CV4- 
 
 
 
. 
 
 - 
 
 

THE 
 
 LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS 
 
 of % |ast, 
 
 AND OTHER SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE 
 
 MRS. JANE KIRKPATRICK. 
 
 
 
 PEESS OF J. TEEHUNE, 31 ALBANY STREET. 
 1856. 
 

 
TO MY DAUGHTER, 
 
 L. 
 
 (These Sections, 
 
 FROM THE WRITINGS OF THE BELOVED AND VENERATED ONE, 
 
 ABE INSCBIBED, 
 
 WITH THE HOPE THAT THEY MAY PROVE 
 A BEACON LIGHT IN HEB PATHWAY O LIFE, 
 
 BY HER MOTHER 
 J. E. C. 
 
 i * ) 
 
 M198272 
 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WISHES have been expressed by many friends of the late Mrs. Kirkpatrick, 
 to be allowed the perusal of some of her writings. It is well known that she 
 held the pen of a ready writer, and that she was in the practice of committing to 
 paper sketches of interesting events which came under her observation, with 
 their effect on her own mind, and also her peculiar sentiments and religious 
 experience. A selection from her manuscripts has been made, with a view to 
 keep alive her memory in the minds of her immediate descendants and other 
 relatives, as well as for the gratification of her attached friends and intimate 
 acquaintances. * 
 
 She was oftentimes urged to prepare some of her productions for the press. 
 Her uniform reply was, that her only inducement so to do would be the hope of 
 doing good by them, and she did not feel as if such an end could be effected by 
 her compositions. She ever shrunk from display, and her modesty equalled her 
 talent. 
 
 There is nothing in these reminiscences that would wound her delicacy, in 
 their being presented to the eye of the public, nor any betrayal of the confidence 
 of the departed one. They are, indeed, not offered as subjects of criticism. 
 
 A character like that of Mrs. K. is of difficult portraiture. To delineate its 
 combination of valuable and rare qualities would require peculiar talent. Few 
 minds could appreciate the piety, the acquisition, the sensibility of the gifted 
 being who is now gone. The style of thought and feeling which enstamped her 
 mind belonged peculiarly to that period, and it has, with the generation of her 
 contemporaries, passed away. Mind is formed at present in a different mould 
 from what it was in the last century. The modes of education and the usages of 
 society have changed. Literature and sentiment flow in another channel. 
 
 The gorgeous descriptions of Beattie, the deep pathos and delicate touches 
 of McKenzie, the grandeur of Johnson, the wit of Miss Burney, call forth no 
 responsive tones in hearts attuned to different harmonies. 
 
VI. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 There appears to have existed a self-dedication, a refinement, a confidence 
 in friendship then that is now unknown ; and an almost chivalric estimate of the 
 constancy, devotion, and self-sacrificing spirit of love. 
 
 " Unto him that hath shall be given." The gifts of God to his creatures in 
 this mortal state, we are taught, shall proportionately advance the soul in its 
 immortality. Beautiful traits, here inwrought, shall adorn the soul in the realms 
 of glory. Nothing is lost in the world of nature, nothing will be lost in the 
 allotments of grace. The knowledge and improved faculties of the mind will 
 doubtless add to the bliss of the heaven-received spirit! " Lord, thy pound 
 hath gained ten pounds." " Be thou ruler over ten cities." Some are saved 
 " so as by fire." Through a purifying process all must pass who see God's face 
 in peace, but some may arrive at the home of rest, 
 
 " As a gallant bark, 
 
 The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed, 
 Shoots into port at some well-favoured isle 
 "Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile. 
 So thou, with sail how swift, hast reached the shore 
 "Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar," 
 
 And thus, we trust, has her bark cast anchor within the vail. 
 
 The natural disposition of her mind was contemplative, bearing perhaps a 
 tinge of melancholy. She dwelt on the shadows of the past, rather than on the 
 opening vistas of the future. The retrospective gaze of Memory had more 
 attraction for her than the brilliant colorings and the animating aspirings of 
 Hope. Her religious views respecting her own state, owing to this peculiar tem- 
 perament, were not bright or encouraging. She was self-disparaging, and lowly 
 in her estimation of her attainments in spiritual life. She had not the comfort 
 that many enjoy, with a less advance in the paths of righteousness. With lofty 
 apprehensions of the Divine Holiness, her humility and self-distrust caused her 
 to tremble and to lie low at the footstool. At times, with agony indescribable, 
 she would place herself among the " fearful," at the last great day, and in 
 horror dwelt on the thought of a final dismissal from the favor of God, whose 
 love and whose presence she esteemed above all other good. The friends who 
 knew her meek and gentle spirit, judged that her " fear" was wrought by her 
 high standard of Christian duty and obligation, and a sense of her imperfections 
 and shortcomings. 
 
 She was diligent to improve every moment of time. She felt that life was 
 too short to be spent in inactivity. At the early dawn of every day her soul 
 arose to God in worship and adoration her voice broke forth in melodious 
 
INTRODUCTION. Yll. 
 
 tones, hymning her Creator's praise. Thus was it her wont to prepare herself 
 for the duties of the coming hours the servant who awaited the call of the 
 Lord. Blessed is that servant whom the Master shall find watching at his 
 coming. 
 
 She successfully cultivated the powers of her mind by study and reflection. 
 She was fitted to be the intelligent companion of persons of science and erudi- 
 tion. Those distinguished in the literary and the religious world valued her 
 conversation and sought her friendship. 
 
 Her bearing was at once dignified and winning. A friend remarked, that 
 while her manners were such as might have graced a court, they were attractive 
 to persons in the humblest ranks of life. Little children delighted to come 
 within the sphere of her influence, and to be noticed by her. 
 
 Thus to her friends and to her children's children, is presented in these 
 extracts from her writings, a glimpse of the qualities possessed, and the spirit 
 that actuated their departed friend and parent. Here is a sketch from her own 
 writings, of her faith, her patience, her resignation, her aspirations after holiness. 
 May her example not be lost upon them. May they not only not disgrace this 
 pattern of excellence, but endeavor to follow in her footsteps and emulate her 
 virtues walking in the faith and in the light of the Gospel on earth, receive with 
 her the crown of everlasting life, hereafter, in a "kingdom that cannot be moved." 
 
 J. E. C. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 TO 
 
 THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. 
 
 The traditions of past times are retained from familiar traditions of our 
 household, and from hints of character, manners, and events dropped in conver- 
 sation. Fancy has had little to do in tracing the sketch, except with regard to 
 the early days of Susan ; and then filled only the outlines which were furnished 
 by the representations of friends, giving somewhat of form and color to the 
 picture. All the facts are conformable to reality the leading events actually 
 took place. 
 
 For the other characters my own memory has furnished the materials. It 
 is to be regretted that so few particulars have been retained where there were 
 so many virtues to admire and so much excellence to imitate. J. K. 
 
THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. 
 
 THE SCHOOL GIRL. 
 
 " How hard it is," said Susan, " to be denied every pleasure, 
 and at my age to lead such a humdrum life. Nothing but school, 
 lessons, lessons. No company, either at home or abroad ; at least, 
 none to my taste, nothing but a parcel of dull, stupid people. As 
 to dancing, or any other kind of amusement, I dare not even to 
 speak of these. Indeed, it is a very hard thing to be a cler- 
 gyman's daughter. No young men venture to put their heads 
 into our parlor ; none dare enter but grey coats and black buttons. 
 I am sick of the sight of them. Blue turned up with buff, and 
 splendid epaulettes are more to my taste. 
 
 " Heigh-ho ! When shall I be done with lessons ? Here I am 
 almost seventeen, and yet I have to be moping over these tasks, 
 grammar and geography. Other girls of my age go to practising 
 balls, and have their partners to visit them the next day. They 
 have stays and habits, long trains and high-heeled shoes, and I 
 have still to wear frocks, stay at home, con lessons, and stitch 
 wrist-bands." She leaned her head on her hand, her eyes wander- 
 ing over her book, which laid open before her. " Well, it is my 
 hard fate, but it is foolish to sit worrying myself, it will do me no 
 good. So I will e'en get my lesson, or Mr. Leslie will make me 
 stay in or stand up. Heigh-ho !" 
 
10 THE SCHOOL GIRL. 
 
 Such was Susan's lamentation, but she had good sense enough to 
 check these vain repinings, and resolutely apply her mind to her 
 studies. 
 
 Owing to the former situation of her worthy father, which was 
 in a retired country congregation, it had not been practicable to 
 give his daughter the advantages of education which he wished. 
 The last few years he had resided in a city, and one of his first 
 cares was to send her to the best school in the place. The circle 
 of female studies and accomplishments was then very narrow. 
 Geography and grammar were thought the highest attainments. 
 Plain sewing, marking, and worsted work essential parts of educa- 
 tion. When a young lady had finished a holland shirt for her 
 papa, completed a sampler, which was framed and hung up in the 
 parlor, and worked a set of chairs in worsted, her accomplishments 
 were deemed sufficient. 
 
 Susan, though near seventeen, was small and delicate, had a 
 sweet, innocent countenance, manners so modest, subdued, and in- 
 obtrusive, that combined with the girlish style of dress, (which her 
 parents thought most suitable for her while she went to school,) 
 she might have passed for not more than twelve or thirteen. The 
 maturity of her mind and the feelings of her heart testified that she 
 had entered on that romantic age when fancy portrays the world 
 in the most attractive colors. 
 
 When the Spring came she fondly hoped that she should be 
 released from the trammels of school, and allowed to go into com- 
 pany. Her parents thought otherwise, and said she must continue 
 another quarter. " Another quarter !" exclaimed she. " Dear 
 mother, I am so tired of these tedious lessons. What good will it 
 do me to know the names of all the rivers and mountains in the 
 world ?" 
 
 " Your father thinks it best, my dear, that is enough." So it 
 was determined, and Susan had to commence another quarter with 
 Mr. Leslie. 
 
 The only thing like recreation which she was allowed to enjoy 
 was singing school. She had a charming voice, and was extremely 
 fond of music. In her lonely hours at home, while sitting at her 
 work, she used to amuse herself with learning some of the ballads 
 
THE DINNER. 11 
 
 of Shenstone, which she sang with such feeling that she 
 drew tears from the listeners. And many a sacred song from 
 Watts would elevate her own heart in devotion. Though disposed 
 to what was good, the gay world, all unknown, rose to her mind as 
 a scene of delight, and she longed to get an introduction to its 
 fascinating haunts. When, by any chance, she heard her young 
 companions describe the brilliant balls and suppers which they 
 were permitted to attend, she thought all these delights were lost 
 to her b)> being a clergyman's daughter, and she promised herself 
 that if ever she married it should not be to a parson. 
 
 How little do we know what will constitute the real felicity of 
 our life ! 
 
 THE DINNER. 
 
 " My dear," said Dr. R. to his wife, " I return to tell you that I 
 have just met in the street, as I was going to make some calls, the 
 son of my old friend T. He told me he was licensed, and settled 
 in a pleasant congregation in Connecticut, and that he has come 
 to town to make some additions to his library. I invited him to 
 take a family dinner with us, and he has promised to come." 
 
 " Very well, my dear, I shall be much pleased to see the youth. 
 I hope he may be as good a man as his father." 
 
 " Yes, he was one of the excellent of the earth. I cherish his 
 memory, and shall be glad to entertain his son." 
 
 It was Wednesday, and in all the schools there was an afternoon- 
 vacancy, so that the children might attend catechizing. Of course 
 Susan dined at table. On other days she took her meal alone, for 
 fear of being late, which was a great offence at Mr. Leslie's school, 
 and subjected the delinquent to the punishment of standing in the 
 middle of the room. 
 
 When Susan came home her mama said to her, " Put on your 
 white holland frock, there is a stranger to dine with us." 
 
12 THE DINNER. 
 
 " Yes, madam," said she, thinking to herself, " Some awkward 
 country parson, I suppose ; they are all the company father enter- 
 tains. Well, I am sure he is very good, for he cannot admire them 
 more than I do. Yet how polite he is to them ; and mama and 
 sister Mary, too. They never smile at their queer ways, though it 
 is as much as I can do not to laugh outright. Shall I ever be like 
 them ?" 
 
 Susan put on her white frock which she had worn on Sunday, 
 combed her hair, twisting the ringlets carelessly around her fingers 
 which hung down her back, reaching her sash, and giving a pass- 
 ing glance at herself in the glass as she left the dressing-table- 
 " That will do," said she, "nobody looks at a child a school girl ; 
 if it only pleases mama, but she is so particular, she sees if there 
 is a pin out of place." 
 
 Susan came into the parlor and passed inspection, and took her 
 seat on a high bench without a back, so made to prevent leaning. 
 She was stitching a pair of fine wristbands, which required great 
 exactitude, and of course engrossed her attention. So fair, so neat 
 was she, she looked like a fairy. 
 
 A knock at the door announced the stranger. Dr. R. rose to 
 meet him, and with mingled politeness and affection welcomed him 
 to his house ; then with a formality which was a part of his manner, 
 introduced him first to Mrs. R., and then to Miss Mary, (the eldest 
 daughter,) only glancing at Susan, saying, " This is another of my 
 daughters." Susan, scarcely raising her eyes, rose from her bench 
 and curtesied, and then resumed her work. 
 
 Though little used to company, Mr. T. had that natural ease and 
 simplicity of manner which allowed him to take the tone of any 
 society in which he was placed. He had that refinement which a 
 gentle and amiable temper, elevated by the combined influence of 
 literature and piety, imparts to the character. With a delicacy 
 almost feminine, he avoided every thing in words or conduct which 
 could give pain to any person, with an intuitive sense of what 
 would suit and be agreeable to each one present. Conversation 
 was"checrful and pleasant while seated around the dinner table ; all 
 seemed to ?enjoy the social meal. Susan was silent ; but she 
 
THE DINNER. 13 
 
 thought how different Mr. T. was from the rustic brethren she was 
 accustomed to see. 
 
 According to the ceremonial of those days, he asked the lady of 
 the house to do him the favor of taking a glass of wine with him. 
 This was done in due form, and every one drank to by name. 
 " Miss Susan, I drink your health." Unaccustomed to such notice, 
 she looked up with a start of surprise, and for the first time caught 
 his eye. Her face was suffused with blushes, and she had scarcely 
 self-possession enough to utter " Thank you, sir." 
 
 He had not heard the sound of her voice before, and it came on 
 his ear as the melody of a bird. 
 
 Mrs. R. said in a low voice, " You remember, my dear, it is the 
 hour for catechise." She rose and vanished like a sprite. 
 
 " I must also leave you, my young friend," said the Dr., " the 
 class will wait for me ; but if you will sit with Mrs. R. and Miss 
 Mary till I return, I will join you at tea." 
 
 " You are very good, sir, but I have an engagement at the book- 
 seller's. If you will allow me the liberty, I will call again to-mor- 
 row morning. I expect to leave town in the afternoon in one of 
 the sloops." 
 
 " We shall always be happy to see you." 
 
 Mr. T. made a respectful bow and left the room. 
 
 " Well, what do you think of our young friend ?" said Dr. R. 
 
 " I like him much ; he is a modest, well-behaved youth, and 
 has his father's benign countenance," said Mrs. R. 
 
 " He only wants more knowledge of* the world," said Mary. 
 " He thinks everybody as honest and single-hearted as himself. 
 His heart seems overflowing with goodness and sensibility." 
 
 " Come, Susan, my child, are you ready, it is time for us to be 
 gone." In a few minutes she was down stairs, and they went to 
 the catechising. 
 
 After they left the room, Mary said, " Mother, did you see how 
 the poor girl blushed when Mr. T. drank her health. It is the first 
 time any young gentleman ever took so much notice of her. I was 
 afraid he would ask her to take a glass of wine with him. It is 
 well he did not ; she could not have gone through that trial." 
 
14 THE SINGING SCHOOL. 
 
 THE SINGKENQ SCHOOL. 
 
 The next morning Mr. T. called. The ladies supposed it was to 
 take leave. Mrs. R. and Mary were the only persons in the parlor. 
 The common observations on the weather and on the appearance 
 of the city being made, his eye turned often to the door, as if 
 expecting some one to enter. Mary noticed it, and said, as if 
 answering the inquiry of his looks, " My father went out rather 
 earlier than usual, and regretted that he should rniss you, but left 
 us in charge to say that he should always be happy to see you 
 when you came to town." 
 
 " I thank him, and shall esteem it a privilege to cultivate his 
 acquaintance, for from my earliest days I have been taught to love 
 and revere him. With somewhat of an altered voice he said, " I 
 hope Miss Susan is well ?" 
 
 " Quite so. She is at school." 
 
 " Is she still a scholar ?" 
 
 " Yes, her education was retarded by our residence in a retired 
 part of the country, where there were no advantages whatever for 
 a young lady. She is now under the care of one of the most 
 esteemed teachers in the city, and has made good proficiency. 
 But she begins to manifest some repugnance at the confinement, 
 and thinks herself almost too old for school. What time do you 
 expect to sail this morning, Mr. T. ?" 
 
 He hesitated, at length said, " I have not yet quite completed 
 my purchases at the bookseller's, and your father had the goodness 
 to offer me a Hebrew Lexicon, which I cannot find in the city." 
 
 " Well, pray come and take tea with us, and you can see the Dr. 
 and get the Lexicon," said Mrs. R. 
 
