CHAPTER X.

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools who came to scoff, remained to pray.

Goldsmith.

Accordingly, Mr. St. Leger, his objections having been overruled by

Edgar, accepted the place offered him in General Melwyn's family.

In old times it would probably have been called, what it literally was,

that of domestic chaplain: and the dignity of the name, the defined

office, and the authority in the household which it implies, would not

have been without their use--but, in spite of the want of these

advantages, Mr. St. Leger managed to perform the duties, which, in his

opinion, attached to the office, to the satisfaction of every one.

It had not been without considerable difficulty and hesitation that he

had persuaded himself to enter into the plan. He had scruples, as we

have seen; and he had, moreover, an almost invincible dislike to any

thing approaching to family dependence.

The extremity of his circumstances, however, made him, upon a little

consideration, feel that the indulgence of these latter mentioned

feelings of pride and delicacy, was not only unreasonable but almost

positively wrong. And, as for the scruples connected with his

profession, Edgar did not find it difficult to dissipate them.

He set forth, what was in truth the present state of the family at the

Hazels, and enlarged upon the very great need there was for the

introduction of more religious views than now prevailed. According to a

fashion almost universally prevalent when General Melwyn was young,

except with those of professed religious habits, and who were

universally stigmatized as Methodists, family prayer had been utterly

neglected in his family. And, notwithstanding the better discipline

maintained since the evil star of Randall had sunk beneath the horizon,

not the slightest approach to regularity, in this respect, had been as

yet made. Mrs. Melwyn was personally pious, though in a timid and

unconfiding way, her religion doing little to support and strengthen

her mind; but the general, though he did not live, as many of his

generation were doing, in the open profession of skepticism, and that

contempt for the Bible, which people brought up when Tom Paine passed

for a great genius, used to reckon so clever, yet it was but too

probable that he never approached his Creator, in the course of the

twenty-four hours, in any way; nor had he done so, since he was a child

at his mother's knee.

The young captain and his lady were blest with loving, pious, simple

dispositions. They loved one another--they delighted in the dear, happy

world in which they lived, and in the sweet little creature, their own

darling and most precious possession, and they both loved, and most

gratefully served their God, who had given them all these good things,

and loved him with the full warmth of their feeling hearts. They showed

their reverence for divine things by every means in their power: and

though they were not of those who go about hurling the awful vengeance

of God, upon all they may think less pious than themselves, they were

naturally anxious, and as advancing years brought increase of serious

thought, they became more and more anxious that their parents should

share the consolations, and their house hold the moral guidance to be

derived from a better system.

Then, as I hinted to you before, in anticipation of this change, there

had been a very serious neglect, upon the part of this family, of all

those duties connected with the poor and ignorant. None of those efforts

were here made to assist in softening the evils of destitution, or in

forwarding the instruction of the young, which almost every body,

nowadays, considers such obvious duties.

Such were among the considerations urged by Edgar, and to such Mr. St.

Leger yielded.

The general was profuse in his offers as regarded salary, and gave Edgar

a _carte blanche_ upon the matter; but Mr. St. Leger would only accept

of one hundred a year, and this, with the stipulation that so soon as

the state of his health would enable him, he should be at liberty to

undertake the duties belonging to a curate for Mr. Thomas, without

diminishing that gentleman's slender stipend by receiving any

remuneration from his hands.

This last part of the arrangement was particularly acceptable to Mr. St.

Leger, as he thought with the highest satisfaction upon the probability

now opening of resuming his clerical duties, and of thus being able to

repay the debt of gratitude he felt to be owing to the good old vicar.

* * * * *

And now behold Mr. St. Leger introduced as a member of the family at the

Hazels, and shedding, on his part, as Lettice had before him done, upon

hers, a new set of benign influences upon this household.

He was installed the first day by the general, with much politeness and

some little formality, in Edgar's place, at the bottom of the table;

that young gentleman having made it his particular request that he might

see his friend sitting there before his departure. With due gravity was

all this done; while Edgar, chuckling with delight, came and popped down

in his place by the side of his wife.

The young stranger, looking extremely quiet and composed, without fuss,

ceremony, or hurry, took the place appointed to him; but, before seating

himself, with a serious air, he opened his ministerial functions, by

saying grace.

Not as the general was wont to say it--for say it he did, more as if

making a grimace than even as going through a form--but so impressively

and reverently, though very briefly, that the hearts of those about to

sit down, were touched, and they were reminded in spite of themselves,

as they ought to be reminded, that there is One above all who is the

Giver of these good things.

The scene was striking. The very footmen--the officer's footmen--paused,

napkin in hand; astonished--awe-struck by the service. They stood and

stared with vacant eyes, but remained stock still.

That over, the dinner went on as usual. People ate and drank with

cheerful enjoyment. They all, indeed, felt particularly warm-hearted and

comfortable that day. A sort of genial glow seemed to pervade the little

party. The footmen rushed about more light-footed and assiduous than

ever; and, be it observed to their credit, they were all, without

exception, most particularly attentive to the new comer.

In the evening, at ten o'clock, the bell rang for prayers.

Mr. St. Leger, be it understood, had not stipulated for obligatory

attendance upon this service--only for the right to have candles in the

library, and of reading prayers to such as might chose to come; but Mrs.

Melwyn had ordered the servants to attend; and she, and Edgar, and

Catherine, were also there, leaving poor Lettice to take charge of the

general.

The service was short, but impressive, as the grace had been before. It

was necessarily very brief, for the voice of the fair and delicate young

man, looking, indeed, as we might imagine one of the angels of the

churches, figured in Scripture, was so extremely feeble that more he

could not do.

But even if he had possessed the power, I question whether much more he

would have done, he looked upon impressive brevity as the very soul of

such exercises in a family like the present.

Poor Lettice! how hard she found it that evening to remain playing

backgammon with the general, when the rest went out of the room. Going

to attend those services to which she had been accustomed in the house

of her father; and after which, during her stay here, her heart had so

often yearned; but it could not be.

She was, however, consoled by a whisper from Catherine, as she came

back, passing her upon her way to take her place by the fire.

"To-morrow you go and I stay. We will take it in turns."

The new plans were of course--as what taking place in a family is

not--discussed in full conclave that evening over the kitchen fire.

The servants all came back and assembled round it preparatory to washing

up and going to bed; for though it was summer and warm weather, what

servant in the world does not enjoy the kitchen fire in the evening, be

the weather what it may? And, to tell truth, there are not a few in the

parlor, who usually would be glad to share the privilege; but to

proceed.

"Well, Thomas, how do _you_ like these new ways of going on?" asked

Mary, the serious, stiff, time-dried, and smoke-dyed head-laundress--a

personage of unknown antiquity, and who had been in the family ever

since it was a family--addressing the fine powdered gentleman in silk

stockings, and pink, white, and silver livery, who leaned negligently

against the chimney-piece.

"For my part, I'm glad, indeed, to see serious ways taken up in this

house; but how will it suit the rest of you? And especially you, my fine

young gentleman?"

"Why," answered Thomas, assuming a grave and thoughtful aspect, "I'm

going to confess something which will, perhaps, astonish you, Mistress

Mary--and thus it is--if I'd been told twelve months ago that such new

regulations were to be introduced into this household, I have very great

doubts whether I could have made up my mind to have submitted to them;

but within these few hours, d'ye see, there's been a change."

"Bravo, Thomas!" said the butler; "a conversion like--I've heard of such

things in my time."

"Call it what you will, Mr. Buckminster, I call it a change--for a

change there has been."

"What! well! what!" from different voices round. "Do tell us all about

it."

"Why, Charles, you were there; and Mr. Buckminster, you were there too.

But Charles is young and giddy; and Mr. Buckminster being always rather

of the serious order, very probably the effect you see was not produced

so strongly upon either of them as upon me."

"What effect? Well--"

"Why of the grace, as was said before they sat down to dinner."

"The grace! Was it the first time you ever heard grace said, you booby?"

"Yes, I'd heard grace said--I should suppose as often as any as may be

here--though, perhaps, not so sensible to its importance and value as

some present, meaning you, Mistress Mary. The general, for one, never

used to omit it; but, save us! in what a scuffling careless manner it

was said. I protest to you, I thought no more of it than of Mr.

Buckminster taking off the covers and handing them to me. Just as a

necessary preliminary, as they say, to the dinner, and nothing on earth

more."

"Well, do go on, Thomas. It's very _interesting_," said Mistress Mary,

and the rest gathered closer, all attention.

"Well, I was a-going to go scuttling about just as usual, thinking only

of not making any noise lest I should see the general--heeding no more

of the grace than of what cook was doing at her fire--when that young

gentleman, as is come newly among us, bent forward and began to speak

it. The effect upon me was wonderful--it was electric--Mr. Buckminster,

you know what I mean; I stood as one arrested--I couldn't have moved or

_not_ cared if it had been never so--I really couldn't. It seemed to me

as if he truly _was_ thanking God for the good things that were set

before them. Their plenty, and their comfort, and their abundance; it

seemed to me as if things were opened to my mind--what I had never

thought of before--who it was--who _did_ give them, and us after them,

all sorts of delicacies, and food, and drink, when others might be

wanting a morsel of bread; and I seemed to be standing before Him--I

felt need to thank Him with the rest.... All this flashed through me

like lightning; but he had done in a moment, and they all sat down."

"How beautiful Thomas does talk when he has a mind," whispered the

under-housemaid to the under-laundry-maid. "What a fine tall young man

he is, and what a gift of the gab."

"Well," said the rest, "go on--is there any more?"

"Yes, there is more. Someway, I could not get it out of my head--I kept

thinking of it all dinner. It was as much as I could do to mind what I

was about; and once I made such a clatter in putting a knife and fork

upon a plate, that if it hadn't been for the greatest good luck in the

world, I should have got it. But the general was talking quite

complacent like with the two young gentlemen, and by huge good fortune

never heeded."

"Well!"

"Well, when I got into the pantry and began washing up, I had more time

for quiet reflection. And this is what I thought. What a lot of

lubberly, inanimated, ungrateful, stupid slaves we all must be. Here

serving an earthly master, to the best of our abilities, for a few

beggarly pounds, and for his meat and drink and fine clothing; and very

well contented, moreover, when there's roast beef of a Sunday, or

plum-pudding, and a glass of wine besides on a wedding-day or a

birthday; and thank him, and feel pleased with him, and anxious next day

to do better than ordinary, mayhap--And there's the Great Master--the

Lord and Giver of all, who made us by his hand, and created us by his

power, and feeds us by his bounty, and shelters us by his care; and all

for no good of his, but ours--simply ours. For what's he to get of it,

but the satisfaction of his merciful and generous spirit, when he sees

his poor creatures happy?

