THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 OR 
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A TALE OF OUR TIMES 
 
 in are no: finely touched 
 But to line IMUM." 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 OOULD, NEWMAN, AND 8AXTON, 
 
 roRMIt Of rt'LTON A*D KAMAU rrBBBT* 
 
 B O S T O N 1 VE8 AND D E N N E T . 
 
 1 841.
 
 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1840, by 
 
 GOULD, NEWMAN, AND SAXTOX, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of th e United States, for 
 the Southern District of New York. 
 
 S. W. BENEDICT, PRINT.
 
 TO ALL 
 
 WHO ARE CHARGED 
 
 WITH THE HIGH AND SACRED TRUST 
 
 OF 
 
 WOMAN'S EDUCATION, 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME 
 IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 
 
 1732005
 
 ' I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet, 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food, 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene, 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveler betwixt life and death ; 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength and skill, 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned 
 To warn, to comfort and command, 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright, 
 With someting of an angel light." 
 
 WORDSWORTH.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following narrative, the result of a few hours 
 of leisure, gratefully occurring amidst the pleasing 
 toils of a teacher's life, is offered to the public with 
 a painful sense of its many imperfections, yet in 
 hope that the claims of the truths it is designed 
 to illustrate and enforce will ensure for it an indul 
 gent reception. 
 
 The incidents of the tale are wholly imaginary ; 
 yet the author trusts that they will be found to be 
 in accordance with the experience of the world. 
 
 In the leading character of the work he has 
 sought to embody his own views of the excellency, 
 the dignity, and the moral power of the female 
 character, elevated by high intellectual and moral 
 culture. Conscious that he has but feebly dis 
 charged the task he has chosen, he cannot but 
 hope, that his effort may be the means of bringing 
 higher powers than his own, to the illustration and 
 enforcement of the same subject.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER. PAGE. 
 
 I. Evil Tidings 9 
 
 II. The Merchant in his Chamber . 24 
 m. A Family Scene .... 28 
 IV. Hopes and Fears .... 40 
 V. The Announcement Sorrow and 
 
 Consolation . . . . .51 
 
 VI. A Tr ,>poal .".... 60 
 
 VII. A MotherYfcetter .... 68 
 
 VIIL The Proposal Answered . . 78 
 
 IX. The New Home .... 84 
 
 X. New Friends-^-Good and Bad . 96 
 
 XI. The Country Church . . .116 
 
 XII. The Sick Chamber New Trials 131 
 
 Xni. Death 141 
 
 XIV. Mary Gregory's Letter. Conclusion 151
 

 
 I 
 
 ' 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EVIL TIDINGS. 
 
 1 The gift of strength in ifro ia thine 
 Strength in the evil day.' 
 
 AT a comparatively late hour for it was 
 ten o'clock on a bleak evening in February, 
 a hack drew up in front of a genteel-looking 
 house in one of the more retired streets of 
 New York. In a few moments the inmates 
 were startled with the sudden and loud ring 
 ing of the door-bell, followed, after a brief 
 interval, with the quick tones of a manly voice, 
 inquiring of the servant, 
 
 * Is Mr. Barnwell at home V 
 
 1 He is at home, sir, but' 
 
 Ha^te the family retired ?' 
 
 * Not yet retired, sir.' 
 
 ' Then say to Mr. Barnwell that I must beg
 
 10 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 a few moment's conversation with him. Stay 
 here is my card and mind, add to it very 
 urgent business.' 
 
 The servant disappeared, and in a few mo 
 ments returned with the information that Mr. 
 Barnwell would be happy to see his visitor in 
 the parlor. 
 
 The family had assembled for evening 
 prayer. A sweet tranquillity an air of quiet 
 domestic repose pervaded the apartment as 
 the visitor entered it, welcomed by the cour 
 teous advance and extended hand of Mr. 
 Barnwell, by whom, with graceful but fitting 
 words, he was announced, for an introduction 
 was unnecessary, to the members of his fami 
 ly, as Mr. Jones, of Savannah. 
 
 ' I beg pardon, sir,' said the latter, as he 
 took his seat, ' for intruding upon your family 
 
 circle at so late an hour ; but my errand' 
 
 at this word he hesitated. 
 
 ' Whatever it be, is worthy of respect for 
 bringing you hifher. Say no more, sir, I 
 pray. To you my house is open whenever 
 you may see fit to honor it with your pre 
 sence. Perhaps you have some slight remem 
 brance of my old aversion to business out of
 
 11 
 
 UK- counting-house; I must say that I have 
 not much improved in that resp 
 
 Mr. Jones looked around him with a some- 
 wha* ( -\pression, as if doubtful whe 
 
 ther to request a private interview, or to hint 
 the nature of his business. From this he was 
 relieve^ by the frank, benignant smile of Mr. 
 Barn well, as he added, 
 
 ' I see, my dear friend, that you would have 
 it between ourseKes. You will not object to 
 joining with us first in our evening exercises. 
 My daughter, Mr. Jones is no stranger, 
 though an unfrequent visitor. Will you pro 
 ceed with your reading V 
 
 These last words were addressed to a young 
 lady who occupied a reading-stand opposite 
 to the centre-table, at which Mr. Barnwell 
 was sitting. During the little interval that 
 elapsed while she reverently turned over the 
 pages of the family bible before her, Mr. 
 Jones had a fair opportunity of remarking the 
 change which a few years fiad made in her 
 whom he had only known as a child. In- 
 , to the most uninteivMrd and casual ob- 
 T, there was something peculiarly prepos 
 sessing in her appearance. Constance Barn-
 
 12 --MERCHANT'S DADGHTKK. 
 
 well just turned of nineteen was not 
 extraordinarily beautiful, in the usual sense of 
 hat term. In a fashionable assembly, she 
 might have attracted very little notice. The 
 first glance of the superficial would have 
 passed on, in search of more dazzling fea 
 tures and prominent manner. She might 
 have been neglected by the crowd, which, on 
 such occasions, estimates every thing by the 
 degree of sensation produced, adoring its idols 
 through the ' woven illusions ' of wax lights, 
 waltz figures, and drapery. But in the quiet 
 social circle, even though it should happen to 
 be a fashionable one and still more in her 
 own sphere, the little dear world of home, 
 who could have rivalled her? The visitor 
 remarked and felt the beautiful womanly 
 grace of her manner, as with a look of blend 
 ed reverence and modesty, she slightly press 
 ed the open page before her, prepared to 
 impart, in the tones of affection, the language 
 of the Divine word to those she loved better 
 than her own life. Why was it that he 
 sighed involuntarily, but heavily as the 
 first sweet tone melted upon his ear ? Alas ! 
 he could not but think of his errand to that
 
 uniMis. 13 
 
 lovely family, and of the consequences it in 
 volved. He had come, the precursor of a 
 greater calamity than she, perhaps, was able 
 to bear. His heart smote him as his 'eye 
 lingered upon the almost angelic vision before 
 him. That blue, serene, spiritual eye, too 
 soft, too bright for human tears, must it be 
 clondetl with sorrow? That delicate ched^ 
 how long ere it should grow pale with pre 
 mature care ? Those mild sweet lips, must 
 they then quiver with agony 1 Was he to be 
 the means of engraving the lines of an anxi 
 ety hitherto unknown, upon that clear, se 
 rene brow ? The kind-hearted Gabriel Jones 
 almost wished himself back again in Savan 
 nah. 
 
 The subject of the evening's reading was 
 the seventeenth chapter of the Gospel of St 
 John ; and Mr. Jones, though not a religious 
 man, felt its sublime tenderness and inimita 
 ble pathos, as one by one its burning words 
 of love fell from the lips of the fair reader. 
 She ceased but Ijpr tones seemed yet to lin 
 ger upon the ear, so gentle, so spirit-like, so 
 exquisitely musical was the modulation. 
 
 A moment's pause elapsed, and the visitor 
 2*
 
 14 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 involuntarily cast a hasty, but observing 
 glance around the circle. Mr. Barnwell, a 
 handsome, dignified-looking man of fifty, 
 occupied the table before him. The cares of 
 manhood, and the toils of business, not un- 
 mingled with sharp sorrow, had given a 
 somewhat sad and thoughtful expression to 
 his countenance, and sprinkled his black, 
 clustering locks with premature grey. But 
 his dark eye was mild and untroubled, and 
 an habitual smile of benevolence lingered 
 about his slightly compressed lips. Charles, 
 his second son, of slight, graceful figure, and 
 consumptive look, reclined as an invalid upon 
 the easy chair, before the fire. Young as he 
 was, for he had not seen eighteen summers, 
 there were yet marks of high character upon 
 his pale countenance. His dark, lustrous eye 
 was fixed with an expression of deep affection 
 upon his sister; and by his slightly parted 
 lips, and half-suppressed breath, he testified 
 the interest he felt in what she was reading. 
 Little Josephine, the child, and the pet of the 
 family, occupied an ottoman at her brother's 
 side, and affectionately reposed her dark 
 glossy curls, and sunny childish brow, upon
 
 i:\ii. TIP !." 
 
 the right arm which hung over the chair. A 
 maiden sister o( Mr. Barnwell, infirm through 
 many years of trying disease, occupied the 
 sofa. 
 
 In a few words, simple, fervent, and heart 
 felt, Mr. Barnwell presented the thanksgiv 
 ings, the feelings, desires, and wants of his 
 family at the throne of grace. A few mo 
 ments of silence elapsed after he had con 
 cluded, in which each individual might silently 
 offer up personal petitions, and then they arose 
 from their knees, and prepared to separate for 
 the night 
 
 With the instinct of good breeding, the vis 
 itor withdrew from the centre of the apart 
 ment towards the grate, to allow the parting 
 salutations of the family to be exchanged 
 without restraint. 
 
 After an affectionate good-night to he r 
 father and brother, and a respectful salute to 
 the visitor, Constance gracefully offered her 
 arm to her aunt, and taking little Josephine 
 by the hand, left the room. She was soon 
 followed by Charles, upon whom, as he pass 
 ed the door, the father's eye lingered with a 
 melancholy fondness.
 
 16 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 'And now, sir, we are alone,' said Mr. 
 Barnwell, inviting his visitor to a seat. ' I 
 see by the expression of your countenance, 
 that something unpleasant has occurred.' 
 
 ( Perhaps,' said Mr. Jones, hesitating, ' the 
 topic for it is an unpleasant one might be 
 better deferred until the morning. I am re 
 luctant to disturb the feelings which such a 
 scene as I have just witnessed has excited. 
 Truly, Barnwell, you are a happy man.' 
 
 ' Thank God, thank God !' replied the other, 
 with some emotion. ' But in hours like these 
 my heart is strong, and if you are, as I sus 
 pect, the bearer of evil tidings, doubt not that 
 I am prepared to meet them.' 
 
 'Really, you distress me, Mr. Barnwell,' 
 said his visitor, rising from his seat, and pac 
 ing the floor with a rapid step, ' it is not at a 
 moment like this that I could be prepared ' 
 
 ' Nay, Jones,' replied the other with an anx 
 ious smile, ' you distress me by suspense. 
 When did you arrive in town V 
 
 ' I came an hour ago, and yours is the first 
 house I have entered. My errand, as you 
 may imagine, is urgent. The house of Stokes 
 and Newell has failed.'
 
 K\IL 111' 17 
 
 ' Rumors to that effect have been circulat 
 ed on 'change'but always stoutly contradicted 
 *t>y their correspondents. There have also 
 been whispers of a satisfactory adjustment of 
 claims. The principal agent called upon me 
 to-day to assure me that any anxiety which 
 theae rumors might have excited in my mind 
 was needless.' 
 
 ' The villain knows better,' exclaimed Jones 
 with sudden energy. ' It is a complete bank 
 ruptcy, Mr. Barnwell ; not even an offer at a 
 compromise the boasted assets, I assure you, 
 are but so much wind and paper.' 
 
 A sickly change passed over the counte 
 nance of Mr. Barnwell, as he heard these 
 words. The color rapidly fled from his 
 cheeks, and a heavy sigh escaped him. He 
 could not speak, but silently motioned to his 
 visitor to go on. 
 
 * Dear sir,' said he, * I have given you great 
 pain. But my duty, as a correspondent of 
 your honorable house, has compelled me to 
 broach the subject of my visit thus plainly. 
 !y regriUhat I see no way of saving the 
 liabilities oi that house.' 
 
 With a MI-PI;-.: < Hbrt, Mr. Barnwell control 1-
 
 18 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ed his emotion, and said with some show of 
 calmness, ' It is worse with us than you sus 
 pect in these relations. Jones, your announce 
 ment brings before me the prospect of certain 
 ruin.' 
 
 ' Gracious heaven !' exclaimed the other 
 with unfeigned emotion, as he paced the floor : 
 and then stopping short before Mr. Barnwell, 
 added in a sinking voice, ( and your private 
 endorsements ?' 
 
 1 Must be without provision also,' was the 
 reply. ' My friend, you know that my confi 
 dence in that house was unbounded, but you 
 know not how very deeply I am involved, 
 and then our severe losses by the wreck of the 
 Wave, and Dolphin,- and the utter prostra 
 tion of the stocks.' 
 
 The kind hearted Mr. Jones sank upon a 
 chair, beside the other, and covered his fore 
 head with his hand. A few moments of si 
 lence elapsed, during which, each in his own 
 mind, rapidly ran over the painful consequen 
 ces, which might follow these disclosures. 
 The half-hour stroke upon the chronometer 
 aroused Mr. Barnwell. 
 
 * Pardon me my friend,' he said, ' if in the
 
 EVIL TIDINGS. 19 
 
 Mi<l<lrn fvlings of despondency, which your 
 communication has excited, I have neglected 
 some of the rites of hospitality. Permit me 
 to order supper, your anxiety to reach me has 
 perhaps' 
 
 ' I thank you, sir, I came by the steamer, 
 and took tea on board. But I had almost 
 forgotten a letter, with which I was charged 
 by the head of the firm. It is, doubtleSSs, his 
 own communication upon the business. Use 
 no ceremony, with me, sir, I beg' 
 
 So saying, he placed the letter in question 
 in Mr. Barnwell's hands, who broke the seal 
 with a gesture of acknowledgement of the 
 politeness of his guest, and rapidly scanned 
 its contents. 
 
 For a moment the expression of his counte 
 nance, changed to that of gratified surprise. 
 Then his attention became deeply absorbed 
 in the communication, his brow and cheek 
 became flushed, and his eye clouded. When 
 he had arrived at the end of the sheet, he 
 could scarcely control his agitation. 
 
 ' This letter, my friend/ he said to his 
 guest, ' requires consideration, before I can 
 make up my mind as to its precise meaning.
 
 20 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 
 
 But weighty as our business is, let us dismiss 
 it for the night, and now to pleasanter 
 themes.' 
 
 ' And this is the Christian spirit,' said his 
 guest to himself as, with a cheerful but subdu 
 ed smile, Mr. Barnwell passed to other topics. 
 
 'You left Constance a prattling school 
 girl you find her a woman,' he observed, 
 after some general conversation, concerning 
 mutual acquaintances, and old friends, known 
 and loved by both.' 
 
 ' Dear sir,' replied his guest, ' the change 
 MS almost magical. A few dull matter-of-fact 
 years of my bachelor's life, day out and day 
 in, have wrought a transformation to which I 
 can scarcely r econcile myself. You, however, 
 my friend, must have a heaven upon earth, 
 with such a creature for its minister.' 
 
 ' She is indeed, a daughter to be beloved and 
 prized. Her opportunities have been, as you 
 know, good, and I can say with honest pride, 
 that she has improved them to the utmost. It 
 is almost too much to say, but indeed, sir, she 
 is all I could wish in a daughter, She al 
 ready supplies the place of her sainted mother 
 to Josephine, and at her own request, I have
 
 EVIL TIDINGS. 21 
 
 mainly resigned to her the charge of her edu 
 cation. For such a charge her accomplish 
 ments and disposition eminently qu;: 
 ' I can believe it and Charles T 
 
 * Unhappy boy,' sighed the parent; the 
 cloud more than half returning upon his brow. 
 " I fear he ne\vr will be strong enough for 
 business or a profession. Once this might 
 have been a subject of little solicitude, but 
 now' 
 
 'Now, indeed,' added his sympathizing 
 friend. 
 
 ' But I must trust in God for all things. Hi 
 therto my happiness has been beyond my 
 deserts; and he will not afflict beyond my 
 strength to bear. My son has talents and ac 
 complishments sufficient to allow him to enter 
 upon any course of business or profession with 
 ;ul> antage ; but indeed, I cannot think of it in 
 his present state of health. 
 
 * I have heard,' said Mr. Jones, * incident 
 ally, of Charles's fondness for literature. Et 
 nos in Jlrcadui pardon me, 1 once had such a 
 
 >n myself; and you will know how to 
 excuse me if I express the h<>|ir that you will 
 allow him to cultivate his taste.'
 
 22 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' I have idolized that boy ;' replied the fond 
 father : ' I have gloried in his talents ; his 
 genius for genius, notwithstanding a father's 
 partiality, I know him to possess. And now, 
 in his feebleness, I would not deny one wish of 
 his heart. But his intellectual labors, lightly 
 as he esteems them, are daily robbing him of 
 the vigor that remains. I fear that I shall 
 soon be obliged to forbid him altogether the 
 use of his books and pen. But we shall see.' 
 
 In such half-pleasant, half-mournful conver 
 sation, an hour passed away; and then the 
 friends separated for the night. 
 
 With an anxious heart Constance retired to 
 her room, but not to rest. She had observed, 
 with pain, the cloud upon the countenance of 
 their unexpected visitor, and had hailed it as 
 the harbinger of evil tidings. She knew that 
 a terrible crisis in the commercial world had 
 arrived ; and that, amidst the universal crash, 
 the prudent and honorable were too often in 
 volved in the same ruin with the speculator and 
 the fraudulent trader. Even the quiet retire 
 ment of her own lovely home had not entirely 
 escaped an infusion of the gloomy atmosphere 
 that pervaded the city and country at large.
 
 I. VII. TIDINGS. 23 
 
 And the circumstance of Mr. Jones' arrival, 
 his language, his manner, wire sufficient to 
 fill her mind with forebodings of approaching 
 l>iruniary distress to her father. 
 
 For a long and weary hour she heard her 
 father's footsteps as he paced the floor of his 
 chamber; and this, as she knew, betokened 
 unusual trial. Commending him, and their 
 common fortunes, to the God in whom she had 
 always been taught to trust, she at length sank 
 into a disturbed sleep. 

 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT IN HIS CHAMBER. 
 
 Be just, and fear not : 
 
 Let all the endsthou aim'st al be thy country'*, 
 Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. 
 
 SHAKSPEARK. 
 
 THE merchant sat alone in his chamber. 
 The evidence of deep and anxious thought 
 was upon his brow, as he leaned his head upon 
 his hand, with his eyes fixed upon the expiring 
 coals of the grate. The letter which he had 
 received from Mr. Jones was open upon the 
 table before him. 
 
 ' No,' he at length exclaimed rising and 
 pacing the floor. ' I may be ruined, I may be 
 reduced to poverty, but I will never tamper 
 with dishonest practices. I am offered securi 
 ties which the law might allow me, but which 
 my conscience would condemn me for ac 
 cepting. The other creditors of this unfortu 
 nate house shall not, through me. lose even
 
 THE MERCHANT. 
 
 the miserable dividend to which they are en 
 titled.' 
 
 He continued for some time in silence. 
 
 * Dreary !' he resumed, as a slight shudder 
 passed through his frame, ' dreary, indeed, is 
 tin- prospect ; but it is the will of God, and I 
 cannot avert it^ And yet shall I have strength 
 to meet this * armed man' of want to deny 
 to my children the comforts and the privileges 
 of that society in which they have hitherto 
 moved; to subject them, perhaps, to depend 
 ence upon others to the cheerless drudgery 
 but how how to maintain even an honorable 
 poverty ? Oh, God, thou alone canst direct 
 me!' 
 
 He knelt down by his bed-side, and con 
 tinued for some time in silent prayer. When 
 he arose, his brow was calm and his eye was 
 clear. The excitement of fear, and of the 
 agonizing contemplation of the future had 
 passed away, and despondency, chastened by 
 religious trust, and not altogether unillumined 
 by the sweet rays of hope, alone remained. 
 