 " I will, with great pleasure, and by taking an early boat to-mor- 
 row I shall not be^nany hours longer away from my people than if 
 I had gone this afternoon." He bowed and left them. 
 
THE SINGING SCHOOL. 15 
 
 At the early hour -which was then customary for tea visits Mr. 
 T. appeared. All the family were in the parlor. Susan was play- 
 ing with Eliza, her youngest sister, busily engaged in dressing her 
 doll, while the child looked up in her face, watching every smile 
 that played over her features, clapping her little hands with glee 
 and delight as the task advanced. 
 
 When the stranger entered Susan started up, a blush mantled 
 her cheek, as the thought passed her mind, he will indeed take me 
 for a child, to see me playing with a doll. So she placed it in 
 Eliza's arms and seated herself at her sewing. 
 
 Feeling as if he were with friends, although of so recent a date, 
 Mr. T. entered into conversation with ease and cheerfulness. He 
 gave some amusing details of his plain but kind-hearted parish- 
 ioners, but what most pleased him to dilate upon was their simple 
 piety, their lovely but orderly domestic habits, and their affection 
 for their minister. He could not be more pleasantly settled. 
 
 Dr. R. soon came in, and literary subjects were discussed till the 
 table was brought out, when all encircled it, and conversation 
 became general. Susan dared not to take any part, such was her 
 awe and reverence for her parents that she was generally silent in 
 their presence, but her animated countenance shewed that she 
 understood well and was interested in the discourse. 
 
 When tea was over, she rose and said in a low voice, " Mama, is 
 it not time for me to go to singing school ?" 
 
 Mr. T. caught the word, and said, " I am very fond of sacred 
 music, Mrs. R., will you allow me to accompany your daughter ?" 
 
 " Certainly, sir, if you are not otherwise engaged. Her father 
 generally sees her to the door, and one of our elders comes home 
 with her ; but if you love music, perhaps you would like to hear 
 the new teacher. He has the reputation of being a fine singer, 
 and has something uncommon in his tunes." 
 
 Susan flew to get her bonnet and cloak, and Mr. T. was at the 
 door to accompany her. He asked several questions about the 
 teacher and the tunes, but could not elicit much more than a mon- 
 osyllable from her. When they entered the room she glided off 
 from him and took her seat among the treble. Mr. T. bowed to 
 
16 THE SINGING SCHOOL. 
 
 the teacher, who distinguished him as a clerical stranger by put- 
 ting him in one of the most conspicuous places in the room. 
 
 It was soon whispered among the young girls, " Who is that 
 tall, handsome man ?" " Oh ! what a mild countenance he has !" 
 " How good ! how gentle he appears !" " Susan, where did you 
 meet with him ?" " He came with you ?" 
 
 " He is a friend of my father's," said she, with downcast eyes. 
 
 In some of the old tunes his bass notes were full, deep, and sweet ; 
 but when the new ones were sung he only listened. Some soft 
 and birdlike warbling reached his ear, as they sang the pathetic 
 farewell of the soul, in the Dying Christian, especially in those 
 
 lines, 
 
 * 
 " Hark ! they whisper, angels say 
 
 * Sister spirit, come away.' " 
 
 " Oh !" thought he, " it must be an angel, for never have I heard 
 such heavenly melody." When the strain was repeated his eye 
 sought from whence the sounds proceeded. He could not be mis- 
 taken it jvas Susan. 
 
 On leaving the room he offered her his arm, as the night was 
 dark. Susan knew not whether she ought to accept or decline, as 
 she had never walked with a young gentleman before. While she 
 hesitated the street became more rough and the walking more 
 difficult. He perceived her timidity, and gently drew her hand 
 through his arm, saying, "You must allow me to support you." 
 They walked home in silence. He did not know why, but he felt 
 afraid to say anything, lest he might give pain to her shrinking 
 modesty. 
 
 When they reached the parlor he spoke in raptures of the 
 music, especially of the Dying Christian. "Miss Susan, will you 
 oblige me by singing that air again ? and if you will allow me the 
 use of your book, I will try to aid you by joining in the bass," 
 
 Susan cast an appealing look at her mother, who said, " To be 
 sure, my dear, you know we all like to hear you sing that lovely 
 song. Oh ! may we all be able to join in the sentiment, at least in 
 the solemn and trying hour." 
 
 They took the book and sang together. There was a perfect 
 
THE NEW LESSON. 1 
 
 accord in their voices, and it indeed appeared as if the world 
 " receded." One hymn succeeded another, till the clock warned 
 him to depart. He started up and begged their excuse for staying 
 so late. " Good night, dear and excellent friends, I did not know 
 before that our world contained such people. FarewelL" 
 
 " The Lexicon !" exclaimed Mrs. R. 
 
 " I had forgotten that," said Mr. T., with perfect truth and sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 THE NEW LESSON. 
 
 The next morning when Mary entered the parlor before break- 
 fast, she saw Susan looking intently upon a map and tracing a line 
 with a knitting-needle, and often and anon casting a glance at the 
 vane on the old French church. She watched her some time, and 
 then said, " I believe, Susan, you have a new lesson to learn ?" 
 She closed her book, as if detected in some wrong thing, and 
 hardly knew what answer to make. She hesitated, "No Yes," 
 and looked away from her sister. 
 
 " Never mind," said Mary, " I am sorry I disturbed your studies, 
 but if you have not your lesson by heart you can tell Mr. Leslie I 
 interrupted you." 
 
 The truth was (it was a little strange) that Susan had never 
 before thought of the whirlpool in the Sound, with its terrible 
 name, (Hell Gate,) as being so dangerous. A sort of undefined 
 feeling, not understood by herself made her think of the wild 
 eddies which sometimes cast vessels ashore or dashed them on the 
 rocks. She wanted to know the direction of the wind, and how it 
 would suit the passage of the sloops. 
 
 In a few days a letter came from Mr. T., full of acknowledgments 
 for kindness received, dwelling with much pleasure on his late visit, 
 and begging regards and remembrance to all. In the P. S. he 
 mentioned he had been able to procure the same music book which 
 
18 THE LIBRARY. 
 
 Miss Susan used, and that he should introduce it into the singing 
 class of his congregation. Sister Mary stole a glance at Susan 
 when this message was delivere'd, and smiled to see the eye cast 
 down and a sudden flush on her cheek. ** Dear girl," said she to 
 herself, " you are indeed learning a new lesson." 
 
 How unconsciously does the young heart receive impressions ! 
 With what rapid progress do sentiments often advance over former 
 predilections and prejudices. We exclaim can it be the same per- 
 son 2 How is it possible 2 
 
 THE LIBRARY. 
 
 Frequent letters passed between Dr. R. and his young friend. 
 There was always some point that wanted elucidation, or some 
 occurrence in which he wished advice. Affection was mutual, and 
 intimacy grew with every advance of the knowledge, of the senti- 
 ments y and the opinions, one of the other. Before the lapse of 
 another month William T. was at the house of his revered friend, 
 and was received with a cordial welcome. Susan blushed and 
 smiled when he entered the room. His visit had not been an- 
 nounced, so she was quite taken by surprise. After dinner he 
 expressed a wish to see the library, the Dr. led the way, and 
 then seated himself at his desk. William looked over the books 
 for some time, first on one shelf and then another ; then turning 
 round as if he had braced himself for an arduous task, he took a 
 chair by the side of Dr. R. After one or two attempts to converse 
 on indifferent subjects, he cleared his voice, and succeeded in say- 
 ing, " Dear sir your daughter Susan has has won my heart. 
 Will you will you permit me to try to gain hers 2" 
 
 Dr. R. dropped his pen, surprised at the suddenness of the pro- 
 posal, but recovered his composure, and said, " William T., she is 
 too young to change her condition." 
 
 "Every day is removing that objection. I am young myself. 
 
THE LIBRARY. 19 
 
 But will you allow me your consent to endeavor to gain her love." 
 
 " My dear young friend," said Dr. R., " I can wish nothing better 
 for ray daughter than to be united to one who seems to be so good. 
 Indeed, you bring your excellent father constantly to my mind, 
 and a connexion with his family I cannot but consider a favor from 
 Divine Providence. The ministry of the Gospel is the profes- 
 sion which, above all others, I prefer. I give you my consent, 
 therefore, to address my beloved daughter." 
 
 The tears rose in William's eye, as he grasped the hand of his 
 father's friend, unable for some moments to utter a word. At last 
 he exclaimed, " I am too happy !" 
 
 " The Lord bless you, my son. Go down stairs, I will soon join 
 you. Only let me caution you to be gentle and moderate in dis- 
 closing your intentions to Susan. She is young, very timid and 
 sensitive. Do not be precipitate." 
 
 When William entered the parlor, Mary's quick eye discerned 
 the traces of strong feeling on his expressive countenance. He 
 had what might be called a transparency of character, which was 
 without guile, and needed no concealment. She shrewdly sus- 
 pected that books alone had not occupied him in the library, but 
 forbore remark, as she saw his heart was too full 'for railery. 
 Susan raised her eyes timidly towards him, and was also struck 
 with the glow which suffused his countenance as their eyes met. 
 What was the matter? What had happened? She could not 
 conjecture. 
 
 In order to break a silence which began to be rather awkward, 
 Mary handed him a volume of a new work. " Have you read this, 
 Mr. T. ? It is worth looking at it is much admired." He took 
 the book and she busied herself in preparing tea. The mother 
 continued her knitting, without noticing anything uncommon. 
 Susan industriously plied her needle ; her fairy fingers seemed to 
 fly. Soon after Dr. R. came in, and conversation was resumed ; 
 but William's heart was too full to allow him to talk with ease on 
 ordinary subjects. 
 
 Solicitude is unquiet happiness is serious. 
 
20 THE END OF THE QUARTER. 
 
 THE END OF THE QUARTER, 
 
 It was the evening for singing school. William again accom- 
 panied Susan. A sort of anxious consciousness, a perturbed man- 
 ner, rendered their walk somewhat embarrassing. But I will not 
 attempt to describe how he revealed his sentiments to her, or how 
 her heart responded to the revelation. Suffice it to say, that hope 
 shed its beams over his heart, and that he surrendered all its affec- 
 tions to this interesting creature. After this his visits became fre- 
 quent, and he urged for an early day for the marriage. The only 
 objection was waived, in consideration of the important duties 
 which required all his time. 
 
 It was thought proper by father and mother- and sister Mary 
 (whose judgment was always consulted) that Susan should be taken 
 from school, although the quarter was not finished, nor the full 
 course of studies completed. As her excellent mother, who fulfilled 
 every duty of life, was still ignorant whether the Alps were in 
 Africa or America, it was thought that Susan might enter on her 
 new obligations without staying to study the Polar regions. 
 
 Besides, it was necessary to make alterations in her dress, as well as 
 preparations for housekeeping. At that period there was a marked 
 difference between the dress of a girl and that of a woman, and this 
 change of style had been delayed later than was usual, as Susan 
 continued at school. The metamorphosis must take place. The 
 beautiful ringlets were to be straitened into plaits, a cushion placed 
 on her head, and the hair combed tightly over it ; stays were to give 
 shape to the natural form of the person ; the frock was to be relin- 
 quished for the gown and the robe with its long train ; low for 
 high-heeled shoes so 'that the whole figure was changed and 
 aggrandized. 
 
 The transformation was so great that William scarcely recog- 
 nized his sylph-like friend when he first saw her in woman's cos- 
 tume. Always lovely in his view, he only found new graces to 
 
THE END OP THE QUARTER. 
 
 21 
 
 admire. June was fixed for the completion of his wishes. By the 
 time the quarter, the dreaded quarter, to which Susan had looked 
 forward with such sickness of heart, was finished, she had become 
 a wife, and was transplanted from the city to the pleasant village 
 of Greenfield. 
 
 Some little time after her settlement at the parsonage, she ad- 
 dressed the following letter to her sister Mary, William having 
 written previously to their father : 
 
 " MY DBAB SJSTEB, 
 
 " It is with pleasure I inform you that I am most pleasantly 
 settled in our nice parsonage. I am sure you will excuse my not writing sooner, 
 as you must think, I have been very much occupied in getting our house in 
 order, and in receiving visits, &c., &c. 
 
 " In our passage I was not so much alarmed in passing through Hell Gate 
 as I apprehended. I had formed a terrible idea of it ; but instead of being tossed 
 about in the whirlpool, nothing was felt more than a slight vibration of the 
 vessel. My dear William stood by me, telling me the wind and tide were 
 both in our favor, and that there was no danger. He is so gentle ! so consid- 
 erate ! and does not laugh at my fears. He tries to inspire me with courage, and 
 a proper dependence on our Divine preserver. 
 
 " The village is very pretty. Our house is sheltered by a large spreading 
 elm, and is on the edge of the green. The church is on the opposite side, and 
 the spire is seen peeping through a clump of maples. The school-house, with 
 its square belfry, stands near it. A little winding pathway across the green 
 leads to both buildings. Here the children have their sports, and it is quite 
 amusing to notice their various diversions. 
 
 " Though our house is small, it is quite comfortable and convenient. The 
 side windows open on the garden, which William cultivates himself. He has 
 planted a number of rose bushes, because he heard me say I admired that flower 
 above all others. In time I shall have them trained around the windows, and I 
 am promised a honey-suckle and jessamine, also, by one of our neighbors. 
 
 " I have a very nice apartment for my honored parents, and an attic cham- 
 ber for you, sister Mary, where you have a fine view of the mountains and of the 
 Sound, sparkling in the distance like the lakes described in the geography. I 
 long to see you here. It seems as if my happiness was not complete till you 
 witnessed and partook of it. Oh ! how vain and foolish I was in former days ; 
 My poor, vain mind dwelt on the pictures of worldly show, and I was dissatisfied 
 with my condition in life. I am ashamed to confess how much I disliked the 
 restraints of our father's profession and his family order. I promised myself to 
 have nothing more to do with clergymen, especially the rustic ones. And yet 
 here I am, the wife of a country parson, (as I used contemptuously to call them,) 
 what is more, so content with my situation that I would not change with the 
 gayest lady in the city. 
 
 " Surely the pleasures of the heart and mind exceed all others ! My dear 
 
22 THE WIDOW. 
 
 husband is always occupied in some benevolent or pious object, and in doing good. 
 He associates me in his charitable visits. I go with him to see the sick and the 
 afflicted, and love to hear him comfort the mourners ; and have found greater 
 benefit from the house of mourning than that of feasting could possibly have 
 bestowed. By his direction I prepare some nice thing for the sick. He employs 
 me as his messenger to carry books of consolation to the afflicted, and selects 
 passages for me to read to them. His friends are all as kind to me as if I were a 
 relation. They seem to feel for my youth. The aged are like mothers, the 
 young like sisters. After sermon they all gather round us, which brings to 
 my mind the picture Goldsmith has drawn of the village clergyman 'E'en 
 children press to share the good man's smile.' My William might have been 
 the original from which this picture was taken." * * * S. T." 
 
 THE "WIDOW. 
 
 While Susan's days were gliding along in an equable current of 
 placid enjoyment, Mary was destined to pass through scenes of 
 severe trial and affliction. For a while the sun of prosperity shone 
 brightly, but soon clouds arose, and all the horizon was shrouded 
 in gloom. Attracted by the reputation of her excellence, a gentle- 
 man of distinguished family and fortune, as well as personal worth, 
 came from a distant province in the south (S. C.) to solicit her 
 hand. He succeeded in his wishes, and everything within the 
 range of his fortune that could gratify the taste of his bride was 
 procured. A large and elegant house in one of the best streets in 
 the city (Wall Street) was purchased and furnished. Scarcely had 
 they taken possession of it when the approach of the invading 
 army caused them to fly with precipitation to some more secure 
 abode, without being able to take anything with them except a 
 few changes of clothing. They found a safe asylum for a while 
 under Mr. T.'s hospitable roof, and Susan was rejoiced that she 
 could also afford a retreat to her parents until something better 
 offered. They remained here in quiet for a short time. Dr. R., 
 whose heart was in his profession, could not be satisfied without a 
 pastoral charge, 
 
 He soon had an invitation to a retired place, where he could 
 
THE WIDOW. 23 
 
 preach the Gospel to a plain and rustic congregation. This was no 
 less the joy than the business of his life. His parish was not at a 
 great distance from Greenfield, but the difficulties of travelling ''at 
 that time were so great, from the badness of the roads, want of 
 conveyances, and dangers arising from disaffected people, that they 
 could not maintain much intercourse. Even the transmission of 
 letters was attended with difficulty, as there was no regular post 
 and private opportunities were rare, 
 
 As Mary was sitting thoughtfully one afternoon by the fireside, 
 events of past life flitting through her mind, a letter was brought 
 her, at that time a rare sight in their secluded residence. It was 
 worn and soiled, as if it had been hardly handled. She broke the 
 seal, and found from its date it had been nearly two months on its 
 journey. It was from a friend in Philadelphia, who had been 
 early known and long loved, but with whom du ring these troublous 
 times she had maintained only an occasional correspondence. She 
 gave an account of the various fortunes of her family, and with 
 regard to herself, added the interesting information, that the gentle- 
 man to whom she was engaged had just returned from England, 
 where his father had sent him to complete his law education. 
 
