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 THE 
 
 EARLY CALLED, 
 
 THE STOIC, 
 
 THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 CAREY, LEA, AND BLANCHARD. 
 1836.
 
 PIUNTP.D BY 
 
 HAS WELL & BARRINGTON, 
 
 ST. JAMES STREET.
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 BT THB AUTHOR OF 
 
 CHAPTERS ON CHURCHYARDS. 
 
 2212583
 

 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Leaves have their time to full, 
 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 
 And stars to set ; but all 
 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Oh Death P' 
 
 MRS. IlliMANS. 
 
 .. . 
 
 FOUR years ago, towards the close of the last winter 
 of my sojourn in Italy, I became acquainted at Naples 
 with an English family, consisting of three persons, 
 an elderly widow lady, and her orphan nephew and 
 niece the children of an only sister, bequeathed on 
 the death of their parents, while still infants, to their 
 aunt's guardianship. 
 
 Mrs. Arden's childless widowhood had been fondly 
 devoted to the trust so sacredly confided, and the 
 orphans committed to her care became to her as her 
 own children, and repaid her maternal tenderness with 
 the fulness of filial love, and the promise in mind and 
 person of a beautiful maturity. Lovely and alike they 
 were in mind and person those youthful creatures, 
 when I first saw them, a few weeks after their arrival 
 at Naples ; and, but for my knowledge of the cause 
 that had brought them thither, little should I have sus- 
 pected any fatal indications in the transparent com- 
 plexion, and bright bloom of the sister's cheek, and in 
 the liquid lustre of her soft blue eye. But so it was.
 
 8 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 The seal of death was there ; and although on the first 
 symptoms of disease Mrs. Arden had hurried with 
 her darling to a softer climate, little hope had been 
 held out to her that the change would lead to perma- 
 nent recovery, for the seeds of the insidious malady 
 had been a part of the orphans' inheritance derived to 
 them from both parents, who had fallen its victims 
 within- two years of each other. The children had 
 also inherited the marked and peculiar character of 
 beauty which had distinguished their deceased mother 
 that fearful beauty so touching ! so unearthly ! and 
 yet, like rose? on a sepulchre, masking decay and 
 death. With what unspeakable tenderness what un- 
 remitting care, had their maternal guardian watched 
 over the infancy and childhood of those two beautiful 
 creatures, so endeared tenfold by their orphan state, 
 and by the circumstances which made their hold on 
 life so far more precarious than is even the common 
 tenure of mortality. 
 
 " They were such little angels!" she once said to 
 me, when speaking of their bygone years " when 
 they knelt before me, side by side, with their little 
 hands joined together, and their sweet eyes lifted up 
 so reverently, and both young voices mingling into 
 one silver sound, as they said their evening prayer ! 
 Oh, I have looked at them till my eyes were dim with 
 tears, and I felt as if I must resign them as if they 
 had but to spread their wings, and finish in Heaven 
 the last strains of their concluding hymn!" 
 
 Poor Mrs. Arden ! It was thus she poured out to
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 9 
 
 me the fulness of her heart but a few evenings before 
 the partial fulfilment of that sad and tender foreboding 
 in the death of her sweet niece. Unavailing was the 
 balmy breath of the sweet south unavailing the phy- 
 sician's skill, and the solicitude of devoted affection ! 
 The youngest of the orphan pair the fair Ann Ross 
 died, and was buried in the land of the stranger ; and 
 when I looked at the young Herbert, in his deep 
 mourning for her to whom his heart had clung with 
 more than a brother's love, with whose life his life 
 had been bound up by such ties as the peculiar cir- 
 cumstances of their orphan state could only have 
 entwined when I gazed on the youthful mourner's 
 tall and slender form the feminine delicacy of his 
 complexion the varying colour of his cheek and the 
 sickly whiteness of his long thin fingers, so strongly 
 contrasted by the black sleeve, my heart was wrung 
 by a painful conviction that on him also the Death 
 Angel had set the awful seal that he too was doomed 
 to pass away in the first flower of his youth, and 
 to be laid in his sister's grave, before the young cy- 
 presses that he had planted with his own hand, round 
 the marble urn on which her name was inscribed, 
 should spread their tender fibres in the consecrated 
 mould, and put forth their earliest shoots. 
 
 I was mistaken, however. The young man's days 
 were not so nearly numbered. Life was strong within 
 him, and disease had made as yet no serious progress in a 
 constitution, the delicate organization of which had but 
 evinced its sympathy with the acute sensibilities of a 
 B 2
 
 10 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 moral frame of still finer workmanship. Herbert Ross 
 felt and believed, when he laid his only sister in that 
 untimely grave, that his young life, henceforth com- 
 panionless and joyless, was a boon, the continuance of 
 which was little to be desired at the hands of that 
 mysterious Providence, whose decree had then appa- 
 rently gone forth against himself, the lonely one and 
 last of his doomed race. But the grief of youth, 
 poignant, and passionate, and bitter as it is, eats not 
 into the heart like the sorrows of later life, and the yet 
 unbroken spirit will struggle into light and gladness, in 
 spite of the remorseful tenderness, which deems it even 
 sinful to take comfort. And life, prolonged life, was 
 still a precious boon to Herbert Ross, for the youth's 
 mind was full of ardent and aspiring day-dreams 
 the sunny brightness of which had been overshadowed 
 for a time only by the calamity which had befallen 
 him. Not towards worldly honours, or worldly we;>lth, 
 or any of the vain glories of this world were directed 
 the aspirations of that young fervent mind not more 
 deeply imbued with sensibility, than with the religious 
 feeling which controls and sanctifies what is otherwise 
 too apt to degenerate into amiable weakness. 
 
 By the desire of his maternal guardian, more than 
 seconded by his own free will and choice, Herbert had 
 been early destined for the ministry of the gospel ; 
 and though Mrs. Arden had been deterred from sending 
 him to a public school, by the early delicacy of his 
 constitution, he had been carefully prepared by pri- 
 vate tuition for the .great duties he was at a proper age
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 11 
 
 to take upon himself ; and the time was now come 
 when (if his return to England was permitted) he was 
 to enter on the course of university studies. 
 
 Yet a few months the aunt and the nephew lingered 
 on in the land of "the olive and the myrtle," till the 
 apparently complete re-establishment of the young 
 man's health warranted their return to England. Then 
 taking their last farewell of the dear kindred dust 
 left to moulder among that of strangers (who but 
 those who have felt can appreciate the bitterness of 
 that final parting?) they embarked, and sailed away 
 for ever from the classic shores of Italy, about the 
 time that I also quitted Naples, in pursuance of a long 
 projected plan of continued travel, over far distant 
 countries. 
 
 At Constantinople, where I made some stay, and 
 received letters from England, one among them (not 
 the least welcome of the many) conveyed to me the 
 gratifying intelligence, that after a prosperous voyage, 
 during which the health of her nephew had continued 
 to improve, Mrs. Arden had arrived with him at their 
 country residence in Warwickshire, and shortly after- 
 wards had had the satisfaction of seeing him comfort- 
 ably installed, under the most advantageous circum- 
 stances, in his college rooms, at Cambridge. 
 
 No stipulation of regular correspondence had been 
 entered into between Mrs. Arden and myself, and 
 any such would indeed have been of impossible 
 observance, during the continued wanderings of my 
 next three years, so that I wholly lost sight of my
 
 12 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 lately acquired friends, and though for a time the re- 
 membrance of them often presented itself to my mind, 
 I confess with shame, that it recurred less and less 
 frequently, as perpetual change of place and scene, 
 crowded on my mind successive objects of interest and 
 attention ; and when at the conclusion of my third 
 year of vagrancy, I turned my face homewards, and 
 found myself again on English ground, and in the 
 English home, which had never been forgotten, or less 
 loved, among the fairest of foreign scenes, my thoughts 
 my mind my heart were for a time so engrossed 
 by that dear home, and all it contained and was 
 associated with, that still no flash of recollection 
 brought before me the images of those two persons 
 from whom I had parted at Naples but three years 
 back, with feelings of most affectionate interest. 
 
 Summer was drawing towards a close when I reached 
 my native country, and after a few weeks continuance 
 at my paternal home, where the return of the long 
 absent son and brother had made a festival of family 
 rejoicing, I left it with regret to prove the virtues of 
 the mineral baths of Buxton, fora rheumatic complaint 
 contracted during my travels, for which they had been 
 strongly recommended to me. 
 
 There was little company at the watering place when 
 I arrived there, and but few persons located in the 
 hotel where I took up my abode and when the dinner 
 hour assembled us at the public table, I glanced round 
 it in some dismay, at the unpromising aspect of the 
 half dozen individuals, who with myself composed the
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 13 
 
 party ; a pair of lean, long visaged, upright gentle- 
 women, of a very certain age, whom I set down for 
 maiden sisters and for their niece, a high shouldered 
 girl with a mop head, and red elbows, who was care- 
 fully flanked on either side, as we took our seats by 
 the aforesaid grim duennas ; a quizzy couple, self-pro- 
 claimed as man and wife by their tender interchange 
 of "Mr. P., my dear," and "Mrs. P., my love!" 
 and a long, emaciated, fretful looking elderly gentle- 
 Jnan, stuffed out with half a dozen showy waistcoats, 
 with a face as yellow as a daffodil, a turquoise brooch, 
 and an emererald ring and addressed ?.s "Sahib !" by 
 the Asiatic servant who stood behind his chair with 
 downcast eyes and folded arms. 
 
 I looked round me with a despairing gaze, and my 
 anticipations by no means brightened as the meal pro- 
 ceeded in unsocial English silence or coid and 
 formal interchange, of the most indispensable courte- 
 sies. The maiden sisters spoke only in admonitory 
 whispers to their awkward charge with an occasional 
 nudge on either side, as she intruded her red peaked 
 elbows into their balloon sleeves. The married pair 
 seriously addressed themselves to the business of 
 eating, and recommending various dishes to each 
 other, and the East India Colonel (he could be no less) 
 rated his Asiatic attendant all dinner time, in half 
 English, half Hindostanee, for having left behind a 
 certain indispensable bottle of Cayenne. I was already 
 debating with myself how long it was possible for 
 mortal endurance to hold out, condemned to such asso-
 
 14 THE EARLT CALLED, 
 
 ciation when just as the" cloth had been removed, the 
 sound of wheels was heard rapidly approaching, and 
 in another minute the running of waiters and a bustle 
 at the door of the hotel, denoted the blest certainty of 
 a fresh arrival. 
 
 All eyes were attracted to the open door of the 
 eating-room, by which the new comer must necessarily 
 pass as marshalled by the obsequious master of the 
 hotel towards the upper apartments. And mine, alas ! 
 fell in blank disappointment, after resting for a second 
 on the figure of a lady dressed in deep mourning, 
 apparently elderly and infirm, for she leant on the arm 
 of her attendant, and slowly followed the bustling 
 landlord. "But after all she looks like a lady," 
 thought I to myself, glancing round at the present 
 company and I was not among the least curious to 
 learn the name of the new comer when at the tea table 
 (at which she did not make her appearance) the book 
 of arrivals was requested, and handed round for gene- 
 ral information. It circulated in silence, and last came 
 my turn of inspection, but " the party in the parlour" 
 were soon electrified by my sudden start and exclama- 
 tion at sight of the newly inscribed name. It was that 
 of Mrs. Arden. 
 
 Throughout the range of mental phenomena, there 
 are few more assimilating to the marvellous than the 
 sudden and perfect distinctness with which scenes and 
 circumstances, long past and long forgotten, are often 
 recalled in their most minute details, and crowded as 
 it were into a moment's memory, though having
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 15 
 
 perhaps occupied successive weeks or months in their 
 actual occurrence, by some chance-word or name 
 unexpectedly pronounced, some flower, or perfume, 
 or a few notes of music, connected with the buried 
 past by links of association that, like those of an elec- 
 tric chain, communicate the vivifying spark with 
 inconceivable rapidity. 
 
 In a moment I was transported to sunny Italy, to 
 the pleasant villa at Castel-a-Mare, which had been 
 occupied by my English friends. I sat with them on 
 its seaward terrace in the cool of evening, gathering up 
 the fallen orange flowers, to lay on the lap of a fair 
 dying girl, who thanked me with a sad sweet smile as 
 her head dropt languidly on the shoulder of her young 
 brother, whose arm, as he sat beside her, encircled her 
 slight form. And there was the guardian aunt sorrow- 
 fully gazing on her adopted orphans and then a bell 
 tolled ! the vesper bell of a neighbouring convent- 
 and the scene changed and I stood by a lonely grave, 
 in the English burying-ground a lonely grave, dis- 
 tinguished by an urn of white marble, and a few young 
 cypresses and again my friends were with me 
 two only of the three and of those two, one sinking 
 fast into his sister's grave. The beautiful boy ! 
 scarce youth. But from him the death-shadow passed 
 away and health restrung his frame and then, again, 
 the scene shifted and lo ! the surviving two stood, 
 wafting their farewell from a ship's deck. The white 
 canvass swelled and filled in the favouring breeze and 
 the good ship sailed away, and I watched her course
 
 16 THE EARLY CALLED* 
 
 till she lessened to a speck in the offing and when 
 that also disappeared, I found myself standing with 
 the arrival-book in my hand, and my eyes riveted on 
 the newly written name, the sound of which was but 
 dying on my lips as I returned to actual perception of 
 the external world. 
 
 Hastily I rang for the waiter, and despatched him 
 with my card to Mrs. Arden's apartments, having 
 scribbled on it with a pencil a petition to be admitted 
 to take my coffee with her. " But where," I added, 
 in my unreflective gladness, " where is my friend 
 Herbert?" "Fagging hard at college," I replied as 
 inconsiderately to my own query as the waiter departed 
 on his mission : but he had scarcely disappeared, when 
 a thought suggested itself a fearful thought ! It was 
 vacation time Mrs. Arden was alone ill in deep 
 mourning where was Herbert 1 } 
 
 My first glance at the face of my respected friend, 
 as I entered her apartment, changed conjecture into 
 certainty into fatal certainty. She held out her 
 hand to me in silence, (all eloquent silence,) and her 
 lip quivered as she turned away from my inquiring 
 look, and, leaning upon the mantelpiece, gave way for 
 a few moments to the relief of tears. 
 
 "God comfort you, my dear madam!" was the 
 only greeting I had power to speak, when, with 
 glistening eyes, but a composed and placid coun- 
 tenance, she again turned towards me, with a kind 
 pressure of the hand, that still held hers, and full well 
 she knew that I needed not to be told the cause of her
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 17 
 
 affliction, or to what event she alluded, when, with an 
 upward glance of meek resignation, she softly said 
 " Yes, my good friend ! they are now both angels in 
 Heaven." 
 
 From that evening of our first sad meeting to the 
 conclusion of my three weeks' stay at Buxton, there 
 were few days of which I did not spend the greater 
 part in the society of my valued friend ; and, in the 
 course of those quiet confidential hours, it was her 
 chief solace to talk with me of her departed dear ones, 
 and especially, with the fond minuteness of grief in 
 its first freshness, of him so recently committed to the 
 grave. 
 
 My interest for the beautiful boy I had known at 
 Naples under such affecting circumstances was vividly 
 reawakened by those details of his short life, and its 
 concluding scene, so deeply imprinted on the heart's 
 memory of her, who, in full confidence of my affection- 
 ate sympathy, was wont to pour out to me her treasured 
 recollections, with that careless effusion of feeling, in 
 the indulgence of which the real mourner finds more 
 relief than in a connected and formal narrative. 
 
 To me, however, it has been a pleasing occupation 
 to build up, as it were, from those unarranged frag- 
 ments, a simple monument to the memory of Herbert 
 Ross a short record of the uneventful but pathetic 
 passages of his brief earthly career. Turn from it, 
 worldly, fashionable reader ! It would be to you 
 tasteless and insipid, as simple cottage fare to the palate 
 of an experiened epicure as a quiet country life, com-
 
 IS THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 pared with your artificial system of society. Kind and 
 gentle reader ! you whose sensibility to the common 
 pains and common pleasures of your fellow-creatures, 
 to their real joys and sorrows, is not yet vitiated by 
 false excitement, or rendered callous by worldly sel- 
 fishness look with an indulgent eye over " the short 
 and simple annals" of a life which has left no trace on 
 earth beside this humble record, and the tender recol- 
 lections of a few unforgetting hearts. It is, indeed, 
 " an owre true tale," and I tell it you as " 'twas told 
 to me," (though not in regular sequence,) as nearly as 
 possible in her words, whose language was that of the 
 heart, and can hardly fail, therefore, of touching some 
 sympathetic chord in yours. 
 
 " My dear Herbert," said Mrs. Arden, " entered 
 upon the course of university studies, which was to 
 complete his preparation for holy orders, with the 
 fairest prospects the happiest and purest views. His 
 health, as you may remember, Mr. Lindsay, had so 
 materially improved, during the latter part of our 
 stay in Italy, and (as I wrote you) on our homeward 
 voyage, as to aflbrd reasonable ground for hope, that, 
 when the tall and slender frame had attained its full 
 stature, his constitution would have power to throw off 
 any lurking taint of hereditary malady, and settle into 
 permanent vigour. 
 
 "'Fear not for me, my dear aunt/ was his cheerful 
 reply on the eve of his departure for Cambridge, to my 
 reiterated charges about his health, and fond entreaties 
 that he would not, endanger it by too intense and unre-
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 19 
 
 mitting application 'Fear not for me, my dear aunt, 
 that I shall overtask myself; with the end for which 
 I labour full in view, I shall find the path pleasant and 
 the progress easy ; and for this frail frame of mine, 
 already so wonderfully reinvigorated, if the master to 
 whose service I devote myself has work for me to do, 
 will he not supply " strength sufficient" for me ?' 
 
 " My heart sank within me as he spoke thus, for 
 the deep flush that suffused his cheek, and the kindling 
 lustre of his eye, were tokens fatally familiar to me. 
 But if indeed the fiat had gone forth, what human 
 power could prevail against it ? I committed him to 
 God, and he departed. 
 
 " During the early part of his first term, he continued 
 to write me the most regular and comforting accounts 
 of his perfect health his moderation in study (I 
 feared no other excess on his part) and of his allow- 
 ing himself (in observance of the promise I had exacted) 
 an ample portion of time for sleep and exercise. f And 
 yet, indeed, my dear aunt,' he sometimes added, ( you 
 make me too slothful, too self-indulgent, and I believe 
 unnecessarily so, for my serious occupations are those 
 most delightful to me, and could not therefore be 
 physically injurious, though permitted to encroach a 
 little upon those hours of sleep and idleness, which 
 abstract such precious portions from the irredeemable 
 account of time. But you have my promise, and I 
 adhere to it faithfully. 7 
 
 "Alas ! that he had continued to do so ; but gradu- 
 ally, though he never relaxed in the frequency of
 
 20 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 writing, his letters became shorter and less satisfactory 
 rarely touching on, and at last wholly omitting, 
 those minute personal details so deeply interesting to 
 me ; and when I questioned and even urged him on 
 the subject, he briefly assured me he was ' Well, quite 
 well / but no longer reiterated the pledge I had so 
 fondly exacted. The inference was obvious. His 
 ardent and enthusiastic nature had thrown off those 
 shackles of prudential restraint, to which, for my sake 
 only, he had submitted, for a season, and from the 
 acknowledgment of his tutor and other college friends 
 I learnt, in confirmation of my fears, that his days 
 and nights were devoted to the most intense application, 
 with scarcely the intermission of a few hours grudg- 
 
 J o O 
 
 ingly yielded to the demands of nature. ' But his 
 health continues, to all appearance, uninjured/ w r as 
 the assurance added to these alarming reports. * There 
 are no indications of debility about him, of an over- 
 tasked mind, or a failing body depend upon it, you 
 are distressing yourself without cause. He will live 
 to rank high among the most distinguished for know- 
 ledge and usefulness.' 
 
 " I endeavoured to take comfort in these assurances 
 and anticipations of my dear Herbert's friends : but 
 oh ! how hollow are such comforts to the heart of a 
 mother who trembles for the life of a dear and only 
 child ! and was not Herbert as a son to me? 
 
 "I was, however, sensible that farther importunity 
 would but distress, without restraining him in his now 
 determined career. ' I kept silence/ therefore, l though
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 21 
 
 it was pain and grief to me,' on the unprofitable sub- 
 ject, and awaited with what composure I could assume 
 the approaching vacation, which would at least enable 
 me to form my own judgment of the truth of those 
 flattering assurances I had received from himself and 
 others. 
 
 " He came, and the first day of his return relieved 
 me from a load of apprehension. He looked almost 
 as I could have desired, far better than I had hoped to 
 see him. In person, indeed, still slender and flexile 
 as a young cypress ; but then his' tall form had shot 
 up some inches since>our last parting ; and if his com- 
 plexion was still that of almost feminine delicacy, it 
 could have acquired no healthful bronze during the 
 course of his sedentary labours, and it argued well for 
 the future, that at least his constitution did not appear 
 to have lost. ground in the severe ordeal to which it 
 had been subjected. In mind and heart I found him 
 as he had ever been even as you remember him, Mr. 
 Lindsay, in the days of his beautiful boyhood- the 
 purest, the most affectionate, the most endearing and 
 interesting of created beings. And his intellectual 
 powers, which were, I believe, of the first order, had 
 expanded to a degree that surpassed even the sanguine 
 expectations of his first tutor, our worthy rector, Mr. 
 Wilmot. 
 
 " The first few days of his return were devoted 
 
 almost entirely to me, and to revisiting every spot of 
 
 1 dear Merivale,' as he was ever wont to term the house 
 
 I so fondly hoped he would inherit, which had been 
 
 c 2
 
 22 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 more particularly the scene of his boyish and youthful 
 pleasures. But among them, his most cherished haunts 
 were those associated with the memory of his lost 
 sister and often, during his stay at Merivale, would 
 he steal away with his book to an arbour they had 
 built together, from whence, over the sweetbrier-hedge 
 which divided it from a small paddock, he could fon- 
 dle and feed her old white pony, who had his run for 
 life in luxurious idleness. 
 
 " You have often smiled, Mr. Lindsay, at the ro- 
 mantic fancies of ' the young dreamer,' as you used to 
 call my poor Herbert. You read him well ; and the 
 natural enthusiasm of his character, acquiring strength 
 with years, and becoming more concentrated as it was 
 more carefully repressed, gained at last a morbid as- 
 cendancy in the moral system. From his very infancy 
 my Herbert, though at all times sweet-tempered, and 
 often innocently gay and playful, was of a serious and 
 thoughtful nature loving to steal away by himself, 
 and spent whole hours in the woods surrounding our 
 house, or by the brook side, under pretence of angling. 
 But his fishing-basket was brought home for the most 
 part empty, and his tackle in a state little creditable to 
 the young disciple of Isaac Walton, whose ' Complete 
 Angler' was his darling companion ; and contained 
 evidence, on its fly-leaves and on every spot of blank 
 paper, that the youthful fisherman was more emulous 
 of his master's poetic vein, than of proficiency in his 
 favourite sport. 
 
 " But we seldom ventured to jest with him on the
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 23 
 
 subject of his unsuccessful wanderings, or to pry into 
 the innocent mystery of his poetic secrets his height- 
 ened colour and often glistening eye evincing on such 
 occasions that painful shyness so generally charac- 
 teristic of deep and acute sensibility. Time and 
 thought, and solitary studies, had but fed and concen- 
 trated the secret flame, feeding it with high hopes and 
 lofty aspirings, and glorious visions, but not of this 
 world's glories. 
 
 " We had not been long together before I began to 
 perceive, that if no unfavourable change had taken place 
 in Herbert's bodily health, the tone of his mind had 
 undergone alteration (and that of a disquieting nature) 
 during his college residence. There was an increased 
 degree of excitability about him. He fell more fre- 
 quently, even in the social circle, into fits of long and 
 deep abstraction ; and if an opportunity occurred, sel- 
 dom failed to steal away to his books or solitary mus- 
 ings, and I was not long in discovering that some 
 change had taken place in his religious views, and in 
 the sober and rational purpose with which he had 
 hitherto looked forward to his sacred destination. 
 
 " I found that his few college associates had been 
 selected among a set of persons assuming to themselves 
 the designation of 'serious young men;' and that with 
 a little knot of these highly gifted and of unquesti- 
 onable moral character, though far gone in Calvinistic 
 error Herbert -had associated himself, not only during 
 his short intervals of relaxation, but in theological 
 studies and religious exercises, the fruit of which in-
 
 24 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 tcrcourse had been to unsettle and perplex his mind, 
 exciting in it doubts and scruples, not only on doc- 
 trinal points, but respecting the justifiableness of en- 
 tering upon the ministry with any contingent views 
 of temporal advantage the presentation to the small 
 living of Merivale having been promised to Herbert 
 by the relation in whose gift it was, after his decision 
 on taking holy orders, and it was in fact held for him 
 by our friend Mr. Wilmot until such time as he should 
 be qualified to take upon himself the sacred responsi- 
 bility. Except the small estate of Merivale, I had 
 little in my power to bequeath to my adopted son 
 whose trifling patrimonial inheritance would have been 
 insufficient to enable him to reside in that endeared 
 home, without the additional income of the living in 
 question. The unsolicited and unexpected promise 
 had been accepted by my dear Herbert with ardent 
 gratitude, for on the prospect so extended to him, how 
 many and how delightful were the paths of spiritual 
 and temporal usefulness that would lay before him. 
 With a heart and head full of these pure hopes and 
 pious views, he went to college. Alas ! that the inter- 
 vention of mistaken zeal should have disturbed the 
 moral calm based on so irreproachable a purpose. 
 
 " It was with considerable uneasiness that I became 
 gradually aware of the mischief fermenting in his 
 ardent and enthusiastic mind, and I lost no time in 
 communicating to Mr. Wilmot the result of my obser- 
 vations. He entered warmly into my fears and 
 feelings, and from that time lost no opportunity of
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 25 
 
 being alone with his late pupil, and of engaging him 
 in confidential discussion of his newly conceived 
 doubts and conscientious scruples. Herbert had always 
 felt great attachment, and entertained high respect for 
 his venerable instructor, knowing him to be indeed 
 the faithful and zealous servant of his Heavenly Mas- 
 ter. This renewed intercourse between tutor and 
 pupil was therefore not uninfluential with the latter, 
 and I parted with him, on his return to Cambridge, 
 with sanguine hope that the happier frame of mind 
 and fixedness of purpose he had latterly regained, 
 would not again be disturbed or shaken by the wild 
 and speculative theories of that 'zeal without experi- 
 ence' so generally tending towards dangerous error 
 fanaticism, or infidelity. 
 
 "Too soon, however, the constrained and ambiguous 
 style of his letters gave me reason to fear that he was 
 relapsing into his former state of disquietude, and my 
 reawakened anxiety was cruelly aggravated by the re- 
 port of two young cantabs, with whom I found myself 
 in company at the house of a neighbouring gentleman. 
 They spoke in terms of high respect and encomium of 
 the moral and intellectual qualities of my dear Her- 
 bert, but lamented that, at his first entrance in the 
 university, he had been thrown into the society of a 
 set of men, who, however distinguished by their abi- 
 lities, and sincere in their religious professions, were 
 far gone in sectarian errors, and justly amenable to the 
 charge of pharasaical presumption in their outward 
 assumption of peculiar sanctity and seriousness, and of
 
 26 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 a conventional language, by which, as by a sort of 
 freemasonry, they distinguished the individuals of their 
 party. 
 
 " With the most talented and distinguished of these 
 young aspirants, a Mr. Melcomb, Herbert had linked 
 himself in intimate friendship ; and I heard with dis- 
 may, that the former, having in his own case given up 
 high expectations in the church, with the purpose of 
 devoting himself to missionary labours in far distant 
 lands, was using his powerful influence with my ne- 
 phew to detach him from the rationally pious views 
 with which he had hitherto looked forward to ordina- 
 tion, and associate him in his own projected wander- 
 ings. 
 
 " In aggravation of this disquieting intelligence, I 
 gathered from the reluctant avowals of my young in- 
 formants, that many persons of Herbert's general 
 acquaintance, themselves included, had been of late 
 struck by his personal alteration, and the strong indi- 
 cations of over excitement and feverish illness which 
 had been for some time past apparent in him. 
 
 " You may better imagine than I can describe the 
 thoughts and feelings with which I returned to my 
 home that night ; and penned before I slept (or rather 
 before I sought my sleepless bed) a note to the good 
 man, so affectionately interested for Herbert, to whom 
 I had resorted in my former perplexity, requesting 
 the favour of an early visit from him the day ensuing. 
 He found me almost incapable, from agitation, of ex- 
 plaining to him my renewed cause for anxiety, so
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 27 
 
 fearfully had it been increased, by the contents of a 
 letter, brought by that morning's post. A few strag- 
 gling lines in an unsteady hand, which I could scarcely 
 recognise as that of my poor Herbert, informed me, 
 with affectionate precaution, that he was ill { very ill, 
 certainly but he hoped not dangerously and that 
 at all events if even ' And then broke off ab- 
 ruptly the almost illegible scrawl, to which Mr. L., 
 his friendly tutor, had subjoined the distressing infor- 
 mation that my poor nephew's affectionate endeavour 
 to communicate the tidings of his illness to me in his 
 own handwriting, had been arrested, by a violent 
 paroxysm of the disease, which had assumed the formi- 
 dable character of brain fever. Under such circum- 
 stances, there needed not the cautiously worded 
 intimation with which Mr. L.'s postscript concluded, 
 to make me fully aware of my poor Herbert's im- 
 minent danger, or to decide me on setting out for 
 Cambridge within two hours from the receipt of that 
 terrible letter, accompanied by Mr. Wilmot, who 
 hastily, made his arrangements for the journey. 
 
 " I will not attempt to describe the feelings with 
 which I drew near the place and moment which were 
 to end my dread uncertainty as to the one great ques- 
 tion ' life or death ?' That answered by the blessed 
 words l He still lives' I could gather little more to 
 cheer or to encourage me in the after report of the 
 medical men who were in attendance on my poor 
 sufferer. For more than ten agonizing days he strug- 
 gled on through alternate stages of fierce delirium and
 
 28 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 death-like stupor. But the crisis was favourable. The 
 fever was at length subdued, and though reduced to a 
 state of more than infant weakness, my Herbert was 
 pronounced out of actual danger, and his ultimate 
 restoration to be mainly dependent on the care whicl 
 should be taken, during a tedious convalescence, tc 
 keep him in a state of perfect tranquillity of mind and 
 body. Immediately on our arrival at Cambridge, he 
 had been removed, by consent of his physician, to a 
 private lodging, and I was the more thankful for this 
 arrangement, when it became a point of the first im- 
 portance to guard him from the slightest agitation 
 and from every sight or sound, object or person, in the 
 remotest degree likely to produce it. Among the 
 many and frequent inquiries for my poor Herbert, hit 
 friend Mr. Melcomb was the most constant, and cer- 
 tainly not the least anxiously interested. During the sea 
 son of pressing and imminent danger, I had had neithe* 
 thought nor moment to spare from the one engrossing 
 object ; but when the dread crisis had terminated in ; 
 favourable change, I saw Mr. Melcomb, and though ii 
 several subsequent interviews with him I found my 
 self, in spite of preconceived opinion, irresistibly 
 charmed by his amiable and engaging manners, cha- 
 racterised though they were by the conventiona 
 language of his party ; and though I did full justice tc 
 his purity of intention, intellectual powers, and sincere 
 affection for my nephew, I felt but the more confirmed 
 in my determination to prevent if possible all inter- 
 course between him and Herbert, during the interva
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 29 
 
 that must still elapse before the latter should have re- 
 gained sufficient strength to warrant his removal to 
 Merivale. 
 