 At the future, dark with uncertainties, pri 
 vations, perhaps distresses, he brought him 
 self steadily to look tre he closed his eyes in 
 3*
 
 26 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 sleep. With every vision as it successively 
 rose and faded before his mind's eye, there 
 was blended the soft, spiritual countenance of 
 Constance, rendered more touchingly beauti 
 ful by sorrow patiently endured the pale 
 face and burning eye of Charles the cherub 
 features of Josephine, prematurely dashed 
 with care, alien to her youth, and her gay, 
 sunny, joyous nature. And then he thought 
 of the circumstances which must attend his 
 altered position in society the changes and 
 the coldness to be expected in a community 
 where wealth was the great standard of re 
 spectability of the harassing pressure of 
 debt incurred through the folly or the crime 
 of others, yet weighing no less heavily upon 
 him of the hard struggle with adversity 
 amidst the stagnation of business, and the uni 
 versal prostration of enterprise. 
 
 From all this there was indeed one way of 
 escape. It was not through the open path of 
 dishonor. He might tread it amidst the smiles 
 and encouragement of the world, and no 
 breath of suspicion would rest upon his name. 
 To all but himself, his immediate business 
 connections, and his God, the circumstances
 
 THE MERCHANT. 27 
 
 would remain hidden. But the world's law 
 was not his, nor was the letter of the statute 
 his standard of morality. At the bar of con- 
 
 < (-, the stain of dishonesty would rest upon 
 the transaction. 
 
 The struggle with the temptation had al 
 ready been successfully waged. Now he re 
 solutely closed his mind against it, and in the 
 strength of Christian principle, dismissed the 
 subject from his thoughts. Calmly reflecting 
 upon the course he should pursue, and resolv 
 ing to interpose no unnecessary delay in the 
 public acknowledgment of his situation, he 
 again silently commended himself and his 
 interesting household to God, and found re 
 lief in the sustained repose of an honest mind, 
 and a heart free from guile. Conscious in- 
 
 ;y can slumber peacefully amidst the 
 storm that rends the guilty breast with t la- 
 darkest fears. Christian principle can impart 
 a glorious strenijth to the soul in difficulties 
 \\hich brin^ the blackest despair to the mere 
 man of the world. In thy mercy and thy 
 wisdom, oh Lord, thou hast so ordained it, 
 and happy is the man who, when earthly sup 
 ports fail, can find and J\-d the blessedness of 
 leaning upon the ROCK OF AGES.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A FAMILY SCENE. 
 
 There is a kind of character in thy life 
 That to the observer doth thy history 
 Fully unfold. SHAKSPKARE. 
 
 1 CHARLES, dear Charles,' exclaimed little 
 Josephine, as she burst into the breakfast- 
 room on the following morning, having es 
 caped from the gentle hand of her sister, who 
 followed her into the room ; ' I have had 
 such a beautiful dream. I dreamed that you 
 had got well, entirely well, and that we were 
 all on board of a fine noble ship, and were 
 sailing to Europe ; yes, to England and to 
 France, and to lovely Italy, as you have often 
 called it ; and then father seemed so happy, 
 
 and Constance' 
 
 ' Well, what of Constance ?' said her bro 
 ther, as she buried her bright face in his 
 bosom. 
 
 ' Why, Constance sat by us all the time, 
 and read pretty books to us, and painted pic 
 tures, and sang her beautiful songs.'
 
 A FAMILY SCENE. 29 
 
 * Well, that is a pretty dream ; what would 
 you give it' it should come to pass ?' 
 
 * Give,' replied the child with her finger 
 upon her lip, musingly, * give why give 
 I would give even my dear little bird,' and 
 away she skipped to attend to the morning 
 wants of her little favorite. 
 
 * Sister, I have received good news this 
 morning,' said Charles, as he saluted Con 
 stance, ' can you guess at its import V 
 
 ' Perhaps I can,' she replied, smiling as 
 she glanced at a number of a popular review, 
 newly issued, which he held in his hand. 
 The muses have been propitious, I suppose, 
 ami you are basking in their golden favors.' 
 
 ' You do me too much honor, but my ar 
 ticle has appeared, and here/ drawing a let 
 ter from his pocket, ' is a very flattering ac 
 knowledgement from the editor, enclosing, 
 what do you think ? a ten dollar note and 
 a polite request for future communications. 
 So my literary bark is fairly launched, and I 
 have wind and tide in my favor.' 
 
 ' Let me see, brother,' interposed Josephine, 
 ".vho had returned, and bent her sparkling 
 eyes upon the open page ; " let me see how
 
 30 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 your writing looks in print. I am sure I read 
 that piece of poetry in the Knickerbocker 
 right out loud, and entirely to myself at least 
 twenty times. But this is not poetry, is it 
 Charles ?' 
 
 ' No, dearest, it is prose, and heavy enough 
 too. And now, Constance, what do you 
 think of my prospects in the republic of let 
 ters 1 See, this is not the light, volatile mat 
 ter of which my previous attempts were com 
 posed. It is an ambitious review on a very 
 important subject ; and in short, Constance, 
 have I not succeeded tolerably ?' 
 
 ' Why, Charles,' replied his sister laugh 
 ingly, but with sisterly encouragement of his 
 blushing enthusiasm, ' you ask my opinion 
 before I have read the article. You must 
 take me for a prodigy of wisdom in supposing 
 me to be able to pronounce critically upon 
 your merits under such circumstances. An 
 hour or two hence, I shall be enabled to en 
 lighten you with my weighty judgment, 
 perhaps.' 
 
 ' True, my vanity is unpardonable,' said 
 Charles, laughing, in return. ' You will read 
 it, I know, and as you are well read on the
 
 A FAMILY ST! '.'A 
 
 subject, I can depend upon your opinion. 
 And now, what shall I attempt n-vt ? let me 
 see. If this good-natured editor had only ex 
 tended his kindness so far as to suggest some 
 thing within the scope of my powers. But I 
 will follow it up, sister !' 
 
 * Not too eagerly I trust, my dear brother,' 
 replied Constance, with an expression of ten 
 der anxiety, as she saw the high flush upon 
 his cheek, and the too strong fire in his eye ; 
 * your health will not allow of this devotion 
 to your study !' 
 
 * But in such gloomy weather as this, Con 
 stance, surely ' 
 
 ' Surely not, Charles, recreation is as need 
 ful in gloomy weather as in sunshine. Now, 
 brother, promise to spend the morning with 
 me. I will read to you talk to you sing 
 to you play for you, do anything to al 
 lure you, for ason from your books. 
 Come, that interesting book of travels of 
 Mr. Steveas has been kit g on your table for 
 three or four days unopened. We will spend 
 the morning in the deserts -Aaron's 
 tomb, or flying from the Arabs.' 
 
 ' Agreed, Constance, such a temptation I
 
 32 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 cannot resist agreed, provided you allow me 
 to escape for one short hour, before dinner, 
 to my study, just to hunt up a subject, you 
 know.' 
 
 ' Nay ; did I not say the whole morning 1 
 so rest contented to be my good knight for 
 the day. And, in good time, here comes fa 
 ther, and I will appeal to him if I ask too 
 much.' 
 
 ' I heard your last words in the hall, Con 
 stance, and Charles knows my wishes on this 
 subject too well to doubt of my readiness to 
 second you in so laudable a work. Seriously, 
 my son, I have become very much alarmed 
 for your health. Learn to consider it, my 
 boy, as a sacred gift, for which you are re 
 sponsible to God. Yours is a fragile consti 
 tution the ardor of your mind, without the 
 intellectual stimulus daily applied to it, is al 
 most too much for the feeble frame work in 
 which it is lodged. Sickness may soon de 
 prive you of the enjoyment you find in litera 
 ture. Why not husband your strength by 
 occasional relaxation, for, depend upon it, the 
 time you thus devote, will hereafter return it 
 self fourfold."
 
 A FAMILY SC! 33 
 
 * Father, I am ready to obey you in what 
 ever you command. But Mr. 's letter 
 
 has excited me more than usual this morning 
 and and you can pardon the ambitious 
 vanity of a young author on his debut into 
 the arena of high letters.' 
 
 With a gratified look, Charles placed the 
 Irtirr into the hands of his father, who perus 
 ed it with sincere pleasure. 
 
 * Really, my son,' he observed, as he re 
 turned it, ' this speaks much for your pros 
 pects. I consider such a testimonial from the 
 
 Editor of the Review, as decisive on 
 
 the merits of your production. And yet, 
 Charles,' this he said half musingly, while 
 an expression of sadness flitted over his coun- 
 1 1 -nance ' literature is but a precarious call 
 ing a thorny road sometimes, and bootless 
 labor, but' and he smiled again with sud- 
 ( It-n animation f I will not discourage you, 
 for it is your most valued resource.' 
 
 * So we shall have Charles all the morning, 
 father,' said Josephine, in her glad silvery ac 
 re nls, rising on tiptoe to receive her father's 
 morning kiss, ' Oh, how glad I shall be' 
 
 * And your studies love V playfully inquir- 
 
 4
 
 34 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ed Constance. ' No, no, sister/ she eagerly 
 replied, ' you need not think that I shall neg 
 lect them; for I shall study all the better 
 when Charles is with us. Only I should like 
 to peep out of my little closet now and then, 
 just to ask him a question, you know, for the 
 sake of hearing his voice and' 
 
 ' Forgetting your task, is that it, daugh 
 ter?' 
 
 ' Well then, sir, I will be contented with 
 asking only one question one little question.' 
 
 ' Come, now, dearest,' said Mr. Barnwell, 
 playfully, ' confess that it will be a hardship 
 to remain shut up in your little closet, when 
 Constance and Charles are pleasantly occu 
 pied in the drawing-room. It is a dreary 
 place, is it not ?' 
 
 ' Oh, no, father,' said the little girl, ear 
 nestly, ' not dreary, for mother's portrait is 
 there, and when I have been studying hard, 
 and begin to feel fatigued, I look up, and she 
 smiles so sweetly upon me, that I go on 
 again nicely.' 
 
 The tenderest feelings of the FATHER, tried 
 and anxious as he was at the moment, were 
 thoroughly touched by this unexpected ap-
 
 A FAMILY SCI 35 
 
 peal from the happy and innocent child. The 
 tears startnl to his eyes, and he did not seek 
 to restrain his emotion. He caught the little 
 cherub in his arms, and hiding her face in his 
 bosom, wept as he stood. 
 
 There are moments when it is a luxury to 
 weep. There are moments when even sor 
 row brings a gill ol exquisite blessedness, and 
 \\hrn the grief which has been long restrain 
 ed within the solitary bosom, finds relief in 
 tears, which like the soft and balmy rams of 
 spring, soften and bless whatever they touch. 
 
 ' Your mother, dearest child, is an angel in 
 la -iiven, I trust,' he replied, in a low and sub 
 dued voice, as the child looked up wonder- 
 ingly through her own brilliant tears, ' and 
 will always smile upon you when you are 
 (luin<4 your duty. But, my children, we for 
 get our guest. Constance, will you order the 
 servant to ring the bell for our morning de- 
 voti< 
 
 As Mr. Jones entered the room he could 
 
 not forbear casting a hasty glance around the 
 
 little family group, actuated by a desire to 
 
 ascertain whether the melancholy announce- 
 
 bis situation had been made to his
 
 36 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 children by Mr. Barnwell. Apparently sa 
 tisfied that such had not been the case, he re 
 turned their morning salutations with a friend 
 ly smile, and joined with heart-felt interest in 
 the family devotions. 
 
 The breakfast hour was occupied by plea 
 sant general conversation, in which Mr. Barn- 
 well and his guest seemed equally to avoid 
 even the most distant allusions to the subject 
 that most deeply interested their thoughts. 
 At the accustomed hour of business they de 
 parted together for the counting house, leav 
 ing Constance and her brother alone. In a 
 short time Josephine was quietly settled to 
 her studies and drawing. 
 
 Though the anxiety of Constance in regard 
 to the subject of the visit of Mr. Jones, had 
 been increased rather than diminished by the 
 occurrences of the morning, she succeeded in 
 confining it to her own bosom. Prudently 
 considering that mental excitement of any 
 kind would prove highly injurious to her bro 
 ther, in his present state of health, she care 
 fully avoided all allusion to the topic, resolv 
 ing not to touch upon it till circumstances 
 should render it absolutely necessary to do so.
 
 \M1LY SCI 37 
 
 Tli* interesting volumes whieh sin- had 
 recommended to her brother were begun, and 
 perused with tin- highest satisfaction. Music 
 and drawing, with the recitations of Joseph 
 ine, filled the intervals between the reading. 
 Thus the morning hours passed rapidly and 
 pleasantly away, and Charles for once felt 
 happy in so long an absence from his study. 
 Lit t It- did the inmates of that happy home 
 dream of the dark cloud that was already 
 descending upon them, laden with sorrow and 
 unwonted privation. While the beloved fa 
 ther, in the counting-house, was nerving him 
 self to the most honorable course in his dis 
 tressing circumstances, and the looks of the 
 hard cold world had already begun to change 
 upon him ; they as yet felt nothing, knew 
 nothing of the threatening disasters. But the 
 storm gathered no less certainly, and was 
 about to break no less fiercely. Innocence, 
 maidenly worth, and love, and gentleness, 
 youthful ardor, and purity of soul, offered no 
 protection against its outbreaking. 
 
 And thus it is ever in this checkered scene 
 <>f human lile. The same tempest that bears 
 down the guilty, the ignoble, and depraved, 
 4'
 
 38 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 overwhelms also the innocent, the high-mind 
 ed, the pure in soul. Were it otherwise, this 
 world would not be what God has ordained 
 it to be, a scene of trial and of preparation 
 for a better existence. Placed upon the nar 
 row isthmus of time, and yet a probationer for 
 eternity, girded round with the apparatus of 
 trial, and plied by all the solemn inducements 
 which eternity can offer to his hopes or to his 
 fears, it is right that man should be obliged 
 to struggle here to gain a meetness for the 
 bliss of the future. ' Rest, rest,' said an emi 
 nent Christian, whose praise is in the church 
 es, ' we shall have rest enough in heaven.' 
 Now is the season for striving, then shall be 
 the high recompense of fidelity and the glo 
 rious triumphs of faithfulness. 
 
 Through the folly and guilty speculations of 
 worldly and godless men, misfortune was 
 brought upon this Christian family. Thus 
 God often employs the worthless as instru 
 ments in his hand to promote the discipline of 
 his chosen people. But if he afflicts sharply, 
 sometimes, he no less surely vouchsafes that 
 consolation and support which can enable 
 them to bear up under their sorrows. Let us
 
 
 
 A FAMILY SCI ' 39 
 
 then learn to interpret his providences aright, 
 to * hear ' reverently and thankfully ' the 
 voice of the rod, and who hath'appointed it' 
 
 ' It it not better to lie Hill, 
 
 Let him strike borne and blew the rod ; 
 
 Never so wife u when our will 
 
 Y it-Ida uodiKcrned by all but God.' 

 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HOPES AND FEARS. 
 
 Whence then, that peace 
 
 So dovelike ; settling o'er a soul that loved 
 
 Earth and its pleasures 7 Whence that angel smile 
 
 With which the allurements of a world so dear 
 
 Were courted and secured. MRS. SIOOURNEY. 
 
 AT seven o'clock the younger members of 
 the family were assembled, as usual, in the 
 drawing room. Mr. Barn well, occupied by 
 business during the whole day, had not yet 
 arrived. 
 
 A visitor was announced. The eye of 
 Charles brightened, and Constance blushed a 
 little at the bright, quick glance of her broth 
 er, as a young gentleman, announced by the 
 servant as Mr. Seaman, entered. 
 
 He was possessed of a tall, noble fig 
 ure, and open, handsome countenance, with 
 an eye and forehead betokening great intelli 
 gence, and generosity of disposition. 
 
 ' Good evening, Miss Barnwell,' he observ 
 ed, as he advanced and respectfully took her
 
 HOPES AND FEARS. 41 
 
 hand ; ' you see that I am true to my charac 
 ter as a a constant visitor and, Charles, my 
 dear fellow, allow me to congratulate you on 
 your decided success in the splendid article 
 in the Review. I have heard nothing but 
 your praises all day. If I were not so deep 
 in the statute books as I am, as a withered 
 and soulless limb of the law, I might possi 
 bly be disposed to feel a little jealous of my 
 classmate and college competitor.' 
 
 * I wish, heartily,' replied Charles, ' that 
 a little jealousy, if you can find no better 
 motive, could induce you to give more at 
 tention than you do to general literature. 
 Brougham, you know, and Scott, and Tal- 
 fourd' 
 
 * Quite right, my dear friend ; and I know 
 what you would add, but I have very little 
 inclination that way since I entered the office. 
 You know that some of my amusements are 
 literary, notwithstanding, but I shall scarcely 
 aspire to the honors of an author.' 
 
 'Well he it so,' replied Charles; <Con- 
 Mance has almost persuaded me to-day, to 
 give up the pursuit myself. She has kept me, 
 absolutely kept me in inglorious idleness for
 
 42 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the whole of this day. To be sure I have 
 been recompensed in another way, but what 
 will become of my literary projects at this 
 rate.' 
 
 ' Is it not right, Mr. Seaman,' said Con 
 stance with a smile, ' that I, having no other 
 work of charity on hand, should act the part 
 of the good physician towards this wayward 
 and invalid brother.' 
 
 ' Truly, Charles,' replied Seaman with an 
 imation, ' I heartily envy you your illness. I 
 too, Miss Constance, will consent to become 
 an invalid for the sake of securing such a 
 physician.' 
 
 Edward Seaman was an honored and high 
 ly esteemed friend of the family. His father 
 and Mr. Barnwell had been intimate from 
 early life, and the friendly intercourse be 
 tween the parents had been extended to their 
 families. Edward was a constant visitor in 
 the family of Mr. Barnwell, and his visits had 
 always been hailed with pleasure by all its 
 members. An attachment, scarcely known 
 to either, had insensibly grown up between 
 him and Constance ; an attachment which 
 their parents observed and highly approved
 
 HOPES AND FEARS. 43 
 
 Still, no disclosures had been made, and no 
 hopes formed beyond those blissful but un 
 defined frriinirs. which so fully and pleasura- 
 bly, under such circumstances, occupy the 
 heart. 
 
 I'd ward Seaman was a young gentleman 
 most likely to acquire a deep interest in the 
 heart of such a girl as Constance. Possessed 
 of the best natural talents, his mind had been 
 thoroughly disciplined and cultivated by an 
 extensive and well chosen course of study. 
 His intellectual constitution was stronger and 
 more practical than that of Charles, and even 
 in his first months of college-life, his atten 
 tion had been strongly attracted to the law, 
 as the profession in which he would find the 
 most fitting and ample field for his powers. 
 Yet, with these mental characteristics he unit- 
 ( d a pure taste and a generous love of litera 
 ture. This latter trait had formed the basis 
 of the truest and deepest friendship between 
 himself and Charles Bamwell. Constance 
 esteemed him for the weight of his character, 
 ;t ml the manly sincerity, generosity, and gen 
 tleness of bis disposition. Equally with hrr 
 brother, she knew him to be infinitely above
 
 44 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the mass of young men in his sphere of life 
 above their sordid tastes, dissipated propensi 
 ties, and ridiculous fopperies. Though he 
 occasionally indulged in the amusements of 
 fashionable life, she knew that his chosen 
 pleasures were of a far different and nobler 
 order. She knew his character, also, in his 
 domestic relations the society of home, and 
 within the atmosphere of the fireside. As a 
 son and a brother, she had heard his praises 
 from his relatives and most intimate friends, 
 and these were suchas to increase her re 
 spect, and to deepen her attachment. 
 
 While his general character was so much 
 in conformity with the standard of intellectual 
 and moral excellence which existed in her 
 own pure mind, there was one point on which 
 she was not satisfied. Possessed of the high 
 est and noblest moral susceptibilities, Edward 
 Seaman w r as yet not a religious man. Gene 
 rally observant of the public duties of religion, 
 and entertaining, as she believed, a respect 
 for its ordinances, she knew that his heart 
 was untouched by its power, and a stranger 
 to its blessedness. This was a defect which 
 she could not undervalue or disregard. In
 
 HOPES AND FEARS. 4$ 
 
 I 
 
 an acquaintance it would have excited her 
 interest, and her quiet and unobtrusive influ 
 ence in representing religion in its true worth 
 and loveliness, but in an intimate friend, and 
 much more in a lover, it was a defect over 
 which she could weep with the deepest 
 feeling. 
 
 Ln the course of the evening the conversa 
 tion accidentally turned upon religious topics. 
 The article which Charles had published in 
 the Review contained a well merited tribute 
 to the influence of the* religious press upon 
 the moral welfare of society. At the request 
 of Edward Seaman, Josephine, who was al 
 ways glad to undertake such a task, read the 
 article aloud. Upon the passage alluded to 
 Constance ventured a remark, the first she 
 had made. 
 
