one afternoon as I sat by her bedside. " He surrounds me with such tender care, such loWng kindness, that He leaves me nothing to ^sk for. Although my limbs are useless, my eyes are not darkened that I cannot see, or my ears deadened so that I cannot drink in the sweet assurance of His protecting care. If He has seen it right to unfit me for an earthly mission, may I not hope that He is preparing me for a heavenly one 1 My life has been such a happy one, I have been the idol of all, goodness and mercy have followed me all my days, and now that I am no- thing but a burden and trouble to sil around me, I am still the I "THE LORD IS W' SHEPHERD." 223 object of tender care. My parents feel more what they have lost on my account ! how I wish they would not fret for our earthly inheritance ; how much better is the treasure God has laid up for us 1 Should we ever distrust Him ? See, He has prepared a table for us here in the face of our enemies, has given us a friend when the world forsook us. Would that my beloved parents would look away from the things of this earth, to seek the inestimable joys of heaven." Thus dear Ellenour would talk; nothing could shake her trust- ing faith in Qod ; she bore her sufferings so meekly, trying to spare all those who loved her from witnessing what she knew full well wrung their fond hearts with anguish. As for Mr, Stafford, who looked upon himself as the indirect cause of her accident, it was found absolutelynecessaiy to prevent his seeing her, as he could not control his feelings, and it was thought then any mental suffering increased the violence of the parox- ysms. It was about seven months after the accident that I one afternoon received a note from Mrs. Masters, saying that " Ellenour had been so much worse for the last few days, that it was plain to all her strength was fast failing, and she wished me to come and see her as soon as I could make it convenient." I had been on a visit to my mother, and had not seen Ellenour for nearly six weeks, and I was indeed dreadfully shocked at her changed appearance. She received me with her usual smiling welcome, but her lips were ahready chilled with the coldness of death. Dear Ellenour was fast sinking to her rest, and joyfully did she hail the messenger which was to bring peace to the worn-out frame. I remained with Mrs. Masters all night ; her mission of love was nearly ended; she resigned it now to a more powerful master — even Death. The doctor came about midnight, wd I 224 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. after a lengthened visit, I followed him oat of the room and asked his opinion. I recollect his turning quickly round, and saying, while the tears rolled down his cheeks, ** Bejoice that her end is so near ; nothing will give me such a feeling of re- lief as when I hear the passing bell; one more fearful stru^le, and all will be over." About four in the morning, dear Ellenour, who had been quiet since midni^t, called me to her bedside, and asked me if Mrs. Masters was awake, and requested me to give her something to drink ; I did so, and saw by the quivering of the lips that one of those fearful struggles was about to rend her weakened frame. I rang the bell, and Mrs. Masters was quickly at my side. *' Oh I God help me to bear it," cried the poor girl in her anguish. *^ Only a little while longer, darling," said her affec- tionate nurse; " only a few minutes more, dear, to bear Ood's rod, and you will dwell in His house for ever." She then re- peated the beautiful Psalm from whence our text is taken. Fearful and prolonged was the struggle, but it ended at last, and poor Ellenour laid exhausted on her pillow. The usual restoratives were applied, but Ellenour never rallied from this last shock. She whispered faintly but distinctly, " I am now walking through the valley of the sh^low of death, but I fear no evil ; God is with me. His rod and His staff they comfor- me." About seven o'clock Mrs. Masters requested me to sum mon Mr. and Mrs. Maitland and the two young men, for it was plain that the end was drawing nigh. Ellenour's eyes brightened as her parents and brothers approached, who, hav- ing been warned to do nothing to excite her, stood silently around her bed. It was a cold morning in January ; the light of day was just struggling in, mocking the glare of the night- " THE LORD IS MY SHEPHEBD." 225 lamp— the moBt, to me, painful time for those who keep their vigils by the bedside of suffering humanity. Ellenour tried to speak, but the last symptom of her dread disease, paralysis of all the limbs, now asserted its power, and her tongue refused to give utterance to the loving thoughts which filled her breast Mrs. Masters, the only one who seemed to retain her presence of mind, stood by her side, and softly repeated those comforting lines : — " Whftt tongae can tell, wlut fancy paint, The moment after death. The glories that Bunoimd the saints. When yielding up their breath ? " One gentle sigh their fetters break ; You scarce can say they^ gone, Before the will5ng spirit takes Its mansion near the tlmme." The sweet smile of gratitude lingered on dear Ellenour's lips as she listened to these words, the brightness of another world than ours shone in her loving eyes, the breath grew fainter and fainter, till, calmly and peacefully as an infant