had studied through all that was to be studied in Greek, and Latin, and
German too; and she saw a library of books in his room, that made her
sigh every time she looked at them, to think how much there was to be
learned of which she was ignorant. But all this wore away, and presently
they were the best friends in the world. He gave her books to read, and
he gave her lessons in French, nothing puzzled by that troublesome verb
which must be first conjugated, whether in French, Latin, or English.
Then he gave her a deal of good advice about the cultivation of her mind
and the formation of her character, all of which was very improving, and
tended greatly to consolidate their friendship. But, unfortunately for
Mary, William made quite as favorable an impression on the female
community generally as he did on her, having distinguished himself on
certain public occasions, such as delivering lectures on botany, and
also, at the earnest request of the fourth of July committee, pronounced
an oration which covered him with glory. He had been known, also, to
write poetry, and had a retired and romantic air greatly bewitching to
those who read Bulwer's novels. In short, it was morally certain,
according to all rules of evidence, that if he had chosen to pay any
lady of the village a dozen visits a week, she would have considered it
as her duty to entertain him.
William did visit; for, like many studious people, he found a need for
the excitement of society; but, whether it was party or singing school,
he walked home with Mary, of course, in as steady and domestic a manner
as any man who has been married a twelvemonth. His air in conversing
with her was inevitably more confidential than with any other one, and
this was cause for envy in many a gentle breast, and an interesting
diversity of reports with regard to her manner of treating the young
gentleman went forth into the village.
"I wonder Mary Taylor will laugh and joke so much with William Barton in
company," said one. "Her manners are altogether too free," said another.
"It is evident she has designs upon him," remarked a third. "And she
cannot even conceal it," pursued a fourth.
Some sayings of this kind at length reached the ears of Mrs. Abigail,
who had the best heart in the world, and was so indignant that it might
have done your heart good to see her. Still she thought it showed that
"the girl needed _advising_;" and "she should _talk_ to Mary about the
matter."
But she first concluded to advise with William on the subject; and,
therefore, after dinner the same day, while he was looking over a
treatise on trigonometry or conic sections, she commenced upon him:--
"Our Mary is growing up a fine girl."
William was intent on solving a problem, and only understanding that
something had been said, mechanically answered, "Yes."
"A little wild or so," said Mrs. Abigail.
"I know it," said William, fixing his eyes earnestly on E, F, B, C.
"Perhaps you think her a little too talkative and free with you
sometimes; you know girls do not always think what they do."
"Certainly," said William, going on with his problem.
"I think you had better speak to her about it," said Mrs. Abigail.
"I think so too," said William, musing over his completed work, till at
length he arose, put it in his pocket, and went to school.
O, this unlucky concentrativeness! How many shocking things a man may
indorse by the simple habit of saying "Yes" and "No," when he is not
hearing what is said to him.
The next morning, when William was gone to the academy, and Mary was
washing the breakfast things, Aunt Abigail introduced the subject with
great tact and delicacy by remarking.--
"Mary, I guess you had better be rather less free with William than you
have been."
"Free!" said Mary, starting, and nearly dropping the cup from her hand;
"why, aunt, what _do_ you mean?"
"Why, Mary, you must not always be around so free in talking with him,
at home, and in company, and every where. It won't do." The color
started into Mary's cheek, and mounted even to her forehead, as she
answered with a dignified air,--
"I have not been too free; I know what is right and proper; I have not
been doing any thing that was improper."
Now, when one is going to give advice, it is very troublesome to have
its necessity thus called in question; and Mrs. Abigail, who was fond of
her own opinion, felt called upon to defend it.
"Why, yes, you have, Mary; every body in the village notices it."
"I don't care what every body in the village says. I shall always do
what I think proper," retorted the young lady; "I know Cousin William
does not think so."
"Well, _I_ think he does, from some things I have heard him say."
"O aunt! what have you heard him say?" said Mary, nearly upsetting a
chair in the eagerness with which she turned to her aunt.
"Mercy on us! you need not knock the house down, Mary. I don't remember
exactly about it, only that his way of speaking made me think so."
"O aunt! do tell me what it was, and all about it," said Mary, following
her aunt, who went around dusting the furniture.