 " He is everything my fancy can paint or my heart desire. Oh 1 Mary, I 
 wish you knew him, I think you could not but admire him. Your approbation 
 of my choice would confirm my confidence, 
 
 " Perhaps in your secluded, far off residence the intelligence has not reached 
 you of the death of the wife of Col. B. He is left with a numerous family. He 
 has been the kindest friend of my mother in the present distracted state of affairs. 
 
 " Can you not come to be present at the coming ceremony of my marriage, 
 and thus add to my happiness. * * * * Your friend ." 
 
 The invitation could not be accepted. The prospects of Mary 
 were destined to sad reverse. She became a widow before she was 
 a mother. She was fated to know only the sorrows and not the 
 compensating joys of maternity. In the tender and soothing atten- 
 tions of Susan and her husband she had all that friendship could 
 give. Her piety afforded that support which nothing earthly could 
 afford. She rose from her bed of sorrow with a spirit chastened 
 and subdued, but not overwhelmed by grief. Her vigorous and 
 energetic mind rose superior to the enervating effects of melancholy, 
 
24 THE WIDOW. A VISITOR. 
 
 and as soon as her health was re-established she rejoined her 
 parents, and by taking a part in domestic duties and relieving her 
 mother of every onerous charge, she endeavored to regain her 
 wonted cheerfulness. 
 
 Her principal care was attending to the improvement of Eliza. 
 There were no schools to which she could be sent, and domestic 
 instruction was all that could supply the deficiency. 
 
 Public troubles cast a gloom over all who felt for their country. 
 Alarms of war spread terror everywhere. No one knew where the 
 next point of attack would be, or where to find a place of safety. 
 Established in one retreat, soon another remove was requisite. Yet 
 happily the family was never surprised by the enemy. Two or 
 three years were spent in this fugitive state ; yet Dr. R. always 
 found a people anxious to enjoy the advantages of his ministrations, 
 and his home, however humble, was rendered comfortable by the 
 perfect neatness and order which spread a charm round his fireside. 
 
 The placid temper of Mrs. R. was never ruffled. In the perform- 
 ance of her Christian and domestic duties her mind found sufficient 
 employment, and all care of the future was cast on an Almighty 
 arm. Mary was never without resource ; her elastic spirits rose 
 from the pressure of sorrow, and her cheerfulness returned. In 
 books, family avocations, and the instruction of Eliza, she took a 
 lively interest ; and sheltered from the sight of war, she only suf- 
 fered for others and sympathized in the general calamity. 
 
 A VISITOR. 
 
 Time stayed not its course, but rolled on in its unceasing lapse. 
 One evening as Mary was standing by the window she saw a gen- 
 tleman on horseback, followed by a servant. His appearance 
 showed he was a stranger. He looked about as if in search of some 
 dwelling. She presumed, as^he was a traveller, he was seeking a 
 public house, but was surprised to see him advance to their front 
 
A VISITOR. 25 
 
 door. The gentleman alighted, giving his horse to his groom, 
 ascended the steps, and was soon shown into the parlor. 
 
 It was Col. B. Her pallid cheek was suffused with a faint blush 
 as she extended her hand to welcome him. The recollection of 
 what both had experienced since last they met touched in each 
 the chord of sympathetic tenderness. The family soon collected, 
 and friendly salutations passed. Conversation became general and 
 varied. 
 
 A few days passed in domestic quiet. In a retired place, where 
 there are not many interruptions from company or visits, opportu- 
 nity is afforded for the full development of character and feeling^ 
 The negotiations of the heart went on rapidly and successfully. 
 Mary's scruples and apprehensions about assuming the important 
 position now offered to her were overborne by the earnest solicita- 
 tions of one for whom her heart acknowledged its first prepossession. 
 He was not a stranger, his worth 'was long known to the family. 
 
 Mary once more looked forward to life as having the power and 
 means to render her happy and useful. The approbation of parents 
 was cordially granted without hesitation. 
 
 In the course of a few months Mary was established in Philadel- 
 phia, surrounded by a large family and a circle of admiring friends. 
 Her active and energetic mind found full employ. So adequate 
 was she to every duty that every difficulty disappeared. Order 
 reigned in every department of the house. There was time for 
 everything, no hurry, no delay. Cheerfulness shed a charm over 
 every repast. The parlor was a scene of hilarity, animated conver- 
 sation, and the cordial reciprocity of kindness. Her bright coun- 
 tenance was never shaded by a cloud. Her husband's pleasure 
 was the law of the house. 
 
 Excellent woman ! thy virtues will ever live in my heart while 
 memory remains. The elder children of the family admired and 
 fevered her, the younger ones clustered round her in filial love. 
 One of the most painful feelings her little daughter ever experienced 
 was when some one had the folly, the cruelty, to tell her this was 
 not her own mama. 
 
 /? ' 
 
26 AN EXPERIMENT. 
 
 AN EXPERIMENT. 
 
 "When winter came, Mrs. B. prevailed on her parents to allow 
 Eliza to come to the city. It was time her appearance and man- 
 ners should receive attention. She had long been secluded from 
 all intercourse with society, except the plain, unpolished people of 
 a country neighborhood. Her habits required correction, and her 
 manners that ease and finish which the company of educated and 
 refined persons alone can impart. 
 
 Accordingly she came, and entered on a scene perfectly new. 
 The house, its furniture, the style of entertaining, were like fairy 
 land to her. The domestic circle was even more novel. Here 
 were three or four young gentlemen, all of genteel and polished 
 manners, besides many who were frequent visitors. James, the 
 eldest son, was handsome, gay, witty, with a touch of sarcasm in 
 his nature. He glanced at Eliza, when introduced to her, a curl of 
 the lip showed what he thought of the rustic damsel. The others 
 seemed to feel more of pity than of contempt, and treated her with 
 some attention and a cold politeness. 
 
 James was of an ardent and impetuous temper, quick in his 
 prepossessions, strong in likings and dislikings, but not constant 
 in the one nor invincible in the other ; generous to a fault where he 
 loved, easily prejudiced when a favorite sentiment was contested, 
 or an opinion controverted. After the first sight he took little 
 notice of Eliza, and considered her as a simple country girl, be- 
 neath his notice. It must be confessed she was awkward. She 
 had a mode of entering the room with her arms dangling down 
 her shoulders stooping her head on one side and her toes turned 
 in. Admonition did not correct these faults, and before an intro- 
 duction into company it was needful to give her some opportunity 
 of having them subdued. It was thought nothing would so soon 
 wear off these rustic habits as a few months instruction by com- 
 
AN EXPERIMENT. 27 
 
 petent masters. Preparatory measures were taken to fit her for her 
 entrance to society ; milliners and dress-makers were employed, and 
 a total change effected in her wardrobe. 
 
 Eliza had the germ of taste within her, which required nothing 
 but a favorable soil and cultivation to bring out in luxuriance. 
 She had great ambition, which soon discovered itself in her un- 
 wearied efforts to excel. 
 
 By the time the winter was over, the change wrought in her 
 appearance and manners was so great, that she could scarcely be 
 recognized as the same person. There was, perhaps, even then, a 
 little lurking spirit of coquetry, which hid itself under the aspect of 
 simplicity. Her motions and attitudes became graceful, the expres- 
 sion of her countenance was intelligent, and without what is called 
 beauty, she was attractive. Her forehead was fair and well formed, 
 the eye-brows arched, her eye remarkably well set, fringed with long 
 dark lashes, which gave a deeper dye to their blue tint. These 
 advantages were not unheeded by the possessor. With a form 
 small, extremely light and delicate, she could dress as her taste dic- 
 tated, and wear ornaments without any appearance of gaudiness. 
 She knew how to assort colors, and what would be suitable and 
 becoming to her complexion, as well as if she had studied in Paris. 
 James began to view her with a different eye. There was witchery 
 about her ; and he found himself admiring, where lately he had 
 ridiculed. 
 
 Eliza had an intuitive sense in her manners to gentlemen : she 
 knew exactly what would attract and suit the taste of each one. 
 With James, she was distant and reserved ; with the other brothers 
 cordial and sprightly. This, after a while, piqued the pride of the 
 former, and he found it necessary to take more pains to render 
 himself agreeable, and to engage her attention. By insensible 
 degrees, he was fascinated with her; he became entangled in the 
 toils of passion till every feeling was absorbed, and every wish con- 
 centrated in obtaining her favor. 
 
 Early in the summer, Eliza returned to her parents, who still 
 resided in the country. The parsonage was in a very secluded 
 spot. 
 
 The world seemed a desert to James. 
 
"28 THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 THE MARRAIQE. 
 
 Yes ! the world without Eliza, was a desert to James. Amuse- 
 ment had no power to charm, business was an irksome task, and 
 books, dull companions. His chief resource was in visiting a 
 friend, to whom he could reveal his feelings, and with whom he 
 could devise plans for the future. 
 
 He was too young to talk of marriage he was still in the 
 counting-house of his father ; but he knew not how to live without 
 Eliza, so completely had she won his affections. He could not 
 deny himself the pleasure of visiting her, and half promised himself 
 it should be only as a friend. 
 
 In that exclusive retirement, in their walks through the valley 
 and the forest, his feelings betrayed themselves, and before he left 
 the quiet parsonage, he made a full declaration of his love. Young 
 as was Eliza, she had the art to keep her .own secret, or rather, to 
 conceal her purpose ; and it was not for a considerable time that 
 she gave him permission to hope. Owing to the youth of the 
 parties, the marriage was deferred for a year. When, at length, he 
 obtained her hand, he thought himself the happiest man on 
 earth. His father took him into business with himself, and they 
 were established suitably, and according to their taste, plainly, at 
 house-keeping. Under the judicious guidance of Mrs. B., they 
 went on with becoming moderation, and all things prospered 
 around them. 
 
 James thought no toil too arduous, that could add to the pleasure 
 and the gratification of his wife, and pursued his business with 
 pleasure and alacrity. The next year their felicity was hightened 
 by the birth of a son. This perhaps may be styled the perfection 
 of human life, when the heart experiences the delight of conjugal 
 and parental affection, in their fullness and their freshness. 
 
THE DREAM. 29 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 About this time Mr. T. made a visit ts Philadelphia, and enjoyed 
 the pleasure in the society of his beloved friends. It so happened 
 that he received an invitation to a respectable church about twelve 
 miles from the city. He accepted the call, and the three sisters- 
 were so situated as to renew the delightful intercourse of former 
 years. The gentlemen became attached friends, and a friendship 
 was formed which endured to their last days. The residence of 
 Mr. T. was the abode of comfort. Susan retained all her sprightli- 
 ness and her hospitality, so that the family, the children particu- 
 larly, enjoyed their summer excursions to Abington. Where could 
 be found so happy a family circle ? 
 
 But what is human life ? a fluctuating scene. Who may dare to 
 say, " To-morrow shall be as to-day." How soon after David said, 
 " My mountain stands strong, I shall never be moved," he was con- 
 strained to add, " Thou didst hide thy face and I was troubled."" 
 If for a season prosperity extends its gladdening ray, and the pros- 
 pect on every side is fair and bright, how quickly, oftentimes, do- 
 the clouds of adversity gather, and the desolating blast destroys the 
 harvest of joy. Uninterrupted happiness is not the boon of heaven 
 to sinful humanity. The more perfect is it, the shorter is its duration. 
 
 A few years passed with scarcely a cloud. Earth rarely wit- 
 nesses a more blissful union than that of Col. B. and Mary. They 
 were like two fine musical instruments, set on the same key, and in 
 perfect accord. The terms of rule and obey were never heard 
 between them. It was his object to procure her every gratification,, 
 and it was her delight to see him happy, and to render his house 
 the abode of peace and joy. The voice of complaint was never 
 heard from her lips, her voice echoed the law of kindness and the 
 smile of welcome was ever ready. They were united, moreover, in 
 religious sentiment and in benevolent pursuits. 
 
30 THE DREAM. 
 
 The event that seemed to be all that was requisite to complete 
 the happiness of Mary was near approaching, and her mother had 
 come to sustain her spirits and partake her joy. Every preparation 
 was made that could conduce to comfort, with the taste and good 
 judgment which characterized her conduct. From the fortune she 
 brought, all that was elegant might have been procured, yet such 
 was the moderation which distinguished her arrangements, she 
 never went beyond the point of propriety. She preferred giving 
 advantages to the children of Col. B., than lavish expenditure for 
 herself. In all pecuniary matters she had a delicacy that was 
 admirable. The income of her own estates was always tendered to 
 her husband, and when she needed anything for her own use she 
 applied to him, as if she were wholly dependent. He was worthy 
 of such a wife ; he had generosity equalling her own, and a heart to 
 appreciate her confidence. 
 
 One morning, alone with her mother, she said in a softened tone, 
 " Will you allow me, dear mother, to tell you a dream I had last 
 night ? It is not often that I notice dreams, but this one is remark- 
 able, and the impression it made is so strong and so vivid that I 
 cannot get rid of it. I narrated it to Col. B., but he checked me, 
 and said he was surprised that I should attach any importance to 
 it. I cannot drive it from my mind. Perhaps in speaking of it to 
 you, I m;ty dismiss it, and think no more of it." 
 
 " If it will have a good effect, my daughter, thus to sreak of it, 
 tell me the dream. We know that fancies will come when we are 
 anxious about any particular event." 
 
 " You remember my friend, Catharine Brown, who died in Scot- 
 land ; you know how intimate we were, and how fondly was our 
 attachment to each other ?" 
 
 " Certainly, I remember your earliest friend and her interesting 
 character." 
 
 " Methought I saw her ihe came to me as in the days of youth. 
 She was dressed in white, with the countenance of an angel, radiant 
 with bliss. ' Mary,' she said, ' I am come for you, you must go 
 with me.' ' Catherine,' I replied, * that is impossible. I cannot 
 leave Col. B. and his children.' ' You must, all things are ready.' 
 She took me by the hand and led me to the front door. W^hen 
 
A CHANGE. 31 
 
 we opened it there was a crowd of people filling the street as 
 far as my eye could reach, and a bier standing by the door !" 
 
 At this moment Col. B. came in the room. She stopped. He 
 caught the words, and said, " Surely, you are not repeating that 
 dream to your mother ? Mary, my dear, this is not like yourself." 
 
 Mary rose and summoned a smile, put her arm within her hus- 
 band's, and went in the garden. " We cannot be always wise, my 
 love ; you must forgive me if my courage fails at the thought of 
 leaving you." Tears fell from her eyes, and Col. B. could make 
 no answer, but clasped her to his heart. 
 
 Mrs. R.. though possessing a calm and well-balanced mind, was 
 shocked. She said if a stream of cold water had been poured over 
 her she could not have felt a greater tremor. 
 
 A CHANGE. 
 
 A few days after this their fears were relieved by the appearance 
 of a fine boy. The gratification of the grandmother was full. 
 Mary seemed perfectly happy. Alas ! it was for a brief space. 
 Ere ten hasty days had flown the house of joy was transformed to 
 the house of mourning. She who was the life, the very soul of its 
 enjoyments, was silent and cold in death ! Who can paint the 
 consternation of the family at this sudden reverse, or still less 
 attempt to describe the agony of the bereaved husband, the deep 
 sorrow of the mourning mother. That night of anguish will never 
 be effaced from my memory. Never, though years have passed, do 
 I see the moon in its wane, as I saw it at that hour, but the scene 
 recurs. Fain would I have supported her in my arms all night, 
 but I was too young to be allowed that privilege. With regret I 
 left the bedside, yielding* my post under promise of being called if 
 any change appeared. That change came but too surely, too 
 speedily. This excellent woman was called from a sphere of great 
 usefulness and earthly happiness ; doubtless it was to reap a rich 
 reward wh^re no painful change can come. Her's was the gain 
 
32 A CHANGE. THE BREAKING-UP. 
 
 the loss was to all who knew her. Her husband felt " 'tis the sur- 
 vivor dies" heart-stricken, the world had no more days of bright- 
 ness for him. 
 
 The evening after her interment, it was the sacred Sabbath's 
 close, he assembled his children and his family around him in an 
 upper chamber. He had fortified his own soul by retired devo- 
 tion, he now strove to strengthen theirs by social prayer. He read 
 some consolatory passages from Holy writ. " We mourn not," he 
 said, " as those without hope. The one for whom we grieve is 
 among the blessed. Her illness was so rapid that it allowed not 
 the expression of her faith and hope, but the whole tenor of her life 
 attests the solidity of the one and the well-grounded assurance of 
 the other. May we all, when called to depart, leave a like testi- 
 mony." He prayed with the mourning group around him, then, 
 with softened voices, broken with sobs, they joined in singing that 
 hymn so appropriate to their circumstances, 
 
 " How vain are all things here below, &c." 
 
 One of the family, admiring her intellectual powers, exclaimed 
 " She had talents to command an empire ;" but of more value far 
 was her fidelity in duty, her unostentatious, active piety. Her 
 energy iufused spirit in every department of her household, and her 
 unvarying cheerfulness, like the clear shining star of day, shed a 
 general and genial glow over every object. The delight of her 
 husband, the director of his children, the adviser of her friends, she 
 filled every department of social life with ease to herself and entire 
 gratification to all within the sphere of her influence. 
 
 THE BREAKINGHJP. 
 
 The friends of Col. B., feeling a deep interest in his affliction, 
 wished that he should try the effect of entire change of scene and 
 occupation. He had retired for some time from political life and 
 pursued mercantile business, to which he had been bred. He was 
 
THE BREAKING-UP. AX ATTEMPT AT HIGH LIFE. 33 
 
 prevailed on to be nominated for Congress. Succeeding in his 
 election, lie was obliged to make immediate preparation to go to 
 New- York to take his seat. 
 
