PART XII.

THE PARSONAGE.

It was not without misgiving that I knocked modestly at the door of Mr

Jehu Tomkins. For himself, there was no solidity in his moral

composition, nothing to grapple or rely upon. He was a small weak man of

no character at all, and but for his powerful wife and active partner,

would have become the smallest of unknown quantities in the respectable

parish that contained him. Upon his own weak shoulders he could not have

sustained the burden of an establishment, and must inevitably have

dwindled into the lightest of light porters, or the most aged of

errand-boys. Nothing could have saved him from the operation of a law,

as powerful and certain as that of gravitation, in virtue of which the

soft and empty-headed of this world walk to the wall, and resign,

without a murmur, their places to their betters. As for the deaconess, I

have said already that the fact of her being a lady, and the possessor

of a heart, constituted the only ground of hope that I could have in

reference to her. This I felt to be insecure enough when I held the

knocker in my hand, and remembered all at once the many little tales

that I had heard, every one of which went far to prove that ladies may

be ladies without the generous weakness of their sex,--and carry hearts

about with them as easily as they carry bags.

My first application was unsuccessful. The deacon was not at home. "Mr

Tomkins and his lady had gone _to hear_ the Reverend Doctor

Whitefroth,"--a northern and eccentric light, now blazing for a time in

the metropolis. It is a curious fact, and worthy to be recorded, that Mr

Tomkins, and Mr Buster, and every non-conformist whom I had hitherto

encountered, never professed to visit the house of prayer with any other

object than that of _hearing_. It was never by any accident to worship

or to pray. What, in truth was the vast but lowly looking building, into

which hundreds crowded with the dapper deacon at their head, sabbath

after sabbath--what but a temple sacred to vanity and excitement,

eloquence and perspiration! Which one individual, taken at random from

the concourse, was not ready to declare that his business there that day

was "to hear the dear good man," and nothing else? If you could lay

bare--as, thank Heaven, you cannot--your fellow-creature's heart,

whither would you behold stealing away the adoration that, in such a

place, in such a time, is due to one alone--whither, if not to Mr

Clayton? But let this pass.

I paid a second visit to my friend, and gained admittance. It was about

half-past eight o'clock in the evening, and the shop had been closed

some twenty minutes before. I was ushered into a well-furnished room

behind the shop, where sat the firm--Mrs Jehu and the junior partner.

The latter looked into his lady's face, perceived a smile upon it, and

then--but not till then, he offered me his hand, and welcomed me with

much apparent warmth. This ceremony over, Mr Tomkins grew fidgety and

uneasy, and betrayed a great anxiety to get up a conversation which he

had not heart enough to set a going. Mrs Tomkins, a woman of the world,

evinced no anxiety at all, sat smiling, and in peace. I perceived

immediately that I must state at once the object of my visit, and I

proceeded to the task.

"Mrs Tomkins," I commenced.

"Sir?" said that lady, and then a postman's knock brought us to a stop,

and Jehu skipped across the room to listen at the door.

"That's him, my dear Jemima," exclaimed the linen-draper, "I know his

knock," and then he skipped as quickly to his chair again.

The door of the apartment was opened by a servant girl, who entered the

room alone and approached her mistress with a card. Mrs Tomkins looked

at it through her eye-glass, said "she was most happy," and the servant

then retired. The card was placed upon the table near me, and, as I

believe, for my inspection. I took it up, and read the following words,

"_Mr Stanislaus Levisohn_." They were engraven in the centre of the

paper, and were surrounded by a circle of rays, which in its turn was

enveloped in a circle of clouds. In the very corner of the card, and in

very small characters, the words "_general merchant_" were written.

There was a noise of shoe-cleaning outside the door for about five

minutes, then the door was opened again by the domestic, and a

remarkable gentleman walked very slowly in. He was a tall individual,

with small cunning eyes, black eye-brows, and a beard. He was rather

shabbily attired, and not washed with care. He had thick boorish hands,

and he smelt unpleasantly of tobacco smoke; an affected grin at variance

with every feature, was planted on his face, and sickened an

unprejudiced observer at the very first gaze. His mode of uttering

English betrayed him for a foreigner. He was a native of Poland. Before

uttering a syllable, the interesting stranger walked to a corner of the

room, turned himself to the wall, and muttered a few undistinguishable

words. He then bowed lowly to the company, and took a chair, grinning

all the while.

"Is that a Polish move?" asked Mr Tomkins.

"It vos de coshtom mit de anshent tribes, my tear sare, vor alles tings,

to recommend de family to de protection of de hevins. Vy not now mit all

goot Christians?"

"Why not indeed?" added Mrs Tomkins. "May I offer you a glass of raisin

wine?"

"Tank you. For de shtomack's sake--yase."

A glass was poured out. It was but decent to offer me another. I paid my

compliments to the hostess and the gentlemen, and was about to drink it

off, when the enlightened foreigner called upon me in a loud voice to

desist.

"Shtay, mein young friend--ve are not de heathen and de cannibal. It is

our privilege to live in de Christian society mit de Christian lady. Ve

most ask blessing--alvays--never forget--you excuse--vait tree minutes."

It was not for me to protest against so pious a movement, albeit it

presented itself somewhat inopportunely and out of place. Mr Levisohn

covered his face with one hand, and murmured a few words. The last only

reached me. It was "Amen," and this was rather heaved up in a sigh, than

articulately expressed.

"Do you like the wine?" asked Jehu, as if he thought it superfine.

"Yase, I like moch--especially de sherry and de port."

Jehu smiled, but made no reply.

Mrs Tomkins supposed that port and sherry were favourite beverages in

Poland, but, for her part, she had found that nothing agreed so well

with British stomachs as the native wines.

"Ah! my lady," said the Pole, "ve can give up very moch so long ve got

British religions."