"And we are such dolts! such asses! such brute beasts! such stocks!

such stones! that here we go on from day to day, enjoying the life he

gives us, eating the bread and meat he gives us, drinking his good

refreshments, resting upon his warm beds, and so on.... Every day, and

every day, and every day--and who among us, I, most especially for one,

ever thinks, except may be by scuttling through a few rigmarole

words--ever thinks, I say, of thanking _Him_ for it--of lifting up a

warm, honest heart, of true real thanking, I mean? Of loving Him the

better, and trying to serve and please Him the better--when He, great

and powerful as He is--Lord of all the lords, emperors, and kings, that

ever wore crowns and coronets in this world--condescends to _let_ us

thank Him, to _like_ us to thank Him, and to take pleasure in our humble

love and service!"

Ha paused--every eye was fixed upon the speaker.

"And, therefore," continued Thomas, turning to the laundry-maid, who

stood there with a tear in her eye; "therefore, Mistress Mary, I _am_

pleased with, and I do _like_ these new ways of going on, as you say;

and I bless God, and hope to do it well in my prayers this night, for

having at last made of us what I call a regular Christian family."

* * * * *

I have told you, a little in the way of anticipation, that the

popularity of Mr. St. Leger's new measures was not confined to the

kitchen; but that the general, by slow steps, gradually conformed to the

new usages established at the Hazels.

Lettice and Catherine had not long to take it it turns to stay out with

him, playing backgammon, at the time of evening prayers.

At first it was a polite--"Oh, pray don't think of staying in the

drawing-room upon my account; I can do very well by myself."... Next it

was, "Nay, rather than that, I will go into the library too; why should

I not?" He began to feel, at first, probably, from a vague sense of

propriety only, but before long from better reasons, that it was not

very seemly for the master of the house alone to be absent, when the

worship of God was going on in his family.

So there he might, as I told you, ere long be seen, regularly at

night--in the morning more and more regularly--muttering the responses

between his teeth at first; at length, saying them aloud, and with

greater emphasis than any of the rest of the little congregation. His

once majestic figure, now bent with age, towering above the rest; and

his eagle eye of authority, still astonishingly piercing, rolling round

from time to time, upon the watch to detect and rebuke, by a glance, the

slightest sign of inattention upon the part of any of those assembled.

It was a beautiful picture that evening meeting for prayer, for the

library was a very ancient room, it having retained the old fittings put

in at the time the Hazels was built, some three half centuries ago. The

massive and handsome book-cases of dark oak; the family pictures, grim

with age, which hung above them; the urns and heads of old philosophers

and poets adorning the cornice; the lofty chimney-piece, with the family

arms carved and emblazoned over it; the massive oaken chairs, with their

dark-green morocco cushions; the reading-desk; the large library table,

covered with portfolios of rare prints; and large books containing fine

illustrated editions of the standard authors of England; gave a somewhat

serious, almost religious aspect to the apartment.

Mrs. Melwyn, in her soft gray silks and fine laces; her fair, colorless

cheek; her tender eyes bent downward; her devout, gentle, meek, humble

attitude and expression; Catherine by her side, in all the full bloom of

health and happiness; that charming-looking, handsome Edgar; and

Lettice, with so much character in her countenance, seated upon one side

of the room, formed a charming row of listening faces, with this rugged,

magnificent-looking old general at their head.

On the opposite side were--the grave, stern, old housekeeper, so fat, so

grave, and so imposing; Mrs. Melwyn's new maid, a pretty young woman, in

the lightest possible apology for a cap, trimmed with pink ribbons; the

laundry-maid, so serious, and sitting stiff and starched as one of her

own clear muslins; the cook and housemaid looking as attentive as they

could; and the under-servants staring with vacant eyes--eyes that looked

as if they were ready to drop out of their heads; Mr. Buckminster, as

the charming Dickens has it, _so_ "respectable;" Thomas, all spirit and

enthusiasm; and Charles doing all in his power not to fall asleep.

At the table the young minister, with that interesting and most delicate

face of his; his tall, wasted figure bending forward, his fair,

emaciated hands resting upon the book, from which, in a voice low and

feeble, but most penetrating and sweet, he read.

They would come back to the drawing-room in such a composed, happy,

cheerful frame of mind. The general more remarkably so. He felt more

self-satisfaction than the others; because the course of proceeding was

so new to him that he imagined it to be very particularly meritorious. A

bit of a pharisee you will think--but not the least of that, I assure

you. Only people, at their first trying of such paths, do often find

them most peculiarly paths of pleasantness and ways of peace; and, this

sort of peace, this being at ease with the conscience, is, to be sure,

very soothing and comfortable.

In short, nothing could proceed better than things did; and every one

was quite content but the charming match-maker, Catherine.

She watched, and watched with the greatest interest; but watch as she

might, she could detect no symptoms of falling in love upon the part of

Mr. St. Leger.

He spent, indeed, the whole of his mornings either in his own room or in

the library, absorbed in the books of divinity, of which there happened

to be a very valuable collection; a collection which had slept

undisturbed upon the shelves for many and many a long year. These

afforded to him a source of interest and improvement which he had never

enjoyed since he had left the too often neglected library of the small

college where he had been educated. He was ready to devour them. Every

moment of time he considered his own--and the whole of the morning was

chiefly at his disposal--was devoted to them; with the exception, be it

mentioned, of a large portion, which, when the weather would allow, was

spent in visiting among the poor at that end of the parish.

At dinner Mr. St. Leger for the first time joined the family party. When

he did, however, it must be confessed, he made ample amends for his

absence, and was excessively agreeable. He had great powers of

conversation, and evidently considered it his duty to exert himself to

raise the tone of conversation at the general's table, so as to make the

time pass pleasantly with the old man. In this Edgar and Catherine

seconded him to the best of their power.

Lettice said little. She sat at the bottom of the table, by Mr. St.

Leger; but though he often addressed her--taking care that she should

not feel left out--as did Catherine also, she was very silent. She had

not, indeed, much that she could venture to say. When conversation took

this higher tone, she felt afraid of her own ignorance; and then she

first knew what it was to lament not having had a better education.

As they grew more intimate--for people who sit side by side at dinner

every day can not help growing intimate--Mr. St. Leger would gently

remark upon this reserve; and one day he began to speak openly upon the

subject. He had attributed her silence, I believe, to a bashful feeling

of inferiority in rank; for her face was so intelligent and full of

meaning, that he did not divine its real cause, so he said, with a

certain gentle abruptness which became him much:

"I have discovered a fault in you, Miss Arnold, at last; though every

body here seems to think it impossible you should have one. May I tell

you of it?"

"Oh! if you once begin with my faults, I am afraid you will never have

done. I know the length of the score that might be summed up against me,

though others are so good-natured as to forget it. Yes, indeed, I shall

be much obliged to you."

"Don't you think it is the duty of all to exert themselves in a family

party, to make conversation circulate in an agreeable manner?"

"To be sure, I do--and" ... how well you perform that duty, she was

prompted to say, but she did not. She hesitated a little, and then

added--"And, perhaps, you think I do not do that so much as I ought to

do."

"Precisely. You will not be angry. No, you can not be angry. You never

are. The most trying and provoking things, I observe, can not ruffle

you. So I will venture to say, that I think you don't play fair by me.

We are both here chiefly to make ourselves agreeable, I believe; and I

sometimes wish I had a little more assistance in that duty from one who,

I am sure, could perform it admirably, if she so pleased."

Lettice shook her head. Then she said, with her usual simplicity, "I

used to talk more before you came."

"Did you? But that's not quite generous, is it, to throw the whole

burden upon me now I _am_ come, instead of sharing it? Why will you not

talk now?"

"Simply, because I can't. Oh, Mr. St. Leger! the talk is so different

since you came here, and I feel my own incapacity so sadly--my own

ignorance so forcibly--I should say so painfully; but that, indeed, is

not my own fault, and that takes the worst pain, you know, out of

things."

"Ignorant!" he said: "of what?"

"Of all these things you talk about. I used to pick up a little from the

newspapers, but now I have done reading them I seem literally to know

nothing."

"Nothing! Nothing about books, I suppose you mean; for you seem to me to

understand men and things better than most people I have met with."

"I have experienced more, perhaps, than most girls of my age have done,

through my poverty and misfortunes; but what is that?"

"Ah, Miss Arnold! what is it but the best part of all knowledge; to

understand one's self and others; the best of all possessions; to

possess one's own spirit. But I beg your pardon, I will only add, that I

do not, by what I say, intend at all to undervalue the advantages of

reading, or the happiness of having a love of reading. Do you love

reading?"

"Why, I don't quite know. I find the books I read aloud to Mrs. Melwyn

often very tiresome, I must confess."

"And what sort of books do you read to Mrs. Melwyn?"

"Why, only two sorts--novels and essays."

He laughed a little, in his quiet way, and then said, "I wonder at any

young lady disliking novels; I thought it was the very reading they

liked best; but as for essays, with very few exceptions, I must own I

share in your distaste for them."

"I can't understand them very often. I am ashamed to say it; but the

writers use such fine language and such strange new words, and then they

go over and over again upon the same thought, and illustrate it twenty

different ways, when one happy illustration, I think, would be so much

better; I like a writer who marches promptly through a subject; those

essayists seem as if they never could have done."

"What you say is just, in many instances, I think. It is a pity you have

not tried other reading. History, travels, poetry; you can not think how

pleasantly such subjects seem to fill and enlarge the mind. And if you

have a little time of your own, you can not easily believe, perhaps, how

much may be done. Even with an hour each day, of steady reading, a vast

deal."

"Ah! but where shall I begin? Every body reads Hume's History of England

first, and I have never even done that; and if I were to begin I should

never get to the end of it."

"Oh, yes, but you would, and be surprised to find how soon that end had

arrived, and what a pleasant journey you had made. But if you are

frightened at Hume, and I own he _looks_ formidable, let me select you

something in the library, to commence operations with, which will not be

quite so alarming."

"Oh! if you would...."

"With the greatest pleasure in the world. If you will allow me to assist

you a little in the choice of your books, I think, with the virtue of

perseverance--and I know you have all the virtues--you would get through

a good deal in a comparatively short space of time; and when I reflect

how much it would add to your happiness, as it does to every one's

happiness, I confess I can not feel easy till I have set you going."

