dissatisfied and weary. There was one who had been in the train of her
admirers, himself the star of fashion, who was evidently offering
incense at a new shrine. A fair young stranger, who seemed a novice in
the splendid scene, drew him from her side, and from that moment the
adulation of others ceased to charm. She danced more gayly, she
laughed more loudly, to conceal the mortification and envy that was
spreading through her heart; but the triumph, the joy was over. She
began to feel a thousand inconveniences, of whose existence she seemed
previously unconscious. Her feet ached from the lightness of her
slippers, her respiration was difficult from the tightness of her
dress; she was glad when the hour of her departure arrived. Warm from
the exercise of the dance, and panting from fatigue, she stood a few
moments on the pavement, waiting for some obstructions to be removed
in the way of the carriage. The ground was covered with a sheet of
snow, which had fallen during the evening, and made a chill bed for
her feet, so ill defended from the inclement season. The night air
blew damp and cold on her neck and shoulders, for her cloak was thrown
loosely around her, that her beauty might not be entirely veiled, till
the gaze of admiration was withdrawn.
Agnes sat by the lonely fireside, waiting for the return of Ellen. For
a while she kept up a cheerful blaze, and as she heard the gust sweep
by the windows, it reminded her that Ellen would probably come in
shivering with cold and reproach her, if she did not find a glowing
hearth to welcome her. She applied fresh fuel, till, lulled by the
monotonous sound of the wind, she fell asleep in her chair, nor waked
till the voice of Ellen roused her from her slumbers. A few dull
embers were all that was left of the fire, the candle gleamed faintly
beneath a long, gloomy wick--everything looked cold and comfortless.
It was long before poor Agnes could recall the cheering warmth. In the
mean time, Ellen poured upon her a torrent of reproaches, and tossing
her cloak on a chair, declared she would never go to another ball as
long as she lived--she had been tired _to death_, chilled _to death_,
and now to be vexed _to death_, by such a stupid, selfish creature as
Agnes. It was too much for human nature to endure. Agnes bore it all
in silence, for she ate the bread of dependence, and dared not express
the bitter feelings that rose to her lips. But she no longer said in
her heart "happy, beautiful Ellen;" she wished her admirers could see
her as she then did, and be disenchanted.
"Take off this horrid dress," cried Ellen, pulling the roses from her
hair, now uncurled by the damp, and hanging in long straight tresses
over her face. What a contrast did she now present to the brilliant
figure which had left the chamber a few hours before! Her cheeks were
pale, her eyes heavy, her limbs relaxed, her buoyant spirits gone. The
terrible misfortune of not having reigned an unrivalled _belle_,
completely overwhelmed her! He, whose admiration she most prized, had
devoted himself to another, and she hated the fair, unconscious
stranger, who had attracted him from his allegiance. The costly dress
which the mantuamaker had sat up all night to complete, was thrown
aside as a worthless rag; her flowers were scattered on the floor;
every article of her dress bore witness to her ill-humour.
"I cannot get warm," said she; "I believe I _have_ caught my
death-cold;" and throwing her still shivering limbs on the bed, she
told Agnes to bury her in blankets, and then let her sleep. Can we
suppose that guardian angels hovered over the couch, and watched the
slumbers of this youthful beauty? There was no hallowed spot in her
chamber, where she was accustomed to kneel in penitence, gratitude,
and adoration, before the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Perhaps,
when a mere child, she had been taught to repeat the Lord's Prayer at
her nurse's knee, but never had her heart ascended unto Him, who
created her for his glory, and breathed into her frame a portion of
his own immortal Spirit. She had been educated solely for the circles
of fashion, to glitter and be admired--to dance, to sing, to dress, to
talk, and that was all. She knew that she must one day die, and when
the bell tolled, and the long funeral darkened the way, she was
reluctantly reminded of her own mortality. But she banished the
dreadful and mysterious thought, as one with which youth, beauty, and
health had nothing to do, and as suited only to the infirmities of
age, and the agonies of disease. As for the judgment beyond the grave,
that scene of indescribable grandeur, when every created being must
stand before the presence of uncreated glory, "to give an account of
the deeds done in the body," she deemed it shocking and sacrilegious
to think of a subject so awful; and, to do her justice, she never
heard it mentioned except from the pulpit (for there are fashionable
churches, and Ellen was the belle of the church as well as of the
ball-room). Thus living in practical atheism, labouring to bring every
thought and feeling in subjection to the bondage of fashion,
endeavouring to annihilate the great principle of immortality
struggling within her, Ellen Loring was as much the slave of vice as
the votary of pleasure. Like the king of Babylon, who took the golden
vessels from the temple of the Lord, and desecrated them at his
unhallowed banquet, she had robbed her _soul_, that temple of the
living God, of its sacred treasures, and appropriated them to the
revelries of life. But the hour was approaching, when the invisible
angel of conscience was to write on the walls of memory those mystic
characters which a greater than Daniel alone can interpret.