"Very true, indeed," answered Mrs Tomkins. "Pray, Mr Levisohn, what may

be your opinion of the lost sheep? Do you think they will come into the

fold during our time?"

Before the gentleman replies, it may be proper to state on his behalf,

that he had never given his questioner any reason to suppose that he was

better informed on such mysterious subjects than herself. The history of

his introduction into the family of the linen-draper is very short. He

had been for some years connected with Mr Tomkins in the way of

business, having supplied that gentleman with all the genuine foreign,

but certainly English, perfumery, that was retailed with considerable

profit in his over-nice and pious establishment. Mrs Tomkins, no less

zealous in the cause of the church than that of her own shop, at length,

and all on a sudden, resolved to set about his conversion, and to

present him to the chapel as a brand plucked with her own hand from the

burning. As a preliminary step, he was invited to supper, and treated

with peculiar respect. The matter was gently touched upon, but

discussion postponed until another occasion. Mr Levisohn being very

shrewd, very needy, and enjoying no particular principles of morality

and religion, perceived immediately the object of his hostess, met her

more than half-way in her Christian purposes, and accepted her numerous

invitations to tea and supper with the most affectionate readiness.

Within two months he was received into the bosom of the church, and

became as celebrated for the depth and intensity of his belief as for

the earnestness and promptitude with which he attended the meetings of

the brethren, particularly those in which eating and drinking did not

constitute the least important part of the proceedings. Being a

foreigner, he was listened to with the deepest attention, very often

indeed to his serious annoyance, for his ignorance was awful, and his

assurance, great as it was, not always sufficient to get him clear of

his difficulties. His foreign accent, however, worked wonders for him,

and whenever too hard pressed, afforded him a secure and happy retreat.

An unmeaning grin, and "_me not pronounce_," had saved him from

precipices, down which an Englishman, _cæteris paribus_, must

unquestionably have been dashed.

"Vill dey come?" said Mr Levisohn, in answer to the question. "Yase,

certainly, if dey like, I tink."

"Ah, sir, I fear you are a latitudinarian," said the lady.

"I hope Hevin, my dear lady, vill forgive me for dat, and all my

wickedness. I am a shinner, I shtink!"

I looked at the converted gentleman, at the same moment that Mrs Jehu

assured him that it would be a great thing if they were all as satisfied

of their condition as he might be. "Your strong convictions of your

worthlessness is alone a proof," she added, "of your accepted state."

"My lady," continued the humble Stanislaus, "I am rotten, I am a tief, a

blackguard, a swindler, a pickpocket, a housebreak, a sticker mit de

knife. I vish somebody would call me names all de day long, because I

forget sometime dat I am de nashty vurm of de creation. I tink I hire a

boy to call me names, and make me not forget. Oh, my lady, I alvays

remember those fine words you sing--

'If I could read my title clear

To manshions in de shkies,

I say farevell to every fear,

And vipe my veeping eyes.'"

"That is so conscientious of you. Pray, my dear sir, is there an

Establishment in Poland? or have you Independent churches?"

"Ah, my dear lady, we have noting at all!"

"Is it possible?"

"Yase, it is possible--it is true."

"Who could have thought it! What! nothing?"

"Noting at all, my lady. Do not ask me again, I pray you. It is

frightful to a goot Christian to talk dese tings."

"What is your opinion of the Arminian doctrine, Mr Stanislaus?"

"Do you mean de doctrine?" enquired Stanislaus, slowly, as though he

found some difficulty in answering the question.

"Yes, my dear sir."

"I tink," said the gentleman, after some delay, "it vould he very goot

if were not for someting."

"Dear me!" cried Mrs Jehu, "that is so exactly my opinion!"

"Den dere is noting more to be said about dat," continued Stanislaus,

interrupting her; "and I hope you vill not ask dese deep questions, my

dear lady, vich are not at all proper to be answered, and vich put me

into de low spirits. Shall ve sing a hymn?"

"By all means," exclaimed the hostess, who immediately made preparations

for the ceremony. Hymn-books were introduced, and the servant-maid

ordered up, and then a quartet was performed by Mr Levisohn, Mrs

Tomkins, her husband, and Betsy. The subject of the song was the

courtship of Isaac. Two verses only have remained in my memory, and the

manner in which they were given out by the fervent Stanislaus will never

be forgotten. They ran thus:--

"Ven Abraham's servant to procure

A vife for Isaac vent,

He met Rebekah, tould his vish,

Her parents gave conshent.

'Shtay,' Satan, my old master, cries,

'Or force shall thee detain.'

'Hinder me not, I vill be gone,

I vish to break my chain.'"

This being concluded, Mr Tomkins asked Mr Levisohn what he had to say in

the business line, to which Mr Levisohn replied, "Someting very goot,

but should he not vait until after soppare?" whereupon Mr Tomkins gave

his lady a significant leer, and the latter retired, evidently to

prepare the much desired repast. Then did little Jehu turn

confidentially to Stanislaus, and ask him when he meant to deliver that

ere _conac_ that he had promised him so long ago.

"Ven Providence, my tear dikkon, paremits--I expect a case of goots at

de cushtom-house every day; but my friend vot examins de marchandis, and

vot saves me de duties ven I makes it all right mit him, is vary ill, I

am sorry for to say, and ve most vait, mit Christian patience, my dear

sare, till he get well. You see dat?"

"Oh, yes; that's clear enough. Well, Stanny, I only hope that fellow

won't die. I don't think you'd find it so easy to make it _all right_

with any other chap; that's all!"

"I hope he vill not die. Ve mosht pray dat he live, my dear dikkon. I

tink it vill be vell if der goot Mr Clayton pray mit der church for him.

You shall speak for him."

"Well, what have you done about the _Eau de Cologne_?" continued Jehu

Tomkins. "Have you nailed the fellow?"