 " As my nephew slowly revived to consciousness 
 of his late danger and his actual state, and began to 
 make faint inquiries for those who he was well assured 
 had been kindly concerned about him, I did not feel 
 myself justified in withholding from him the know- 
 ledge, that his friend Mr. Melcomb had been among 
 the most anxious of the daily inquirers. Reluctantly 
 I pronounced the name and fearfully awaited the 
 remark or request it might call forth. But it was 
 heard in silence only with a deep sigh, and an almost 
 imperceptible motion of the lips and after a moment, 
 the invalid half turned round upon his pillow, softly 
 murmuring to himself, 'Poor Melcomb! it is all over 
 now ; and then, as if exhausted by this feeble effort, 
 he closed his eyes, and spoke no more for hours. 
 
 " Neither, for many days, did he renew the subject, 
 which I by no means felt it incumbent on me to re- 
 mind him of, though Mr. Melcomb began to plead 
 with increased urgency for admittance to his friend's 
 sick chamber. 
 
 " Our medical advisers, however, (having neces- 
 sarily been made aware of Herbert's peculiar circum- 
 stances,) declared unhesitatingly, their opinion that 
 strong and long continued over-excitement and agi- 
 tation of mind, acting on a most excitable con- 
 stitution, had brought on the so nearly fatal crisis ; 
 and that his life and reason still hung in such un- 
 
 D
 
 30 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 even balance, that the slightest jar might be partially 
 or wholly fatal. ' Let him,' they said, ' see no one 
 but yourself, and his worthy old tutor who has shared 
 your anxious task, during the short remainder of 
 his present stay at Cambridge and the moment he 
 can be moved with safety, take him back with you to 
 the home of his youth, and keep him there far from 
 this place and from his late associates until he shall 
 at least have recovered as much physical health as may 
 be accompanied, we will hope, by a moral tone less 
 morbidly liable than at present to injurious influence.' 
 
 "The first part of this friendly advice I cautiously 
 communicated to the dear patient, and unspeakably 
 was my mind relieved when he calmly replied, after a 
 pause of deep reflection ' Be it so, my dear aunt 
 Tell this to Melcomb. Tell him it may be better we 
 should NOT MEET NOW. Hereafter if my life should 
 be prolonged but not now not yet. Tell him he 
 shall hear from me when I can guide a pen firmly, 
 and write calmly and till then, and for ever God 
 bless him !' 
 
 " We were at length permitted to depart, and by 
 short and slow stages our dear charge was safely con- 
 veyed to Merivale, and I had the comfort of seeing 
 him once more established in our pleasant home. Still 
 so languid and enfeebled as to require support in his few 
 steps from the carriage to the hall door, he stopt on 
 the familiar threshold, and looked about him with an 
 expression so peculiar, so made up of quiet gladness 
 and gratitude, and other thoughts, not of this world
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 31 
 
 surely, that it struck to my heart a shuddering con- 
 sciousness of the feelings and forebodings then passing 
 in his, and the words with which I would have wel- 
 comed him home again, died inaudible on my lips. 
 
 " So tedious and almost imperceptible was his 
 progress towards recovery, that I should scarcely have 
 ascertained it, but by comparison of its weekly stages ; 
 from his first removal from the couch in his own dress- 
 ing room to that in my boudoir for a few afternoon 
 hours, to his re-establishment at his favourite bay win- 
 dow in the library and general resumption of all his 
 in-door habits. The regaining of farther liberty was 
 still, we saw, to be a work of time, and the patient 
 invalid murmured not that his enjoyment of out-door 
 exercise was long restricted to carriage airings and a 
 few turns at intervals on the broad gravel walk under 
 our south windows. 
 
 " As the summer advanced, however the last year's 
 summer his amendment more visibly progressed, 
 and I should have looked forward with sanguine ex- 
 pectation to his perfect restoration, but for a mysterious 
 something an indefinable change in his general 
 manner in the expression of his countenance, and 
 even in the tone of his voice which filled me with 
 vague uneasiness, and fears I scarcely dared to analyze. 
 
 " Mild and thoughtful had been at all times my 
 Herbert's character, but innocently cheerful too, and 
 enthusiastically ardent in all his favourite pursuits 
 and it had been his delight especially to talk over with 
 me (his confidant from childhood) all his hopes of hap-
 
 32 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 piness and usefulness in that station of life which had 
 been so entirely the selection of his heart and judg- 
 ment. From the period of our return home he never 
 on any occasion reverted to the subject, or made allu- 
 sion to his earthly future ; and if any observation in 
 reference to it was made by myself or others, he either 
 eluded it by some slight vague answer, or let it pass 
 unnoticed, but by the shade of deeper seriousness which 
 at such times fell on his thoughtful brow, and by a 
 faint and sickly smile I now and then detected on his 
 pale lips perceptible perhaps to myself only ; but how 
 keen is the eye of anxious tenderness ! Neither did 
 he voluntarily take part in any general conversational 
 topics or discussion of passing events, whether of local 
 or national interest. He seemed like one who, having 
 no part to play on life's busy stage, desired as much 
 as possible to shut out even its distant murmurs, and 
 to take no cognisance of t chance or change,' beyond 
 the circle of his own home and the world of his own 
 heart. Within that small circle he had become more 
 and more endeared to every living being during the 
 season of his protracted feebleness and dependence ; 
 so beautiful and touching was his heavenly sweetness 
 of temper, his unalterable patience and his affectionate 
 gratitude for every little attention or required service 
 rendered to him by myself, his kind old tutor, or the 
 faithful servants who had lived with me before his 
 birth, and had taken their part in the care of himself and 
 his little sister, when the infant orphans were brought 
 from the house of mourning and death to the shelter
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 33 
 
 of my roof, in prattling unconsciousness of their irre- 
 parable loss. 
 
 " For each and every one of those humble friends 
 Herbert had ever a kind word or smile, a grateful ex- 
 pression, or some familiar question when they ap- 
 proached him, even with that officiousness of over- 
 anxiety so trying to irritable invalids ; and for my 
 sake, he would at all times throw aside his book, or 
 rouse himself from his deepest abstractions : but it 
 was evident he made the effort for my sake only, and 
 that the solitary musings to which he had been ever 
 addicted were become the cherished and abiding habit 
 of his mind. 
 
 " Often have I sat for hours, ostensibly occupied 
 with my book or needlework, but in reality watching 
 the varying expression of his countenance, as he lay 
 back in his large reading-chair in the library window 
 an open volume in his hands, but his eyes seldom 
 directed to its pages, or apparently fixed on any ex- 
 ternal object, except that, when they sometimes wan- 
 dered to the scene without, a moist film would gather 
 over the dark blue orbs, and, after closing them for a 
 few moments, their long black lashes would be fringed 
 with tears ah ! with what feelings have I watched 
 that eloquent silence how fearfully have I conjectured 
 the thoughts with which he had been contemplating 
 the scene of his earliest pleasures. Had they been oc- 
 cupied solely with associations of the past? the memory 
 of his sweet sister and her foreign grave ? or mingled 
 with such feelings as cause the eye to linger fondly 
 D 2
 
 34 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 on objects it shall not long behold ? I shrank from 
 my own thoughts; and, after all, I believed, I hoped, 
 he was doing well, and no dreaded, well-known 
 symptom had yet warned me of his real danger. But 
 this poor hope, this almost wilful delusion, was soon 
 to be withdrawn, and for ever. As yet, I had not ac- 
 quired courage closely to question Herbert's skilful 
 and attentive medical adviser. But his visits, I ob- 
 served, were longer and more frequent ; and methought 
 there was a shade of deeper seriousness upon his coun- 
 tenance after those lengthened conferences. ' I will 
 speak to him I will question him to-morrow' was, 
 day after day, my self-engagement ; t but, after all, 
 there can be no serious alteration for the worse. He 
 does not lose strength he has no cough/ was the 
 miserable sophistry with which, from day to day, I 
 still protracted my inquiry. 
 
 "Since our return home from Cambridge, Herbert 
 had received two letters from his friend Mr. Melcomb. 
 He had read, and re-read them, with evidently deep 
 interest ; for during the perusal the faint colour of his 
 cheek would come and go, and he would sigh and 
 shake his head, murmuring to himself inaudible words. 
 I observed this emotion with no little anxiety, but was 
 scarcely more relieved than surprised when it became 
 evident that he was in no haste at least to answer these 
 agitating communications. At last, on my return from 
 a round of country visits, I found him one morning in 
 the act of sealing letters, one of which was directed to 
 his friend.
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 35 
 
 " He seemed exhausted, as if by an unusual effort, 
 and said faintly as he pushed the letters from him 
 ' Thank God, it is written ! My poor Melcomb !' 
 There had always been a sort of restraint between us 
 on the subject of this friendship, and Herbert had 
 never, since his return, named Melcomb to me ; but 
 now, raising his eyes to mine, after that short soli- 
 loquy, he said, as if inviting my attention 'You could 
 not but like Melcomb, my dear aunt, even for the 
 little you saw of him at Cambridge. You must have 
 loved him, had you known him as I do.' I freely 
 acknowledged the favourable impression made on me 
 by his friend's engaging manners and evident powers 
 of mind, at the same time cautiously adverting to 
 those characteristic peculiarities of style and expression 
 which,even in the short time we were together, afforded 
 me sufficient corroboration of the reports which had re- 
 presented him to be a dangerous intimate for one so 
 inexperienced so enthusiastic and warm-hearted as 
 my dear Herbert. 
 
 " He sighed, and for a moment seemed lost in 
 thought. Then again, looking up at me, he rejoined, 
 t Perhaps you was right, my dear aunt my more than 
 mother ! You have known your poor Herbert long 
 and well the idle dreamer the fond visionary ! 
 And yet before I went to Cambridge, and for some 
 time afterwards, I believe I was for a time in the safe 
 and straight path. My poor Melcomb! he loved me 
 sincerely, and yet I was so much his inferior in every 
 thing. His views were so beautiful so holy so
 
 36 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 single so self-sacrificing! all I had previously enter- 
 tained appeared to me so poor, and cold, and selfish 
 on comparison and yet, on some points, his were 
 awful tenets! I could neither entirely embrace, nor 
 satisfy myself they were altogether erroneous. The 
 struggle was too hard for this poor head and this weak 
 frame of mine, and both gave way. But, thank God/ 
 he continued, after a pause of deep emotion/ all is well 
 with me now all is peace ! In that first portion of 
 my tedious convalescence, during which the mental 
 powers as well as the physical were, to all appearance, 
 reduced to a state of perfect inanition, while I lay in . 
 seeming unconsciousness of all external things, my 
 mind was dealing with itself, or rather the spirit of 
 truth and love was at work within me, rebuking, chas- 
 tening, composing, healing, and I awoke from that 
 blessed trance with a determination to shun for the 
 future all unprofitable inquiries into mysteries too 
 deep and high for human comprehension to lay 
 aside (at least for a long season), all works of contro- 
 versional divinity, and to turn in all my doubts and 
 difficulties to this book only this blessed Book!' and, 
 with an upward glance of adoring gratitude, he let fall 
 his out-spread hand on the Bible which lay beside his 
 writing-desk. 
 
 "There was that in the solemn fervour of his looks 
 and language which awed and calmed, while it affected 
 me profoundly, and I could only lean forward in silence, 
 and press my lips to the thin pale hand that rested 
 on the sacred volume ; but my dear Herbert saw, as I
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 37 
 
 lifted up my face, that it was wet with tears. Then it 
 was that, drawing his chair close to mine and taking 
 my hand in both his, he began his task of tender pre- 
 paration. For what ! Oh, Heavens ! the agony of that 
 moment ! What words, however cautious, could com- 
 municate, without piercing my very heart, the know- 
 ledge that his days were numbered that for many 
 weeks the dreaded disease had declared itself by such 
 symptoms as, being made known to our anxious medi- 
 cal friend, had caused that ominous shade of increased 
 seriousness in his kind face, which I had read so fear- 
 fully, but shrank from interpreting. 
 
 "'It is even so, my aunt/ said the beloved one, 
 when I regained sufficient self-command to control 
 the outward token of anguish. 'It is even so ; and al- 
 ready, as you may have observed, I have bid farewell 
 to the world : and now, but for the pain of leaving you, 
 I could rejoice that my hour is nigh. And yet 
 dreamer that I am ! I had looked forward to many 
 sweet and pleasant passages in this life ! To many days 
 of faithful ministration and varied usefulness in my 
 appointed station. To some dear future home among 
 those I was leading heavenward, shared perhaps by 
 .... but his will be done. Earthly love might 
 have more than divided this weak heart with him, 
 whose right is all : Or again, the infirm mind might 
 have wandered into dangerous paths, and the excitable 
 spirit have been deluded by "vain imaginings." It is 
 in mercy that I am called thus early to rejoin my 
 sweet sister.' And his voice faltered as he uttered
 
 38 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 the last words, and sank into a low inward articulation, 
 as if replying to his own thoughts, when he continued, 
 after a moment's pause 'And what matters it that 
 our dust may not mingle in the same grave, when the 
 spirit shall be reunited in eternity ?' 
 
 "He had let fall my hand while uttering the last 
 sentence, and sank back in his chair with closed eyes 
 as if for the moment abstracted from all conscious- 
 ness of my presence and of the painful task he had un- 
 dertaken. But recalled to a sense of my distress by 
 the sound of a half suppressed sob, he started from his 
 reclining posture, and with a tender and almost a cheer- 
 ful smile, again took my hand, and affectionately kiss- 
 ing it, said 'But, beloved aunt! though I thought it 
 best to acquaint you myself with what you could not 
 have remained in ignorance of much longer, I have not 
 told you that the time of our separation is immediately 
 at hand : Many, many months nay longer still you 
 may have to watch over the charge you will never feel 
 to be a burden. Let us pass together my remaining 
 portion of time like friends who are preparing to part 
 but for a season ; the one for another hemisphere to 
 make ready for the joyful coming of her who was left 
 behind. You will take comfort and support yourself 
 for my sake, and God will support us both/ 
 
 " I felt that he was right that for his sake I must 
 not yield myself up to selfish sorrow : there would be 
 much to do and to suffer, and I must brace myself for 
 the appointed trial. I sought the solitude of my cham- 
 ber and was, * still' but not alone: and when my dear
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 39 
 
 Herbert and I met again in the drawing-room before 
 dinner, I was able to meet his look of kind solicitude 
 with one which assured him of my regained compo- 
 sure. 
 
 "My next day's conference with Kendrick (our 
 medical friend) too fully confirmed Herbert's commu- 
 nication. But on my pressing him on the subject 
 alas ! the heart-sickening forlorn hope of change of 
 air of climate he gave his ready acquiescence to our 
 removal for the approaching winter to some warm 
 sheltered station on our own sea coast Herbert having 
 premised his unconquerable repugnance to leave Eng- 
 land. 
 
 "I fear that if the dear being had been left to the 
 guidance of his own wishes, he would thankfully have 
 chosen to remain at Merivale to dwell with his last 
 looks on familiar objects and endeared scenes, and en- 
 joying that sacredness of repose, inviolate only in the 
 sanctuary of Home. But not for a moment did he 
 contest the point on which he saw my trembling 
 anxiety. He faintly smiled indeed when I ventured 
 to hint at hopes beyond the mere procrastination of the 
 dreaded event; but that he admitted might (God will- 
 ing) be effected by the proposed plan, and he gave his 
 cheerful assent for our immediate departure, the autumn 
 being already far advanced, for Torquay, which was 
 the place fixed on for our winter sojourn. 
 
 " My old butler, Johnson, preceded us, to engage a 
 habitation; and make suitable arrangements for the par- 
 ticular accommodation and comfort of my dear invalid,
 
 40 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 and we had every reason, on our arrival, to be satisfied 
 with the result of his mission. 
 
 "He had taken for us one of two houses, built under 
 the shelter of a wall of living rock, which by its gentle 
 curvature completely protected them from the north 
 and east, and partly from even the western breezes, 
 while its whole front lay open to the sunny south ; the 
 silver sands, to which a grass slope descended from 
 the broad terrace-walk which ran along the veranda, 
 and the deep blue sea, glancing with innumerable 
 sails. 
 
 "We reached our -marine villa towards the close of 
 a beautiful September afternoon ; and Herbert, who 
 had borne the journey wonderfully well, looked round 
 him, as we took possession, with such sweet content- 
 ment in his face, as communicated to my heart a sense 
 of gladness that would have been almost hope, if I had 
 dared to encourage the fond whisperer. 
 
 "Very soon my dear invalid was seated at one of 
 the French windows, which opened into the broad 
 veranda throughout the length of two adjoining rooms. 
 
 "The late autumn noon was still and warm as a 
 bright summer evening ; and the measured plash of 
 the long ridgy waves, as they stole softly over the 
 glittering sands, and sluggishly retired, came pleasantly 
 upon the traveller's ear, still ringing with the sound of 
 grinding wheels and clattering hoofs. 
 
 "The house taken for us was only let occasionally 
 by the gentleman whose property it was, and the ve- 
 randa was tastefully decorated with fine vases and
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 41* 
 
 beautiful exotics. Close to the open window, at which 
 Herbert had seated himself, stood a noble orange tree, 
 gorgeous with golden fruit and snowy blossoms. Of 
 these, a few petals were wafted towards him by a 
 wandering breeze, and as their odour stole over his 
 senses, I saw his countenance change, and his eyes fill 
 with tears. I drew near, and kissed his forehead in 
 silence, but our eyes met, and we needed not to tell 
 each other to what far distant land our thoughts had 
 wandered. 
 
 " Looking earnestly for a moment on a small gold 
 hoop which encircled the little finger of his left hand, 
 he pressed his lips to it, and said, { I took this ring from 
 her dead finger our mother's wedding ring let it 
 not be withdrawn from mine, for I am the last of my 
 race. Living, I would never have parted with it but 
 
 for one purpose Do you know, my dear 
 
 aunt,' he continued, with a quick inflection of voice, 
 as he looked up half-smiling in my face, ' I had the 
 strangest dream about this ring the night before we 
 left Merivale. One of my "poetic visions" you would 
 call it, and truth to tell, I had been recreating that 
 evening with my favourite Thalaba. Well, you shall 
 hear as how in this my dream I found myself (how 
 brought thither I know not) in the chancel of a strange 
 church, all hung with black, and so dimly lighted, that 
 nothing was distinctly visible but the altar, on which 
 flamed two of those immense wax tapers which are 
 used in the pageant of a corpse lying in state. The 
 table was spread as for a solemn ceremony, and before
 
 42 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 it, fronting the rails, stood a tall figure, attired rather 
 as a monk than as a Protestant clergyman, for he wore 
 a loose black robe, with a hood or eowl, which was 
 drawn over his head and face. But, open in his hands, 
 was our book of Common Prayer, from which, in a 
 voice so deep and hollow, that it sounded as if ascend- 
 ing from the vaults beneath, he was reading, what I 
 knew by some mysterious perception not connected 
 with the sense of hearing, to be the marriage ceremony, 
 and though unconscious how all had come to pass, I 
 felt neither surprise nor perplexity at the circumstances 
 in which I found myself, kneeling on the altar steps 
 beside a female figure, covered from head to foot with 
 a thick white veil. I was sensible that the relation in 
 which we thus knelt together was that of bridegroom 
 and bride, but when I stretched forth my hand, by a 
 sort of mechanical impulse, to take hers as the rite 
 proceeded, I felt no horror at the contact, though the 
 hand which met mine from beneath the folds of the 
 thick veil was cold and clammy like that of a corpse, 
 and the nails of the small taper fingers were purpled 
 and shrunken. Well, dear aunt, you shudder, but I 
 did not, nor shrank from my veiled bride. There were 
 shadowy forms near us behind and oa either side 
 but I knew not by whom that chilly hand was placed in 
 mine, nor do I remember hearing distinctly the solemn 
 question, nor articulating the affirmative, "I will." 
 But somehow the assent was asked and given on either 
 part, and when the time came for placing the ring on 
 the bride's finger, I transferred to it this very ring
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 43 
 
 drawn from my own my mother's wedding-ring 
 no sooner was the pledge given, than a bell tolled, (a 
 funeral bell,) the tapers flared up to the vaulted roof, 
 and the officiating priest stood before us disrobed of 
 his sable vestments. It was Azrael, the Angel of 
 Death.' "
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Youth, and the opening Rose, 
 
 May look like things too lovely for decay, 
 And smile at thee. But thou art not of those 
 Who wait the ripened bloom to seize thy prey." 
 
 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 " OUR house and the adjoining one in fact, a con- 
 tinuation of ours, and standing in the same enclosure 
 had been so constructed by the gentleman whose pro- 
 perty they were, for the accommodation of his own 
 family and that of a married daughter. A slight 
 partition of trellis-work, covered with ivy and ever- 
 blowing roses, divided the grass-slope in front of the 
 houses ; but a door of communication, opening from 
 the end of our verandah into the next, had been made 
 no doubt to facilitate the intercourse of the kindred 
 households. 
 
 " Some straggling tendrils of ivy had already crept 
 over the bolts and lock of the closed door, as if to in- 
 terpose more effectually between the neighbours, now 
 strangers to each other ; for the sound of steps and 
 voices on the other side of the temporary barrier soon 
 made us aware that we had neighbours, and the dis- 
 covery (so made) was not particularly agreeable ; but 
 we were not loud talkers, nor likely to take much
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 45 
 
 heed of that which concerned us not, so made a merit 
 of necessity, and thought light of the annoyance. 
 
 " I was more disturbed, however, at hearing from 
 my maid, while she assisted me in undressing, that one 
 of our near neighbours was a young lady dying of con- 
 sumption, attended by a most distressing cough, that 
 symptom so mercifully lightened in my dear Herbert's 
 case. But we could not fail to hear this poor thing 
 from our verandah ; and even in the house the partition 
 wall might not be substantial enough to exclude sound. 
 < And it will be a perpetual knell/ was my sad soli- 
 loquy, ' full of my Herbert's doom. But it will strike 
 on my heart only to him death comes not clothed 
 in terrors.' 
 
 " My apprehensions were verified in the course of 
 the next morning a warm and lovely one, which 
 enabled Herbert to stroll down often to the sands, and 
 have his chair placed in the verandah. Our neigh- 
 bours were apparently enjoying the bright balmy day 
 in the same manner with ourselves, for we heard voices 
 on their side the partition, and soon, too soon, the 
 sound of that peculiar cough attracted Herbert's notice. 
 He looked at me with a face of sad meaning, and 
 said, ' My servant told me this morning that we had 
 three ladies for our neighbours a mother and her two 
 daughters and that of the latter, one was an invalid. 
 Poor thing! that sound tells the nature of her malady. 
 How favoured have I been hitherto, dear aunt ! so 
 little of that distressing symptom attached to my com- 
 plaint, and my sweet sister had to endure so much!' 
 E 2
 
 46 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 " Except the frequent recurrence of that painful 
 sound, we heard little more than low murmurs on the 
 other side ; and should scarce have heeded the quiet 
 undertone, but that now and then a young clear voice 
 was heard above it, breaking out, in the innocent glee 
 of childhood, into a merry laugh, or snatches of song, 
 or quick exclamation. 
 
 "'That sound cheers one's heart, like the song of 
 the sky-lark/ was Herbert's observation, after one of 
 those outbursts of exuberant gladness ; for he delighted 
 in children, and, when in health, had ever been a 
 favourite playfellow among them ; but he started and 
 changed colour when another voice sweet, low, one 
 of very peculiar intonation was heard addressing 
 some words to the younger speaker, close to the door 
 of communication. 
 
 " 'What a remarkable similarity,' he said, as we 
 turned to retrace our sauntering steps towards the far- 
 ther end of our sheltered terrace ; ' I never heard 
 but one voice like that, and it was poor Melcomb's ;' 
 and, as was ever the case when any reference occurred 
 to his college friend, a shade gathered over his brow, 
 and he fell into a mood of sad abstraction. 
 
 " ' You have not heard from Mr. Melcomb in answer 
 to your last letter, have you, dear Herbert?' I inquir- 
 ed, less from a motive of curiosity, than with a view of 
 drawing him from his melancholy reverie. 
 
 '"No ; and it surprises and pains me that I have not. 
 This was about the time he purposed taking his de- 
 parture from England, probably for ever ; but surely
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 47 
 
 he would not, could not leave it without a farewell 
 line to me, grievously as I fear he is disappointed in 
 me.' 
 
 "'How distressing to Mr. Melcomb's family and 
 connexions/ I ventured to remark, 'must have been 
 the change of his religious views, and of his plans and 
 prospects in consequence of that change.' 
 
 "'Yes. I believe his mother, his only surviving 
 parent, was much disturbed by his determination ; and 
 his uncle, from whom he had large expectations, be- 
 sides the church preferment intended for him, has, I 
 fear, gone the length of renouncing him. "All have 
 cast me off," I have heard him say, yielding for a mo- 
 ment to natural weakness, "all but my sweet sister, my 
 poor Agnes ; and she is scarcely a creature of this earth, 
 and will not long sojourn here." You will laugh, my 
 dear aunt, but I could fancy that voice was the voice 
 of Melcomb's sister, if, unfortunately for the construc- 
 tion of the romance I might build upon that conjecture, 
 we had not heard that our neighbours are named Har- 
 lowe. No conjuring Harlowe into Melcomb ; so my 
 ingenious structure that might be, has not an inch of 
 ground to stand on, and in sober sadness I do not wish 
 it otherwise. I could not desire to identify Melcomb's 
 beloved sister with that poor girl, whose hollow cough 
 is a sound of such ill omen.' 
 
 "Secretly I blessed God that the dire portent had 
 but slightly manifested itself in the case of the dear 
 speaker ; and, with a trembling thankfulness I dared 
 not call hope, I thanked Him for the degree of renova-
 
 48 TUB EARLY CALLED. 
 
 tion evident in Herbert's general apperance since our 
 departure from Merivale. 
 
 "-He passed great part of that day in the open air, 
 making frequent sauntering excursions down the easy 
 slope which led from our house to the margin of the 
 glittering sands, and watching with interest and enjoy- 
 ment the many glancing sails of small skiifs and fishing 
 boats; and the slow and regular flux and reflux of the 
 long and gently heaving waves ; stooping now to pick 
 up a shell or pebble, brilliant with its still wet varnish 
 from the retiring tide, or a sea-weed of peculiarly vivid 
 hue or elegant form. Our youngest neighbour, a little 
 girl, seemingly about eight years old, had also found 
 her way down to those sunny sands, so tempting and 
 delightful to contemplative as well as infant minds, 
 with their rich and ever-shifting store of marine trea- 
 sures. And very soon I observed the collectors 
 gradually drawing together, and in short time that a 
 friendly intercouse was fairly established between 
 them. It was not without inquietude that I looked at 
 this commencement of acquaintance (as it was likely 
 to prove) between our two families, for I shrank from 
 the idea of bringing together the young persons so 
 sadly and similarly circumstanced. But these thoughts 
 were of course confined to my own bosom, and when 
 my dear invalid came back to me with his smiling 
 report of the familiar footing on which he already stood 
 with the 'pretty little mermaid,' as he called his new 
 acquaintance, I forgot every thing but gladness at his 
 apparent pleasure.
 
 THE EARLY CALLED, 49 
 
 " 'But only think, my dear aunt/ he continued, 
 ' when my little friend left me just now with the basket 
 I had helped to fill with weeds and shells, she told me 
 they were all for sister Agnes, who was not yet well 
 enough to come down and collect for herself- only 
 for this name of Harlowe !' 
 
 "While he was yet speaking, the door opened, and 
 Johnson entered with a letter addressed to Herbert, 
 sent in with Mrs. Harlowe's compliments, and a civil 
 note from that lady to myself, announcing her inten- 
 tion of calling on me the day following, should the 
 state of Mr. Ross's health be such as not to preclude 
 me from receiving visitors. The letter addressed to 
 my nephew, she had just received, enclosed in one 
 from her stfn-in-law, Mr. Melcomb. 
 
 " While I was reading Mrs. Harlowe's note, and 
 penning my reply, my poor Herbert had broken the 
 seal of his friend's letter with a trembling hand, and 
 was perusing its contents with a degree of agitation, 
 too evident in the varying colour of his cheek. As 
 he read on, still fixed to the spot where he had received 
 and torn open that deeply interesting letter, tears 
 began to trickle slowly from beneath his long eye- 
 lashes ; and, as if conscious of his visible emotion, he 
 threw himself back on a sofa at the darker end of the 
 room, shading his face with one hand, while the other 
 shaking as if in an ague fit, held the open letter, on 
 which his attention was still riveted. I respected his 
 feelings too much to break in on them by question or 
 remark, and having sealed and sent away my note,
 
 50 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 I quietly withdrew to a seat just without the window, 
 from whence, however, I could keep him still in sight, 
 should the consequences of his nervous excitement 
 call for active assistance. But after a time, having read 
 and reread-, and mused over that too interesting com- 
 munication, he let it falj, still open in the hand that 
 held it, on his knee, and leaning back his head on the 
 sofa cushions, I saw that his dear face had resumed its 
 expression of. serene tranquillity, though the bright 
 flush of agitation was succeeded by unusual paleness, 
 with which his closed eyelids and marble brow, and 
 seemingly unbreathing stillness, combined into a sem- 
 blance so startling, that, after a moment's hesitation, I 
 could no longer forbear gently drawing near, to assure 
 myself that the beautiful clay still retained its spiritual 
 inhabitant. Slight as was the sound of my approach, 
 it roused him from that awful trance, and lifting up 
 his head, he looked at me with a sad faint smile, and 
 said, holding towards me the still unfolded letter, 
 ' Take this, my dear aunt ! my ever kindest, most 
 indulgent friend ! I have no reserves from you ; 
 and when you have read what my poor Melcomb 
 writes, you Avill love him almost as I do, and perfectly 
 comprehend the influence such a mind as his could 
 not fail to acquire over mine. But defer reading it 
 till you are alone. I shall best recover myself in the 
 stillness of my chamber; and, by the help of a few 
 minutes' stroll on the sands before dinner, shall be 
 quite myself again by that time.' 
 
 "So saying, he withdrew to his own room, and
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 51 
 
 left me to the uninterrupted perusal of a letter, which, 
 before it was half finished, had bathed my face with 
 tears, and wellnigh fulfilled my nephew's prediction. 
 I felt, and acknowledged to myself, that between two 
 persons, whose characters assimilated so remarkably 
 in many essential points as those of Melcomb and 
 Herbert, it would have been extraordinary and unnatu- 
 ral, if acquaintance had not quickly ripened into 
 intimacy, and intimacy into strong attachment. 
 