* * * * *
It was the afternoon of a mild summer's day, a lovely, smiling, joyous
summer day, when two female figures were seen slowly walking along a
shaded path, that led from a neat white cottage towards a neighbouring
grove. One was beautiful, and both were young, but the beautiful one
was so pale and languid, so fragile and fading, it was impossible to
behold her without the deepest commiseration. She moved listlessly on,
leaning on the arm of her less fair, but healthier companion,
apparently insensible of the sweet and glowing scenery around her. The
birds sung in melodious concert, from every green bough, but their
music could not gladden her ear; the air played softly through her
heavy locks, but awaked no elastic spring in her once bounding
spirits. It was the late blooming Ellen Loring, who, according to the
advice of her physician, was inhaling the country air, to see if it
could not impart an invigorating influence. She had never recovered
from the deadly chill occasioned by her exposure, the night of the
ball, when she stood with her thin slippers and uncovered neck in the
snow and the blast, in all the "madness of superfluous health." It was
said she had caught a "dreadful cold," which the warm season would
undoubtedly relieve, and when the summer came, and her cough continued
with unabated violence, and her flesh and her strength wasted, she was
sent into the country, assured that a change of air and daily exercise
would infallibly restore her. The fearful word _consumption_, which in
the days of Ellen's health was so often on the mother's lips, was
never mentioned now; and whenever friends inquired after Ellen, she
always told them, "she had caught a bad cold, which hung on a long
time, but that she was so young, and had so fine a constitution, she
did not apprehend any danger." Ellen was very unwilling to follow the
prescriptions of her medical friend. She left the city with great
reluctance, dreading the loneliness of a country life. Agnes
accompanied her, on whom was imposed the difficult task of amusing and
cheering the invalid, and of beguiling her of every sense of her
danger. "Be sure," said Mrs. Loring, when she gave her parting
injunctions to Agnes, "that you do not suffer her to be alone: there
is nothing so disadvantageous to a sick person as to brood over their
own thoughts. It always occasions low spirits. I have put up a large
supply of novels, and when she is tired of reading herself, you must
read to her, or sing to her, or amuse her in every possible manner. If
she should be very ill, you must send for me immediately, but I have
no doubt that in a few weeks she will be as well as ever."
Poor Agnes sometimes was tempted to sink under the weary burden of her
cares. She wondered she had ever thought it a task to array her for
the ball-room, or to wait her return at the midnight-hour. But she no
longer envied her, for Ellen pale and faded, and dejected, was a very
different object from Ellen triumphant in beauty and bloom. The kind
lady with whom they boarded, had had a rustic seat constructed under
the trees, in the above-mentioned grove, for the accommodation of the
invalid. As they now approached it, they found it already occupied by
a gentleman, who was so intently reading he did not seem aware of
their vicinity. They were about to retire, when lifting his eyes, he
rose, and with a benignant countenance, requested them to be seated.
Ellen was exhausted from the exercise of her walk; and, as the
stranger was past the meridian of life, she did not hesitate to accept
his offer, at the same time thanking him for his courtesy. His mild,
yet serious eyes, rested on her face, with a look of extreme
commiseration, as with a deep sigh of fatigue she leaned on the
shoulder of Agnes, while the hectic flush flitting over her cheek,
betrayed the feverish current that was flowing in her veins.