This conversation had been carried on in a low voice, while the rest had

been talking over some family matters together. The speakers at the head

of the table stopped, and the silence aroused the two. Catherine glanced

at them suddenly; she saw Lettice color a little, but Mr. St. Leger

preserved the most provoking composure.

The evenings Mr. St. Leger devoted exclusively to the good pleasure of

the general. He read the newspapers, making them the vehicle of the most

intelligent and agreeable comments, he looked out the places mentioned

in the maps, and had something perpetually to say that was interesting

of this or that. He answered every question the general wanted solved in

the cleverest manner; and, in short, he so won upon the old man's heart,

that he became quite attached to him. The evenings, once so heavy, and

spent in a sort of irritable fretfulness, became quite delightful to

him: nor were they less delightful to others. At last, things came to

that pass that the wearisome backgammon was given up, and reading aloud

took its place. The ladies worked and read in turns, Edgar taking double

tides, and Mr. St. Leger doing a little, which he insisted upon,

assuring them that it did not hurt his chest at all. He was, indeed,

getting stronger and better every day; he was a beautiful reader.

Lettice sat plying her busy needle, but with a countenance so filled

with intelligent pleasure, that it is not to be wondered at if Mr. St.

Leger, when his reading was over, and he had nothing else to do, and,

the books being usually such as he was well acquainted with, not much at

the moment to think of, took pleasure in observing her.

He had not forgotten his promise of selecting authors for her own

private studies; he seemed to take much benevolent pleasure in

endeavoring to compensate to this generous and excellent creature, for

the intellectual disadvantages of a life devoted to others as hers had

been. He usually, also, found or made an opportunity for talking over

with her what she had been reading; and, he believed, in all sincerity,

and so did she, that he was actuated in these proceedings merely, as I

said, by the disinterested desire of offering compensation for past

sacrifices; stimulated by the very high value he himself attached to

mental cultivation, regarding it as the best source of independent

happiness both for men and women.

But whatever were the motives with which he began this labor of

kindness, it is certain as he proceeded therein a vast deal more

interest and pleasure were mingled up with this little task than had

been the case at first.

Her simple, unaffected purity of heart; her single-mindedness, unstained

by selfish thought, pride, or vanity, or folly, in its simplicity and

singleness of purpose, were displayed before him. The generous

benevolence of purpose; the warm and grateful piety; the peculiar

right-mindedness; the unaffected love for all that was excellent, true,

good, or beautiful, and the happy facility of detecting all that was

good or beneficial wherever it was to be found, and wherever observed;

the sweet cheerfulness and repose of the character; that resemblance to

a green field, which I have heard a husband of only too sensitive a

nature gratefully attribute to his partner; all this worked strongly,

though unmarked.

Mr. St. Leger began to experience a sense of a sweetness, solace, and

enjoyment, in the presence of Lettice Arnold, that he had not found upon

this earth for years, and which he never had hoped to find again.

But all this time he never dreamed of falling in love. His imagination

never traveled so far as to think of such a thing as appropriating this

rare blessing to himself. To live with her was his destiny at present,

and that seemed happiness enough; and, indeed he scarcely had got so far

as to acknowledge to his own heart, how much happiness that privilege

conferred.

She, on her side, was equally tranquil, undisturbed by the slightest

participation in the romance Catherine would so gladly have commenced.

She went on contentedly, profiting by his instructions, delighting in

his company, and adoring his goodness; but would as soon have thought of

appropriating some "bright particular star" to herself as this gifted

man.

She deemed him too infinitely her superior.

Well, it is no use keeping the matter in suspense any longer. You all

see how it must end.

You do not fret and worry yourselves as Catherine did, and abuse Mr. St.

Leger for his indifference. You see plainly enough that two such very

nice people, and so excellently suited to each other, must, thrown

together as they were every day, end by liking each other, which, but

for the previous arrangements of the excellent Catherine, would have

been a very perplexing business to all parties.

When at last--just before Edgar and his wife were going to sail for

Canada, and he and she were making their farewell visit at the

Hazels--when at last Mr. St. Leger, after having looked for two or three

days very miserable, and having avoided every one, and particularly poor

Lettice--to whom he had not spoken a word all that time, and who was

miserable at the idea that she must have offended him--when at last he

took Edgar out walking, and then confessed that he thought it no longer

right, safe, or honorable, for him to remain at the Hazels, finding, as

he did, that one creature was becoming too dear to him; and he trembled

every moment, lest by betraying his secret he might disturb her

serenity. When at last the confession was made, and Edgar reported it to

his wife--then Catherine was ready to jump for joy. In vain Edgar strove

to look wise, and tell her to be reasonable. In vain he represented all

the objections that must be urged against her out-of-the-way scheme, as

he was ill-natured enough to call it. She would hear of none.

No, nothing. She was perfectly unreasonable--her husband told her

so--but it was all in vain. Men are more easily discouraged at the idea

of any proceeding out of the usual course than women are. They do not, I

think, set so much value upon _abstract_ happiness, if I may use the

term; they think more of the attending circumstances, and less of that

one ingredient--genuine happiness--than women do.

Catherine could and would think of nothing else, but how perfectly these

two were suited to each other, and how excessively happy they would be.

Dear, good thing! how she labored in the cause, and what a world of

contradiction and trouble she had to go through. First, there was Mr.

St. Leger himself, to be persuaded to be happy upon her plan, the only

possible plan under the circumstances; then there was Lettice to

persuade that Mr. St. Leger's happiness and dignity would not be

hazarded; then there was Edgar to reason out of calling her romantic;

and last of all there was the general, for Mrs. Melwyn, I consider, as

Catherine did, already persuaded.

This last task _did_ appear formidable. She put it off as long as she

could; she got every body else in the right frame of mind before she

ventured upon it; she had persuaded both Edgar and Mrs. Melwyn to second

her, if need were, and at length, with a dreadful feeling of

trepidation, she broached the subject to the old veteran. With all the

coolness she could muster she began her speech, and laid the whole

matter before him. He did not interrupt her while she spoke by one

single word, or remark good, bad, or indifferent. It was awful--her poor

little heart fluttered, as if it were going to stop; she expected the

storm every instant to burst forth in some terrible outbreak. She sat

there shuddering at her own rashness. If even Edgar had called her

absurd, what would her father do! If St. Leger himself had been so

difficult to manage, what would the old general say! He said nothing.

She would not be discouraged: she began to speak again, to recapitulate

every argument; she warmed with the subject; she was earnest, eloquent,

pathetic--tears were in the good creature's eyes; still he was silent.

At last, wearied out with useless exertion, she ceased to urge the

matter any further; and endeavoring to conquer her feelings of deep

disappointment, looked up in his face to see whether the slightest

relenting expression was visible in it. No; his eyes were fixed upon the

floor; he seemed lost in deep thought.

"Papa," she ventured to say, "have you heard all I have been saying?"

"Yes, child."

Silence again for a few minutes, then--"Catherine, did you ever know me

do a good action in your life?"

"Dear papa, what a question."

"Did you ever know me, I say, to do one thoroughly generous, benevolent

action, without regard to self in the slightest degree--such as I

call--such as alone merits the name of a really _good_ action? If you

ever did, I can't easily forgive you."

"Dearest papa! what have I done? Did I ever say? Did I ever hint? Dear

papa!" and she looked ready to cry.

"Did you ever?--no--I know you never did."

"Don't say so--don't think so badly of me, papa."

"I'm not thinking badly of you, child--God forbid; for well he knows if

I ever did one really generous, benevolent action--one without reference

to self.... Heaven bless thee, thou dearest thing, thy life seems only

made up of such actions; but I say again, did you ever?--No; I know you

never did--and I'll tell you why I know it."

"Ah, papa! What _can_ you mean?"

"Because," he went on without seeming to mind her emotion, "because, I

observe, that whenever you want to persuade other people--your mother,

or Edgar, or Lettice, for instance--to do something you've set your

heart upon, you hussy--you always enlarge upon the happiness it will

give to other people; but when you're trying to come round me, you only

talk of how comfortable it will make myself."

She could only utter a faint exclamation. The accusation, if accusation

it may be called, was not to be denied.

"Now, Catherine, since this young man came into the house, what with his

conversation, he's a most gentlemanlike, agreeable converser as ever I

met with ... and the prayers, and the chapters, and such like; and, in

short, a certain new tone of thought altogether; there has been

gradually something new growing up in me. I have at times begun to think

back upon my life, and to recollect what a nasty, mean, greedy,

calculating, selfish fellow I've been throughout, never troubling myself

about other people's comforts, or so on, but going on as if every body

was only created to promote mine; and I'd have been glad, Catherine,

before I went into my grave, which won't be long too--I own to you I

would have been glad, for once in my life to have done a purely good,

unselfish thing--made a sacrifice, as you pious folk call it; and,

therefore, to own the truth, I have been very sorry, and could not help

feeling disappointed, as here you've sat prosing this half hour and

more, showing me what a great deal I was to get by this notable

arrangement of yours."

"Papa!--dearest--dear papa!"

"Be quiet--I have indeed--I'd have liked to have had something to give

up, instead of its being, as I verily believe it is, the most charmingly

delightful scheme for your mother and me that ever was hit upon--for

that man is the happiness of my life--my body's comfort and my soul's

health--and Lettice is more like a dear child than any thing else to

that poor mother of yours, whom I have not, perhaps, been so considerate

of as I ought; and to have them thus fixed together in this house, is

better luck than could be conceived, such as scarcely ever happens in

this world to any body; and far better than I--almost better than your

poor mother deserves. So you're a darling little courageous creature for

planning it, when I'll be bound they all thought you a fool, so have it

all your own way, and give your old father a kiss," which she joyfully

did. "And now you go to Mr. St. Leger, and tell him from me, that if he

consents to this scheme I shall esteem it the greatest favor and

satisfaction that was ever conferred upon me in my life. I know what it

is to be thus trusted by such a man--I know the confidence on his part

which such an arrangement implies--and you may add, that if he will only

extend to me his usual indulgence for human folly and frailty, I will do

every thing that is in the power of an ill-tempered, good-for-nothing,

selfish old fellow, to prevent him repenting his bargain. And tell

Lettice she's a darling, excellent creature; and I have thought so long,

though I have said little about it, and she has been like an angel of

love and peace in our family; and if she will only go on as she has

done, she will make us all as happy as the day is long; and tell your

mother I wish I did not enjoy the thoughts of this so much myself, that

I might have the pleasure of making an offering of my satisfaction to

her."

"Dear!--dear beloved papa!"

"Stop a little, child; Edgar and you will have to pay the piper, you

know."

"Oh, gladly! thankfully!"