sinks to sleep, dear Ellenour pasmd away — away from this suffering earth, to the joy and peace of heaven. I assisted Mrs. Masters in preparing her darling for the grave, and as we looked on her emaciated frame, which we had so often seen torn by the intensity of the pain endured for seven long months, we could feel naught but thankfhlness that she had entered into her rest. It is not my intention to lengthen out this tale by following the fortunes of any of the actors in it ; my object is fuUy effected in the patient suffering and peaceful death of Ellenour. Let me, in conclusion, urge upon you the necessity of putting P i9\ .1 226 SKETCHES VROM LIFE. your trust in Qod, in exercising your faith. Remember He says, " Ye are the sheep of myr pasture." What a beautiful assurance I Best on it in security, my dear youiig friends, and then may you exclaim with David, " The Lord is my shepherd, therefore can I Uck nothing." ■ ** I toiU arise and go to my Father." — St. Luke xv. 18. You have, my dear young friends, all read or heard read the parable of the Prodigal Son, as related by St. Luke. You there find to what dire necessity this young man waa brought before he thought of returning to the father whose heart he had almost broken by his wicked course of conduct ; and you read that the kind, indulgent parent was delighted to receive back the lost one ; how his heart was melted with compassion, " and while yet afar off he ran to meet him, fell on his neck and kissed him." This parable tells us of the degradation to which this young man had been reduced. We read that he had become a swine herd — an occupation held in horror by the Jews ; that " he fain would have filled his belly with the husks the swine did eat ; and no man gave unto him." The husks here spoken of are generally, I believe, considered to be the fruit of the charob tree— a tree very common in Palestine, Greece, Italy, Provence and Barbary. It is suffered to ripen and grow dry on the tree. The poor feed on it, and the cattle are fattened by it. The substance of the husks, or pods — ^for it is of the Leguminous family — is filled with a sweetish kind of juice resembling black honey. (( I WILL ARISE AND 00 TO MT FATHER. 227 The young man, not daring even to touch this food given to the swine, remembers how many of his father's hired servants had bread enough and to spare, while he was perishing with hun- ger. Then the recollection of all his senseless folly causes him to cry aloud, " I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son ; make me as one of thy hired servants." How different was his reception to his deserts ; for his father orders the best robe to be brought, a ring for his hand, and shoes for his feet. The ring appears^ from various parts of Scripture, to be a peculiar mark of dis- tinction ; for if you refer to the forty-first chapter of Genesis and forty-second verse, you will find that King Pharaoh took a ring off his own hand and put it on Joseph's. Also, in the eighth chapter of Esther and second verse, we read that Ring Ahasue- rus took off the ring which he had given to Haman, and gavd it to Mordecai, and it is also alluded to by St. James in the second verse of the second chapter of his General Epistle. After these marks of his father's favour, he further orders '^the fatted calf to be killed, that they may eat and be merry," and gives this reason for his conduct — " for this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found." This parable is intended to show us the exceeding great love of God. He sees us while our hearts are still afar off, and addresses us all in these gracious words: — "Return unto the Lord and He will have mercy upon thee, and to our God for He will abundantly pardon." Again, " He that cometh unto Me I will in nowise cast out." Oh ! the unspeakable love and con- descension of our Father. Let us all listen to His voice, and beware how we slight His offered mercy, " lest He swear in His wrath that we shall not enter into His rest" mmmmmmm wmmmmm 228 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. The illustration of this parable by a tale, suggests to me the hibtoryof a young man who, like the prodigal son, had spent all his living in riot and rebellion against his Maker's laws. His father, the cleigyman of the parish, was a kind, indulgent parent ; but the young man hated the wholesome discipline of his home, and sought in foreign climes companions and pursuits more con- genial to his taste. He wished to escape the eye of his father —of God's eye, you may be sure, he never thought. No I for those children who think that by eluding their parents' vigi- lance they may safely plunge into riot and excess, seldom cast a thought, you may feel certain, upon these words, " Thou God seest me; " or if they do, they banish it by too often steeping their senses in the forgetfulness of the wine-cup. It was not until every friend, or foe, I should rather say, had forsaken this young man, that he remembered the fond father, the indulgent mother ; how he had spumed their counsels, and would have none of their reproof. He thought of the disgrace he had brought on their proud name, and he felt that to be spumed as a dog from their door was no more than his desert. Yet he felt that the love of his gentle mother would still cling around him could he only arise and go to her, and in the em- phatic language of Holy Writ confess that " he was no longer worthy to be called her son." His thoughts reverted back to that happy time ere vice had blackened Lis fair fame. How calm and peaceful had been his home I His parents had surrounded him with every thing which could conduce either to his comfort, amusement or instraotion. There he had Ustened to the word of Holy Writ expounded by his noble &ther, as well as from the pulpit of the church where he had so long been the revered and honoured pastor. There he had listened to the sweet voice of his mother, praying for % " I WILL ARISE AND GO TO ICT FATHER." 