 "In each, the same ardent, enthusiastic temperament 
 the same deeply religious feeling the same purity 
 and singleness of heart the same quick and fine 
 perception of the good and beautiful. 
 
 u It would have been wonderful indeed if minds so 
 constituted, and hearts so well in unison, had not been 
 drawn together by the mysterious bands of sympathy, 
 even from the first hour of meeting and the few 
 years by which Melcomb was senior to his friend 
 would naturally secure to the former that influence 
 and ascendency which Herbert, in the extreme diffi- 
 dence of his nature, ascribed to moral and intellectual 
 superiority. 'Yes, I must have loved this young 
 enthusiast/ was my silent acknowledgment while 
 reading his affecting letter ; and my heart smote me 
 for having at one time imputed to him a portion of 
 that pharisaical pride and pretension which character- 
 ise too many of those, who ostentatiously assume to 
 themselves the designation of ' serious Christians.' 
 Here was no assumption of any sort, no pretension to 
 superior sanctity, or to that depth of self-abasement
 
 52 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 under which pride so often humbles itself that it may 
 be exalted and receive praise of men. Melcomb's fare- 
 well to his friend was in the highestdegree touching and 
 solemn, written in the belief that (humanly speaking) 
 they should meet no more in this world, for Herbert's 
 letter from Merivale had apprised Melcomb of his 
 more than precarious state. After dwelling oh the 
 affecting subject with all the tenderness of truest 
 friendship, and all the hopefulness of Christian faith, 
 Melcomb adverted with great feeling to the similar 
 circumstances in which (he told Herbert) he had 
 lately parted from his sweet sister, the daughter of his 
 father by a second wife, married since his death to a 
 gentleman of the name of Harlowe, and again widowed 
 with another daughter by her last husband. 'It is a 
 source of singular satisfaction to me, my dearest Her- 
 bert !' wrote his friend, ' that the will of Providence 
 should so have ordered your ways, and those of my 
 beloved sister, as to bring you so near together in this 
 last stage of your earthly pilgrimage, that I do hope 
 you may yet be acquainted with each other, and begin 
 in time that intercourse which may be renewed and 
 perfected in eternity. It has been a lurking wish of 
 mine a pleasant day-dream that the two I love best 
 on earth might thus be brought together with the 
 memory of the absent one weaving our friendship as 
 it were a triple chord in one and I am persuaded 
 this will come to pass. My sister and my friend will 
 meet on earth, before they meet in heaven, and speak 
 together of the poor missionary, whose prayers for
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 53 
 
 them will ascend morning, and at noonday, and 
 eventide whether from the vast deserts of great 
 waters, or of burning sands, or of the howling wilder- 
 ness; from among the habitations of Christian men, 
 or of those not yet visited by " the day spring from on 
 high," for whose sake he goes a voluntary exile from 
 country, home, and kindred. But, oh Herbert! I 
 have yet to impart to you a wish, a strong desire, 
 which has strengthened in my heart from day to day, 
 since I have known that my only sister and my 
 dearest friend might possibly be brought together 
 under circumstances so solemn, so affecting. Herbert 
 will you, if life and power are so far extended to your- 
 self, supply to my Agnes, in her hour of need, the 
 ministry of her absent brother, whose awful sense of 
 a paramount duty calling him hence, might have 
 failed to sustain his purpose had he been aware, before 
 the decisive step was taken, of this beloved one's ap- 
 proaching change? But had it been possible justi- 
 fiably possible to have relinquished or even postpond 
 my departure, I should not have been permitted to 
 take my faithful stand beside the couch of my dying 
 sister. The mother of my Agnes (whose change of 
 conduct towards me can never cancel the debt of grati- 
 tude I owe her for years of maternal care and kindness) 
 has misjudged her husband's son, and strongly depre- 
 cating his influence over her daughter's mind, dreads 
 it, more especially under present circumstances; for 
 alas ! in mistaken fondness for her darling child, she 
 withholds from her, and almost conceals from herself,
 
 54 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 the dangerous nature of her disease, and the nearness 
 of that change which cannot be long protracted by the 
 utmost efforts of human science. 0, Herbert ! I could 
 fondly hope that you are appointed by Providence 
 (her fellow-traveller through the dark valley) to pre- 
 pare my Agnes for the awful passage : to prepare to 
 calm to strengthen to encourage to comfort not 
 as the world comforts, speaking of peace when there is 
 no peace of hope when there is no hope of life 
 temporal to one on the verge of life eternal. 
 
 "'You will find the good seed sown and cherished 
 in that meek, loving heart: But the love of life (for 
 she is young and happy) is yet strong within it, and 
 deluded (as you are not] by the insidious nature of 
 her malady, she sees not the beckoning hand, but 
 dreams of distant days, and even earthly reunion 
 with her absent brother, while he well knows that in 
 this world he shall see her face no more. 
 
 "'Oh Herbert! let her not pass away thus uncon- 
 scious of her real state. False and fallacious are the 
 pleas of erring fondness of self-sparing infirmity 
 that the youth and innocence of the unconscious victim 
 are sufficient warrant for its safe passage into eternity 
 unwarned and thoughtless of impending doom. 
 Wo be to those who lay this flattering unction to 
 their hearts, and take upon themselves by acting on 
 it the awful responsibility. Talk not to Agnes of 
 her pure heart and sinless life, but tell her, that though 
 all are guilty before God, the Son of God died for 
 all, and that in Him, and through Him, for all who
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 55 
 
 come unto Him is sure salvation. And, Herbert ! 
 that all are free to come, is at length the firm and 
 fixed conviction in which has terminated all those 
 distressing doubts by which your friend's mind was 
 for a long season agitated and perplexed, and for a 
 time, indeed, during the period of our intimacy, swayed 
 to an opposite conclusion. I thank God, my friend, 
 that you were the first to struggle into light, from 
 that maze of error in which I had nearly been the 
 means of involving you, together with myself and in 
 all confidence, I commit to you the charge, to which 
 I am forbidden to devote myself. Be to my Agnes 
 what her brother would have been ; her awakener 
 her guide her comforter and oh ! far more, my 
 Herbert ! her companion through that last dark strait 
 of time, which shall, by God's grace, conduct you both 
 to a heaven of eternal blessedness.' 
 
 "There was much more in Melcomb's letter, ad- 
 dressed more particularly to Herbert many affecting 
 and tender passages ; much of hope, and earnest exor- 
 tation, and of the outpouring of Christian friendship, 
 looking beyond the grave for perfect consummation. 
 But from the portion I have read to you, Mr. Lind- 
 say, you will readily believe that tears were streaming 
 down my cheeks when I folded up the paper ; and 
 when I replaced it in Herbert's hands at our next 
 meeting, the look with which I met his inquiring 
 glance belied my heart, if it expressed aught but the 
 warmest sympathy in his feelings towards the writer of 
 that most interesting letter.
 
 56 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 "The next morning brought with it Mrs. Harlowe's 
 expected visit. She came, accompanied by her little 
 daughter Flora, the smiling recognition between 
 whom and her seaside acquaintance broke through the 
 formality of our first meeting, and we were soon en- 
 gaged in easy conversation, which took a tone of 
 deeper interest when Herbert, having been drawn 
 away towards the lawn by his new friend, Mrs. Har- 
 lowe availed herself of the opportunity to inquire 
 respecting his health, and to confide to me (of whose 
 sympathy she was well assured) her hopes and fears 
 of which it was evident the former greatly prepon- 
 derated concerning her daughter. I listened with 
 tender pity to the poor mother's self-deluding speech ; 
 fresh in my ear as was the sound of that hollow cough 
 the knell, as it seemed to me, of the young Agnes. 
 But as my sanguine guest continued to talk away her 
 own apprehensions, and from that subject adverting to 
 my cause of anxiety, professed surprise at perceiving 
 in Herbert's general appearance but slight indications 
 of disease, and a cheerful assurance that his malady as 
 well as her daughter's would yield to skilful treatment 
 and youth's tenacious powers, I felt that her hopeful- 
 ness was contagious, and spite of reason's sad sugges- 
 tions, I blest her in my heart for the momentary 
 gladness reflected from her sanguine temper on my 
 darker spirit. Drawn together as we were by mutual 
 sympathy, it is not wonderful that when Mrs. Har- 
 lowe rose to take leave, we parted with a degree of 
 cordiality seldom felt or expressed at such an early
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 57 
 
 stage of acquaintance by we phlegmatic English, 
 whose social feelings are for the most part of such 
 tedious growth, that one would think life in our days 
 was still extended to antediluvian length, admitting 
 ample time for the cautious reserve which restrains us 
 from all friendly advances towards a fellow-creature, till 
 we have ascertained his style, title, and circumstances 
 in this world of ours for we do not so strictly insist 
 on character. 
 
 "It was arranged before we separated, that the door 
 of communication between our two verandahs should 
 be unfastened, for the facilitation of our future inter- 
 course, and more especially for the convenience of 
 our dear invalids, who might thus pass from one house 
 to the other with as little risk or fatigue as to their 
 own chambers. 
 
 "The next morning Herbert came down from his 
 room at an earlier hour than usual, with so firm a step, 
 and so much appearance of renovation, that my heart 
 beat quick as I looked at him, whispering to itself, 
 'Can it be possible! 7 
 
 "Contrary to his general bearing, he was restless 
 and pre-occupied, and as early as we could ask admit- 
 tance, reminded me of my promise to return Mrs. 
 Harlowe's visit 'And your consistent nephew, who 
 has so long discontinued all intercourse with strangers 
 and the world, will accompany you, my dear aunt !' 
 he added with an ingenuous smile, which faded into 
 a more thoughtful expression as he said, after a short 
 pause 'I must become acquainted, you know, with 
 F 2
 
 58 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 my new sister. Melcomb has committed to me a 
 solemn trust and I have prayed to be directed and 
 strengthened in the fulfilment of it.' 
 
 "Herbert's countenance as he spoke, was so irradi- 
 ated by sanctity of purpose, that as he stood before me, 
 ' serene in youthful beauty,' methought in very truth, 
 'his face was as it were the face of an angel* and my 
 apprehension for himself for the risk to his weak 
 frame and nervous system he was about to incur, was 
 now overawed and silenced by reverence for his mo- 
 tives, and a secret consciousness that opposition to 
 them would be sinful as well as fruitless ; so, with a 
 silent prayer committing to God my beloved one and 
 the issue of our visit, I prepared myself to accompany 
 him. 
 
 " Little Flora ran forward, as we were ushered into 
 Mrs. Harlovve's saloon, to meet and welcome Herbert, 
 and to lead him to be introduced to sister Agnes be- 
 fore her mother could perform that ceremony to us 
 both with less indecorous haste. But the hackneyed 
 line may be fitly applied to children, who often 
 
 Set before 'em 
 A grace, a manner, a decorum, 
 
 unattainable by art and artificial rules, and we were 
 indebted to our youthful introductress for hurrying us 
 through the firstlbrms of a meeting, that, circumstanced 
 as we were, would otherwise have been more trying 
 to Herbert and myself. As it was before the expi- 
 ration of a few minutes we were seated together, like 
 acquaintances of a much longer date, Herbert being
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 59 
 
 established by his friend Flora in a comfortable corner 
 of her sjster's couch. And soon, as she talked with 
 my nephew, I was enabled to take more than a furtive 
 glance at the young creature between whom and him- 
 self existed such a mournful similarity of circumstances. 
 That alone would have ensured her a warm interest in 
 my heart, but who could have beheld the sweet Agnes 
 Melcomb, such as she was when I first looked upon 
 her, with unmoved and uninterested feelings? Alas! 
 the progress of disease was more apparent in her than 
 in my beloved Herbert for while his respiration was 
 for the most part free and regular as that of healthful 
 childhood, the painful oppression of hers was too evi- 
 dent in the short audible breathing, and in the quick 
 heaving of the soft bosom folds of her long muslin 
 wrapping gown. Her half reclining attitude, and the 
 languid sinking of her slender form, allowed me to 
 form no correct judgment of its height though there 
 was a general indication of the growth having been 
 too rapid, and already exceeding middle stature. On 
 the sunken temples, from which the hair, black as 
 night, was parted back in two thick folds, and gathered 
 into a knot at the back of the head ; and over the long 
 snowy throat and half transparent hands, the course of 
 the blue veins was as distinctly visible, as if traced 
 externally by the artist's pencil. Her large dark eyes, 
 half veiled by the heavy lids, were in fact grey, but of 
 that peculiar tinge that ebon blue of the storm-cloud 
 which might have been taken for black, (but for 
 their dove-like softness,) deepened as was their colour
 
 60 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 by the long jetty eye-lashes, whose shadow rested on 
 the marble paleness of cheeks that had lost their youth- 
 ful roundness, on one of which as if just uplifted 
 from the pillow glowed one bright spot of that rich 
 rose tint, so far more appalling to an experienced 
 observer, than the most deadly pallor. 
 
 " Beyond the surpassing beauty of those eyes, 'that 
 seemed to love whate'er they looked upon/ and the 
 almost infantine sweetness of expression about a mouth 
 that reminded me of that very peculiar feature in her 
 brother's face that of Agnes Melcomb had no distin- 
 guished claim to beauty. Such as she was, however, 
 such as I that day beheld her, in her half reclining 
 posture like a tall young lily bent before the blast 
 a being hovering (as was too evident) on the confines 
 of both worlds, she appeared to me the most angelic 
 creature my eyes had ever rested on since they watched 
 the fading beauty of my own Ann Ross, that orphan 
 girl whose early fate drew from your eyes, my dear 
 friend, many a tear of tenderest compassion and sym- 
 palhy for our sorrows, when we met for the first time 
 at Castle-a-Mare. 
 
 " At the time of her death, our lost Ann nad just 
 completed her sixteenth year. The youthful victim I 
 now looked upon was not yet nineteen ! Alas ! alas ! 
 and had the fatal decree gone forth against her? Was 
 the sentence irreversible? Was she also, and that be- 
 loved one who sat beside her, both those youthful, 
 beautiful beings, to be taken from light and life, fair 
 hopes, and fondest affection, the cheerful sunshine, and
 
 TIIE EARLY CALLED. 61 
 
 the smiling earth, and laid so early in the dark narrow 
 house appointed for all living? Oh, Lindsay ! there 
 are moments when such thoughts as these will suggest 
 themselves to the most faithful, the most believing, 
 and resigned ; but thanks be to the revealed word, 
 though mists and shadows may for a time come be- 
 tween us and our immortal hopes, they cannot utterly 
 obscure them, and when the temporary film is with- 
 drawn, we penetrate farther, and with a clearer vision, 
 into realms of light and blessedness ; tracking thither 
 the ascent of the emancipated spirit, instead of clinging 
 to its cast-off slough ; the perishable mortal part that 
 must be hidden awhile from our eyes, before it shall be 
 raised imperishable and glorified. 
 
 " Beside the couch of Agnes stood a sofa-table, on 
 which were spread out on plates and papers many 
 coloured sea-weeds, in various stages of preparation ; 
 a source of mutual interest and occupation to the sick 
 girl and her lively little sister, whose lately collected 
 shells and pebbles were also arranged in rows on the 
 same table, and Herbert was soon busied with the 
 sisters in the light labour of disentangling and spread- 
 ing the beautiful weeds, designed, when properly pre- 
 pared, to enrich a collection of natural specimens, 
 marine and other, of which a large book produced by 
 Agnes was half full, she boasted, and in which, by the 
 end of the next summer, not a blank leaf should be 
 left, if she soon got well and strong and could assist 
 Flora in collecting. 
 
 " As she spoke, a faint flush mantled on Herbert's
 
 62 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 cheek, and he stooped with more seeming intentness 
 over his delicate task ; but a moment after, when his 
 eyes glanced aside at the fair pale face, bent in smiling 
 eagerness beside his, I saw that they were glazed with 
 tears, and that by a strong effort only he so mastered 
 his emotion as to answer some question she addressed 
 to him with an unfaltering voice. 
 
 " As Mrs. Harlowe strolled with me on the lawn, 
 leaving the young trio to their quiet occupation, she 
 fell by degrees into almost confidential discourse re- 
 lating to her family affairs ; and adverting to her 
 absent son-in-law, spoke of him with a degree of aspe- 
 rity I should scarce have looked for from a person of 
 her apparent gentleness and kindly nature. 
 
 "But recollecting my former experience with regard 
 to Melcomb, and the too just cause I had had for de- 
 precating his influence over Herbert, I made large al- 
 lowance for Mrs. Harlowe's" feelings, especially on per- 
 ceiving that the irritation she betrayed was occasioned 
 by a recent endeavour of her step-son's to awaken 
 her to a conviction of her child's danger, and a solemn 
 exhortation he had addressed to her, in his farewell 
 letter, to prepare the unconscious Agnes for a know- 
 ledge of the awful truth since to himself, he added 
 ' a mother's mistaken tenderness had denied the con- 
 solation of performing that solemn duty before he 
 parted with his beloved sister for the last time on this 
 side eternity/ 
 
 " The poor mother, as she repeated these words to 
 me, gave way to a burst of angry reproachfulness, the
 
 THE EARLY CALLED, 63 
 
 evidence rather of secret fear and inward misgivings, 
 than of harsh feeling towards her son-in-law, whose 
 'cruel unnecessary counsel/ she vehemently condemn- 
 ed, applauding the firmness with which she had resisted 
 his pleadings to be allowed to see his sister in private 
 before their separation. ' He would have killed my 
 child,' faltered the poor woman, with a rising sob. 
 1 My timid Agnes would have expired under the 
 shock. And now she is so much better, so fast recov- 
 ering, how barbarous it would be to cause her such 
 useless agitation !' 
 
 " How often does some poor weak heart seek relief 
 thus waywardly, by denying to itself the existence of 
 impending evil, and venting its real terrors in angry 
 accusation of the faithful and courageous monitor who 
 dares, at whatever cost to his own feelings, to utter 
 the warning voice ! My heart ached for the poor mo- 
 ther as she looked up in my face for encouragement 
 to her fond delusion, but I could only keep silence ; 
 and after a moment's pause, adverting to the state of 
 my own dear sufferer, I ventured a grateful remark on 
 the extraordinary measure of divine grace which sup- 
 ported him under the calm and settled conviction that 
 a fatal termination of his malady was not far distant, 
 adding, how fervently I prayed for strength sufficient 
 to uphold me through that hour when I should be 
 called on to resign the last living object of my earthly 
 care. 
 
 "My observation was met with more of impatience 
 than sympathy, and with a vehemence of sanguine
 
 64 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 prognostic more indicative of secret misgiving than of 
 cheerful assurance ; but I also was prone to catch at 
 shadows, tinted with the faintest colouring of hope, 
 and by degrees our conversation assumed a less sombre 
 tone, and we parted mutually pleased with our pros- 
 pect of frequent intercourse. 
 
 " Circumstanced as we were, indeed, our acquaint- 
 ance had made farther advance towards intimacy in 
 three days than it would have done in as many months, 
 had we been brought together in general society, and 
 amid the turmoil of worldly distractions. Hearts do 
 not open, like gaudy flowers, in broad sunshine, but 
 rather in stillness and in shade, like those more deli- 
 cate and fragrant, that wait the coming forth of the 
 evening star to diffuse their hoarded sweetness. 
 
 " In a short time our two families became almost as 
 one Mrs. Harlowe's drawing-room the general ren- 
 dezvous, and Herbert's post, established for the most 
 part, as assigned by Flora, in one corner of the sofa 
 occupied by Agnes, or in a comfortable chair at the 
 sisters' work-table. For a season, as is so common in 
 consumptive cases, there was a seeming pause in the 
 progress of disease in both the dear objects of our soli- 
 citude, and in Herbert I remarked especially such a 
 lighting up of the languid and drooping spirit, as half 
 beguiled me into hope that the physical renovation 
 was equally unquestionable. 
 
 "The strength of Agnes was so far restored, that 
 she was soon able, with the assistance of an arm, to 
 reach the sea-beach once at least in every morning of
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 65 
 
 those soft sunny days that succeeded each other in 
 unvarying series through many weeks of that delight- 
 ful autumn. There, settled luxuriously on a heap of 
 cloaks and shawls, arranged by her tender little nurse, 
 whose care for the accommodation of Herbert was 
 almost as zealous, she passed many an hour of peaceful 
 enjoyment, my nephew sometimes seated beside her, 
 or strolling to a short distance with Mrs. Harlowe and 
 myself, or enlisted by Flora in her persevering quest 
 of marine treasures, to be deposited at the feet or in 
 the lap of Agnes on their return from each short ex- 
 cursion. 
 
 " Herbert had become decidedly a favourite with 
 Mrs. Harlowe, and in her sanguine persuasion that his 
 perfect recovery and that of her daughter were no 
 longer doubtful, she watched the progress of their 
 intimacy, and the similarity of their tastes and pursuits, 
 with evident and avowed gratification ; in the affec- 
 tionate openness of her nature sometimes expressing 
 to me her almost romantic desire that their already 
 undisguised regard might ripen into permanent attach- 
 ment. But well I knew that no fond dreams of earthly 
 union with the sweet Agnes mingled with the tender 
 interest felt for her by Herbert ; for he at least deluded 
 himself with no fallacious hopes, built up on temporary 
 revival, and I was full sure that throughout our pleasant 
 hours of daily intercourse, one anxious thought was 
 ever present with him, and that he felt himself 'strait- 
 ened,' till the accomplishment of the task committed 
 to him by his departing friend.
 
 66 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 "But his opportunities of uninterrupted conversation 
 with Agnes were few and short, little Flora being 
 their almost inseparable companion during the occasi- 
 onal absence of her mother ; so that I believe it was 
 long before Herbert ventured to speak unreservedly 
 to Agnes of her absent brother, and to introduce by 
 cautious degrees the subject nearest to his heart. But 
 soon as the autumnal air freshened into more bracing 
 keenness, the sick girl shrank like a tender flower 
 from its ruder visitation, and again, visibly and sen- 
 sibly drooping, seldom quitted the corner of her soft 
 sofa, and the regulated temperature of the drawing- 
 room ; : and Herbert's enjoyment of out-door exercise 
 being restricted by the same cause almost to the short 
 range of the sunny verandah, it now frequently hap^- 
 pened that the two invalids were left together for a 
 considerable time, while Flora accompanied her mo- 
 ther and myself in our still daily walks. 
 
 " Had these young persons been less sadly circum- 
 stanced, I, as well as the mother of Agnes, should have 
 noted with delighted, as well as deep interest, the pro- 
 gress of an attachment, which, situated as they were, 
 I felt it would be profanation to call love ; and that, 
 on the part of Herbert at least, 'love such as angels 
 feel,' was the only sentiment he would dare entertain 
 towards her, whose young innocent heart had perhaps 
 given itself to him, unconscious that its affections must 
 be so soon unwound from every earthly object. But 
 whatever were the reciprocal feelings of those young 
 hearts, and whatever the nature of an affection so
 
 THE EARLY CALLED, 67 
 
 strangely born, and nourished, as it were, in the very 
 shadow of death, it was affection the most touching to 
 behold, from its peculiar character of ever watchful 
 sympathy, observant each of the other's sufferings, 
 and for each other's sake ingenious in every tender 
 art that can beguile and soothe the sufferer an anxiety 
 as artlessly displayed by the sweet Agnes, as evinced 
 in every look and gesture of Herbert. 
 
 " Insensible as she still seemed to the fact of her 
 own danger, she became gradually in some measure 
 awakened to the serious nature of Herbert's malady, 
 and often, as she scanned his wasting form, and hoi- 
 lower cheek, a cloud of sadness gathered over that 
 fair wan face, whose playful sweetness of expression 
 had hitherto scarcely varied in her hours of severest 
 suffering. Of this awakening sense of his precarious 
 state, Herbert availed himself to prepare her for a 
 knowledge of her own, during one of those morning 
 opportunities that were now frequently afforded. 
 
 " Adverting to the subject of his own health, he 
 went on to speak of the graciousness of God's dealings 
 with him, in giving him perfect and salutary know- 
 ledge of the hopelessness of recovery, and ample time 
 of preparation for the approaching change. I believe 
 (for Herbert dwelt not on details in this part of his 
 agitated account) that the poor Agnes was cruelly 
 overpowered, on being made perfectly to comprehend 
 the whole of the fatal truth, as far as the fate of Her- 
 bert was involved in it. It is possible though I do 
 but surmise it so far that her young heart, in its first
 
 68 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 outbreak of uncontrollable anguish, betrayed the fulness 
 of its feelings towards him. And his ! in that trying 
 moment, did it utter no secret cry, no passionate appeal, 
 that if it were possible, ' the cup might yet pass from 
 them ?' If human infirmity so far prevailed, assuredly 
 the words, ' Thy will be done,' went up to Heaven in 
 the same breath; and the answer was, 'peace and 
 strength;' for, bracing himself up for the full per- 
 formance of his accepted trust, before they saparated 
 that morning, the gentle and fearful creature, whose 
 tender nature had been so distressfully overpowered 
 by "the intimation of his danger, was calmed as well as 
 awe-struck by the more cautiously conveyed knowledge 
 of her own. 
 
 "The precise manner of the communication, and its 
 immediate impression, I know not. I could not, dared 
 not, curiously inquire, so sacred to my feelings were 
 the secrets of that sad, strange interview secrets such 
 as 'angels might love to look upon' but too holy to be 
 subjected to the profanation of mortal curiosity. That 
 day Herbert paid no second visit to Mrs. Harlowe's 
 drawing-room, and I found him indeed so exhausted 
 by recent excitement, that it was with some difficulty 
 he supported himself to join me at the dinner hour, 
 and soon afterwards bidding me farewell for the night, 
 he requested that Johnson might be summoned to 
 assist him to his bed-chamber. ' But feel no unusual 
 anxiety on my account, dearest aunt,' he whispered 
 with his parting kiss, observant of my anxious and 
 troubled countenance ' this exhaustion is but tern-
 
 THE EAKLY CALLED. 69 
 
 porary you will see me to-morrow, (if I am spared 
 so long,) revived and gladdened by the consciousness 
 that the painful part of my delegated office is fulfilled. 
 The awakening is over ; and I have now only to 
 soothe to support to encourage, my sister pilgrim 
 through the short remainder of our way.' 
 
 "'As if an angel spoke,' I listened in tearful, rever- 
 ential silence to the words of the beloved speaker, 
 watching his enfeebled steps, as, leaning heavily on 
 Johnson's arm, he slowly retired, with a sad forebod- 
 ing that the time was fast approaching when I should 
 hear his voice no more. 
 
 " Scarcely had Herbert left me, when Mrs. Har- 
 lowe tapped at the window for admittance, having left 
 Flora, she said, beside the couch of her sleeping sister. 
 The hopeful spirit of my poor friend was still unsub- 
 dued, though for some time past she had become^ more 
 restlessly watchful of her precious charge, and could 
 not at all times, it was evident, conceal from herself 
 the too visible progress of disease. This evening she 
 was unusually thoughtful and depressed ; spoke of the 
 increasing debility of Agnes, and of a change she had 
 lately observed in the hitherto gay and happy temper 
 of her darling ' and this evening she is quite unlike 
 herself,' continued the anxious mother, 'I have sur- 
 prised her more than once in tears, and when I en- 
 deavoured to draw from her the cause of her distress, 
 she hid her dear face in my bosom, and sobbing as if 
 her heart would break, asked my forgiveness for all her 
 faults, and the great trouble and anxiety she had occa- 
 02
 
 70 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 sioned me. Blessed child ! she who has been the joy 
 
 and comfort of my life, till now that 
 
 Oh, my dear friend ! is it even so, are those two 
 beloved beings to be united only in death ?' I could 
 only mingle my tears with those of my sister in 
 affliction, who gave way to a burst of agony, soon 
 exhausted by its own violence ; and then again the 
 sanguine temper struggled for ascendency, and before 
 she rose to leave me, the fond self-deceiver had talked 
 away half her own fears, and but for the almost re- 
 proving seriousness of my answering looks, would 
 fain have beguiled me into forgetfulness of mine. 
 
 "But I could not suffer her to leave me unaccompa- 
 nied. I wished to look once more that day on the 
 sweet Agnes, now become to mean object of almost 
 maternal interest ; and together we stole noiselessly 
 into the drawing-room, at the farther end of which 
 she lay still sleeping, little Flora watching beside her 
 motionless as a statue. 
 
 "Stealthily I crept towards the couch, and for many 
 moments stood sadly gazing on that young pale face, 
 whose serenity would have been the very 'rapture of 
 repose/ but for a moist and glittering token, which 
 had stolen as she slept from beneath the long eyelash, 
 to the small white hand on which her cheek rested 
 on the pillow. The other hand lay languidly on her 
 lap, in relaxed hold of a half open prayer-book. The 
 thin fingers yet marked the page she had been reading ; 
 it was the service appointed for the burial of the 
 dead,
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 71 
 
 "If our neighbourly intercourse was from this day 
 forth less enlivened by the unconscious gaiety of 
 Agnes, and the feverish excitement of her mother, 
 hitherto sustained by fond and baseless hope, the 
 hearts of all were drawn closer together, as the veil 
 of useless and cruel concealment was withdrawn. 
 
 " That of my poor friend still for a brief while 
 maintained the miserable struggle between wilful 
 disbelief and sober, irresistible conviction between 
 its own passionate wishes and the Almighty will. 
 But gradually the secret working of his grace prevailed 
 over the resisting infirmity of nature ; submissive tears 
 succeeded to impetuous anguish ; and then came the 
 sense of dependent weakness, and divine support, 
 the calmness born of acquiescence in the divine will, 
 and the dawning of a better hope than that of which 
 the sacrifice was so hardly yielded. It was as beautiful 
 as affecting to mark tire instrumentality by which this 
 great change in the feelings of my poor friend was 
 brought to pass, even by the gentle ministry of the 
 beloved one the object of that fond idolatry, which 
 had possibly drawn down upon itself the rod that 
 chaste neth in mercy. 
 
 "The youthful victim should I not rather say, the 
 youthful saint? was now her mother's comforter, her 
 tender and timid nature receiving supplies of strength 
 and consolation in full measure, as she imparted to her 
 still weaker parent. The breaking heart of the little 
 Flora, too, piejced by its first great sorrow, (that spear 
 of sharpest point!) found balm only on the bosom of
 
 72 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 sister Agnes, soothed by her tears and kisses, and 
 softly whispered words of heavenly hope. And from 
 whence did the fair saint herself derive the power, 
 that thus, in the hour of her extremest need, triumphed 
 over natural weakness, and the shrinking fearfulness 
 of her own heart? Assuredly from that one only . 
 source of all efficient aid, whose strength is perfected 
 in weakness; but the Divine will, so often working in 
 its wisdom by human agency, had assigned to its 
 trembling creature such mortal companionship and 
 support, through the shadowy and mysterious passage, 
 as divested it of half its terrors. The path Herbert 
 must tread would hardly have been declined by Agnes, 
 had she been free to enter on or turn aside from it ; 
 and when he spoke to her of the place it led to of 
 the nothingness of all sufferings by the way, compared 
 with the exceeding great reward of those who are 
 faithful to the end; of the reunion of friends long 
 parted, never to part again; (and in that blissful 
 vision the image of the absent Melcomb was present 
 with the sister and the friend ;) of tears wiped from 
 all eyes ; of hearts lightened of all sorrow, cleansed 
 from all sin ; and as his face, while he thus discoursed 
 of heaven and heavenly things, lightened up with the 
 glory of his subject, the eyes of Agnes followed the 
 direction of his, upraised in holy fervour, and assuredly 
 at such moments her fears were more than calmed 
 her hope almost exultant 
 
 "But not at all seasons was the spiritual thus 
 victorious over the material frame. In both our dear
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 73 
 
 charges the mental energies ebbed and flowed with 
 the fluctuations of bodily disease ; though under all 
 circumstances each was most tremblingly alive to the 
 other's sufferings. At intervals also, in the course of 
 that long dreary winter, sickly gleams of hope stole 
 in upon us upon myself and more especially on 
 Mrs. Harlowe ; withdrawn almost as soon as the false 
 light had played before us, but doubtless sent in mercy 
 to beguile the heart-wasting uniformity of hopeless 
 watching. 
 
 " And with both our beloved ones the hand of death 
 dealt slowly, and for the most part mildly with each ; 
 mildly, compared with its more frequent inflictions ; 
 for they who have tended decaying nature, and watch- 
 ed the process of dissolution, know that rarely indeed 
 does the great change take place so easily and painless- 
 ly as is often depicted in the fanciful page of fiction 
 the fond assumption of the inexperienced or unthink- 
 ing. But they know also, that though their own hearts 
 have responded pang for pang, to the breaking of 
 every living chord, that it is good for them, as well as 
 for the object of their agonized affection, that the 
 instrument should be thus gradually unstrung, and 
 that the lingering ordeal is appointed to prove the 
 faith and submission of the mourner, as well as of the 
 departing, whose rest is so near. 
 
 "To my poor Herbert the most painful privation 
 resulting from his increasing infirmities, was, that as 
 the winter set in more severely, he was often for days 
 together debarred from all personal intercourse with
 
 74 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 Agnes, whose droopingspiritsat such seasons, without 
 evincing the slightest shade of fretfulness or impatience, 
 betrayed the lingering weakness of the creature, still 
 in some sort clinging for support to its fellow-mortal. 
 Then it was, in those sad and trying intervals, that 
 the loving little Flora flitted from house to house, 
 from one sick chamber to the other, like a .bright 
 spirit on a sunbeam, conveying from each to each, 
 warm from the heart, thoughts and feelings, messages 
 and assurances, most fitly committed, in their saintly 
 purity, to the innocent agency of that lovely intelli- 
 gent child : and frequently she was the bearer of short 
 notes and sundry tokens, valueless, yet invaluable, 
 the hieroglyphic characters of the heart's language. 
 