Mrs. Abigail, like most obstinate people, who feel that they have gone
too far, and yet are ashamed to go back, took refuge in an obstinate
generalization, and only asserted that she had heard him say things, as
if he did not quite like her ways.
This is the most consoling of all methods in which to leave a matter of
this kind for a person of active imagination. Of course, in five
minutes, Mary had settled in her mind a list of remarks that would have
been suited to any of her village companions, as coming from her cousin.
All the improbability of the thing vanished in the absorbing
consideration of its possibility; and, after a moment's reflection, she
pressed her lips together in a very firm way, and remarked that "Mr.
Barton would have no occasion to say such things again."
It was very evident, from her heightened color and dignified air, that
her state of mind was very heroical. As for poor Aunt Abigail, she felt
sorry she had vexed her, and addressed herself most earnestly to her
consolation, remarking, "Mary, I don't suppose William meant any thing.
He knows you don't mean any thing wrong."
"Don't _mean_ any thing wrong!" said Mary, indignantly.
"Why, child, he thinks you don't know much about folks and things, and
if you have been a little----"
"But I have not been. It was he that talked with me first. It was he
that did every thing first. He called me cousin--and he _is_ my cousin."
"No, child, you are mistaken; for you remember his grandfather was----"
"I don't care who his grandfather was; he has no right to think of me as
he does."
"Now, Mary, don't go to quarrelling with him; he can't help his
thoughts, you know."
"I don't care what he thinks," said Mary, flinging out of the room with
tears in her eyes.
Now, when a young lady is in such a state of affliction, the first thing
to be done is to sit down and cry for two hours or more, which Mary
accomplished in the most thorough manner; in the mean while making many
reflections on the instability of human friendships, and resolving never
to trust any one again as long as she lived, and thinking that this was
a cold and hollow-hearted world, together with many other things she had
read in books, but never realized so forcibly as at present. But what
was to be done? Of course she did not wish to speak a word to William
again, and wished he did not board there; and finally she put on her
bonnet, and determined to go over to her other aunt's in the
neighborhood, and spend the day, so that she might not see him at
dinner.
But it so happened that Mr. William, on coming home at noon, found
himself unaccountably lonesome during school recess for dinner, and
hearing where Mary was, determined to call after school at night at her
aunt's, and attend her home.
Accordingly, in the afternoon, as Mary was sitting in the parlor with
two or three cousins, Mr. William entered.
Mary was so anxious to look just as if nothing was the matter, that she
turned away her head, and began to look out of the window just as the
young gentleman came up to speak to her. So, after he had twice inquired
after her health, she drew up very coolly, and said,--
"Did you speak to me, sir?"
William looked a little surprised at first, but seating himself by her,
"To be sure," said he; "and I came to know why you ran away without
leaving any message for me?"
"It did not occur to me," said Mary, in the dry tone which, in a lady,
means, "I will excuse you from any further conversation, if you please."
William felt as if there was something different from common in all
this, but thought that perhaps he was mistaken, and so continued:--
"What a pity, now, that you should be so careless of me, when I was so
thoughtful of you! I have come all this distance, to see how you do."
"I am sorry to have given you the trouble," said Mary.
"Cousin, are you unwell to-day?" said William.
"No, sir," said Mary, going on with her sewing.
There was something so marked and decisive in all this, that William
could scarcely believe his ears. He turned away, and commenced a
conversation with a young lady; and Mary, to show that she could talk if
she chose, commenced relating a story to her cousins, and presently they
were all in a loud laugh.
"Mary has been full of her knickknacks to-day," said her old uncle,
joining them.
William looked at her: she never seemed brighter or in better spirits,
and he began to think that even Cousin Mary might puzzle a man
sometimes.
He turned away, and began a conversation with old Mr. Zachary Coan on
the raising of buckwheat--a subject which evidently required profound
thought, for he never looked more grave, not to say melancholy.
Mary glanced that way, and was struck with the sad and almost severe
expression with which he was listening to the details of Mr. Zachary,
and was convinced that he was no more thinking of buckwheat than she
was.
"I never thought of hurting his feelings so much," said she, relenting;
"after all, he has been very kind to me. But he might have told me about
it, and not somebody else." And hereupon she cast another glance towards
him.