229 him, her unworthy son. And there also had been bom his darling sister, whose innocent love he had blasted by dragging the object of it into the deep pit of sin and folly. Now, where were they 1 He shuddered as he asked himself the question. Would he find them still in the home his cruelty had made so desolate, or had their broken spirits found peace " where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest?" He was, however, determined once more to tread his native village, even if it were as a perfect stranger. He felt how few would recognize his feeble step, the face more worn with sickness than with time. On his brow still lingered the wreck of noble passions — the faithless pledge of all he might have been. What is he now ) — " An erring child of crime, A stranger in his own— his native clime ; Without a hope — except to die at last Where hia brief years of happiness were passed." His heart yearned to behold again that fond mother's face, whose undying love he felt " Guilt could not stain, nor infamy remove." He gains the hill at last; and, oh ! how his guilty soul reflected back all the departed joys, as he gazed once more upon the turf his childish feet had trod. The ivy tower, from whose giddy height he had so often, in the very wantonness of mischief, hurled the tender nestlings down to the feet of his compassionate sister, whose little tender heart rebelled against such cruel sport, and whose entreaties for mercy he had spumed with such laughable scorn. The sweet-briar roses that he had himself planted over the sunny bower still smiled on him as of yore. The pretty church, 230 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. in which he had so often listened to the voice of his father— all looked the same as in his hours of guileless infancy. And when he gazed upon the familiar scene where once in innocence and peace he dwelt, " FeeUngs »woke, that long in cUurkneM slept, And tlie poor exile like an infant wept." The first time I saw this young man was at church some weeks after his return. I was very young at the time, and could scarcely comprehend all the sin of his exceedingly sinful life. I knew his father and mother and sister (who was married to a cousin of my own), and also that a great sorrow connected with their only son had fallen upon them. To them he had long been as one dead, for they had heard no tidings of his whereabouts for years. But what a weight the heart will bear, and break not, if upheld by the soul's sincere desire — prayer. Many and earnest were those poured out at the Throne of Grace that this child, like the prodigal son of our Saviour's parable, might yet return convinced of his sin, and receiving that pardon tLey were only too ready to bestow. Great, then, unspeakable must have been their j oy when this their son " who was lost was found, was dead and was alive again." It was always with a feeling of awe that I approached this young man, old in his prime. Children are easily impressed by any mystery, and there was a gentleness and tenderness about his mother's look and speech with him which could not be perceived with any other member of her family. His two little nieces would sit silent and hushed on his knee, gazing into the kind but melancholy face, as he told them some tale of foreign lands, or displayed before their wondering eyes shells from ocean cast, fit gems for a palace. "I WILL ARISE AND 00 TO MT FATHER." 231 i *' In theae brief momentH he almoat forgot The guilt, the shame, and anfloiih of hia lot** But on him it was plain to see that the wasting hand of disease had ahready laid its finger, sapping the foundation c: life, and making him feel, as he gazed around on all the beauty which he had once so loathed, that not many suns would rise and set for him. His sister used often to talk to me about her brother, of his deep and sincere repentance, although she never alluded to the bitter wrong he had done her. Poor girl ! he had worked sere sorrow for her ; but his guilt had been permitted to save her from a union with one who was not worthy her pure and guileless love. She had been some years wedded to one whose sterling worth would have been unacknowledged by her whilst she dwelt in the presence of her brother's triend ; but he had sunk into his untimely grave, a victim Vt his vicious courses, whilst her husband still lives beloved ^md honoured by all with whom he is surrounded. Alas ! for the pleasures of sin ; they are but for a season — as fleeting as the shadowy clouds which flit across the stormy sky, leaving nought but a bitter sting behind. How many consequences of evil courses do we see, day after day, in this city