 "Often throughout the course of her life to come, 
 will that dear child look back, with grateful and tender 
 remembrance, to the period of her youthful ministry 
 between those who are now angels in heaven. Deep 
 in her heart I trust have sunk the lessons of their 
 beautiful example and affectionate teaching; for it was 
 the delight of both (unselfish in all their feelings) to 
 turn to the profit of the faithful and docile little mes- 
 senger and friend every incident and circumstance 
 connected with, and interesting to themselves, upon 
 which some 'word in season' might be spoken con- 
 ducive to her instruction and improvement. 
 
 " Often henceforward, as she turns over the leaves 
 of her Bible the Bible given to her by Herbert, with 
 his name and hers written by himself on the fly leaf 
 will her eyes and heart linger long on particular
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 75 
 
 passages inseparably associated with the memory of 
 those who so frequently, during seasons of particular 
 trial, exhorted and comforted each other by applicable 
 sentences from holy writ, indicated from each to each 
 by the finger of Flora, or repeated from her faithful 
 memory. Their voices will speak to her in the voice 
 of nature ; from whose inexhaustible storehouse they 
 taught her, by participation and example, to draw 
 forth treasures of delight, unfading and uncloying in 
 their simple purity. How precious to her will be the 
 possession of that book of natural specimens, half filled 
 by their joint labours. It had been the natural and 
 impulsive act of Agnes, on becoming fully aware that 
 she stood on the brink of eternity, to put away from 
 her as nearly as possible, all the petty concerns of time 
 turning especially from the innocent occupations she 
 had hitherto delighted in, with a heart-sickening sense 
 of her changed circumstances. But Herbert, after a 
 while observing this, drew forth from its hiding place 
 the discarded book, and spreading it open on the table 
 before Agnes, said to her, as he looked with undimi- 
 nished interest on their collected treasures * Dear 
 friend ! because we are drawing near to our father's 
 home, shall we therefore refuse to pick the way-side 
 flowers with which he has adorned the path that leads 
 to it? And from that hour, almost to the last of 
 her short life, the work was resumed at intervals, and 
 with a far deeper interest than that of former days, 
 when, at Herbert's suggestion, the heirship of the
 
 76 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 book was assigned to Flora, the young associate of 
 their unfinished task. 
 
 "Forgive me, Lindsay ! that I dwell on such details, 
 so trivial, so unimportant as they would be deemed by 
 many ; but the heart's records are made up of such 
 trifles, and the least among them is sanctified by love 
 and sorrow. How vividly I have now before me 
 nay, you will have patience with me, my kind friend ! 
 the forms of Herbert and Flora, as in a by-gone 
 hour ! My dear one languidly extended on his couch, 
 but listening with a sweet attentive seriousness to the 
 words of the fair child who stood before him, her face 
 all glowing with earnest inquiry, and holding forth in 
 her small hand a chrysalis she had found among the 
 cobwebs in a closet, which she had been bidden by 
 'sister Agnes' to show to Herbert, with a request that 
 he would tell her of what that shape of torpid life was 
 a type and semblance. 
 
 "As she delivered her mysterious message, Herbert's 
 pale face flushed over cheek and brow, and half raising 
 himself in the strength of his emotion, he took the 
 child's hand, still holding the chrysalis between both 
 his, and looking with affectionate seriousness into her 
 soft glistening eyes, said, ( Know you not, my little 
 Flora, that within this shapeless husk, is hidden what 
 once had life and motion? what still lives, though 
 motionless, senseless, invisible ? what, when the 
 time is come, shall break forth into more perfect life ; 
 no longer, as before its shroud was wrapt about it, a 
 vile creeping worm, but a beautiful winged creature,
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 77 
 
 destined to take its pastime in the fields of air and 
 light, soaring far, far above the earth on which it was 
 condemned to crawl out its first state of existence ?' 
 
 " The child's kindling eye, still riveted on his, and 
 the quick heaving of her chest, told that her sharp 
 intellect had half solved the mystery; but she still 
 silently awaited the promised explanation. 
 
 " ' My little Flora/ resumed her gentle teacher, ( as 
 the worm is hidden for awhile in that dark shell, its 
 coffin and its grave, shall not our bodies also' 
 
 "'Oh! I know, I know it all now/ she broke in 
 with passionate vehemence, while tears, that had been 
 gathering in her soft eyes, coursed each other like 
 heavy rain-drops over the crimson cheeks. * I know 
 all now that sister Agnes meant, and she and you will 
 
 soon fly away, far, far from poor Flora, till, till' 
 
 and her eyes brightened with April sunshine as she 
 continued, after a moment's thought, ( till wings, like 
 those of the beautiful butterfly, are given to her too to 
 follow you into heaven.' 
 
 " Lindsay ! reminiscences such as these are trea- 
 sures to be garnered in one's heart of hearts. But I 
 will linger over them no longer ; and now, a little 
 patience yet, and I shall reach the close of my unevent- 
 ful story. 
 
 " So passed the dreary winter months, and with 
 them ebbed away, fast, fast, those precious lives, that 
 seemed sinking to the lowest mark, when 
 
 ' Spring's first breath 
 
 Came forth to whisper where the violets blow,' 
 H
 
 78 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 and for a little space revived even those fading human 
 flowers, whose place was so soon ' to know them no 
 more/ 
 
 "Suddenly the cough ceased with Agnes, and, 
 though her weakness perceptibly increased, she was 
 otherwise so free from suffering, that when carried 
 from her chamber to the drawing-room couch, she was 
 again able, for many hours of the day, to enjoy the 
 refreshing change, and above all, the companionship 
 of him who was to her more than a brother ; for Her- 
 bert, too, had so far rallied, as to resume his station 
 beside her, near the littered sofa-table, where little 
 Flora still plied her now unassisted tasks, or at times 
 read aloud in her sweet, clear, childish voice, to those 
 who were no longer capable of the exertion ; and often 
 as the day darkened, and the silvery moonlight stole 
 in upon our party, each busied with thoughts that loved 
 that quiet hour, the low converse of the younger trio 
 would drop away insensibly to words whispered at 
 intervals, or give place to the soft tones of the child's 
 voice, as, seated on her little stool, her arm resting on 
 her sister's lap, it swelled with tremulous sweetness 
 into the simple' melody of the evening hymn. 
 
 "But day by day the little remaining strength of 
 Agnes decreased rapidly, and for the last two her 
 removal to the sitting-room had been followed by long 
 fainting fits ; so that the repetition of so fatiguing an 
 experiment was expressly forbidden by the physician 
 who attended her and Herbert. 
 
 " 'And my friend here,' he added, turning to the
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 79 
 
 latter, with whom he spoken apart for a few moments, 
 * must be content, also, to keep his chamber for a day 
 or two. These young ones have been talking each 
 other to death, I suspect, and must do penance for a 
 while in separate cells. Nay, all the better,' he turned 
 to say, while leaving the room, ' if the sentence is en- 
 forced immediately.' 
 
 "But who could have had the heart to enforce it? 
 when the pleading looks of both, alternately bent on 
 us and each other, even more touchingly than their 
 beseeching words, prayed, that for the short remaining 
 hour of this day, possibly the last they should pass 
 together, they might not be separated. 
 
 " Thank God ! they were not With a prohibition 
 of almost all conversation, and an injunction to Flora 
 not to tempt them by word or sign to disobey, Mrs. 
 Harlowe and I acceded to the petition, and leaving 
 them to their silent companionship, withdrew with our 
 work to the farther end of the drawing-room. 
 
 " Our own sad and spiritless converse soon lan- 
 guished into watchful silence, as we gratefully observed 
 that the restless weariness, from which Agnes had been 
 suffering for some hours, was giving way to drowsi- 
 ness ; and in a few minutes Herbert, whose easy-chair 
 was close beside her pillow, bent over and gazed on 
 her for a moment, and then, half turning towards us, 
 motioned with his finger that she slept. 
 
 " Flora, absorbed in her silent occupation, continued 
 it, till the fast-fading daylight was insufficient even for 
 her young eyes, and then, softly rising, the child stole
 
 80 THE EARLY CALLED, 
 
 on tip-toe to take one look at her sleeping sister, and 
 seated herself quietly on the low stool, resting her 
 fair head on Herbert's knee. 
 
 " Deep in mournful musing we sat in our distant 
 corner, gazing on the beloved group, till the increasing 
 gloom scarce allowed us to distinguish each from each. 
 They were still as marble statues ; shudderingly my 
 heart whispered, ' still as death/ But the regular 
 breathing of the child was soon audible, as she, too, 
 caught the infectious influence of the hour, and sank 
 into quiet slumber ; and Herbert slightly stirred, me- 
 thought with something of startled suddenness, as if 
 about to rise, or as though Agnes was awakening ; but 
 just then a mass of heavy clouds dropped down like a 
 pall over that quarter of the heavens from whence the 
 pale rays of the rising moon had begun to steal through 
 the uncurtained windows, and in a moment all was 
 wrapped in darkness. There was yet a little stir from 
 the sofa something of undefinable sound ; and then 
 a deep, dead hush, so indescribably oppressive in its 
 continuance, that,I can only define my sensations by 
 those awfully descriptive words, ' An borrow of great 
 darkness fell upon me.' 
 
 " Those of my companion were little less oppressive, 
 I believe, for putting forth her hand to feel for mine, 
 she grasped it with tremulous force, and I could have 
 fancied I heard the quick pulsation of her heart. 
 
 " What would we not have given to have called for 
 lights, and so dissolved that strangely morbid spell ! 
 But the relief was not to be thought of, at the risk of
 
 THE EARLY CALLED. 81 
 
 arousing the dear Agnes from that quiet slumber, which 
 might prove so blessedly refreshing. And after a 
 short lapse of time, every moment of which became 
 more insupportably oppressive, the small French clock 
 over the mantle-piece chimed the third quarter of the 
 passing hour, and just then the volumed clouds rolled 
 off, and the broad full moon came forth, resplendently 
 glorious, pouring into the chamber a flood of light, 
 that streamed through the window opposite, full on 
 the still hushed and motionless group. But the bright 
 beams striking direct on the child's eye-lids, aroused 
 her from her light slumbers ; though, long habituated 
 to tender caution, the affectionate little girl moved 
 softly, even in her half-awakened state, and gently rais- 
 ing her head from its resting-place on Herbert's knee, 
 she looked up, as if iftto his face, but his head had 
 dropt aside, seemingly weighed down by weariness, 
 on the pillow of her still sleeping sister. Long and 
 earnest was the child's upward gaze. But, at last, she 
 rose up slowly and noiselessly, and with head bent 
 forward, and hands hard pressed against her bosom, 
 stood with eyes still riveted as if by fascination, on the 
 faces of the unconscious sleepers. Then, half turning 
 towards where we sat, she drew a short quick breath ; 
 and with yet one reverted glance, as if in hesitation, 
 stole noiselessly as a shadow to my side, and whispered 
 in a voice tremulous with agitation ' How fast asleep 
 they are ! so very fast ! and Herbert, do you know, 
 must have dropt off so, just as he was slipping his gold 
 H 2
 
 82 THE EARLY CALLED. 
 
 ring on sister Agnes's finger, for there he holds it still 
 half on do come and see.' 
 
 "The child's words thrilled through my very heart. 
 To start up before they were well uttered, and approach 
 the sofa, and bend over it, in nameless, speechless 
 agony, was the action of a moment. There they were, 
 as described by Flora. Hastily, forgetful of all caution, 
 I pressed my hand upon the two pale faces, that lay 
 almost touching each other on the pillow hastily, and 
 without fear of abruptly wakening them. 
 
 " There needed none : The rude touch disturbed 
 them not. They had already awakened in Heaven.'*
 
 THE STOIC ; 
 
 OB, 
 
 MEMOIRS 
 
 OF 
 
 EURYSTHENE8 THE ATHENIAN. 
 BT JANE KINDERLEY STANFORD.
 
 .; : : "*:- 
 
 THE following tale was originally written without the most 
 remote idea of its publication ; its composition was the amuse- 
 ment of many hours of loneliness and of bodily suffering, 
 which it enabled me to bear without weariness and impatience. 
 The kind approbation of a few friends induces me to send it 
 forth to the world ; and I rely upon the mercy of my readers, 
 not to judge harshly of a first attempt at authorship. 
 
 Norwich, 1834.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BORN to affluence, and endowed with much mental 
 and personal superiority, the hope and pride of a 
 highly gifted father the idol of a doating mother 
 the long and anxiously wished-for boy I might be 
 termed fortunate, and my destiny one of happiness. 
 And so it might have been, perhaps, had not the 
 power of my mind been so great, or had the sensi- 
 bilities of my heart been less acute. As it was, my 
 childhood was alternate sunshine and clouds, my 
 youth, a continual struggle between the intellect and 
 the affections, and my manhood, what was my man- 
 hood ? I will call it happy, for spite of all my trials, 
 all my doubts, and all my fears, / was happy ; a 
 beauteous star shed its soft light over my path, and 
 guided my old age to bliss. That star is set, but the 
 remembrance of its loveliness will never go from my 
 mind ; I too must soon follow it. Oh ! may I indeed 
 follow it to that Heaven it pointed out to me !
 
 86 THE STOIC. 
 
 I was born in the eightieth year of the Christian 
 JEra. Of my earliest years I remember but little. 
 What was life to me then? A never-ending sun- 
 beam, in which I basked contentedly and joyfully, 
 enjoying the present moment without thinking of the 
 next. And I had cause to be happy. Wealth pro- 
 cured me every reasonable luxury, and pain had never 
 racked my body. If I had childish vexations (and 
 what child has not?) I wept over them; but the me- 
 mory of them passed away as the tear dried on my 
 cheek. 
 
 Our family ranked among the noblest, as well as 
 the wealthiest of Athens. My grandfather partook of 
 the love for a country life, which was so eminently 
 characteristic of a Grecian ; and my father, I believe, 
 inherited this feeling ; for although his habits of life 
 daily took him to the city, our residence was in the 
 country. 
 
 Nor was it surprising that it should be so ; for there 
 was nothing in Athens which could tempt a man of 
 independence and wealth to make it his home. The 
 streets were strikingly irregular ; the city badly pro- 
 vided with water, and the houses, with a very few 
 exceptions, mean. The spaces of ground, caused by 
 the burning or pulling down of houses, which had 
 been inhabited by those citizens accused at various 
 periods of high treason, added very much to the de- 
 formity of the city ; this spoliation, if I may so term 
 it, was committed by order of the government, and it
 
 THE STOIC. 87 
 
 was not permitted to rebuild on the spot rendered 
 execrable by the crime of the former possessor. The 
 Areopagus also, which took to itself the immediate 
 inspection of buildings, was a declared enemy to 
 every innovation of the civil architecture ; added to 
 which, if a house were decorated above the rest, or 
 even carried one story higher, a crowd of jealous ob- 
 servers suspected that this ostentation hid a pride and 
 feelings, very inconsistent with the equality of a 
 republic. 
 
 The extreme magnificence of the temples and public 
 edifices, rendered the appearance of the houses even 
 more abject and mean than they really were. The 
 eye wandered from one extreme to the other, and as 
 there was not the slightest link between them, there 
 could be no beauty, no pleasure in viewing them to- 
 gether. The three hundred statues erected on the 
 public places, and the porticoes of Athens, could not 
 hide the deformity of the streets. 
 
 Such was Athens, the Great Athens; the birth- 
 place of so many noble men, heroes, and philosophers ; 
 the nursery of the arts and sciences, the place where 
 they were brought to perfection ; and the point from 
 which philosophy spread its rays over the rest of the 
 world. Such was it when I lived ; but how different 
 may it be in your time, gentle reader. Time works 
 a change in all things. Man is born and dies. 
 Empires rise and fall cities are built where once the 
 ocean raged and the waves roll over what once 
 were fields luxuriant in verdure. Athens, therefore,
 
 88 THE STOIC. 
 
 may centuries hence, be more worthy the spirits 
 which once breathed within her walls, and even thought 
 her the most beautiful city in the world. But I have 
 described my native city as I knew it ; and was it 
 surprising that the nobility of Athens entertained an 
 aversion to inhabit a city where their houses were 
 confounded with those of the populace and artizans? 
 The country was open to them, and there they erected 
 their mansions according to their "wealth and their 
 tastes. 
 
 My father had very early shown a taste for philoso- 
 phy, and was considered the most learned Stoic of his 
 time ; and the peculiar tenets of his sect gave him an 
 appearance of austerity which was very early and 
 deeply impressed upon my mind. I cannot say that 
 I ever feared my father, for his kindness to me was 
 constant and unchanging ; but I had a veneration for 
 his talents, a deference for his superior knowledge, 
 and an admiration of his character, which made my 
 feelings for him very different to those I entertained 
 for my other parent. 
 
 My mother was beautiful and though possessing 
 in a great degree this attribute, so uncommon among 
 her countrywomen, for in Greece the males engrossed 
 personal attraction to that point, that if there appeared 
 a woman endowed with even a moderate quantity of 
 beauty, her name was sounded from north to south, 
 from east to west, and many persons would undertake 
 long journeys to see her; but although, as I said, this 
 had been the case with my mother, she lived an en-
 
 THE STOIC. 89 
 
 tirely secluded life, apparently unwilling to show her 
 beauty beyond her own household. I never knew her 
 in good health, there was consequently a languor, a 
 helplessness in her appearance, which won pity even 
 from a child. While in her presence I learned to 
 curb my boisterous mirth, because it increased her 
 illness; in my father's company my spirits were 
 subdued, because his, I had almost said, stern counte- 
 nance chilled every feeling of merriment. 
 
 If I in vain expected from my father any manifes- 
 tation of affection, I was richly repaid for my disap- 
 pointment in the doating love of my mother. She 
 caressed me, she fondled me I was her plaything, 
 her amusement, her joy and fully did I return her 
 tenderness. 
 
 I watched every expression of her pensive but 
 beautiful countenance; I hastened with alacrity to 
 obey her most slightly expressed request; I en- 
 deavoured to anticipate her wishes. If I suffered 
 aught, I hid my sufferings from her, and while in her 
 presence a smile was ever on my lips, for I early 
 learned how much her happiness depended upon 
 mine. 
 
 The greatest portion of my time was spent in her 
 society, and for hours have I seated myself at her feet, 
 my head resting upon her lap, and gazing upon the 
 face which to me was so lovely, so beautiful, by the 
 feeble light of the evening moon, while she would run 
 her taper fingers through my curling hair, and bless 
 her "sweet boy." This was bliss to my young 
 
 i
 
 90 THE STOIC. 
 
 heart, a heart which learnt its tenderness in such hours 
 as these, and which never could entirely forget it, when 
 maturer intellect and cold philosophy taught me to 
 look upon every thing with indifference and apathy. 
 
 As my father's fortune was ample, he allowed my 
 mother to expend her dower in rebuilding and embel- 
 lishing that part of his mansion which was allotted to 
 her, and her female attendants, and was called the 
 gynaceum. 
 
 The lower room or hall, which was the spot where 
 my mother used to sit during the hot months of 
 summer, was open on two sides to a beautiful and 
 luxuriant garden, which boasted a large. and choice 
 collection of fragrant shrubs and flowers. The walls 
 of this hall were of pure white marble, and pillars of 
 the same material of the elegant Corinthian order of 
 architecture, supported the room above, which was 
 the winter sitting-room. The pavement was tessel- 
 lated in the best manner, and in the centre was an 
 elegant fountain, whose waters cooled and refreshed 
 the air. 
 
 The winter sitting-room was hung with rich crim- 
 son silk, except in a few places, where the walls were 
 adorned with figures and landscapes well executed in 
 fresco ; the floor was of cedar-wood highly polished ; 
 the couches were inlaid with gold, and covered with 
 crimson silk, richly embroidered in gold. This room 
 communicated with the sleeping apartments, which 
 were fitted up in the same style of magnificence, 
 combining luxury and comfort
 
 THE STOIC. 91 
 
 The garden was spacious, and gradually sloped down 
 to the banks of the Ilyssus, the river, which among 
 the Athenians is sacred to the muses ; and from dif- 
 ferent spots we had views of the Temple dedicated to 
 Diana the Huntress, which was erected on its opposite 
 bank. 
 
 An elegant mind had guided my mother in adorn- 
 ing her dwelling, and its beauty and comfort made 
 her the envy of her less wealthy or less tasteful ac- 
 quaintances. 
 
 It was in these rooms that during my childhood I 
 enjoyed the greatest happiness, and received my 
 earliest instruction from my dear mother and her 
 faithful attendant Zoe, who had lived with her before 
 her marriage, and had performed the office of nurse to 
 me. To Zoe I was an object of interest and love, and 
 she shared with my mother my childish affections, and 
 upon every occasion was exempt from the teazing 
 tricks which I delighted so much to lavish upon the 
 other and more menial attendants. Still was I a pet 
 and a plaything with them all ; and these hours of my 
 earliest childhood gave me a feeling of tenderness 
 towards the female sex, which I never utterly lost, 
 and which influenced many of the most important 
 acts of my life ; whether I was the happier or better 
 for this influence, let my Tale disclose.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 My father, in telling me of the annihilation of man, 
 first alarmed me as to the state of my mother's health. 
 He was calm when he mentioned the probability of 
 her decease, but / shuddered at the idea of losing my 
 beloved parent, and in an agony of grief I threw my 
 arms round her neck, and exclaimed, "You shall not 
 die." 
 
 She pressed me to her bosom, and told me how 
 useless my grief was, at the same time declaring that 
 the approach of death had for her no terrors. " You 
 will not forget me, Eurysthenes," she said, tenderly 
 kissing my cheek. 
 
 I vehemently swore by Jupiter and all the gods, 
 that I would not ; and she wept over me. 
 
 From that moment my love and my care for my 
 parent were increased, and anxiety, first racked my 
 mind. I had formed no idea of death ; I had heard of 
 the death of persons, but had never thought upon the 
 subject. What was life? And what was death? 
 And why was my mother to die, so young and beau- 
 tiful, when I daily saw aged and decrepid people 
 living on? Could nothing avert the event from her? 
 And if she died so young, so might I, and I wished 
 that the same moment would end our lives. My
 
 THE STOIC. 93 
 
 favourite dog had died, and was I to lose my mother 
 by the same means ? Surely this brought a familiarity, 
 a similitude between the brutes and a being I so much 
 loved ; one I thought so superior to all others, which 
 should not be. My dog I had buried in the earth, 
 and she also would be buried, and the sole difference 
 between their graves would be, the marble column 
 which would mark that of rny mother. 'Tis true, 
 there would be more ceremony in consigning the 
 remains of my parent to the earth, there would be 
 oblations and prayers to the gods ; but of what use 
 were these ceremonies, if they did not save the body 
 of my mother from being debased to the lowness of 
 the animal creation ? Of what use were the oblations 
 and prayers, if she derived no benefit from them, and 
 /no consolation? 
 
 I thought of her body as lying for ever in the grave ; 
 and although I felt that she would not be taken entirely 
 from me, and, that resting on her tomb, I might still 
 imagine myself almost in her presence, there was a 
 dreadful melancholy in knowing that she would be 
 insensible to my approach ; that I might call upon her, 
 but that her sweet voice would never again answer my 
 calls ; that I might weep upon her grave, but that her 
 dear arms would never more embrace me ; that never 
 again should I find a resting place for my troubled 
 spirits upon her bosom, and never again be soothed 
 into peace and happiness by her tender endearments. 
 
 My uncertainty as to the nature of death, my dread 
 of its approach, and my bewildered ideas upon the 
 i2
 
 94 THE STOIC. 
 
 subject, made me anxiously watch every change of my 
 dear mother's countenance. Every sigh she heaved 
 I feared was a precursor of the separation I so much 
 dreaded, and every fainting fit I thought was death. 
 How often did I steal on tiptoe to her bed-side, and 
 in spite of the whispered remonstrances of Zoe, rob 
 my hours of their sleep, to watch the dear slumberer ; 
 and when I fancied she was about to wake, glide away, 
 because I knew she would chide me in gentleness, for 
 not having retired to rest. 
 
 With agony did I see the branches of acanthus and 
 laurel placed over the door of our house, in token of 
 the sickness within. My mother's long tresses of 
 dark hair were cut off, and in the principal hall were 
 consecrated to the infernal deities ; and most fervently 
 did I join in the supplications offered to Mercury 
 when the pangs of death approached. In all the reli- 
 gious rites practised at this time I bore a part ; I knew 
 not precisely for what they were performed, but they 
 were in some manner, which I could not understand, 
 connected with the welfare of my parent, and that 
 was sufficient to gain my attention and interest. 
 
 My mother sunk gradually and calmly, her beauty 
 increasing as her life drew to its close ; her last action 
 was to press my hand and my father's together her 
 last look was .mine and my lips received her last 
 sigh and at twelve years of age I stood beside the 
 death-bed of her who had so fondly cherished me ; 
 immoveable in my sorrow, unconscious of all around 
 me, save the pale, inanimate form on which my eyes
 
 THE STOIC. 95 
 
 were fixed. The wailing and lamenting of the women 
 at length aroused me, and I tore myself from the spot. 
 My lamentation was in the secret recesses of my heart, 
 deep and lasting. All that I loved was gone ; I had 
 no consolation, no comfort left me, save that of dwel- 
 ling upon her tenderness for me. 
 
 After the attendants had washed and anointed the 
 body, and, according to custom, arrayed it in a splendid 
 garment, I again pressed my lips upon the cheek, and 
 the touch spread chilness through my frame to my 
 heart. I gathered the best flowers of the garden, and 
 such as had been her favourites, and strewed them 
 upon the bier ; placing upon her breast one of those 
 locks of my hair which she had so often delighted to 
 twist round her fingers, and which were now cut off 
 as an outward sign of mourning. 
 
 I had frequently in my visits to my mother's apart- 
 ments, surprised her and Zoe reading a book, which, 
 upon my appearance, was invariably shut, and put into 
 a little ebony chest inlaid with silver, and the key 
 being turned upon it, was deposited in the pocket of 
 my mother. In early years, when literature was a 
 task rather than a pleasure to me, this circumstance 
 was almost unheeded by me ; but as I increased in 
 years, and knowledge became interesting to me, my 
 curiosity was awakened, and I frequently asked my 
 mother to tell me what it was about, and to let me 
 read it. This, however, she constantly refused to do, 
 at first evading my questions ; but as they became 
 more importunate, she told me I was not old enough
 
 96 THE STOIC. 
 
 to understand her studies ; and if I endeavoured to 
 extract from her a promise to let me see it when I 
 should be older, she would give it conditionally, the 
 fulfilment resting upon my father's approbation. Thus 
 my mother's book became to me an object of intense 
 curiosity and interest ; a something with which in- 
 crease of years would make me acquainted, a pleasure 
 promised for the future. 
 
 After her death, when my father, in examining the 
 different chests, came to open the small ebony one 
 where she had kept those articles which she most 
 valued, I anxiously looked for the book, and cannot 
 express my surprise, consternation, and grief, at not 
 perceiving it. 
 
 I looked towards Zoe, as if expecting that she would 
 explain why it was not there ; but with her eyes fixed 
 upon the different articles as they were separately taken 
 from out the chest, she either did not understand the 
 silent question I had put, or if she did understand it, 
 she was determined not to answer it. 
 
 Resolved not to be so foiled, I said, " Zoe, where is 
 
 the ." She would not let me proceed, but 
 
 with a secret sign to me, she replied in a hasty, bus- 
 tling manner, " Here is the little bracelet you wished 
 to see ; it is the last my dear mistress wore." 
 
 I did not attempt to repeat my inquiry then, for it 
 seemed unpleasant to Zoe ; therefore in the hope of 
 gaining a more direct answer, when we should be alone, 
 I remained silent. An opportunity of speaking to her 
 soon offered itself, but she positively refused to give
 
 THE STOIC. 97 
 
 me any information upon the subject, adding that my 
 mother, in her last illness had made her promise not 
 to give me the book, without the consent of my father. 
 She would not even give me an idea of its contents, 
 and even hinted that she thought it very improbable 
 that my father would ever suffer me to read it. 
 
 I thought Zoe was unkind to me in this instance ; 
 in every other whim and caprice she fully indulged 
 me, and at all other times I felt that I had still a kind 
 and loving friend left to me.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 EDUCATION in Athens was conducted upon a 
 general plan, to which the parents of children con- 
 formed, with very slight exceptions. Boys till the 
 age of seven years were taught to read by the Gram- 
 matists ; they were then taught music by the Citharis- 
 tes ; and after their thirteenth year it was usual for 
 them to be consigned to the care of the Pedotribes to 
 learn the gymnastic exercises. And so fascinating 
 and delightful were the^e exercises to some of our 
 robust youth, that they delighted to signalize them- 
 selves in wrestling, pugilism, and races of every kind. 
 
 I have said that my mother was more beautiful than 
 the generality of the Grecian females. A perfect 
 symmetry of form was one characteristic of her love- 
 liness, and this I inherited, joined to a firmness and 
 fullness properly belonging to a male. I knew that 
 my father delighted in my personal advantages, al- 
 though he had never so openly praised my handsome 
 features and figure as my dear mother had done. 
 Perhaps it was as well for me that he did not, other- 
 wise I might have become vain and effeminate ; as it 
 was, I loved to hear my mother praise me, but all the 
 vanity which might have been raised by her encomi- 
 ums, was quickly banished by the more judicious
 
 THE STOIC. 99 
 
 conduct of my father, who early instilled into my 
 mind, the great superiority of mental over bodily 
 perfections. Nevertheless I am inclined to think, 
 that his unwillingness to permit me to follow the 
 gymnastic exercises beyond a certain point, arose from 
 the fear of injuring the contour of my form. 
 
 He was aware, that the nervous system of man is 
 capable of a certain degree of tension, only. Beyond 
 that point, it loses in one part what it gains in another. 
 In boxers the hands are strengthened at the expense 
 of the feet ; and in racers the feet gain what the arms 
 lose. The equilibrium of the strength in all parts, is 
 destroyed by a particular force, which being purely 
 made, soon degenerates into weakness. The juices of 
 the frame fly to those parts which are most and con- 
 tinually in motion ; and where this is not the case, the 
 too great perspiration which violent exercises induce, 
 enfeebles the human body, by taking from it a large 
 quantity of the moisture necessary for its preservation. 
 
 I therefore did not bestow much time on this branch 
 of my education ; I learnt to swim, to ride, and a very 
 little pugilism. But my time was almost wholly 
 devoted to study. I passed successively under the 
 government of the Grammarians, Critics, and Geome- 
 tricians, and then came the studies under the Philoso- 
 phers. 
 
 The Grecian Philosophers had a stronger aversion 
 than other Athenians to live in cities ; but as it was 
 not convenient to be far from the capital, which was 
 the depot for the instruments and assistance which the
 
 100 THE STOIC. 
 
 arts and sciences required, they settled themselves in 
 the environs of Athens; and their gardens extended 
 from the shores of the Ilyssus to those of the Cephisis. 
 The Epicureans were established in the centre; Plato's 
 disciples to the north ; and those of Aristotle to the 
 south. A hedge of myrtles, or a row of olive trees, 
 forming the only division between those schools, so 
 much at variance in the doctrines they taught to their 
 followers ; yet, as all were situated on the same soil, so 
 all their precepts tended to gain one end, perfect good- 
 ness, wisdom, and happiness. They were untouched 
 by the perturbations of the passions ; peace never 
 forsook their breasts ; each day was to them a day of 
 enjoyment; and the solution of a problem was a 
 matter for rejoicing. Seated in the shade of their 
 gardens, they smiled to see a crowd of fanatics, and 
 ambitious men, agitated, like the reeds by the least 
 breath of wind, by the slightest ruffle of the passions. 
 