William was not talking, but sat with his eyes fixed on the
snuffer-tray, with an intense gravity of gaze that quite troubled her,
and she could not help again blaming herself.
"To be sure! Aunt was right; he could not help his thoughts. I will try
to forget it," thought she.
Now, you must not think Mary was sitting still and gazing during this
soliloquy. No, she was talking and laughing, apparently the most
unconcerned spectator in the room. So passed the evening till the little
company broke up.
"I am ready to attend you home," said William, in a tone of cold and
almost haughty deference.
"I am obliged to you," said the young lady, in a similar tone, "but I
shall stay all night;" then, suddenly changing her tone, she said, "No,
I cannot keep it up any longer. I will go home with you, Cousin
William."
"Keep up what?" said William, with surprise.
Mary was gone for her bonnet. She came out, took his arm, and walked on
a little way.
"You have advised me always to be frank, cousin," said Mary, "and I must
and will be; so I shall tell you all, though I dare say it is not
according to rule."
"All what?" said William.
"Cousin," said she, not at all regarding what he said, "I was very much
vexed this afternoon."
"So I perceived, Mary."
"Well, it is vexatious," she continued, "though, after all, we cannot
expect people to think us perfect; but I did not think it quite fair in
you not to tell _me_."
"Tell you what, Mary?"
Here they came to a place where the road turned through a small patch of
woods. It was green and shady, and enlivened by a lively chatterbox of a
brook. There was a mossy trunk of a tree that had fallen beside it, and
made a pretty seat. The moonlight lay in little patches upon it, as it
streamed down through the branches of the trees. It was a fairy-looking
place, and Mary stopped and sat down, as if to collect her thoughts.
After picking up a stick, and playing a moment in the water, she
began:--
"After all, cousin, it was very natural in you to say so, if you thought
so; though I should not have supposed you would think so."
"Well, I should be glad if I could know what it is," said William, in a
tone of patient resignation.
"O, I forgot that I had not told you," said she, pushing back her hat,
and speaking like one determined to go through with the thing. "Why,
cousin, I have been told that you spoke of my manners towards yourself
as being freer--more--obtrusive than they should be. And now," said she,
her eyes flashing, "you see it was not a very easy thing to tell you,
but I began with being frank, and I will be so, for the sake of
satisfying _myself_."
To this William simply replied, "Who told you this, Mary?"
"My aunt."
"Did she say I said it to her?"
"Yes; and I do not so much object to your saying it as to your
_thinking_ it, for you know I did not force myself on your notice; it
was you who sought my acquaintance and won my confidence; and that you,
above all others, should think of me in this way!"
"I never did think so, Mary," said William, quietly.
"Nor ever _said_ so?"
"Never. I should think you might have _known_ it, Mary."
"But----" said Mary.
"But," said William, firmly, "Aunt Abigail is certainly mistaken."
"Well, I am glad of it," said Mary, looking relieved, and gazing in the
brook. Then looking up with warmth, "and, cousin, you never must think
so. I am ardent, and I express myself freely; but I never meant, I am
sure I never _should_ mean, any thing more than a sister might say."
"And are you sure you never could, if all my happiness depended on it,
Mary?"
She turned and looked up in his face, and saw a look that brought
conviction. She rose to go on, and her hand was taken and drawn into the
arm of her cousin, and that was the end of the first and the last
difficulty that ever arose between them.
THE MINISTRATION OF OUR DEPARTED FRIENDS.
A NEW YEAR'S REVERY.
"It is a beautiful belief,
That ever round our head
Are hovering on viewless wings
The spirits of the dead."
While every year is taking one and another from the ranks of life and
usefulness, or the charmed circle of friendship and love, it is soothing
to remember that the spiritual world is gaining in riches through the
poverty of this.
In early life, with our friends all around us,--hearing their voices,
cheered by their smiles,--death and the spiritual world are to us
remote, misty, and half-fabulous; but as we advance in our journey, and
voice after voice is hushed, and form after form vanishes from our side,
and our shadow falls almost solitary on the hillside of life, the soul,
by a necessity of its being, tends to the unseen and spiritual, and
pursues in another life those it seeks in vain in this.