 4 1 thank you, Charles, for those noble sen- 
 Irnrrv. I cannot t.-ll you how much I was 
 pained the other day by the voice of a boy 
 hawking a Sunday paper under our windows, 
 and announcing among the attractioas of his 
 literary banquet, that a sermon in travestie 
 graced its columns.' 
 
 ' I must plead guilty, 1 said Edward ; ' I 
 B
 
 46 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 . 
 must plead guilty, Miss Barnwell, to having 
 
 read that sermon, and think on the whole, 
 that the sermon was calculated to have a good 
 influence. It did take off the ridiculous cant 
 ing of some of our pulpits in a capital man 
 ner to be sure, but then it concluded with a 
 noble defence of rational religion.' 
 
 ' I know not,' replied Constance, earnestly, 
 but mildly, ' what is termed rational religion 
 in these days. In England and in our own 
 country a few years ago, it was the watch 
 word of a party who sought to rob Christi 
 anity of its most glorious and consoling truths. 
 However this may be, is it possible, Mr. Sea 
 man, that a publication which can turn a sa 
 cred subject into ridicule, can exert a good 
 influence upon society.' 
 
 ' Nay, but the defence, Miss Barnwell' 
 
 ' The defence I have not read itbut 
 what could it be but a fruitless attempt to atone 
 for irretrievable injury, like offering an anti 
 dote when the poison has operated.' 
 
 ' It is a well-established maxim,' replied 
 Seaman, * that ridicule is the test of truth. If 
 so, why should not religious truth be subjected 
 to this test as well as every other T
 
 HOPES AND PEAKS. 47 
 
 i 
 
 * Because religious truth is a sacred thing, 
 and not to be sought as we would seek the 
 truths of science or philosophy. It is to be 
 pursued in the silence of the closet, far away 
 from the world's madness and the world's 
 laugh. To the sincere inquiring mind alone, 
 its blessed and consoling treasures are vouch 
 safed. The moment you introduce it into the 
 thoughtless mirth and giddy whirl of society, 
 the follies and the passions of man become 
 mingled with it, and the voice of ridicule once 
 heard, leaves its echo in the mind, which will 
 long remain there, and which the most pow 
 erful argument, and the most affecting ap 
 peals, sometimes cannot silence.' 
 
 * I honor your sentiments, Miss Bamwell, 
 while I cannot agree to the conclusion to 
 which you have arrived. Religion, I believe, 
 is, or ought to be, a thing of reason, subjected 
 to its cognizance, and regulated by its deci 
 sions. If its tenets contradict reason, as they 
 are taught, we are at liberty, I think, to treat 
 them as the glosses of man, and not the reve 
 lations of God.' 
 
 ' But you must admit, Mr. Seaman, that 
 while some doctrines, above but not contra-
 
 48 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 dictory to reason, cannot be perfectly under 
 stood by the human mind in the present lim 
 ited scope of its faculties, yet that we are 
 bound to receive them on the express testi 
 mony of Scripture.' 
 
 ' Certainly, Miss Barnwell ; but Scripture, 
 as you know, may bear a variety of interpre 
 tations, and when by a slight variation from 
 the literal sense, such a doctrine as the Trinity, 
 for example, may be safely doubted, the ap 
 peal should be as I think to reason, which, 
 under such circumstances I mean the possi 
 bility of a different interpretation should 
 certainly be allowed the decision.' 
 
 ' Am I to understand you then, Mr. Sea 
 man,' said Constance, mildly but firmly, as 
 her cheek and brow became a few shades 
 paler, ' as entertaining doubts of this doctrine, 
 as it is generally received in the Christian 
 church ?' 
 
 ' Nay, Miss Barnwell, I only state a gener 
 al principle, which I hold to be applicable to 
 all religious truths.' 
 
 ' I could find fault with your assumption, 
 and the reasoning drawn from it ; but I will 
 give the subject into abler hands. * Perhaps
 
 AND KLAK-. 49 
 
 your avocations will allow you leisure to 
 IK nix<> a little work upon the subject* 
 
 * Any thing which you recommend, Miss 
 Barnwell,' replied Edward, 'shall be faithfully 
 
 <fd, although I confess I feel but a very 
 slender interest pardon me,' he added, as he 
 observed a change upon her countenance. I 
 mean, my studies necessarily preclude much 
 attention or interest, in regard to studies out 
 of the line of my profession.' 
 
 * But in the matter of religious truth, sure 
 ly,' replied Constance anxiously. 
 
 1 1 confess my error, Miss Barnwell, and 
 perhaps, nay, I know that I have neglected 
 these things sadly. I must leave my defence 
 in the hands of Charles, who knows my dis 
 position and my habits.' 
 
 Constance sighed involuntarily, at, what 
 she could not but esteem, this light treatment 
 of a subject, which, to her, was of all others 
 the most sacred and important. 
 
 At this moment Mr. Barnwell entered. 
 His step was quick, and his whole manner 
 hasty and troubled. The moment that he 
 became aware, however, of the presence of 
 the visitor, he controlled his emotion with 
 fi*
 
 60 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 evident effort, and advancing into the circle, 
 took his seat quietly by the side of his little 
 daughter on the sofa. 
 
 Mr. Seaman, pleading an engagement, soon 
 retired, and the family was once more alone. 

 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN ANNOUNCEMENT SORROW AND CONSOLATION. 
 
 The world's a room of sickness, where each bean 
 
 Knows iu own anguUh and unrest ; 
 The true* wisdom there, and noblest art 
 
 Is uis who skills of comfort best ; 
 When by the softest step and gentlest tour 
 
 Enfeebled spirits own, 
 And love to raise tin- languid eye, 
 
 When like an angel's wing they fed him floating by. 
 
 Kara* 
 
 A FEW moments of silence elapsed after the 
 departure of their visitor, during which the 
 same troubled expression returned to the 
 countenance of Mr. Barnwell, which it had 
 worn as he entered the room. Constance 
 noticed it with a sinking heart, for it confirm 
 ed the worst suspicions she had entertained 
 on the evening previous. Charles soon be 
 came too deeply engaged in his book to notice 
 any thing ; but Josephine, as she assumed her 
 favorite position ujxm his knee, was struck 
 by the contrast with his usual happy manner 
 ami cheerful expression.
 
 52 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Oh, father,' she exclaimed, half timidly 
 as she looked up into his face, ' we have all 
 been so happy to-day, and I have learned my 
 lessons so well, have I not Constance ?' 
 
 'Yes, dearest,' replied the sister, 'I can 
 praise you as having been a very obedient 
 and attentive scholar to-day.' 
 
 ' Thank you, sister ; this I know will make 
 father happy like the rest of us will it not, 
 father ?' 
 
 Mr. Barnwell sighed as he replied to 
 the question, while his thoughts were other 
 wise occupied. 
 
 Yes, my child !' 
 
 ' Father, what is the matter ?' said the child 
 after a short pause. 
 
 * The matter, Josephine !' he asked fully 
 aroused from his reverie ; ' and why do you 
 ask that question ?' 
 
 ' Because you do not smile as you used to, 
 and your voice sounded so strange just now.' 
 
 ' Never mind, dearest, I love you as much 
 as ever.' 
 
 Constance saw the embarrassment which 
 the innocent prattle of her sister caused to her 
 father, and reminding her that her practice
 
 ANNOUNCEMENT. 53 
 
 hour had come, silently led her out of the 
 room. 
 
 When she again entered, Mr. Barnwell re 
 sumed the seat which he had left, and sum 
 moning all his fortitude for the unpleasant 
 task which devolved upon him, said 
 
 * Thank you, Constance, for your ever 
 ready anticipation of my wishes. In what I 
 am now about to say to you it is best that 
 we should be alone. Charles, may I request 
 you to withdraw, for a few moments, to your 
 study?' 
 
 Charles obeyed this intimation with readi 
 ness, and without anxiety. So far from sus 
 pecting the true motive of it, he imagined, 
 from certain intimations he had recently re 
 ceived from his friend, that he had formally 
 proposed for his sister, and that this was the 
 subject of the private conference which his 
 father wished to hold with her. 
 
 The door dosed, and \vith an anxious look 
 at the countenance of his daughter, Mr. Barn- 
 \VL-1 1 ln-ir;in 
 
 * My daughter, I make to you lirM an 
 announcement, which I fear will i^ivc you, 
 
 lia> aheacU ui\rn me, much pain. I
 
 54 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 have requested Charles' absence, because I 
 fear its effect upon his too susceptible con 
 stitution. It can be more gently communi 
 cated at a fitter opportunity, by yourself, per 
 haps.' 
 
 The color rapidly fled from the cheek and 
 brow of Constance, and she involuntarily fas 
 tened her eyes upon the floor. 
 
 With as much firmness as was possible un 
 der the circumstances, Mr. Barnwell briefly 
 but distinctly detailed the occurrences which 
 had taken place the numerous losses he had 
 incurred, and the fact that he had that day 
 been obliged to surrender all his property into 
 the hands of assignees for the benefit of his 
 creditors. 
 
 ' After all my liabilities are met,' he con 
 cluded, * we shall have a bare pittance left, 
 hardly sufficient to support us in the very 
 humblest circumstances. For my part, I can 
 cheerfully submit to whatever allotments God, 
 in his providence, shall see fit to bring upon 
 me. The path of secure but honorable in 
 dustry is yet open to me. But, my daughter, 
 my heart bleeds when I think of the poverty 
 to which you so admirably qualified to adorn
 
 ANNOUNCEMENT. 55 
 
 the highest circles, must be reduced by these 
 sudden reverses.' 
 
 * Of me, father,' exclaimed the noble girl, 
 as her eyes filled with tears, and her voice 
 trembled with emotion, 'think not of me. 
 With you and aunt, and our dear brother and 
 rtcr, I can be happy, very, very happy, any 
 where.' 
 
 * Bless you God bless you, my daughter,' 
 replied her father, strongly affected. ' From 
 what I know of your character, I am con 
 vinced that this determination is not the off 
 spring of romantic sentiment, which might 
 give way at the first rude breath of misfor 
 tune, but that it is the deliberate and self- 
 sustained determination of your mind. But 
 yet, Constance, what a cold, cold prospect is 
 before you.' 
 
 'Any thing but that, dear father. You 
 know me not, if you think that in the enjoy 
 ment of your society I shall hereafter, for a 
 moment, seriously regret the luxuries to which 
 1 have been accustomed. Father, the home 
 will always be bright where domestic affec 
 tion, like that which blesses ours, has a place. 
 And as for Charles'
 
 56 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 'You have touched on another string of 
 sorrow, my daughter. Charles has always 
 felt, more than any of us, the pride of station. 
 Can he stoop so easily to a farm-house or 
 perhaps to worse ?' 
 
 ' He can, father,' replied Constance, eager 
 ly, ' he can he will.' Give him his books, 
 and in our society, (for a profession, or an 
 entrance upon business, is now, on every 
 account, out of the question,) he will be 
 happy. His lightest literary labors will at 
 least afford him the means of supplying his 
 literary wants and ours. Aunt Mary will be 
 happier in the country than in New York, 
 and little Josephine's heart will be gladdened 
 by the constant intercourse with nature.' 
 
 ' My daughter,' added Mr. Barnwell, as he 
 took her hand, and impressed a fervent kiss 
 upon her brow, ' you have given me new 
 energy. Oh, how good has our heavenly 
 father been to me, in giving me such a spirit 
 in you. Strange but I could now almost 
 weep for joy. The scenes through which I 
 have passed this day have tried me sorely. 
 There was a way open of averting these evils : 
 even my honorable friends half counselled me
 
 . 
 
 ANNOUNCEMENT. 57 
 
 1> adopt il : but, my daughter, it was a way 
 more than upon the verge of dishonesty. My 
 conscience my ('hn>tian principle would not 
 allow me to adopt it In my present feelings 
 I am more than repaid for my adherence to 
 the strait path of duty. And now, my daugh 
 ter, you may call in Charles and Josephine, 
 and your aunt Mary, for I feel that I now 
 have strength to make the announcement to 
 them.' 
 
 Charles received the tidings with less of 
 emotion than Mr. Barnwell had expected. 
 At first, indeed, his manly lip quivered, and 
 his large dark eyes filled with tears, but one 
 glance at the pale countenance of his beloved 
 sister restored him, and he felt almost asham 
 ed of his weakness. When his father con 
 cluded he exclaimed with enthusiasm 
 
 * And can I not do something, father, for 
 our comfort in in our poverty ; indeed I do 
 iot think we need be ashamed of the word.' 
 
 4 You will do what you can, my son ;' but 
 my greatest happiness will consist in your 
 ninii iit. and if it please God, in your 
 ation to health. And what does our 
 little Josephine think of
 
 58 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Oh, father, I for one am not ashamed of 
 being poor ; and when we are in the country 
 always, with the trees, and the birds, and the 
 flowers, I shall be so happy, dear father. 
 When shall we go ?' 
 
 'Soon, very soon, my child, when the 
 spring comes. And now let us have our 
 evening prayer, and then retire to rest. I 
 am very weary with the labors and anxieties 
 of the day.' 
 
 Constance was again the reader of the 
 evening Scripture. She chose that beautiful 
 chapter, the 12th to the Hebrews, in which 
 the Apostle imparts such glorious consolation 
 to the minds of the disciples, under the pres 
 sure of their severe afflictions. To those who 
 heard it, on that memorable evening, around 
 that quiet fireside, it seemed as if an angel's 
 voice were speaking to them. 
 
 ' If ye endure chastening, God dealeth with 
 you as with sons, for w r hat son is he whom 
 the father chasteneth not? We have had 
 fathers of our flesh which corrected us, and 
 we gave them reverence ; shall we not much 
 rather be in subjection to the Father of Spi 
 rits and live. For they verily for a few days
 
 ANNOUNCEMENT. 59 
 
 chastened us after their own pleasure ; but 
 he for our profit, that we might be partakers 
 of his holiness. Now no chastening for the 
 present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous ; 
 itheless, afterwards, it yieldeth the 
 peaceable fruits of righteousness unto them 
 which are exercised thereby. Wherefore, 
 lift up the hands that hang down, and strength 
 en the feeble knees.' 
 
 Under the influence of this exalted conso 
 lation, they all knelt down, while Mr. Barn- 
 well addressed the throne of grace. A bless 
 ed spirit of peace settled within every heart 
 as the eloquent words fell from his fervent 
 lips ; and the family retired in possession of 
 a joy which the world can neither give nor 
 take away.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A PROPOSAL. 
 
 Maiden, need I ask, 
 
 I fear I need not is he dear to tliee ? 
 
 'Tis well. But tell me, hast thou ever noted 
 
 Amidst his many shining qualities, 
 
 Aught strange or singular ? HILLHOUSK . 
 
 THINGS soon resumed their usual quiet 
 course in the well regulated house of Mr. 
 Barnwell. The bitterness of the trial was 
 over, and the sustaining power of high Chris 
 tian principle soon manifested itself in the ease 
 by which its possessors could descend to the 
 calm discussion and contemplation of the 
 most forbidding details of the prospect now 
 before them. The creditors of Mr. Barnwell 
 were perfectly satisfied with the honorable 
 conduct he had pursued in the adjustment of 
 their claims, and one and all offered to accept 
 such a diminution of their respective demands 
 as would allow him a somewhat larger sum
 
 A PROPOSAL. ^ 61 
 
 than ho had anticipated from the wreck of 
 his prosperity. Still, however, in its gross 
 amount, it was a bare pittance, hardly secur 
 ing to him the ordinary comforts of life in its 
 most obscure stations. As it was, he felt pro 
 foundly thankful that so much had been 
 spared, and he could not but esteem it as an 
 evidence of the goodness of God that the means 
 of supporting his family had not been entire 
 ly swept away from him. 
 
 He was enabled, very opportunely, to pur 
 chase a small farm in the vicinity of the city 
 on very advantageous terms. Thither he con 
 templated removing in the early part of the 
 spring. A few weeks were all that 
 necessary in order to complete the arrange 
 ment of his affairs. 
 
 A week had elapsed since the family had 
 received a visit from Edward Seaman. He 
 had indeed, regularly inquired after the health 
 of its members every morning on his way to 
 the office, but his evening calls seemed entirely 
 suspended. Somewhat offended at this appa 
 rent neglect in his friend, Charles forbore to 
 verse with his sister and parent upon the 
 probable reasons; and they, \vliat\i they 
 6*
 
 62 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 might think of it, did not seem disposed to 
 dwell upon the topic. 
 
 At length, as the family were assembled in 
 the parlor one evening, engaged in their usual 
 pursuits, Mr. Seaman was announced. With 
 a half-timid step he advanced towards his 
 friends, as if conscious that his late conduct 
 required explanation. But the frank, open 
 smile of Mr. Barnwell, the calm sweet coun 
 tenance of Constance, and the pleasurable 
 glow upon the cheek of Charles, assured him 
 of his accustomed welcome. With no allu 
 sion to his absence, a pleasant hour passed 
 away in conversation; until he arose, and 
 with something of embarrassment requested a 
 few moments' private conversation with Mr. 
 Barnwell. 
 
 The father led the way to the study, and 
 without appearing to notice the confusion of 
 his youthful friend, opened the conversation 
 by some general remarks. But the impa 
 tience of Edward, notwithstanding his embar 
 rassment, disposed of these by monosyllables 
 in reply, until he opened the subject of the 
 interview by an allusion to Constance. 
 
 4 You cannot but have observed, my dear
 
 A PROPOSAL. 
 
 sir/ he began, 'ray esteem nay, my affec 
 tion for your daughter/ 
 
 Mr. Barn well, making due allowance for the 
 lover's state of feeling, made no reply, and 
 allowed him to go on. 
 
 ' It is an affection,' proceeded Edward, 
 with some hesitation in his tone, * which has 
 grown up with the many pleasant years of 
 our intercourse since childhood; and I now 
 Ire! that she is essential to my future happi 
 ness. I have therefore come to the conclu 
 sion,' he added, in quite a business-like man 
 ner, ' to propose for her hand.' 
 
 For a moment Mr. Barmvell shaded his 
 forehead with his hands. In the present state 
 of his affairs, this proposal from one who had 
 hitherto stood on the same level with his 
 laughter, but now infinitely above her in 
 point of wealth, was calculated to surprise 
 him, to say the lca>t. Although an intii 
 knowledge of the character of Edward's fa 
 ther, made him conscious that he was above 
 the ordinary considerations which so often in 
 duce parents to sacrifice the happiness of their 
 children to the amassing of wealth on their 
 Ml', he yet felt doubtful whether the son 
 had made the father a party to his intended
 
 
 64 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 proposal. As these thoughts passed through 
 his mind, he replied, 
 
 'You must be aware, Edward, of the 
 change which a few days have produced in 
 our circumstances.' 
 
 ' I know it all, my dear sir,' replied Ed 
 ward ; ' and I value your friendship the more 
 on account of the highly honorable conduct 
 you have pursued.' 
 
 ' But your father, Edward, is he aware of 
 this proposal ?' 
 
 ' He is, sir, fully ; and I have his approba 
 tion and encouragement in the proposal I have 
 made to you.' 
 
 * You have taken me somewhat by surprise, 
 Edward,' replied the father, ' but so far as I 
 am concerned, you have my full permission to 
 prosecute your suit with my daughter. You 
 know how much I value her happiness, and 
 that there are no earthly considerations to 
 which I would sacrifice it. Upon her affec 
 tions, or her views in regard to marriage, I 
 shall never lay any restraint. Have you rea 
 son to believe that my daughter is aware of 
 your intentions ?' 
 
 ' None, in the least, sir j my manner has, I
 
 A PROPOSAL. 65 
 
 know, been sufficiently guarded. I cannot 
 hut think and hope that she knows that I love 
 her ; and I have sometimes been inclined to 
 hope that I am not altogether indifferent to 
 her. With your consent I shall seek an in 
 terview.' 
 
 * You have my consent, Edward ; and let 
 me assure you, that if her feelings are engag 
 ed on your behalf, I shall be proud to ac 
 knowledge you in the relation of her accept 
 ed suitor.' 
 
 ' Enough, sir and I thank you for your 
 frankness. This interview I shall seek in the 
 morning. In the mean time, it might prevent 
 some embarrassment to us both, if you would 
 hint to her the subject of this conversation. 
 Please present my adieus to the family below, 
 in my present state of feeling it might not 
 be prudent for me to meet them again this 
 evening. Adieu, sir, and God bless you. I 
 shall call at twelve in the morning.' 
 