 It was not an inconsiderable business to arrange so large an 
 establishment. His son James took charge of the mercantile af- 
 fairs. Eliza was entrusted with the two younger daughters. The 
 eldest one had gone to New- York with Mrs. R., where Dr. R. was 
 again settled, when the citizens returned after the war. The young 
 men, who were students of law and in counting-houses, became 
 members of James 5 family. This accession rendered a larger house 
 requisite for the elder brother, and a new house required new furni- 
 ture, consequently a different style of living was adopted. When 
 these affairs were adjusted Col. B. went to New- York, and boarded 
 at Dr. R.'s with the pleasure of having his daughter with him. 
 The retirement and the regularity of the family suited the state of 
 his mind. Indeed, it is a question whether he would have accepted 
 the appointment, had it been necessary to join in gay society. 
 The elevated piety of the excellent couple, and their sympathy in 
 his sorrow, made this situation the most comfortable ono that he 
 could have selected. 
 
 AN ATTEMPT AT HIGH LIFE. 
 
 That governing mind which had hitherto regulated and restrained 
 Eliza was no more present to influence her. Col. B. was extremely 
 indulgent to his children. He was removed from the knowledge 
 of their proceedings, and exercised no control over them. There 
 were always some plausible pretexts for increased drafts. While 
 he had the power to satisfy them he did not think of remonstrating, 
 far less of refusing these demands. The passion for high life and 
 the desire to shine in the most fashionable circle*, took possession of 
 Eliza's mind. No opportunity was lost, and every occasion profited 
 by to push forward into the ranks of gay society. One of the dis- 
 
34 AN ATTEMPT AT HIGH LIFE. THE RETURN. 
 
 creet friends of James undertook to advise him, and to give him 
 salutary counsel on the subject. " You are young, my friend ; you 
 have an increasing family ; business is precarious ; you should be 
 more prudent in your expenditures ; your father never lived in a 
 like style consider." 
 
 " I do consider," he replied. " It is Eliza's pleasure I study." 
 
 " Is it not too great a sacrifice," rejoined his friend, " to plunge 
 yourself into difficulty, and perhaps to involve your father ?" 
 
 " I think no sacrifice too great for Eliza. I would sacrifice my 
 life for her !" 
 
 Infatuated young man ! A short time terminated this career of 
 folly. Business took an unfavorable turn, and in about two years 
 he failed, involving his father in heavy responsibilities. Their 
 house had to be relinquished. Eliza had to return to her father, 
 with two children. James was obliged to go to the South, to en- 
 deavor to retrieve his affairs, and to collect some property which 
 had been bequeathed to his wife. Owing to the embarrassments 
 caused by the war, this had never been productive. 
 
 Col. B.'s term being finished in Congress, he went to reside in 
 the quiet village of Germantown, and again collected his family 
 around him. He felt deeply for the misfortunes of his son, and 
 preserved his credit by great sacrifices. He found it difficult to 
 resume business. A change in political affairs threw the party to 
 which he was attached out of popular favor. He had no resource 
 but in retirement. 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 James' expedition to the South was in part successful. He 
 secured the property, but at a fearful cost to himself. He trusted 
 in his high health and firm constitution, and though warned 
 against exposure, he went into the country. He was told that it 
 was extremely dangerous at that season of the year to quit the 
 
THE RETURN. 35 
 
 city, (Charleston,) even for a day. Nevertheless, he encountered 
 the risk a day or two before his embarkation for New- York, from 
 an eagerness to adjust his affairs. Alas ! the second day after 
 being at sea the fatal malady set in with violence. All that could 
 be done for his- comfort in such a case was done. Friends, of the 
 southern country, relinquished their own places in the cabin, that 
 he might be better attended. It was in vain, the terrific malady 
 could not be arrested. A short time completed the destructive 
 work. 
 
 It was hoped to reach land, and to deposit his remains in earth, 
 that his father and friends might, at least in idea, visit the spot. It 
 could not be in solemn and respectful silence his form was com- 
 mitted to the waves to remain until the sea shall give up its dead. 
 Thus, in the prime of life, with all his affections glowing in his 
 heart, he was called away. 
 
 His wife and the family were expecting his return ; and when 
 the vessel was reported, his brother hastened to welcome him. 
 What a reverse! He returned with the sad tidings. Eliza, no 
 doubt felt the shock, and some pangs of grief must have wrung her 
 heart, for one who had loved her with such intense affection. Her 
 bosom was too much rilled with the love of self, to know a generous 
 sorrow. 
 
 In his papers were many proofs of that deep and fervent love 
 which was stronger than death. The following verses I recollect : 
 
 " Tho' the sons of stern Neptune are laid 
 
 In the soft arms of peace-giving sleep, 
 I wake, loved Eliza, to grieve, 
 
 I wake, o'er thine image to weep : 
 
 That inuige so dear to my breast, 
 
 Whose absence I ever shall mourn : 
 To which, nothing a charm can impart, 
 
 Save the hope of a speedy return." 
 
 His father wept for his first-born with an agony of sorrow, which 
 religion could soften, though it could not obliterate. With the 
 patriarch he said, " It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him 
 good." 
 
36 THE GAY WIDOW. 
 
 THE QAY WIDOW. 
 
 During the period that it was decorous to wear the habiliments 
 of mourning, Eliza lived in retirement, dividing h^r time between 
 her friends of both families. She spent several months at the 
 secluded parsonage. All that affection could do, was done to please 
 and to gratify her. Mr. T. spoke to her the language of religion to 
 elevate her mind above sorrow, and also above the disappoint- 
 ments and the illusions of a vain deceitful world. He perceived 
 the strong bias of her thoughts towards those earthly objects 
 which hitherto had wholly engrossed her. It was his hope, that 
 affliction, together with a separation from scenes of fashionable life, 
 might have a salutary effect, and her affections would be directed to 
 superior concerns. 
 
 Eliza had some taste for poetry, and could express her sentiments 
 in an interesting style. She had the tact to accommodate herself 
 to her companions, and render herself extremely agreeable. In the 
 family circle, and no stranger present to awaken her vanity or her 
 ambition to shine, she discoursed sweetly, and made those around 
 her believe that she was full of feeling and tenderness. High life 
 was her idol still ; and to be looked up to, to lead the fashion, to 
 mingle with the great, to be admired, overcame each better inclin- 
 ation. Her children were with their grand parents; she had no 
 care of them, and it seemed as though they had little power to 
 awaken maternal love. Self self was the supreme object to 
 which all else must yield. Her health was delicate, and this cir- 
 cumstance was wielded with address to obtain the indulgences she 
 desired from her parents. They strove to make up, in every way, 
 the losses and disappointments which had fallen so heavily on her 
 youthful days. 
 
 After visiting her friends at Abington, she returned to New- 
 York, where the tender solicitude of her mother arranged every- 
 
THE GAY WIDOW. 37 
 
 thing for her comfort. She was happy if she could see the palid 
 cheek of her daughter show somewhat of its former glow her eye 
 emit its sparkle and a gleam of cheerfulness dispel her usual 
 sadness. There was always a settled gloom of dissatisfaction on her 
 countenance when she was in presence of her parents. 
 
 They attributed her depression to her grief, and they urged every 
 argument to make her exert herself to console and to cheer her. 
 She professed to dislike New-York, and therefore refused to see 
 the company which came to the house. 
 
 When the accustomed period elapsed of wearing the widow's 
 weeds, her friends proposed a change of dress to her : lively colors, 
 they thought would, perhaps, make her feel in better spirits. She 
 yielded with apparent reluctance, yet to those who saw her with 
 her dress-maker, it was evident that the change was far from being 
 disagreeable. Her taste was correct and elegant, and she under- 
 stood selecting what was becoming to her. The next object to be 
 effected was [to induce her to re-enter society, but she stedfastly 
 adhered to her plan of seclusion. The truth was, that she could 
 not associate with those she wished to visit, while she lived in a 
 small house, in a dull narrow street. How to bring about so great a 
 revolution, as to make her parents quit the mansion that they had 
 inhabited ever since the peace, was the point ; it required dexterous 
 management. By skillful maneuvers it at last was effected. A 
 larger house in a better position, admitting more of the air of 
 fashion, was -selected for their abode. The amiable and venerable 
 pair desired to gratify their daughter, whose interesting circum- 
 stances made large drafts on their sympathy. Her delicate health 
 also, demanded every indulgence that their means could supply. 
 Single hearted themselves, they had no suspicion of artifice, and 
 received everything as fair and true that was presented to them. 
 They could not suppose that there was any sinister or concealed 
 motive. 
 
 The best room in the house was allotted to their daughter for her 
 drawing room. Some articles of furniture of her elegant establish- 
 ment in Philadelphia had been reserved for her, from the wreck of 
 their affairs, and re-presented to her by Col. B. With these things and 
 
38 THE GAY WIDOW. THE CONQUEST. 
 
 a few more costly articles, her parlor was arranged in a style of 
 taste and fashion, far beyond anything which had ever appeared in 
 the clerical dwelling. 
 
 Thus equipped she commenced her career. She had always a 
 few friends who moved in the first circle of society. These associa- 
 tions were now cultivated, and intimacies were matured by frequent 
 intercourse. Her visitors were received in her own drawing-room. 
 Her parents knew nothing of them but what she chose to commu- 
 nicate. By degrees she was drawn more and more into the vortex 
 of gay life, till she was in one perpetual whirl. Her own woman 
 always awaited her return, so that the hours she kept were not 
 knftwn to the family, In the morning, indisposition was a ready 
 excuse for not attending worship and taking breakfast in the parlor. 
 Morning visits occupied her till the dinner hour, when she met her 
 father and mother for a short time. The afternoon was devoted to 
 preparations for the evening assembly. Thus she lived almost a 
 stranger to those under the same roof. 
 
 THE CONQUEST. 
 
 At this season of gayety, a new impulse was given by the 
 arrival of the officers belonging to a French frigate detained in the 
 harbor. Party succeeded party with unusual rapidity and splendor. 
 It. is not improbable that the influence of the free sentiments of 
 these persons, gave a new tone to society at that time. 
 
 Among the leaders of the fashionable world, was one who was 
 conspicuous, from the union of family fortune and personal advan- 
 tages. To a handsome form and face, were added manners the 
 most fascinating. He was just returned from England ; then, it 
 was a distinction to have been abroad. To be admired by Mr. A. 
 was enough to bring any lady into notice, and to render her the 
 object of envy to her sex. As the daughter of a clergyman, Eliza 
 
THE CONQUEST. 39 
 
 would have had little chance of attracting his attention, but as con- 
 nected with the B. family, with whom he had some acquaintance, 
 she immediately engaged his regards. The name at first caught 
 his ear, and made demands on his politeness. A conquest such as 
 this would ensconce Eliza in the highest niche of the ton, and con- 
 sequently her powers of pleasing, of which she possessed many, 
 were put in requisition to attract and to attach him. By various 
 arts of dress and the toilette, she concealed the waste of health ; 
 her wardrobe was tasteful, and when made up for a party, the 
 roseate hue of youth was on her cheek, her eyes were bright, and 
 her step was elastic. No one surmised at what expense of ease 
 these appearances were purchased. Vanity has its martyrs as well 
 as religion. 
 
 At the parties where they met, Mr. A. was in the train of Eliza ; 
 he, by degrees, was considered her devoted beau. There was 
 always some visit to be returned or some novelty to be seen, and 
 each morning found him in attendance. Books were to be pro- 
 cured or to be returned ; indisposition, real or feigned, required the 
 politeness of an inquiry. By a thousand of these minute requisi- 
 tions, Mr. A. found himself drawn into an intimacy he had not 
 calculated on, and from which he could not retreat, 
 
 The serious part of Dr. R.'s congregation were shocked that such 
 a connection was proposed for the daughter of their pastor, and 
 that it obtained credence ; but the whole style of Eliza's associa- 
 tions were considered as improper for a house hitherto renowned 
 for its propriety and its sanctitude. Anonymous letters were 
 addressed to herself and to her father, representing the character 
 of Mr. A. and his course of life, in somewhat exaggerated terms. 
 In the main, they were only too true. 
 
 These missives, however, failed to produce the intended effect, 
 and instead of breaking the engagement, they riveted the ties, and 
 accelerated the proposed union. Mr. A. was represented by Eliza 
 as the victim of persecution, and motives of envy, jealousy and 
 malice were attributed to these unknown writers; consequently 
 his case called for an increased degree of sympathy. The two 
 were identified as objects of some secret enemy, and being thus 
 
40 ILLNESS ITS CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 drawn together, what at first was a mere flirtation, Tesulted in a 
 serious engagement for life. Her parents were too pure to suspect 
 that vice lurked under his pleasing exterior, and although not a 
 match they desired or could altogether approve, yet as his family 
 was respectable and his fortune ample, they could not make a 
 decided opposition. They knew him only as he appeared in the 
 parlor, which he enlivened by his wit and vivacity. Eliza, they 
 saw, was taken captive, and resumed her cheerfulness and her 
 interest in life and what was decisive, she was of age, and must 
 judge for herself. 
 
 ILLNESS-ITS CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 The drama of the winter was drawing to a close ; the fatigue of 
 dissipation, the various excitements which Eliza had sustained, were 
 too much for her fragile frame. 
 
 One evening, when dressing for a party, she was seized with 
 such paroxysms of pain, that her strength, which had for a long 
 time been artificially supported, entirely deserted her. A physician 
 was immediately called, and instead of mingling in a scene of 
 gayety, she was laid on a couch of suffering. For some time her 
 life hung in suspense, and alarming apprehensions filled the hearts 
 of her friends with dread. 
 
 During this time Mr. A. was assiduous in his attentions, and 
 evinced so much solicitude and tenderness, that he made a favor- 
 able impression, and it was hoped that the follies of his youth 
 might be retrieved. 
 
 The violence of her disease abated, and health seemed to return 
 to the invalid. In a few weeks she was able to quit her chamber 
 and enjoy the fresh air. 
 
 An early day was fixed for the marriage, and it was celebrated 
 without parade, as circumstances rendered it proper it should be so. 
 Summer was advancing, and the season formed a pretext for going 
 
ILLNESS ITS CONSEQUENCES. 41 
 
 into the country. A sister of Mr. A., who resided in a retired 
 place, invited them to visit her. For a little while the novelty of 
 the situation, the beauty of the surrounding scenery, the beauty of 
 the locality, made up for the amusements of the city. It, however, 
 requires mental resources, and succession of occupation, to render a 
 life in the country interesting. In retirement there must be a 
 relish for literary pursuit, or other employment to give wings to 
 time. 
 
 Mr. A. was not fitted for solitude ; he could not study ; he soon 
 glanced over a review, or a new romance, and then what was to be 
 done to beguile the tedium of existence ? He tried field sports, 
 but he was no adept, and they wearied him. He would stroll to a 
 neighboring village and cheat .some hours in idle gossip, but this 
 was a resource too inelegant to please his fastidious taste. His 
 wife could not endure the heat, and ceased to accompany him in 
 his walks. A morbid languor was wearing down her spirits. 
 
 Solitude, to the character of the husband, was not the fosterer of 
 virtue. The discerning eye might perceive a change stealing over 
 his manner to her he had promised to love. Perhaps he was not 
 conscious of the indifference with which he regarded her. When 
 affection is not founded on esteem, the illusions with which fancy 
 and vanity invest their object soon pass away. 
 
 On her part, as the airy fabric vanished, disappointment settled 
 in its deep gloom on her heart. She had been a sort of idol, whose 
 every wish was consulted, and to the utmost gratified. Now she 
 found herself alone. The honied expressions of flattery, from one 
 whose voice was music, whose every glance had been admiration^ 
 were exchanged for common-place salutations. What an ice-bolt 
 to her sensitive self-love ! 
 
 What a void is made in the heart, when the all-engrossing object 
 of its regards is thus suddenly withdrawn ! As the bright vision 
 vanishes away, hope withers, and happiness expires. The halluci- 
 nations which had filled and peopled her world were gone, and to 
 Eliza, truth, with its stern reality, presented itself. Oh ! could some 
 good genius, some tender, faithful friend, at that time have attended 
 her, to soothe her sorrows, and to lead her in the path of peace ! 
 
42 ILLNESS ITS CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 But she was separated from those who loved her, and from those 
 who cared for her soul .and her spiritual well-being. Far from her 
 parents, and her excellent friend Mr. T., and her affectionate sister, 
 to whom could she look ? who had she to direct her, and offer 
 the aid that she needed ? 
 
 Her chief companion was a young woman whom she had taken in 
 her service. She was lively and good-humored, but without principle. 
 Her sister-in law was occupied with her family duties and her 
 children ; she paid the ordinary civilities of hospitality, but nothing 
 more. The insidious disease which had long secretly been under- 
 mining her constitution, aggravated by the means used to palliate 
 its paroxysms, now assumed symptoms of decided decline. Her 
 strength was wearing away ; she could rarely leave her chamber, 
 and her frame became sensible, in a distressing degree, to variations 
 of the atmosphere ; and ah ! to every variation of the countenance. 
 Mr. A., wearied of the care of an invalid wife, amused himself with 
 her attendant. The agony of jealousy was added to the anguish 
 of disease. 
 