 But my father was a Stoic; and his school was 
 situated in the middle of Athens, under the Portico 
 painted by Micon and Polygnotus and called the 
 Psecile. Instead of seeking solitude like the other 
 sects, the Stoics chose the centre of the city, where 
 they were continually surrounded by the noisy popu- 
 lace. Here my father taught, and here I learnt my 
 philosophy. And it undoubtedly required more power 
 over the mind to fix it to the contemplation of 
 abstruse objects, when liable to the bustle, noise, and 
 interruption of a busy multitude, than when, secluded 
 in the shade of trees, there was scarcely the shaking
 
 THE STOIC. 101 
 
 of a leaf, or the humming of an insect to distract the 
 attention, and call the mind from its profound contem- 
 plation. 
 
 My studies now became abstruse and deep. My 
 father conversed with me as with an equal in years, 
 knowledge, and understanding. And as a bust of Zeno, 
 the founder of the Stoic Philosophy, stood before us, the 
 cherished ornament of my father's study, he taught 
 me to believe in his tenets. He taught me that God 
 was pure ether, or fire, inhabiting the exterior surface 
 of the heavens, that he was underived, but indefinite. 
 He taught me that the agency of the Deity was merely 
 an active motion of the* celestial fire; that Providence 
 was only absolute necessity. He assured me that 
 virtue was the only true wisdom ; and happiness the 
 end and motive of our lives. He urged me, as a means 
 to attain perfect wisdom and happiness, to subdue all 
 my passions and emotions, to be alike insensible to 
 pain or pleasure. But when he told me that death 
 was only an interruption oflife^ that the soul was 
 material and remained with the body, till fate, or 
 necessity, and the law of nature, should renew life, 
 I could not conquer the thrill of joy which ran through 
 my heart, at the hope that my mother would again 
 live. Though uncertain when she would return to 
 life; and if I should ever again enjoy her company, I 
 loved to imagine the happiness which might be mine 
 once more. 
 
 But the school to which I now belonged, and the 
 philosophers who were now to be my guides, taugbt 
 
 K
 
 102 THE STOIC. 
 
 indifference to pleasure, and insensibility to pain. 
 And so well apparently did I follow their instructions, 
 that my father expressed his entire approbation of 
 my conduct Alas, he knew not the misery of my 
 mind ! My feelings were by nature acute, my passions 
 strong, and my affections deep. I endeavoured, I 
 laboured to overcome my emotions, and was chagrined 
 to find it not the work of a moment. Every day 
 tried the strength of my philosophy, and I was per- 
 petually at war with my feelings, consequently I was 
 in a constant internal agitation. I knew that I should 
 not be blessed with calmness and peace, till my phi- 
 losophy gained the ascendency, and by annihilating 
 every passion and emotion, bring my mind to that 
 quiet state, which it was the study of a wise man's 
 life to arrive at, and which alone could produce the 
 happiness after which my soul so anxiously aspired. 
 
 It was no merit of my own that I gained some 
 empire over the softer affections of my heart ; from 
 no one now did I receive a show of that tenderness 
 which had been lavished upon me in infancy. My 
 ears no longer heard expressions of love ; the arms of 
 arv endearing mother were no longer thrown around 
 me ; my forehead was now never pressed by the lips 
 of an affectionate being All my tender emotions and 
 feelings were therefore, for want of encouragement, 
 thrown back upon my heart, useless, unblest, and 
 unblessing. And if they existed, it seemed to be only 
 in the moments when I thought of my beauteous 
 parent j upon nothing could they rest but upon the
 
 THE STOIC. 103 
 
 memory of her; but so intimately were they connected 
 with that, that while my mind retained the power of 
 recalling the past, my heart would beat with fond but 
 vain affections still. 
 
 At those times, when my mind relaxed from its 
 sternness, and my philosophy was scarcely thought of, 
 it was my delight to wander in my mother's apart- 
 ments, and to tend the flowers and shrubs in which 
 she had taken so much interest and pleasure. The 
 same anemonies which she had planted, and which 
 were her favourite flowers, were increased with the 
 utmost care ; the pomegranate which had been the 
 pride of her parterre, was multiplied ; but more espe- 
 cially was the myrtle tree, under which we had been 
 so often seated together, the object of my attention ; 
 every dead leaf within my reach was carefully plucked 
 off, and every withered branch lopped ; not a faded 
 flower was allowed to sully the whiteness of its sheet 
 of blossoms. And this was my occupation at those 
 times when my heart dwelt with most tenderness and 
 sorrow upon the beloved parent I had lost. 
 
 I was thus employed one evening, when my philo- 
 sophy scarce controlled my feelings, and believing 
 myself to be unobserved and alone, I indulged in de- 
 lightful retrospections of the past ; when Zoe, who had 
 stolen upon me unheard, said, "That was her favourite 
 tree, Eurysthenes ; how often has she talked with me 
 under it, talked of you, and prayed for your happiness 
 then and for ever. I can never forget the sweet con- 
 versations we have had upon this spot."
 
 104 THE STOIC. 
 
 The melancholy tone of the faithful creature brought 
 the tears to my eyes ; but ashamed of my weakness, 
 I turned my head from her that she might not see 
 them. But she knew I wept, for she said " Aye weep, 
 do weep. It is no sin to weep for the loss of so much 
 goodness. J have lost the best friend I ever had, and 
 you have lost a fond mother. Oh ! you know not 
 what you have lost, Eurysthenes. But I will pray 
 that you may be happy, and that her loss may be 
 restored to you in some other way. You are young, 
 
 and have a long life before you ; pray ." She 
 
 hesitated a moment, then added, " may it be as happy 
 as hers was ! " 
 
 "But," I said, "Zoe, she will live again ; my phi- 
 losophy teaches me that death is merely an inter- 
 ruption, not an end of life. Oh ! think of our hap- 
 piness when we shall meet again." 
 
 " Yes," said Zoe, solemnly and mournfully, " she 
 will live again, but not as you imagine." 
 
 " What do you mean ? shall I not again be blest 
 with her society, her love?" 
 
 "I know not," replied Zoe, "it is not for me to 
 give you instruction on this subject. But, my dear 
 young master, do not stifle your grief, give it vent ; 
 it is natural ; a gush of tears will relieve your heart." 
 
 "Nay, Zoe, it is unmanly, it is worse than unmanly, 
 thus to lament at the workings of a fate we cannot 
 control. I will, I must conquer this weakness ; it is 
 the desire of my heart to overcome weakness of every 
 kind, and to become indifferent to every thing. In
 
 THE STOIC. 105 
 
 that indifference consist the highest wisdom and hap- 
 piness of man." 
 
 Zoe shook her head mournfully, " And will you 
 forget your mother, and become indifferent to her 
 memory ?" 
 
 I looked reproachfully at her, and plucking a small 
 sprig of the myrtle, placed it in the folds of my dress 
 on my bosom. She understood my answer.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I HAD already been enrolled among the citizens of 
 Athens, and rejoiced that I could in truth boast a fel- 
 lowship with the heroes of my country, in whose 
 daring and brave exploits I delighted, and with the 
 sages, whose wisdom I venerated, and whose sanctity 
 of life I wished to imitate. But a more glorious and 
 delightful event awaited me in my initiation in the 
 Eleusinian mysteries, a custom which was now fall- 
 ing into disuse among the Athenians, but which my 
 father, who as much as was in his power still adhered 
 to the ancient customs of his country, wished me to 
 follow, and I was proud that the knowledge of a man 
 would be imparted to me. 
 
 My father, ever anxious to improve my understand- 
 ing, was unwilling that I should enter into these 
 ceremonies, as some of my fellow-countrymen did, 
 thoughtlessly, and without being acquainted with their 
 true meaning. He, therefore, for some time, made it 
 the subject of our private conversations, explaining to 
 me every pirticular relating to them. 
 
 He told me that the lesser mysteries were designed 
 by the ancient theologists, the founders of them, to 
 signify occultly the condition of the impure soul 
 irrvested with a terrene body, and merged in a material
 
 THE STOIC. 107 
 
 substance. And, as intimating that the life of the soul, 
 when merged in the body, is nothing but a dream. 
 
 I was thus, by the assistance of my father's explana- 
 tion, led to consider these mysteries, not merely as the 
 worship of Ceres and Proserpine, conducted with great 
 and imposing show, but was able to apply every part 
 of the ceremony to the connection of the soul with the 
 body. And far from being terrified at the loud noises 
 which, in the initiation, assailed our ears, at the earth- 
 quakes which we witnessed, or the demons which 
 appeared to us, I considered them all as representing 
 the descent of the soul into a corporeaLnature ; and the 
 omnifdrm and horrible monsters, I looked upon as 
 signifying the various vices of our irrational part. 
 
 The mysteries, therefore, were highly interesting to 
 me ; and while many youths of my own age were en- 
 joying the mere splendour and novelty of the ceremony 
 of their initiation, it was to me an event of the utmost 
 consequence, and induced me to profound thought and 
 study. I felt more strongly than ever the debasement 
 of my soul while connected with my body and the 
 vain passions of my corporeal nature ; and the desire 
 to make them subservient to the high and pure nature 
 of my soul, led me to love my stoic philosophy, which 
 taught me the means of attaining that end. . 
 
 If the shows of the Lesser Mysteries, which were 
 intended to represent the miserable and unhappy con- 
 dition of the soul while subservient to the body, were 
 thus so deeply interesting to me, how much more so, 
 were the Greater, which imtimated by mystic and
 
 108 THE STOIC. 
 
 splendid visions, the felicity of the soul, when purified 
 from the defilements of a material nature. And it was 
 with the utmost impatience that I awaited the time of 
 my initiation into them. The month of Boedromion, 
 (parts of September and October,) at length arrived, 
 ;ind with joy I accompanied my father to Eleusis. 
 The representation by these Mysteries of the beatific 
 state of the soul, in the Elysian Fields, now exalted me 
 as much as I had felt debased by the contemplation of 
 the terrors and miseries of Hades. I was possessed of 
 a soul, and it was to be the work of myself to gain its 
 admittance into that happy region. Then, away all ye 
 passions, pride, anger, love ; I scorn your power ! the 
 purity of my soul shall quench your dazzling but fal- 
 lacious brightness. 
 
 Taught, as I had been almost from my infancy, the 
 immense power and value of the intellectual part of our 
 nature, and urged by the exercise of that power, to 
 elevate my soul above all earthly feelings and domin- 
 ion, was it wonderful that after my initiation, Ceres 
 and Proserpine (the former as the emblem of the 
 intellect, and the latter as that of the soul,} became my 
 favourite goddesses, that their images were placed in 
 my little study as its greatest ornaments, and that 
 they shared more of my attention and homage than 
 Minerva, the tutelary goddess of my country. 
 
 Still I was not perfectly satisfied with the state of 
 my mind. There was something yet wanting to com- 
 plete the happiness I sought for. My father gave me 
 praise and encouragement as regarded my studies ; but
 
 THE STOIC. 109 
 
 I was not happy, and as I felt that I was not so, an un- 
 bidden but almost unchecked sigh would burst from 
 my bosom to the memory of my dear mother. 
 
 I had no intimates; I did not enter into the pleasures 
 of my age ; I seemed in truth abstracted from the 
 world, almost from all realities, and buried in the 
 doubts and hopes of my philosophy. For there were 
 moments when I doubted ; moments when, with a 
 recklessness which I afterwards blamed, I almost de- 
 termined to relinguish the tenets of the Stoic, nay, to 
 discontinue the study of all philosophy, and to give 
 loose to my inclinations and passions. This perhaps 
 arose from the conversation of my almost only friend, 
 and certainly my most intimate acquaintance. 
 
 He was an Epicurean, that is, he had been educated 
 in that school, and had believed what had been taught 
 him, for he had never troubled his mind with study. 
 We were accustomed to compare the leading princi- 
 ples of our different schools ; and shall I own that there 
 were moments when I almost yielded to the arguments, 
 he adduced in favour of his, and was somewhat dazzled 
 by the picture he drew of his happiness. 
 
 Happiness, perfect and uninterrupted, was the aim 
 of my philosophical researches, the desire of my soul. 
 I looked at the smiling countenance of my friend, and 
 contrasted it with the solemn expression of my own. I 
 thought of all the indulgencies he allowed himself, and 
 of my own austere life ; the pains it cost me to deaden 
 every feeling, which it was his study to enjoy and to 
 increase. I was young, and all this made an impres-
 
 110 THE STOIC. 
 
 sion upon me ; for a moment I wavered. Then again 
 I called to mind the high and ennobling studies I pur- 
 sued, and I felt that if light and enlivening pleasure 
 were not mine, that my mode of life, and my opinions 
 raised my soul far above his ; and I in my turn reasoned 
 with Alcmenes, upon the folly of delivering his soul 
 and existence up to sensual pleasures, and endeavoured 
 to impress upon him the superiority of my belief over 
 his. 
 
 " Nay, Eurysthenes," he would say, " you are the 
 very Prince of Stoics, but the Epicurean philosophy 
 is best adapted to my temperament. I cannot reason 
 upon any thing ; a life of ease and pleasure is fitted for 
 me, and I yield to my feelings." 
 
 I reminded him, that the wine-cup would at length 
 be drained, that there were times when objects were 
 wanted to create his mirth, and that beauty faded in 
 his grasp. 
 
 " Then, we will fill the cup to the brim again, we 
 will quickly find other beauties, and laugh to think 
 that we can so soon renew our pleasures." 
 
 " Still," I said, " there will be a moment of cessation 
 of pleasure. How much better then is it to steel 
 yourself against all its fascinations, and by regarding 
 every thing with indifference, never to receive pain or 
 pleasure from any object, belonging to us externally ; 
 but by making our internal powers, our intellect and 
 our soul, the constant objects of our attention, endea- 
 vour to ensure our happiness." 
 
 *<Ah !" Alemenes would say, smiling," we are both
 
 THE STOIC. Ill 
 
 travelling to the Elysian Fields ; my path is strewed 
 with flowers, yours is rough, hard, and to me far from 
 enticing." 
 
 And I could never reason him out of his pleasures, 
 nor could I entirely persuade myself that he was 
 wrong. There was something in my nature which 
 warred against my intellect, a discontentedness with 
 myself while I owned the beauty of my philosophy ; 
 a restlessness of thought and of feeling, which conti- 
 nually urged me on to attain bliss, but which was as 
 constantly unsatisfied. 

 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I HAD very early been betrothed to my nearest 
 relative, and at the age of twenty-four I yielded to 
 my father's wish, and married. I considered this 
 event as one of necessity, and did not expect from it 
 any great increase of happiness. It was well for me 
 that I did not, otherwise I should have felt the events 
 of my married life too deeply, to have borne them so 
 patiently as my indifference to my wife enabled me to 
 do. 
 
 As at the death of my mother, so also at my mar- 
 riage, every ceremony enjoined by the custom and 
 religion of my country was strictly observed. Aga- 
 thonica had been presented to Diana, and had given 
 her tribute of curiosities to that goddess ; and the 
 usual sacrifices and oblations were made to the gods. 
 
 It was determined by those friends who had the 
 arrangement of every thing on that eventful day, that 
 our wedding should be as splendid as possible ; and 
 Agathonica did not make any objection to such being 
 done, for I had obtained a name in Athens, and she 
 felt some pride in showing that she was connected 
 with me ; added to which, she had already, on many 
 occasions, manifested, as far as a secluded female could
 
 THE STOIC. 113 
 
 do, a love of splendour and ostentation, and a desire 
 to enjoy to the full the luxuries which our joint wealth 
 could procure her. 
 
 I was passive ; my friends did with me as they 
 pleased, I assented to all they proposed, but I sug- 
 gested nothing ; and I attired myself in the splendid 
 garment prepared for me, with as little pride and 
 pleasure as I put on my usual every-day habiliments. 
 To one thing only did I pay any regard, it was that 
 my garland might be of anemonies and violets inter- 
 mixed ; these I gathered myself, and gave to my bride 
 a similar garland ; and when I saw it bound upon her 
 forehead, I felt it to be the first act which installed her 
 in the apartments of my mother, who had planted 
 those flowers in the garden from which I had gathered 
 them. And I pictured to myself a happiness awaiting 
 me, something like that of my boyhood. 
 
 In the evening the bride was conducted home in a 
 chariot by torch-light, and attended by singers and 
 dancers. We had some distance to travel, her father's 
 house being situated on the opposite side of the city to 
 ours. At the end of the journey, the axle-tree of the 
 carriage was broken, and burnt, to signify that the 
 bride would never again return to her former home ; 
 and we entered our house amidst a shower of figs and 
 various fruits, which our friends plentifully poured 
 upon us. 
 
 For three days I was compelled to act the bride- 
 groom, but rejoiced that the fourth day left me free to
 
 114 THE STOIC. 
 
 follow my former studies, and usual manner of passing 
 my time. 
 
 I was not an inattentive husband, though perhaps 
 owing to my tenets of philosophy, I was not a loving 
 one. My wife was to me the same as other women : 
 I had not married her from affection, for I not only 
 never had felt love, but considered it as a feeling and 
 passion which debased the soul of man. But the time 
 I devoted to relaxation and amusement was spent in 
 her society, and as I considered myself free to act as 
 I pleased, I left her the same liberty, contenting my- 
 self with the idea that she had the same means of being 
 happy that my mother had possessed. I never con- 
 trolled her wishes in any respect ; her person was 
 adorned with jewels, and she had numerous attendants 
 to wait upon her ; she had beautiful apartments to 
 inhabit, and wealth at her command ; the sole object 
 of her life was to amuse herself. Yet all this did not 
 satisfy her. 
 
 Every kind of luxury directs itself necessarily 
 towards two objects, which are often combined toge- 
 ther ; that is, ostentation and the pleasure of the senses. 
 I have said that Agathonica loved show and ostentation, 
 and as I never restrained her actions, she took every 
 advantage of the many opportunities which the reli- 
 gious feasts and processions gave of displaying her 
 wealth. Her chariot was magnificent and sumptuous, 
 drawn by white mules, which were procured with 
 great difficulty and at much expense, from Pelopones- 
 sus ; but they were at that time the test of property, 

 
 THE STOIC. 115 
 
 -"** * " * ~ "'-'.' * * 
 
 the envied acm6 of fashion, and Agathonica could not 
 appear without them. In this equipage she, soon after 
 the birth of our first and only child, went to the mys- 
 teries of Eleusis, which was the spot where all met 
 for pleasure and enjoyment, and there she formed an 
 acquaintance with Maximinian, the Roman Governor 
 of Athens. And in a very short time after she left 
 my society for his. 
 
 For a moment I was chafed by the circumstance, 
 but it was only for a moment, and I very soon regained 
 my Stoical apathy. Indeed I endeavoured to palliate 
 her conduct ; I considered the female mind as inca- 
 pable of understanding philosophy, and being quite 
 aware that the worship and belief of my country was 
 very little calculated to guide the conduct, taught as 
 it was by fables and representations revolting very 
 often to decency, I thought of her failing rather with 
 pity than otherwise. 
 
 Agathonica left me my child, and I scarcely knew 
 whether to rejoice at the circumstance or not. Zoe's 
 look was sorrowful as she put my infant into my arms ; 
 I almost shrank from taking her. Why should I 
 cherish her ? She might also deceive me. Yet, oh ! 
 that face, so innocent, so fair, so like my mother's ! 
 
 "Yes, yes, I must, I will love you, Hermione," I 
 said, as she smiled upon me, and for an instant I 
 pressed her to my heart. " Take her, Zoe, and do 
 not forsake her, for she will stand in need of your 
 care." 
 
 "Forsake her!" said the poor old woman, the tears
 
 116 THE STOIC. 
 
 falling fast upon the head of her little charge. "For- 
 sake her, sir ! I served your mother and loved her, 
 and these arms have nursed and fondled you when 
 you were young and helpless. They are old now, 
 but they can si ill nurse this tender babe, and my heart 
 can still love your child, and her grandchild. And 
 I will teach this little one to love you also, and 
 you will live to bless the day that made you a father." 
 
 I own I had wished for a boy, a son to prolong our 
 race as lecturers at the Stoa, but my girl was like my 
 mother, and I was content. Yes, she was so like that 
 lamented parent, I could not but love her with all the 
 warmth my cold philosophy would allow. I, who to 
 others talked of, and inculcated as a duty an indiffer- 
 ence to the softer feelings of our nature, loved, fondly 
 loved my child, and when alone with her lavished a 
 thousand endearments upon her. My first kiss had 
 been imprinted upon her soft baby cheek without wit- 
 nesses, and my caresses were bestowed upon her in 
 privacy. She brought back to my nature all the 
 tenderness I had felt for my mother, and seemed to 
 link me more closely than ever to her memory. 
 
 Zoe was right ; I did live to bless the day which 
 made me a father. I have rejoiced in the life of my 
 child, and I have mourned her death. And I have 
 reason for much rejoicing, for she was chosen by thee, 
 God ! to teach me a belief in thee, and in thy works ; 
 and in that belief I found the best consolation, when 
 thou thought fit to call my child from earth, to place 
 her among the angelic spirits of heaven.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 YOUTH has been called the blest period of man's 
 existence. It has been likened to every thing beau- 
 tiful, and every thing beautiful has been likened to it. 
 Then, it has been said, are man's spirits joyous, his 
 body vigorous, and his heart light. He smiles at the 
 petty vexations of past infancy, and the cares of a later 
 age he laughs into distance. Mirth, with her sunny 
 smiles, greets him at every turn pleasure strews her 
 sweetest and fairest flowers in his path the colour of 
 fancy's wings beams more brightly every thing 
 bears the stamp of truth and innocence and gentle 
 hope gilds the future. Such we are told is youth. 
 
 But was my youth such ? Alas ! No. My spirits 
 were chilled the feelings of my heart were deadened 
 vexations, joy, and pleasure,all were alike unheeded, 
 and unfelt Imagination and fancy lent not their aid 
 to lighten the cares of life. Restless and unsatisfied, 
 I thought not of the past, I enjoyed not the present 
 time, but anxiously looked forward to the future, when 
 a perfect wisdom would bring me what ? happiness 
 derived from a subjugation of all my emotions and 
 passions. The attainment of that point was the end 
 and aim of my life, and ruled my every action and 
 every thought ; for that I studied unceasingly. 
 L2
 
 118 THE STOIC. 
 
 My father was dead, and I was left alone, save the 
 tender infant who looked to me for support and pro- 
 tection. There were times when melancholy reflec- 
 tions pressed themselves upon my mind and upon my 
 heart, and I almost envied my father's fate, and wished 
 to be as he was. I had a high veneration for his 
 wisdom and character, and doubted not that he was 
 enjoying the blessings which our philosophy promised 
 to those who could raise their souls from all terrestrial 
 feeling and connection. Yet when I looked at the 
 little infant before me, I felt how much she needed 
 my protection and guidance, and resolved to do my 
 utmost to guard her against a fate similar to her 
 mother's. 
 
 Agathonica I constantly heard of, and frequently 
 saw. How could it be otherwise, when dwelling in 
 the same city ? I heard of her extravagant luxury, 
 for she had ample means of indulging this failing, as 
 although our divorce had not yet taken place, I had 
 returned her dower, determined that Hermione, who 
 knew not that her mother was living, should have no 
 link with one who had so debased herself. 
 
 Whenever I visited the female apartments, Her- 
 mione's little arms were open to me, and she would 
 cling to me as to one she loved. And Zoe had taught 
 her to love me, and did well for both of us in so teach- 
 ing her. In her childish games I often found a relaxa- 
 tion of mind, which nothing else could have given 
 me. And as I frave watched her innocent countenance, 
 and artless gaiety as she gamboled about me, I have
 
 THE STOIC. 119 
 
 not unfrequently called to iny remembrance my in- 
 fancy, and almost wished that I was again a child. 
 Then would .come a moment of absorption, as my 
 philosophy expelled such thoughts, and my little 
 Hermione, at such moments, would seat herself at my 
 feet, and patiently wait till the fit was over, and I 
 again could find inclination to play and to laugh with 
 her. She very early seemed to understand my hu- 
 mour, and never did she give me pain or uneasiness. 
 Sometimes she would caress me, when she perceived 
 I was more than usually rufHed in temper, and her 
 little winning endearments would bring serenity to 
 my mind. She would bring me the sweetest flower 
 of the garden, or call my attention to the song of her 
 favourite bird, not unfrequently imitating and rivalling 
 him in the clear tones of her soft and flexible voice. 
 She would walk with me, she would garden with me, 
 or she would sit by my side silently. Her temper, 
 her patience were never wearied ; her greatest happi- 
 ness seemed to consist in being with me, and a single 
 kiss, a kind word from me, would in an instant bring 
 a smile of joy upon her countenance. 
 
 Was it strange, was it wrong that I should feel some 
 affection for so sweet a creature ? I sometimes thought 
 it was, and w r ould forbear visiting her. I know not 
 what she suffered at those times, but I seemed to have 
 lost something necessary to my existence. Oh, had I 
 then known true religion, how much misery might 
 we both have been spared ! But it was decreed other- 
 wise ; and I lived in darkness, doubt, vexation and
 
 120 THE STOIC. 
 
 trouble. Tormenting my mind with speculations, of 
 which I knew not the fallacy, although I felt they did 
 not fully satisfy my soul ; and torturing my heart to 
 overcome feelings and emotions from which spring 
 some of our sweetest and dearest enjoyments and 
 happiness. 
 
 And years were to pass, and I was to continue in 
 this state ; and more years were to pass before I could 
 relinquish the philosophy, which I had hugged to my 
 soul ; a philosophy which made this life almost a 
 burden to me, without giving any decided or olear 
 promise of future bliss. But these years passed away, 
 and I did relinquish my philosophy, and almost too 
 late did I give loose to all the fond affections of my 
 nature. My happiness was short, but it was great ; 
 and now that it is gone, and that I am an old man, 
 tottering on the verge of the grave, I am content ; 
 thankful for the bliss I have enjoyed, resigned to my 
 present lonely state, and looking forward with cheer- 
 fulness and with hope, to the time when I shall be 
 called to enjoy once more the society of my beloved 
 child, in those realms of peace and happiness which 
 she taught me to believe, are the dwelling-places of 
 the good.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AT this time Christianity was making great progress, 
 though secretly ; for it was a crime at Athens to in- 
 troduce the worship of new gods. I daily exerted 
 myself in my conversations with my friends, and in 
 my lectures to my pupils, to guard them against giving 
 into the belief of the Christians. 
 
 But while thus exerting myself, I was not aware 
 that this new religion had taken root in my own 
 house. 
 
 To Zoe I had given the charge of my child merely 
 instructing her in some branches of her education my- 
 self ; and the education of an Athenian female seldom 
 extended beyond the use of the distaff, and general 
 domestic affairs. I was satisfied if she attended to the 
 rites of our religion, seldom explaining the intentions 
 of them to her ; leaving to a future time, when age 
 should have matured her intellect, to teach her some 
 of the tenets of the Stoics. Indeed, she was little 
 more than an amusement to me ; seeking her society, 
 as I have before said I did, as a relaxation from the 
 intense study which I still pursued. These inter- 
 courses endeared us to each other ; and it was not 
 till she had attained her eighteenth year, that I was
 
 122 THE STOIC. 
 
 alarmed as to her religious opinions. And when I 
 first began to be suspicious of her being a Christian, I 
 did not immediately question her upon the point, 
 because', I not only thought it impossible for her to 
 differ in opinion to me, but I could not imagine how, 
 in the perfectly retired manner in which she passed 
 her time, she could even hear that there was a new 
 religion sprung up, and much less who could teach it 
 to her. For I was ignorant that Zoe, the friend and 
 tutoress of her infant years, had always been a Chris- 
 tian, being a descendant of the woman Damaris, who 
 had been converted to Christianity by the preaching 
 of Paul at Athens. 
 
 But soon was the truth of my conjectures to be 
 confirmed. I one day sought Hermione in her apart- 
 ments ; I did not tread unusually light, but she did 
 not hear my approach, and I surprised her reading 
 intently, my mother's book. I approached, and as 
 she lifted her eyes and discovered me, a confused 
 blush overspread her face ; she rose from her couch, 
 still holding in her hand the book, I had so long, so 
 anxiously wished to see. 
 
 " Hermione," I exclaimed, " that book. Tell me, 
 what is it? I have from my boyhood sought for it ; 
 how came it in your possession?" 
 
 " It is the word of Christ," she replied calmly, but 
 in a subdued tone. 
 
 My hand had been stretched towards if, but I im- 
 mediately shrunk from touching it.
 
 THE STOIC. 123 
 
 " Tell me, how came you by it ? How long have 
 you had it ?" 
 
 " Zoe gave it to me ; and it was your mother's," 
 
 " And did my mother, she whom I loved, who I 
 thought all virtue, all goodness, and did she read that 
 foolish manuscript ? Was my mother, whom I loved 
 so tenderly, and deeply, a Christian ?" 
 
 " Father," said Hermione, " her virtues and her 
 goodness were derived from the study of, and her be- 
 lief in the words of this precious book. It was her 
 daily companion ; to read it was her first occupation 
 in the morning, and her last at evening. And, father," 
 she continued meekly, but firmly, "/also am a Chris- 
 tian." 
 
 I did not raise my arm to strike my child, though 
 never before had my anger been so aroused. I up- 
 braided her with disobedience, I told her I had long 
 entertained suspicions of her religion. I cursed Zoe 
 as having been the means of leading her into such de- 
 lusions. I scoffed at her belief; I ridiculed the sect of 
 which she had avowed herself a member. I denied 
 the existence of the Divine Power, and of any Gods, 
 but those which my country owned. In my agitation 
 I seized her arm, " Swear," I exclaimed, " swear by 
 the great Jupiter, by Minerva, the goddess and pro- 
 tectress of your country, to renounce this damnable 
 belief. Return to the worship of your forefathers, or 
 be for ever a stranger, and an outcast from my affec- 
 tions, my care, my house." 
 
 " Father," replied Hermione, boldly and without
 
 124 THE STOIC. 
 
 trembling, " you have taught me the duties due from a 
 child to a parent; you have taught me to love, rever- 
 ence, and obey you ; and still do I love you, oh how 
 dearly !" and a tear glistened in her eye. "I rever- 
 ence you, and I will obey you in every thing, save in 
 renouncing my God. He also is my Father, and to 
 him is due love, honour, reverence, and obedience, 
 even greater than is required of me towards my earth- 
 ly parent It is not lightly that I have embraced the 
 faith of the Christians. It is not from a single reading 
 of this manuscript, that I firmly believe in its words 
 and promises ; I should not have been led from the 
 faith of my forefathers, had I not felt convinced it was 
 a faith to be abhorred. I have thought by day and by 
 night, I have reasoned constantly ; and the more I 
 have thought, the more I have reasoned, so the more 
 firmly have I felt assured that I have chosen the right 
 path. This book has taught me, that there is a God 
 above all other Gods, a Ruler of the universe, the 
 Creator of all things. It has taught me that there is a 
 Heaven to which we return after death, and are 
 rewarded or punished according to our deserts. It has 
 taught me that He, whom we call Jesus Christ, was 
 sent to teach us mortals the path to eternal life. It 
 contains his precepts, his words ; and it promises hap- 
 piness greater than we can conceive, for those who 
 obey the will of his Father who sent him. I say again, 
 I have not embraced this belief lightly and without 
 deep consideration ; but I have embraced it upon a firm 
 conviction of its truth and blessedness. I knew that
 
 THE STOIC. 125 
 
 from you, I should meet with much opposition ; and I 
 have already suffered much in disobeying your pre- 
 cepts. If you do indeed cast me from you, I will pray 
 that your heart may be softened ; and as I have ever 
 done, that you may come to the knowledge of the true 
 God. A time will come, it must come, when my be- 
 lief will be your belief, and when we shall worship the 
 same God. But if till that time come, I must be an 
 outcast from my paternal roof, and if I must choose 
 between my father and my God, much as it will cost 
 me to renounce one so long and so dearly loved, yet 
 will I do it, though my heart should break in the ef- 
 fort." As she spoke she was much agitated, her cheek 
 was flushed, and my own proud spirit flashed from her 
 dark eye, the darker and brighter for the spirit which 
 moved her. A moment over, and the soft temper of 
 my mother shone upon her fair brow, as she mur- 
 mured in meekness, " Father, forgive me." 
 