 Before retiring to rest, Mr. Barnwell de 
 tained Constance in the drawing-room, after 
 the other members of the family had retired. 
 He then mentioned the proposal which he 
 li;td received from Mr. Seaman.
 
 66 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Rest assured, my daughter,' he said in 
 conclusion, ' that in this important matter I 
 desire you to act entirely in accordance with 
 your own judgment.' 
 
 ' My father,' replied Constance with much 
 emotion, ' I feel that I cannot speak with you 
 on this subject, as calmly as I ought to speak 
 to-night. But I owe it to you to mention that 
 I have one objection, which I think we will 
 both feel to be a serious one, and that is on 
 the score of his religious principles. 
 
 ' His religious principles !' repeated Mr. 
 Barnwell, in evident surprise. 
 
 ' Yes, father, I am sincerely pained to learn 
 from the tenor of several conversations which 
 I have of late held with him, that his reli 
 gious principles are not at all fixed. Indeed, 
 I fear that he is inclined to scepticism.' 
 
 ' To scepticism !' again echoed Mr. Barn- 
 well ' Constance, you surprise me indeed. 
 Of this I had not dreamed. I knew, indeed, 
 that he had never made a profession of re 
 ligion, but in all my intercourse with him I 
 have discovered nothing but the most sincere 
 respect, as I believed it, for Christianity and 
 all its institutions.'
 
 A PROPOSAL. 67 
 
 ' I will not pronounce definitely on the sub 
 ject, father indeed, I cannot do so in justice 
 to Edward. But on this point, I must, in our 
 interview to-morrow, use with him all Chris 
 tian sincerity.' 
 
 * Certainly,' he replied * it is what I ex 
 pect from you ; and I confidently commit the 
 whole matter to your hands. So good night, 
 my daughter.' 
 
 And they separated for the night. 

 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 A MOTHER'S LETTER. 
 
 If aught of goodness or of grace 
 
 Be mine, her's be the glory ; 
 She led me on in wisdom's path, 
 
 And set the light before me. 
 
 WITHIN her chamber, long after the last 
 sound of her father's footstep had ceased to 
 fall upon her ear, sat Constance Barnwell in 
 deep thought. The brilliant rays of the moon 
 streamed through the openings of the upper 
 blinds, and fell with checkered light upon 
 the carpeted floor, and the chaste furniture of 
 the room. Her lamp stood unlit, upon the 
 small reading table upon which one arm 
 gracefully rested. The dim light of the room, 
 slightly relieved by the red rays from the coals 
 in the grate, served to enhance the graceful 
 ness of her figure ; the quiet and exquisite 
 loveliness of her countenance yet retaining 
 the flush which her father's conversation had 
 occasioned. Now and then, a tear would
 
 A MOTHER'S LETTER. 69 
 
 start, as it were, unbidden from her eye, hast 
 ily brushed away, yet returning, as if her bo 
 som were stirred by sorrowful emotion* 
 
 No eye but His who watcheth liis children 
 alway, saw the emotion thus manifested, and 
 He, also, saw the conflict which was going on 
 within, between deep, fervent, unalterable 
 love, and sacred duty. 
 
 Constance loved Edward Seaman with a 
 love of the depth and strength of which, until 
 within a few days, she herself had been un 
 conscious. Their intercourse had been to her 
 as a pleasant and lovely dream ; gradually 
 had her feelings of affection for him been 
 deepened and strengthened ; and every suc 
 ceeding visit had added new charms to his 
 character and society. These feelings had 
 grown up silently in the secret chambers of 
 her bosom, without notice, for the most part, 
 or questioning of their object and meaning. 
 But the conversation in which they had en 
 gaged at his last visit, had awakened her to 
 a full sense of the nature of her feelings to- 
 u.'.uK IT'in. The peculiar and pnwriiul anx 
 iety which filled her mind, after the casual 
 expression then made of his religious opinions, 
 7
 
 70 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 disclosed to her the interest which she felt in 
 his principles, his sentiments, and his feelings 
 in short, of the empire which he had ob 
 tained over her own heart. But, how pain 
 ful were the doubts and fears attending this 
 revelation ? She had long cherished the hope 
 that his regular and respectful attention to the 
 outward and public duties of religion, had im 
 pressed his heart with a sense of its personal 
 value and importance. She flattered herself 
 that she discerned in him the elements of high 
 religious character, and she had entertained 
 the pleasing anticipation that she herself 
 might be made the humble instrument of lead 
 ing him to the altar of his God and Savior. 
 How coldly, amid such hopes, had his words 
 fallen upon her ear how bitterly had the fer 
 vent wishes of her soul been blighted. 
 
 And yet she could not believe that he had 
 intended to express himself so strongly as the 
 inferences which she had drawn from his lan 
 guage, would warrant. Again and again, 
 she recalled all that he had said patiently 
 did she weigh every word, until the dimness 
 of uncertainty rested upon it all, and amid 
 hope and fear, she committed it to God, and 
 to the future.
 
 A MOTHER'S LETTH.. 71 
 
 But the morrow was to bring a scene of 
 trial, for which she felt feebly prepared. In 
 a few moments, and by a few words it would 
 be in her power to determine her own future 
 happiness or misery to dispel, for ever, the 
 f >nd dream in which she had so long indulged, 
 or to give a reality to its sweetest visions. 
 
 * But no,' she whispered to herself, ' if it is 
 as I fear, better it is that I should at once re 
 sign these too long cherished hopes, than 
 sacrifice my own Christian character, or place 
 my happiness in the keeping of one whose 
 religious principles and sympathies are so 
 widely different from my own. The heart 
 which is tainted by scepticism, has lost its 
 preserving principle. By slow, but sure de 
 grees, the curse will gain upon it, until it be 
 comes completely corrupted with callousness, 
 selfishness, and indifference. But can I fear 
 this of Edward Seaman '. Is such a moral 
 state possible to one of such noble and gen 
 erous principles such kind and ardent sus 
 ceptibilities such rare strength and gentle 
 ness of soul combined V 
 
 Her eye fell, by chance, upon her mother's 
 portrait. In thr calm and bright moonlight.
 
 72 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 a heavenly radiance seemed to be spread over 
 the beautiful and expressive features, and a 
 semblance of life was given to the serene and 
 placid eye. The glance inspired her with a 
 new purpose. 
 
 ' My mother's letter,' she exclaimed, as she 
 arose and kindled her lamp, ' surely it was 
 intended for such an hour as this.' 
 
 With an eager and trembling hand she 
 unlocked a private drawer hi her writing- 
 desk, and took from it a folded sheet of paper, 
 carefully sealed. The tears again start 
 ed to her eye, as she dwelt upon the oft- 
 perused inscription, ' To my Daughter,' in the 
 handwriting of her sainted parent. During 
 her last sickness, when separated from her 
 beloved Constance, who was then at a dis 
 tant boarding-school, this letter had been pen 
 ned and delivered into the hands of Mr. 
 Barnwell, with the wish that it should not be 
 opened until the subject to which it referred 
 the choice of a companion for life should 
 be brought before the mind of her child. She 
 had received many other epistles from her 
 mother while at school, expressive of her 
 wishes and views, in regard to her improve-
 
 A MOTHER'S LETTEK. 73 
 
 raent of the high advantages she enjoyed, con- 
 containing salutary advice in regard to the 
 formation of her character, and the direction of 
 her conduct in after life. These admonitions 
 she had sacredly treasured up and faithfully 
 observed ; and experience had long ago taught 
 her their high value. 
 
 With streaming eyes Constance sat down 
 to the perusal of this last testimonial of her 
 mother's love. It was dated at Key West, 
 the place of her death, whither she had been 
 obliged to resort in the winter of 1832, for 
 the restoration of her health. 
 
 " From my sick chamber, my beloved child, I 
 send to you these last words of advice which, in all 
 probability, you will receive from me, for I feel my 
 constitution gradually, but surely, sinking under 
 the disease with which it has pleased God to visit 
 me. To day I feel unwonted vigor ; whether it is 
 the presage of improving health, or the deceitful 
 harbinger of speedy death, is known to God alone. 
 For the former I cannot hope. Of the latter I am 
 in continual expectation. The influence of this 
 delightful climate has enabled me to undertake a 
 task to which a week ago my strength would have 
 been entirely inadequate. 
 
 " There is one subject, my daughter, which I 
 have not alluded to in the many letters you have 
 7*
 
 74 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 received from me during the period of our separa 
 tion, as I wished to reserve it to the last. This 
 subject is the choice of a husband. You know 
 what are my views of the character, the duties, 
 and the earthly destiny of woman. I have already 
 described to you the standard of intellectual and 
 moral attainment, and religious character, to which 
 every well educated Christian lady should aspire. 
 What I have said on these topics I feel assured 
 that you will not esteem lightly. My counsels 
 have been sanctified by prayer, and I trust they 
 will be brought home to your heart and deeply im 
 pressed there by that Divine Spirit, whose guiding 
 and strengthening influences I have so often sup 
 plicated on your behalf. What I am now about to 
 say has been very strongly suggested by the melan 
 choly death of a beautiful and highly accomplished 
 young lady, who arrived here but a few months 
 since, and whose remains were yesterday com 
 mitted to a lonely grave. To her a broken heart, 
 the result of deep and true affection wasted upon 
 an unworthy object, was the cause of ruined health 
 and an early death. Her history is a melancholy 
 one, but how sad is it to think that it is but one 
 among thousands daily transpiring. 
 
 " A woman, my child, can never safely trifle with 
 her affections. Her love is far too deep and too 
 strong when once thoroughly aroused, to ' bend 
 lightly to other tendencies,' than those which it 
 has recieved once and forever. When a woman 
 surrenders her heart, she surrenders her whole 
 earthly existence to the keeping of the object of
 
 A Mi>lH!.i:V LETTER. 75 
 
 her affections. It is true that indifference, harsh 
 ness, infidelity, may crush the affections where 
 they spring; but in this case, we can look for no 
 genuine after-growth ; the hand of the ruthless 
 destroyer leaves after it, a hard and blasted surface, 
 which the bright flowers and the gentle dews of 
 love can never again revisit. 
 
 " How important then how solemnly important 
 is it, that her affections should be given to a wor 
 thy object. How important that he, into whose 
 keeping she resigns her earthly destiny, should be 
 one of congenial spirit a being capable of the 
 self-sacrifice which the married state continually 
 enacts, of tender and generous susceptibilities, and 
 above all, of exalted moral character. Without the 
 latter, indeed, every other qualification should be 
 esteemed insufficient. With it, even a cold and 
 feeble heart may confer happiness. 
 
 " It is upon this latter qualification alone that I 
 would speak, as I trust that your own sense of 
 what would prove most essential to your happiness 
 in regard to the others, will suggest all that I 
 could say. But, my dear Constance, I trust that 
 you will never be induced to listen to the addresses 
 of a suitor who does not possess high moral nay, 
 I must add, religious character. Truly I blush for 
 my sex, when I think how little these qualifications 
 are regarded. Well has it been said, that if the 
 worldly find the wealth, and the intellectual tin- 
 jutclligence, which they sock in a companion, 
 there are few who will ni -hut their e\c- in wil 
 ful and convenient blindness to the want of such
 
 76 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 recommendations. Surely, my daughter, if the 
 voice of experience in this matter were regarded at 
 all, there would be throughout female society, an 
 instantaneous recoil from the guilty indifference 
 now so generally maintained. 
 
 " But, as a Christian and a mother, I would press 
 upon you my dying counsel never to accept as 
 your husband, a man in whose religious character 
 you cannot place confidence. Depend upon it, that 
 it is a fearful risk even for one of most ardent piety, 
 to link herself with one who is careless or hostile 
 in regard to heartfelt religion. But for one whose 
 religious character has not yet acquired that firm 
 ness which is generally imparted only by actual 
 struggle with the temptations and cares of the 
 world, what can we expect but that the example 
 of the husband should become all-powerful in 
 eradicating all true Christian principle and pious 
 feeling from the soul ? 
 
 " And when the wife does remain firm inhe r pro 
 fession, and true to Her vows, who can tell the un- 
 happiness she daily feels, springing from the cold 
 ness or the contempt of sacred things manifested 
 by her husband ! For grief of this nature there is 
 no earthly cure. The wounded spirit must bleed 
 on inwardly and silently, until death shall heal it. 
 
 " It is but little, my daughter, that my failing 
 strength will allow me to add, but I feel assured 
 that the suggestions I have made will be carried 
 out in your own reflections. I have signified to 
 your father that it is my wish that this letter should 
 not be opened by you until there was a necessity of
 
 A MOTHER'S LETTKK. 77 
 
 your coming to a decision in regard to the subject 
 of which it treats. Now, therefore, while deliberat 
 ing upon this, the most important transaction of 
 your life, let me direct you to commit the subject 
 in faith and prayer to God, asking of him the 
 knowledge and strength requisite to enable you to 
 come to a decision. To God's gracious keeping, I 
 commend you, my beloved daughter. The Lord 
 bless you and keep you, the Lord cause his face to 
 shine upon you, and give you peace now and for- 
 fvermore." 
 
 * How sincerely do I rejoice, my sainted 
 mother,' said Constance, as she finished the 
 perusal of this letter for the second time, * that 
 my own determinations are so much in uni 
 son with your advice.' 
 
 She knelt down by her bedside, in the 
 silence of her chamber, and fervently suppli 
 cated the blessing of God, to enable her to 
 <-arry into execution the resolution she had 
 formed. As she arose from her knees, she 
 cast another tearful glance towards the por 
 trait, :is it' rxp.rtinir to read in it the approval 
 vlu k;d sonirht ; and then happy in the con- 
 isness of duty performed, she sought her 
 pillow, and was soon wrapped in peaceful 
 sluml
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE PROPOSAL ANSWERED. 
 
 Marriage is a matter of more worth 
 Than to be dealt in by attorneyship. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 TWELVE o'clock came, and with it, on the 
 wings of love, came Edward Seaman. He 
 found Constance alone in the drawing-room, 
 simply attired in her ordinary morning-dress, 
 and engaged with her work. She had never 
 appeared to him so lovely, so engaging, as at 
 this moment His first glance assured him 
 that Mr. Barnwell had been faithful to his 
 promise, and that he had already opened the 
 way for a frank communication of his feelings 
 and purposes. 
 
 ' May I hope, Constance Miss Barnwell 
 but you will perhaps permit me to call you 
 Constance that the object of my visit is not 
 altogether disagreeable to you.' 
 
 To these words, hastily uttered, as he took 
 his seat by her side, she replied only by a
 
 THE PROPOSAL. 79 
 
 blush. Encouraged by this, Edward ventured 
 to take her hand in his own. She did not 
 withdraw it. 
 
 'You have already, perhaps, more than 
 suspected, dear Constance,' he hesitated at 
 his own boldness, but went on ' that my 
 feelings towards you are deeper than those of 
 a mere acquaintance, or a friend. May I 
 hope for acceptance in the light of a lover 
 can you can I hope for an interest, as such, in 
 your affections V 
 
 With the impulse of affection, yet with vir 
 gin modesty, Constance raised her beautiful 
 eyes to the countenance of her lover. With 
 difficulty, she replied, 
 
 * Christian sincerity, Mr. Seaman nay, 
 Edward obliges me to confess, in requital of 
 the frank and honorable avowal you have 
 made to my father and myself, that my feel 
 ings towards you' and she hesitated. 
 
 * Say but one word more,' exclaimed the 
 ardent youth, sinking upon his knee, ' and I 
 am supremely happy, or supremely miserable. 
 May I, dear Constance, hope for a return of 
 affection V 
 
 1 Nay, sir, rise, I beg,' she added, with an
 
 80 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 embarrassed smile, yet in a firm tone, c I can 
 not allow this.' 
 
 ' I will deal frankly with you, Edward,' she 
 added, as he arose and resumed his seat, still 
 retaining her hand. ' You are not indifferent 
 to me far from it. You hold a deep too 
 deep a place, I fear, in my affections.' 
 
 * You fear, Constance, too deep a place ?' 
 
 ' Pardon me : I fear I shall give you pain. 
 But while I confess that your love is not un 
 requited, there are circumstances which will, 
 I think, present a barrier to your hopes.' 
 
 The effort, intensely painful, was too much 
 for her. She could not restrain her emotion, 
 but fell, almost insensible, into the arms of her 
 lover. 
 
 Agitated by the liveliest joy, strangely 
 mingled with a dread of hearing more, Ed 
 ward respectfully supported her head upon 
 his arm, until she recovered in a measure her 
 composure, and then added, with a look that 
 thrilled to his very heart, 
 
 ' It would be weakness not to say guilt 
 for me to attempt to conceal from you the 
 feelings I entertain towards you. But I 
 must I must be plain with you and if my 
 words seem harsh'
 
 THE PROPOSAL. 81 
 
 ' Harsh, Constance after what I have 
 heard, nothing can seem harsh from your 
 lips.' 
 
 * There is one point, Edward, which has 
 caused me sincere pain. You recollect our 
 conversation on religious truth a few evenings 
 since. Did I do you injustice, when I inferred 
 that you had adopted the views of the so- 
 called rationalists in religion in short, that 
 your religious principles are unsettled, and 
 especially so, in regard to what Christians 
 generally consider the cardinal doctrines of 
 Christianity, the doctrine of the Trinity, the 
 atonement, and those connected?' 
 
 ' Constance,' replied her lover, * I will not 
 attempt to impose upon you by concealment 
 or subterfuge. On those points, I confess, my 
 principles, if principles they can be called, 
 are not in unison with what I take to be your 
 own.' 
 
 A slight shudder passed through the frame 
 of the lovely girl as she heard this frank an 
 nouncement, and she replied 
 
 ' I thank you, Edward, for your sincerity 
 and frankness, in this matter. Will you par 
 don me if I add, that the knowledge of this 
 8
 
 82 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 fact will prevent me from entertaining your 
 proposals ?' 
 
 ' Can it be, Constance, that a slight differ 
 ence upon speculative points of faith, will 
 thus influence your decision ? My opinions 
 have been the result of circumstances, per 
 haps they are not firm, for my studies have 
 been directed to far different topics but' 
 
 ' But, Edward, I know what you would 
 add. My duty forbids me, however, to en 
 trust the happiness of my life to one, whose 
 religious principles are unsettled, and whose 
 religious feelings are feeble. But, Edward,' 
 she added, as she observed the paleness 
 that overspread his countenance, ' I have given 
 you great pain,' and her eyes filled with tears 
 as she spoke. 
 
 ' Admirable woman,' said her lover, slightly 
 turning away his face to conceal his emotion. 
 f You have taught me a lesson which I shall 
 never forget henceforth I cannot but know 
 and feel something of the loveliness of prac 
 tical piety, a thing which I have sometimes 
 ridiculed, and whose existence I have alw r ays 
 more than half doubted. May I hope, Con 
 stance, for an interest in your prayers. I am
 
 THE PROPOSAL. 83 
 
 not ashamed to ask it, for I can now realize 
 the value of such intercession.' 
 
 * My prayers, Edward 1 if the prayers of 
 one so sinful, can avail before the throne 
 of Grace, have been yours but permit me 
 to add, that the subject must be made a per 
 sonal one. A cordial and earnest heart an 
 open, teachable, and childlike spirit, God 
 will bless with the communication of his sav 
 ing truth.' 
 
 * And yet, how to begin,' replied the lover. 
 Constance you can, you will direct me.' 
 
 1 Your first resort, then, must be to the word 
 of God with prayer there are certain reli 
 gious works which I could recommend to you, 
 but I trust you will feel disposed to go at 
 once to the Divine fountain rather than to the 
 streams.' 
 
 They parted that night the one to find 
 consolation, strength, and peace in the con 
 sciousness of painful duty conscientiously dis 
 charged the other to seek for himself at the 
 throne of Grace, a portion of that spirit of 
 religion, whose influences upon the clia: - 
 r and heart of her he loved, he could not 
 l.iii deeply admire.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE NEW HOME. 
 ' Guarded by love, and blessed by happy hearts.' 
 
 IT was a brilliant morning in the latter end 
 of May. A beautiful spring had suddenly 
 succeeded to a long and cold winter, and the 
 foliage and flowers already wore their deep 
 est green and brightest hues. On the banks 
 of the Hudson, a few miles from the city 
 of New York, was the small, but pleasant 
 farm which Mr. Barnwell had purchased, and 
 where he now dwelt. It consisted of a few 
 acres of the most fertile land, extending for 
 some distance along the shore, and stretching 
 back with a gentle undulating rise, relieved 
 by a pleasant little valley, to a range of hills 
 which formed its eastern boundary. Around 
 it to the north and south, were tracts of wood 
 land and green meadow, finely intermingled 
 with cultivated fields and the gardens of the 
 proprietors and tenantry. 
 