 At the commencement of Autumn, the bleakness of the situation 
 made it requisite to hasten to the city. Eliza repaired to that dear 
 home where truth and love resided, and realized the comforts of 
 such a shelter. Her parents were horror-stricken at seeing the 
 ravages of disease the emaciated form, the wan cheek with its 
 hectic spot, and the eye flashing with the brilliance of fever. A 
 physician was called, but medical skill in vain attempts to check 
 that fatal malady, consumption, still less can it minister to a mind 
 diseased. Mr. A. renewed his assiduities in view of her family 
 they had lost their power to charm. Ellen, her woman, still 
 attended her, though her presence must have stung her like a 
 scorpion. Her venerable father sought opportunities to prepare 
 her for that change, which evidently was not far off. The .languor 
 of disease, and the stupefying effect of opiates, precluded any ad- 
 vantageous access to her heart. He bent over her in anguish and 
 poured forth the fervent prayer of Christian faith. May it have 
 been effectual! 
 
 For a few weeks she languished in this sad state of suffering and 
 
ILLNESS ITS CONSEQUENCES. THE MAN OF PLEASURE. 43 
 
 decay. There was no friend to whom she dared reveal the anguish 
 that preyed upon her soul. Her mother she would not pain ; 
 already she had too much grieved her. A young person who vis- 
 ited her, from observation and broken exclamations that escaped 
 her, conjectured what tortured her mind. " Sorrow in her breast 
 concealed its hoard," and without consolation, without hope, she 
 finished her life of vanity. 
 
 Ye gay and thoughtless, ye vain and ambitious, could you have 
 looked unmoved on the remains of Eliza ? Gifted above many of 
 her sex, had she restrained her views and wishes to the situation 
 which Providence assigned to her, she might have been the hap- 
 piest wife, and the glad mother of her family. Behold the reverse 
 an early grave ! The delusions of the world cheated her of 
 substantial happiness, and brought grief, disappointment, and misery 
 on those who loved her purely and sincerely. 
 
 THE MAN OF PLEASURE. 
 
 After the death of his wife, Mr. A. shed a few tears, and wore a 
 long crape weeper depending from his hat, but he in reality expe- 
 rienced the greatest relief possible. He was like a bird released 
 from an exhausted receiver. The fortune he once possessed had 
 been dissipated in extravagance ; he had no resource. He was 
 educated for the bar, but his habits unfitted him for application to 
 business or for study. He expected to be the heir of a rich rela- 
 tion. She, to gratify him, sent him to England, but in so doing 
 her plans were defeated. He anticipated the fortune, and at her 
 death little was left to him. He kept up appearances, but it would 
 have been impossible to have kept house in the style he desired. 
 The hasty engagement from which honor forbade him to retreat, 
 involved him in difficulties inextricable, and which the event of her 
 demise was the only mitigation. In a short time he resumed his 
 former habits, and as soon as decency would permit, he mingled in 
 
44 THE MAN OF PLEASURE. 
 
 all the amusements in which his happiness centered. It was not 
 known how he found the means to support his expenses, but after a 
 while the sources were exhausted. He ceased to be an object of 
 admiration to the young, and he had no acquirements to render 
 him an acceptable companion to those of his own age. To con- 
 clude his history, he continued to play the beau as long as he 
 could insinuate himself in the good graces of any young girl ; but 
 flattery, however sweet, requires the zest of youth, beauty, or fash- 
 ion, to give it power to fascinate. He found society changed from 
 what it once had been. With an exhausted fortune, a broken con- 
 stitution, he took refuge in a garret room, where, without the sooth- 
 ings of friendship, the approbation of conscience, or the consolations 
 of religion, he breathed his last, unpitied and unlarflented. " So 
 poor Mr. A. is gone," was all the expression of regret that followed 
 him to the grave. 
 
 Here was a waste of talent which might have embellished 
 society, and of qualities calculated to diffuse happiness in the rela- 
 tions of domestic life. Mr. A. was not destitute of kind dispositions, 
 and even of a degree of generosity. He regarded money only as a 
 means of present gratification, and was not sordid. He declined 
 keeping the property of Eliza, legally his own, when he really was 
 in need of supplies, and yielded it to her orphan children. Vanity 
 and the love of pleasure spoiled all that was good in his natural 
 temper, and before life attained its meridian his gay career was 
 terminated more properly it should be termed his sad career. 
 
 Thus a youth, upon whom nature and fortune shed their " sclect- 
 est influences," the dawn of whose day was bright, was led astray, 
 and his life overcast by the hateful shade of dissipation. Precious 
 advantages were flittered away by folly. When talents are mis-im- 
 proved, duties neglected, and selfish indulgence forms the whole 
 object of pursuit, in despite of the warnings of wisdom, the disap- 
 pointment of friends, and the ruin of sufferers, can existence be 
 called a blessing ? What is life worth, if passed without respecta- 
 bility, and without usefulness ? 
 
 "Surely, thou didst set them in slippery places; thou hast 
 brought them to desolation. He walked in a vain shew. Verily, 
 his best estate was altogether vanity." 
 
THE GOOD DAUGHTER. 45 
 
 THE GOOD DAUGHTER. 
 
 On the occasion of the decease of Eliza, the office of consoler 
 devolved on Mrs. T., now the only daughter of this aged pair. 
 They deeply felt their affliction. To see the prospects of their 
 child blasted, and in the prime of life thus to terminate her course, 
 filled their hearts with sorrow. Could hope have shed one ray on 
 her state beyond the tomb, grief would have been soothed, and 
 their minds been sustained under the bereavement? Susan has- 
 tened with duteous zeal to offer her tribute of sympathy ; there was 
 little to be said in way of consolation. Profound submission 
 calmed their spirits and enabled them to say, " The Lord gave and 
 the Lord hath taken away, blessed be his name." 
 
 The comfort of having their kind daughter with them was a balm 
 to the pain they suffered. Thanksgiving was mingled with their 
 sighs. 
 
 The dwelling of Mr. and Mrs. T. was the abode of peace and love. 
 By economy a limited income was so managed as to afford them ev- 
 ery comfort. Their hospitable board was crowned with abundance, if 
 not luxury, and their friends were received with that cordial welcome 
 which gives the highest relish to social intercourse. The young 
 and the old delighted to visit the happy parsonage, and here the 
 destitute and the unfortunate were sure of sympathy and shelter. 
 
 Yet was this abode not altogether free from the sufferings of 
 humanity, and the visitations of affliction. The blessing for which 
 their hearts yearned had long been denied them they had almost 
 ceased to hope for it. After many years of married life it was per- 
 mitted them to know the joys of parental love. A daughter, with 
 every appearance of health and beauty, smiled upon them. They 
 looked forward with sweet anticipation to the task of rearing and 
 educating their darling. Mysterious to us are the ways of Provi- 
 dence. This boon, so long coveted, so valued, so cherished, was 
 
46 THE LAST DAYS OF A GOOD MAN. 
 
 lent them only for four hasty moons. The cruel disease, the 
 scourge of mankind, until Jenner blessed the world with his discov- 
 ery, bereft them of what they held so dear. Who can adequately 
 estimate the worth of religious hope and Christian resignation. 
 With chastened hearts they yielded the sweet gift, rejoicing that 
 they had a treasure in heaven, beyond the reach of earthly ills. 
 
 This loss was the spring of other virtues. Mr. T. had two nieces, 
 left orphans, whom he now adopted, educated, and provided for. 
 In process of time they took the place of daughters, and became 
 efficient helpers in his family. 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF A GOOD MAN. 
 
 Years rolled on with an equable course, marked principally by 
 accumulated blessings and added graces. Under the hand of taste, 
 the parsonage became every year more beautiful ; the trees and 
 shrubbeiy putting forth an enlarged and luxuriant growth ; the 
 porch in front was latticed with jessamine ; a stately weeping willow 
 waved its rich drapery round the windows of the little drawing- 
 room ; the garden abounded with vegetables, and was adorned by 
 choice and rare flowers. This dwelling, so neat, so comfortable, 
 was the resort of many friends. They found health in the salu- 
 brious air of the district of country where it was situated, as well 
 as spiritual benefit from the piety which reigned within. 
 
 But the question recurs, What is human life in its best estate ? 
 A vapor. It may be tinged with richest colors, with rainbow tints, 
 still it is but a vapor, which appears for a while and then vanishes 
 away. The most useful must depart hence and be seen no more. 
 Mr. T. was struck with a malady, which in a short time removed 
 him from the scene of his labors. His last days were his best days, 
 when unable to occupy the pulpit, he gathered around him in his 
 chamber the old and the young, and with an eloquence surpassing 
 all that marked his days of health, exhorted them to seek that 
 
THE CONCLUSION. 47 
 
 better portion, which would endure forever. His words went into 
 the hearts of many of his hearers ; his example, his resignation, his 
 devotion, carried conviction of the truths which he had declared. 
 He departed in peace. " Mark the perfect man, and behold the 
 upright, for the end of that man is peace." 
 
 The tears of affection bedewed the spot where his form was laid, 
 and his memory is enshrined in the hearts of those who knew him. 
 For the loss of such a companion earth has no compensation. The 
 widow must seek consolation from a divine source. To the inly 
 wound no human hand can apply a remedy. The Divine physician 
 must bring the balm of Gilead the heavenly Samaritan must 
 pour the oil and the wine ! 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 In the vision of Mirza, which so vividly paints the phases of 
 human life, it was perceived that at the end of the bridge the trap- 
 doors thickened, and ever and anon the weary pilgrims dropped 
 through them to the ocean of eternity. When three score and ten 
 years have flown past, the time-worn travellers disappear in rapid 
 succession. Thus was it in the family of Mrs. T. Scarcely were 
 the tears dry on the cheek of the mourner, when bereavement suc- 
 ceeding bereavement caused them afresh to flow. The venerable 
 parents had passed the usual boundary of the earthly pilgrimage 
 He who used to be active in the duties of his sacred office had now 
 to cease from his labors. A brief space separated the pulpit from 
 the tomb. Full of years and full of honors, he was called to re- 
 ceive that crown of righteousness promised to the faithful servant. 
 It seems as though the glad welcome might be heard, " Come, thou 
 blessed." " Well done, good and faithful servant ; enter thou into 
 the joy of thy Lord !" 
 
 " Saw ye not the wheels of fire, 
 As the chariot cleft the wind ? 
 Saw ye not the saint aspire ?" 
 
48 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 Mrs. T. left her retirement and went to watch the last days 
 of her declining parent. She ministered to her comfort and offered 
 the consolations of religion and of filial love. By gradual decline 
 she calmly closed her gentle course, and consigned her purified 
 spirit to the hand of Him who gave it. Meek and placid had been 
 her habitual temper, and every period of life had been marked by 
 piety, benevolence, and the discharge of every duty. After a few 
 months of separation she was laid by the side of her companion 
 and friend. Lovely and endeared had been their union in death 
 they were not divided. 
 
 The contemplation of such characters is calculated to exalt our 
 estimate of Christianity. Whatever things were pure, lovely, hon- 
 orable and of good repute, shone like a constellation of graces 
 throughout their whole course. Theirs must be the incorruptible 
 crown, to be placed on the brow of those who have followed the 
 Redeemer. To such he has said, " I appoint unto you a kingdom." 
 
 Mrs. T. was not left without consolation. There were many that 
 loved her. In the orphan neices, whom she had trained in the 
 knowledge and practice of domestic accomplishments, and nurtured 
 every benevolent and pious affection, she found efficient assistants, 
 as well as attached friends. They managed her affairs so that she 
 had no cares to oppress her. By the congregation the inmates of 
 the family were looked to, not as the leaders of fashion, but as 
 examples of virtue and goodness. 
 
 In the cultivation of the garden and the embellishment of the 
 court yard they found amusement and scope for their taste. Mrs. 
 T. still loved her plants, and always had some favorite flowers to 
 cherish. 
 
 As long as her strength permitted, she delighted in the perform- 
 ance of the duties of benevolence. Her advice was sought in sick- 
 ness, and she was always ready to render aid to the various insti- 
 tutions which now adorn the church. These furnish delightful 
 employment for leisure hours, and ample opportunity for the exer- 
 cise of the best and noblest affections of the heart. Thus, in these 
 elevating occupations, did this excellent woman pass the evening of 
 life. She attained the appointed term of earthly duration, without 
 
THE CONCLUSION. 49 
 
 experiencing any decay of the mental faculties or her social affec- 
 tions. Beauty and harmony still yielded her gratification. By 
 gentle decline she sank to the tomb. Her last days were peaceful, 
 irradiated by hopes of a blissful immortality. Many tears were 
 shed of regret and tenderness on her grave by those whom her 
 goodness had relieved and her kindness benefited. Her memory is 
 cherished by those who owe their happiness to her virtues. She 
 reposes by the side of him whose love made the sunshine of her 
 life, and to whom she was the source of the dearest joys of this 
 sublunary sphere. 
 
 What happiness can the ambitious, the worldly-minded enjoy, 
 compared to the peace and elevated serenity of those who walk in 
 the paths of wisdom and purity ? Let the course pursued by Eliza 
 and Susan decide the question. 
 
SKETCHES OF THE PAST 
 
 '' Being dead, they yet speak." 
 
 " The memory of the just is blessed." 
 
 '' The righteous shall be had in everlasting remembrance." 
 
 " The sweet remembrance of the just, 
 Like a green root, revives and bears 
 A train of blessing for their heirs, 
 When dying nature sleeps in dust" 
 
SKETCHES OF THE PAST. 
 
 COLONEL BAYARD. 
 
 The bounds of our habitation, my sister, are fixed by Provi- 
 dence, and however unfavorable they may appear to our wishes, if 
 we are faithful to ourselves, and the means of communion with our 
 God, progress in piety is attainable in all places. I- trust the voice 
 of the late bereavement will awaken in our hearts the spirit of 
 devotion, and make us cultivate with renewed ardor our intercourse 
 with heaven, which we have now, a new and endeared motive to 
 attain. The example which our parent has set us should be ever 
 in our minds. Though engaged in the busy and tumultuous scenes 
 of life, he never remitted his attention to religion. Neither politics, 
 nor the pursuit of wealth and power, nor the attractions the world 
 presented to allure, ever turned him from the principles he em- 
 braced in his youth. He could not be accused either of enthusiasm, 
 on the one hand, or melancholy or superstition, on the other. He 
 possessed a cheerful and benign temperament, which softened the 
 trials and adversities weighing on many periods of his life. His 
 heart, naturally tender and ardent, was thus sustained in constant 
 equanimity. The difficult eras of his life were adorned with bright 
 and peculiar virtue. His impetuosity of temper required strong 
 principle to subdue, and the undeviating gentleness and forbearance 
 that he exercised were admirable and worthy of imitation. 
 
56 SKETCHES OF THE PAST. 
 
 When the spirit had flown, the expression of his countenance 
 was serene and happy. I gazed with sweet emotion and elevated 
 delight on the death-sealed brow. I felt I should ever associate 
 that noble and composed countenance with his celestial state. The 
 terror of the grave disturbed me not. I think of him as resting on 
 his earthly bed, with perfect tranquility. One day I shall be laid 
 by his side, our ashes may mingle. May we also rise to the same 
 immortal felicity. 
 
 SUSAN. 
 
 There are in the course of life a few favored seasons, in which 
 our better feelings and all our finer sympathies are called forth. 
 The touch of certain events, like the spear of Ithuriel, makes every 
 affection of the soul start out in its full size and strength. We feel 
 a power and energy, which, from being long latent, we knew not to 
 exist within us. Our hearts, like the smitten rock, send forth 
 streams of tenderness, to revive the long parched desert. Such is 
 peculiarly the effect of afflictions which come from the hand of 
 God. They awaken sentiments of resignation, and all the kindly 
 charities of affectionate commiseration. 
 
 The scenes of sorrow through which I have passed, have excited 
 all that was tender in my nature. Nothing could have interested 
 me more. The long decline of a niece, who was lovely and en- 
 gaging, who had manifested an uncommon degree of attachment to 
 me, prepared me to feel with keener sense the sad catastrophe. I 
 had watched the progress of her disease, and apprehended that the 
 autumnal decline of nature would terminate her earthly course. I 
 promised her father I would at any moment obey his summons, 
 and aid her mother in her cares and watchings. I received a mes- 
 sage and hastened to them. I found the sufferer pillowed on a 
 sofa, her cheek flushed with a hectic glow, her form wasted to 
 emaciation, but a smile beamed on her countenance, and her voice 
 
SUSAX. 57 
 
 was still full, clear, and melodious. She seemed pleased to see me, 
 and readily assented to the plan of my assisting her mother in 
 nursing her, although she refused to have any other friend near. 
 The night of ruy arrival I took my station, which I never quitted 
 till her mortal conflict terminated. How solemn was the scene 
 to me I Four days since an aged relative had paid the debt of 
 nature in this house, and the apartment she had occupied was 
 vacant and cold. 
 
 There is something in a recent death which sheds a solemnity 
 throughout a dwelling, even if the mind be divested of superstition 
 or fear. I felt this, and it added to the gloom that reigned in the 
 chamber of sickness when all was composed in the silence of night. 
 The dim light of the lamp served to give form to objects, and ena- 
 bled me to distinguish the features of my charge, fixed as if in 
 death. The moan and cough alone broke the oppressive stillness. 
 From the nature of the complaint a sudden termination was appre- 
 hended, and my fears were constantly alive, lest some fatal change 
 should take place when I was alone with her. I scarcely dared to 
 sleep, even when she was quiet. I dreaded that the next paroxysm 
 of coughing might prove her last. With a trembling heart, I en- 
 tered on every night, thinking I could not endure another alone, 
 yet the fear of giving alarm, made me exert all my fortitude, and I 
 seemed to receive strength, both of body and mind. 
 