"Because you see, my dear, if these two people marry and live with us,

and become as children, I must treat them, in a manner, as children, and

make a little codicil to my will; and you and Edgar will be something

the worse for it. But, bless you, child, there's enough for all."

"And bless you, my honored, generous father, for thinking so; that there

is. Edgar and I only earnestly desired this; thank you, thank you, ten

thousand times."

I will only detain you for a few moments longer, to tell you that the

scheme was carried into execution, and fully answered the hopes of the

generous contriver.

Mr. St. Leger found, in the attachment of Lettice, a compensation for

the cruel sufferings of his past life; and, under her tender and

assiduous care, he speedily recovered his health and his powers of

usefulness. She, while performing a woman's best and happiest part, that

of proving the true happiness of an admirable and a superior man,

contrived likewise to fulfill all her other duties in the most complete

and exemplary manner.

It would be difficult to say, whether the happiness she felt or

conferred was the greater.

Exceptional people may venture upon exceptional measures. Those who are

a great deal more sweet tempered, and loving, and good, and reasonable

than others, may venture to seek happiness in ways that the generality

would be mad to attempt.

And sensible, well-principled, right-tempered human beings, one may take

into close family intimacy, and discard that reserve, and those

arm's-length proceedings, which people's faults, in too many cases,

render prudent and necessary.

It was because the subjects of Catherine's schemes were so excellent,

that the object of them was so wise.

I have now told you how perfectly they answered upon trial; and I am

only sorry that the world contains so very few with whom one could

venture to make the same experiment.

For a very large portion of possible happiness is thrown away, because

people are not fit to take part in plans of this nature--plans wherein

one shall give what he has, to receive back what he wants; and thus the

true social communism be established.

[From the Memoirs of Dr. Chalmers, Vol. II., unpublished.]

RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. CHALMERS.

HIS PERSONAL APPEARANCE IN THE PULPIT.

The first sermon which Mr. Chalmers preached in Glasgow was delivered

before the Society of the Sons of the Clergy, on Thursday the 30th day

of March, 1815, a few months after his appointment, and a few months

previous to his admission as minister of the Tron Church. The recent

excitement of the canvass, the rumors strange and various, which

crossing the breadth of Scotland were circulating in all quarters

through the city, the quickened curiosity of opponents, the large but

somewhat tremulous expectation of friends, drew together a vast

multitude to hear him. Among the crowd which filled the church was a

young Oxford student, himself the son of a Scottish minister, who had

been surprised by hearing Mr. Chalmers's work on the Evidences of

Christianity mentioned with high approval, within the walls of an

English University, shortly after the date of its publication. The keen

dark eye of the youthful auditor fixed itself in searching scrutiny upon

the preacher, and a few years later his graceful and graphic pen drew

the following sketch:

"I was a good deal surprised and perplexed with the first glimpse I

obtained of his countenance, for the light that streamed faintly upon it

for the moment did not reveal any thing like that general outline of

feature and visage for which my fancy had by some strange working of

presentiment, prepared me. By-and-by, however, the light became

stronger, and I was enabled to study the minutiae of his face pretty

leisurely, while he leaned forward and read aloud the words of the

Psalm, for that is always done in Scotland, not by the clerk, but the

clergyman himself. At first sight, no doubt, his face is a coarse one,

but a mysterious kind of meaning breathes from every part of it, that

such as have eyes to see cannot be long without discovering. It is very

pale, and the large, half-closed eyelids have a certain drooping

melancholy weight about them, which interested me very much. I

understood not why. The lips, too, are singularly pensive in their mode

of falling down at the sides, although there is no want of richness and

vigor in their central fullness of curve. The upper lip, from the nose

downward, is separated by a very deep line, which gives a sort of

leonine firmness of expression to all the lower part of the face. The

cheeks are square and strong, in texture like pieces of marble, with the

cheek-bones very broad and prominent. The eyes themselves are light in

color, and have a strange dreamy heaviness, that conveys any idea rather

than that of dullness, but which contrasts in a wonderful manner with

the dazzling watery glare they exhibit when expanded in their sockets,

and illuminated into all their flame and fervor in some moment of high

entranced enthusiasm. But the shape of the forehead is, perhaps, the

most singular part of the whole visage; and, indeed, it presents a

mixture so very singular, of forms commonly exhibited only in the widest

separation, that it is no wonder I should have required some little time

to comprehend the meaning of it. In the first place, it is without

exception the most marked mathematical forehead I ever met with--being

far wider across the eyebrows than either Mr. Playfair's or Mr.

Leslie's--and having the eyebrows themselves lifted up at their exterior

ends quite out of the usual line, a peculiarity which Spurzheim had

remarked in the countenances of almost all the great mathematical or

calculating geniuses--such, for example, if I rightly remember, as Sir

Isaac Newton himself, Kaestener, Euler, and many others. Immediately

above the extraordinary breadth of this region, which, in the heads of

most mathematical persons, is surmounted by no fine points of

organization whatever, immediately above this, in the forehead, there is

an arch of imagination, carrying out the summit boldly and roundly, in

a style to which the heads of very few poets present any thing

comparable, while over this again there is a grand apex of high and

solemn veneration and love, such as might have graced the bust of Plato

himself, and such as in living men I had never beheld equaled in any but

the majestic head of Canova. The whole is edged with a few crisp dark

locks, which stand forth boldly, and afford a fine relief to the

death-like paleness of those massive temples.... Of all human

compositions there is none surely which loses so much as a sermon does

when it is made to address itself to the eye of a solitary student in

his closet and not to the thrilling ears of a mighty mingled

congregation, through the very voice which nature has enriched with

notes more expressive than words can ever be of the meanings and

feelings of its author. Neither, perhaps, did the world ever possess any

orator whose minutest peculiarities of gesture and voice have more power

in increasing the effect of what he says--whose delivery, in other

words, is the first, and the second, and the third excellence of his

oratory--more truly than is that of Dr. Chalmers. And yet were the

spirit of the man less gifted than it is, there is no question these,

his lesser peculiarities, would never have been numbered among his

points of excellence. His voice is neither strong nor melodious, his

gestures are neither easy nor graceful; but, on the contrary, extremely

rude and awkward; his pronunciation is not only broadly national, but

broadly provincial, distorting almost every word he utters into some

barbarous novelty, which, had his hearer leisure to think of such

things, might be productive of an effect at once ludicrous and offensive

in a singular degree. But, of a truth, these are things which no

listener can attend to while this great preacher stands before him armed

with all the weapons of the most commanding eloquence, and swaying all

around him with its imperial rule. At first, indeed, there is nothing to

make one suspect what riches are in store. He commences in a low,

drawling key, which has not even the merit of being solemn, and advances

from sentence to sentence, and from paragraph to paragraph, while you

seek in vain to catch a single echo that gives promise of that which is

to come. There is, on the contrary, an appearance of constraint about

him that affects and distresses you. You are afraid that his breast is

weak, and that even the slight exertion he makes may be too much for it.

But then, with what tenfold richness does this dim preliminary curtain

make the glories of his eloquence to shine forth, when the heated spirit

at length shakes from it its chill confining fetters, and bursts out

elate and rejoicing in the full splendor of its disimprisoned wings....

I have heard many men deliver sermons far better arranged in regard to

argument, and have heard very many deliver sermons far more uniform in

elegance both of conception and of style; but most unquestionably, I

have never heard, either in England or Scotland, or in any other

country, any preacher whose eloquence is capable of producing an effect

so strong and irresistible as his."[21]

* * * * *

FIRST DELIVERY OF THE ASTRONOMICAL DISCOURSES.--At the time of Dr.

Chalmers's settlement in Glasgow it was the custom that the clergymen of

the city should preach in rotation on Thursday in the Tron Church, a

duty which, as their number was then but eight, returned to each within

an interval of two months. On Thursday, the 23d of November, 1815, this

week-day service devolved on Dr. Chalmers. The entire novelty of the

discourse delivered upon this occasion, and the promise held out by the

preacher that a series of similar discourses was to follow, excited the

liveliest interest, not in his own congregation alone, but throughout

the whole community. He had presented to his hearers a sketch of the

recent discoveries of astronomy--distinct in outline, and drawn with all

the ease of one who was himself a master in the science, yet gorgeously

magnificent in many of its details, displaying, amid "the brilliant glow

of a blazing eloquence,"[22] the sublime poetry of the heavens. In his

subsequent discourses Dr. Chalmers proposed to discuss the argument or

rather prejudice against the Christian Revelation which grounds itself

on the vastness and variety of those unnumbered worlds which lie

scattered over the immeasurable fields of space. This discussion

occupied all the Thursday services allotted to him during the year 1816.

The spectacle which presented itself in the Trongate upon the day of the

delivery of each new astronomical discourse, was a most singular one.

Long ere the bell began to toll, a stream of people might be seen

pouring through the passage which led into the Tron Church. Across the

street, and immediately opposite to this passage, was the old

reading-room, where all the Glasgow merchants met. So soon, however, as

the gathering quickening stream upon the opposite side of the street

gave the accustomed warning, out flowed the occupants of the

coffee-room; the pages of the Herald or the Courier were for a while

forsaken, and during two of the best business hours of the day the old

reading-room wore a strange aspect of desolation. The busiest merchants

of the city were wont, indeed, upon those memorable days to leave their

desks, and kind masters allowed their clerks and apprentices to follow

their example. Out of the very heart of the great tumult an hour or two

stood redeemed for the highest exercises of the spirit; and the low

traffic of earth forgotten, heaven and its high economy and its human

sympathies and eternal interests, engrossed the mind at least and the

fancy of congregated thousands.