"It vos specially about dis matter dat I vish to see you, my dear sare.

I persvade der man to sell ten cases. He be very nearly vot you call in

der mess. He valk into de Gazette next week. He shtarve now. I pity him.

De ten cases cost him ten pounds. I give fifty shilling--two pound ten.

He buy meat for de childs, and is tankful. I take ten shillings for my

trouble. Der Christian satisfied mit vary little."

"Any good bills in the market, Stanny?"

Stanislaus Levisohn winked.

"Ho--you don't say so," said the deacon. "Have you got 'em with you?"

"After soppare, my dear sare," answered Stanislaus, who looked at me,

and winked again significantly at Jehu.

Mrs Tomkins returned, accompanied by the vocal Betsy. The cloth was

spread, and real silver forks, and fine cut tumblers, and blue plates

with scripture patterns, speedily appeared. Then came a dish of fried

sausages and parsley--then baked potatoes--then lamb chops. Then we all

sat round the table, and then, against all order and propriety, Mrs Jehu

grossly and publicly insulted her husband at his own board, by calling

upon the enlightened foreigner to ask a blessing upon the meal.

The company sat down; but scarcely were we seated before Stanislaus

resumed.

"I tank you, my tear goot Mrs Tomkins for dat shop mit der brown, ven it

comes to my turn to be sarved. It look just der ting."

Mrs Jehu served her guest immediately.

"I vill take a sossage, tear lady, also, if you please."

"And a baked potato?"

"And a baked potato? Yase."

He was served.

"I beg your pardon, Christian lady, have you got, perhaps, der littel

pickel-chesnut and der crimson cabbage?"

"Mr Tomkins, go down-stairs and get the pickles," said the mistress of

the house, and Tomkins vanished like a mouse on tiptoe.

Before he could return, Stanislaus had eaten more than half his chop,

and discovered that, after all, "it was _not_ just the ting." Mrs Jehu

entreated him to try another. He declined at first; but at length

suffered himself to be persuaded. Four chops had graced the dish

originally; the remaining two were divided equally between the lady and

myself. I begged that my share might be left for the worthy host, but

receiving a recommendation from his wife "not to mind _him_," I said no

more, but kept Mr Stanislaus Levisohn in countenance.

"I hope you'll find it to your liking, Mr Stukely," said our hostess.

"Mishter vat?" exclaimed the foreigner, looking quickly up. "I tink

I"----

"What is the matter, my dear sir?" enquired the lady of the house.

"Noting, my tear friend, I tought der young gentleman vos a poor

unconverted sinner dat I met a long time ago. Dat is all. Ve talk of

someting else."

Has the reader forgotten the dark-visaged individual, who at the

examination of my lamented father before the Commissioners of Bankruptcy

made his appearance in company with Mr Levy and the ready Ikey? Him I

mean of the vivid imagination, who swore to facts which were no facts at

all, and whom an unpoetic jury sentenced to vile imprisonment for wilful

perjury? _There he sat_, transformed into a Pole, bearded and whiskered,

and the hair of his head close clipped, but in every other regard the

same as when the constable invited him to forsake a too prosaic and

ungrateful world: and had Mr Levisohn been wise and guarded, the

discovery would never have been made by me; for we had met but once

before, then only for a short half hour, and under agitating

circumstances. But my curiosity and attention once roused by his

exclamation, it was impossible to mistake my man. I fixed my eye upon

him, and the harder he pulled at his chop, and the more he attempted to

evade my gaze, the more satisfied was I that a villain and an impostor

was seated amongst us. Thinking, absurdly enough, to do my host and

hostess a lasting service, I determined without delay to unmask the

pretended saint, and to secure his victims from the designs he purposed.

"Mr Levisohn," I said immediately, "you have told the truth--we have met

before."

"Nevare, my tear friend, you mistake; nevare in my life, upon my vurd."

"Mrs Tomkins," I continued, rising, "I should not be worthy of your

hospitality if I did not at once make known to you the character of that

man. He is a convicted criminal. I have myself known him to be guilty of

the grossest practices." Mr Levisohn dropped his chop, turned his greasy

face up, and then looked round the room, and endeavoured to appear

unconcerned, innocent, and amazed all at once. At this moment Jehu

entered the room with the pickles, and the face of the deaconess grew

fearfully stern.

"Were you ever in the Court of Bankruptcy, Mr Levisohn?" I continued.

"I have never been out of London, my good sare. You labour under de

mistake.--I excuse you. Ah!" he cried our suddenly, as if a new idea had

struck him very hard; "I see now vot it is. I explain. You take me for

somebody else."

"I do not, sir. I accuse you publicly of having committed perjury of the

most shameless kind, and I can prove you guilty of the charge. Do you

know a person of the name of Levy?"

Mr Stanislaus looked to the ceiling after the manner of individuals who

desire, or who do not desire, as the case may be, to call a subject to

remembrance. "No," he answered, after a long pause; "certainly not. I

never hear dat name."

"Beware of him, Mrs Tomkins," I continued, "he is an impostor, a

disgrace to mankind, and to the faith which he professes."

"What do you mean by that, you impertinent young man?" said Mrs Tomkins,

her blood rising to her face, herself rising from her chair. "I should

have thought that a man who had been so recently expelled from his

church would have had more decency. A pretty person you must be, to

bring a charge of this kind against so good a creature as that."

"No, do not say dat," interposted Stanny; "I am not goot. I am a brute

beast."

"Mr Tomkins," continued the lady, "I don't know what object that person

has in disturbing the peace of our family, or why he comes here at all

to-night. He is a mischief-making, hardened young man, or he would never

have come to what he has. Well, I'm sure--What will Satan put into his

head next!"

"I vould vish you be not angry. Der young gentleman is, I dare say, vary

goot at heart. He is labouring under de deloosions."