 The idea of God's presence was a spring of consolation in those 
 dark and cheerless hours, While attending on her we would have 
 conversations that were pleasant. She had intervals of ease, in the 
 midst of her wearisome nights, and did not appear to apprehend 
 that her disease menaced present d-mger, or to think herself near 
 her end. Her mind was composed and clear, her hope from reli- 
 gion calm and steady. She was at peace with God, and tranquilly 
 awaited his will. Her long confinement had weaned her from the 
 world and all its attachments. I never heard a murmur from her 
 at the length or the severity of her sufferings ; on the contrary, she 
 gratefully acknowledged the comforts that cheered her, and the 
 alleviations of pain with which she was favored. She remarked, 
 when new symptoms of disease arose, that some former one that 
 
58 SKETCHES OP THE PAST. 
 
 had distressed her was lessened. Her debility was such that she 
 could not listen to reading. She said, " How much time have I 
 lost ?" It was remarked that she had been called to a nobler ser- 
 vice, to the practice of virtues which was far better than the acqui- 
 sition of knowledge. 
 
 Rev. Dr. Alexander, to whom she felt the greatest obligation, for 
 fixing her resolution to embrace a life of piety, called on one occa- 
 sion to see her. He took his seat near to her bedside. Her 
 mother sat behind him, leaning on the arm of the sofa. It was a 
 subject for a painter. The countenance of the invalid, as it became 
 animated in conversation, assumed an angelic expression. The 
 interesting topics that were touched upon her youth, her probable 
 nearness to death, and the idea that this was the last interview 
 with her spiritual father, heightened the effect of the scene. It 
 was the first time during her decline, that either to herself or to her 
 mother, the idea of immediate danger had been presented. 
 
 Dr. A. inquired how she supported her illness, and proposed the 
 heart-searching question, " If she felt as willing to die as to live ?" 
 She modestly replied, " Sometimes." He endeavored to alleviate 
 her fears of the last agonies of nature, by the supposition that 
 insensibility generally shielded the sufferers from a consciousness of 
 their pain. He spoke to her of the transient nature of these pains, 
 and dwelt on the consolation of the Gospel, and that at the termi- 
 nation of this state of being a world of joy was open to the Christian, 
 and an eternity of bliss. 
 
 " And do you believe," she asked, " that the soul immediately 
 passes to glory ?" 
 
 " I do," he replied, " from the whole scope of both Scripture and 
 reason," and produced texts and arguments to prove this position. 
 After various inquiries and exhortations, he prayed with us. She 
 dwelt upon this prayer until her last day. 
 
 She sustained the conversation with composure and self-possession. 
 It was almost too much for her debilitated frame. The succeeding 
 night was one of suffering, and never after that had she the strength 
 to converse with any one beyond a few sentences at a time. It is a 
 source of comfort to her friends that Dr. A. called just at that time. 
 
SUSAN. 59 
 
 He expressed himself as fully satisfied with the state of her mind. 
 From that hour her strength diminished, although some delusive 
 symptoms bespoke amendment. Like an expiring lamp, life some- 
 times flames brightly just before its extinction. So this flattering dis- 
 ease invests itself with the hues of health and hope until death 
 actually arrests the pulse, and its chilly dews are shed on the marble 
 brow. I was beguiled of my fears, and thought of even quitting her 
 for a few days. She gave a reluctant assent to my absenting myself, 
 but the change of one night in her state showed me that she would 
 not long require my attention or aid. I determined not to leave her 
 while I could minister to her comfort. Agonizing as was the scene, 
 I would not have missed it; it was consoling and edifying. It 
 proved the value and efficacy of religion. What other principle 
 could have dispelled the terrors of death? What besides could 
 have rendered a young creature, in her prime, friends and fortune 
 smiling on her, willingly to resign her earthly all, to bear the 
 tediousness of disease with patience, and to look steadily at the 
 tomb without dismay ? 
 
 When her mother saw the unequivocal evidence of approaching 
 dissolution, in all the bitterness of wo, exclaimed, " She is going 
 fast !" she met the tidings without dismay, replying, " Do you 
 think so, my mother ? I am not sorry." She from that moment 
 realized her situation, spoke words of comfort to her parents, of 
 exhortation and advice to her brothers and sisters. She called her 
 father and said to him, " If you think I am prepared to depart why 
 do you weep 1 Comfort my mother." 
 
 The serenity of her soul gave new life to her parents. They 
 could resign her when they discerned the evidences of the Divine 
 favor so clearly manifested. She continued to console them until 
 a frightful delirium seized her. After this her agony and their 
 grief are too painful to recall. It served to make the parting 
 pang less severe, for they were relieved to see her anguish cease, 
 and to know that the mortal conflict was ended. 
 
 Some bright form seemed to fix her parting gaze. " What beau 
 tiful creature is that," she exclaimed, her eye fixed on what to us 
 was vacancy. Her agitation was calmed, she raved no more, she 
 sunk to repose with a smile on her lips. Was it only the gleams 
 
60 SKETCHES OF THE PAST. 
 
 of delirium, or a ministering angel sent to strengthen her ? Scrip- 
 ture warrants the hope that celestial bands perform these offices of 
 love for the heirs of salvation. 
 
 The funeral rites were calculated to make impressions of a serious 
 nature, as well as to testify the respect and grief that the event 
 called forth. Six of her companions held the pall, and young men 
 who were her friends bore her remains, and laid the clods of the 
 valley on her early grave. Silence reigned during the solemn hour 
 no sound was heard save the funeral bell. Not a breath disturbed 
 the deep serene ; the flexile branches of the willow waved not, and 
 the sun, just touching the horizon, shed lustre over the faded foliage 
 of autumn. The storm that howled during the day and night of 
 her agony was hushed. Nature seemed to have sympathized in 
 our sorrow, and was tranquilized with, her repose. 
 
 " 'Tis finished, the tempest and fast falling rain, 
 
 And the darkness that shrouded the heavens have ceased, 
 And the meek, lovely sufferer from sorrow and pain, 
 By the hand of her Saviour at length is released. 
 
 Oh ! who that beheld her submissively languish 
 
 Through nights without rest and through days without case, 
 
 Through months of decay and of slow wasting anguish, 
 Can repine at her peaceful, triumphant release ? 
 
 We may mourn, but our hearts should not dare to repine, 
 
 For one who escaped from this region of pain 
 Has gone mid the souls of the blessed to shine, 
 
 Has returned to her God and her Saviour again." 
 
 REV. DR. LIVINGSTON. 
 
 The religion of this eminent Christian was not an inherited patri- 
 mony. Every article of his faith he established by careful investi- 
 gation and humble prayer. " It is a great thing," he observed to me, 
 " to believe to believe any one truth." He knew the difficulty, and 
 persevered, until he became an example of Christian faith. There 
 
ELIZABETH. 61 
 
 was nothing in the immediate article of his death to distinguish it, 
 for he was not permitted to manifest the strength of his hope on 
 the instant expectation of departure. The circumstances of it 
 seemed to proclaim the tender mercy of his Master. From the 
 delicate structure of his nervous system, he had a terror of the last 
 agony. It was not the future that he feared. His confidence was 
 fixed on the " rock of ages," but he dreaded the separating pang, 
 and the awful transition to another state of being. He retired to 
 repose as usual, without pain or alarm, and fell asleep to awaken in 
 heaven. He had no dying strife to encounter, but was quietly dis- 
 missed from earth and translated to the world of glory. We shall 
 not look upon his like again one so gifted by nature, so enriched 
 by education, so sanctified by grace one of the rare productions 
 that adorn a century. His intellectual powers and his personal 
 appearance raised him above other individuals of his race, while 
 the advantages of birth and fortune set out the gifts of nature. 
 The refining influences of Christianity shed lustre over all. As a 
 man, a scholar, and a theologian, he is among the first of whom 
 our country has to boast. ]STo person could be in his company 
 without acknowledging that he had been with a man of God. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 I once wondered what was meant by the troubles of life. I have 
 learnt by experience to know what they are. One affliction is 
 scarcely over, and my mind becomes composed and resuming its 
 cheerfulness, when another sorrow overshades me. My daughter is 
 now very ill. Heaven, only knows if her disease is preying on her 
 vitals, or whether it will yield to remedies whether she is destined 
 to be an ornament to society, the comfort and blessing of her 
 parents' declining years, or whether she is doomed to fade away in 
 youthful bloom, and fill an early grave. I desire to be prepared to 
 meet and to submit to the will of the Lord, however it may be. 
 
 
62 SKETCHES OF THE PAST. 
 
 manifested. What am I, that I should presume to choose? I 
 know not what is good for me, for one short day ; how can I judge 
 what is best for her or for me in coming years ? 
 
 My child has been brought low, but the consolation she has 
 given me elevates my soul. In an interval of ease she assured me 
 that she was happy. Adverting to her sufferings, she exclaimed, 
 " The chastisement of a Father's hand ! Mother, if we suffer with 
 Christ, we shall also reign with him." It is a subject of rejoicing 
 with her that she can date her impressions from a period of health. 
 She then chose that good part, which can never be taken away 
 from her, and when enveloped in the cloud, realizing her en- 
 trance to the dark valley, it was on the intercession of the great 
 High Priest that she reposed her trust ; and convinced of her inter- 
 est in that redemption, she was at peace. Our departing friends 
 may often enjoy these consolations when not able to give utterance 
 to their feelings. 
 
 Protracted is my affliction. Sometimes favorable symptoms 
 revive my hope that my loved one will yet be restored to health. 
 Soon clouds arise, darkening the gleams of felicity. The All-wise, 
 the All-good will dispose of things aright, but though this consid- 
 eration calms my mind, I experience the keenest anguish in view 
 of her sufferings and the apprehension of final separation from my 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 After a long interval I resume my pen. The withering hand of 
 grief has paralyzed my mental powers. Some can give an account 
 of what they have felt. But I am sank in grief, I cannot rise. My 
 heart is bowed down. Thou art gone, my beloved. How gladly 
 would I endure fatigue and watching, for the pleasure of waiting 
 on thee. Yet I would not recall thee here to suffer. Thou hast 
 
ELIZABETH. 63 
 
 finished thy course sweetly, gloriously, and art at rest. Christ soft- 
 ened thy dying pillow, and still I hear thy parting accents, " Thanks 
 to God, who giveth ME the victory." I see the raised eye, the 
 clasped hands, when uttering the word "me." What joy can 
 equal this recollection ? 
 
 Rarely during her protracted illness did the sufferer complain or 
 groan. Her countenance was sweet and placid ; one could scarcely 
 realize that anything ailed her. At times her friends gazed on her 
 with admiration of her beauty and loveliness. The distressing state 
 of emaciation, the dread that every day would make the evil worse, 
 tended more than any other circumstance to reconcile me to the 
 thought of her departure. " Oh ! my Father, save thy child from 
 accumulated sufferings ! Grant her a gentle and a speedy release !" 
 was the supplication of my soul. 
 
 "Why may I not sleep," said I, "when angels are watching 
 around her ?" The last time I read to her, it was at her request, 
 the 116th and the 34th Psalms, both of which were applied with 
 particular unction ; especially that verse, "The angel of the Lord 
 encampeth round those who fear him ;" and with a force I shall 
 never forget, " Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his 
 saints." 
 
 The evening before the day of her release I requested my attend- 
 ing friends to unite with me in these especial petitions : If it was 
 God's will, to remove her, so far to revive her that she might give 
 us a testimony of her state, speak some words of comfort to us, 
 and that a gentle dismission might be granted. I placed myself by 
 her pillow, to watch if any moment occurred in which I could 
 speak to her, in this, her hour of extremity. She slept calmly all 
 night. At dawn, I called the servants and gave directions for the 
 day. The room was set in order ; all was arranged. Never did 
 death make its approach in a more tranquil scene. Her counte- 
 nance had a saintly loveliness ; her eye was bright and full ; her 
 brow, marked over her smooth and white forehead, an arch of 
 beauty, and her long eyelashes, soft as silk, like the strokes of a 
 pencil, showed on her cheek the cheek still tinged with the deceit- 
 ful hectic. Her lips, although cold, were full, round, and colored. 
 
64 SKETCHES OF THE PAST. 
 
 There was a placid and elevated composure about her, as if she 
 possessed her intellect in all its vigor, and enjoyed a peace that was 
 unspeakable. 
 
 I exerted myself to ascertain whether she was prepared for the 
 great transition. " My love," said I, " if it should be the will of 
 God to take you home at this time, are you willing to go ?" She 
 replied, with firmness and promptitude, " Perfectly willing." After 
 a pause, " If it should be God's will to spare me, I should like to live ; 
 and it is my purpose to devote my spared years to His honor and 
 glory. If otherwise, now that I have my firm and sound mind, I 
 leave it as my testimony that I am willing and ready to die." Her 
 pulse was gradually failing. She felt it herself, and when it was 
 lost in her wrist, she applied her finger to the temporal artery. 
 She said, " I feel quite easy," and with a revived and sweet empha- 
 sis, " Oh ! that all your deathbeds may be like mine." Still affec- 
 tionately mindful of others, she whispered, " Comfort my mother." 
 I took her dear hand in mine, holding it till she ceased to breathe. 
 Wet in the cold dew of death, its last effort was a gentle pressure 
 of mine, the last testimony of her love. 
 
 "SHE OBTAINED THE BOON HEAVEN GEANTS ITS FAVOK1TES- 
 EAELY DEATH." 
 
 Oh ! weep not for her who has finished her race 
 While the dew of the morning was beaming ; 
 
 Nor mourn that her footsteps no longer you trace, 
 When the illusions of life were just gleaming. 
 
 Her heart scarce had felt the impressions of wo, 
 
 The scene all around her was smiling ; 
 Few sorrows on earth she was suffered to know, 
 
 Affection each care was beguiling. 
 
 Why wish her to know the sad changes of time, 
 
 To learn the hard lessons of sorrow ? 
 To endure the chill storms of this mutable clime, 
 
 And shiver with anguish to-morrow ? 
 
 Why wish her to know the blighted heart's pang, 
 
 Or the wreck of a fond expectation ? 
 Her peace on a perishing mortal to hang, 
 
 Then sigh o'er the sad desolation ? 
 
ELIZABETH. ' 65 
 
 Ah ! no, 'tis the boon kind heaven bestows, 
 
 Where most it designs a rare blessing, 
 To send its bright messengers early to those 
 
 Whom nature and love are caressing. 
 
 Then weep not for her who has finished her course, 
 
 While the dew of the morning was beaming ; 
 In the spring time of life she has flown to the source 
 
 Where eternity's glories are streaming. 
 
 The head which so oft reposed on my bosom, or was lovingly 
 laid on my knee at evening hour, that I might stroke the fevered 
 brow, or caress the curling locks, is now resting on its bed of earth. 
 Oh ! never till the heavens are no more shall I see thee, ray darling 
 child. 
 
 Flowers are coming out in beautiful succession. The one planted 
 for the departed, and called by her name, is blooming in rich pro- 
 fusion. To others this vine is an object of admiration, but to me 
 it represents her, lovely as she was on earth, flourishing as she is in 
 the celestial garden. I see a form, unseen to other eyes, I hear a 
 voice speaking in the fragance and bloom around me. A thousand 
 recollections throng every tree and walk. The first flower of every 
 sweet plant she used to bring to me, sometimes laid on my pillow, 
 against I waked, to inhale its odor. In the days of her health, 
 before the fatal disease weakened the energy of her system, with 
 what hilarity, gayety, and innocent delight did she greet this 
 season. 
 
 ADDRESS TO SUMMER. 
 
 (JBOM HEB COMMONPLACE BOOK.) 
 
 " Soft season art thou come again, 
 
 With all thy stores of bloom and brightness, 
 Thy green and daisy spotted plain, 
 Blue sky and clouds of silver whiteness ? 
 
 I loved thee once, and fondly hailed 
 
 Of thy return the slenderest token ; 
 But then my spirits had not failed, 
 
 Nor was my heart by sorrow broken. 
 
f 
 
 66 SKETCHES OF THE PAST. 
 
 Fair summer, when thy genial breeze 
 Is next o'er budding flowrets sighing, 
 
 I may beneath yon willow trees 
 Be in my narrow dwelling lying. 
 
 And when at eve friends see the flowers 
 Droop, fade, and die, on her they cherished, 
 
 They'll think on dear departed hours, 
 And say, like these she bloomed and perished." 
 
 "For tJie earth brinoeth forth fruit of herself: first the blade f 
 then the ear, after that the full corn in the ear." Mark iv. 28. 
 