 I was angry, bitterly so. Still would I endeavour 
 to point out to her, what she must suffer, if cast off by 
 me; nurtured as she had been in ease and affluence, 
 guarded from every ill and every distress, how could 
 she endure the scoffs and taunts, nay perhaps the bodi- 
 ly sufferings, with which her sect was visited. She 
 listened to me attentively, as I pictured her probable 
 fate ; but she was calm and steadfast. 
 
 " All this," she said, " I have thought of, and all this 
 I can and will bear, rather than purchase the ease and 
 luxuries of this temporal life, at the expense of my hap- 
 piness hereafter. I am a female; but God, who has 
 
 M
 
 126 THE STOIC. 
 
 willed that I should come to a true knowledge of him, 
 if I hold fast my faith, will, I trust, give me strength 
 to bear the torments of mind and body which may await 
 me. If you cast me from you, into his hands I com- 
 mit myself, confidently and joyfully." 
 
 My heart still clung to her, spite of my disappoint- 
 ment and anger. I knew how strongly the kindest 
 feelings of our nature were implanted in her heart, and 
 again I attempted to make an impression upon her, by 
 representing the happiness we had enjoyed together, 
 and what I must suffer in my declining age, if I 
 separated from her. As I spoke, the colour fluttered 
 in her cheek, her bosom heaved, and her eyes were cast 
 down. 
 
 " Father," she replied, " I acknowledge I feel all this. 
 For past love and care I am grateful, and never can I 
 forget the happiness of my youth. Oh, if you could 
 read my heart, you would know how fondly it clings, 
 and ever must cling, to you, my only parent. But 
 still," she continued with firmness, "I cannot, must 
 not, will not, renounce my God." 
 
 I took her.hand in mine, and pressed it; "Once 
 again, Hermione," I said, " I, who never before sup- 
 plicated to any one, will beg of my child, beg where I 
 might command, to renounce her errors and return to 
 the worship of her country." 
 
 " Father," she said earnestly, and clasping her hands, 
 " dear father, in mercy do not tempt me to lose my 
 soul, for the enjoyment of a little happiness here; if hap- 
 py I indeed could be, while subject to the upbraidings
 
 THE STOIC. 127 
 
 of my own conscience, upon the holiest and most im- 
 portant of subjects." 
 
 In wrath I left her, and hurried into the garden : 
 there for a time I suffered the most poignant grief. 
 Could I indeed cast from me one I loved so dearly, 
 who had been my pride, my joy, my solace ? For a 
 little difference in opinion upon a subject upon which 
 many now differed. Yet was I not firmly wedded to 
 the religion of my country ? Had I not taught it pub- 
 licly to thousands, and was I to be chafed by a female? 
 I, who had disputed with the first philosophers of the 
 age, and of almost every country, and who was my- 
 self the head of my sect, was I to become the pupil of 
 a child, to be induced by her to renounce what had 
 been established for ages, for the doctrines of a poor 
 wandering people, of whom we had not heard till the 
 last century ? No, forbid it philosophy ! forbid it rea- 
 son ! 
 
 Sleep came upon me, but with it also a dream most 
 horrible. 
 
 Methought I was upon the point of plunging a dag- 
 ger into the bosom of my child, as she stood before me, 
 calm and unmoved, seeming to await the stroke with 
 a pitying mournful tenderness of expression in her 
 beautiful countenance. Suddenly my head became 
 giddy, my sight failed me, and my hand sunk power- 
 less, and the most horible torments assailed my quiv- 
 ering flesh. 
 
 Impenetrable darkness surrounded me ; the air, if it 
 were air, pressed heavily upon me ; an indescribable
 
 128 THE STOIC. 
 
 restlessness pervaded my body and my mind ; not a 
 sound met my ears, but the stillness around me had no 
 calmness, no soothing power. Still my mind retained 
 its energy, and my heart its feelings. Tenderness and 
 love for my child came with tenfold strength, only to 
 . increase my agony. It was in vain that I recurred to 
 the past ; happiness sprung from nothing, from nothing 
 could I derive consolation or alleviation of the racking 
 torments of my mind. 
 
 Nor were the pains of my body less. It was not 
 the burning of my limbs before a raging fire it was 
 not the gnawing of my entrails by beasts of the desert 
 it was not the crushing of my bones beneath the wheel 
 of torture it was not the ringing of the waters in my 
 ears while drowning it was not the hot and parched 
 suffocation of the throat it was not one of these pains 
 separately which assailed me, it was the combination 
 of them all, in their utmost power of torment. I 
 would have destroyed myself, but it was in vain that 
 I struck myself with the dagger, it had not power to 
 kill ; and a vague and imperfect feeling came across 
 me, that I was never to die. I could look back to the 
 beginning of my life, I could count its years by its 
 sorrows ; but when I attempted to think of the probable 
 termination of my existence, I could fix no time to 
 end my anguish ; my life became one lengthened term 
 of misery, lengthening and lengthening as the wish 
 to end it increased; and again that horrible feeling 
 that I was never to die, came across me stronger than 
 ever.
 
 THE STOIC. 129 
 
 A change, a blessed change came over me ; and again 
 I saw my child. A wide space was betwixt us, yet 
 were her features distinct; a bright light seemed to 
 surround her, which though effulgent beyond the 
 power of conception, did not dazzle ; it was calm, 
 steady, beautiful, and increased the loveliness of her 
 countenance. A smile of exquisite sweetness beamed 
 . in her eyes, and played round her mouth, as she held 
 her outstretched arms towards me, as if inviting me to 
 cross the gulph between us, and join her, where all 
 seemed quietness, peacefulness, and bliss. 
 
 Methought that the action of putting forth my hand 
 to catch hers, relieved me from my torments ; all pains 
 left me, and happiness again returned to me. The 
 start of joy at being thus suddenly released, awoke me ; 
 and in reality did I behold my darling child smiling 
 upon me with the same sweet smile of love as in my 
 dream ; my hand also met hers in a prolonged grasp 
 of joy and tenderness. 
 
 I found, that after a time becoming alarmed at my 
 not returning to her, she had sought me in the garden, 
 and finding me in a troubled sleep, she seated herself 
 beside me, carefully watching every movement of my 
 agitated countenance, and gently wiping away the big 
 drops of perspiration which the agony of my dream 
 had sent to my skin. Often as she heard my moans, 
 and saw my convulsive starts, was she tempted to 
 awake me ; but the recollection of the anger in which 
 I had parted from her, and the fear that it had not 
 subsided, withheld her, and it was her intention to 
 M 2
 
 130 THE STOIC. 
 
 have left me when she saw I had become calm ; but 
 my awaking suddenly prevented this. 
 
 My anger was gone ; a tear of tenderness and agita- 
 tion sprung to my eye ; she saw it not, and it fell not 
 upon her cheek, as her head rested upon my bosom. 
 That had been its destination, but my habitual self- 
 command and subjugation of passion, sent it back again 
 to its fountain. 
 
 At parting that evening, Hermione did not, as had 
 ever been her nightly custom, throw her arms round 
 my neck, but with a pale and trembling lip, she said, 
 
 "Father, to-morrow " 
 
 "To-morrow," I replied, without looking at her, 
 "to-morrow we meet again, Hermione." 
 
 As she left me, I heard her utter fervently, "My 
 God, I thank thee !" 
 
 The morrow came ; my child was calm, attentive, 
 and observant of her usual habits ; but her step was 
 slower, her cheek paler, her voice trembled occasion- 
 ally, and her eyes, instead of being turned towards me 
 in love, as they were wont to be, were cast down. 
 How much I missed those fond looks, which ever 
 greeted me ; fain would I have recalled the sweet 
 smile which ever dimpled her cheek when addressing 
 me, I asked her to sing, but it seemed to me that 
 her voice had lost somewhat of its melody ; she an- 
 swered me, when I addressed her, softly and sweetly, 
 but she now never started a subject for our converse. 
 I watched her at her employments, they were still the 
 same ; but if she embroidered, methought her hand
 
 THE STOIC. 131 
 
 moved less skilfully ; in tending her birds, I did not 
 heftr the little imitative chirp with which she used to 
 encourage their warbling ; and even her flowers seemed 
 to have lost somewhat of their attraction for her. I 
 thought her drooping, without a murmur, without a 
 sigh. Oh ! if she had given vent to reproach and to 
 anger, I could have borne it better ; but to see her so 
 gentle, so tender, yet so mournful ! I could not bear it, 
 and after many days of misery to us both, I one 
 evening took her hand, and said, 
 
 "Hermione, if blame must attach to one of us, let it 
 be to me. I dare not think of what my duty is, but I 
 cannot part with you. Never recur to what has passed 
 between us ; I leave you free to act as your judgment 
 shall tell you is right ; I wish there had been no matter 
 of difference between us ; but we may still be happy 
 together. I will hold to the faith of my country, but 
 you are free to follow the worship of the Christians." 
 She would have spoken. "Nay, do not thank me. 
 Let it be a subject upon which you never speak first. 
 But Hermione, be happy, and again make your father 
 so also." 
 
 She sank into my arms, and a flood of tears relieved 
 her. Now again was she my lovely, my beautiful, 
 nay happy child ; though I could detect a softened 
 joy in her manner, a sweet pensiveness now marked 
 her countenance ; and when I rallied her upon the 
 loss of the bright smiles I so much missed, my heart 
 smote me as being the cause of their banishment, and 
 I felt grateful for the efforts made to recall them.
 
 132 THE STOIC. 
 
 Thus did I allow myself to be conquered, and my 
 philosophy conquered also, by my love for my child ; 
 and many were the moments in which I blamed my- 
 self, nay almost repented my leniency towards her. 
 Yet when in her society, I almost felt that she might 
 win me to anything.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CHRISTIANITY spread, and particularly among the 
 lower class. I had hitherto considered the common 
 people as unworthy of instruction. Therefore I now 
 felt my pride mortified, and saw myself, and the sci- 
 ence to which I pretended, eclipsed by the illiterate 
 among the common people, whom I had so much 
 despised. In this state of mind I endeavoured to 
 console myself with affecting to despise those who 
 despised me, and at first, without demeaning myself 
 to examine the historical evidence of the facts on 
 which Christianity was founded, I superciliously con- 
 tented myself with considering it as a new thing, 
 brought into the world by obscure persons, with a 
 crucified malefactor and some fishermen at its head ; 
 besides, although there were some of our rites which 
 I despised, I conformed to them, being seriously per- 
 suaded, that things of such venerable antiquity were 
 of a sacred nature. Still was my mind restless and 
 unsatisfied. I daily heard of fresh converts to the new 
 religion ; in my own home I witnessed the purity of 
 a Christian's life, and I felt very much inclined to 
 examine their doctrines. I had forbidden Hermione 
 ever to mention the subject to me, but I was resolved 
 to have some conversation with her upon it, and to
 
 134 THE STOIC. 
 
 discover, if possible, if it were indeed a happier and a 
 more reasonable belief than my own. 
 
 "Tell me, Hermione," I one evening said to her, 
 " when I blamed you for renouncing the religion of 
 your country, did you not in your heart curse me?" 
 
 "Curse you! No, father. I was miserable and 
 unhappy, but I endeavoured to be resigned." 
 
 " Hermione," and I seized her arm with firmness, 
 " if my hand were raised against your life, would you 
 not curse me then ?" 
 
 She turned pale, and fear- was for a moment in her 
 countenance ; " No not even then would I curse my 
 
 parent, I would " she paused, and looked fixedly 
 
 in my face. 
 
 "What would you, Hermione?" 
 
 Looking upward with an indescribable sweetness, 
 she said, " I would pray my God for forgiveness for 
 you." 
 
 Her look, her manner, so sweet, so solemn, struck 
 to my heart, and loosing my hold I turned hastily from 
 her. She saw that I was moved, and I repented my 
 want of self-command, and my weakness in allowing 
 her to see it. It was the first time that she had hinted 
 at her religion, and months again passed in silence 
 upon the subject. 
 
 But during those months I had not been idle ; I had 
 studied, I had thought of, nay, I had even held con- 
 versations with Christians upon their belief ; and what 
 induced me to do this ? My unhappiness, and I do not 
 blush to say, my love for my child. When an infant,
 
 THE STOIC. . 135 . 
 
 left as she was to my care in a peculiar and unfortu- 
 nate manner, I thought I loved her for her helpless 
 innocence, and for the resemblance she bore to my 
 mother. In youth, Hermione still grew upon my 
 affections, and I found I loved her for herself ; and 
 sometimes I blushed for my love, and sometimes I 
 cursed my cold philosophy ; still I could not but love 
 her. Her beauty, her gentleness, her feminine sweet- 
 ness, and her talents, stole upon me year after year, 
 and spite of all my endeavours, I found she became 
 more dear to me. Her strict obedience to my will, 
 her forbearance when I had so strongly tried her 
 temper, led me not only to admire her, but to inquire 
 into the nature of that belief, which enabled her thus 
 to overcome her passions, apparently with so much 
 less difficulty than my Stoic philosophy enabled me 
 to root mine from my breast, nay, and much more 
 effectually so too. Her life seemed to be smooth and 
 unruffled, while I was continually agitated, with heart 
 and mind constantly at variance. Yet my doubts 
 and struggles did not appear outwardly ; then might 
 she not suffer also unseen? No. That face so calmly 
 cheerful, could not belong to a writhing heart, and a 
 troubled mind. Even her deepest thought seemed to 
 be blest, for her brow was unmarked by care ; hap- 
 piness alone seemed to have made her pure heart his 
 dwelling-place, and to beam in her youthful counte- 
 nance. To be so happy she must be virtuous, and 
 moreover wise ; and I must learn such wisdom and
 
 136 THE STOIC. 
 
 such happiness. But reason alone must guide me, 
 and I must not suffer my affections to influence me. 
 
 Our religious conversations were now more fre- 
 quent ; I asked her many questions, and she always 
 answered me with modesty, yet with a full understand- 
 ing of the subject. One evening, while sitting under 
 my mother's myrtle tree, the following conversation 
 took place between us. 
 
 " And you think," I said, " that we may indulge 
 the affections of our nature ?" 
 
 " Certainly I do. 1 think that all our passions and 
 all our feelings were given to us for a wise purpose by 
 our Creator ; the good ones to be encouraged to his 
 glory, and the evil ones to try the strength of our 
 virtue, and to insure our future reward and happiness 
 by being overcome. I wish," she continued, throwing 
 one arm round my neck, and looking sweetly in my 
 face, "I wish, my dear father, I could persuade you to 
 forget your philosophy, and to let your heart love me, 
 as well as it wishes to do. Nay, do not shake your 
 head." 
 
 " My heart will love you in defiance of my reason, 
 my girl, and though my philosophy forbids it. It is a 
 very foolish heart, Hermione." 
 
 " Oh ! no, no, not foolish, my dear father ; consider 
 we are alone in the world together, not a single relation 
 beside myself have you ; and who have I so dear to 
 me as my father ? Why then should we not love each 
 other very dearly ?" 
 
 " My philosophy teaches me not to love or hate
 
 THE STOIC. 137 
 
 anything ; and in truth I have found but little in the 
 world to wish to love." 
 
 " I on the contrary/' said my smiling child, " love 
 every thing. This beautiful flower/' plucking a 
 pomegranate bud, " I not only admire for its beautiful 
 colour, but I love it because it forms a part of the cre- 
 ation. I love the birds that sing around us, and that 
 clear and rippling river ; nay, I love the very earth 
 on which we tread. And if I can so love inanimate 
 things, you may judge how dearly I love you, my 
 father." 
 
 " You say you love every thing, yet every thing 
 will perish, Hermione ; and to lose what we love must 
 cause pain, then surely it is far better to live in indif- 
 ference. The birds will cease their songs, and become 
 a mass of corruption and putridity ; that flower will 
 fade, and its brilliant colour will change to one un- 
 seemly to your eye." 
 
 "True, father. But other birds will be in life and 
 sing as sweetly ; and other blossoms will show them- 
 selves as beautiful, and console me for the loss of those 
 that have died and faded." 
 
 " And /, Hermione, must also pass away and become 
 a mass of corruption ; will then another father be given 
 you?" 
 
 "You will indeed be taken from me;" she said 
 seriously; "but even then I v shallnot be without 
 consolation. Our separation will be but for a time, 
 and though it will be grievous to me for'a time, how-
 
 38 fHE STOIC. 
 
 ever short, yet I have the conviction that we shall 
 meet again in Heaven, never more to part" 
 
 "And your flowers, and all that you love, will they 
 also be given to you in your Heaven?" 
 
 " I know not, nor can I exactly understand of what 
 my happiness hereafter will consist. But I am willing 
 to think that you, who have been the cause of my 
 greatest happiness here below, will also contribute to 
 the greater, purer, and more blessed happiness which 
 is promised to me hereafter, if I so conduct myself as 
 to obtain eternal life. But call it not my Heaven only, 
 father, it is the Heaven for you, and for all ; it is the 
 everlasting home .to which we shall all return." 
 
 I asked the grounds of her belief in a future life. 
 
 " I am promised it by Jesus Christ, and believing 
 most firmly as I do in Him, I believe in his promises 
 also. I am but a poor ignorant girl, and cannot argue 
 with you ; what I tell you of my belief, I understand, 
 and I feel it to be right ; but there are many points, 
 which being less essential to guide my conduct, I do 
 not attempt to study or to think of ; and for an expla- 
 nation of those points, I refer you to our good Bishop 
 Quadratus. But I can reason a little with you," she 
 continued, smiling, " in the way of your own dear 
 philosophy. Is not happiness the end and aim of 
 your studies, and your life?" 
 
 " Most assuredly it is." 
 
 "Well, it makes me happy to encourage my belief 
 in a Supreme Creator, and in a Heaven ; therefore it 
 would be folly in me not to believe. If it be a wrong
 
 THE STOIC. '139 
 
 belief, and I should sink into the grave, and rot into 
 nothing, body and soul together ; still I shall have 
 been happy, and therefore, according to your philoso- 
 phy, I shall have been right But if I am to die, only 
 to live again in another world, if this body is to decay, 
 but my soul to rise again, will it not add to my bliss to 
 know that I have not wilfully disbelieved and denied 
 what my Creator has so- mercifully taught us by his 
 Son and our Saviour? OhJ how sincerely, how fer- 
 vently do I wish that you would think as. I do ?" 
 
 " That, Hermione, may never be." 
 
 I said it might not be ; but from conversations such 
 as these, I did not rise without reflection, and my 
 philosophy was shaken. I became a less frequent 
 attendant at the Poecile Portico, and I began to shun 
 the society of my former friends. To doubt the truth 
 of the philosophy in which I had been educated, was 
 the first step towards renouncing it. Still I was re- 
 solved not to do so lightly, and without a strict ex- 
 amination of the reasons for Christianity.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I WAS in a state of uncertainty and doubt ; a state 
 which cannot last long ; it is unquiet and painful. 
 Although many and great misfortunes have fallen 
 upon me, my life has never been so constantly disa- 
 greeable to me as in this time of trouble and anxiety ; 
 when wandering from doubt to doubt, I gained little 
 from my long and frequent meditations than uncertainty 
 as to the cause of my existence. 
 
 To doubt of things which it is important for us to 
 know, is too violent a state for the human mind, it will 
 not remain in it long ; it will decide in one way or 
 another, and loves better to deceive itself, than to be- 
 lieve nothing. 
 
 What increased my embarrassment was, that having 
 been brought up in opinions (for I cannot now call it 
 a religion) which did not admit of a doubt, one single 
 point rejected, made me reject many others. 
 
 I again perused the writings of the different philoso- 
 phers, who had dictated to mankind ; I examined their 
 several opinions, and sometimes thought them positive 
 and dogmatical, and proving nothing. I thought of 
 the melancholy fate of mortals, floating on the sea of 
 human opinions, without rudder or compass, and 
 abandoned to their violent passions, without any
 
 THE STOIC. 141 
 
 other guide than an inexperienced pilot, who knows 
 not his route, whence he came or whither he goes. I 
 felt that to know the truth was essential to my hap- 
 piness ; I sought it, but I could not find it. 
 
 What made the foundation of my Stoic philosophy 
 better than those of Epicurus or Plato ? Then why, 
 again, were the Christian opinions concerning the form- 
 ation of the universe more rational, and nearer the truth, 
 than those of Zeno ? 
 
 I had been taught that this universe was a sentient 
 and animated being ; and my doubts led me to examine 
 more carefully than I had yet done the nature of mat- 
 ter and its properties ; and after this examination, I felt 
 so persuaded that the natural state of matter is rest, 
 and that it has not in itself the power of motion ; that 
 when seeing a body moved, I judged it either to be an 
 animated body, or that motion had been communicated 
 to it 
 
 Yet this universe is visibly matter, and matter in 
 motion too ; how then could I prove that it is not ani- 
 mated and sentient? I must judge of it by analogy, I 
 must compare it with something, and nothing so readily 
 presented itself as fit for my purpose as myself; and 
 this comparison induced me to think that this world is 
 not a great animal which moves of itself, for I could 
 not discover that it has anything of the union, organi- 
 zation, or feeling, common to the parts of an animated 
 body. It is in motion, but in its regular and uniform 
 motion there is nothing of that liberty which appears 
 in the spontaneous movements of man. 
 w 2
 
 142 THE STOIC. 
 
 Thus was one point in the doctrines of my philoso- 
 phy rejected ; I will not say that I readily rejected it j 
 for who can, without some feeling of reluctance, allow 
 the fallacy of an opinion which he had entertained al- 
 most from his birth ? But I did renounce my former 
 belief as to this univei'se being animated ; and if inani- 
 mate, it could not be sentient. And I believed that 
 there was a something, a cause, a will, which moves 
 the universe and animates nature. 
 
 And if the motion of matter proved to me a will, 
 the perfect order , and harmony of the different parts 
 of the universe, gave me the idea of an intelligence 
 to direct that will. 
 
 This intelligent principle, this Being who wills and 
 is able to perform every thing, the Christians called 
 God ; and in acknowledging the power, the existence 
 of this first and intelligent cause, / also acknowledged 
 a God, 
 
 What now became of the doctrine of chances and 
 combinations ? Of fate and necessity ? I could ^no 
 longer believe that matter passive and without life, had 
 been able to produce living and feeling beings ; or that 
 a blind fatality had been able to form intelligent crea- 
 tures ; or that things which have no power of thinking 
 could produce beings who have. 
 
 I acknowledge a God, and to this name I joined 
 ideas of intelligence, power, and will ; and goodness 
 which is the necessary result of these. I knew that he 
 existed, and that he existed of himself ; and that my
 
 THE STOIC. 143 
 
 existence, and that of all other things was subservient 
 to his. 
 
 I perceived God in all his works ; in the heavens 
 which encompass the earth ; in the stars which shine 
 upon us ; in the bird which flies ; in the stone which 
 rolls on the ground; and in the leaf which is shaken 
 by the wind. 
 
 After having discovered those attributes of God, by 
 which I came to a knowledge of his existence, I re- 
 turned to the study of myself; and sought to know 
 what rank I occupy in the order of the things he 
 governs. 
 
 I find myself incontestably in the first; for by my 
 will, and the instruments which are in my power to 
 execute it, I am more able to act on all the bodies 
 which surround me, and to make them subservient to 
 my wishes, than they are to make me obey them ; and 
 by my intellect, I am the only one who can survey the 
 whole. What being on this earth besides man, can 
 observe the other beings, foresee their movements, and 
 the effects of them, and join, as I may say, the feeling 
 of a common existence with that of his individual ex- 
 istence ? It is true therefore, that man is the king of 
 the earth he inhabits, and I am proudly content with 
 the situation in which I am placed. But this place was 
 not my choice, and was not given me as a reward. 
 How then can I feel myself thus distinguished from 
 the other creatures of the earth, without congratulating 
 myself upon filling a situation so honourable, with- 
 out blessing the hand which placed me in it.
 
 144 THE STOIC. 
 
 t 
 
 I came to the conclusion, that man is free in his 
 actions, and being so, is animated with an imma- 
 terial substance, which makes him accountable to 
 God for his actions. Jindthat Providence, has made, 
 man free, that he may do good, and not evil, by 
 choice. 
 
 Thus came I to a belief in God, in a world to come, 
 in a day of judgment, and in future rewards and pun- 
 ishments. I became a Christian. 
 
 Oh ! what an immense, what a wonderful alteration 
 did this belief work upon my feelings ! My misfor- 
 tunes, my unhappiness, have been great ; but patiently 
 will I await the time, when, freed from my mortality, 
 all trouble shall cease, all pain vanish away, and in the 
 presence of my God I shall sing glory and praise to 
 the Everlasting ! and enjoy the contemplation of his 
 infinite goodness, in the company of just men made 
 perfect, and of my darling child, who first taught me 
 that this life is but a pilgrimage, and who first led me 
 to a belief of a God, and of a Heaven. Bless thee, 
 bless thee, Hermione ! Thou wert my joy on earth, 
 and thou savedst my soul from perdition. 
 
 Thus have I endeavoured to give, as briefly as pos- 
 sible, the reasons which actuated me in changing my 
 religious belief; and of embracing those opinions, for 
 the holding of which I had almost sent my only child 
 a solitary outcast upon the wide world. Oh ! how 
 did my heart now repent of what I that day said to 
 her, and how sincerely did it now seek to repair those 
 harsh words, by the increased tenderness with which
 
 THE STOIC. 145 
 
 it now beat for her. Increased, because I felt I might 
 indulge it without danger to my eternal welfare, and 
 because it had something of gratitude mixed with it, 
 as I looked upon her as having been the cause of the 
 important changes in my opinions and feelings. 
 
 Might I indeed cherish love for my child and for 
 my mother, without blushing at my weakness ? How 
 shall I describe my feelings at that moment, when I 
 suffered the tender emotions of my nature to fill my 
 heart, without a wish or an endeavour to overcome or 
 to curb them. I cannot describe the impetuosity of 
 my feelings, my yearnings to embrace my beloved 
 Hermione, and to tell her that the time she once so 
 confidently spoke of was arrived, when her God was 
 become my God, her belief my belief, and that we 
 cherished the same hopes of a life to come and eternal. 
 I felt no humility in owning to my child the change 
 in my opinions. 
 
 But although the relation of my conversion has 
 been brief, my conversion itself did not take place in 
 a few days or weeks. I had many early and strongly 
 imbibed prejudices to overcome, and it was many 
 months before a perfect change was completed. Du- 
 ring that time I did not mention the subject to Her- 
 mione, resolved not to do so while there remained 
 the smallest doubt in my mind upon any point. But 
 now that all doubts were cleared away, all prejudice 
 conquered, and that I had learnt to know the true 
 cause and end of my existence, I was anxious to make 
 her acquainted with a circumstance which I felt would
 
 146 . THE STOIC. 
 
 so very much increase her happiness; and I longed to 
 humble myself in prayer to my Creator, in company 
 with my darling child. 
 
 " Hermione/' said I to her one day, " you will be 
 prepared to welcome to our repast to-day one of my 
 most valued friends." 
 
 I forebore to tell her my intention, and never shall 
 I forget the expression of her countenance when I 
 entered our hall, with Quadratus, the Christian Bishop 
 of Athens. Astonishment, doubt, and joy, alternately 
 depicted themselves in that dear face. I opened my 
 arms, and she threw herself upon my bosom, and a 
 few tears of gladness chased each other down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " I am now a Christian, Hermione," I said. 
 
 " You, my dear child, have been the chosen instru- 
 ment to work out my conversion. I little thought, 
 when you were put into my arms a helpless infant, 
 that you were to win me from the idolatrous worship 
 of my forefathers, and to lead me to the study of my- 
 self, of the universe, and thereby to a knowledge of 
 God. Heaven bless thee, my child ! and may I ever 
 be grateful for the precious gift bestowed upon me in 
 you." 
 
 My child's heart was too full of joyful feelings to 
 allow of her speaking; but she took my hand and one 
 of Quadratus's, and pressing them together, she im- 
 printed a kiss upon each. 
 
 I that evening tasted greater and purer happiness 
 than I ever before had known ; seated under my
 
 THE STOIC. 147 
 
 > 
 
 mother's myrtle tree, we passed it in conversation, 
 and in reading that book, which was now become as 
 dear to me as to Hermione, and from which my touch 
 did not now recoil. 
 
 The majesty of the Holy Writings astonished me, 
 the sanctity of the Evangelists touched my heart. I 
 owned that the books of the philosophers; with all 
 their pomp of learning, were nothing compared to that ; 
 and I there now sought for the rules and precepts* for 
 my conduct ; which, but a few months before, I thought 
 were contained in the writings of Zeno and his foHow- 
 ers only. 
 
 Nor was I content in professing the change in my 
 opinions to my particular friends only, but I resolved to 
 become, by baptism, a follower of Christ Hermione, 
 who in deference to my paternal authority had not 
 yet gone through the ceremony, expressed a wish, to 
 be baptised at the same time. 
 
 We therefore presented ourselves together at the 
 font, and Quadratus blessed both father and child.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OUR happiness was of short duration ; but a few 
 years elapsed between my conversion and my perse- 
 cution for the belief which I had embraced. 
 
 Christianity had spread widely, but every where 
 we heard of the rigours with which the Roman go- 
 vernment visited its professors. Imprisonment, banish- 
 ment, torture, nay death, were dealt out to our brethren 
 with an unsparing hand. Edict upon edict closely 
 followed each other ; neither age nor sex were allowed 
 as an extenuation of the punishment doomed to the 
 followers of Christ. Grey-headed men were con- 
 demned to die a lingering and excruciating death, and 
 the agonies of mothers with infants at their bosoms 
 were not less. 
 
 At Athens, we however, as yet, remained untrou- 
 bled ; although, while pitying our friends in distress, 
 we thought of what probably awaited ourselves. And 
 while I gazed on my beloved and beautiful child, I 
 shuddered ; how could that delicate, alas ! at this time 
 too delicate, frame, bear immurement in a prison? 
 Those youthful limbs might be tortured and wounded. 
 I thought of this, and the tears rolled down my cheeks. 
 I fervently asked the Almighty that all suffering might 
 fall on me alone.
 
 
 THE STOIC. 149 
 
 By prayer to heaven, by reading, and by exhorta- 
 tion, we endeavoured to encourage in each other a firm 
 reliance upon the Divine will. 
 
 The blow came ; I cannot describe the agony of that 
 hour. I scarcely know what took place generally ; I 
 was stunned, my mind, my observation, were un- 
 hinged and put to flight by the intensity of my an- 
 guish. I only saw my beloved Hermione torn from 
 me, and knew not whither she was carried ; without 
 one parting embrace was she taken from me ; the rude 
 hands of the soldiers held her back ; it was in vain that 
 she implored for one kiss, one blessing ; they would 
 have intercepted our looks had it been in their power, 
 but it was not ; and after a deep glance of agony we 
 were separated, leaving to either but little hope of 
 meeting again, save in that heaven to which we prayed 
 for fortitude and patience. 
 
 In my prison, deprived of every comfort, and almost 
 necessaries, the agonies of my mind where tenfold 
 more than those of my body. My child, my child, 
 where was she ? I thought of her loveliness, of >her 
 goodness, and my heart yearned to her with greater 
 love than it ever had done before. Were my trials 
 never to cease ? was I doomed always to be miserable. 
 Oh God forgive me, that in my hours of agony, almost 
 of distraction, I dared to murmur against thy decrees. 
 
 o
 
 150 THE STOIC. 
 
 I had but lately rejoiced in the soft affections of huma- 
 nity, and now they served to increase my sufferings. 
 I could not now recall my Stoical apathy ; my feelings 
 had lately had full exercise, and I cduld not now bid 
 them leave my breast I wept, I mourned, and in 
 prayer only could I find an alleviation of my misery. 
 