In January, 1817, this series of discourses was announced as ready for

publication. It had generally been a matter of so much commercial risk

to issue a volume of sermons from the press, that recourse had been

often had in such cases to publication by subscription. Dr. Chalmers's

publisher, Mr. Smith, had hinted that perhaps this method ought in this

instance also to be tried. "It is far more agreeable to my feelings,"

Dr. Chalmers wrote to him a few days before the day of publication,

"that the book should be introduced to the general market, and sell on

the public estimation of it, than that the neighborhood here should be

plied in all the shops with subscription papers, and as much as possible

wrung out of their partialities for the author." Neither author nor

publisher had at this time the least idea of the extraordinary success

which was awaiting their forthcoming volume. It was published on the

28th of January, 1817. In ten weeks 6000 copies had been disposed of,

the demand showing no symptom of decline. Nine editions were called for

within a year, and nearly 20,000 copies were in circulation. Never

previously, nor ever since, has any volume of sermons met with such

immediate and general acceptance. The "Tales of my Landlord" had a

month's start in the date of publication, and even with such a

competitor it ran an almost equal race. Not a few curious observers were

struck with the novel competition, and watched with lively curiosity how

the great Scottish preacher and the great Scottish novelist kept for a

whole year so nearly abreast of one another. It was, besides, the first

volume of Sermons which fairly broke the lines which had separated too

long the literary from the religious public. Its secondary merits won

audience for it in quarters where evangelical Christianity was nauseated

and despised. It disarmed even the keen hostility of Hazlitt, and kept

him for a whole forenoon spell-bound beneath its power. "These sermons,"

he says, "ran like wild-fire through the country, were the darlings of

watering-places, were laid in the windows of inns, and were to be met

with in all places of public resort.... We remember finding the volume

in the orchard of the inn at Burford Bridge, near Boxhill, and passing a

whole and very delightful morning in reading it without quitting the

shade of an apple tree." The attractive volume stole an hour or two from

the occupations of the greatest statesman and orator of the day.

"Canning," says Sir James Mackintosh, "told me that he was entirely

converted to admiration of Chalmers; so is Bobus, whose conversion is

thought the greatest proof of victory. Canning says there are most

magnificent passages in his 'Astronomical Sermons."[23] Four years

before this time, through the pages of the "Edinburgh Christian

Instructor," Dr. Chalmers had said, "Men of tasteful and cultivated

literature are repelled from theology at the very outset by the

unseemly garb in which she is presented to them. If there be room for

the display of eloquence in urgent and pathetic exhortation, in masterly

discussion, in elevating greatness of conception, does not theology

embrace all these, and will not the language that is clearly and

appropriately expressive of them possess many of the constituents and

varieties of good writing? If theology, then, can command such an

advantage, on what principle should it be kept back from her?... In the

subject itself there is a grandeur which it were vain to look for in the

ordinary themes of eloquence or poetry. Let writers arise, then, to do

it justice. Let them be all things to all men, that they may gain some;

and if a single proselyte can be thereby drawn from the ranks of

literature, let all the embellishments of genius and fancy be thrown

around the subject. One man has already done much. Others are rising

around him, and with the advantage of a higher subject, they will in

time rival the unchristian moralists of the day, and overmatch them." He

was one of the first to answer to his own call, to fulfill his own

prediction. No single writer of our age has done so much to present the

truths of Christianity in new forms, and to invest them with all the

attractions of a fascinating eloquence; nor could a single volume be

named which has done more than this very volume of "Astronomical

Discourses" to soften and subdue those prejudices which the infidelity

of natural science engenders.

* * * * *

EFFECT OF HIS ELOQUENCE.--SERMON ON DISSIPATION IN LARGE CITIES.--Dr.

Chalmers returned to Glasgow on Saturday, the 27th December, and on the

following day found a prodigious crowd awaiting his appearance in the

Tron Church pulpit. His popularity as a preacher was now at its very

highest summit, and judging merely by the amount of physical energy

displayed by the preacher, and by the palpable and visible effects

produced upon his hearers, we conclude that it was about this period,

and within the walls of the Tron Church, that by far the most wonderful

exhibitions of his power as a pulpit orator were witnessed. "The Tron

Church contains, if I mistake not," says the Rev. Dr. Wardlaw, who, as

frequently as he could, was a hearer in it, "about 1400 hearers,

according to the ordinary allowance of seat-room; when crowded of course

proportionally more. And, though I can not attempt any pictorial sketch

of the _place_, I may, in a sentence or two, present you with a few

touches of the _scene_ which I have, more than once or twice, witnessed

within its walls; not that it was at all peculiar, for it resembled

every other scene where the doctor in those days, when his eloquence was

in the prime of its vehemence and splendor, was called to preach. There

was one particular, indeed, which rendered such a scene, in a city like

Glasgow, peculiarly striking. I refer to the _time_ of it. To see a

place of worship, of the size mentioned, crammed above and below, on a

_Thursday forenoon_, during the busiest hours of the day, with fifteen

or sixteen hundred hearers, and these of all descriptions of persons, in

all descriptions of professional occupation, the busiest as well as

those who had most leisure on their hands, those who had least to spare

taking care so to arrange their business engagements previously as to

_make time_ for the purpose, all pouring in through the wide entrance at

the side of the Tron steeple, half an hour before the time of service,

to secure a seat, or content if too late for this to occupy, as many

did, standing room--this was, indeed, a novel and strange sight. Nor was

it once merely, or twice, but month after month the day was calculated

when his turn to preach again was to come round, and anticipated, with

even impatient longing, by multitudes.

"Suppose the congregation thus assembled--pews filled with sitters, and

aisles, to a great extent, with standers. They wait in eager

expectation. The preacher appears. The devotional exercises of praise

and prayer having been gone through with unaffected simplicity and

earnestness, the entire assembly set themselves for the _treat_, with

feelings very diverse in kind, but all eager and intent. There is a hush

of dead silence. The text is announced, and he begins. Every countenance

is up--every eye bent, with fixed intentness, on the speaker. As he

kindles the interest grows. Every breath is held--every cough is

suppressed--every fidgety movement is settled--every one, riveted

himself by the spell of the impassioned and entrancing eloquence, knows

how sensitively his neighbor will resent the very slightest disturbance.

Then, by-and-by, there is a pause. The speaker stops--to gather

breath--to wipe his forehead--to adjust his gown, and purposely too, and

wisely, to give the audience, as well as himself, a moment or two of

relaxation. The moment is embraced--there is free breathing--suppressed

coughs get vent--postures are changed--there is a universal stir, as of

persons who could not have endured the constraint much longer--the

preacher bends forward--his hand is raised--all is again hushed. The

same stillness and strain of unrelaxed attention is repeated, more

intent still, it may be, than before, as the interest of the subject and

of the speaker advance. And so, for perhaps four or five times in the

course of a sermon, there is the _relaxation_ and the '_at it again_'

till the final winding up.

"And _then_, the moment the last word was uttered, and followed by

the--'_let us pray_,' there was a scene for which no excuse or

palliation can be pleaded but the fact of its having been to many a

matter of difficulty, in the morning of a week-day, to accomplish the

abstraction of even so much of their time from business--the closing

prayer completely drowned by the hurried rush of large numbers from the

aisles and pews to the door; an unseemly scene, without doubt, as if so

many had come to the house of God not to worship, but simply to enjoy

the fascination of human eloquence. Even this much it was a great thing

for eloquence to accomplish. And how diversified soever the motives

which drew so many together, and the emotions awakened and impressions

produced by what was heard--though, in the terms of the text of one of

his most overpoweringly stirring and faithful appeals, he was to not a

few 'as one that had a pleasant voice and could play well on an

instrument,' yet there is abundant proof that, in the highest sense,

'his labor was not in vain in the Lord;' that the truths which, with so

much fearless fidelity and impassioned earnestness, he delivered, went

in many instances farther than the ear, or even the intellect--that they

reached the heart, and, by the power of the Spirit, turned it to God."

"On Thursday, the 12th February, 1818," I now quote from a manuscript of

the Rev. Mr. Fraser, minister of Kilchrennan, "Dr. Chalmers preached in

the Tron Church before the Directors of the Magdalene Asylum. The sermon

delivered on this occasion was that 'On the Dissipation of Large

Cities.' Long before the service commenced every seat and passage was

crowded to excess, with the exception of the front pew of the gallery,

which was reserved for the magistrates. A vast number of students

deserted their classes at the University and were present. This was very

particularly the case in regard to the Moral Philosophy Class, which I

attended that session, as appeared on the following day when the list of

absentees was given in by the person who had called the catalogue, and

at the same time a petition from several of themselves was handed in to

the professor, praying for a remission of the fine for non-attendance,

on the ground that they had been hearing Dr. Chalmers. The doctor's

manner during the whole delivery of that magnificent discourse was

strikingly animated, while the enthusiasm and energy which he threw into

some of its bursts rendered them quite overpowering. One expression

which he used, together with his action, his look, and the very tones of

his voice when it came forth, made a most vivid and indelible impression

upon my memory: 'We, at the same time,' he said, 'have our eye perfectly

open to that great external improvement which has taken place, of late

years, in the manners of society. There is not the same grossness of

conversation. There is not the same impatience for the withdrawment of

him who, asked to grace the outset of an assembled party, is compelled,

at a certain step in the process of conviviality, by the obligations of

professional decency, to retire from it. There is not so frequent an

exaction of this as one of the established proprieties of social or of

fashionable life. And if such an exaction was ever laid by the

omnipotence of custom on a minister of Christianity, it is such an

exaction as ought never, never to be complied with. It is not for him to

lend the sanction of his presence to a meeting with which he could not

sit to its final termination. It is not for him to stand associated,

for a single hour, with an assemblage of men who begin with hypocrisy,

and end with downright blackguardism. It is not for him to watch the

progress of the coming ribaldry, and to hit the well selected moment

when talk and turbulence and boisterous merriment are on the eve of

bursting forth upon the company, and carrying them forward to the full

acme and uproar of their enjoyment. It is quite in vain to say, that he

has only sanctioned one part of such an entertainment. He has as good as

given his connivance to the whole of it, and left behind him a discharge

in full of all its abominations; and, therefore, be they who they may,

whether they rank among the proudest aristocracy of our land, or are

charioted in splendor along, as the wealthiest of our citizens, _or

flounce in the robes of magistracy_, it is his part to keep as purely

and indignantly aloof from such society as this, as he would from the

vilest and most debasing associations of profligacy.'

"The words which I have underlined do not appear in the sermon as

printed. While uttering them, which he did with peculiar emphasis,

accompanying them with a flash from his eye and a stamp of his foot, he

threw his right arm with clenched hand right across the book-board, and

brandished it full in the face of the Town Council, sitting in array and

in state before him. Many eyes were in a moment directed toward the

magistrates. The words evidently fell upon them like a thunderbolt, and

seemed to startle like an electric shock the whole audience."