"Mr Levisohn, pardon me, I am not. Proofs exist, and I can bring them to

convict you."

"Do you hear that, Mr Tomkins. Were you ever insulted so before? Are you

master in your own house?"

"What shall I do?" said Jehu, trembling with excitement at the door.

"Do! What! Give him his hat, turn him out."

"Oh, my dear goot Christian friends," said Mr Levisohn, imploringly; "de

booels of der Christian growls ven he shees dese sights; vot is de goot

of to fight? It is shtoopid. Let me be der peacemaker. Der yong man has

been drink, perhaps. I forgive him from te bottom of my heart. If ve

quarrel ve fight. If ve fight ve lose every ting.

'So Samson, ven his hair vos lost,

Met the Philistines to his cost,

Shook his vain limbs in shad shurprise,

Made feeble fight, and lost his eyes.'"

"Mr Tomkins," I exclaimed, "I court inquiry, I can obtain proofs."

"We want none of your proofs, you backslider," cried the deaconess.

"Madam, you"----

"Get out of the house, ambassador of Satan! Mr Tomkins, will you tell

him instantly to go?"

"Go!" squealed Tomkins from the door, not advancing an inch.

I seized my hat, and left the table.

"You will be sorry for this, sir," said I; "and you, madam"----

"Don't talk to me, you bad man. If you don't go this minute I'll spring

the rattle and have up the watchmen."

I did not attempt to say another word. I left the room, and hurried from

the house. I had hardly shut the street door before it was violently

opened again, and the head of Mr Levisohn made itself apparent.

"Go home," exclaimed that gentleman, "and pray to be shaved, you

shtoopid ass."

It was not many days after the enacting of this scene, that I entered

upon my duties as the instructor of the infant children of my friend. It

was useless to renew my application to the deacon, and I abandoned the

idea. The youngest of my pupils was the lisping Billy. It was my honour

to introduce him at the very porch of knowledge--to place him on the

first step of learning's ladder--to make familiar to him the simple

letters of his native tongue, in whose mysterious combinations the

mighty souls of men appear and speak. The lesson of the alphabet was the

first that I gave, and a heavy sadness depressed and humbled me when, as

the child repeated wonderingly after me, letter by letter, I could not

but feel deeply and acutely the miserable blighting of my youthful

promises. How long was it ago--it seemed but yesterday, when the sun

used to shine brightly into my own dear bed-room, and awake me with its

first gush of light, telling my ready fancy that he came to rouse me

from inaction, and to encourage me to my labours. Oh, happy labours!

Beloved books! What joy I had amongst you! The house was silent--the

city's streets tranquil as the breath of morning. I heard nothing but

the glorious deeds ye spoke of, and saw only the worthies that were but

dust, when centuries now passed were yet unborn, but whose immortal

spirits are vouchsafed still to elevate man, and cheer him onward. How

intense and sweet was our communion; and as I read and read on, how

gratefully repose crept over me; how difficult it seemed to think

unkindly of the world, or to believe in all the tales of human

selfishness and cruelty with which the old will ever mock the ear and

dull the heart of the confiding and the young. How willing I felt to

love, and how gay a place was earth, with her constant sun, and

overflowing lap, and her thousand joys, for man! And how intense was the

fire of _hope_ that burned within me--fed with new fuel every passing

hour, and how abiding and how beautiful _the future_! THE FUTURE! and it

was here--a nothing--a dream--a melancholy phantasm!

There are seasons of adversity, in which the mind, plunged in

despondency and gloom, is startled and distressed by pictures of a

happier time, that travel far to fool and tantalize the suffering heart.

I sat with the child, and gazing full upon him, beheld him not, but--a

vision of my father's house. There sits the good old man, and at his

side--ah, how seldom were they apart!--my mother. And there, too, is the

clergyman, my first instructor. Every well-remembered piece of furniture

is there. The chair, sacred to my sire, and venerated by me for its age,

and for our long intimacy. I have known it since first I knew myself.

The antique bookcase--the solid chest of drawers--the solemn sofa, all

substantial as ever, and looking, as at first, the immoveable and

natural properties of the domestic parlour. My mother has her eyes upon

me, and they are full of tears. My father and the minister are building

up my fortunes, are fixing in the sandy basis of futurity an edifice

formed of glittering words, incorporeal as the breath that rears it. And

the feelings of that hour come back upon me. I glow with animation,

confidence, and love. I have the strong delight that beats within the

bosom of the boy who has the parents' trusty smile for ever on him. I

dream of pouring happiness into those fond hearts--of growing up to be

their prop and staff in their decline. I pierce into the future, and

behold myself the esteemed and honoured amongst men--the patient,

well-rewarded scholar--the cherished and the cherisher of the dear

authors of my life--all brightness--all glory--all unsullied joy. The

child touches my wet cheek, and asks me why I weep?--why?--why? He knows

not of the early wreck that has annihilated the unhappy teacher's peace.

We were still engaged upon our lesson, when John Thompson interrupted

the proceeding, by entering the apartment in great haste, and placing in

my hands a newspaper. "He had been searching," he said, "for one whole

fortnight, to find a situation that would suit me, and now he thought

that he had hit upon it. There it was, 'a tutorer in a human family,' to

teach the languages and the sciences. Apply from two to four. It's just

three now. Send the youngster to his mother, and see after it, my

friend. I wouldn't have you lose it for the world." I took the journal

from his hands, and, as though placed there by the hand of the avenger

to arouse deeper remorse, to draw still hotter blood from the lacerated

heart, the following announcement, and nothing else, glared on the

paper, and took possession of my sight.