 Weeks thus passed, and with joy I hailed the sum- 
 mons to appear before the governor of Athens. That 
 governor was Maximinian, and I knew not whether 
 to expect mercy, or increased severity from him, on 
 account of the connexion between us. I cared but 
 little for myself, but I hoped, though not confidently, 
 that Agathonica's heart would soften in behalf of her 
 child, and that she possessed sufficient influence with 
 her paramour to obtain a pardon for Hermione. 
 
 I had been in the hall of justice some moments with 
 my fellow-sufferers, before the females, who were also 
 to be tried that day, appeared, and was still uncertain 
 as to the fate of my child ; so far uncertain at least, 
 that although I knew that upon her separation from 
 me, she also had been conveyed to prison, I was igno- 
 rant whether she was to undergo her examination that 
 day or not. 
 
 At length the females entered, and my impatient 
 eyes soon discovered my darling Hermione among 
 them ; she walked slowly, with her eyes bent on the 
 ground, and it was some time before she lifted them to 
 survey those around her ; but in that hasty glance she 
 quickly recognised me, and with outstretched arms, 
 she uttered a piercing shriek which sounded through
 
 THE STOIC. 151 
 
 the hall and drew all attention to her ; then lifting her 
 eyes to heaven, she seemed to utter a prayer, and again 
 her head dropt, and with her arms crossed on her bo- 
 som, she stood perfectly still and motionless. The 
 colour which had for an instant rushed to her cheek, 
 had fled, and left her pale and colourless as the purest 
 marble ; but for the gentle heaving of her bosom, the 
 beholder might have imagined her a statue, she was so 
 pale, so still. The rigours of confinement had taken 
 somewhat from the roundness of her figure, but she still 
 looked lovely ; and while the praises of her beauty 
 were murmured through the assembly, even in that 
 hour of trial and of sorrow, my heart was proud and 
 joyful, as I claimed that young creature as my daugh- 
 ter. I watched the countenance of Maximinian, and 
 thought that it relaxed in its sternness as he gazed 
 upon her ; even the lowest of his attendants seemed 
 to regard her with admiration and pity ; and so strongly 
 did I feel that to be the moment to sue for mercy and 
 pardon for her, that I should have fallen upon my 
 knees before the governor, had he not that instant 
 called forward some of my companions for their exa- 
 mination. 
 
 Seldom were my eyes removed from that one dear 
 being; I endeavoured to watch the changes of her 
 countenance as the trials proceeded ; she still remained 
 in the position which she had taken upon her entrance; 
 and except that an occasional shudder passed moment- 
 arily over her frame, as the blows inflicted upon the
 
 152 THE STOIC. 
 
 ','" '' ' . .' tf> - " ""'. " ' 
 
 interrogated were distinctly heard, I Should have 
 thought her unconscious of what was passing. 
 
 My turn arrived. I looked calmly in the face of 
 Maximinian, but he shrunk not ; I was almost tempted 
 to upbraid him with the injury he had done me in early 
 life, but my spirit was too proud to make that a plea 
 for generous treatment at that time. 
 
 Now did Hermione show symptoms of animation. 
 Her eyes were fixed with intense earnestness upon me; 
 the colour fluttered in her cheek, her hands were 
 clasped, and with head slightly bent forward, and 
 parted lips, she eagerly awaited my answers. Once 
 the attendant's rod was held over me, and my child 
 saw it about to descend. 
 
 "Mercy !" she cried in agony, her clasped hands 
 stretched towards Maximinian, "Mercy, for my 
 father !" 
 
 A smile of haughty derision curled the lip of the 
 governor, as he said, " Do you ask mercy from me ? 
 I had been told that the Christians felt not the pains 
 of the body, when bearing them for their religion's 
 sake ; or if they did feel them, that to one source only 
 did they look for mercy, and that they scorned the 
 power I hold." 
 
 "Yes," replied my child with bold firmness, and 
 standing proudly erect, " We Christians do scorn the 
 power you arrogate to yourself in the affairs of our 
 religion. But you have done well to recall my 
 thoughts to where indeed we can alone look for mercy 
 and compassion, and I thank you that you have done
 
 THE STOIC. 153 
 
 so." Then sinking on one knee, the expression of 
 her uplifted countenance being now only that of hum- 
 ble piety, she said, " Father in heaven, forgive me, 
 that my earthly passions and anxieties made .me for 
 one instant forget that from thee alone can we hope to 
 receive justice and mercy. Thy will be done, and 
 oh ! grant us strength to bear without a murmur, 
 whatever thou in thy wisdom and goodness seest fit 
 to afflict us with." Then again turning proudly to 
 Maximinian, as she rose, she said, "Now do your 
 worst. Our hope is in heaven. Father, let us bear 
 our misfortunes as though we felt them not, and if 
 they reach even to death, let us yield our lives in 
 firm faith of Him who died for us, and in a full and 
 perfect assurance of a happy life in a world to come." 
 
 "You speak nobly, fair maiden," said Maximinian, 
 "and show that you inherit the pride of your family. 
 I will question you as to your belief; methinks you 
 will give me judicious answers, nay, perhaps you will 
 convert me." 
 
 "Would that I could convert you, and make you a 
 follower of that religion and faith, which even in this 
 hour of sorrow, speaks comfort and consolation to its 
 believers." 
 
 He then proceeded to question her as to the faith of 
 the Christians ; my child answered him firmly, with- 
 out fear, yet still retaining the modesty of her sex. 
 She said the kingdom of Christ was an angelic, not an 
 earthly one, and would commence at the end of time, 
 when he would come in glory to judge the living and 
 o2
 
 154 THE STOIC. 
 
 the dead, and to give to every one according to his 
 works. That according to the principles of Christi- 
 anity, all mankind, without any distinction of high or 
 low, rich or poor, are equally candidates for a happy 
 immortality. 
 
 A slight colour tinged her cheek as she spoke, and 
 often the fervour of her piety made her manner not 
 merely earnest, but energetic ; but when she had fin- 
 ished, her head again sunk upon her bosom, and she 
 appeared meekly and patiently to await her sentence. 
 
 There was a perfect silence for some time in the 
 hall, and Maximinian seemed to be ruminating upon 
 the punishment he was to award to the young creature 
 before him. He more than once looked towards her, 
 and then at me; at length he said, "Have you no fa- 
 vour to ask of me, young maiden?" 
 
 "I fear you will scarcely grant any request from 
 me, a poor, persecuted Christian," replied Hermione, 
 in a tone and manner which implied that she was not 
 anxious to be obliged to him for the grant of a favour. 
 
 "Nay, judge not so harshly of me," said Maximi- 
 nian, almost conciliatingly, "Your youth pleads some- 
 what in your behalf; and I feel inclined to be lenient 
 towards you." 
 
 "Then," replied Hermione, "I will make one re- 
 quest. Do not separate me from my father. What- 
 ever punishment awaits him, grant that I may share 
 it." 
 
 "You have unfortunately made a request which 
 does not agree with my half-formed intention of taking
 
 THE STOIC. 155 
 
 you inio the household of my wife, to be her constant 
 attendant." 
 
 I could not refrain from showing my surprise and 
 indignation at such a proposal, and I sternly said, "Maxi- 
 minian, you know me. I do not now speak to you as a 
 persecuted Christian and a stranger, but as an injnred 
 husband and loving father. I am astonished at the 
 proposal you have made, that Hennione, my virtuous 
 and innocent child, should live under the same roof 
 with Agathonica. If you meant to insult me, know, 
 proud man^ that although unfortunate, I have a spirit 
 which will not tamely brook unmerited insult; and, 
 in my present situation, it is mean to add insult to 
 your tyranny. I know that I am in your power, and 
 that if you please you can at this moment take my 
 life. But I do not fear you. I have been silent many 
 years ; I have never upbraided you ; but attempt to 
 bring my child in contact with her miserable mother^ 
 and though immured in a dungeon, I will find some 
 means to free her, and to avenge myself for all my 
 injuries. Nay, Hermione," I said, observing her 
 surprise at my words, and taking hold of her with one 
 hand, while with the other I pointed to Maximinian 
 "Hermione, do not be alarmed at my earnestness. 
 I have hitherto carefully concealed from you the un- 
 happiness that man brought upon me, the injury he has 
 done us both. A governor of others ought, methinks, 
 to be possessed of a heart firm in good principles, and 
 a character to which not the slightest taint can attach. 
 He is appointed, or takes upon himself, to deal justice
 
 lOb THE STOIC. 
 
 to every one, from the highest to the lowest of those 
 over whom he rules; he is to administer the laws 
 with fidelity and truth, to rich and poor, to wise and 
 simple ; he holds his power in trust, and is accountable 
 for its right application to the people, to his king, and 
 to his God. Maximinian is a governor; and has he, 
 does he act thus ? Let his conscience answer what 
 laws he has transgressed, what rights he has invaded, 
 what injuries he has committed. Look at him, Her- 
 mione, and in him behold the seducer, who, I know 
 not by what blandishments, tempted your mother to 
 leave her home, her husband, and her child, her young 
 and helpless child ; and he has now the baseness to 
 offer to that child a home in his own house, that she 
 may be a daily witness of her mother's ignominy. 
 Shame, shame, Maximinian !" 
 
 My wrath was roused, yet I spoke not passionately ; 
 but he quailed before me. A murmur, low but general, 
 rose from the assembly, and the anger of Maximinian 
 was manifest in his agitated countenance. He muttered 
 something of death. 
 
 " I care not," I said, " take my life, and my last 
 breath shall pronounce your infamy." 
 
 "Death were too speedy an end to your sufferings," 
 he replied ; " no, Eurysthenes, I condemn you and 
 your proud child to perpetual banishment in the Island 
 ofCEanthe." 
 
 Hermione clung to me, partly in terror, and partly 
 in love ; I strongly pressed her to my bosom, and 
 throwing my arm around her, seemed by my strong
 
 THE STOIC. 157 
 
 grasp to be fearful that she might yet be taken from 
 me. 
 
 There are some islands on the coast of Ithaca, 
 which are scarce better than barren rocks ; no trees 
 grow on them, a few weeds only give signs of vege- 
 tation ; no animals inhabit them, and even the birds of 
 the air forsake them. 
 
 Such an one was CEanthe ; but dreary as the pros- 
 pect of living there would have seemed to others, I 
 dreaded it not, while the treasure most prized was 
 left me. For myself I cared not; I could endure 
 any privations, but I trembled for my child. I was 
 fully convinced that the strength of her religious 
 principles would enable her to endure every hardship 
 without a murmur, that her mind would not fail her 
 under any trial, but I feared her bodily strength. The 
 few weeks that she had heen condemned to inhabit 
 a prison had made a visible alteration in her appear- 
 ance, in which there was a delicacy which strongly 
 reminded me of my dear mother ; and I shuddered 
 as the idea of her sinking prematurely crossed me.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 I WILL not attempt to describe our feelings upon 
 leaving our beloved Athens ; beloved, because it had 
 been the birth-place of us both; our happy home. 
 We did not give utterance to our thoughts or griefs, 
 but with hands clasped in each other, we stood upon 
 deck, watching the coast which receded from our 
 sight much too quickly. In silence we lost sight of 
 it ; and in silence we landed upon our new and dreary 
 land. 
 
 I had not formed a wrong idea of my child's 
 strength of mind, and fortitude in adversity. Many 
 were exiled with us, but Hermione was active among 
 them, speaking consolation to the aged, and stimulating 
 the younger by her words and example to activity and 
 resignation. The comfort of each individual seemed 
 to be the object of her care, and as far as lay in her 
 power she contributed to it All blessed her, and all 
 followed her advice and example ; and in a short time 
 our little colony was settled, if not happily, content- 
 edly ; and we were brethren in love as well as in ad- 
 versity. We set apart a small building as a chapel, 
 and I was chosen as the pastor of our little commu- 
 nity. My child had managed to secrete my mother's 
 Bible, now the only one within our reach, and it be-
 
 THE STOIC. 159 
 
 came a carefully guarded treasure, the common pro- 
 perty of all. 
 
 But notwithstanding the activity of Hermione, I 
 could detect a latent melancholy preying upon her con- 
 stitution. Often would she sit silently and pensively; 
 her voice was now never raised except in hymns to 
 her Creator ; and I found that that part of the shore 
 which lay opposite to Ithaca was her most favourite 
 walk, and never would she go elsewhere, when I left 
 her to guide the way for our evening ramble. 
 
 Still she expressed no regret, no sign ever escaped 
 her till within a short time of her death ; when I not 
 unfrequently observed her eyes fixed upon me, and 
 suffused with tears, which she would quickly repress 
 when she discovered I noticed her. I daily saw her 
 declining, I saw her form wasting, and her strength 
 failing. Others saw it too, and in their kindness offered 
 me condolence and consolation. Alas ! from them I 
 could not derive lasting comfort I saw my only 
 earthly treasure gliding from my possession, yet I 
 wept not I could not weep, my grief was too deep 
 for tears. She was the only tie which bound me to 
 life, and made that life endurable ; and that tie was to 
 be loosened. From my birth, it appeared that I had 
 been doomed to unhappiness; that amidst every appa- 
 rent blessing, misfortune secretly haunted me. I had 
 lost family and fortune, and now was to lose the only 
 being who loved me, or whom I loved ; that dear 
 child, who from her infancy I had doated upon, even 
 in contradiction to my principles ; and now, when re-
 
 160 THE STOIC. 
 
 ligion hallowed and blessed my affection, now when I 
 felt that in loving her, I was fulfilling a law of nature 
 and of God ; she was to be taken from me. I wept 
 not, nor did I murmur. I did not pray for the life of 
 my child, for I knew that the Almighty, who had a 
 knowledge of all my thoughts and wishes, would, if 
 he saw good, grant them without my asking ; he willed 
 that she should be taken from me, and I submitted ; 
 but my almost hourly prayer was for her an easy death 
 free from suffering, and for myself fortitude to bear 
 the separation as becomes a Christian. 
 
 My sweet child was but a short time confined to 
 her room. I daily read to her, and she constantly 
 exhorted me to be resigned. She spoke of her near 
 dissolution without fear or trembling ; she said our 
 separation would be for a little time merely, and she 
 was abundantly thankful that she had been the means 
 of leading me to the same faith and religion which she 
 had believed in. 
 
 She sunk. Hers was the first grave dug in the little 
 spot of ground which we had marked out for the burial 
 place of the persecuted, and she was followed to that 
 grave by the sighs and tears of those among whom she 
 had been as an angel sent for awhile to suffering mor- 
 tals, to show to them the inhabitants of the realms 
 above. 
 
 What pleasure of life is unmixed with sorrow ? 
 What glory upon earth is of long continuance ? All 
 are more fleeting than a shadow, all are more deceitful 
 than a dream ! In one moment death endeth all. I
 
 THE STOIC. 161 
 
 thought of the shortness of life ; all human things are 
 vain, which cannot survive the grave. Will riches 
 survive ? or will glory attend beyond the tomb ? 
 Where are the affections of the world ? Where the 
 vain dream of temporary delights ? All, all passeth 
 away like a shadow. 
 
 My child was taken from me, and now were we 
 separated : Alas ! what a separation for me to bear 
 with. She was delivered up to the grave, she was 
 covered with the earth ; every sinful connection with 
 life and vanity was now dissolved ; the spirit had 
 forsaken its mansion the clay was disfigured the 
 vessel broken a speechles, motionless, senseless body 
 was lowered into the grave. Where now was the grace- 
 ful form ? Where was youth ? Where the brightness 
 of the eye ? The beauty of the countenance ? All 
 are withered like grass. What is our life ? A flower, 
 a vapour, the early dew of the summer morning ! 
 
 In the contemplation of her virtues, while I mourned 
 her loss, I found strong motives for consolation, for 
 through them I had hope of her eternal felicity. Hu- 
 manity permits me to be afflicted that she was taken 
 from me, but the sanctity of her life consoled me for 
 her loss ; for she is at rest The Christian religion, 
 and faith, which is as nothing without works, sprung 
 up in her heart from her earliest years, and like the 
 grain of seed in the Evangelist, it there became a great 
 tree. She was humble, piously and discreetly so ; 
 modest in her demeanour, kind, attentive, and careful 
 of others. But why enter into these details ? She 
 p
 
 162 THE STOIC. 
 
 was beloved by all who knew her, and by me how 
 fondly doated on ! Death tore this pure and beloved 
 child from me in the flower of her age, and my grief 
 bore testimony how much I had loved her. For I did 
 not attempt to stifle my anguish. God wills that we 
 should be firm from religion only, not from insensi- 
 bility. The greatness of my loss justified my weeping, 
 but I wept with moderation ; I mourned, but I 
 mourned not without hope ; not forgetting the inesti- 
 mable benefit which my bereavement had gained for 
 Hermione. ;""** 
 
 Hermione ! how mournfully, yet how fondly does 
 my heart trace that beloved name ! Twice loved, in 
 my mother, and in my child. 
 
 I linger on the beach where we so often have 
 watched together the setting sun and admired the 
 golden and glorious light with which his sinking beams 
 have tinged the ocean. I look at that ocean, and at 
 the yellow sands faintly showing themselves through 
 its thin waves ; but where is she who used to watch 
 with me its ebb and its flow, its gentle ripple, and its 
 turbulent raging? I sit in her chamber, and muse upon 
 her loveliness and goodness my waking thoughts 
 dwell upon her, and my dreams bring her back to me 
 in all her infantine and later beauty my friends come 
 around me, and weep for her they tell me of her 
 virtues and I bless God for having made me father 
 to such a being !
 
 THE STOIC. 163 
 
 Thus then I am alone. I have no longer in this 
 world child or kindred. I am on this earth, as in a 
 planet where I had accidentally fallen from the one I 
 inhabited. My heart is purified by adversity-^-I am 
 humble years have passed over me, and age has 
 stamped his mark on me. I think of the years of my 
 childhood; they were innocent ; and oh ! if my youth 
 was not without blemish, may the faith of my later 
 years have atoned for my errors ! 
 
 My love for my lost Hermione now partakes of a 
 heavenly nature, it has become a semblance of that -I 
 bear to my Creator. Is this wrong ? surely it cannot 
 be. All earthly feelings for her have passed away 
 from my heart. When I think of my God, I think of 
 her ; Him I reverence her I love and there is a 
 holiness in my feelings. 
 
 My earthly love therefore, is without an object to 
 rest upon ; it had been centered in hers ; hers had 
 been all its devotedness, all its tenderness, all its depth. 
 Now it must either become a load upon my heart, 
 useless, and without joy, or it must be spread and 
 shared among my friends. Friends ! what friends 
 have I, a poor outcast from society, a miserable exile 
 upon a bleak rock ! Friends ! I have none but thee, 
 oh God ! To thee is devoted every thought, and in the 
 contemplation of thy goodness, and in thy worship do 
 I now derive all my consolation, all my happiness. 
 
 Holy religion ! sure and ever ready refuge for the 
 afflicted, let thy divine truths penetrate my heart ; 
 make me feel the nothingness of human things ; inspire
 
 164 THE STOIC. 
 
 me with a just disdain lor this valley of tears and la- 
 mentation ; for this short life which is only as a path 
 to arrive at that which has no end ; and fill my heart 
 with this sweet hope, that the servant of God, who has 
 been taken from me, enjoys in peace the reward of 
 her virtues in the dwelling-place of the blessed ; and 
 may I shortly join her there, and with her sing Hal- 
 lelujahs to the Highest ! 
 
 LIST OF WORKS CONSULTED. 
 
 Cicero's Nature of the Gods. 
 Pausanias' Description of Greece. 
 Herodotus. 
 
 Mitford's History of Greece. 
 Gillies' History of Greece. 
 Potter's Archaeologia Graeca. 
 Attic Nights of Aulus Gellius. 
 Taylor's Dissertation on the Eleusinian and Bacchic 
 Mysteries.
 
 THE LANSBYS 
 
 LANSBY HALL.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A BLEAK January day had settled down into a 
 night of continued snow. Every now and then a 
 wilder gust of wind made the windows of the old 
 manor-house rattle, and the party assembled in the 
 dining-room draw closer to the fire. This consisted 
 only of Mr. Merton, the proprietor of Merton Manor 
 a quiet sedate looking gentleman of about fifty years 
 of age his wife and daughter. The weather seemed 
 to forbid the slightest chance of a visitor, and after a 
 silent and somewhat hurried dinner, the squire drew 
 a little round table to the side of the chimney, and 
 sipt his wine, with his eyes intently fixed upon the 
 burning masses of wood with which the fire-place was 
 filled. After an unsuccessful attempt to discover a 
 body to a splendid Turk, whose head he saw frowning 
 majestically from a fragment of a pine log, he turned 
 about i.n despair to his wife, and said, " I really wish, 
 my dear, my lather had taught me something or other 
 to do in a snowy winter night Drinking by one's 
 self is so desperately dull." 
 
 " Can't you take a book, Mr. Merton?" replied the 
 lady ; " here is a most beautiful story, ' The Woes of 
 Clementina ;' it will make you delightfully melancholy 
 for a whole night"
 
 168 THE LANSBYS OF 
 
 " No great miracle if it does, especially in such a 
 dismal night as this. I haven't seen a soul for three 
 days, and if this snow continues for twelve hours, we 
 shall all be buried alive. What would I give now for 
 some fellow to drop in ! But who the deuce would 
 move out in a storm like this that could possibly stay 
 at home?" 
 
 Mr. Merton sighed as he concluded, and made a 
 second attempt to discover the body of the Turk. But 
 he was suddenly startled from this occupation by a 
 noise outside the window. 
 
 " Wheels, by all that's happy !" he exclaimed. "I 
 hear them coming down the avenue. There they're 
 come past the bridge now they're at the garden 
 corner they're stopt they're at the gate. Who cau 
 it be?" 
 
 " I told the butcher, as he returned from the market, 
 to bring me the third volume of The Orphan's Tears 
 from the circulating library. I hope he has brought it 
 in his gig." 
 
 I hope no such thing. I wish the scoundrel may 
 drive into the moat if he has raised all my hopes for 
 nothing ; but no it was a four-wheel'd carriage. 
 Why don't some of them go to the door ?" 
 
 A bustle was- now heard in the hall somebody 
 certainly came in the words great-coat, portmanteau, 
 bed-room, were heard in the dining-room the door 
 was thrown open, and in walked Mr. Nathaniel 
 Clack, the very oldest friend Mr. Merton had in th 
 world.
 
 LANSBY HALL. 169 
 
 " Merton ! my boy," exclaimed the visitor, as he 
 shook hands with the whole party, " how goes it, eh ? 
 Capital night this for a visit bad weather always 
 makes a fellow so welcome." 
 
 " It doesn't need bad weather, Nat, to make you 
 welcome here." 
 
 "Or any where else faith, if the truth must be spoken. 
 No, no hop here chirp a little skip there gossip 
 a little never stay long in the same place talk, dance, 
 laugh anything by way of a lark then off like a shot 
 the first glimpse I catch of the dismals." 
 
 "Ah, that's the way to enjoy life ! You bachelors 
 can fly about just as it pleases you. Where do you 
 come from last?" 
 
 " From Harry Grumps's. You can't think what a 
 queer old fellow he's grown. No more racket, no 
 more whim dull as a Dutchman and yet can't help 
 punning even in his bluest fits, and with such a mise- 
 rable long face, that you are satisfied, if punning is a 
 crime, he is doing penance for it in the moment of 
 commission. We had capital fun for two days." 
 
 " What ! even though Mr. Grumps was so melan- 
 choly ?" said Mrs. Merton. 
 
 " To be sure the very thing that kept us happy. 
 There is nothing half so amusing as a fellow continu- 
 ally croaking wishing the weather would clear up 
 that somebody would come in that he had a liking 
 for books in short, regularly nonplussed for want of 
 something to do. I always make a point of ridiculing 
 such absurd hypochondriacs."
 
 170 THE LANSBYS OP 
 
 "Do you ?" said Mr. Merton, poking off the Turk's 
 head ; " but you tired of it at last?" 
 
 " Why, yes, two days are quite enough ; so, as it 
 was a miserably bleak, raw, and gusty morning, I 
 ordered my phaeton, and drove across the six-and-thirty 
 miles, to bestow a little of my tediousness on you. 
 Have you any news ?" 
 
 " No, I don't think any thing has happened since I 
 saw you last. I think I told you I changed my grey 
 horse for a black one." 
 
 "Yes, so have I my wig don't you see what a 
 magnificent Brutus I am in fact, grey hair is very 
 unbecoming, and is only fit, as the Psalmist says, to go 
 down with sorrow to the grave." 
 
 "Well, really, if you hadn't told us it was a 
 wig" 
 
 " My dear madam, don't go on. Do give us some- 
 thing original. I've heard that a dozen times, and 
 never, believed it a bit the more. What would be the 
 use of wearing a wig if nobody knetv it to be one ? 
 No, no this is a coat, that is a boot, and this is a 
 wig." 
 
 " Well, Nat, I'm happy to see you, wig or no wig, 
 and here's your health." 
 
 "That's not original do let us hear something new. 
 I would travel from Dan to Beersheba to hear some- 
 thing out of the common way ; but all mankind seem 
 set on the same key. Touch any note of the instru- 
 ment, it gives out exactly the same tone."
 
 LANSBT HALL. 171 
 
 " By the by, Nat, do you know that Lansby Hall 
 has at last got a purchaser ?" 
 
 " To be sure I do every body knows it- eighty 
 thousand down, and forty more in three months." 
 
 "Who is it?" interrupted Mrs. Merton "we don't 
 even know his name." 
 
 "Oho don't you? why, 'tis a man of the name 
 of Merivale. No one can tell where he comes from 
 immensely rich nobody can imagine how he got his 
 money. In short, he's quite a mystery." 
 
 "Is he old or young ?" continued the lady. 
 
 "Young! oh quite a young fellow my own age 
 fifty or so." 
 
 "Tall or short?" 
 
 "Oh, he's not a long overgrown monster of six feet, 
 I can assure you. I heard, indeed, he was a very 
 handsome, dignified-looking individual grave, strik- 
 ing, distinguished. I should take him to be somewhere 
 about my own height." 
 
 The lady smiled. " Have you seen him ?" she said. 
 
 " No, not I ; but we were all talking about him so 
 much at Grumps's that I should be Sure to know him 
 if we met on Mount Caucasus." 
 
 "And his manege? his establishment?" 
 
 " Grand ! magnificent ! carriages without number, 
 horses enough for a battalion of the guards. When 
 shall we go over and call on him ?" 
 
 "Is he arrived already? It isn't above a fortnight 
 since he bought the estate." 
 
 " Fortnight ! pooh, man, what are you thinking of?
 
 172 THE LANSBYS OF 
 
 Don't you know that he carries the lamp of Aladdin 
 in his pocket, and can fit up a palace in a twinkling? 
 Half the upholsterers, painters, paperers, architects, 
 carpenters, and masons in London were down for a 
 week, and for the last five days the proprietor has been 
 living in a fairy palace a hundred times richer and 
 more gorgeous than the pavilion of an Eastern king." 
 
 " The devil he has, and I all the time cooped up by 
 the snow ! I'll go over to-morrow and ask him to din- 
 ner next week." 
 
 " But his wife, Mr. Clack, has he a wife or chil- 
 dren?" 
 
 " Faith, ma'am, I don't know ; if he has any thing 
 of the sort he keeps it very close. I rather think 
 he's a bachelor the roc's egg is still wanting." 
 
 " My dear Nat," said Mr. Merton, " we are very 
 plain people ; what in the world would Mr. Merivale 
 do with a roc's egg, if he had it." 
 
 " Metaphorical I was only metaphorical. You 
 recollect, after the fairies had filled Aladdin's palace 
 with every luxury he could possibly desire, his enemy 
 the conjuror got him persuaded to ask for a roc's egg, 
 which would have turned every thing topsy turvy, 
 and led him the life of a dog ; the roc's egg is only an 
 allegory, and means a wife." 
 
 "And old Lansby, old Sir Walter, what has become 
 of him?" 
 
 " Ah, there, I think he's very foolish ; he has re- 
 moved to the Sprrngfield farm, the only spot of ground
 
 HALL.r 'i 173 
 
 left him, and I believe he continues to be as stiff, and 
 vain, and heartless as ever." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Merton, " I like him the better 
 for it It shows there is some good stuff in him to 
 keep up his pride in the fall of his fortunes. I never 
 liked him as long as he was at the hall ; I think I'll 
 go and call on him now he's at the farm." 
 
 " I like that ; something original there. I'll go 
 with you. I should like to see Marius moralizing in 
 a stack-yard, but I think 'twould have been wiser to 
 have placed his Carthage a little farther off." 
 
 " Some more of your metaphors, Nat Now, I 
 think he shows his wisdom in fixing his quarters under 
 the very nose of his successor. All men hate their 
 successors." 
 
 "And you may depend upon it, Sir Walter will not 
 be deficient in hating" 
 
 " Surely, surely he won't hate Frank Merivale," 
 said Miss Mary Merton, who had been silently list- 
 ening to the conversation. 
 
 "And why not, my little sweetheart? and how do 
 you know any thing of Mr. Merivale ? and how do 
 you know that his name is Frank? Ha ! there's some 
 mystery here." 
 
 Mr. Nathaniel, as he asked these questions, fixed 
 his looks upon the young lady with the most penetra- 
 ting expression he could muster, for it was one of hia 
 weaknesses, like Dr. Parr, to think that he had a won- 
 derful power of eye ; though, like the ocular organs 
 of that vast pedagogue, the glances of the ungenerous 
 
 Q
 
 174 THE LANSBYS OF 
 
 Nat were at all times rather ludicrous than com- 
 manding. 
 
 "Oh ! I merely thought that is I think his name 
 didn't you tell us his name yourself, Mr. Clack?" 
 replied Miss Mary, stammering and blushing. 
 
 "His name, yes I certainly told you his name ; but 
 not, that I recollect of, his Christian appellation but 
 Frank is a very good name ; so, as I was saying, de- 
 pend upon it old Sir Walter will hate him with most 
 praiseworthy bitterness, whatever be the name he 
 rejoices in. He certainly is the most revolting old 
 vinegar-faced rascal I ever met. I can't bring myself 
 to utter a syllable beyond the commonplaces of society 
 in presence of such a starched, stiff, rump'd, cold, au- 
 thoritative dictator." 
 
 " Well, that's very odd, for I always thought you 
 remarkably agreeable when Sir Walter dined with 
 us," said Mr. Merton, utterly unconscious of the seve- 
 rity of his speech. 
 
 " Sir Walter was certainly very stiff and formal," 
 continued his lady, equally unobservant of Mr. Natha- 
 niel's chagrin ; " but I have always heard he was a 
 very respectable man." 
 
 " Exactly. Whenever you hear of a respectable 
 man, write him down an individual to be studiously 
 avoided. Sir Walter is the very perfection of a re- 
 spectable man, spotless character, regular conduct, 
 church twice every Sunday. People, after all, are 
 very good-natured, and give a man credit for being 
 virtuous, merely because he has never been convicted
 
 LANSBY HALL. 175 
 
 of a crime. Now, if a wild young fellow like me, for 
 instance" 
 
 " Yes, Nat, the world is very censorious sometimes. 
 You recollect what a noise there was when you broke 
 off with the Lancashire heiress?" 
 
 "Recollect it? to be sure I do. They said I was wild, 
 cruel, fickle, vain ; 'pon my honour I was nothing 
 of the kind. I certainly paid the girl a great deal of 
 attention, and we certainly appeared to be mutually 
 attached ; but you know, my dear madam" 
 
 " Oh yes," replied Mrs. Merton, " I know all about 
 it. She was engaged all the time to her handsome 
 cousin, and tried to hide it by flirting with you. I 
 think it was very improper behaviour, and that you 
 were greatly to be pitied, for I remember ill-natured 
 people laughed at you very much." 
 