Another interesting memorial of this sermon is supplied by Dr. Wardlaw,

who was present at its delivery. "The eloquence of that discourse was

absolutely overpowering. The subject was one eminently fitted to awaken

and summon to their utmost energy all his extraordinary powers;

especially when, after having cleared his ground by a luminously

scriptural exhibition of that supreme authority by which the evils he

was about to portray were interdicted, in contradistinction to the

prevailing maxims and practices of a worldly morality, he came forward

to the announcement and illustration of his main subject--'_the origin,

the progress, and the effects of a life of dissipation_.' His moral

portraitures were so graphically and vividly delineated--his warnings

and entreaties, especially to youth, so impassioned and earnest--his

admonitions so faithful, and his denunciations so fearless and so

fearful--and his exhortations to preventive and remedial appliances so

pointed and so urgent to all among his auditors who had either the

charge of youth, or the supervision of dependents! It was thrilling,

overwhelming. His whole soul seemed in every utterance. Although saying

to myself all the while, 'Oh! that this were in the hands of every

father, and master, and guardian, and young man in the land!' I yet

could not spare an eye from the preacher to mark how his appeal was

telling upon others. The breathless, the appalling silence told me of

that. Any person who reads that discourse, and who had the privilege of

listening to Dr. Chalmers during the prime and freshness of his public

eloquence, will readily imagine the effect of some passages in it, when

delivered with even more than the preacher's characteristic vehemence."

FOOTNOTES:

[21] _Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk_, 2d edit, vol. iii pp 267-273.

[22] Foster.

[23] _Memoirs of the Life of the Right Hon. Sir James Mackintosh_, vol.

ii. p. 343. The person known among his particular friends by the name of

"Bobus" was Robert Smith, who had held the office of Advocate-General in

Bengal, and who is not to be confounded with his namesake, the brother

of the Rev. Sydney Smith.

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

THE OLD MAN'S BEQUEST; A STORY OF GOLD.

Through the ornamental grounds of a handsome country residence, at a

little distance from a large town in Ireland, a man of about fifty years

of age was walking, with a bent head, and the impress of sorrow on his

face.

"Och, yer honor, give me one sixpence, or one penny, for God's sake,"

cried a voice from the other side of a fancy paling which separated the

grounds in that quarter from a thoroughfare. "For heaven's sake, Mr.

Lawson, help me as ye helped me before. I know you've the heart and hand

to do it."

The person addressed as Mr. Lawson looked up and saw a woman whom he

knew to be in most destitute circumstances, burdened with a large and

sickly family, whom she had struggled to support until her own health

was ruined.

"I have no money--not one farthing," answered John Lawson.

"No money!" reiterated the woman in surprise; "isn't it all yours, then?

isn't this garden yours, and that house, and all the grand things that

are in it yours? ay, and grand things they are--them pictures, and them

bright shinin' things in that drawing-room of yours and sure you deserve

them well, and may God preserve them long to you, for riches hasn't

hardened your heart, though there's many a one, and heaven knows the

gold turns their feelin's to iron."

"It all belongs to my son, Henry Lawson, and Mrs. Lawson, and their

children--it is all theirs;" he sighed heavily, and deep emotion was

visible in every lineament of his thin and wrinkled face.

The poor woman raised her bloodshot eyes to his face, as if she was

puzzled by his words. She saw that he was suffering, and with intuitive

delicacy, she desisted from pressing her wants, though her need was

great.

"Well, well, yer honor, many's the good penny ye have given me and the

childer, and maybe the next time I see you you'll have more change."

She was turning sadly away, when John Lawson requested her to remain,

and he made inquiries into the state of her family; the report he heard

seemed to touch him even to the forgetfulness of his own sorrows; he

bade her stop for a few moments and he would give her some relief.

He walked rapidly toward the house and proceeded to the drawing-room. It

was a large and airy apartment, and furnished with evident profusion:

the sunlight of the bright summer day, admitted partially through the

amply-draperied windows, lighted up a variety of sparkling gilding in

picture-frames, and vases, and mirrors, and cornices; but John Lawson

looked round on the gay scene with a kind of shudder; he had neither

gold, silver, nor even copper in his pocket, or in his possession.

He advanced to a lady who reclined on a rose-colored sofa, with a

fashionable novel in her hand, and, after some slight hesitation, he

addressed her, and stating the name and wants of the poor woman who had

begged for aid, he requested some money.

As he said the words "some money," his lips quivered, and a tremor ran

through his whole frame, for his thoughts were vividly picturing a

recently departed period, when he was under no necessity of asking money

from any individual.

"Bless me, my dear Mr. Lawson!" cried the lady, starting up from her

recumbent position, "did I not give you a whole handful of shillings

only the day before yesterday; and if you wasted it all on poor people

since, what am I to do? Why, indeed, we contribute so much to charitable

subscriptions, both Mr. Lawson and I, _you_ might be content to give a

little less to common beggars."

Mrs. Lawson spoke with a smile on her lips, and with a soft caressing

voice, but a hard and selfish nature shone palpably from her blue eyes.

She was a young woman, and had the repute of beauty, which a clear

pink-and-white complexion, and tolerable features, with luxuriant light

hair, generally gains from a portion of the world. She was dressed for

the reception of morning visitors whom she expected, and she was

enveloped in expensive satin and blond, and jewelry in large

proportions.

John Lawson seemed to feel every word she had uttered in the depths of

his soul, but he made a strong effort to restrain the passion which was

rising to his lips.

"Augusta, my daughter, you are the wife of my only and most beloved

child--I wish to love you--I wish to live in peace with you, and

all--give me some money to relieve the wants of the unfortunate woman to

whom I have promised relief, and who is waiting without. I ask not for

myself, but for the poor and suffering--give me a trifle of money, I

say."

"Indeed, Mr. Lawson, a bank would not support your demands for the poor

people; that woman for whom you are begging has been relieved twenty

times by us. I have no money just now."

She threw herself back on the sofa and resumed her novel; but anger,

darting from her eyes, contrasted with the trained smile which still

remained on her lips.

A dark shade of passion and scorn came over John Lawson's face, but he

strove to suppress it, and his voice was calm when he spoke.

"Some time before my son married you, I gave up all my business to

him--I came to live here among trees and flowers--I gave up all the

lucrative business I had carried on to my son, partly because my health

was failing, and I longed to live with nature, away from the scenes of

traffic; but more especially, because I loved my son with no common

love, and I trusted to him as to a second self. I was not

disappointed--we had one purse and one heart before he married you; he

never questioned me concerning what I spent in charity--he never asked

to limit in any way my expenditure--he loved you, and I made no

conditions concerning what amount of income I was to receive, but still

I left him in entire possession of my business when he married you. I

trusted to your fair, young face, that you would not controvert my

wishes--that you would join me in my schemes of charity."

"And have I not?" interrupted Mrs. Lawson, in a sharp voice, though the

habitual smile still graced her lips; "do I not subscribe to, I don't

know how many, charitable institutions? Charity, indeed--there's enough

spent in charity by myself and my husband. But I wish to stop

extravagances--it is only extravagance to spend so much on charity as

you would do if you could; therefore you shall not have any money just

now."

Mrs. Lawson was one of those women who can cheerfully expend a most

lavish sum on a ball, a dress, or any other method by which rank and

luxury dissipate their abundance, but who are very economical, and talk

much of extravagance when money is demanded for purposes not connected

with display and style.

"Augusta Lawson, listen to me," his voice was quivering with passion,

"my own wants are very few; in food, in clothes, in all points my

expenditure is trifling. I am not extravagant in my demands for the

poor, either. All I have expended in charity during the few years since

you came here, is but an insignificant amount as contrasted with the

income which I freely gave up to my son and you; therefore, some money

for the poor woman who is waiting, I shall now have; give me some

shillings, for God's sake, and let me go." He advanced closer to her,

and held out his hand.

"Nonsense!" cried Mrs. Lawson; "I am mistress here--I am determined to

stop extravagance. You give too much to common beggars; I am determined

to stop it--do not ask me any further."

A kind of convulsion passed over John Lawson's thin face; but he pressed

his hand closely on his breast, and was silent for some moments.

"I was once rich, I believe. Yes--it is not a dream," he said, in a

slow, self-communing voice. "Gold and silver, once ye were plenty with

me; my hands; my pockets were filled--guineas, crowns, shillings--now I

have not one penny to give to that starving, dying woman, whose face of

misery might soften the very stones she looks on--not one penny."

"Augusta," he said, turning suddenly toward her, after a second pause of

silence, "give me only one shilling, and I shall not think of the

bitter words you have just said?"

"No; not one shilling," answered Mrs. Lawson, turning over a leaf of her

novel.

"One sixpence, then--one small, poor sixpence. You do not know how even

a sixpence can gladden the black heart of poverty, when starvation is

come. One sixpence, I say--let me have it quickly."

"Not one farthing I shall give you. I do beg you will trouble me no

further."

Mrs. Lawson turned her back partially to him, and fixed all her

attention on the novel.

"Woman! I have cringed and begged; I would not so beg for myself, from

you--no; I would lie down and die of want before I would, on my own

account, request of you--of your hard heart--one bit of bread. All the

finery that surrounds you is mine--it was purchased with my money,

though now you call it yours; and, usurping the authority of both master

and mistress here, you--in what you please to call your economical

management--dole out shillings to me when the humor seizes you, or

refuse me, as now, when it pleases you. But, woman, listen to me. I

shall never request you for one farthing of money again. No necessity of

others shall make me do it. You shall never again refuse me, for I shall

never give you the opportunity."

He turned hastily from the room, with a face on which the deep emotion

of an aroused spirit was depicted strongly.

In the lobby he met his son, Henry Lawson. The young man paused,

something struck by the excited appearance of his father.

"Henry," said the father, abruptly, "I want some money; there is a poor

woman whom I wish to relieve--will you give me some money for her?"

"Willingly, my dear father; but have you asked Augusta. You know I have

given her the management of the money-matters of the establishment, she

is so very clever and economical."

"She has neither charity, nor pity, nor kindness; she saves from me; she

saves from the starving poor; she saves, that she may waste large sums

on parties and dresses. I shall never more ask her for money; give me a

few shillings. My God! the father begs of the son for what was his

own--for what he toiled all his youth--for what he gave up out of

trusting love to that son. Henry, my son, I am sick of asking and

begging--ay, sick--sick; but give me some shillings now."

"You asked Augusta, then," said Henry, drawing out his purse, and

glancing with some apprehension to the drawing-room door.

"Henry," cried Mrs. Lawson, appearing at that instant with a face

inflamed with anger--"Henry, _I_ would not give your father any money

to-day, because he is so very extravagant in giving it all away."

Henry was in the act of opening his purse; he glanced apprehensively to

Mrs. Lawson; his face had a mild and passive expression, which was a

true index of his yielding and easily-governed nature. His features were

small, delicate, and almost effeminately handsome; and in every

lineament a want of decision and force of character was visible.

"Henry, give me some shillings, I say--I am your father--I have a just

right."

"Yes, yes, surely," said Henry, making a movement to open his purse.