"You seem an invalid, my dear young lady," said he, so kindly and
respectfully, it was impossible to be offended with the freedom of the
address; "I trust you find there is a balm in Gilead, a heavenly
Physician near."
Ellen gave him a glance of unspeakable astonishment, and coldly
answered, "I have a severe cold, sir--nothing more."
The dry, continuous cough that succeeded, was a fearful commentary
upon her words. The stranger seemed one not easily repulsed, and one,
too, who had conceived a sudden and irrepressible interest in his
young companions. Agnes, in arranging Ellen's scarf, dropped a book
from her hand, which he stooped to raise, and as his eye glanced on
the title, the gravity of his countenance deepened. It was one of
----'s last works, in which that master of glowing language and
impassioned images, has thrown his most powerful spell around the
senses of the reader, and dazzled and bewildered his perceptions of
right and wrong.
"Suffer me to ask you, young lady," said he, laying down the book,
with a sigh, "if you find in these pages instruction, consolation, or
support? anything that as a rational being you ought to seek, as a
moral one to approve, as an immortal one to desire?"
Ellen was roused to a portion of her former animation, by this attack
upon her favourite author; and, in language warm as his from whom she
drew her inspiration, she defended his sentiments and exalted his
genius--she spoke of his godlike mind, when the stranger entreated her
to forbear, in words of supplication, but in accents of command.
"Draw not a similitude," said he, "between a holy God, and a being who
has perverted the noblest powers that God has given. Bear with me a
little while, and I will show you what is truly godlike, a book as far
transcending the productions of him you so much admire, as the rays
of the sun excel in glory the wan light of a taper."
Then, taking from his bosom the volume which had excited the curiosity
of Ellen, on account of its apparent fascination, and seating himself
by her side, he unfolded its sacred pages. She caught a glimpse of the
golden letters on the binding, and drew back with a feeling of
superstitious dread. It seemed to her, that he was about to read her
death-warrant, and she involuntarily put out her hand, with a
repulsive motion. Without appearing to regard it, he looked upon her
with sweet and solemn countenance, while he repeated this passage,
from a bard who had drank of the waters of a holier fountain than
Grecian poets ever knew:
"This book, this holy book, on every line
Marked with the seal of high divinity,
On every leaf bedewed with drops of love
Divine, and with the eternal heraldry
And signature of God Almighty stamped
From first to last; this ray of sacred light,
This lamp, from off the everlasting throne,
Mercy took down, and in the night of time,
Stood, casting on the dark her gracious bow;
And evermore, beseeching men, with tears
And earnest sighs, to read, believe, and live."
Ellen listened with indescribable awe. There was a power and
sensibility in his accent, a depth of expression in his occasional
upturned glance, that impressed and affected her as she had never been
before.
"Forgive me," said he, "if, as a stranger, I seem intrusive; but I
look upon every son and daughter of Adam, with the tenderness of a
brother, and upon whom the Almighty has laid his chastening hand, with
feelings of peculiar interest. If I were wandering through a barren
wilderness, and found a fountain of living water, and suffered my
fellow-pilgrim to slake his thirst at the noisome pool by the wayside,
without calling him to drink of the pure stream, would he not have
reason to upbraid me for my selfishness? Oh! doubly selfish then
should I be, if, after tasting the waters of everlasting life, for
ever flowing from this blessed Book, I should not seek to draw you
from the polluted sources in which you vainly endeavour to quench the
thirst of an immortal spirit. Dear young fellow-traveller to eternity,
suffer me to lend you a guiding hand."
Ellen Loring, who had been famed in the circles of fashion for her
ready wit and brilliant repartee, found no words in which to reply to
this affectionate and solemn appeal. She turned aside her head, to
hide the tears which she could no longer repress from flowing down her
cheeks. As the polished, but darkened Athenians, when Paul, standing
on Mars Hill, explained to them "that unknown God, whom they
ignorantly worshipped," trembled before an eloquence they could not
comprehend, she was oppressed by a power she could not define. Agnes,
who began to be alarmed at the consequences of this agitation, and who
saw in perspective Mrs. Loring's displeasure and reproaches, here
whispered Ellen it was time to return, and Ellen, glad to be released
from an influence to which she was constrained to bow, obeyed the
signal. Their new friend rose also; "I cannot but believe," said he,
"that this meeting is providential. It seems to me that heaven
directed my steps hither, that I might lead you to those green
pastures and still waters where the Shepherd of Israel gathers his
flock. You are both young, but there is one of you whose cheek is
pale, and whose saddened glance tells a touching history of the vanity
of all earthly things. Take this blessed volume, and substitute it for
the one you now hold, and believe me you will find in it an
inexhaustible supply of entertainment and delight, a perennial spring
of light, and love, and joy. You will find it an unerring guide in
life, and a torch to illumine the dark valley of the shadow of death.