For with every friend that dies, dies also some especial form of social
enjoyment, whose being depended on the peculiar character of that
friend; till, late in the afternoon of life, the pilgrim seems to
himself to have passed over to the unseen world in successive portions
half his own spirit; and poor indeed is he who has not familiarized
himself with that unknown, whither, despite himself, his soul is
earnestly tending.
One of the deepest and most imperative cravings of the human heart, as
it follows its beloved ones beyond the veil, is for some assurance that
they still love and care for us. Could we firmly believe this,
bereavement would lose half its bitterness. As a German writer
beautifully expresses it, "Our friend is not wholly gone from us; we see
across the river of death, in the blue distance, the smoke of his
cottage;" hence the heart, always creating what it desires, has ever
made the guardianship and ministration of departed spirits a favorite
theme of poetic fiction.
But is it, then, fiction? Does revelation, which gives so many hopes
which nature had not, give none here? Is there no sober certainty to
correspond to the inborn and passionate craving of the soul? Do departed
spirits in verity retain any knowledge of what transpires in this world,
and take any part in its scenes? All that revelation says of a spiritual
state is more intimation than assertion; it has no distinct treatise,
and teaches nothing apparently of set purpose; but gives vague, glorious
images, while now and then some accidental ray of intelligence looks
out,--
"----like eyes of cherubs shining
From out the veil that hid the ark."
But out of all the different hints and assertions of the Bible we think
a better inferential argument might be constructed to prove the
ministration of departed spirits than for many a doctrine which has
passed in its day for the height of orthodoxy.
First, then, the Bible distinctly says that there is a class of
invisible spirits who minister to the children of men: "Are they not all
ministering spirits, sent forth to minister to those who shall be heirs
of salvation?" It is said of little children, that "their angels do
always behold the face of our Father which is in heaven." This last
passage, from the words of our Savior, taken in connection with the
well-known tradition of his time, fully recognizes the idea of
individual guardian spirits; for God's government over mind is, it
seems, throughout, one of intermediate agencies, and these not chosen at
random, but with the nicest reference to their adaptation to the purpose
intended. Not even the All-seeing, All-knowing One was deemed perfectly
adapted to become a human Savior without a human experience. Knowledge
intuitive, gained from above, of human wants and woes was not enough--to
it must be added the home-born certainty of consciousness and memory;
the Head of all mediation must become human. Is it likely, then, that,
in selecting subordinate agencies, this so necessary a requisite of a
human life and experience is overlooked? While around the throne of God
stand spirits, now sainted and glorified, yet thrillingly conscious of a
past experience of sin and sorrow, and trembling in sympathy with
temptations and struggles like their own, is it likely that he would
pass by these souls, thus burning for the work, and commit it to those
bright abstract beings whose knowledge and experience are comparatively
so distant and so cold?
It is strongly in confirmation of this idea, that in the transfiguration
scene--which seems to have been intended purposely to give the disciples
a glimpse of the glorified state of their Master--we find him attended
by two spirits of earth, Moses and Elias, "which appeared with him in
glory, and spake of his death which he should accomplish at Jerusalem."
It appears that these so long departed ones were still mingling in deep
sympathy with the tide of human affairs--not only aware of the present,
but also informed as to the future. In coincidence with this idea are
all those passages which speak of the redeemed of earth as being closely
and indissolubly identified with Christ, members of his body, of his
flesh and his bones. It is not to be supposed that those united to Jesus
above all others by so vivid a sympathy and community of interests are
left out as instruments in that great work of human regeneration which
so engrosses him; and when we hear Christians spoken of as kings and
priests unto God, as those who shall judge angels, we see it more than
intimated that they are to be the partners and actors in that great work
of spiritual regeneration of which Jesus is the head.
What then? May we look among the band of ministering spirits for our own
departed ones? Whom would God be more likely to send us? Have we in
heaven a friend who knew us to the heart's core? a friend to whom we
have unfolded our soul in its most secret recesses? to whom we have
confessed our weaknesses and deplored our griefs? If we are to have a
ministering spirit, who better adapted? Have we not memories which
correspond to such a belief? When our soul has been cast down, has never
an invisible voice whispered, "There is lifting up"? Have not gales and
breezes of sweet and healing thought been wafted over us, as if an angel
had shaken from his wings the odors of paradise? Many a one, we are
confident, can remember such things--and whence come they? Why do the
children of the pious mother, whose grave has grown green and smooth
with years, seem often to walk through perils and dangers fearful and
imminent as the crossing Mohammed's fiery gulf on the edge of a drawn
sword, yet walk unhurt? Ah! could we see that attendant form, that face
where the angel conceals not the mother, our question would be answered.