 The farm-house stood at some quarter of a
 
 THE NEW HOME. 85 
 
 mile's distance from the shore, almost com 
 pletely embosomed by trees. The passengers 
 upon the river might catch, at intervals, be 
 tween the trees, glimpses of its grey walls, 
 huge dormer windows, and woodbine-covered 
 portico ; of the neat little lawn, edged with 
 flower-beds in front, and of the rustic sum 
 mer-houses flanking either termination of the 
 footpath that wound through the grove to the 
 door of the house. In the whole aspect of 
 the place there was a combination of the 
 most beautiful rural scenery, with complete 
 retirement and repose. 
 
 In the early morning for the sun had 
 scarcely yet risen above the eastern hills 
 Mr. Barnwell and Constance sat upon the 
 seats of the portico, while Josephine, blithe 
 and happy as the spring birds that twittered 
 in the branches above her head, was diligent 
 ly employed in planting some flower seeds in 
 a bed of newly prepared earth, assigned by 
 her father to her own purposes. 
 
 An expression of happiness and content 
 
 lingered upon the countenances of both father 
 
 and daughter, as they watched the motions 
 
 of the cheerful little girl at her pleasant work. 
 
 8*
 
 86 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 To the mind of Constance the scene strongly 
 recalled the days of her own sunny childhood, 
 when, in the long summers, the seasons of 
 retirement from the city, she had been equally 
 happy in similar employments under the eye 
 of her mother. The same interesting recol 
 lections dwelt in the mind of her father ; and 
 as his eye returned from the graceful and ac 
 tive form of Josephine to the countenance of 
 her sister, he said, with a smile 
 
 4 Really, Constance, I have hardly yet been 
 able to realize our altered circumstances. 
 Were it not that I occasionally miss my for 
 mer employments in the counting-house, I 
 should be inclined to pronounce the transac 
 tions and occurrences of the few months just 
 past as dreams.' 
 
 * Are we not as happy as we ever were, 
 father ?' said Constance, in reply. ' I mean, 
 as we ever have been since the death of my 
 mother. Yes, we are, and I knew it would 
 be so. How strongly does this place remind 
 me of our old country seat in New Jersey. 
 It is equally retired, equally rural, and, I 
 think, all the better for being humbler.' 
 
 * Nay, my daughter,' replied Mr. Barnwell,
 
 THE NEW HOME. 87 
 
 with a smile, ' you have a faculty of gilding 
 poverty.' 
 
 % A peaceful mind and happy heart can 
 hide it, lather rob it of all its roughness and 
 darkness, and throw around it the sunshine of 
 content, without which a paradise would be 
 a wilderness.' 
 
 At this moment Charles issued from the 
 door with a cheerful salute, and a self accus 
 ing complaint of his own indolence. 
 
 He was much improved in his appearance. 
 His countenance had lost much of its pale 
 and sickly hue ; his eye shone with a softer 
 and more healthy lustre, and his step had ac 
 quired firmness and vigor. 
 
 * What, Charles so early astir for an in 
 valid ! But you are right, my son. There is 
 health in this bright sunshine and balmy air. 
 What say you for a walk along the shore ? 
 Constance, I am sure, will accompany us ; 
 and who can tell whether we may not find 
 for you a subject for a new poem, or descrip 
 tive essay, in our rambles. To be sure my 
 own imagination has had its day, and I can 
 not say much for its strength or its brilliancy, 
 but it may serve to chasten the flights of your 
 own.'
 
 88 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Notwithstanding his own occasional self- 
 delusions, Mr. Barnwell was far from feeling, 
 as yet, happy in his new abode. The aching 
 void which the absence of his accustomed bu 
 siness engagements had left in his bosom was 
 not fully occupied by the calm and leisurely 
 employments of his farm. There was a yearn 
 ing for the crowded streets, the exchange and 
 the counting room ; a yearning which daily 
 diminished, indeed, but which he had not yet 
 been able to dismiss. At times the change 
 in his circumstances would weigh upon his 
 mind with peculiar force ; and as he felt his 
 mental energies sinking under these visita 
 tions of sorrow, he would look forward to the 
 future a future, in which his children, bred 
 in affluence, might be exposed to all the evils 
 of poverty with an aching heart. But 
 his Christian principles soon obtained the 
 mastery over these suggestions of the man 
 and the father. In such moments, the soci 
 ety, the sweet angelic serenity and holy con 
 fidence of his daughter were invaluable to 
 him they brought hope again to his heart 
 and composure to his spirit. In a thousand 
 little ways, and by a thousand delicate atten-
 
 THE NEW HOME. 89 
 
 tions, seemingly trifling in themselves, but all 
 valuable as the efforts of a daughter's love, 
 and the contributions to a lather's comfort, 
 she sought to beguile and relieve those hours 
 which, for want of active employment, would 
 else have hung heavily upon his hands. These 
 ministrations of love were blessed in the gra 
 dual but sure production of the results to 
 which they trnili-d. His daughter soon had 
 the satisfaction of witnessing that her efforts 
 were not in vain. Day by day his spirits 
 acquired more of their former tone, and the 
 intervals of ennui were less frequent and pro 
 tracted. 
 
 This morning he felt peculiarly happy. A 
 day of storms, during which the family had 
 been confined to the farm-house, was suc 
 ceeded by the brilliant dawn and balmy 
 morning I have described. There seemed 
 to be a spirit of joy and love in every created 
 thin*:. Kven the bright leaves as they flashed 
 in the early sunbeams, the dew upon the rich 
 green grass, and the silvery-crested ripples of 
 the river, might have been imagined to par 
 take of tin- stirring spirit of life, which had 
 issued with the sunrise from the golden gates 
 of heaven. The grove was peopled with tho
 
 90 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 merry spring birds, singing joyously in the 
 * fayre greenwood tree,' and every note went 
 to the hearts of those early worshipers of God 
 in the great temple of his works. 
 
 A sudden curve of the beach, sweeping 
 around at the northern extremity from the 
 edge of a grove of elms, brought before them 
 the brilliant expanse of the river, bounded 
 in the distance by the Palisades. As they 
 emerged from under the shade of the 
 trees, and exchanged the soft smooth sward 
 for the sparkling sands, a boat shot from a 
 little cove, artificially constructed upon the 
 shore of their neighbor's property, and made 
 for the middle of the broad stream. The oar 
 was plied by the vigorous arm of a young 
 man of prepossessing appearance, who seemed 
 fully equipped for a fishing excursion. No 
 sooner had his eye caught the forms upon the 
 shore, however, than he hesitated in his course, 
 and after a few leisurely strokes of the oar 
 forward, he suddenly changed the direction 
 of his vessel, and in a few moments ran it 
 Aipon the beach where they stood. 
 
 Somewhat accustomed to the friendly free 
 dom of country life, Mr. Barnwell advanced 
 and returned a polite ' good morning,' to the
 
 THE NEW HOME. 91 
 
 gay salutation of the youthful stranger, who 
 soon sprang upon the sands, and casting his 
 light fishing-rod into the boat, said 
 
 * A fine morning, sir, for the disciples of 
 Izaak Walton. Have I the honor of address 
 ing our new neighbor, Mr. Baniwell V 
 
 Mr. Barnwell replied in the affirmative, 
 and bowed to the stranger's announcement of 
 himself as Mr. Gregory. The ceremony of 
 introduction to Charles and Constance being 
 over, the party entered into a conversation 
 which served to impress them favorably in 
 regard to the good humor and intelligence of 
 their new acquaintance. 
 
 George Gregory was a young man of 
 twenty, uniting, with the advantages of a tall, 
 muscular, yet graceful figure, the ease and 
 polish of a gentlemanly address, and a coun 
 tenance indicative of open dispositions and 
 generosity of nature. His complexion bore 
 the clear and healthy hue which country air 
 and exercise confer, his light gray eye spark 
 led with vivacity and youthful fire, and his 
 clustering brown locks, falling, with no pre 
 tensions to the mode, about his brow and 
 temples, added expression and grace to his 
 features.
 
 92 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 His first glance at the figure and face of 
 Constance had been sufficient to interest him. 
 To her, after a few remarks contributed as 
 his share to the conversation which Mr. 
 Barnwell was holding with his son, in relation 
 to the scenery of the opposite shore, he par 
 ticularly addressed himself. Like her he had 
 long been an inhabitant of the city, and was 
 now, indeed, only spending a few months in 
 the country as a relaxation from severe aca 
 demical engagements during the winter. 
 Their discourse naturally turned upon the re 
 lative advantages and pleasures of country 
 life, and he was pleased to find that the sen 
 timents of the fair stranger were so much in 
 unison with his own. Constance was equally 
 interested in his lively appreciation of the 
 charms of rural life, of the retirement and re 
 pose which it confers, and the freshness and 
 purity which an habitual intercourse with na 
 ture imparts to the moral sentiments and the 
 feelings. 
 
 Attracted by some incidental remarks which 
 his new acquaintance had dropped upon the 
 subject of literary pursuits, Charles soon came 
 in for his share of the conversation. For one 
 so young, his familiarity with general litera-
 
 THK NKW HOME. 93 
 
 hire seemed surprising ; nor was this favor 
 able impression diminished by the appearance 
 of any tiling like pedantry, or pretension to 
 superior acquirement. His remarks flowed 
 from him easily and gracefully, with no effort, 
 as if in the ordinary expression of his thoughts. 
 * My father, >ir.' he observed to Mr. Barn- 
 well, as he prepared to depart, ' will be proud, 
 I am assured, to cultivate your acquaintance. 
 He confines himself entirely to the country, 
 and the advantages of society here, as you 
 may believe, are but small. He will hail 
 with pleasure such an acquisition to the circle 
 of his tri< 
 
 With a graceful acknowledgment of the 
 courtesy thus politely offered, Mr. Barnwell, 
 in reply, slightly alluding to his humble mode 
 of life, expressed his gratification at the pros 
 pect of agreeable intercourse thus held out to 
 him. 
 
 The history of his misfortunes, and intend 
 ed removal to the country had, as is usual in 
 such cases, preceded the arrival of Mr. Barn- 
 well's family < \\ residence. In the 
 family circle at Mr. Gregory's, the knowledge 
 oi' his honorable conduct, his manly character, 
 9
 
 94 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 and high respectability, had awakened a de 
 served sympathy ; and its members were pre 
 pared to welcome him, not only as an agreea 
 ble neighbor, but as an intimate and honored 
 friend. 
 
 Under these circumstances a friendly and 
 pleasant intercourse between the families im 
 mediately commenced. Mutual respect soon 
 deepened into mutual esteem ; and a similarity 
 of tastes and habits induced a participation in 
 the pleasing pursuits and relaxations of a 
 country life. The necessary personal atten 
 tion which Mr. Barnwell was obliged to give 
 to his farm, now formed only one among many 
 inducements to exertion ; and before another 
 month had passed, he had entirely ceased to 
 regret his absence from the busy engagements 
 of the city. 
 
 A letter, which Charles received about this 
 time from Edward Seaman, announced his 
 intention to spend a few days at an uncle's, in 
 the immediate vicinity; during which he 
 hoped for the pleasure of frequent intercourse 
 with his old friends. With mingled feelings 
 of hope and anxiety Constance heard this an 
 nouncement, as it promised a final determina-
 
 THE NEW HOME. 95 
 
 tion of the matter which now so deeply 
 interested her affections. The months of 
 absence which had intervened since their re 
 moval from the city, had served to reveal to 
 her, more thoroughly, the true state of her feel 
 ings. The struggle through which she had 
 passed, had left a sense of exhaustion, some 
 times deepening into despondency, which time 
 had not began to mitigate. The prospect of a 
 speedy meeting excited her beyond her wont, 
 and produced not an unpleasing interruption to 
 the course of her thoughts in regard to him. 
 That he still felt for her all the affection he 
 had once expressed, she could not doubt, from 
 the manner in which he had written to Charles. 
 That he had conscientiously and faithfully m- 
 gaged in the consideration of the nature and 
 claims of practical Christianity she also knew ; 
 and a long letter to her father had informed 
 her that he was much interested in the inquiries 
 he had commenced. But of the effect which 
 these studies had produced, or were producing, 
 sin knew nothing. It was natural, therefore, 
 that she should look forward to his visit to the 
 country with much intm>t and anxiety.
 
 CHAPTER*. 
 
 NEW FRIENDS, GOOD AND BAD. 
 ' Look on this picture and then on that.' 
 
 Here woman reigns, the mothtr, daughter, wife, 
 Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life. 
 MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Instead of shutting herself up in her nursery she strove to bring 
 her nursery down to her drawing room, and instead of modestly 
 denying her friends entrance into her purgatory, she had a foolish 
 pride in showing herself in the midst of her ansfls. 
 
 Mi?s FERRIER. 
 
 THE family mansion of Mr. Gregory was 
 one of those noble old fashioned structures, 
 which are now so rarely to be met with in 
 the vicinity of the metropolis. Modern taste, 
 and the rage for splendor and display, are 
 fast destroying every such monument of the 
 good old times, and of the easy and generous 
 hospitality of the earlier days of our republic. 
 The mansion was built before the Revolution, 
 and had always been in the possession of the 
 family, whose descendants still dwelt in it. 
 
 A few days after the events narrated in the
 
 NEW FRIENDS. 97 
 
 commencement of the last chapter, Mr. Barn- 
 w t- 11, his son, and daughter, called to return 
 the visit of their neighbors. As they ascend 
 ed the noble avenue towards the dwelling, 
 they remarked, with satisfaction, the air of 
 complete retirement and quiet which pervad 
 ed the place. A double row of elms, the 
 growth of half a century, protected the high 
 ly cultivated garden, laid out with much taste 
 on either side of the avenue, at the extremity 
 of which, and immediately in front of the 
 well shaded portico, was a beautiful lawn, 
 surrounding a fountain and spacious marble 
 basin, supplied with water from a spring on 
 the elevated ground, beyond the mansion. 
 On the left of the building, almost entirely 
 concealed by the luxuriant shrubbery, stood 
 the gardener's cottage, and in a corresponding 
 situation on the right was a summer house, 
 commanding a partial view of the river. A 
 riding course wound through the grove that 
 cted the mansion on the north, and an ar 
 tificial pond, fed by springs fronHabbve, and 
 emptying into the river by a serpentine canal, 
 whose banks were covered with water cress 
 es, occupied the back ground. 

 
 98 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 They found the family, enjoying their after 
 noon relaxation under the pleasant shade of 
 the grove. The group which presented itself 
 as they approached was so beautifully in 
 keeping with the scene, that Constance more 
 than half uttered an exclamation of joyful 
 surprise, and the enthusiastic Charles whis 
 pered in the ear of his father, 
 
 ' If first impressions may be depended upon, 
 sir, yonder group will fully justify the expec 
 tations we have formed from our slight ac- 
 
 O 
 
 quaintance with a few of its members.' 
 
 Mr. Gregory, a dignified looking man of 
 fifty, occupied a rustic seat, constructed around 
 the huge trunk of an elm, whose spreading 
 branches touched the front of the portico on 
 the one side, and nearly mingled with the 
 bright jet of the fountain on the other. At 
 his side sat his eldest daughter, reading to him 
 from a work in which they both seemed so 
 deeply engaged, as not to notice the approach 
 of their guests. His son, before introduced to 
 the notice of the reader, was busily occupied 
 in explaining to his two younger sisters the 
 mysteries of a new geographical puzzle ; 
 while Augustus, a rosy-cheeked, flaxen-haired
 
 NEW FRIENDS, 99 
 
 boy of eight years, was eagerly watching, 
 with repeated exclamations of delight, the 
 evolutions of the gold and silver fish in the 
 basin of the fountain. Over him stood the 
 watchful mother, younger, by a few years, 
 than her husband, affectionately restraining him 
 from too venturesome an inclination over the 
 marble rim, and ever ami anon casting a . 
 glance of pleasure towards her elder son, and 
 his prattling pupils. 
 
 * You find us at our ease, my dear sir,' said 
 Mr. Gregory, rising from his seat and ad 
 vancing towards the visitors. ' Let me assure 
 you of the ^reat pleasure which I feel in your 
 visit Mr. Barnwell, Mr. Charles Barnwell, 
 Miss Barnwell, Mary,' he added, introducing 
 them to his daughter. ' Mrs. Gregory and 
 George already enjoy the pleasure of your 
 acquaintance. Will you take seats with us 
 IK rt for a moment, my friends, or shall we 
 adjourn to the house.' 
 
 ' This grove is too tempting, sir,' replied 
 Mr. Barnwell, ' not to induce us to wish to 
 enjoy its coolness and shade. Have I the 
 pleasure of seeing your whole family? he 
 added, with a delighted look around the circle.
 
 100 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' We are all here, sir, each one, as you see, 
 pursuing his own pleasure. Our little girls 
 have for a few days past delighted themselves 
 with the prospect of a playmate from your 
 house, as Emily here is ready, I dare say, to 
 tell us.' ' Is she coming, Father ?' said Emily, 
 anxiously looking down the avenue, while 
 Julia elevated herself on tiptoe to command 
 a more extensive view of the approach to the 
 house. 
 
 ' All in good time, my daughter. I had 
 indeed hoped, Miss Barnwell,' appealing to 
 Constance, ' that you "would bring your inter 
 esting little sister with you on your first visit. 
 Will you allow my little ones to go for her ?' 
 
 The permission was willingly accorded, and 
 away tripped the little girls, hand in hand, to 
 fulfil their pleasing commission. 
 
 Mary Gregory, whom we must now intro 
 duce to the reader, was a young lady of six 
 teen. She had no pretensions to beauty, be 
 ing possessed of plain features, of which a 
 gentle and modest sadness was the predomi 
 nant expression. An accident in childhood 
 had deprived her of the use of her left arm, 
 and the traces of the suffering she had en-
 
 NEW FRIENDS. 101 
 
 dured were still visible in the awkward and 
 painful habits of motion, which, in conse 
 quence, she had contracted. Having thus 
 been, in a great measure, deprived of the or 
 dinary active enjoyments of youth, she had 
 been thrown upon the resources of a mind 
 naturally ^il'tt-d with hi<jh intellectual ten- 
 tlt -n. -ies. Her fondness for literature had been 
 encouraged by her parents as promising to 
 supply to her the purest pleasures. Favored 
 by the counsels and instructions of an accom 
 plished and judicious governess, of whose 
 company she had within a lr\v weeks been 
 deprived, her advancement in her studies was 
 rapid, and the developement of her intellec 
 tual powers extraordinary. Besides a com 
 petent knowledge of the ordinary branches of 
 English education, she had acquired a fa 
 miliarity with English literature, of which few 
 young ladies of twice her years, could boast. 
 She could read and speak the French and 
 Italian with ease, and had even attained to 
 considerable proficiency in the study of the 
 Latin classics. Denied by her infirmity the 
 ;K (juin inent of instrumental music, she had 
 yet cultivated to the utmost, a naturally fine
 
 102 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 voice, and sang with taste and expression. 
 Drawing was her favorite amusement and 
 to the cultivation of her taste in this beauti 
 ful art, the scenery around her home afforded 
 the highest incitements. 
 
 The tender heart of Constance was instinct 
 ively drawn towards this interesting girl from 
 the first moment of their acquaintance. She 
 saw at once, what a less observant eye might 
 have failed to detect, that the painful sense of 
 physical deformity had not been entirely over 
 come by her naturally cheerful disposition. 
 She saw that the exquisite idea of the beauti 
 ful and graceful, which the delicate mind of 
 Mary Gregory entertained, was continually 
 opposed in her thoughts to the inferiority of 
 her own person, and the awkwardness of her 
 manner. As the restraint of a first meeting 
 wore off, she noticed, with surprise and plea 
 sure, her native nobleness of soul ; her exqui 
 site delicacy of sentiment and refinement of 
 taste. A child in years and appearance, her 
 conversation displayed all the beauty and 
 grace of high intellectual culture, softened by 
 the gentleness of a pure and generous heart. 
 Was it then strange that Constance soon 
 learned to love her with a sister's love ?
 
 NEW FRIENDS. 103 
 
 The minds of both her parents had at once 
 
 xttd the advantages which Mary 
 likely to derive from the companionship of 
 Constance, with whoso character, through the 
 mean ommon friend in the city, they 
 
 were in some measure acquainted. They no 
 ticed, therefore, with evident gratification, the 
 ready interest with which their beautiful and 
 accomplished young visitor attached herself to 
 their daughter ; and the happy and graceful 
 manner in which she relieved the slight em 
 barrassment which Mary always felt in the 
 presence of strangers whom she respected. 
 