 The little man looked very much disconcerted by 
 this uncomplimentary version of the anecdote, which 
 nevertheless was the true one, and took no notice of 
 the lady's observation. "And who lives with old 
 Lansby ?" he went on, turning to Mr. Merton. 
 
 "Only his daughter, Miss Julia." 
 
 " Tall and straight as a poplar tree," replied Mr. 
 Nat "the father in petticoats, with the same cold- 
 ness, stiffness, pride ; they must be quite happy in each 
 other's society." 
 
 "They are!" exclaimed Miss Mary, whose fair 
 brow had for some time been gathering with a frown 
 "It can only be the weak and the frivolous who can 
 accuse Julia Lansby of coldness or pride. There 
 never was a nobler girl in the world ; so meek, so hum-
 
 176 THE LANSBTS OF 
 
 ble, so self-denying, and at the same time so beautiful. 
 Every new misfortune that befals the family seems only 
 to call forth new powers to enable her to support it" 
 
 "Hem," replied Mr. Nathaniel, "we've got into 
 dangerous ground here. I assure you, my dear Miss 
 Mary, I meant no disrespect to your excellent and 
 amiable friend. She may be all you say, and a thou- 
 sand things more, only don't you allow yourself that 
 in general society she is a little stately or so ; a little 
 haughty as it were and imperial ? For my own 
 part, I prefer livelier sorts of beauties people who 
 are ready to laugh, and occasionally descend from their 
 stilts Miss Lansby's smile" 
 
 "Is beautiful," interrupted Miss Mary. 
 
 " May be so but 'pon honour, when she smiles in 
 answer to any observation I make to her, I can't help 
 thinking that there's a kind of a sort of a don't you 
 remark ? a kind of pity as it were, or almost as I 
 may say contempt" 
 
 "Oh no," said Mrs. Merton; "*I dare say a great 
 many young ladies do that when you speak to them, 
 but I am sure Miss Lansby is too amiable to despise 
 any thing, or, at all events, too well bred to show it." 
 
 " Well, thank God ! here comes my mutton chop," 
 exclaimed Mr. Nathaniel, quite discomfited by the 
 unintentional hits he received from the one-idea'd 
 Mrs. Merton ; "and after I have finished it, I will join 
 you, my old fellow, in a single pint of claret." 
 
 "We shall be happy to see you in the drawing- 
 room," replied the lady, and followed by her daughter, 
 she left the gentlemen to themselves.
 
 LANSBY HALL. 177 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE old man was sitting in a high backed oaken 
 chair, his hands folded before him, and his eyelids 
 closely pressed together, but evidently not in sleep - 
 the motions of his lips and the fitful contraction of his 
 brow, showed that the spirit was busy within. At a 
 table beside him sat a young lady, with a shade of 
 settled melancholy visible on her subdued yet noble 
 features. She turned her eyes every now and then 
 from the paper on which she appeared to be sketching, 
 with an expression of anxious affection, to the troubled 
 countenance of her companion. The room they sat in 
 was small, and very plainly furnished the sky was 
 fierce and stormy, and occasionally the old casements 
 rattled loudly when a wilder burst of wind than usual 
 sent a dash of sleet and hail against the window pane. 
 The old man started from his recumbent position and 
 sat upright, with his eye fixed keenly and harshly on 
 the pale, placid face of his daughter. " Julia Lansby," 
 he said, "act the hypocrite no more speak to me no 
 more in such soothing and gentle tones, but tell me at 
 once boldly and sincerely that that you hate me" 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "There ! how dare you call me father, which ought 
 to be a name of reverence, of piety, of love, when you 
 Q2
 
 178 THE LAN'SBVS OF 
 
 well know that in your heart of hearts you detest me 
 as a selfish, cold, unpitying old man?" 
 
 "You wrong me, father! Never, even in thought, 
 has my affection wandered away from you. I have 
 no hopes, no wishes, no regret, save as they are con- 
 nected with your happiness. For my own" here 
 she sighed, and added, after a pause, "I am contented 
 if I only could see you pleased with me I have no 
 other object now." 
 
 "And why not NOW ? Is it because we are poor 
 you can no longer be cheerful as you used to be be- 
 cause we no longer see { company/ as they call it, and 
 have our ball-rooms filled with the grinning sons and 
 daughters of vanity ? The loss truly is great. I won- 
 der not at your despair." 
 
 "Oh, father, do not torture me by speaking so un- 
 kindly. You know that the loss of fortune, that 
 poverty itself, could never move my regrets." 
 
 " But you have deeper matters for sorrow," replied 
 the father with an ironical sneer. "0, doubtless, you 
 have many more griefs to weigh you down than ever 
 fell upon me ; fortune ruined family broken hearth 
 left desolate deserted by my own children, and sup- 
 planted in my own ancestral halls by a purse-proud, 
 insulting villain, who" 
 
 "No, not a villain, dear father, not a villain" 
 
 "Yes, madam, a villain; I say a proud, presump- 
 tuous, insensible villain. What ! and is Francis 
 Lansby still master of that silly heart? I charged
 
 LANSBY HALL. 179 
 
 you long ago to dismiss him from your thoughts. 
 Julia Lansby, why have you not obeyed me?" 
 
 "I have obeyed you, father, in all things possible. 
 I have submitted without a murmur to your com- 
 mands. I have given you my promise never to speak 
 to him, to write to him, to hear of him or from 
 him, without your consent; and till this extraordinary 
 occurrence, I knew not whether he was in England, 
 or whether he was alive or dead." 
 
 "And he thinks by coming down hither, and over- 
 powering us with his wealth and splendour, to make 
 us regret having rejected the alliance of so mighty an 
 individual as Mr. Francis Lansby Merivale. had 
 my son but lived, my noble, handsome Harry" Sir 
 Walter put his hands before his eyes on saying this, 
 and leaned back in his chair, as if overcome with the 
 bitterness of his reflections. And Julia was in hopes 
 that the irritation of his temper, which had lately in- 
 creased to a most distressing extent, would be soothed 
 by the indulgence of his grief. But she was mistaken. 
 Again, with the same cold, sarcastic sneer, he turned 
 towards his daughter, and said, "Your meekness 
 and resignation are truly amiable your love to 
 your father is so sincere your gratitude for all his 
 
 goodness to you unbounded He has squandered 
 
 away his fortune, and sunk the haughty lady of 
 Lansby Hall into the inmate of no loftier a dwelling 
 than this, you must be grateful to him for having 
 saved you from the perils of wealth. He has charged 
 you and now still more solemnly than ever charges
 
 180 
 
 you, to banish from your remembrance, or to remem- 
 ber only with scorn and loathing, the wretch who has 
 risen upon our ruins, who looks on us gracious 
 heavens perhaps with pity, but no villain as he is, 
 he dares not to insult us with his pity." 
 
 "What what has he done to deserve your anger? 
 He thinks of you, I will answer for him, only as the 
 friend and benefactor of his youth." She paused, 
 and then added, with a tone of touching and solemn 
 dignity, " Francis Lansby thinks of you as MY father." 
 
 "And as such he curses me, or the Lansby blood 
 has turned to milk within his veins. What has he 
 done, you ask me ? What has he not done to baulk 
 and injure me ? Does he not live? Is he not 'a gay 
 and prosperous gentleman,' with hope, fame, happi- 
 ness all before him, while the golden locks of my 
 noble Harry are gone down into the dust? Why is 
 my son taken from me, while Fortune showers all her 
 blessings upon theirs?" 
 
 Julia looked in her father's face as he uttered these 
 words; but withdrew her eyes, as if horror-struck 
 with the fierce malignity of his looks and language. 
 
 "You shudder," he continued; "but it is not mad- 
 ness that makes me speak thus. See, I am cool ; nay, 
 I can smile and why should I not? Is not the story 
 I am now about to tell you a pleasant one? Come 
 hither, child, and listen. I was an only son ; but my 
 father was afraid I should be spoiled, as only sons 
 usually are, and had my cousin to live with me, and 
 treated us in all respects alike. Our boyhood passed
 
 LANSBY HALL. 181 
 
 without any occurrence to call forth our characters, 
 except that, probably from knowing his dependent 
 situation, his manners were so soft and insinuating, 
 that they formed a striking contrast to the manliness 
 and independence of mine. At college, to which we 
 went together, and where by my father's orders our 
 intimacy was continued, we were called Lansby the 
 proud and Lansby the gentle. I confess I felf myself 
 flattered by the distinction. We returned home ; we 
 hated each other. At all events, I can answer for 
 myself; for him, I scarcely think he had manliness 
 enough to hate any thing. My mother now was 
 growing old. She had a companion to reside with 
 her. She was young and beautiful surpassingly 
 beautiful. She was a relation of my mother's high 
 born and poor. Ere long I perceived that my cousin 
 Edgar was passionately in love With Helen. What 
 right had he, the soft, the delicate, the gentle, to lift 
 his eyes to so glorious an object as Helen Trevor ? / 
 loved her ; and it added to the intensity of my passion 
 to think how the insolence of my rival would be pun- 
 ished when I should ask the hand of the object of his 
 passion. I did ask her hand : she refused it, and asked 
 for my intercession with my father to secure his ap- 
 probation of her marriage with my cousin. From 
 that hour I hated both. Was I not justified ! But I 
 was revenged. Edgar was going into orders. My 
 father had promised him the family living; the incum- 
 bent was infirm and old. They married ; I gave away 
 the bride. They lived the first half year of their
 
 182 THE LANSBYS OF 
 
 marriage in this very house. Here, in this very room, 
 they sat and gazed on each other in the first happiness 
 of their mutual fondness. My father died ; and, short- 
 ly after the living became vacant. This Francis was 
 then about two months old. I called upon them, and 
 told them of the incumbent's death. I described the 
 beauty of the parsonage, the quietness of the village ; 
 and when I saw the young mother stooping down, 
 and in the gladness of her heart covering the child of 
 Edgar Lansby with her kisses, I told them I had be- 
 stowed the living upon another. You start it was 
 the first minute of enjoyment I had had for years. But 
 they still were happy. I gave them notice that I had put 
 another tenant into Springfield. They left it ; he pro- 
 cured a curacy in some distant part of the country. I 
 married ; and, even in the first months of matrimony, 
 thought much more of their happiness than of my 
 own. My Harry was born, and yet I felt no dimi- 
 nution of my hatred. At your birth I resolved, if 
 possible, to repay to the son the agony that had been 
 inflicted on me by the parents. I have succeeded. 
 One after another they died ; they were poor and 
 miserable. I adopted their orphan son ; I made him 
 the companion of my children ; I watched the love 
 that grew up between you, and when I perceived 
 that it was too firmly settled in his heart to be eradi- 
 cated, I turned him loose upon the world. I feasted 
 on the agony of his looks, for in them I recalled the 
 expression of his mother. And now what has it all 
 come to? My boy is dead; and this wretch, this
 
 LANSBY HALL* 183 
 
 slave, whom my bounty fed, is adopted by his mo- 
 ther's uncle, has purchased every mortgage upon my 
 estate ; and save for one consuming sorrow, one pas- 
 sion which I know from experience turns all his other 
 feelings into gall and bitterness, he would be too happy 
 for a mortal successful in ambition, in love, and, 
 above all, in revenge. Isn't this a pleasant sketch, 
 
 and Ha ! what has my madness done? Wretch, 
 
 wretch ! I have killed my child !" 
 
 He bent over the fainting girl with his hands clasped 
 in agony, and his whole being underwent a change. 
 Cruel and malignant as he had truly painted himself, his 
 love for his children was the overpowering passion of 
 his mind. Since the death of his son, this love all con- 
 centrated in his daughter ; and, however strange or 
 unnatural it may appear, the value he set on her, the 
 pride he took in her talents and beauty, were the very 
 considerations which prevented him from bestowing 
 them on any one whom, justly or unjustly, he had 
 loaded with his hatred. He knew that, by the bar he 
 had placed between them, her happiness was as much 
 sacrificed as that of her cousin and had she been in- 
 different to him he would not have condemned her to 
 so much misery. Hitherto, indeed, the noble beha- 
 viour of his daughter had deceived him. Her uncom- 
 plaining meekness, her gentleness, and her dutiful 
 submission to his will, had hidden from him the depth 
 of the sufferings she endured. And unknown perhaps 
 to himself, there was another ingredient in the bit- 
 terness of the hatred which he professed to entertain
 
 184 THE LANSBYS OP 
 
 for Francis Lansby. Since the astonishing change in 
 their respective situations, her former lover had made 
 no efforts to discover that his affection for Julia was 
 unchanged. The thought of his being able to forget 
 his daughter was more galling to Sir Walter's dispo- 
 sition than even his marrying her would have been. 
 
 " Waken, Julia ! rouse yourself, my child ; I spoke 
 too bitterly ; misfortune has made me mad. I hate 
 him not" Whilst he uttered these exclamations, 
 Julia slowly recovered, and looked at her father with 
 a faint smile as if to thank him for his attempts to 
 comfort her. "But he has forgotten us," he continued ; 
 " he thinks not of us and why, since he has banished 
 you from his memory do you continue to waste a 
 thought on him?" 
 
 Ere Julia Lansby had time to reply, Mr. Nathaniel 
 Clack bustled into the room, followed more slowly by 
 his friend Mr. Merton, and exclaimed, " Ha ! some- 
 thing uncommon here. How do, Sir Walter ?" Miss 
 Julia, how d'ye do ? Any thing happened, Miss 
 Julia ?" 
 
 " Miss Julia Lansby is suffering from a slight indis- 
 position," replied Sir Walter, assuming even more 
 than his usual stiffness and hauteur. 
 
 "Change of air nothing like change of air for re- 
 covering strength. I recollect an old rascal in my own 
 village, capital fortune once, never moved from home, 
 bad health, nervousness, pride, anger, and all that ; lost 
 his fortune, went to another house, moved about, bus- 
 tled immensely, 'gad you can't tell what a good-natured
 
 LANSBY HALL. 185 
 
 sort of fellow the old curmudgeon became." Mr. 
 Nat went on relating this not very well-chosen anec- 
 dote, disregarding for a time the eye of the proud old 
 man, as it was fixed upon him with the most withering 
 expression of contempt. At last he perceived it, 
 stammered a little, sank his voice, and, after several 
 attempts to clear his throat, stood mute. In the mean 
 time Mr. Merton had been paying his compliments to 
 Miss Julia, and now addressed himself to Sir Walter. 
 
 " Well, Sir Walter, I hope, as we are nearer neigh- 
 bours than we used to be, we shall see more of each 
 other. My Mary has begged me to make a strong 
 entreaty for a visit from Miss Julia." 
 
 " If Julia would have pleasure in leaving her father 
 at this time, she has my full consent. It would ill- 
 become me to interfere with the enjoyments of the 
 young and careless." 
 
 "Oh ! if you can't spare her, of course poor Mary 
 would never have preferred her request. She knows 
 Julia's admirable qualities as a daughter too well for 
 that." 
 
 " Does she ? And does she indeed suppose that I am 
 so selfish as to immure her in a desolate place like this, 
 merely because I would not be alone ? Julia, you shall 
 return with Mr. Merton." 
 
 ''You are lonely here, father the days are dull and 
 dark. It would be better" 
 
 " I have said it. You shall visit Mary Merton ; I 
 shall probably have business to arrange with the new 
 proprietor of the Hall, and perhaps it may be better 
 
 R
 
 186 THE LANSBYS OF 
 
 managed in your absence. Will you return her to me 
 in a week ?" 
 
 " Certainly and in the mean time I hope the so- 
 ciety of her old friends will be of use to her. Is it 
 useless, Sir Walter, to ask you to dine with me on 
 Thursday next? I intend to invite Mr. Merivale." 
 
 "Merivale? and you ask me to meet Mr. Meri- 
 vale, to dine with him, talk with him, hear his voice? 
 what" 
 
 " Oh, if I had known it would have been unpleasant, 
 my dear Sir Walter, believe me I should never have 
 mentioned the subject." 
 
 "On Thursday, did you say? Have you seen him?" 
 
 " No. We are just on our way to the Hall to pay 
 him our respects." 
 
 " On Thursday ? He will certainly accept your in- 
 vitation. Julia, you will meet him ; I wish you to 
 meet him." 
 
 "Aha, Miss Julia," interrupted Mr. Clack, who 
 had by this time recovered a portion of his volubility. 
 " He is quite a young fellow, I understand. Many 
 odd things have happened in that sort of way. 
 
 Shouldn't be surprised if" but the unfortunate 
 
 Nathaniel was again afflicted with a total incapacity to 
 conclude his sentence. 
 
 Visibly, as clouds over the sky, flitted dark mean- 
 ings across Sir Walter's features ; but by an effort he 
 seemed to restrain himself, and went on. "You shall 
 stay with Mrs. Merton till after Thursday ; and if you
 
 LANSBY HALL. 187 
 
 will allow me to alter my mind, I will also join your 
 party. 
 
 " We shall be delighted I am sure. Can Miss Julia 
 accompany us now ? My close carriage is at the door, 
 and on our return from the Hall we can guard her 
 over the snow." 
 
 Sir Walter bowed at this offer ; seemed to swallow 
 some proud speech he was about to make ; and with a 
 look of ineffable disdain to the now quite chop-fallen 
 Mr. Nat, said " Miss Lansby has still a carriage. 
 She shall go to Merton Manor whenever her prepara- 
 tions are completed, and on Thursday I shall see my 
 child again." 
 
 There was no gainsaying any thing advanced in the 
 authoritative manner which Sir Walter habitually as- 
 sumed ; so, in a few minutes, the gentlemen were on 
 their way to the hall Mr. Nathaniel Clack muttering 
 all the time curses not loud but deep, and feeling a re- 
 lief on leaving what he called the old tyrant's pre- 
 sence, pretty much akin to what we should consider 
 the sensations of a monkey which by some miracle has 
 made its escape from a tiger's den.
 
 1S8 THE LANSBTS OF 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "Tnis, then, decides my fate for happiness or 
 misery," said Mr. Francis Lansby Merivale, as he rose 
 from his writing-desk, where many piles of paper were 
 lying in most admired disorder. " The estate is once 
 more disencumbered, and the directions of my bene- 
 factor complied with, in restoring the old hall to its 
 rightful owner. What then ? my cause is still more 
 hopeless than before. Even if I prove to him that it 
 is the will of the person leaving me this fortune that 
 the property should be returned into his hands, I know 
 his indomitable pride so well, that the gift will be 
 viewed as an insult ; and without Julia, what happi- 
 ness is it to me to revel in useless wealth ? Oh ! for 
 the glorious days back again when I was still the de- 
 pendent of Sir Walter still the companion of my 
 Julia !" The packet, which he folded up and directed 
 to Springfield Farm, seemed a very voluminous one. 
 The letter which accompanied it contained these 
 words : 
 
 " The estrangement of the last two years has not 
 obliterated from my heart the kindness of the protec- 
 tor of my childhood. With my whole heart I thank 
 you for the home you afforded me when other home 
 there was none for me to fly to ; and frown not if at
 
 LANSBY HALL. 189 
 
 this hour, before I banish myself for ever from the 
 scene of all the memories of my youth, I guard myself 
 against any suspicion of a wish to conciliate your 
 favour by the step I now take. The Lansby blood 
 flows as proudly in my veins as in your own. 
 lou would spurn me, as I knoxv I should deserve 
 to be spurned, if you fancied I had endeavoured 
 to purchase a reconciliation. Deeply as I should 
 value your friendship, and unchanged as are my sen- 
 timents on a subject to which I cannot trust myself 
 to allude, I cannot, even if your favour were accorded 
 me, accept of it without an explanation of your con- 
 duct. I tell you, Sir Walter Lansby, that your con- 
 duct has been cruel and unjust In the pursuit of a 
 selfish gratification you have ruined the happiness of 
 the person who ought to be nay, I will do you the 
 justice to admit, who is the dearest to you on earth. 
 Do you deny it ? Look to the wan cheek and wasting 
 form of her who was once but enough of this. The 
 estate is now your own. The will of Mr. Merivale is 
 enclosed for your perusal. Think not that I entertain 
 a thought that this change in our positions will pro- 
 dyce any change on your determination. If you can 
 go on inflicting, I will show you that I can continue to 
 suffer. From this hour you shall hear of me no more; 
 but neither time nor distance shall make me forget for 
 a moment the being to whom I consider myself united 
 in the sight of heaven. Sir Walter Lansby, she is mine 
 by vows indissoluble save in the grave, by affections 
 which grew with our growth, and are unchangeable 
 
 H2
 
 190 THE LANSBYS OF 
 
 * 
 
 while the hearts which nourished them continue to 
 beat. But if it will add to the piquancy of your 
 triumph, I will not conceal from you that -you have 
 driven me, as well as that other one, to despair ; that 
 you have made life to me a desert, as it has long been 
 a solitude to her. And now what remains for me. 
 Wealth which I cannot enjoy ; youth which will waste 
 away in misery ; and, bitterer perhaps than all, a con- 
 sciousness that these injuries are inflicted by one 
 whom I have ever loved and whom I have never of- 
 fended." 
 
 The Thursday appointed for the party at last arrived. 
 With a degree of secrecy which entirely eclipsed the 
 " Wonder" of Mrs. Centlivre's comedy, the two 
 young ladies had given no hint of the identity of young 
 Frank Lansby and the present proprietor of the hall. 
 Mr. Merton and his friend Mr. Clack had been refused 
 admittance on the morning of their call', and no answer 
 had been returned to the note of invitation which Mr. 
 Merton had despatched on the succeeding day. 
 
 " Devilish queer feilow this Mr. Merivale," said 
 Mr. Nat. " He might have sent an answer to a civil 
 note at all events, if he wouldn't let us into his cursed 
 gimqrack of a house ; in the snow too. Well, hope 
 he'll come after all drop in on us something new in 
 that eh ?" 
 
 " Well, I hope he will ; but I suspect the meeting 
 will be a very odd one between him and Sir Walter." 
 
 " D d old tyrant," muttered Nat. 
 
 "It will be very queer to see the first salutation
 
 LANSBY HALL. 191 
 
 exchanged between the old possessor and the new 
 one." 
 
 " Said the old jackdaw to the young jackdaw," inter- 
 rupted Mr. Clack. 
 
 "Come, Nat, out with your best stories. Have all 
 your smiles and similes ready, for here some of the 
 party come." 
 
 Sir Walter came among the rest ; stately, solemn, 
 stiff as ever. He paid his respects to the assembled 
 -guests, then looked anxiously round for his daughter, 
 led her up to one of -the windows, gazed earnestly in- 
 to her face, and clasping her in his arms, imprinted a 
 kiss upon her brow. 
 
 "Egad ! old Iceberg's beginning to thaw," whis- 
 pered Mr. Nat into the ear of Mary Merton, for al- 
 ready he had begun to lose the power of very audible 
 conversation. 
 
 " I am sorry, Sir Walter," said Mr. Merton, " we 
 are disappointed of Mr. Merivale. It would had given 
 me great pleasure, though I have not the honour of 
 knowing him myself, to have been the medium of an 
 introduction between such near neighbours." 
 
 " Not know him, Mr. Merton ? Well, in that case I 
 believe I have the advantage of you. I know him 
 intimately." Julia' looked inquiringly, but unob- 
 served, into her father's face when he said "this, but 
 the features were as rigid and inflexible as ever. 
 
 Mr. Merton also- must have thought there was some- 
 thing forbidding in his countenance, for he changed the 
 conversation as quickly as possible.
 
 192 THE LANS3YS OF 
 
 " I hope you can spare Julia to us a few days lon- 
 ger," said Mrs. Merton. 
 
 " Your kindness to my Julia is very great. We are 
 not ungrateful for it, But she returns with me to- 
 night." 
 
 " To night ? Oh ! I hope not." 
 
 " There are circumstances that require her immedi- 
 ate return to Lansby to Springfield Farm, I mean 
 I sometimes forget how changed we are." 
 
 " 0, not to-night, Sir Walter. Mr. Mertori or Mr. 
 Clack will be so happy to drive her over to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " There are persons in this neighbourhood, madam, 
 who make it desirable that Miss Julia Lansby should 
 be under a father's eye." 
 
 "The cursed old bashaw," said Mr. Nat, but this 
 time to himself ; " confound me, if he doesn't think 
 his daughter may take a fancy to me." Mr. Nat 
 gave a look to the mirror, and pulled forward his wig. 
 
 But Julia knew too well the meaning of her father's 
 speech. With a sigh she resigned herself to her fate, 
 and going to the dining-room, Mary Merton thought 
 she saw the dark eyes of her friend moistened with 
 tears. 
 
 What could have been the meaning of her father's 
 conduct in first forbidding her to think of Francis 
 Lansby, and then in sending her to Merton Manor, 
 for the express purpose, as it were, of throwing her in 
 his way ? And why had Francis Lansby not come to 
 see his old friends the Mertons, even if he had had no
 
 LANSBY HALL. 193 
 
 expectation of finding her there? These, and five 
 hundred other thoughts, but all coming to the same 
 hopeless conclusion, occupied her all the time of dinner. 
 There seemed to be a universal dulness spread over 
 the party. Even Mr. Clack had very little conversa- 
 tion, and that only in a whisper. The liveliest person 
 of the party was Sir Walter Lansby himself. As if 
 in bravado of his fallen fortunes, he was more cheerful 
 than ever he had been in his palmiest days. But his 
 daughter, who was acquainted with all the phases of 
 his character, saw that his liveliness was assumed, and 
 she dreaded the reaction which was sure to follow so 
 unnatural an effort. 
 
 But once the name of Merivale was mentioned, 
 some person casually inquired if there were not a 
 Devonshire family of that name distantly connected 
 with the Lansbys. 
 
 " There may be, sir," replied Sir Walter ; "and as- 
 a person said of his connexions, the more distant they 
 are the better." 
 
 The rareness of an attempt at humour on the part of 
 Sir Walter Lansby compensated for the poorness of 
 its quality. There was a general laugh at the reply. 
 
 " Now, confound me," said Mr. Nat to his neigh- 
 bour, " if there is any thing to laugh at in what old 
 Chrononhoton has said. A man who has any reputa- 
 tion for wit may say five thousand better things every 
 hour of the day, but really witticisms from some people 
 are so common that people take no notice of them. 
 But only let a dull, formal, pedantic old blockhead
 
 194 THE LANSBYS OP 
 
 give utterance to the very oldest Joe Miller, and the 
 thing strikes people as a sort of miracle. The man 
 will die a wit on the reputation of a miserable story 
 badly told." 
 
 The gentleman to whom Mr. Nathaniel addressed 
 himself was not endowed with any superfluity of me- 
 taphysical acumen, and looked most wonderfully con- 
 tented with Mr. Nat's explanation. 
 
 " Don't you think so?" continued Mr. Clack. 
 
 " Think what, my dear sir?" 
 
 " Why, that the novelty or unexpctedness is every 
 thing. You don't expect to see pigs play on the 
 fiddle?" 
 
 " No who the devil does?" 
 
 "Nor porcupines to make watches?" 
 
 No." 
 
 " But if you saw porcupines making watches, or 
 pigs playing on fiddles, you would think it very re- 
 markable, wouldn't you?" 
 
 "To be sure I should." 
 
 " Ah !" said Nat, quite triumphant, ""I was certain 
 you would agree with me in thinking Sir Walter's re- 
 joinder a very poor one." 
 
 The gentleman looked at Nat, and wondered very 
 much, but said nothing. 
 
 At length the tedious night wore on, and, greatly 
 to the satisfaction of the host and hostess, not to men- 
 tion the now reanimated Mr. Clack, " they walked 
 alone the banquet hall deserted." Julia saw by her 
 father's manner that something very unusual had
 
 LANSBY HALL. 195 
 
 either happened or was about to happen. Her friend 
 Mary Merton shared in her apprehensions, and has 
 very often mentioned her fears, after she had heard 
 of the catastrophe of that night Old Sir Walter sat 
 moodily silent beside his daughter. She, deeply 
 absorbed in her own thoughts, took no notice of the 
 pace they were going at, or even of the carriage in 
 which they were conveyed. At length her eye caught 
 the trees of the short avenue that led from the road to 
 Springfield farm ; but still the carriage rolled on. She 
 now began to observe that the chariot was very dif- 
 ferent from the one in which she had made her visit 
 to Merton Manor; and on looking round to her father, 
 for every thing was visible by the light of a clear frosty 
 moon, she saw that he was intently watching her 
 countenance. 
 
 " You don't ask me, Julia, where we are going," 
 he said ; " you see we have passed the farm?" 
 
 " I saw we had passed it" 
 
 " And have you no wish to know were we are 
 going?" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " To the hall. Where should Sir Walter Lansby 
 take his daughter to but to Lansby Hall?" 
 
 Julia half shrieked as he said this, and now knew 
 that her worst fears were realized. 
 
 " Oh, not there !" she cried, " not there !" 
 
 " And why not? Give me your hand, my daughter ; 
 are you not safe in the protection of your father ?" 
 
 " But Frank but Mr. Merivale"
 
 196 THE LANSBYS OP 
 
 " I will speak to him in the house of my ancestors 
 as they would wish me tcwspeak." 
 
 The lodge at the gate was full of lights ; the gate 
 wide open, and they rapidly approached the front 
 door of the hall. Julia, in an agony of apprehension, 
 not diminished by her astonishment, suffered her father 
 to lead her through the vestibule, up the great stair- 
 cases, along the corridor, and opening the door of the 
 library, they saw standing ready to receive them Mr. 
 Francis Lansby Merivale. 1 
 
 Julia leant trembling on her father's arm Frank 
 stood as if expecting Sir Walter to begin the conver- 
 sation. He drew his daughter closer to him, paused 
 for a moment, then laying her hand within that of 
 Francis Lansby, said, "Julia, your cousin my 
 children !" 
 
 His own agitation prevented him from seeing the 
 effect of his speech upon his daughter. "I told you, 
 Francis Lansby, when I called here in answer to the 
 letter you had sent me, with the documents restoring 
 this estate to me again, that to accept it was impossible, 
 unless for the purpose of conveying it tp my child. 
 My pride is broken as by a thunder-bolt. Take her. 
 I thought it was impossible for the hatred of a Lansby 
 to suffer decay but, nay, no thanks, your letter was a 
 just reproof. When the ceremony is over, I shall 
 return to the farm, and find consolation in reflecting 
 that the son of Helen Trevor is the happy husband of 
 the daughter of Walter Lansby." 
 
 " Well, only think," said Mr. Nathaniel Clack, as
 
 LANSBY HALL. 197 
 
 he heard the circumstances a few days after the ; party, 
 " only think how odd it is that that frozen automaton 
 has some humane feelings after all. I shouldn't be sur- 
 prised, now that he has discovered how pleasant it is 
 to be generous and good-natured, if he were even a 
 tolerable companion at dinner." 
 
 " Shall we ask him to meet you here when you re- 
 turn ?" said Mr. Merton. 
 
 " No, thank ye ; I must have farther proofs yet of 
 his return to the pale of civilization." 
 
 " Why, I thought he was very merry even on 
 Thursday last," said Mrs. Merton ; " you recollect 
 what a funny thing he said what was it again? I 
 always forget witty speeches, but at all events he must 
 have been the wittiest person at table, for I recollect 
 he created the greatest laugh." 
 
 " Fools generally succeed best in raising a laugh," 
 said Mr. Clack, with a philosophical toss of the head. 
 
 " Ah ! that's just what I tell my Mary ; for really, 
 Mr. Clack, she goes on giggling and laughing when- 
 ever you open your lips." 
 
 " Well, well," said Mr. Merton, "let us all go over 
 some day next week, and call at Springfield farm. By 
 that time the old man will be left to his own reflections, 
 and after so good an action and such a triumph over 
 his evil passions, his reflections, I should think, must 
 be very pleasant ones." 
 
 THE END.
 
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