where we dw^ll — suicides, fighting, wife-beat- ing, &c. — while men leave tneir wives and children to starve, or beg their daily crust, in order that they may follow the multi- tude to do evil, and sink at last into the drunkard's grave. Un- fortunately, this vice is not confined to men alone. How often, in my visits among the poor, do I see the swollen fiace of the in- toxicated mother, as she beats the poor little helpless babes who are crying for the bread her own hand robs them of, in order that she may procure the fatal draught ! How often are my ears 282 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. i» Muuled with the vulgar, obscene and unholy epithets lavished on these unhappy ones, as blow after blow descends on their defenceless bodies ! Alas t no wonder that, brought up from the cradle in such scenes, they in their turn fill our prison cells with thieves, drunkards and midnight brawlers. This is but too true a picture of what really passes before our eyes. Ought you not, then, my dear young friends, to be thankful that your parents send you to the Sabbath school, in which you are taught the danger of following such evil courses 1 I fear I cannot make this tale very interesting, for it was but occasionally that I saw young Herbert-— just during a Tisit to my cousin ; so it is not possible to weave the subject BO much into the form of a tale as an exhortation ; therefore I shall not lengthen it further than to tell you that he came home to die. Although there were times when, through his fond mother's fears, hope's delusive ray would cheer her sad heart-^ his pale cheeks would wear at times the bright crimson of re- turning health — but faithless was its promise. His mother, night after night, would her unwearied vigils keep, praying fervently to God that his life might be spared, but if not, that he might have strength given him in the hour of mortal need. But he grew weaker day by day ; he could no longer be led into the sunny bower, where the roses he had planted in the days of his innocence were flourishing in all their wild magni- ficence, casting showers of rosy leaves with every breath that blew. Poor wreck ! he would talk to his fond mother of the days gone by ; of all his wasted opportunities ; while she would point the finger of hope and faith to the spotless Lamb of God. " And thus he lingered on t midst hopes and fears, That waken'd oft a mother's smiles and tears, Till in her arms he died." /■/ i " HE BEING DEAJ> TET SPEAKETH." 288 Bat not before, I feel sure, upon his tortured heart had de- scended the peace of God, causing him to cast all his cares upon Him who has promised, " He that cometh unto me I will in nowise cast out." ,' / // // " He being dead yet speaketh." These words, my dear young friends, are to be found in the latter clause of the fourth verse of the eleventh chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews. In the former part we read of " the excellence of Abel's sacrifice, because it was offered by liuth, God Himself testifying of his gifts." And St. Paul adds these words : " By it he being dead yet speaketh." It would be well for all if we could apply these words to ourselves. We speak not with our tongues alone, but with what will have had &r more effect— our good or evil example. If, then, such is the case, does it not call on us all to be circum- spect in our walk through this life, that we bring neither shame or reproach on our Christian profession 1 Let our station in this world be either in a high or humble path, our example may influence the great mass of those with whom we have spent our lives. All wish to be kindly remembered after they have passed away, and all are regretted in proportion to the love borne them. How will a mother mourn for her little innocent babe ! its artless ways and winning smiles are remembered long after its little body is mouldered in the grave. A father will mourn for the son cut off in his prime, because he remembers all his kind efforts to render the evening of his days calm and serene : 234 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. his dutiful conduot, his many acts of Mrilling obedience, all live within his memory. *< Although he is dead, yet Lo ■peaketh." It was but a short time ago that I overheard two persons thus speaking of the sudden death of a young man : — ** Ah, well I it is a good thing for his mother that he is gone ; he was never anything but a sorrow and trouble to her. No one could respect him ; he was a drunken, profligate and worthless fellowi with a bad word for every one ; his mother ought to thank Qod that he has gone from her." Here, then, was a fearful realization of our text — " He being dead yet speaketh." This young man's character doubtless added a tenfold sting to his mother's anguish, for, alas ! ** she had no hope in his death." There were no kindly memories for him ; he had hated all, and was hated by all I am now going to illustrate this text by an account of a young man whom I knew only for a very short time before his death, but whose mourned and honoured memory fully proves the truth of these words : " He being dead yet speaketh." Charles Richley was the eldest son of poor but respectable parents, his father being a day labourer. He resided in a pic- turesque village about a mile from the estate owned by my uncle. The clergyman of the parish was one of those noble men who earnestly sought the spiritual welfare of his flock. He had suffered much family trouble, his young wife and two children having been torn from his loving eyes, in the short space of three weeks, by a malignant fever. Heavy as was his burden, he never allowed it to interfere with his duties, which he cheerfully performed ; but I well recollect, when staying with my cousins, how sad it used to make me feel> " HE BEING DEAD YET 8PEAKETH." 