 The twin sisters soon returned from the 
 farm-house, delightedly leading between them 
 the happy little Josephine. A familiarity be 
 tween children is easily established ; and, as 
 they approached, their cheerful voices were 
 heard, detailing to their new companion, the 
 catalogue of all their little employments and 
 pleasures. 
 
 Relieved from his pleasing task, George 
 Gregory attached himself to Charles, and they 
 soon became engaged in animated discussion 
 on the historical localities of the country 
 around them.
 
 104 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 The mere afternoon call thus became a pro 
 longed and friendly visit, and it was with sin 
 cere regret, that the members of the family 
 bade adieu to their new acquaintances. They 
 parted, with the mutual promise of neighborly 
 intercourse, and the Barnwells, leaving Jose 
 phine, at the earnest request of the young la 
 dies, under the solicited guardianship of 
 George, proceeded on their way to return the 
 courtesy of another family who had left their 
 cards at the farm-house on the preceding 
 day. 
 
 Briscome Manor-house, as its wealthy own 
 ers ambitiously styled it, was situated at the 
 distance of half a mile, on the north of the 
 mansion of Mr. Gregory. The approach to 
 it was by a pleasant footpath through the 
 woodland, which hid the two buildings from 
 the view of each other. As they approached 
 it, they could not but remark the contrast 
 which the house and grounds presented, to 
 those they had just left. The architecture of 
 the edifice, in a style of heavy and cumbrous 
 magnificence, accorded but faintly with the 
 simple and natural beauties of the situation. 
 The grounds were laid out with the same dis- 

 
 NEW FRIENDS. 105 
 
 regard to taste, and amidst their sharp angles, 
 fantastic curves, and patches of gingerbread- 
 work to use a somewhat vulgar but express- 
 ive phrase the really fine advantages of cul 
 ture, which the situation naturally possessed, 
 were completely lost. 
 
 A troop of noisy children were romping 
 about the piazza, testifying, by their loud 
 s and rude gestures, that they were not in 
 the best humor with each other. Indeed, as 
 they came nearer, the disturbance, or quarrel, 
 whatever it might be, seemed about to arrive 
 at its crisis, for the tallest boy, snatching a toy 
 from the hands of one of his sisters, dashed it 
 upon the floor, and then sullenly marched 
 away in the enjoyment of his triumph. 
 
 The approach of the visitors had been ob 
 served by Mrs. Briscome, who, rushing into 
 the midst of her little ones from the open door 
 of the hall, by scolding, threats, and entreaties, 
 endeavored to calm the confusion, and to dis 
 patch them to the nursery. 
 
 ' Ma !' exclaimed the little girl whose pro 
 perty had been so rudely handled ' Edward 
 has destroyed my beautiful bird ; ugly fellow 
 
 10
 
 106 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 that he is,' and she stamped upon the floor in 
 her anger. 
 
 ' I will do so again, if she provokes me,' ex 
 claimed the little hero, in reply. ' She is a 
 naughty, good-for-nothing girl, and that is the 
 truth of it.' 
 
 ' Now, Charlotte ! now, Edward !' shrieked 
 the distracted mother, as her visitors neared 
 the steps of the piazza ; ' why can you not 
 agree together, like good sweet children V 
 
 A rude laugh from Edward testified his 
 appreciation of the advice of his mother. 
 Charlotte began to cry, and put her finger in 
 her mouth, at the same time treading by acci 
 dent upon the foot of a little dog, who was 
 jumping round among the group, but who 
 now ran away yelping, to conceal himself in 
 his kennel, beneath the piazza. 
 
 This accident was the unlucky occasion of a 
 new quarrel. Carlo was the favorite of 
 Henry, the second son, who immediately re 
 venged the accidental injury which the dog 
 had received, by pushing his sister violently 
 against one of the pillars of the piazza. The 
 mother caught her by the hand, thus breaking 
 her fall, which otherwise might have proved 
 serious.
 
 NEW FRIENDS. 107 
 
 ' 0, fie, Henry !' she exclaimed, Charlotte 
 did not mean to do it, I know did you, my 
 lov, 
 
 The child replied only by a violent fit of 
 crying. So far from being moved, either by 
 the words of his mother, or this usual exhi 
 bition of the injured feelings, or the anger of 
 his sister, the little urchin saucily replied, 
 
 * No, she never means to do anything bad ; 
 but I know her ugly thing, as she is' 
 
 * These children will drive me mad !' ex 
 claimed Mrs. Briscome, casting an agonized 
 look towards the Barnwell's ; who, aware of 
 the unpleasantness of the scene, politely lin 
 gered, to admire a large hydrangea, which 
 adorned one of the corners of the flower-beds. 
 
 Roused, by the tumult, from his afternoon 
 siesta, Mr. Briscome, a short, thickset, rubi- 
 nind-visaged personage, issued, cane in hand, 
 from the hall, threatening to thrash the first 
 little rascal, male or female, that should dare 
 to continue the dispute. 
 
 ' George, my dear !' hastily exclaimed Mrs. 
 Briscome, not at all pleased by this exhi 
 bition of her husband's mode of discipline, 
 Mlu -re are our new neighbors in the garden ;
 
 108 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 low people, to be sure,' she whispered in his 
 ear, ' but since we have done them the honor 
 of calling, for our own sake, let me ask you to 
 forbear' 
 
 ' What eh ! our new neighbors ?' replied 
 the lord of the manor, trying to recover his 
 breath : ' but who can stand this eternal noise ? 
 It is all your fault, wife ! I have told you 
 often enough that you indulge the children 
 too much, and that is the end of it.' 
 
 ' Hush, for heaven's sake ! brute as he is' 
 she added to herself ' he has neither pru 
 dence nor politeness.' And then, in a voice 
 sufficiently loud to be overheard by the visit 
 ors, ' I am sorry, my dear, that the sports of 
 the children have disturbed you : but young 
 people are so full of life. Charlotte, my love, 
 dry your tears and you, Henry and Edward, 
 have forgotten it all, I know.' 
 
 ' Come, wife, we have had enough of this 
 twaddle. The children are a noisy, ill-natured 
 set, and I care not who knows it, provided 
 they know also who it is that makes them so. 
 I suppose it is not the first time they have 
 seen spoiled children.' 
 
 * Vulgar man !' replied Mrs. Briscome, with 

 
 NEW FRIENDS. 109 
 
 a glance at her husband very far removed 
 from an affectionate one and then, hastily 
 ;uiv. mring to the steps, she assumed a smiling 
 countenance, as the Barnwells, weary of their 
 awkward position, advanced. 
 
 ' Mr. Barnwell, I presume,' said the lady, 
 with a tone of great friendship ; ' we hav e 
 been desirous of this pleasure. Mr. Barnwell 
 and his son and daughter, George !' she added, 
 with a gesture of peculiar meaning, meant 
 for her husband's instruction, but which was 
 unfortunately lost upon him. 
 
 * Glad to see you, faith !' he ejaculated, 
 flinging away the end of his cigar. ' No cere 
 mony, "wife we all know what country life 
 is. I have been confined to the shop long 
 enough to know the worth of its ease. Wel 
 come, sir.' At the mention of that odious 
 word ' shop,' a very unlovely frown darkened 
 the brow of Mrs. Briscome, as she turned her 
 to her unceremonious lord and master. 
 Hasty as it was, it was perceived by all her 
 visitors; upon whose minds it did not leave 
 a very favorable impression, either of the 
 temper or refinement of the lady. 
 
 ' Walk in, my friends,' said Mr. Briscome, 
 10*
 
 110 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 extending his hand to Mr. Barnwell : but at 
 this moment the unlucky Edward, attracted 
 by the escape of a rabbit from the tender 
 mercies of one of his sisters, darted directly 
 before him, inflicting, as he went, an unfor 
 tunate pressure upon his gouty toe. 
 
 An exceedingly vulgar oath instantly fol 
 lowed this accident, and the cane of the fa" 
 ther was instantly raised to inflict summary 
 punishment upon his tormentor, when Mrs- 
 Briscome expressed her tender feelings on the 
 occasion by a shrill scream, at the same time 
 calling for her salts. 
 
 ( Psha, wife !' exclaimed the husband, drop 
 ping his cane, however, and hobbling into 
 the house. 
 
 Mrs. Briscome soon recovered herself, and 
 ushering her visitors into the parlor, endea 
 vored, by apologies which might better have 
 been omitted, to do away the impression which 
 she rightly conceived them to have received. 
 Anxious to withdraw her attention from the 
 subject, Constance seized the first opportunity 
 of diverting the conversation to general topics, 
 which an allusion, on the part of the distress 
 ed lady, to the hydrangea soon happily af 
 forded.
 
 NEW FRIENDS. Ill 
 
 The visit, brief as it was, was an embar 
 rassed and painful one to all. In the effort 
 to impress her visitors with a sense of her own 
 refinement, Mrs. Briscome only convinced 
 them the more thoroughly of the pitiful affec 
 tation and essential vulgarity of her nature. 
 It was evident that she had no idea of cha 
 racter or worth, above that which is confer 
 red by wealth ; and that, while she aspired 
 to the refinements of polished society, she 
 mistook the glitter for the grace which may 
 adorn but can never be conferred by it She 
 had condescended to notice the Barnwells be 
 cause the Gregorys had done so. Had it not 
 been for this, they might have waited long 
 enough for the honor as she esteemed it 
 of her acquaintance. But since the Grego 
 ry had called upon them, and evidently 
 thought well of them, she could do no less 
 than to follow their example, inwardly deter 
 mined, however, to convince them of the con 
 descension to which she stooped in doing so. 
 
 But the unfortunate occurrences of this first 
 visit ludicrously diss<>Ivin<r. at once, the splen 
 did charms, which she had hoped to throw 
 around her family, in general, and herself in 
 particular, while they mortified her pride, en
 
 112 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 gendered a feeling something like hatred to 
 wards the Barn wells. Vulgar and conceited 
 as she was, she had yet sense enough to ap 
 preciate the true dignity, and refinement of 
 character of her visitors, and the feeling of 
 this mortified without humbling her. 
 
 As for Mr Briscome there was no danger 
 
 o 
 
 of such feelings disturbing his self-complacen 
 cy. He talked only of his farm, his house 
 and his stocks, laughed at his wife railed at 
 his children, and complained of his tenants. 
 He expressed himself glad of the acquain 
 tance of a new neighbor, much in the same 
 tone as he would have spoken of that neigh 
 bor's purchasing a new horse. It was a 
 change and he hoped the country air would 
 be beneficial to them and that they were 
 fond of fishing. Their farm, to be sure, w r asa 
 small affair, but he did not value a man by 
 the number of his acres. He himself, had 
 once commenced in the soap and candle line 
 (oh, Mrs. Briscome ! ) with scarce a dol 
 lar that he might call his own. He was con 
 siderably well to do now, to be sure but he 
 valued industry and economy. And then by 
 way of conclusion, he called out to his oldest
 
 M-\V FRIENDS. 1 13 
 
 daughter, who was lingering near the door, to 
 show herself, and not be afraid of people. 
 
 The child thus summoned, was one whom 
 the visitors had not hitherto seen. To the 
 surprise of Constance, she possessed a modes 
 ty of countenance and gentleness of manner, 
 entirely in contrast with the rude and bold as 
 pect and demeanor of the little heroine of the 
 piazza. She advanced with a timid step, to 
 her father's knee, and as he patted her bright 
 ringlets, and called her his pet, she stole a half 
 glance at the countenance of the stranger lady. 
 
 The ready smile of Constance assured her 
 at once, and she advanced to take the hand 
 that was held out to her. 
 
 * Fanny is the only bearable brat we have,' 
 said Mr. Briscome, chuckling, and with a ma 
 licious glance at his spouse, ' but that is no 
 fault of ours, however. We have to thank 
 Miss Perkins for that.' 
 
 ' Perkins, my dear, to be sure, was a good 
 useful sort of a person but I have superin 
 tended the charge of Fanny's education main 
 ly myself,' replied his wile. 
 
 Supt rintt nded, madeira ; well, that is a 
 good one. But at any rate, she is a nice 
 child, and I am proud of her.'
 
 114 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 It appeared that the late governess in the 
 family of Mr. Gregory, attracted by the gen 
 tle disposition of the child, and the complete 
 neglect of all culture at home, had prevailed 
 upon her patron to allow her to invite Fanny 
 Briscome to her chamber, for a few hours 
 every day. She had thus been the means of 
 preserving her from many of the evil habits 
 of her brothers and sisters, and of inspiring 
 her with a love of something above their 
 sports and enjoyments. Flattered by the no 
 tice which the child thus received from her 
 highly respectable neighbors, Mrs. Briscome 
 had offered no objections to the arrangement, 
 although she protested that she saw no par 
 ticular advantage in it to her daughter. 
 Against an early confinement of her children 
 to study, she vehemently protested, and deem 
 ed her duty in regard to their education, suffi 
 ciently discharged, if at the age of eight they 
 were able, by her assistance, to master the 
 alphabet. A governess would be necessary 
 after that, to be sure, and Fanny being of that 
 age, ought perhaps to be sent away to school. 
 But Mr. B. had advertised for a governess ; 
 and perhaps such a thing would do no harm 
 now that Miss Perkins was gone.
 
 115 
 
 Constance soon perceived the extent of the 
 service which the depreciated governess had 
 rendered to the mind and deportment of the 
 little girl, and much interested in her behalf, 
 said to her, in that tone of affectionate sympa 
 thy which is never lost upon children, that 
 she hoped she would, by and by, love her as 
 she had loved Miss Perkins. 
 
 Fanny looked up into her face with a 
 sweet and confiding smile, and answered with 
 child-like simplicity, < Oh, I "shall be so glad 
 to come and see you, if ma will let me.' 
 
 * Permit you, daughter, certainly/ replied 
 the mother, not at all pleased at the prospect. 
 ' But, by the way, Miss Barnwell, have you 
 not a little sister ? It might be pleasant for 
 Fanny to have a companion.' 
 
 The eyes of the little girl sparkled with 
 delight at this' suggestion, and she bestowed 
 upon Constance a grateful look, as she arose 
 to depart 
 
 This embarrassing visit being terminated, 
 the Barmvell's returned to their home, grate 
 ful that they possessed in their poverty bless 
 ings which all the wealth of the Briscomes 
 could not secure.
 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 The moon above, the Church below, 
 
 A wondrous race they run, 
 But all their radiance, all their glow, 
 
 Each borrows of its sun. 
 
 The Savior lends the light and heat 
 
 That crowns his holy hill, 
 The saints, like stars, around his seat 
 
 Perform their courses still. KEBLE. 
 
 BRIGHTLY dawned the Sabbath morning 
 clear, mild, and beautiful with its glorious 
 wealth of sunshine its balmy atmosphere 
 its holy stillness and repose. 
 
 That first sound of the church-bell ! How 
 many deep and rich associations did it awaken 
 in the breasts of the little family at the farm ! 
 How many kindly remembrances of the past, 
 how much of subdued hope, and quiet confi 
 dence in the future ! 
 
 As rose its silver chime, 
 
 Winding and deep'ning through the woods and dells, 
 Calling to worship in the morning's prime : 
 
 Or, when the sunlight's spells 
 Hung o'er the landscape as the day grew old, 

 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 117 
 
 they felt all its holy influence. It subdued 
 the soul, and attuned it to harmony with the 
 heavenly truths which that season was de 
 signed to perpetuate. As the early dew upon 
 the flower, it prepared the heart for the pre 
 cious influences which on that day were to 
 fall upon it. It breathed 
 
 A peaceful sound, 
 
 A sound of calm and solemn blessedness, 
 Like angel invitations whispered round, 
 
 To cheer, console and bless. 
 It breathed of heaven, of broken hearts made whole, 
 
 And many a trembling soul, 
 Strengthened, refreshed, and pardoned through the 
 
 blood 
 Of Chriat, the holy Lamb, its Savior and its God. 
 
 The church which the Barnwells were , 
 henceforth to call their own, stood at a short 
 mile's distance, in a quiet rural spot, half- 
 encircled by a belt of woodland, stretching 
 away on either side to the base of the green 
 hills that bounded the landscape to the west 
 The poets tell us that groves and woods were 
 the earliest temples for the worship of the 
 Deity. It is a natural, as well as a beautiful 
 thought. The quiet obscurity of the forest 
 11
 
 118 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 aisles, pervaded by ' the dim religious ray,' so 
 important an element in the effect of Gothic 
 sanctuaries, inspires and aids that solemnity 
 of mind which must accompany its highest 
 acts of devotion. Such was, in some degree 
 at least, the effect produced by the aspect 
 and situation of the chaste and beautiful little 
 edifice in question, but half visible through 
 the openings of the grove, and its graceful 
 spire rising above it. 
 
 It was the hour for the morning service. 
 From the openings of the trees, shadowing 
 the slightly elevated terrace around the 
 church, might be observed the approach of the 
 congregation. Here and there a family came 
 within the view, slowly wending its way to 
 . the house of prayer. They were the little 
 family circles which unite and become one in 
 the household of God. Here might be seen, 
 on the one side, an old man approaching 
 with that measured but firm step with which 
 he had trod the same path from his home to 
 the church for many years. It must have 
 been an uncomfortable day indeed, that would 
 have kept him from the altar of his fathers, 
 He had breasted many a storm, rather than be
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 1 19 
 
 absent from the house of God. He was a 
 living rebuke to the absentees on slight ex 
 cuses, and an example of punctuality to the 
 laggers behind at the morning service. 
 
 Are there many such aged servants of God, 
 to whom 'the hoary head is a crown of 
 righteousness,' and who daily exemplify how 
 beautiful religion is, when it sheds its true 
 dignity and lustre upon the downward path of 
 human life ? The shadows that usually 
 gather over that way are gloomy and fearful, 
 but oh ! not when the golden beams of Gos 
 pel hope are shed over it Then the rugged 
 and uncertain track is, all along, inscribed 
 with the most glorious of the promises, and 
 even the gate of death, appearing in the near 
 prospect, is starred and luminous with glory. 
 
 There too, by one observant of such scenes, 
 might have been marked the pleasing con 
 trast between the beauty of age and the 
 beauty of youth, when the lustre of piety is 
 around them both. Immediately behind this 
 aged man, approached one who had recently 
 dedicated himself to God. It was Edward 
 Seaman. Having arrived the evening before 
 at the residence of his uncle, he had set off
 
 120 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 early this morning for the church, in the hope 
 of meeting his old friends on the way. As 
 he drew near, he lingered to admire the sim 
 ple but exquisite beauty of the scene before 
 him. It was in complete harmony with the 
 warm and fresh feelings of his heart, open to 
 all the genial influences of nature, and beating 
 with the first pulses of spiritual life. 
 
 If the reader will indulge the sentiment ; 
 to one who had known them both, it might 
 have been pleasant to dwell upon the con 
 trast, between the aged saint, and the young 
 and fervent disciple. The one, meekly and 
 patiently traveling the road to heaven and to 
 God, soon to exchange the feeble and falter 
 ing services of earth for the unwearied min 
 istrations of the heavenly temple the other 
 just entering upon the path of spiritual exer 
 tion, to fill up the place, as it were, of him 
 who was about to depart from it. The one 
 taking up the cross, which the other was soon 
 to exchange for the crown. The one strong 
 in the hope and patience of the Gospel, wait 
 ing for the coming of the Lord the other, 
 ardently entering with a humble heart and 
 self-mistrusting spirit, into a service, whose
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 121 
 
 temptations and toils he had not yet expe 
 rienced. 
 
 The sun, when it ariseth in the sweet orient, 
 hath a beauty different from that which we 
 behold in it, when it goeth down behind the 
 western hills, or sinks slowly and majestically 
 in the wave. Thus is it with the aspect of 
 aged piety and of youthful devotion. Both 
 are beautiful, for both are divine, and of hea 
 ven. But the beauty of the one is that of 
 the morning freshness and the morning vigor ; 
 it is as a young flower upon which the balmy 
 dew lieth, fresh indeed and brilliant, but upon 
 which we cannot look without a sense of its 
 frailty. The beauty of the other is like the 
 evening's settled and solemn splendor the 
 beauty of the autumnal sunset glorious to the 
 last of the serene star, that after the long 
 watches of the night, fades only in the blaze 
 of the morning. 
 