"UNIVERSITY INTELLIGENCE. After a contest more severe than any known for

years, MR JOHN SMITHSON, _of Trinity College, Cambridge_, has been

declared THE SENIOR WRANGLER of his year. Mr Smithson is, we understand,

the son of a humble curate in Norfolk, whose principal support has been

derived from the exertions of his son during his residence in the

University. The honour could not have been conferred on a more deserving

child of Alma Mater."

A hundred recollections crowded on my brain. My heart was torn with

anguish. The perseverance and the filial piety of Smithson, so opposite

to my unsteadiness and unnatural disloyalty, confounded and unmanned me.

I burst into tears before the faithful Thompson, and covered my face for

very shame.

"What is the matter, lad?" exclaimed the good fellow, pale with

surprise, his eye trembling with honest feeling. "Have I hurt you? Drat

the paper! Don't think, Stukely, I wished to get rid of you. Don't think

so hard of your old friend. I thought to help and do you service; I know

you have the feelings of a gentleman about you, and I wouldn't wound

'em, God knows, for any thing. There, think no more about it. I am so

rough a hand, I'm not fit to live with Christians. I mean no harm,

believe me. Get rid of you, my boy! I only wish you'd say this is your

home, and never leave me--that would make me happy."

"Thompson," I answered, through my tears, "I am not deserving of your

friendship. You have not offended me. You have never wronged me. You are

all kindness and truth. I have had no real enemy but myself. Read that

paper."

I pointed to the paragraph, and he read it.

"What of it?" he asked.

"Thompson," listen to me; "what do you say of such a son?"

"I can guess his father's feelings," said my friend. "Earth's a heaven,

Stukely, when father and child live together as God appointed them."

"But when a child breaks a parent's heart, Thompson--what then?"

"Don't talk about it, lad. I have got eleven of 'em, and that's a side

of the picture that I can't look at with pleasure. I think the boys are

good. They have gone on well as yet; but who can tell what a few years

will do?"

"Or a few months, Thompson," I answered quickly, "or a few days, or

hours, when the will is fickle, principles unfixed, and the heart

treacherous and false. That Smithson and I, Thompson, were fellow

students. We left home together--we took up our abode in the University

together--we were attached to the same college--taught by the same

master--read from the same books. My feelings were as warm as his. My

resolution to do well apparently as firm, my knowledge and attainments

as extensive. If he was encouraged, and protected, and urged forward by

the fond love of a devoted household--so was I. If parental blessings

hallowed his entrance upon those pursuits which have ended so

successfully for him--so did they mine. If he had motive for exertion, I

had not less--we were equal in the race which we began together--look at

us now!"

"How did it happen, then?"

"He was honest and faithful to his purpose. I was not. He saw one object

far in the distance before him, and looked neither to the right nor

left, but dug his arduous way towards it. He craved not the false

excitement of temporary applause, nor deemed the opinion of weak men

essential to his design. He had a sacred duty to perform, which left him

not the choice of action, and he performed it to the letter. He had a

feeling conscience, and a reasoning heart, and the home of his youth,

and the sister who had grown up with him, the father who had laboured,

the mother who had striven for him, visited him by night and by day--in

his silent study, and in his lonely bed, comforting, animating, and

supporting him by their delightful presence."

"And what did you do?"

"Just the reverse of this. I had neither simplicity of aim, nor

stability of affection. One slip from the path, and I hadn't energy to

take the road again. One vicious inclination, and the virtuous resolves

of years melted before it. The sneer of a fool could frighten me from

rectitude--the smile of a girl render me indifferent to the pangs that

tear a parent's heart. Look at us both. Look at him--the man whom I

treated with contemptuous derision. What a return home for him--his

mission accomplished--HIS DUTY DONE! Look at me, the outcast, the

beggar, the despised--the author of a mother's death, a father's

bankruptcy and ruin--with no excuse for misconduct, no promise for the

future, no self-justification, and no hope of pardon beyond that

afforded to the vilest criminal that comes repentant to the mercy throne

of God!"

"Well--but, sir--Stukely--don't take the thing to heart. You are

young--look for'rads. Oh, I tell you, it's a blessed thing to be sorry

for our faults, and to feel as if we wished to do better for the time to

come. I'm an older man than you, and I bid you take comfort, and trust

to God for better things, and better things will come, too. You are not

so badly off now as you were this time twelvemonth. And you know I'll

never leave you. Don't despond--don't give away. It's unnatural for a

man to do it, and he's lost if he does. Oh, bless you, this is a life of

suffering and sorrow, and well it is; for who wouldn't go mad to think

of leaving all his young 'uns behind him, and every thing he loves, if

he wasn't taught that there's a quieter place above, where all shall

meet agin? You know me, my boy; I can't talk, but I want to comfort you

and cheer you up--and so, give me your hand, old fellow, and say you

won't think of all this any more, but try and forget it, and see about

settling comfortably in life. What do you say to the advertisement? A

tutorer in a human family, to teach the languages and the sciences. Come

now, that's right; I'm glad to see you laugh. I suppose I don't give the

right pronunciation to the words. Well, never mind; laugh at your old

friend. He'd rather see you laugh at him than teaze your heart about

your troubles."

Thompson would not be satisfied until I had read the advertisement, and

given him my opinion of its merits. He would not suffer me to say

another word about my past misfortunes, but insisted on my looking

forward cheerfully, and like a man. The situation appeared to him just

the thing for me; and after all, if I had wrangled as well as that 'ere

Smithson--(though, at the same time, _wrangling_ seemed a very

aggravating word to put into young men's mouths at all)--perhaps I

shouldn't have been half as happy as a quiet comfortable life would make

me. "I was cut out for a tutorer. He was sure of it. So he'd thank me to

read the paper without another syllable." The advertisement, in truth,

was promising. "The advertiser, in London, desired to engage the

services of a young gentleman, capable of teaching the ancient

languages, and giving his pupils 'an introduction to the sciences.' The

salary would be liberal, and the occupation with a humane family in the

country, who would receive the tutor as one of themselves. References

would be required and given."