"Henry, I do not wish you to give him money to waste in charity, as he

calls it."

Mrs. Lawson gave her husband an emphatic, but, at the same time,

cunningly caressing and smiling look.

"Henry, I am your father--give me the money I want."

"Augusta, my love, you know it was all his," said Henry, going close to

her, and speaking in a kind of whisper.

"My dearest Henry, were it for any other purpose but for throwing away,

I would not refuse. I am your father's best friend, and your best

friend, in wishing to restrain all extravagance."

"My dear father, she wishes to be economical, you know."

He dangled the purse, undecidedly, in his fingers.

"Will you give me the money at once, and let me go?" cried John Lawson,

elevating his voice.

"My dear Augusta, it is better."

"Henry, do not, I beg of you."

"Henry, my son, will you let me have the money?"

"Indeed, Augusta--"

"Henry!"

Mrs. Lawson articulated but the one word; there was enough of energy and

determination in it to make her husband close the purse he had almost

opened.

"I ask you only this once more--give me the few shillings?"

John Lawson bent forward in an eager manner; a feverish red kindled on

his sallow cheeks; his eyes were widely dilated, and his lips

compressed. There was a pause of some moments.

"You will not give it me?" he said, in a voice deep-toned and singularly

calm, as contrasted with his convulsed face.

Henry dangled the purse again in his hand, and looked uneasily and

irresolutely toward his wife.

"No, he will not give it--you will get no money to squander on poor

people this day," Mrs. Lawson said, in a very sharp and decided voice.

John Lawson did not say another word; he turned away and slowly

descended the stairs, and walked out of the house.

He did not return that evening. He had been seen on the road leading to

the house of a relative who was in rather poor circumstances Henry felt

rather annoyed at his father's absence; he had no depth in his

affection, but he had been accustomed to see him and hear his voice

every day, and therefore he missed him, but consoled himself with the

thought that they would soon meet again, as it never entered his

imagination that his father had quitted the house for a lengthened

period. Mrs. Lawson felicitated herself on the event, and hoped that the

old man would remain some time with his relative.

The following day a letter was handed to Henry; it was from his father,

and was as follows:

"TO MY SON HENRY--I have at last come to the resolution of

quitting your house, which I can no longer call mine, in even

the least degree. For weeks--for months--ever since you

married--ever since your wife took upon herself what she calls

the management of your house and purse, I have felt bound down

under the weight of an oppressive bondage. I could not go and

take a pound or a shilling from our common stock, as I used to

do before you married, when you and I lived in one mind, and

when I believed that the very spirit of your departed, your

angel mother, dwelt in you, as you had, and have still, her

very face and form. No, no, we had no common stock when you

married. She put me on an allowance--ay, an allowance. You

lived, and saw me receiving an allowance; you whom I loved with

an idolatry which God has now punished; you to whom I freely

gave up my business--my money-making business. I gave it you--I

gave all to you--I would have given my very life and soul to

you, because I thought that with your mother's own face you had

her noble and generous nature. You were kind before you

married; but that marriage has proved your weakness and want of

natural affection. Yes, you stood at my side yesterday; you

looked on my face--I, the father who loved you beyond all

bounds of fatherly love--you stood and heard me beg for a few

shillings; you heard me supplicate earnestly and humbly, and

you would not give, because your wife was not willing. Henry, I

could force you to give me a share of the profits of your

business; but keep it--keep it all. You would not voluntarily

give me some shillings, and I shall not demand what right and

justice would give me. Keep all, every farthing.

"It was for charity I asked the few shillings; you know it. You

know from whom I imbibed whatever I possess of the blessed

spirit of charity. I was as hard and unpitying as even your

wife before your mother taught me to feel and relieve the

demands of poverty. Yes, and she taught you; you can not forget

it. She taught you to give food to the starving, in your

earliest days. She strove to impress your infant mind with the

very soul of charity; and yesterday she looked down from the

heaven of the holy departed, and saw you refusing me, your

father, a few shillings to bestow on charity.

"Henry, I can live with you and your wife no more. I should

grow avaricious in my old age, were I to remain with you. I

should long for money to call my own. Those doled out shillings

which I received wakened within me feelings of a dark

nature--covetousness, and envy, and discontent--which must have

shadowed the happiness of your mother in heaven to look down

upon. I must go and seek out an independent living for myself,

even yet, though I am fifty-two. Though my energies for

struggling with the world died, I thought, when your mother

died, and, leaving my active business to you, I retired to live

in the country, I must go forth again, as if I were young, to

seek for the means of existence, for I feel I was not made to

be a beggar--a creature hanging on the bounty of others; no,

no, the merciful God will give me strength yet to provide for

myself, though I am old, and broken down in mind and body.

Farewell; you who were once my beloved son, may God soften and

amend your heart."

When Henry perused this letter, he would immediately have gone in search

of his father, in order to induce him to return home; but Mrs. Lawson

was at his side, and succeeded in persuading him to allow his father to

act as he pleased, and remain away as long as he wished.

* * * * *

Ten years rolled over our world, sinking millions beneath the black

waves of adverse fortune and fate, and raising the small number who, of

the innumerable aspirants for earthly good, usually succeed. Henry

Lawson was one of those whom time had lowered in fortune. His business

speculations had, for a lengthened period, been rather unsuccessful,

while Mrs. Lawson's expensive habits increased every day. At length

affairs came to such a crisis, that retrenchment or failure was

inevitable. Henry had enough of wisdom and spirit to insist on the first

alternative, and Mrs. Lawson was compelled by the pressure of

circumstances to yield in a certain degree; the country-house,

therefore, was let, Mrs. Lawson assigning as a reason, that she had lost

all relish for the country after the death of her dear children, both of

whom had died, leaving the parents childless.

It was the morning of a close sultry day in July, and Mrs. Lawson was

seated in her drawing-room. She was dressed carefully and expensively as

of old, but she had been dunned and threatened at least half-a-dozen

times for the price of the satin dress she wore. Her face was thin and

pale, and there was a look of much care on her countenance; her eyes

were restless and sunken, and discontent spoke in their glances as she

looked on the chairs, sofas, and window-draperies, which had once been

bright-colored, but were now much faded. She had just come to the

resolution of having new covers and hangings, though their mercer's and

upholsterer's bills were long unsettled, when a visitor was shown into

the room. It was Mrs. Thompson, the wife of a very prosperous and

wealthy shopkeeper.

Mrs. Lawson's thin lips wreathed themselves into bright smiles of

welcome, while the foul demon of envy took possession of her soul. Mrs.

Thompson's dress was of the most costly French satin, while hers was

merely British manufacture. They had been old school companions and

rivals in their girlish days. During the first years of the married life

of each, Mrs. Lawson had outshone Mrs. Thompson in every respect; but

now the eclipsed star beamed brightly and scornfully beside the clouds

which had rolled over her rival. Mrs. Thompson was, in face and figure,

in dress and speech, the very impersonation of vulgar and ostentatious

wealth.

"My goodness, it's so hot!" she said, loosening the fastening of her

bonnet, the delicate French blond and white satin and plume, of which

that fabric was composed, contrasting rather painfully at the same time

with her flashed mahogany-colored complexion, and ungracefully-formed

features. "Bless me, I'm so glad we'll get off to our country-house

to-morrow. It's so very delightful, Mrs. Lawson, to have a country

residence to go to. Goodness me what a close room, and such a hot, dusty

street. It does just look so queer to me after Fitzherbert-square."

To this Mrs. Lawson made a response as composed as she could; she would

have retorted bitterly and violently, but her husband had a connection

with the Thompson establishment, and for strong reasons she considered

it prudent to refrain from quarreling with Mrs. Thompson. She,

therefore, spoke but very little, and Mrs. Thompson was left at liberty

to give a lengthened detail of Mr. Thompson's great wealth and her own

great profusion. She began first with herself, and furnished an exact

detail of all the fine things she had purchased in the last month, down

to the latest box of pins. Next, her babies occupied her for half an

hour--the quantity of chicken they consumed, and the number of frocks

they soiled per diem were minutely chronicled. Then her house came under

consideration: she depicted the bright glory of the new _ponceau_

furniture, as contrasted with shocking old faded things--and she glanced

significantly toward Mrs. Lawson's sofas and chairs. Next she made a

discursive detour to the culinary department, and gave a statement of

the number of stones of lump sugar she was getting boiled in preserves,

and of the days of the week in which they had puddings, and the days

they had pies at dinner.

"But, Mrs. Lawson, dear, have you seen old Mr. Lawson since he came

home?" she said, when she was rising to depart; "but I suppose you

haven't, for they say he won't have any thing to do with his relations

now--he won't come near you, I have heard. They say he has brought such

a lot of money with him from South America."

At this intelligence every feature of Mrs. Lawson's face brightened with

powerful interest. She inquired where Mr. Lawson stopped, and was

informed that he had arrived at the best hotel in the town about three

days previously, and that every one talked of the large fortune he had

made abroad, as he seemed to make no secret of the fact.

A burning eagerness to obtain possession of that money entered Mrs.

Lawson's soul, and she thought every second of time drawn out to the

painful duration of a long hour, while Mrs. Thompson slowly moved her

ample skirts of satin across the drawing-room, and took her departure.

Mrs. Lawson dispatched a messenger immediately for her husband.

Henry Lawson came in, and listened with surprise to the intelligence of

his father's return. He was taking up his hat to proceed to the hotel in

quest of him, when a carriage drove to the door. Mrs. Lawson's heart

palpitated with eagerness--if it should be her husband's father in his

own carriage--how delightful! that horrible Mrs. Thompson had not a

carriage of her own yet, though she was always talking of it. They, Mrs.

Lawson and her husband, had just been about setting up a carriage when

business failed with them. She ran briskly down the stairs--for long

years she had not flown with such alertness--rapid visions of gold, of

splendor, and triumph seemed to bear her along, as if she had not been a

being of earth.

She was not disappointed, for there, at the open door, stood John

Lawson. He was enveloped in a cloak of fur, the costliness of which told

Mrs. Lawson that it was the purchase of wealth; a servant in plain

livery supported him, for he seemed a complete invalid.

Mrs. Lawson threw her arms around his neck, and embraced him with a

warmth and eagerness which brought a cold and bitter smile over the

white, thin lips of John Lawson. He replied briefly to the welcomings he

received. He threw aside his cloak, and exhibited the figure of an

exceedingly emaciated and feeble old man, who had all the appearance of

ninety years, though he was little more than sixty; his face was worn

and fleshless to a painful degree; his hair was of the whitest shade of

great age, but his eyes had grown much more serene in their expression

than in his earlier days, notwithstanding a cast of suffering which his

whole countenance exhibited. He was plainly, but most carefully and

respectably dressed; a diamond ring of great value was on one of his

fingers; the lustre of the diamonds caught Mrs. Lawson's glance on her

first inspection of his person, and her heart danced with rapture--Mrs.