 Those of my readers whose lot it has been 
 to escape from the heat and bustle of a crowd 
 ed city to the quiet retreat of some secluded 
 village, may in some measure appreciate the 
 feelings of Edward as he lingered under the 
 trees, for a few moments, while the congre-
 
 122 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 gation was assembling. Truly did he feel at 
 that hour that this world has no scene, on 
 which the eye of the man of pure moral af 
 fections may rest more gratefully than that 
 which is presented by the ' pleasant places' 
 which embosom the village church, hallowed 
 by the balmy stillness of the Sunday morning, 
 when the very sunbeams seem to sleep reve 
 rently upon the grass and the flowers, and 
 the very air that breathes over them breathes 
 of holiness and peace. And deeply did he 
 realize the truth that the brief and troubled 
 life of man has no hour of calmer and more 
 real enjoyment than that which is vouchsafed 
 to him who goes forth in such a scene, and 
 at such a time, to learn of the goodness, and 
 enjoy the blessings of his God. 
 
 A deep and serious change had been wrought 
 in his religious views and feelings, since the 
 last morning he had spent with Constance in 
 New-York. It would perhaps be too much 
 to say that the hope of her approbation, whose 
 good opinion he so dearly prized, was not 
 the great motive which influenced him imme 
 diately to enter upon the practical study of 
 the Christian religion, with a view of settling
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 123 
 
 his principles, and seeking to understand and 
 feel its true spirit. But yet he was now too 
 thoroughly aroused to the importance of the 
 subject, and too favorably impressed with 
 respect for genuine piety, as he had seen it 
 exhibited in the character and conduct of 
 Constance, to waive any longer the personal 
 and serious examination of it. In accordance 
 with her earnest advice, he had betaken him 
 self first of all to the study of the word of 
 God. This study he endeavored to conduct 
 with impartiality, and in prayer sought the 
 Divine assistance. At first the task had been 
 an unprofitable and irksome one. He found 
 it hard to bring himself as a little child to sit 
 at the feet of Jesus, and to receive, in a spirit 
 of meekness and submission, the humbling 
 doctrines of the Gospel. He had grown up 
 in the admiration of the pride and power of 
 the human intellect, of the dignity and the 
 worth of man, and it was hard to submit 
 himself to a system which told only of man's 
 degradation, his depravity, and his moral ruin. 
 Hitherto the majesty of reason in that sense 
 of reason which rejects all truth above the 
 range of its comprehension had been wor-
 
 124 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 shiped in his mind, and he had entertained 
 pity and contempt for those whose system of 
 faith, as he imagined, tended to degrade her 
 authority below that of a revelation which 
 rested upon mere human testimony. Unfor 
 tunately he had been much thrown into the 
 companionship of those who, justly despising 
 the morbid sentimentalism and ridiculous cant 
 of a religion which rested only upon feelings 
 and impulses, had neglected to look beyond 
 them for a purer and manner tone of piety. 
 
 In the circles also in which he mingled, it 
 had become fashionable to speak with good- 
 natured pity of the pious weakness of those 
 who were willing to receive, as parts of the 
 revelation of God, doctrines which w r ere con 
 fessedly above the comprehension of the hu 
 man intellect. The prejudices he had thus 
 imbibed, interposed the most serious obstacles 
 in the way of his inquiries. But the natural 
 candor and honesty of his mind enabled him, 
 by degrees, to obtain the mastery over this 
 unworthy bias. The perusal of a few stan 
 dard works on controversial divinity, at once 
 exposed the shallowness of the so called ra 
 tional system, and guided him to principles,
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 125 
 
 by the application of which, reason was made 
 to bow with reverence before the majesty of 
 faith. Gradually he became conscious of the 
 truth, that the demands of the latter are never 
 contrary to the dictates of the former ; and 
 that, though in Revelation, as in nature, there 
 are some truths above the sphere of reason, 
 the reception of a contradiction or an absurdi 
 ty is never demanded. He saw, that in the 
 field of revealed truth, as well as in that of 
 the material works of God, there must always 
 be, so long as man is finite and God is infinite, 
 a boundary, where certainty ends and where 
 mystery begins. He had candor enough to 
 admit, that if the doctrine of the Trinity is 
 mysterious, the fault is not to be charged upon 
 the revelation of God, but upon the faculties 
 of the mind that would too rashly pry into it 
 And he justly concluded that, if the principle 
 which would reject the doctrine were carried 
 out into other departments of truth, it would 
 necessarily lead to the most absurd results. 
 He knew that there are facts and modes of 
 being with which our daily experience is fa 
 miliar, which are hardly less incomprehensible. 
 The existence of three distinct persons in the
 
 126 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 unity of the Divine nature was, and he believ 
 ed must necessarily be, a mystery, so long as 
 the nature of man remained as it is. But then 
 he could not but admit, that it was scarcely 
 more incomprehensible than the intimate union 
 of the soul and body in the being of man, in 
 volving as it does, all the unexplained prob 
 lems of the magic power of the will over the 
 senses and the corporeal powers ; of spirit 
 over gross matter ; of that which is etherial, 
 intangible, imperishable, over that which is 
 tangible, organic, and corruptible. 
 
 Soon the sublime teachings of Scripture in 
 regard to the interposition of Divine wisdom 
 and mercy on man's behalf, the rescue placed 
 before him, the moral regeneration, the spi 
 ritual blessedness, the eternal happiness offer 
 ed him, were understood and realized. He 
 could feel, at length, something of the subdu 
 ing and constraining power of that love 
 wherewith God hath loved the world ; and 
 he no longer doubted of the strength of Chris 
 tian principle, or of the genuineness and self- 
 sacrificing spirit of true piety. He saw a 
 new meaning in the hitherto misunderstood 
 words of prophets and apostles ; and a majes-
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 127 
 
 ty, a tenderness and godlike compassion in 
 the recorded language and acts of the Savior, 
 in rvrry word and work of Christ, that con 
 vinced, conquered, and melted him. 
 
 His inquiries thus prosecuted and blessed, 
 had also been much aided by the judicious 
 counsels and salutary suggestions of his pas 
 tor, Dr. , to whom he had frankly re 
 vealed the extent and nature of his religious 
 perplexities. To a mind and heart like his, 
 when once thoroughly convinced and touch- 
 c 1. there was no hesitation. He had propos 
 ed himself to his pastor as a candidate for 
 communion, and now under his encourage 
 ment, looked forward to receiving it at the 
 first opportunity. 
 
 With subdued and peaceful feelings, he en 
 tered the sanctuary as the bell commenced 
 tnllinir, and took his seat in a retired part of 
 the church, and a few moments were spent 
 in silent prayer. As he arose from his knees 
 he noticed the arrival of his friends the Barn- 
 wells. The eye of Constance accidentally 
 observed his presence, and an emotion of de 
 vout gratitude arose in her pure bosom as she 
 saw he was kneeling in prayer to God. As
 
 128 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 they passed on to their seat, his heart beat 
 high with emotion. Who will wonder or 
 reproach him, if he was not able to shut 
 out feelings not entirely in accordance with 
 the sanctity of the place and the occasion ? 
 or if the purity, the sweet piety, the generous, 
 unselfish, womanly devotion of Constance, 
 mingled with his thoughts of God, of heaven, 
 and of the blessed angels ? 
 
 Soon the soft low tones of the organ, an 
 nounced the presence of the clergyman. In 
 his appearance and manner there was some 
 thing peculiarly prepossessing. His ministe 
 rial life had been spent among that simple 
 people, by whom he was beloved for his vir 
 tues, and honored for his talents. 
 
 ' A man he was to all the country dear.' 
 
 The service was performed throughout in 
 that solemn and reverential manner, which in 
 spires and sustains devotion, and the sermon, 
 a plain exposition of Christian duty, enforced 
 by a fervent and affectionate appeal, evident 
 ly left a deep and general impression. 
 
 Edward met his friends at the door, and 
 accompanied them to their homes. The con-
 
 mi 1-J!) 
 
 tion naturally turned upon tin- subject of 
 tin- sermon, and Constance, no less than her 
 lather and brother, heard with delimit tlie re 
 marks which tell from him. The sensitive 
 mind of affection, could not but draw the 
 flattering influences from his words ; 
 and as they v, d in the parlor, await 
 
 ing dinner, an opportunity for farther insight 
 into the views and feelings of Kdward occur 
 red. This was occasioned by the remark of 
 Mr. Barmvell, intimating the pleasure with 
 which he had heard the announcement thai 
 tent of the Lord's supper, would be 
 administered on the following Lord's day. 
 
 I i an now. I trust/ said Kdward, l under 
 stand something of the nature of your feel- 
 in ITS in prospect of this interesting Christian 
 solemnity. I hope soon to be blessed with 
 the privilege of kneeling at the altar.' 
 
 Mr. Barnwell cast a look of undisguised 
 pleasure at Constance, who dropped her eyes 
 while her heart beat hiL r h. 
 
 In few WOrdfl Kdward then informed them 
 >f the religious inquiries, in which he liad 
 been recently en^a'jvd and of their result. 
 
 lie dwelt without disguise upon the conflict 
 
 l:
 
 130 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 he had undergone ; of the darkness through 
 which he had passed ; of the light and com 
 fort which had followed. He spoke as a 
 penitent sinner, to whom the way of pardon 
 and of peace hadbeen mercifully opened ; and 
 in the sincerity of his self-accusings, and the 
 depth of his humility, and mistrust of self, 
 his friends believed they discerned the genu 
 ine ope rations of the Spirit of God. 
 
 'Thank God! thank God!' exclaimed 
 Charles, rising and taking his friend's hand 
 in his own, while his noble heart swelled with 
 emotion. 
 
 The tears started to the eyes of Constance 
 at this sudden expression of her brother's hap 
 py feelings. Surely, to her, this was a day 
 of unmingled happiness. 
 
 The afternoon, for there was but one ser 
 vice at the Church, was spent in conversa 
 tion and reading. The evening was occupied 
 by Mr. Barnwell in the religious instruction 
 of his youngest daughter, in the presence of 
 the household, of which the catechism formed
 
 OHAPTEB XII. 
 mi: su K UIAMBKU M:\V TI:: 
 
 'Tli. .0111, 
 
 Thine rqurr Jooin 
 
 r linlc day.' 
 
 all a* one as F should lovr n bright particular star.' 
 
 DAI. jrfl than the\ had yet experienced 
 
 were in store tor the family. Hithcrlo, they 
 
 had bri-ii tiii-d only on the side of their worldly 
 
 interests: and the storm which iniu'ht have 
 
 A). i lined others with despair, had passed 
 
 their heads succeeded l,y the sunshine. 
 
 Charles, whose rapidly improving health 
 had inspired him with the hope that lie mi^ht 
 safely return to his literary labors, had 1 
 few weeks earnestly de\oted hii new 
 
 poem, on a subje. 'ed by one of his 
 
 friend-, v, ,1 opinion he highly prixed. 
 
 Tin- excitement attending its composition, 
 
 for a tone, seemingly sustained, while, in re 
 ality, it \\. \lnmstini_: his strenirtli.
 
 132 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Mr. Barnwell, though somewhat fearful of 
 the result, was also deceived by the tempora 
 ry effects which the country air and exercise 
 had produced on his son's health. The de 
 ception however was soon painfully cor 
 rected. 
 
 A few days after the short visit of Edward, 
 who had left them in hope of a speedy return, 
 a violent attack of pain confined Charles to 
 his bed. His strength was immediately and 
 thoroughly prostrated ; and it was fearful to 
 remark the rapid progress of his disease. A 
 physician was consulted, whose opinion, 
 though expressed with as much encourage 
 ment as he dared to hold out, was such as to 
 deepen the painful anxiety of his friends. A 
 melancholy foreboding of the result, founded 
 upon his observation of the course of the same 
 disease in his wife, weighed upon the spirits 
 of Mr. Barnwell, who never left his bedside 
 except when urgently demanded by the neces 
 sary business of his farm. Constance, also, 
 unremitting in her attentions, and dividing 
 her care between her aunt and brother, except 
 when engaged in the duty of instructing Jo 
 sephine, seemed like a sweet angel of love,
 
 THK SICK t M \MRKK. 
 
 cheering his dependency, n-lifvin-r 1, 
 ness, and ministering to his \va: 
 
 The termination, however, was not yet at 
 hand. Reduced to a stale ofVi 
 the invalid lingered OH ; and tin- disease, at 
 first | . ;i station 
 
 ary character. Onsomeofthe pleasant siim- 
 iner days he was enabled to sit lor a short 
 time at the open window of the apartment, 
 and even to bear the fatigue of removal to 
 
 O 
 
 the jxjrtico. Hope once more faintly dawned 
 in the bosom of his sister, as these favorable 
 symptoms became more and more frequent in 
 their recurrence, but they were not able to 
 dispel the cum iction of his speedy dissolution 
 from the mind of Mr. Barnwell. The bright 
 sunny countenance of Josephine, s;> suddenly 
 clouded, became once more radiant with <_j;lad- 
 ness; and the keen anguish of her little heart 
 at the sullerinirs of her brother, dav by day, 
 gave place to hope and jratitude. 
 
 By a thousand delicate attentions, Mr. Gre 
 gory and his family testified their interest to 
 wards the aillicted household. Scarcely a 
 day had pass, d in which (Jeor^e had not 
 --pent ari hour at the bedside of the friend
 
 134 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 whom he he had so soon learned to respect for 
 his talents, and to love for his high-souled and 
 manly virtues. Mary always accompanied 
 him in these visits, and after her brother had 
 departed, would solicit the privilege of divid 
 ing with Constance the pleasant duty of read 
 ing to the invalid, or of amusing him by con 
 versation ; a task in which, notwithstanding 
 her timidity, she soon admirably succeeded. 
 
 Days and even weeks passed on, and still 
 the invalid lingered on in the same state. If 
 there w T as any change, it appeared to be for 
 the better. The physician became less fre 
 quent in his visits, and Mr. Barnwell, resign 
 ing the charge of his attendance to Constance 
 and her friends, was enabled to give himself 
 more thoroughly to the superintendence of his 
 farm. 
 
 One morning, as Constance and George and 
 Mary Gregory were assembled in the parlor, 
 to which Charles had been enabled to descend, 
 Mr. Barnwell entered, and with a smile an 
 nounced the reception of a letter from Edward 
 Seaman, who had left the city for the south, a 
 short time after his visit at their house, on bu 
 siness for his father.
 
 THF SICK ( 11AM! ' K'f> 
 
 ' And what think yon, Charles '.' he added: 
 
 ' hr will In- with us in a lew d; 
 
 Tin- liirlit of pleasure gleamed in the 
 of thf invalid, as lu- received the open letter 
 t'roni the hand of his father, and eagerly coni- 
 ineneed its perusal. 
 
 Mary observed the blush which overspread 
 the countenance of Constance, as she heard the 
 announcement, and alter a hasty glance at 
 her brother, took her hand and softly en 
 quired k Who is this Mr. Seaman, Constance, 
 you have never mentioned him to me ?' 
 
 The question arrested the attention of 
 iliar and painful expression 
 might have been detected upon his counte 
 nance, tor a moment, as he awaited the reply. 
 
 ' He is a friend of Charles,' replied Con- 
 stanee, and she blushed more deeply as she 
 added, ' and of all of us.' 
 
 The mild e\e of MIMA (ire<j;ory a^ain 
 her brother. 
 
 'I wish you knew him, (ieor<jv.' said 
 Charles, with enthusiasm "the kindest, no- 
 blest. truest-hearted fellow' 
 
 A suppressed si<_ r h. unheard and unnoticed
 
 136 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 by all, but Mary, caused her to look earnestly 
 into the eyes of Constance, as she whispered, 
 
 ' Is he a very dear friend of yours, I mean.' 
 
 The returning blush crimsoning the expres 
 sive countenance of her friend, furnished the 
 answer to this question. Mary sighed hea 
 vily as she dropped the hand she had taken, 
 and fixed her eyes upon the invalid. 
 
 ' George,' said she, as they passed along 
 the avenue that led to their own residence, 
 after their visit, ' I do believe Miss Barnwell 
 loves this Mr. Seaman.' 
 
 Her brother was silent, although his man 
 ner testified that his silence was not the re 
 sult of indifference. 
 
 ' Now, I should like to see this young gen 
 tleman, whom the Barnwells all appear to 
 love so much,' added the sister, half musing 
 ly ' I wonder if Constance is not engaged 
 to him.' 
 
 ' Mary !' exclaimed George, arresting his 
 step, and compressing his lips. 
 
 ' Yes, George, I believe it nay, I know 
 it,' she replied, as the manner in which Con 
 stance had heard her question returned vivid 
 ly to her recollection.
 
 THK -UK < HAMI. 1.'57 
 
 * Wlial r avked her brother. in- 
 pressed lips became paler, and a frown slight 
 
 ly darkened his forehead 'has Constance 
 i^iven you an\ reasmi, or \vhat causes this 
 belief T 
 
 'Ge-'i-jv. 1 <'<mnot be mistaken,' replied 
 the artless and tender-hearted i^irl, in a \ 
 
 trennilons witli emotion " a \voman's blushes 
 always betray her feelings.' 
 
 'Miserable tool that I am!' exclaimed 
 George, striking his ton-head; and in a deep, 
 husky tone ' I ou^ht to ha\e . \pi cted this. 
 But no,' he added immediately, u;mn ex 
 pression to the Mrantre movements ot a lover's 
 heart. ' Mary, it is not so. 1 will return 
 and ask her the question. She is far too 
 pure, too noble-hearted, too sniileless. to ha\ e 
 concealed this from me. She must have no 
 ticed something ot'//;// teeliliLTS, surelN.' 
 
 Oh, my brother!' replied Mary, 'do not 
 dec. . h. 1 ,1111 confident that Con 
 
 stance 1, dreamed 1 
 
 * Never dreamed ot it, Mary '. Well, per 
 haps perhaps you are litrht' lie added 
 slowly, as his mind dwelt upon the br'n
 
 138 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 tory of their intercourse. In that retrospect 
 he saw little to hope every thing to fear. 
 
 High minded and honorable as he was 
 for George Gregory, also, was a Christian 
 the recoil of his feelings was dreadful. For 
 a moment he grew sick at heart, and leaned 
 for support against a tree. 
 
 ' Oh ! my brother, my dear George !' said 
 Mary, grasping his hand, while her tears flow 
 ed unrestrained ' / had not suspected this 
 too deeply I see I see my mistake. Broth 
 er, I should have warned you before.' 
 
 With a strong effort George obtained a suf 
 ficient mastery over his feelings to enable him 
 to reply ' But, sister, I will hope to the last. 
 I must know the certainty of this, from the 
 lips of Constance herself.' 
 
 His sister could not answer, but taking his 
 arm, led him in silence to their home. 
 
 That was a bitter day for both ! George, 
 who, at the first hour in which he had been 
 thrown into the presence of Miss Barnwell, 
 had felt a deep interest in her, had gradually 
 come to entertain towards her the purest and 
 most ardent affection. His passion had began 
 and deepened without encouragement. Ut-
 
 THK MCK ( H\M!.! 139 
 
 terly iirnorant ot' her feeling, hut conscious 
 of the strength and fervor of his own, he had 
 : hiiuM'ir up to the blissful dream of 1m r, 
 to learn, when it was well nigh too late, that 
 all hope of its happ\ Usue was vain. 
 
 M,ir\, with the instinctive quickness of a 
 woman's heart, had read the nature of his 
 teeliiiii's. and although hall fearful, from the 
 sweet dignity and utter freedom from embar 
 rassment which Constance al\va\s exhibited 
 in the presence of her brother, that her affec 
 tions, if not already en^a'jvd, could neves- re 
 spond to his, she had forborne to hint her 
 Mispicioiis. At a late inter\ iew, in which 
 George, by accident, had seemed to her con 
 scious mind, to testify sufficiently the nature 
 of his feelings, she was convinced from the 
 manner of her lovely friend that she was en 
 tirely ignorant of them. Pained at this reve 
 lation, she resolved to embrace the first oppor 
 tunity of convincing him of the error into 
 which the\ had both fallen, and of strength 
 ening liis mind against any farther indulgence 
 of these feelings. 
 
 The scene through which the\ p, 
 
 above related, pnncd exquisitely painful to
 
 140 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Mary. With the deepest sympathy for her 
 brother's trying situation, there was a mingled 
 feeling of self-reproach, that she had, in some 
 measure contributed to it. 
 
 The first movement of the ardent nature of 
 George Gregory, had been to seek an inter 
 view with Constance, and to hear his fate 
 from her own lips. Reflection, however, in 
 duced him to adopt a different course. He 
 knew that if the affections of the young lady 
 were already engaged, it would be an unne 
 cessary embarrassment, not to say cruelty, to 
 her, to make an avowal of his passion. The 
 most delicate course, as he imagined, was to 
 seek satisfaction on the point from her father, 
 which he accordingly resolved to do.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 'Of all the wouder that I >> i li:ivc In aril. 
 It iMfins tu I .: lh.it iiicii r-hnii!.: 
 
 Seeing that draiii, a m i >-..-. r\ MI!. 
 Will mini-. \|I.-M ii mil . 
 