"References would be required and given," I repeated, after having

concluded the advertisement, and put the paper down.

"Yes, that's the only thing!" said Thompson, scratching his honest ear,

like a man perplexed and driven to a corner. "We haven't got no

references to give. But I'll tell you what we've got though. We've got

the papers of these freehold premises, and we've something like two

thousand in the bank. I'll give 'em them, if you turns out a bad 'un.

That I'll undertake to do, and shan't be frightened either. Now, you

just go, and see if you can get it. Where do you apply?"

"Wait, Thompson. I must not suffer you"----

"Did you hear what I said, sir? where do you apply?"

"At X.Y.Z." said I, "in Swallow street, Saint James's."

"Then, don't you lose a minute. I shouldn't be surprised if the place is

run down already. London's overstocked with tutorers and men of larning.

You come along o' me, Billy, and don't you lose sight of this 'ere

chance, my boy. If they wants a reference, tell 'em I'll be glad to wait

upon 'em."

Three days had not elapsed after this conversation, before my services

were accepted by X.Y.Z.--and I had engaged to travel into Devonshire to

enter at once upon my duties, as teacher in the dwelling-house of the

Reverend Walter Fairman. X.Y.Z. was a man of business; and, fortunately

for me, had known my father well. He was satisfied with my connexion,

and with the unbounded recommendation which Thompson gave with me. Mr

Fairman was incumbent of one of the loveliest parishes in England, and

the guardian and teacher of six boys. My salary was fifty pounds per

annum, with board and lodging. The matter was settled in a few hours,

and before I had time to consider, my place was taken in the coach, and

a letter was dispatched to Mr Fairman, announcing my intended departure.

Nothing could exceed the joy of Thompson at my success--nothing could be

kinder and more anxious than his valuable advice.

"Now," he said as we walked together from the coach-office, "was I wrong

in telling you that better things would turn up? Take care of yourself,

and the best wrangler of the lot may be glad to change places with you.

It isn't lots of larning, or lots of money, or lots of houses and

coaches, that makes a man happy in this world. They never can do it; but

they can do just the contrarery, and make him the miserablest wretch as

crawls. _A contented mind_ is 'the one thing needful.' Take what God

gives gratefully, and do unto others as you would that they should do

unto you. That's a maxim that my poor father was always giving me, and,

I wish, when I take the young 'uns to church, that they could always

hear it, for human natur needs it."

The evening before my setting out was spent with Thompson's family. I

had received a special invitation, and Thompson, with the labouring

sons, were under an engagement to the mistress of the house, to leave

the workshop at least an hour earlier than usual. Oh, it was a sight to

move the heart of one more hardened than I can boast to be, to behold

the affectionate party assembled to bid me farewell, and to do honour to

our leave-taking. A little feast was prepared for the occasion, and my

many friends were dressed, all in their Sunday clothes, befittingly.

There was not one who had not something to give me for a token. Mary had

worked me a purse; and Mary blushed whilst her mother betrayed her, and

gave the little keepsake. Ellen thought a pincushion might be useful;

and the knitter of the large establishment provided me with comforters.

All the little fellows, down to Billy himself, had a separate gift,

which each must offer with a kiss, and with a word or two expressive of

his good wishes. All hoped I would come soon again, and Aleck more than

hinted a request that I would postpone my departure to some indefinite

period which he could not name. Poor tremulous heart! how it throbbed

amongst them all, and how sad it felt to part from them! Love bound me

to the happy room--the only love that connected the poor outcast with

the wide cold world. This was the home of my affections--could I leave

it--could I venture once more upon the boisterous waters of life without

regret and apprehension?

Thompson kindly offered to accompany me on the following morning to the

inn from which I was destined to depart, but I would not hear of it. He

was full of business; had little time to spare, and none to throw away

upon me. I begged him not to think of it, and he acquiesced in my

wishes. We were sitting together, and his wife and children had an hour

or two previously retired to rest.

"Them's good children, ain't they, Stukely?" enquired Thompson, after

having made a long pause.

"You may well be proud of them," I answered.

"It looked nice of 'em to make you a little present of something before

you went. But it was quite right. That's just as it should be. I like

that sort of thing, especially when a man understands the sperrit that a

thing's given with. Now, some fellows would have been offended if any

thing had been offered 'em. How I do hate all that!"

"I assure you, Thompson, I feel deeply their kind treatment of their

friend. I shall never forget it."

"You ain't offended, then?"

"No, indeed."

"Well, now, I am so happy to hear it, you can't think," continued

Thompson, fumbling about his breeches pocket, and drawing from it at

length something which he concealed in his fist. "There, take that," he

suddenly exclaimed; "take it, my old fellow, and God bless you. It's no

good trying to make a fuss about it."

I held a purse of money in my hand.

"No, Thompson," I replied, "I cannot accept it. Do not think me proud or

ungrateful; but I have no right to take it."

"It's only twenty guineas, man, and I can afford it. Now look, Stukely,

you are going to leave me. If you don't take it, you'll make me as

wretched as the day is long. You are my friend, and my friend mustn't go

amongst strangers without an independent spirit. If you have twenty

guineas in your pocket, you needn't be worrying yourself about little

things. You'll find plenty of ways to make the money useful. You shall

pay me, if you like, when you grow rich, and we meets again; but take it

now, and make John Thompson happy."