 This parable is preserved by Mark only. It is full of consolation 
 and instruction. So little do we know of spiritual things, and the 
 operations of our own minds, that allusions to natural and sensible 
 objects, which throw light on these mysterious subjects, must be 
 received with joy. Taking the scope of the parable, the thing 
 intended is the principle of true religion, which is not in meat or 
 drink, nor in outward observances. The seed is thrown on the mind 
 by education, reading or hearing, as if a man should sow the grain 
 and perform this work. Can he make it germinate ? He must 
 await the influences of sun and shower. He sleeps, and wakes, and 
 the growth commences he knows not how. He sees the early ver- 
 dure stealing over the field, then the blade rises, the ear forms, and 
 the full corn rewards his toil. After hearts have received the word 
 of life, long is it before there is proof of its having taken root. When 
 vitality is discovered, how imperceptible are the advances that are 
 made, and it is by close observation that the fact is ascertained. 
 The gradual growth of the plant affords hope, by analogy, as to 
 progress in spiritual things. He who said, that seed time and har- 
 vest should continue, has also declared, that his word shall not 
 return to him void. We must await the blessing of God for the 
 sun of righteousness to vivify, and the spirit to breathe a reviving 
 gale, thus to bring forward the fruition of salvation. 
 
 u When the fruit is brought forth, immediately he putteth in the 
 sickle." God discerns the full development of the Christian graces. 
 
ANDREW KIRLPATRICK. 67 
 
 When patience has had its perfect work, when faith and love are 
 ripened, when the will is resolved unto the Divine will, when the 
 ties of life set loose, then cometh the messenger, saying, " Arise, 
 and depart hence." 
 
 The fruits of piety had attained early maturity in the soul of her 
 whose loss I mourn. Her God has gathered her into his garner, 
 where no storm nor blight can reach her. 
 
 In days of darkness and rebuke, it is permitted us to pray for 
 relief. My husband is evidently declining. Without disease, he is 
 wasting away. He is prepared for all events, calm and resigned in 
 spirit. He rests with humble reliance on the Divine promises, and 
 trusts the beneficence of God. " The great door of access he sees 
 opened, by which he may enter the holy place." The pangs of 
 dissolution he dreads, " but all beyond is peace." On religious- 
 concerns he is perfectly tranquil. His judgment is as discrimi- 
 nating as ever. After the most serious reflection of which he is 
 capable, he has made up his mind, and is able to resign himself 
 with calmness to the will of God. His life has been one of recti- 
 tude and purity, but from some peculiar views, he has never felt a 
 freedom to unite in the communion of the church. Strong is my 
 conviction that he is joined in spirit to the church of the first-born r 
 whose names are in the book of life. 
 
 For the first time I went to the house of God a widow. Is not 
 the Lord, in a peculiar style, my God, under that title. No more 
 shall I behold the venerated countenance of my friend, so expres- 
 sive, in his humble devotion no more lean on the kind arm which 
 so long has supported me. In the grave is shrouded that form ; 
 but through the mantle of snow and earth that envelops it, his 
 noble and majestic features are revealed to my mental gaze. Like 
 
68 SKETCHES OF THE PAST. 
 
 his, may my last hours be tranquil, resigned, and full of heavenly 
 hope! 
 
 Months have flown since I watched the ebbings of that life which 
 ministered to the happiness of my existence. It seems as if win- 
 ters had been compressed into one, from the multitude of strong 
 and vivid emotions which filled my heart. In the usual course of 
 events in a single season, little remains to record, but in this one, 
 how many scenes are indelibly imprinted. The last look, the last 
 motion of the hand, clasping mine within his, then yielding his to 
 be pressed to my lips, to be bathed by my tears thus, as it were, 
 preserving our union till the final dissolution of the earthly frame. 
 His departure was like the setting of the sun in June, after a bright 
 and cloudless day. 
 
ANDREW KIRKPATRICK. 
 
 DERIVING FROM NATURE THE GERMS OF 
 PRUDENCE, PERSEVERANCE AND SELF-COMMAND, 
 
 THEY WERE RIPENED BY 
 
 SOUND JUDGMENT AND CULTIVATION OP MIND. 
 
 f e pos&sseb finofokbge foitjjooi getomirg, gigniig foitfwai ^rrogamt. 
 
 THESE QUALITIES, RAISED HIM, 
 WITH LITTLE AH) FBOM OTHJOtS, TO 
 
 THE HIGHEST JUDICIAL STATION IN THE STATE. 
 
 He fulfilled its duties with integrity and firmness; when the occasion 
 was presented, with commanding eloquence. 
 
 HIS LEADING OBJECT WAS 
 
 UTILITY- 
 
 HI3 CHARACTERISTIC TRAIT, A SPIRIT OF 
 
 INDEPENDENCE, 
 
 TEMPERED BY 
 
 URBANITY, 
 
 AND THE UNASSUMING DEPORTMENT OF THE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 HE LIVED RICH IN THE ESTEEM OF HIS FRIENDS, 
 
 AND 
 
 DIED RESPECTED BY THE COMMUNITY. 
 
 . S. H. Smith 
 
MEDITATIONS. 
 
 " Lord, how great are thy works ! and thy thoughts are very 
 deep? Ps. xcii. 5. 
 
 When we attempt to contemplate the magnitude and immensity 
 of the works of creation, we are overwhelmed, and shrink back 
 with amaze at our own nothingness. The worlds that revolve 
 around us, in undeviating regularity, fill our minds with wonder at 
 that power which spake them into existence, and which constantly 
 upholds them. The objects that are more within our reach pro- 
 claim the same grandeur of design. The small and minute are 
 exquisite in their formation, and display the same infinite skill in 
 their properties and their powers, as do creatures of magnitude and 
 size. The hand of Deity is everywhere manifest. A grain of sand, 
 a hair of the head, a spear of grass, shew a power which is not in 
 man, and which is beyond his comprehension. Why then should 
 we wonder that many parts of the revelation which God has made, 
 should surpass our understanding? In the visible operations of 
 nature, the philosopher soon finds a limit to his researches, and 
 should it cause surprise that the theologian and the Christian 
 touches a boundary which he cannot surmount? Finite cannot 
 comprehend infinite ; a fact being incomprehensible does not prove 
 it to be incredible. Can the discoveries of a Newton be conceived 
 of by the ignorant and the unlearned ? Can a child grasp the plan of 
 his father, in subjecting him to laborious study, or realize the ben- 
 efit that is to result to him from it in after life ? So the thoughts 
 of God are past our finding out in our present state. 
 
72 MEDITATIONS. 
 
 " God is not a man, that he should lie ; nor the son of man, that 
 he should repent" Num. xxiii. 19. 
 
 The doctrine of the Divine veracity is calculated to alarm us, on 
 the one hand, as to the verification of the threatenings of Scripture, 
 and on the other, to excite our confidence for the fulfilment of its 
 promises. The thought presents itself, that it can never be, that 
 the wicked must endure the penalty of their iniquity. An "unde- 
 fined hope of mercy takes off from the dread of judgment. But 
 God repents not, and acts on the principles of immutable justice, 
 however severe the sentence may be that falls on the ungodly. 
 " The judge of all the earth will do right." " He will never alter 
 the word that is gone out of his mouth." 
 
 And while diligent to keep God's commands, let us encourage 
 our hearts in the promises of his grace. His compassions fail not. 
 He has offered salvation to the perishing, through the all-sufficient 
 atonement. The idea of it is too stupendous for our grasp, but at 
 the cross, viewing the substitute provided, we may rest with hope. 
 The encouragements of the Gospel are so vast, that the most timid 
 and fearful may take encouragement from them. 
 
 " The Lord said, I have seen the affliction of my people ; I know 
 their sorrows. Exod. iii. 7. 
 
 Our severest trials are those which we conceal within our own 
 bosoms. There are others that we may speak of to those who can 
 enter into our griefs. How often, however, are we disappointed 
 when we expect sympathy and consolation. One friend will repre- 
 rent to us that the cause is too trifling for the degree of anguish 
 that we experience ; another may remark that " all is for the best." 
 The tears that are ready to gush from the eye are sent back to swell 
 the flood of bitterness in the heart. Sweet is it to know that God 
 has " seen our affliction." He knows its aggravation, he is acquaint- 
 ed with our temperament, he discerns what nerve is pierced by the 
 
MEDITATIONS. 73 
 
 thorn. He witnesses the conflict of contending duties, the struggle 
 that we maintain with our spirits. He sees the agony of our tears, 
 the anguish of our regret. The sigh inaudible to human hearing 
 has entered into the ear of the Lord of Sabaoth. Language can- 
 not convey to another the sense of the mortification endured by the 
 knowledge of our deficiencies. The Omniscient reserves to himself 
 the view of the heart. With all its deceitfulness and its vanity it 
 can be tolerated and compassionated only by the God of mercy and 
 love. How consolatory is the thought that the Lord is infinite in 
 goodness : he healeth the broken hearted and giveth peace to the 
 wounded spirit. 
 
 " Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me ; for I am meek and 
 lowly in heart" Matt xi. 29. 
 
 It is necessary for human nature to bear some i; yoke," that it 
 may be guided and guarded properly. If we compare the observ- 
 ances of pagan superstition, or the rites of the Jewish church, to the 
 ordinances of Christian worship, with what propriety may this yoke 
 be called an easy one. It is the spiritual nature of our faith which 
 forms its distinguishing glory. That peace which our religion im- 
 parts is not purchased by penance, nor by onerous mortifications, 
 but it is attained by learning of Christ, and imbibing his spirit. 
 We must copy his example and imitate his graces. He must be- 
 come the righteousness of the believer. Rebellious as we are, much 
 discipline is necessary to reduce the passions and every affection to 
 due subjection. The yoke becomes easy when we are trained to 
 bear it. The conflict between duty and feeling is more distressing 
 than mortifications of the body. Could the repetition of prayers, 
 fastings, or laceration of the frame be accepted in lieu of repentance 
 and love, how soon would the composition be made. In realizing 
 that the evil passions must be crucified, we find what the spiritual 
 warfare is. The more we learn of Christ the more assured will be 
 our tranquillity. 
 
74 MEDITATIONS. 
 
 " The Lord will perfect that which concerneth me" Ps. 
 cxxxviii. 8. 
 
 These words come with comfort to the anxious heart, as it looks 
 round for some token of good. When we tremble to find ourselves 
 deficient in the Christian graces, and that we cannot excite within 
 us the genuine sentiments of contrition, faith, and love, what is 
 more soothing than the thought contained in this text ? God's care 
 Js unfailing for the creatures that he has made, and in whose hearts 
 he has implanted an insatiable desire for happiness. He knows the 
 treatment best suited to every individual ; he is a skillful physician, 
 and applies his remedies according to the real exigencies of the case. 
 He probes the heart. He refuses comforts that would cause undue 
 excitement, and applies severe remedies to extirpate disease. This 
 view of Providence silences each murmur, if we have reason to 
 hope that a good work has been begun in our souls. And how- 
 ever threatening or adverse the future may appear, yet the pillar of 
 cloud is as much the assurance of protection and care as was the 
 pillar of light. 
 
 If our way is hedged with thorns, the remote benefit is as sure as 
 the present discomfort and inconvenience. It was enumerated 
 among the advantages of Job, that a hedge was set about him. This 
 was to preserve him from attack and the inroads of spoilers. It 
 may be so with us. The thorns may wound and tear us, but by 
 them we may be secured from evils fatal to our well-being. Unwel- 
 come restraints may keep us in the right path and finally bring us 
 to the goal of peace. 
 
 " By grace ye are saved." Eph. ii. 18. 
 
 Our hopes of eternal felicity rest on a foundation which cannot 
 be moved. The expanse of love divine extends to the limits of the 
 creation. Whatever is productive of happiness is of grace. The 
 temper of mind by which redemption is available to any individual 
 is derived from the same source. Faith, by which the promises aie 
 
MEDITATIONS. 75 
 
 received, rests upon it. He who is exalted a Prince and a Saviour 
 sends his spirit to work in us, both to will and to do. 
 
 What will be the sensations of that moment, when God shall 
 speak to us, by some inevitable disease, and say, " Thou shalt die," 
 when we know that the stays of nature are giving way, when 
 the thought is pressed home upon us that the forms of nature, the 
 countenances of friends, no more shall delight our eye, and that in 
 a few moments we must stand in the presence of God, and our 
 state be unchangeably fixed ? Are there not some unknown conso- 
 lations for that hour, a whisper of peace for the departing soul, 
 saying, " Fear not, I am thy salvation." 
 
 Jesus, Master, turn not thou thy suppliant away ! Let not the 
 door be shut, and in mercy receive thy servant. 
 
REFLECTIONS. 
 
 This is the closing day of my sixteenth year. May every ungentle 
 passion be subdued, and my heart be brought to entire subjection 
 to the will of God. My desire is to be enlisted under the banner of 
 my Saviour, and to make public profession of my faith. Youth 
 glides swiftly away, each advancing scene assumes a deeper color- 
 ing. I must soon act for myself, and my character will be fixed. 
 Let the children of gayety find their happiness in the amusements 
 of the world. I wish to look beyond these for my felicity, and to 
 draw my bliss from the fountain of truth itself. Every passing hour 
 carries us all onward to the mansions of the dead. Faith eradiates 
 the dark prospect, it points to the Redeemer, and assures the " pure 
 in heart " that they shall arise to an inheritance in a world of light 
 and glory. 
 
 It is from religion alone that the soul can receive true happiness ; 
 without it every affliction presses doubly, because there is nothing- 
 to sustain the heart, under its weight. Insufficient are the amuse- 
 ments or the pleasures of life to alleviate our sufferings when we 
 are tortured by disease, or when we are bereaved of those friends 
 in whom our happiness centered. What attraction would the 
 sparkling ball-room, or the brilliant assembly offer in an hour of 
 grief? Would not our hearts be wounded by the recollection of 
 the time we had lost beyond recall, and of hours lavished and 
 wasted in the pursuit of a shadow ? 
 
78 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Such reflections as these cannot fail to harrow the soul which 
 has been devoted to worldly follies, when affliction makes that 
 world to appear but a vale of tears to its votaries. 
 
 As jewels are treasured in the casket, to be brought forth on 
 great occasions, so we should preserve the remembrances of our 
 joys, and keep them for seasons when special consolations are 
 wanted to cheer the soul. All our enjoyments are transitory, 
 whether of taste or of intellect ; it is therefore right to do what we 
 can to give them permanence in the memory. 
 
 There is a great difference in the mannner of preaching the 
 Gospel. By some ministers, truth is propounded in such a cold 
 and dry manner that little impression is made on the mind. By 
 others it is urged with an energy and an unction that softens the 
 whole heart. Springs are touched that we were not aware were in 
 our nature ; tenderness and anxiety are awakened, making us to 
 feel like new creatures. I love that preacher who is earnest in the 
 cause, who sends me to the closet and to my knees, who makes me 
 search my conscience to see if the root of the matter is there ; 
 one who does not entertain me with the froth of a vain eloquence, 
 when I am hungry for the bread of life. 
 
 I love the thought of being redeemed, of being ransomed from 
 the evil one, of being bought by the blood of Christ, of being made 
 a partaker of the purchased inheritance. How delightful to hear a 
 voice saying to me, " Stand still, and see the salvation of God." 
 What is heaven 1 It is the abode of purity. Nothing that works 
 the harm of God's creatures can find admittance there nothing 
 that defileth. It is thus we conceive of the celestial state. 
 
 I want to have a part in that kingdom, which consists in right- 
 eousness and joy in the Holy Ghost. Thy kingdom come ! in the 
 region of my heart and my family, whether it be on earth, in the 
 midst of fears and tears and combats, cr in the serenity of the 
 celestial state, it shall be well. 
 
REFLECTIONS. 79 
 
 " When the temptations of some humble souls have been extra- 
 ordinary, and their afflictions above measure, and overwhelming, 
 when the tumult of their spirits has not suffered them to recollect 
 the evidences of their adoption, God may see fit to give his saints a 
 cordial, to keep them from fainting. After they have been con- 
 tending with doubts and fears, a sudden light has been let into the 
 heart, with or without a word of Scripture, which has given sur- 
 prising consolation." Watts. 
 
 It appears to me to be a degree of presumption, bordering on 
 arrogance, to apply to myself the foregoing paragraph ; yet its 
 perusal strongly recalls the most extraordinary moments of my life 
 moments of an enjoyment so exquisite and so inexplicable as to 
 seem altogether supernatural. I have never relied on this occur- 
 rence, as an evidence of my acceptance with God, because it was 
 not attended with any more clear views of the way of salvation. It 
 is sweet to think that it was a " cordial " given to cheer my timid, 
 agitated, and desponding soul. I have ever had a heart " slow to 
 believe," keeping me in bondage, so that I never attained the 
 liberty of a child of God. My course has been a sad and difficult 
 one, yet if at last I am accepted in " the Beloved," it is enough. 
 From early youth my desire was to devote myself to the service of 
 the Lord ; my knowledge of doctrinal truth, however, was imper- 
 fect, and my principles of faith were ill-defined. After making a 
 profession of religion, the idea distressed me that I had not expe- 
 rienced a change of heart, and I was overwhelmed with a feeling of 
 guilt and unworthiness. 
 
 The day after the Sabbath on which for the first time I dared to 
 approach the table of the Lord, I set out with my father on a jour- 
 ney. I was at the age of eighteen. There was every thing to 
 render the jaunt agreeable. It was midsummer, and nature was 
 arrayed in its richest attire. I heeded it not. Inward wretched- 
 ness prevented me, either from conversing with my father, or from 
 a full admiration of the scenery. Could I have spoken of my feel- 
 ings to my father, he would have given me consolation, but it did 
 
80 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 not occur to me that any one else had experienced the same diffi- 
 culties. I thought that all persons who were sincere in religion 
 were necessarily happy. Gloom settled on my mind, and every 
 thing wore the aspect of melancholy. 
 