Farewell--the blessing of Israel's God be yours!"
He placed the book in the hand of Agnes, and turned in a different
path. They walked home in silence. Neither expressed to the other the
thoughts that filled the bosom of each. Had an angel from heaven come
down and met them in the grove, the interview could hardly have had a
more solemnizing influence. It was the first time they had ever been
individually addressed as immortal beings, the first time they had
been personally reminded that they were pilgrims of earth, and doomed
to be dwellers of the tomb. The voice of the stranger still rung in
their ears, deep and mellow as the sound of the church-going bell.
Those warning accents, they could not forget them, for there was an
echo in their own hearts, and an answer too, affirming the truth of
what he uttered. That night, when Ellen, unusually exhausted, reclined
on her restless couch, she suddenly asked Agnes to read her something
from _that book_, so mysteriously given. It was the first time she
had addressed her, since their return, and there was something
startling in the sound of her voice, it was so altered. There was
humility in the tone, that usually breathed pride or discontent. Agnes
sat down, and turned the leaves with a trembling hand.
"What shall I read? where shall I commence?" asked she, fearful and
irresolute, in utter ignorance of its hallowed contents.
"Alas! I know not," replied Ellen, then raising herself on her elbow,
with a wild and earnest look, "see if you can find where it speaks of
that dark valley, of which he told--the dark valley of death."
By one of those unexpected coincidences which sometimes occur, Agnes
at that moment opened at the twenty-third Psalm, and the verse
containing this sublime allusion met her eye. She read aloud--"Though
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,
for thou art with me--thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me."
"Strange," repeated Ellen, and making a motion for her to continue,
Agnes read the remainder of that beautiful Psalm, and the two
succeeding ones, before she paused. Dark as was their understanding
with regard to spiritual things, and deep as was their ignorance, they
were yet capable of taking in some faint glimpses of the glory of the
Lord, pervading these strains of inspiration. Agnes was a pleasing
reader, and her voice, now modulated by new emotions, was peculiarly
impressive. Ellen repeated again and again to herself, after Agnes had
ceased, "Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty?" She
had never thought of God, but as of a Being dreadful in power,
avenging in his judgments, and awful in his mystery. She had
remembered him only in the whirlwind and the storm, the lightning and
the thunder, never in the still small voice. She had thought of death,
but it was of the winding sheet and the dark coffin lid, and the
lonely grave--her fears had rested there, on the shuddering brink of
decaying mortality. Oh! as she lay awake during the long watches of
that night, and conscience, aroused from its deadly lethargy, entered
the silent chambers of memory and waked the slumbering shadows of the
past--how cheerless, how dark was the retrospect! Far as the eye of
memory could revert, she could read nothing but _vanity, vanity_! A
wide, wide blank, on which a spectral hand was writing _vanity_, and
something told her, too, that that same hand would ere long write this
great moral of life on her mouldering ashes. She cast her fearful
gaze upon the future, but recoiled in shivering dread, from the vast
illimitable abyss that darkened before her. No ray of hope illumined
the dread immense. The Star of Bethlehem had never yet shed its holy
beams on the horoscope of her destiny; not that its beams had ever
ceased to shine, since that memorable night when, following its
silvery pathway in the heavens, the wise men of the East were guided
to the cradle of the infant Redeemer, to offer their adoration at his
feet; but her eyes had never looked beyond the clouds of time, and in
its high and pure resplendence it had shone in vain for her.
"I will seek him to-morrow, this holy man," said she, as hour after
hour she lay gazing, through her curtains, on the starry depths of
night, "and ask him to enlighten and direct me."