In the lap of nature the troubled mind gets rest; and the wounds of the

heart heal rapidly, once delivered there, safe from contact with the

infectious world; and the bosom of the nursing mother is not more

powerful or quick to lull the pain and still the sobs of her distressed

ones. It is the sanctuary of the bruised spirit, and to arrive at it is

to secure shelter and to find repose. Peace, eternal and blessed,

birthright and joy of angels, whither do those glimpses hover that we

catch of thee in this tumultuous life, weak, faint, and transient though

they be, melting the human soul with heavenly tranquillity? Whither, if

not upon the everlasting hills, where the brown line divides the sky, or

on the gentle sea, where sea and sky are one--a liquid cupola--or in the

leafy woods and secret vales, where beauty lends her thrilling voice to

silence? How often will the remembrance only of one bright spot--a

vision of Paradise rising over the dull waste of my existence--send a

glow of comfort to my aged heart, and a fresh feeling of repose which

the harsh business of life cannot extinguish or disturb! And what a fair

history comes with that shadowy recollection! How much of passionate

condensed existence is involved in it, and how mysteriously, yet

naturally connected with it, seem all the noblest feelings of my

imperfect nature! The scene of beauty has become "a joy for ever."

I recall a spring day--a sparkling day of the season of youth and

promise--and a nook of earth, fit for the wild unshackled sun to skip

along and brighten with his inconstant giddy light. Hope is everywhere;

murmuring in the brooks, and smiling in the sky. Upon the bursting trees

she sits; she nestles in the hedges. She fills the throat of mating

birds, and bears the soaring lark nearer and nearer to the gate of

Heaven. It is the first holiday of the year, and the universal heart is

glad. Grief and apprehension cannot dwell in the human breast on such a

day; and, for an hour, even _Self_ is merged in the general joy. I reach

my destination; and the regrets for the past, and the fear for the

future, which have accompanied me through the long and anxious journey,

fall from the oppressed spirit, and leave it buoyant, cheerful,

free--free to delight itself in a land of enchantment, and to revel

again in the unsubstantial glories of a youthful dream. I paint the

Future in the colours that surround me, and I confide in her again.

It was noon when we reached the headquarters of the straggling parish of

Deerhurst--its chief village. We had travelled since the golden sunrise

over noble earth, and amongst scenes scarcely less heavenly than the

blue vault which smiled upon them. Now the horizon was bounded by a

range of lofty hills linked to each other by gentle undulations, and

bearing to their summits innumerable and giant trees; these, crowded

together, and swayed by the brisk wind, presented to the eye the figure

of a vast and supernatural sea, and made the intervening vale of

loveliness a neglected blank. Then we emerged suddenly--yes,

instantaneously--as though designing nature, with purpose to surprize,

had hid behind the jutting crag, beneath the rugged steep--upon a world

of beauty; garden upon garden, sward upon sward, hamlet upon hamlet, far

as the sight could reach, and purple shades of all beyond. Then, flashes

of the broad ocean, like quick transitory bursts of light, started at

intervals, washing the feet of a tall emerald cliff, or, like a lake,

buried between the hills. Shorter and shorter become the intermissions,

larger and larger grows the watery expanse, until, at length, the mighty

element rolls unobstructed on, and earth, decked in her verdant leaves,

her flowers and gems, is on the shore to greet her.

The entrance to the village is by a swift, precipitous descent. On

either side are piled rude stones, placed there by a subtle hand, and

with a poet's aim, to touch the fancy, and to soothe the traveller with

thoughts of other times--of ruined castles, and of old terrace walks.

Already have the stones fulfilled their purpose, and the ivy, the brier,

and the saxifrage have found a home amongst them. At the foot of the

declivity, standing like a watchful mother, is the church--the small,

the unpretending, the venerable and lovely village church. You do not

see a house till she is passed. Before a house was built about her, she

was an aged church, and her favoured graves were rich in heavenly clay.

The churchyard gate; and then at once, the limited and quiet village,

nestling in a valley and shut out from the world: beautiful and

self-sufficient. Hill upon hill behind, each greener than the last--hill

upon hill before, all exclusion, and nothing but her own surpassing

loveliness to console and cheer her solitude. And is it not enough? What

if she know little of the sea beyond its voice, and nothing of external

life--her crystal stream, her myrtle-covered cottages, her garden plots,

her variegated flowers and massive foliage, her shady dells and scented

lanes are joys enough for her small commonwealth. Thin curling smoke

that rises like a spirit from the hidden bosom of one green hillock,

proclaims the single house that has its seat upon the eminence. It is

the parsonage--my future home.

With a trembling heart I left the little inn, and took my silent way to

the incumbent's house. There was no eye to follow me, the leafy street

was tenantless, and seemed made over to the restless sun and dissolute

winds to wanton through it as they pleased. As I ascended, the view

enlarged--beauty became more beauteous, silence more profound. I reached

the parsonage gate, and my heart yearned to tell how much I longed to

live and die on this sequestered and most peaceful spot. The

dwelling-house was primitive and low; its long and overhanging roof was

thatched; its windows small and many. A myrtle, luxuriant as a vine,

covered its entire front, and concealed the ancient brick and wood. A

raised bank surrounded the green nest, and a gentle slope conducted to a

lawn fringed with the earliest flowers of the year. I rang the loud

bell, and a neatly dressed servant-girl gave me admittance to the house.

In a room of moderate size, furnished by a hand as old at least as the

grandsires of the present occupants, and well supplied with books, sat

the incumbent. He was a man of fifty years of age or more, tall and

gentlemanly in demeanour. His head was partly bald, and what remained of

his hair was grey almost to whiteness. He had a noble forehead, a marked

brow, and a cold grey eye. His mouth betrayed sorrow, or habitual deep

reflection, and the expression of every other feature tended to

seriousness. The first impression was unfavourable. A youth, who was

reading with the minister when I entered the apartment, was dismissed

with a simple inclination of the head, and the Rev. Walter Fairman then

pointed to a seat.

"You have had a tedious journey, Mr Stukely," began the incumbent, "and

you are fatigued, no doubt."