 At the last stage of the journey the road was through a wood. 
 After the lapse of thirty years I have the scene before me. 
 
 Of a sudden a ray of celestial light, more bright, and as rapid as 
 lightning, shot through my brain, and it was as if all my head was 
 endowed with the power of vision. It brought with it a transport 
 of joy. I could scarcely refrain from breaking out in strains of 
 praise and thanksgiving. I wanted to sing, and to rejoice aloud. 
 The face of nature was changed ; every thing looked lovely and 
 transcendently beautiful. Gladness and delight filled my soul. I 
 could only wonder and adore. 
 
 When this ecstacy subsided, had it been accompanied by some 
 word of Scripture, I should have been strengthened in my hope. 
 After a few days had passed over the same doubts and perplexities 
 assailed me, and I did not derive any permanent benefit from what 
 had taken place. Yet was this emotion not produced by external 
 objects. I sat silent and abstracted. It was no effort of the imagina- 
 tion, for I was distressed by fears. It was no flight of enthusiasm, 
 for I was sunk in discouragement. I have never considered it very 
 much, nor mentioned it to any person. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 
 
 Mr DEAR DAUGHTER, 
 
 I hope you will find your mental resources augmented 
 by what you see abroad. Every form of society must present hints 
 for the improvement of character. Whether the manners are to 
 be admired, or are censurable, our own minds may be amended by 
 emulating what is good and avoiding what is evil. After reflec- 
 tion, does as much good as present observation. Things appear 
 more in their true light and just proportion when seen at a distance. 
 And while you cultivate your talents, and polish your manners, 
 study to acquire those graces which are above all price, meekness, 
 gentleness, and charity. A knowledge of the varieties of character 
 and circumstances of human life is useful in forming and strength- 
 ening the judgment. An actual observation of things is more 
 important than remarks found in books. It enables one better to 
 estimate what is advanced by others. * * * * 
 
 A magnificent spectacle met my eye this morning. Every tree, 
 shrub, and twig were incrusted with ice, and when the sun shone, a 
 magic world of crystal fixed tb*, gaze. The frost work was superb, 
 but like all the fragile glories of our sublunary sphere, the very 
 sunbeam that caused their brilliance accelerated their destruction. 
 
 Mr FRIEND, 
 
 The simple idea that we have fled to God as a refuge, 
 comprises every hope of consolation and support. In the changes 
 
82 EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 
 
 of life, its reverses, its disappointments, its mortifications, knowing 
 these are the means which God has selected to bring us to sub- 
 mission, we shall acquiesce, and say, " Even so, Father." Sweet is 
 it to suffer when it is by God's appointment, and when no bitterness 
 of self-condemnation is mingled with our sorrows. 
 
 Keep alive the spirit of gratitude to the Disposer of all events, 
 who has provided the choicest blessings, both temporal and spiritual, 
 for his servants. The best return we can make is, that of cheerful 
 enjoyment. This is a different thing from what is called in Scrip- 
 ture " setting the heart on the world." To consider earthly advan- 
 tages as being a portion, is injurious and unworthy of immortal 
 beings ; but when they are secondary to seeking the kingdom of 
 heaven, it is a duty to cultivate a cheerful disposition, and to take 
 pleasure in what our Creator has provided for our solace. Pain is 
 sufficiently mingled with enjoyment, to remind us that this is not 
 our home, without adding to it griefs of our own creation. One 
 reason, perhaps, why the state of being in another world is not 
 revealed more definitely, is, that we should not despise nor under-rate 
 the blessings of this life. Did we see the celestial glory in its full 
 lustre, did we know the extent of the joy to come, earth, with its 
 allurements and its pleasures, would excite no interest in our hearts. 
 "We should drag out life as a heavy burden and as a tedious exile. 
 Thus is wisdom discerned in the lights of revelation and in its shad- 
 ows. Why, my friend, must the cypress be entwined with every 
 wreath you weave ? Is this melancholy the return you make to 
 God for his mercies ? Shake off this morbid sentiment, prove ycur 
 religion by yielding to the discipline of Providence, and thankfully 
 receiving the mercies mingled with the chastisements. * 
 
 What is life, unless made valuable by friendship ? Without it, 
 we may endure existence as inevitable, but it will be joyless unless 
 partaken of by some congenial spirit, to whom we are united by 
 esteem and confidence. " Let me have some one to whom to re- 
 mark how the shadows lengthen as the sun goes down " and if 
 the sweet shades of evening come with calmer serenity to the soul, 
 from the communion of friendship, how desirable is it, as the sun of 
 life declines, to have some faithful breast to rely on, to whom we 
 
EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 8H 
 
 can speak of the fading charms of our vanishing days, to whom we 
 can reveal the joys and griefs that have been allotted to us in our 
 earthly sojourn ; above all, who can speak to us words of cheer and 
 solace, in the hopes of a morrow of unfading glory. * 
 
 The heart treasures up its lost enjoyments in memory's hoard, 
 and reviews them in seasons of tenderness and retirement. Life, so 
 dream-like, presents a few shattered recollections for us to ponder 
 on. Strange is it that we change so greatly, and that we can be 
 reconciled to the changes that occur. This is a wise provision in 
 our constitution to fit us for this mutable world. Were it not so 
 we should be always miserable. Did we feel the loss of friends, as 
 at the moment of separation from them, existence would be a bur- 
 den, and we would wish at once to descend to the tomb. The 
 gradual and imperceptible influence of time softens the sharpness of 
 our feelings, and the mind re-opens to happiness. 
 
 I trust things will appear in a more cheerful light to you. Prov- 
 idence has furnished you with comforts and with duties ; to the 
 strict and faithful performance of the latter he has annexed precious 
 satisfaction. Say not that existence is valueless, because you are not 
 necessary to the happiness of any one, but endeavo r to conform to 
 the circumstances in which you are placed, and make the most of 
 the share of felicity which heaven has vouchsafed to you. Expect 
 not complete gratification it is only in a better world that the full 
 and perfect fulfilment of our aspiring wishes, and the ardent long- 
 ings of the heart can be satisfied. Because we cannot have all we 
 can imagine of felicity, shall we despise what is bestowed ? Shall we 
 affect to say to our beneficent Creator, " We have not the goods of 
 this life that we wish, therefore we care not for thy mercies. Take 
 back thy gifts, they are not worthy of our acceptance "? What 
 should we think of such language from a dependent of our own ? 
 If what we offer be rejected with scorn, or received with indiffer- 
 ence, how ungrateful do we think the object of our bounty. I 
 would incite you to seek that peace which is the effect of subdued 
 feelings subdued by religion, and that contentment which arises 
 from resignation to the will of God. * * * * 
 
 There is something flattering in the name of philosophy to the 
 
84 EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 
 
 pride of the heart. It gives a sort of independence and a feeling of 
 superiority that ennobles us in our own view. Hence the requisi- 
 tion of Christianity, "Ye must become as little children." We 
 must relinquish self-reliance before we can take the yoke of Christ. 
 When we are brought to this temper of mind, other lessons are 
 easily learned. If we regard God supremely, the opinions of our 
 fellow-mortals will not greatly disturb us. The first object should 
 be to discover the truth, and to conform our faith to it. If such be 
 our endeavor, we shall not fail to find consolation, even in the 
 midst of trials, for as surely as God exists, he is the re warder of 
 those who diligently seek him. We may be surrounded with dark- 
 ness, difficulties, doubts, and fears, yet shall we reap if we faint not. 
 Adorn your faith by consistent conduct, and your life by the prac- 
 tice of every virtue. ******* 
 
 Where is the charm to a heart like yours in cold philosophy ? 
 Can the ardent and tender soul of my friend limit its views to 
 nature, without looking up to nature's God ? and be content to 
 resign this life with no longings for immortality ? or if it admits 
 some faint glimmerings of a future state, burns it not to imitate 
 Him who brought immortality to light ? Cheerless is eveiy system 
 that excludes the Gospel scheme of salvation. The heart is con- 
 tracted and the mind is narrowed by any other view. If we consult- 
 ed only present comfort, we should reject them all, and cherish a 
 faith which expands and elevates the human character. What can 
 so exalt and dignify us, as an alliance with heaven ? to call God 
 our father, Christ our friend, angels our present guardians, our 
 future associates ? Noble ties ! glorious affinities ! Can we not 
 bear ridicule or privation for such connexions ? Let us not be 
 ashamed of a religion worthy of our best affections, and let us walk 
 steadily in the narrow path, so plainly marked out. 
 
 The scornful sceptic would destroy the tree which yields him 
 delicious fruit. He seeks to dry up the fountain whence flows the 
 fertilizing stream, and the pure waters of life. He would extin- 
 guish the light which brightens his own existence, as well as that 
 of others. ******** 
 
EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 85 
 
 It is not for us to decide on the future state of our fellow-mortals. 
 We must suspend our inquiries, when in the grave we deposit their 
 remains, nor dare intrude within the veil of eternity. Enough is 
 it to know, that they are in the hand of a Being whose mercy is 
 over all his works. " He hateth nothing that he hath made." He 
 alone can compare performance with ability. In his mercy we 
 must place every doubtful case, and take refuge in the declaration 
 that the Judge of the earth will do right. At the moment we may 
 not discern the wisdom of the allotments of Providence respecting 
 ourselves. The difficulties which environ us may issue in our good, 
 and be made clear in the light of future dispensations. Let this 
 thought tranquilize our minds and keep them in that quiescent 
 temper which becomes beings in our twilight state. When ready 
 to repine at adverse circumstances, let us reflect how much more 
 is given of good things than we deserve how much of mercy is 
 mingled with judgment. ****** 
 
 It is sweet, when, with the simplicity of children, we can say, 
 " The will of God be done." Why can we not always feel thus ? 
 Are we not his creatures ? Is He not Love ? Nothing so ennobles 
 me in my own mind as to realize that I am the work of His hand. 
 He will not despise what he has made. Chalmers' sermons are 
 sublime, and elevate my soul beyond what it has hitherto expe- 
 rienced. Though not enriched by new ideas, my thoughts are 
 amplified. Subjects are elucidated and illuminated which formerly 
 raised my imagination, without so filling and delighting it. The 
 discourses that treat of the interest that angels take in human 
 affairs, and the sympathies of other worlds with ours, charmed me 
 the most. ******** 
 
 When we ask for temporal advantages, we know not what we 
 ask, but in praying for spiritual good, we never can err. Peace, 
 love, submission, accommodate to all conditions, and transform sor- 
 rows into pleasures. Should you be rendered content without 
 change of circumstances, it would be proof of the efficacy of reli- 
 gion. Religion can diffuse a temper of heaven through the troubled 
 bosom of a sad sojourner of earth. The languor and lassitude of 
 the feeble infant are scarcely remembered amidst the hilarity of 
 
86 EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 
 
 youth and the occupations of mature life. So in the light of eter- 
 nity will appear the afflictions of this state of being. As here we 
 cherish early attachments, and the friendships formed in our child- 
 hood, and early days, so hereafter we shall renew the amities 
 which were consecrated on earth by virtue and piety. Christ 
 recognized such a re-union when he said, " till I drink it new with 
 you in heaven." 
 
 Dr. Green officiated here at the sacrament. His sermon was 
 solemn, tender, edifying. His ideas are clear, his views extensive, 
 his faith strong. He conveys instruction and strength to the weak 
 believer. He was the pastor of my youthful days. His manner 
 affected me and opened the cells where memory slept. It brought 
 back the hours, when, with my earliest friend, I hung with rapt 
 attention, in all the ardor of youthful feeling, on his high and solemn 
 eloquence. Where is the friend whose soul then glowed with 
 sympathetic fervor? Adoring at the throne, at the footstool of 
 which we once kneeled together. 
 
 It seems that only in the fairy regions of romance that true 
 friendship is to be found, Yet is the heart constituted to desire 
 and require it, as an aliment. To taste this bliss in its purity, per- 
 fect communion of soul and of sentiment is requisite. When this 
 mortal shall have put on immortality, it may bear the glance of 
 intuition. Knowing as they are known, the blessed ones can expe- 
 rience what they here vainly aspired after. To love and to be loved 
 must be the essence of felicity wherever there are rational beings 
 it matters not what form they bear, nor what world they inhabit. 
 God has poured a portion of his own divinity wherever he has 
 breathed the breath of life. Sin has vitiated this principle of our 
 nature, and mars the happiness that we should derive from the 
 exercise of the affections. There is a land where harmony and 
 love are uninterrupted and pure. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 87 
 
 DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 There is no resource in our doubts but the Scriptures. 
 Our teachers, our views must be tried by this standard. After 
 hearing the Apostles, the Bereans were commended for their 
 search, to see if these things were so. Be diligent in examining 
 the records of our faith ; remember the words of our great Teacher, 
 " if any man will do the will of God he shall know of the doctrine." 
 A pre-requisite to this search is to divest the mind of prejudice. If 
 we proscribe doctrines as harsh and irrational, we shall uncon- 
 sciously resist their proofs. The Calvinistic system is called repul- 
 sive, and viewed as a horrible one by some who do not know its 
 claims. Does not the blame, laid on Calvin, belong in part to the 
 nature of things ? The mind cannot fathom the depths of infinity. 
 The difficulties are not a part of this system of theology they 
 belong as well to natural religion as to Christianity. Till we can 
 tell why evil was admitted into the universe by a benevolent Deity, 
 this difficulty must continue. Why then should we quarrel with 
 the " glad tidings " which informs us of the way of salvation. 
 Rather let us yield to the hand that can conduct us through the 
 darkness. There is no support for our faith but the absolute sover- 
 eignty of God. He gives no account to his creatures of his acts. 
 
 What he reveals of his nature we must receive without gain-say - 
 ing ***** **** 
 
 I have been admiring the displays of the Divine goodness, in the 
 appearance of the heavens and the world around me. At dawn 
 the moon shed her radiance to increase the twilight. The deep 
 shadows gave solemnity to the view, and there reigned an unbroken 
 stillness. When the sun arose every tree was brilliant with dew- 
 drops, which trembled in the gentle breeze. A mist hung upon 
 the hills, and lent enchantment to the distance. Surely the ele- 
 ment of the Self-existent is beauty. In all his works it shines from 
 the greatest of them to the most minute. * * * 
 
 There is such a thing as TRUTH, which must be sought as for 
 hid treasure. The light of nature shows but little of the perfections 
 of the Deity revelation alone discloses them. In the Gospel is 
 not found a condensed assertion of the Trinity as in a synopsis of 
 
88 EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 
 
 * 
 
 faith. This is not the mode God has adopted of teaching. Pre- 
 cepts and doctrines are interwoven with the whole fabric of sacred 
 history, and it is left to man to arrange, to infer, to deduce, in 
 analogy with the allotments of nature. Ore is hid in mines, and a 
 laborious process is requisite to find and purify the precious metals. 
 The seed must be collected and sown in cultivated soil before the 
 fruit is reaped. The sciences have been brought to their present 
 perfection by study and application. So doubts may be a part of 
 that moral discipline requisite for a certain order of intellect. As 
 in religion there are shallows for children, so there are oceans for 
 men. 
 
 The disciples, when tossed on the stormy sea, knew not their 
 Master when he came near to them ; they thought " it was a spirit." 
 So you have been, as it were, separated from your Saviour, and you 
 have been agitated by diverse and contrary opinions. He seems, on 
 these waves of doubt, as if he would pass you by, and you are 
 tempted to think that he is only a phantom or delusive appearance 
 yet may you hear his voice, saying, in assuring accents, " It is I." 
 
 CONCLUSION, 
 
 The inevitable hour of my departure hence is coming fast to me. 
 Sun of righteousness ! let me not enter the dark valley without one 
 ray from thee. The timid trembler, who dared not call on thy 
 name, but silently sought to touch the hem of thy garment, was 
 healed and blessed. Like the one at the pool of Siloam, I wait until 
 the clay be applied and I am ordered to wash and receive my sight. 
 
 " Oh I hast thou not a blessing left, 
 A blessing Lord for me ?" 
 
 See, heavenly Father, how the ^shadows are lengthening how 
 night is approaching how near I am drawing to the gates of death. 
 Come to thy desolate child ! 
 
CONCLUSION. 89 
 
 [Commencing with the first recorded expressions of her religious- 
 sentiments, at the age of sixteen, this selection from the writings of 
 a departed mother, is concluded by the last paragraph, penned in 
 her book of reflections in her seventy-ninth year.] 
 
 I have received comfort from the text Heb. 4, iii., and Dod- 
 dridge's exposition of " entering into that rest." It is not easy to 
 satisfy the mind that we have passed from death to life, and that we 
 are indeed united to Christ. But I am encouraged of late that I 
 am growing in grace, and that I have more of the spirit of true 
 religion. I can take hold of the promises, and trust in the great 
 Mediator. 
 
 " Speak of the dead 1 dear ones at home, 
 
 Will ye breathe my name when my change shall come ; 
 
 And this aged form shall be darkly laid 
 
 'Neath the cypress' solemn and mournful shade ? 
 
 Will ye read my books, and bedew my flowers, 
 
 Will ye speak of me in your happy hours, 
 
 Will ye sing my hymns, and ne'er forget 
 
 The absent, whoee spirit is with you yet !" 
 
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