235 when afternoon service wm over, to watch him turn to hii desolate home, passing close by the grave where lay those so precious to him, and whose gentle memories dwelling in his heart were almost enough to make him turn from his duties with the sickly feeling of utter loneliness. But Mr. Huntly knew that they were in Ood's hands, lent to him. but for a season, and he tried to practise what he had so often to preach, vix., submission to His will. I saw a good deal of Mr. Huntly ; he was a frequent visitor at my uncle's, three of my cousins being teachers in his Sunday school. Charlei Richley had, from being the first scholar, risen to be teacher, and was highly respected and trusted by Mr. Huntly. All spoke well of him ; I heard everywhere what a good son he was to his sickly mother, what a help to his hard- working father, and what an affectionate guide to his blind sister. If any one required a kind action performed, a distant errand run, or a sick person sat up with, Charles was in uni- versal request. It was during my stay at C Hall that I accompanied my cousins to the Sabbath school, which was held an hour pre- vious to the afternoon service. Charles was pointed out to me as he sat diligently engaged in teaching a class of eight boys, who seemed most attentive to their youthful teacher. I re- member the earnestness with which he taught ; nothing seemed to distract his attention from his pupils ; so wrapped up in his subject did he appear, that the hour seemed all too short for all he had to tell. After service, my cousins asked him whether he could spare time to assist them in preparing for the annual Sunday school pio-nic, which was always held in my uncle's grounds, aiid I was impressed with the pleasant answer and good-natured alacrity iiiiiiHittBi'iintiiii 236 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. with which Charles jrieldod a ready assent to be at their ser- vice at any time when called on. There was no apology that hi« time was so fully employed, so as to render his service a fiptvour — an excuse but too often resorted to when people wish to escape trouble and responsibility. It was a happy gala afternoon, this Sunday school pic-nic. A soft, sweet, sunny day in June ; troops of merry children assembled in the park, where games of all kinds were entered into with the glee belonging to happy childhood. Water boiled gipsy fashiori, and a table of nature's own providing was spread with fruit and cakes of all kinds, and eaten with a relish you can scarcely imagine. By English cottage children, the cakes, hot buns and fruit, which so often form part of the meals of Canadian children, are seldom tasted except on such a day as this, and consequently were eaten with a zest almost unknown on this continent. Charles, as usual, made himself generally useful Ming mugs, fetching water, swinging the little ones, throwing balls for the boys, and occasionally holding an infant, that the mother might sip in comfort that rare treat to her^ a cup of good tea. Just before the children were summoned together to sing the evening hymn, I happened to see Charles lying under the shade of one of the large oaks which overshadowed a pure mimic lake of water, and going up to him asked whether he felt much fatigued with the labour in which he had taken such an active part. He answei«d, " No, not at all, but I was merely gazing on the glory of the setting sun. The rising and setting of that orb. Miss F&nny," he continued, ''has always a peculiar fasci- nation for me ; when such beauty gilds this world, what must be the glory of the unknown one 1 " I looked at the intelligent face, so bright now as the shadow "HE BEING DEAD TET SPEAKETH." 237 oast on it by the radiance of the setting sun seemed to play as a halo round his head. How little either of us thought at that moment how near he was to that unseen land ! He spoke again of the wonder which must encompass the soul as it passed from this perishing earth into the presence of the Eternal He saidi <* how often he fStkncied what a feeling of delight and as- tonishment it would be to his sister, Mary, if her eyesight was suddenly restored, so she could gaze on what to her was a sealed mystery — the light of day." He then told me of the sudden death that morning of an aged Christian woman, and then ex- claimed with much fervour, "Fancy what joy hers must have been — she closed her eyes in sleep, and awoke in heaven." To me sudden death had always been, as it is now, associated with an indescribable feeling of dread, and I said so to Charles. He answered me, " If we live as if each moment was to be our last, we could not fear ; death is but the commencement of a new and holier existence, and should have no terrors to any but the wil- fully impenitent." Before I went to bed that night, I repeated