The morrow came, but Ellen was not able to take her accustomed walk.
For several days she was confined from debility to her own room, and
had ample leisure to continue the great work of self-examination. As
soon as she was permitted to go into the open air, she sought her
wonted retreat, and it was with feelings of mingled joy and dread, she
recognised the stranger, apparently waiting their approach. This truly
good man, though a stranger to them, was well known in the
neighbourhood for his deeds of charity and labours of love. His name
was M----, and as there was no mystery in his character or life, he
may be here introduced to the reader, that the appellation of stranger
may no longer be necessary. He greeted them both with even more than
his former kindness, and noticed with pain the increased debility of
Ellen. He saw, too, from her restless glance, that her soul was
disquieted within her.
"Oh, sir," said Ellen, mournfully, "you promised me joy, and you have
given me wretchedness."
"My daughter," replied Mr. M----, "before the sick found healing
virtue in the waters at Bethesda, an angel came down and troubled the
stillness of the pool."
Then, at her own request, he sat down by her side, and endeavoured to
explain to her the grand yet simple truths of Christianity. And
beginning with the law and the prophets, he carried her with him to
the mount that burned with fire and thick smoke, where the Almighty,
descending in shrouded majesty, proclaimed his will to a trembling
world, in thunder and lightning and flame; he led her on with him,
through the wilderness, pointing out the smitten rock, the descending
manna, the brazen serpent, and all the miraculous manifestations of
God's love to his chosen people; then, taking up the lofty strains of
prophecy, from the melodious harp of David to the sublimer lyre of
Isaiah, he shadowed forth the promised Messiah. In more persuasive
accents he dwelt on the fulfilment of those wondrous prophecies.
Gently, solemnly he guided her on, from the manger to the cross,
unfolding as he went the glorious mysteries of redemption, the depth,
the grandeur, the extent, and the exaltation of a Saviour's love.
Ellen listened and wept. She felt as if she could have listened for
ever. At one moment she was oppressed by the greatness of the theme,
at another melted by its tenderness. Those who from infancy have been
accustomed to hear these divine truths explained, who from their
earliest years have surrounded the household altar, and daily read
God's holy word, can have no conception of the overpowering emotions
of Ellen and Agnes; neither can they, whose infant glances have taken
in the visible glories of creation, comprehend the rapture and
amazement of those who, being born blind, are made in after years to
see.
From this hour Ellen and Agnes became the willing pupils of Mr. M----,
in the most interesting study in the universe; but it is with Ellen
the reader is supposed most strongly to sympathize; the feelings of
Agnes may be inferred from her going hand in hand with her invalid
friend. Ellen lingered in the country till the golden leaves of autumn
began to strew the ground, and its chill gales to sigh through the
grove. What progress she made during this time in the lore of heaven,
under the teachings and prayers of her beloved instructor, may be
gathered from _another_, _and the last scene_, through which this once
glittering belle was destined to pass.
* * * * *
The chamber in which Ellen Loring was first presented to the reader,
surrounded by the paraphernalia of the ball-room, was once more
lighted--but what a change now met the eye! She, who then sat before
the mirror to be arrayed in the adornments of fashion, whose vain eye
gazed with unrepressed admiration on her own loveliness, and who
laughed to scorn the apprehensions of her fatally indulgent mother,
now lay pale and emaciated on her couch. No roses now bloomed in her
damp, unbraided locks, no decorating pearl surrounded her wan neck, no
sparkling ray of anticipated triumph flashed from her sunken eye.
Pride, vanity, vainglory, strength, beauty--all were fled.
Come hither, ye daughters of pleasure, ye who live alone for the
fleeting joys of sense, who give to the world the homage that God
requires, and waste in the pursuits of time the energies given for
eternity, and look upon a scene through which you must one day pass!
There is more eloquence in one dying bed, than Grecian or Roman orator
ever uttered.
The dim eyes of Ellen turned towards the door, with a wistful glance.
"I fear it will be too late," said she; "mother, if he should not come
before I die--"
"Die!" almost shrieked Mrs. Loring; "you are not going to die, Ellen.
Do not talk so frightfully. You will be better soon--Agnes, bathe her
temples. She is only faint."