It may be possible that a friend is sometimes taken because the Divine
One sees that his ministry can act more powerfully from the unseen world
than amid the infirmities of mortal intercourse. Here the soul,
distracted and hemmed in by human events and by bodily infirmities,
often scarce knows itself, and makes no impression on others
correspondent to its desires. The mother would fain electrify the heart
of her child; she yearns and burns in vain to make her soul effective on
its soul, and to inspire it with a spiritual and holy life; but all her
own weaknesses, faults, and mortal cares cramp and confine her, till
death breaks all fetters; and then, first truly alive, risen, purified,
and at rest, she may do calmly, sweetly, and certainly, what, amid the
tempests and tossings of life, she labored for painfully and fitfully.
So, also, to generous souls, who burn for the good of man, who deplore
the shortness of life, and the little that is permitted to any
individual agency on earth, does this belief open a heavenly field.
Think not, father or brother, long laboring for man, till thy sun stands
on the western mountains,--think not that thy day in this world is over.
Perhaps, like Jesus, thou hast lived a human life, and gained a human
experience, to become, under and like him, a savior of thousands; thou
hast been through the preparation, but thy real work of good, thy full
power of doing, is yet to begin.
But again: there are some spirits (and those of earth's choicest) to
whom, so far as enjoyment to themselves or others is concerned, this
life seems to have been a total failure. A hard hand from the first, and
all the way through life, seems to have been laid upon them; they seem
to live only to be chastened and crushed, and we lay them in the grave
at last in mournful silence. To such, what a vision is opened by this
belief! This hard discipline has been the school and task-work by which
their soul has been fitted for their invisible labors in a future life;
and when they pass the gates of the grave, their course of benevolent
acting first begins, and they find themselves delighted possessors of
what through many years they have sighed for--the power of doing good.
The year just past, like all other years, has taken from a thousand
circles the sainted, the just, and the beloved; there are spots in a
thousand graveyards which have become this year dearer than all the
living world; but in the loneliness of sorrow how cheering to think that
our lost ones are not wholly gone from us! They still may move about in
our homes, shedding around an atmosphere of purity and peace, promptings
of good, and reproofs of evil. We are compassed about by a cloud of
witnesses, whose hearts throb in sympathy with every effort and
struggle, and who thrill with joy at every success. How should this
thought check and rebuke every worldly feeling and unworthy purpose, and
enshrine us, in the midst of a forgetful and unspiritual world, with an
atmosphere of heavenly peace! They have overcome--have risen--are
crowned, glorified; but still they remain to us, our assistants, our
comforters, and in every hour of darkness their voice speaks to us: "So
we grieved, so we struggled, so we fainted, so we doubted; but we have
overcome, we have obtained, we have seen, we have found--and in our
victory behold the certainty of thy own."
MRS. A. AND MRS. B.;
OR, WHAT SHE THINKS ABOUT IT.
Mrs. A. and Mrs. B. were next-door neighbors and intimate friends--that
is to say, they took tea with each other very often, and, in
confidential strains, discoursed of stockings and pocket handkerchiefs,
of puddings and carpets, of cookery and domestic economy, through all
its branches.
"I think, on the whole," said Mrs. A., with an air of profound
reflection, "that gingerbread is the cheapest and healthiest cake one
can make. I make a good deal of it, and let my children have as much as
they want of it."
"I used to do so," said Mrs. B., "but I haven't had any made these two
months."
"Ah! Why not?" said Mrs. A.
"Why, it is some trouble; and then, though it is cheap, it is cheaper
not to have any; and, on the whole, the children are quite as well
contented without it, and so we are fallen into the way of not having
any."
"But one must keep some kind of cake in the house," said Mrs. A.
"So I have always heard, and thought, and practised," said Mrs. B.; "but
really of late I have questioned the need of it."