this conversation to my uncle and aunt, and they remarked that " if every one lived as Charles did, they need not fear when the shadow of death descended." It was while we were all seated at breakfast next morning, talking over yesterday's ftUy that my uncle was called out of the room. He was absent some few minutes, and when he re- turned his first exclamation was, " Charles Bichley is dead Every voice was hushed, every face paled as the words fell with startling distinctness on our ears. Dead! — it did not seem possible — that bright boy, so full of life and health but yester- day ! — surely there must be some mistake. Alas ! it was but too true. My uncle informed us that it had always been • 238 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. OharWs custom to rise at daybreak, but not having done so this morning, his parents, supposing him tired with yesterday's labours, did not wish to disturb him ; but one of his brothers requiring some implement of industry which Charles always kept in his room, had gone softly in to fetch it, and was sur- prised to find him half sitting up in his bed, as though in the act of rising. The casement window at the foot of his bod, looking towards the east, was wide open — ^probably had not been closed at all through the sultry night. His eyes were fixed on the beautiful blue sky, but fixed in death. Charles's bright vision of the glorious future was now unfolded to his gitze. He had evidently passed away without a pang or struggle, so calm and peaceful was the expression of his face : so, " Died by the visitation of Gtod " was the verdict rendered. On the next Sabbath afternoon he was buried ; the school was closed for that hour. We all stood in the churchyard whilst Mr. Huntley read our beautiful Church service for the dead. Last Sunday he had been with his class at school ; gone with them to the holy sanctuary ; and now the dai*k grave had opened for that bright and youthful saint. Tears and sobs re- sounded through the church, as, after the funeral, Mr. Huntly preached from the text, " He is not dead, but sleepeth," and drew his lesson from the sad event which had filled all hearts with sorrow, and with the dread certainty that " in the midst of life we are in death." I need scarcely tell you how Charles was missed. Not a cot- tage was entered but we heard of some act of his kindness. Here a gate mended for a poor cripple, here a shelf put up, here a rude cradle made for some peevish child — small things in themselves, but all tending to show his generous kindness to all. One poor old blind woman wept as she told us of his nightly I: " HE BEING DEAD TET SPEAKETH." 239 visits to read to her from the pages of Sacred Writ ; another, lame, for whom every morning he would fetch in her supply of wood and water for the day. Wherever we went this truth was apparent, " Though he was dead, yet he spoke." Many years have passed since Charles Richley's body was committed to the silent grave, but not so his memory. In the village he is still fondly remembered, and little children who were then unborn have been taught to lisp his name, and pray that they may be enabled to follow his bright example, whose whole life was in strict accordance with the golden rule, " To do to others as we should wish them to do to us." No stone with its eulogistic epitaph marks the spot in that quiet churchyani where rests his mortal remains, but the grave is still kept by the village children sacred from all desecration, and many a cottage garden is despoiled of its bright blossoms to de- corate it, and carefully is every unsightly leaf removed off it. His kind deeds have outlived him ; he needs no epitaph from the sculptor's hand, for it is engraved on the hearts of those for whom he performed so many kindly deeds. Both old and . young, for miles around that pretty village, revere the name of him " Who though dead yet Bpeaketh." I have now come to the conclusion of the verses chosen by my late pupils for illustration, and I would, in conclusion, say a few words to you all, my dear young friends. Time is going^ on, and fast bearing us all away from this perishing earth. Let me then, as a sincere friend, exhort you to be more earnest in seeking after the things which tend to your eternal happiness. Do not turn away from serious thoughts to seek the frivolous pleasures of life ; they are as fleeting as the shadows, capable of m I 240 SKETCHES FROM LIFE. giving no lasting satisfiMtion ; they soon pall on the aenaea, and end in nought but painful regreta. Seek to render yonraelvea fit for the heavenly crown ; waate not the precioua momenta, leat grim death overtake you before you have made your calling and ekiition auie. Weary not in well-doing ; remember how great the prize, and at what price it haa been purehaaed for you. I wish I could make you believe the deep interest I take in you all, and if the tales in thia little book win one serioua thought I shall feel amply rewarded. I fain would have my love for you all remembered long after I shall be laid in the silent dust, and I sincerely trust that the hours spent in your Sab- bath school will be looked back to by you all with the keen- est sense of delight. That Gkxl may bless you all with the rich- ness of His grace is my sincere prayer as I say Fabbwill. *. *», * - ^ V,:, "^t