Thompson had no such ring, with all her boasting of all her finery.

"I have come to see my child before I die," said the old man, gazing on

his son with earnest eyes; "you broke the ties of nature between us on

your part, when, ten years ago, you refused your father a few shillings

from your abundance, but--"

He was interrupted by Mrs. Lawson, who uttered many voluble

protestations of her deep grief at her having, even though for the sake

of economy, refused the money her dear father had solicited before he

left them. She vowed that she had neither ate, nor slept, nor even

dressed herself for weeks after his departure; and that, sleeping or

waking, she was perpetually wishing she had given him the money, even

though she had known that he was going to throw it into the fire, or

lose it in any way. Her poor, dear father--oh, she wept so after she

heard that he had left the country. To be sure Henry could tell how, for

two or three nights, her pillow was soaked with tears.

A cold, bitter smile again flitted across the old man's lips; he made no

response to her words, but in the one look which his hollow eyes east on

her, he seemed to read the falsehood of her assertions.

"I was going to add," he said, "that though you forgot you were my son,

and refused to act as my son, when you withheld the paltry sum for which

I begged, yet I could not refrain from coming once more to look on my

child's face--to look on the face of my departed wife in yours--for I

know that a very brief period must finish my life now. I should not have

come here, I feel--I know it is the weakness of my nature--should have

died among strangers, for the strangers of other countries, the people

of a different hue, and a different language, I have found kind and

pitiful, compared with those of my own house.

"Oh, don't say so--don't say so--you are our own beloved father; ah, my

heart clings to every feature of your poor, dear, old face; there are

the eyes and all that I used to talk to Henry so much about. Don't talk

of strangers--I shall nurse you and attend to you night and day."

She made a movement, as if she would throw her arms around his neck

again, but the old man drew back.

"Woman! your hypocritical words show me that your pitiless heart is

still unchanged--that it is grown even worse. You forced me out to the

world in my old age, when I should have had no thoughts except of God

and the world to come; you forced me to think of money-making, when my

hair was gray and my blood cold with years. Yes, I had to draw my

thoughts from the future existence, and to waste them on the miserable

toils of traffic, in order to make money; for it was better to do this

than to drag out my life a pensioner on your bounty, receiving shillings

and pence which you gave me as if it had been your heart's blood, though

I only asked my own. Woman! the black slavery of my dependence on you

was frightful; but now I can look you thanklessly in the face, for I

have the means of living without you. I spent sick and sleepless days

and nights, but I gained an independence; the merciful God blessed the

efforts of the old man, who strove to gain his livelihood--yes, I am

independent of you both. I came to see my son before I die--that is all

I want."

Mrs. Lawson attempted a further justification of herself, but the words

died on her lips. The stern looks of the old man silenced her.

After remaining for a short time, he rose to take his departure; but, at

the earnest solicitations of his son, he consented to remain for a few

days, only on condition that he should pay for his board and lodging. To

this Mrs. Lawson made a feint of resistance, but agreed in the end, as

the terms offered by the old man were very advantageous.

"I shall soon have a lodging for which no mortal is called on to

pay--the great mother-earth," said the old man, "and I am glad, glad to

escape from this money-governed world. Do not smile so blandly on me,

both of you, and attend me with such false tenderness. There, take it

away," he said, as Mrs. Lawson was placing her most comfortable

footstool under his feet; "there was no attendance, no care, not a civil

action or kind look for me when I was poor John Lawson, the silly, most

silly old man, who had given up all to his son and his son's wife, for

the love of them, and expected, like a fool that he was, to live with

them on terms of perfect equality, and to have the family purse open to

him for any trifling sums he wished to take. Go, go for God's sake; try

and look bitterly on me now, as you did when you forced me out of your

house. I detest your obsequious attentions--I was as worthy of them ten

years ago, before I dragged down my old age to the debasing efforts of

money-making. You know I am rich; you would worship my money in me now.

Not a smiling look, not a soft word you bestow on me, but is for my

riches, not for me. Ay, you think you have my wealth in your grasp

already; you know I can not live long. Thank God that my life is almost

ended, and I hope my death will be a benefit to you, in softening your

hard hearts."

Mrs. Lawson drew some hope from his last words, and she turned away her

head to hide the joy which shone on her face.

In a few days the old man became seriously ill, and was altogether

confined to his room. As death evidently approached, his mind became

serene and calm, and he received the attentions which Mrs. Lawson and

his son lavished on him with a silent composure, which led them to hope

that he had completely forgotten their previous conduct to him.

The night on which he died, he turned to his son, and said a few words,

a very few words, regarding worldly matters. He exhorted Henry to live

in a somewhat less expensive style, and to cultivate a spirit of

contentment without riches; then he blessed God that he was entering on

a world in which he would hear no more of money, or earthly possession.

He remained in a calm sleep during the greater part of the night, they

thought, but in the morning they found him dead.

The funeral was over, and the time was come in which the old man's will

was to be opened Mrs. Lawson had waited for that moment--she would have

forcibly dragged time onward to that moment--she had execrated the long

hours of night since the old man's death--she had still more

anathematized the slowly passing days, when gazing furtively through a

corner of the blinded window, she saw fine equipages and finely-dressed

ladies passing, and she planned how she would shine when the old man's

wealth would be her own. She drew glorious mental pictures of how she

would burst from behind the shadowing cloud of poverty, and dazzle all

her acquaintances. Her dress, her carriage, her style of living would be

unique in her rank of life for taste and costliness. She would show them

she had got money--money at last--more money than them all.

Now at last she sat and saw the will being opened; she felt that it was

a mere formality, for the old man had no one but them to whom he could

leave his money; she never once doubted but all would be theirs; she had

reasoned, and fancied herself into the firm conviction. Her only fear

was, that the amount might not be so large as she calculated on.

She saw the packet opened. Her eyes dilated, her lips became parched;

her heart and brain burned with a fierce eagerness--money, money! at

last uttered the griping spirit within her.

The will, after beginning in the usual formal style, was as follows:

"I bequeath to my son Henry's wife, Augusta Lawson, a high and noble

gift" (Mrs. Lawson almost sprung from her seat with eagerness), "the

greatest of all legacies, I bequeath to Augusta Lawson--Charity! Augusta

Lawson refused me a few shillings which I wished to bestow on a starving

woman; but now I leave her joint executrix, with my son Henry, in the

distribution of all my money and all my effects, without any

reservation, in charity, to be applied to such charitable purposes as in

this, my last will and testament, I have directed."

Then followed a statement of his effects and money, down to the most

minute particular; the money amounted to a very considerable sum; his

personal effects he directed to be sold, with the exception of his

valuable diamond ring, which he bequeathed to the orphan daughter of a

poor relation in whose house he had taken refuge, and remained for a

short time, previous to his going abroad. All the proceeds of his other

effects, together with the whole amount of his money, he bequeathed for

different charitable purposes, and gave minute directions as to the

manner in which various sums were to be expended. The largest amount he

directed to be distributed in yearly donations among the most indigent

old men and women within a circuit of ten miles of his native place.

Those who were residing with their sons, and their sons' wives, were to

receive by far the largest relief. He appointed as trustees two of the

most respectable merchants of the town, to whom he gave authority to see

the provisions of his will carried out, in case his son and Mrs. Lawson

should decline the duties of executor-ship which he had bequeathed to

them; the trustees were to exercise a surveillance over Mr. and Mrs.

Lawson, to see that the will should in every particular be strictly

carried into effect. The will was dated, and duly signed in the town in

South America where the old man had for some years resided; a codicil,

containing the bequest of the ring, with some further particulars

regarding the charities, had been added a few days previous to the old

man's death.

Mrs. Lawson was carried fainting from the room before the reading of the

will was concluded. She was seized with violent fever, and her life was

despaired of. She recovered, however, and from the verge of the eternal

existence on which she had been, she returned to life with a less

worldly and ostentatious nature, and a soul more alive to the impulses

of kindness and charity.

[From Cumming's Hunting Adventures in South Africa.]

ELEPHANT SHOOTING.

It was a glorious day, with a cloudy sky, and the wind blew fresh off

the Southern Ocean. Having ridden some miles in a northerly direction,

we crossed the broad and gravelly bed of a periodical river, in which

were abundance of holes excavated by the elephants, containing delicious

water. Having passed the river, we entered an extensive grove of

picturesque cameel-dorn trees, clad in young foliage of the most

delicious green. On gaining a gentle eminence about a mile beyond this

grove, I looked forth upon an extensive hollow, where I beheld, for the

first time for many days, a fine old cock ostrich, which quickly

observed us, and dashed away to our left. I had ceased to devote my

attention to the ostrich, and was straining my eyes in an opposite

direction, when Kleinboy called out to me, "Dar loup de ould carle;" and

turning my eyes to the retreating ostrich, I beheld two first-rate old

bull elephants, charging along at their utmost speed within a hundred

yards of it. They seemed at first to be in great alarm, but quickly

discovering what it was that had caused their confusion, they at once

reduced their pace to a slow and stately walk. This was a fine look-out;

the country appeared to be favorable for an attack, and I was followed

by Wolf and Bonteberg, both tried and serviceable dogs with elephants.

Owing to the pace at which I had been riding, both dogs and horses were

out of breath, so I resolved not to attack the elephants immediately,

but to follow slowly, holding them in view.

The elephants were proceeding right up the wind, and the distance

between us was about five hundred yards. I advanced quietly toward them,

and had proceeded about half way, when, casting my eyes to my right, I

beheld a whole herd of tearing bull elephants standing thick together on

a wooded eminence within three hundred yards of me. These elephants were

almost to leeward. Now, the correct thing to do was to slay the best in

each troop, which I accomplished in the following manner: I gave the

large herd my wind, upon which they instantly tossed their trunks aloft,

"a moment snuffed the tainted gale," and, wheeling about, charged right

down wind, crashing through the jungle in dire alarm. My object now was

to endeavor to select the finest bull, and hunt him to a distance from

the other troop, before I should commence to play upon his hide.

Stirring my steed, I galloped forward. Right in my path stood two

rhinoceroses of the white variety, and to these the dogs instantly gave

chase. I followed in the wake of the retreating elephants, tracing their

course by the red dust which they raised, and left in clouds behind

them.