 ACTI viT.n by the purpose which he liail 
 adopted, George ( i uu'ht an interview 
 
 with Mr. Barnwell on the same evening. 
 Christian linnnrss had obtained the m;r 
 
 . and it was with a heart 
 ,ii.iti\t-!y calm that lie stood upon the 
 portico, awaitintr tlie answer to the bell. 
 
 The scene liefoiv him, beautiful at all 
 
 times, was now softened into exquisite lo\eli- 
 
 ness by the mild radiance of the summer 
 
 moonlight. Tree, rock, and wave lay bathed 
 
 in itv ^.litest s|ilendoi>. The peaceful bosom 
 
 of the ii\er \\.iv tracked by a broad line ot 
 
 :-y lirht : and the indistinct and broken 
 
 outline of the opposite shore, relieved here 
 
 and there by a Kolitary tree, or a lone farm- 
 
 19
 
 142 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 house, contributed to the magic dreaminess of 
 the picture. 
 
 As he entered the hall, sobs were distinctly 
 audible from the chamber of the invalid. The 
 servant stole up stairs with a noiseless step, 
 as if fearful to disturb the silence that reigned 
 in the house, and presently returned with an 
 invitation to the sick-room. 
 
 What were his emotions, when, instead of 
 the happy and hopeful group he had seen in 
 the morning, he now saw a strickened band 
 of mourners, weeping over the dying bed of 
 a son and a brother ! 
 
 The clergyman w r as kneeling at the bed 
 side as he entered, holding one hand of the 
 invalid in his own, and offering up the visita 
 tion prayer. George immediately dropt upon 
 his knee, and as the half-uttered response, and 
 anxious, fervent ' amen ' was heard from one 
 and another of the beloved group, he wept as 
 he knelt. 
 
 Presently the voice of the clergyman 
 ceased ; and as they arose from their knees, 
 he heard the sweet, mild tones of Constance, 
 breathing into the ear of her brother. 
 
 ' Sister,' he whispered, in reply, but his
 
 DEATH. 
 
 roken. and some-times indistinct. 
 4 you would not fear to die I' 
 
 The sound of weeping was tin- only an 
 swer. 
 
 Y:\.-wet1 Constance beloved sifter,' he 
 continued, ' why do you weep ? 1 leel that 
 God supports me. Yes, the e\erl;istin>_- arms 
 blessed Savior, how wonderful thy siraceto 
 to a poor sinner !' 
 
 At this moment Josephine came to the bed 
 side, and buried her face in her sister's bo- 
 Mnii. A peaceful, amrdic over 
 
 the features of the d\in^ youth, id, 
 
 * Dear Josejihine, why do you weep SO?' 
 
 ' Herause, Charles.' she sobbed, fixing 
 
 her swimming eyes upon his counten; 
 She could say no more. 
 
 ' Jovephine. I do not fear to die. I am gO- 
 
 LWSJ from \oii, but if you will bo a li'uod 
 
 child, and belie\e and love the Savior, and 
 
 live a holy life, we shall meet airain. My 
 
 ' I die." 
 
 The child raised her head, and with a won 
 dering and atleclionate look, in which lo\e, 
 >orrovv, and hope, were strangely intt nnin- 
 the bloodl- .;her.
 
 144 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Josephine, whenever you look at mother's 
 picture, think that I have gone home to 
 her home to heaven where we will wait 
 for you, and for all I am leaving now.' 
 
 ' Oh, Charles !' was the only answer of the 
 child. 
 
 ' And now, Constance,' he said, ' I feel that 
 I have strength enough to hear once more 
 that beautiful letter from Edward. Read it, 
 sister, for it will give me happiness in death.' 
 
 With a faltering voice Constance com 
 menced the reading of the letter received that 
 morning. It was addressed to Charles, and 
 detailed the interesting circumstances attend 
 ing his religious inquiries and his conversion. 
 
 ' And now, my dear friend,' was the lan 
 guage in which it concluded, ' I have given 
 you a faithful history of my Christian expe 
 rience. I have had, as I have said, many 
 hours of darkness, doubt, and despondency. 
 Mine was a high and proud spirit, but the 
 wonderful grace of God has subdued it. My 
 heart had grown hard in its selfishness, and 
 the religious views I previously entertained, 
 had only served to deepen that selfishness. 
 Misled by the false but plausible reasonings
 
 III. 1 1 I 
 
 of mm, I conceived that the fundamental 
 ines of ii vhibitinu; ;i Triune 
 
 God interposing <>n our behalf a Divine sacri 
 fice fnr sin, a Spirit of sanciificatiou dwelling 
 in the In-art, \veie in* > ^itli the fa n- 
 
 ci. d moral purity ami dignity of man. 
 ver luninu: known the evil of sin, and never 
 having contrasted its fearful effects, and ne- 
 ,ilv awful penalties, with the attributes 
 of a perfect and holv Clod a bein<j infinitely 
 just and wise, as well as merciful I saw no 
 beauty or necessity in the scheme of Redemp 
 tion through Christ. 1 scorned to own my 
 self, ' pulled up" as 1 was with the ' vain 
 it' of my own innocence and dignity a 
 subjec? of Mich humbling overtures of a God 
 whom I had learned to fear, but whom I 
 could not love. How wonderful that, after 
 all the lucid reasoning, the unanswerable ar 
 
 gument, the ^lowinu', fer\ id appeals of my 
 gifted pastor had been heard in vain, I should 
 ha\e first been sent in humility to the study 
 of the Bible through the influence of your an 
 gelic sister ! that her simple, timid, but faith 
 ful rebuke of my criminal inditlerence, should 
 have opened ins Cjea to the necessity ol iriv-
 
 146 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ing the claims of religion a thorough, candid, 
 and manly investigation.' 
 
 Constance, although not aware of the pre 
 sence of George Gregory, here faltered in her 
 reading. The worthy clergyman, perceiving 
 this, kindly took the letter from her hand, and 
 continued 
 
 ' Yes, Charles, it was Constance, your be 
 loved Constance may I not add, my Con 
 stance, who has been the instrument, in the 
 hands of God, of bringing me to Christ. 
 With what wonder do I now look back upon 
 the indifference with which, naturally dispos 
 ed to a religious life, and possessed of reli 
 gious sensibilities, I rested in a scheme which, 
 while it arrogates the privilege of deciding 
 upon the manner in which God shall hold 
 communication with his creatures, offers no 
 motive to love, to holiness of life, to Christian 
 self-devotion. 
 
 ' Tell Constance that I will claim the privi 
 lege, she has at length accorded to me, by 
 writing to her before I return. I hope to be 
 with you in a few days, and then may I not 
 now, hope, Charles ? 
 
 ' Is the poem completed ? You must per-
 
 TH. 117 
 
 niit me, as ! live /// /// 1 mean no 
 
 pun upon publishers to sir it through the 
 press.' 
 
 The cheerful words of this conclusion, 
 sounded strangely in that chamber of death. 
 Geoi !:ad heard the letter with 
 
 deep emotion, and a sigh escaped liim as the 
 clen_fvm;m t<M>k his seat. Constance turned, 
 and for the first time became aware of his 
 presence. ( lently disengaging her hand from 
 that of her brother, who lay with his eye 
 lived upon the face of his kneeling father, 
 and the same sweet smile still upon his coun 
 tenance, she approached him and whisper 
 ed 
 
 M,. ( i;-< -Lfory. you behold a sad change 
 since this morning. This disease has deceived 
 us all. and 1 fear my brother is dying.' 
 
 In generous sympathy with the sorrows 
 id him. the unhappy youth forgot himself 
 and his own feelings. He was about to ad 
 vance to the bed-side, when the voice of the 
 iiiNalid, much changed, arrested him. 
 
 ' So father Constance Josephine 
 I I am dyinir.' Instantly they were at his 
 side.' ())i, sir,' he asked, a* the cleiwman
 
 148 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 commended his departing spirit to God, in a 
 few touching words ' God bless you. Dear 
 friends, it is not hard to die.' 
 
 ' Shall I say any thing to aunt Mary' 
 whispered Constance, as she gently supported 
 his head. 
 
 ' Tell her tell her that I have sweet peace 
 here ;' and he endeavored to lay his hand 
 upon his heart ; ' I wished that she my death 
 but come nearer Constance my lips 
 sweet peace.' 
 
 And in another moment he slept in Jesus. 
 
 A dreadful pause succeeded, which was at 
 length broken by the voice of the clergy 
 man 
 
 ' It is over.' 
 
 The stricken group started, and felt all 
 the reality of death. For a few moments the 
 feelings of nature prevailed, and they lifted 
 up their voices together, and wept. 
 
 ( Brother !' sobbed Constance, as she fas 
 tened her lips upon his high pale brow, in 
 a kiss in which was concentrated all the 
 tenderness of the woman, all the love of 
 the sister, and all the grief of the Christian 
 mourner.
 
 DEATH. 149 
 
 Josephine laid her i loss pale 
 
 than that of the corpse, upon her bosom, and 
 wept as if her heart would break. 
 
 The father gently raising the child from her 
 position, laid his hand upon the bosom of his 
 . and k':eh down to pray. 
 
 Few and simple, but oh ! how touching, 
 were the words of his prayer. 
 
 The Lord ira\e, and the Lord taketh 
 away, blessed be the name of the Lord.' 'In 
 the midst of life, we are in death : of whom 
 ma\ Mr succor but of thee, Lord 
 
 holy () Clod most mighty O holy 
 and most merciful Savior.' 
 
 And then lie blessed his God for the hope 
 which he had shed around that dying hour 
 for the Christian life, the peaceful death of 
 his son. He asked for >tren-j;th under their 
 bereavement for 'jrace to profit by the ex 
 ample of the departed one for peace and 
 comfort amid future trials. 
 
 ds of the 
 
 burial service were heard in the secluded 
 church yard, and Kdwanl Seaman stood 
 BCTS at the (rrave.
 
 150 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Earth to earth ashes to ashes dust to 
 dust.' They laid the mortal remains in the 
 fresh damp earth, and they rounded the green 
 sod over him, and strewed the summer flowers 
 upon his tomb ; but with their grief was min 
 gled the sweet thought of a Christian's rest in 
 the bosom of his God ; and the light of Chris 
 tian hope made their tears radiant as they 
 fell.
 
 CHAPTER xiv. 
 
 MARY GKKGOKY'S LETTER CONCLUSION. 
 
 is Indeed too short to be wasted in brooding over disappoint 
 ment ; a:iJ t am conviiintl that there is niucli mure of selfishness 
 than or sensibility! in this brooding. Tin' affections arc given to 
 us for activity :mil diilu*ion ; ttwy arc the lire to warm, not to 
 consuin Miss SXDOWICK HOMK. 
 
 Tin. spring returned, and time had sancti 
 fied and hallowed the bereavement which the 
 family of Mr. Barmvell had sustained. The 
 imaire of Charles dwelt in their hearts, and 
 his name often lingered upon their lips, but 
 the bitterness of grief had subsided into the 
 (.aim sorrow for the loved and sainted dead. 
 
 The necessary expense attending his ill 
 ness and death had drawn heavily upon the 
 \ income of Mr. Barnwell, and for the 
 first time, want, ' as an armed man,' threat 
 ened him with the removal of those \\-\\- com 
 forts nay, indispensable necessaries of life, 
 which had hitherto remained to him. It w.is 
 then that the daughter, happy in an opportu 
 nity of testifying her love, displayed once
 
 152 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 more the beautiful strength and self-devotion 
 of character, in engaging in an employment 
 from which too many well educated females, 
 of half her qualifications, have shrunk with 
 disgust. 
 
 The family of Mr. Gregory had been for 
 many months without a governess. Every 
 means had been used to secure the services of 
 one properly qualified, but without success. 
 Many, indeed, had applied for the situation ; 
 but the requirements of the parents, anxious 
 not only concerning literary qualifications and 
 accomplishments, but concerning moral and 
 religious character also, had not hitherto been 
 
 met. 
 
 Their minds had often been turned towards 
 Constance, but delicacy had restrained them 
 from suggesting their wishes to her or to her 
 father. 
 
 They were sincerely gratified, therefore, 
 when, at his daughter's request, which he had 
 at first resisted, Mr. Barnw T ell proposed her as 
 a candidate for the situation. A satisfactory 
 arrangement was soon made. The three 
 daughters of Mr. Gregory, for Mary was proud 
 of becoming the pupil of such a teacher, came
 
 CONCLUSION. 153 
 
 to the farm-house to receive their lessons for 
 a few hours every day. The anxious wish of 
 Fanny Briscome, to become one of the class of 
 'her sweet Mi<s Barmvell,' was gratified, and 
 she also was allowed to attend with her young 
 friends. 
 
 Conscientiously devoting herself to her pu 
 pils, Constance had the happiness of wit 
 nessing their rapid improvement. In the con 
 sciousness that she was faithfully discharging 
 the noblest and most sacred trust, she scorned 
 no labor of elementary instruction, and became 
 wearied with no drudgery of repetition. With 
 a sweetness and patience which won the af 
 fections, while it encouraged and sustained the 
 efforts of her pupils, she sought to lead them 
 into a general love of knowledge; and to 
 render the path of literary acquirement inter 
 esting. Gifted with a quick insight into pe 
 culiarities of mental structure and intellectual 
 tastes, she accommodated the studies of eaclf 
 to their natural tendencies. While she se 
 cured a willing and thorough attention to 
 their daily lessons, she relieved their efforts, 
 and incited them to further exertion by the in- 
 14
 
 
 154 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 terest which her conversation imparted to the 
 subject of their studies. 
 
 Thus occupied, another year rolled by. 
 Edward Seaman, having completed his pre 
 paratory studies, entered upon the practice of 
 the law. His character and family connec 
 tions secured him at once a highly respectable 
 and profitable business. He had again pro 
 posed himself, and his suit had been favorably 
 heard. He was now earnestly solicitous that 
 his union with Constance should take place 
 without delay. A day for the marriage was 
 accordingly fixed, and the succeeding autumn 
 witnessed the consummation of their mutual 
 hopes. 
 
 George Gregory, soon after the funeral of 
 Charles, had entered upon his professional 
 studies, and by the virtuous energy of high 
 Christian principle, was at length enabled to 
 recover from the shock which his feelings had 
 received. The trial for a time was severe, 
 but the triumph was no less complete. He 
 now thought of Constance as of a bright vision 
 of truth, of gentleness, of piety, to whom he 
 was bound, only by the sacred ties of Chris 
 tian friendship, and of gratitude for the sis-
 
 CONCLUSION. 166 
 
 tt-rl\ regard and judicious kindness she had 
 exercised towards Mary. 
 
 We cannot conclude our narrative in words 
 more fitting, than those of the following ex 
 tract from a letter of Mary, to her brother in 
 New- York, detailing circumstances interesting 
 to both. 
 
 " Miss Sedgwick, my dear George, in that 
 dear little book, which you have just sent me, 
 speaks in language of strong reprehension, of 
 the corrupting eloquence we so generally 
 meet with in novels and poetry, to persuade 
 us that true love is an unconquerable passion. 
 You are, I think, equally with the interesting 
 Charles Barclay, a living witness to the con 
 trary. I know that you once loved Constance 
 Barnwell, most truly and deeply. But I also 
 know that by the manly and energetic hon 
 esty of your nature, you have been enabled to 
 conquer a passion, which you could not have 
 continued to indulge consistently with happi 
 ness and virtue. 
 
 " I am truly gratified at the cheering tone 
 
 of your letters. You are my own dear, hope- 
 
 t'ul George again. Do beware of too great 
 
 an attachment to those musty law books. I 
 
 14*
 
 156 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 tell you, positively, that I will not suffer even 
 a black letter folio, graced though it be with 
 all the lore, of Coke upon Lyttleton, to rival 
 me in your affections. By the way, I shall 
 be jealous of that Miss Cooke, so different 
 from, and yet so like Constance, as you de 
 scribe her. Pray read me this riddle, brother, 
 for it passes even a woman's ingenuity. 
 
 " Shall I describe the marriage ? I will, in 
 revenge for your provoking mystery about 
 Miss Cooke. The ceremony took place in 
 our sweet little church on Tuesday morning 
 last. Mr. Frederic Seaton, that pale young 
 man with the very large dark eyes Mr. Sea 
 man's partner, I hear was the groomsman, 
 your humble servant being bridesmaid. We 
 proceeded to the church in the simple rural 
 style which I recommended, that is, we walk 
 ed in as pretty a bridal procession as was ever 
 seen. When we entered, we found it half 
 filled with our mutual friends, and a few of 
 the honest country people living around us. 
 
 " Constance never appeared half so lovely, 
 nor Mr. Seaman half so beautiful or so noble. 
 His fine manly voice trembled a little with 
 emotion as he plighted his troth, but the 

 
 <>N. 157 
 
 t"M.'.s of Constance were low, sweet, tremu 
 lous, vet clear and silvery. They were per 
 fect music. I saw a 1e;ir start to the eye of 
 Mr. r>;:inue!l as lie presented her to the cler 
 gyman, and I wondered what it meant while 
 I almost wej>i in sympathy. I cannot tell 
 you how unhappy I am at the prospect of 
 losing our interesting teacher. But it must 
 be so. 
 
 " Did I tell you that Mr. Seaman had com 
 menced building a country seat for his son, 
 immediately adjoining the farm-house 1 It is 
 arranged that the newly married pair shall 
 spend the present summer at the farm, and 
 that during the winter season, when obliged 
 to live in town, they will come out on Satur 
 day, spend the Sunday here, and return on 
 Mon 
 
 " Constance is determined still to conduct 
 the education of Josephine, in conjunction 
 with her father. Dear little girl, I almost 
 envy her happiness. 
 
 Gentle reader, the author lays down his 
 pen in the humble hope that the simple tale
 
 i58 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 he has told is not without its moral. The fact 
 of female influence, for good or for evil, is 
 unquestionable. Shall we not then, in wo 
 man's education, have constant and anxious 
 regard to this fact 1 Shall she not be placed 
 intellectually, in such a position that the pow 
 erful agency which mind excites over mind, 
 shall be her strongest instrumentality in bring 
 ing back the reign of truth and principle, of 
 unselfish devotion to the cause of virtue, of 
 generous self-forgetting, self-sacrificing ardor 
 in working out the regeneration of society. 
 Shall she not be fitted morally, and, (under 
 God), religiously fitted, to occupy that sphere, 
 which, without her, is an unlovely waste, sun 
 less and barren, the domestic circle, the world 
 of home ? 
 
 Again. Take away religion from the 
 sphere of woman's enjoyment and destiny, 
 and what do you leave her 1 
 
 ' Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave,' 
 
 why has she been made peculiarly alive to 
 religious impression, if she is to be kept for 
 ever wandering blindfold upon earth, far from 
 heaven's light and blessedness ? Oh, remem-
 
 CONCLUSION. 159 
 
 ber, that there are seasons of deep endurance, 
 through which the most favored child of for 
 tune and indulgence may be called to pass, 
 which man never knows ; that there are wa 
 ters of deep affliction, whose waves are fire 
 to try her spirit that there are often bitter 
 dregs of sorrow mingled in her cup of life, 
 even though that cup be a golden one. But, 
 at the best, what is woman without religion ? 
 Let her soul go out over all earth's pleasant* 
 nesses, its pomps and its witcheries ; yet, if 
 her originally noble nature is true to itself, it 
 will hover over them all, like Noah's dove, 
 with weaiiid wing, seeking true rest and find 
 ing none, and looking anxiously for shelter to 
 the ark of God. Her tendencies are heaven 
 ward let us beware how we bind her to 
 earth. The plumage of the bird of Paradise 
 may be beautiful and lustrous in the desert, 
 but it is only when restored to its native bow 
 ers, that we are made glad with the pure lit'r 
 and joyousness that are in its heart, and are 
 enchanted with its richest hues. Without re 
 ligion, earth is but a desert to us all, though 
 sin's deceitful mirage may show it in the dis 
 tance like an enchanted Armida palace, a
 
 160 MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 clime as green and bright as old Arcady of 
 the poets, a perfect Atlantis, rising beautiful 
 upon the waves of time. Without religion, 
 it is a desert indeed for woman, wherein the 
 hot sands wither her best affections, and where 
 she sighs evermore for ' the green pastures ' 
 and ' the still waters.'
 
 
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