"What a glorious spot this is, sir!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, it is pretty," answered Mr Fairman, very coldly as I thought. "Are

you hungry, Mr Stukely? We dine early; but pray take refreshment if you

need it."

I declined respectfully.

"Do you bring letters from my agent?"

"I have a parcel in my trunk, sir, which will be here immediately. What

magnificent trees!" I exclaimed again, my eyes riveted upon a stately

cluster, which were about a hundred yards distant.

"Have you been accustomed to tuition?" asked Mr Fairman, taking no

notice of my remark.

"I have not, sir, but I am sure that I shall be delighted with the

occupation. I have always thought so."

"We must not be too sanguine. Nothing requires more delicate handling

than the mind of youth. In no business is experience, great discernment

and tact, so much needed as in that of instruction."

"Yes, sir, I am aware of it."

"No doubt," answered Mr Fairman quietly. "How old are you?"

I told my age, and blushed.

"Well, well," said the incumbent, "I have no doubt we shall do. You are

a Cambridge man, Mr Graham writes me?"

"I was only a year, sir, at the university. Circumstances prevented a

longer residence. I believe I mentioned the fact to Mr Graham."

"Oh yes, he told me so. You shall see the boys this afternoon. They are

fine-hearted lads, and much may be done with them. There are six. Two of

them are pretty well advanced. They read Euripides and Horace. Is

Euripides a favourite of yours?"

"He is tender, plaintive, and passionate," I answered; "but perhaps I

may be pardoned if I venture to prefer the vigour and majesty of the

sterner tragedian."

"You mean you like Æschylus better. Do you write poetry, Mr Stukely? Not

Latin verses, but English poetry."

"I do not, sir."

"Well, I am glad of that. It struck me that you did. Will you really

take no refreshment? Are you not fatigued?"

"Not in the least, sir. This lovely prospect, for one who has seen so

little of nature as I have, is refreshment enough for the present."

"Ah," said Mr Fairman, sighing faintly, "you will get accustomed to it.

There is something in the prospect, but more in your own mind. Some of

our poor fellows would be easily served and satisfied, if we could feed

them on the prospect. But if you are not tired you shall see more of it

if you will. I have to go down to the village. We have an hour till

dinner-time. Will you accompany me?"

"With pleasure, sir."

"Very well." Mr Fairman then rang the bell, and the servant girl came

in.

"Where's Miss Ellen, Mary?" asked the incumbent.

"She has been in the village since breakfast, sir. Mrs Barnes sent word

that she was ill, and Miss took her the rice and sago that Dr Mayhew

ordered."

"Has Warden been this morning?"

"No, sir."

"Foolish fellow. I'll call on him. Mary, if Cuthbert the fisherman

comes, give him that bottle of port wine; but tell him not to touch a

drop of it himself. It is for his sick child, and it is committing

robbery to take it. Let him have the blanket also that was looked out

for him."

"It's gone, sir. Miss sent it yesterday."

"Very well. There is nothing more. Now, Mr Stukely, we will go."

I have said already that the first opinion which I formed of the

disposition of Mr Fairman was not a flattering one. Before he spoke a

word, I felt disappointed and depressed. My impression after our short

conversation was worse than the first. The natural effect of the scene

in which I suddenly found myself, had been to prepare my ever too

forward spirit for a man of enthusiasm and poetic temperament. Mr

Fairman was many degrees removed from warmth. He spoke to me in a sharp

tone of voice, and sometimes, I suspected, with the intention of mocking

me. His _manner_, when he addressed the servant-girl, was not more

pleasing. When I followed him from the room, I regretted the haste with

which I had accepted my appointment; but a moment afterwards I entered

into fairyland again, and the passing shadow left me grateful to

Providence for so much real enjoyment. We descended the hill, and for a

time, in silence, Mr Fairman was evidently engaged in deep thought, and

I had no wish to disturb him. Every now and then we lighted upon a view

of especial beauty, and I was on the point of expressing my unbounded

admiration, when one look at my cool and matter-of-fact companion at

once annoyed and stopped me.

"Yes," said Mr Fairman at length, still musing. "It is very

difficult--very difficult to manage the poor. I wonder if they are

grateful at heart. What do you think, Mr Stukely?"

"I have nothing to say of the poor, sir, but praise."

Mr Fairman looked hard at me, and smiled unpleasantly.

"It is the scenery, I suppose. That will make you praise every thing for

the next day or so. It will not do, though. We must walk on our feet,

and be prosaic in this world. The poor are not as poets paint them, nor

is there so much happiness in a hovel as they would lead you to expect.

The poets are like you--they have nothing to say but praise. Ah, me!

they draw largely on their imaginations."

"I do not, sir, in this instance," I answered, somewhat nettled. "My

most valued friends are in the humblest ranks of life. I am proud to say

so. I am not prepared to add, that the most generous of men are the most

needy, although it has been my lot to meet with sympathy and succour at

the hands of those who were much in want of both themselves."

"I believe you, Mr Stukely," answered the incumbent in a more feeling

tone. "I am not fond of theories; yet that's a theory with which I would

willingly pass through life; but it will not answer. It is knocked on

the head every hour of the day. Perhaps it is our own fault. We do not

know how to reach the hearts, and educate the feelings of the ignorant

and helpless. Just step in here."

We were standing before a hut at the base of the hill. It was a low

dirty-looking place, all roof, with a neglected garden surrounding it.

One window was in the cob-wall. It had been fixed there originally,

doubtless with the object of affording light to the inmates; but light,

not being essential to the comfort or happiness of the present tenants,

was in a great measure excluded by a number of small rags which occupied

the place of the diamond panes that had departed many months before. A

child, ill-clad, in fragments of clothes, with long and dirty hair,

unclean face, and naked feet, cried at the door, and loud talking was

heard within. Mr Fairman knocked with his knuckle before he entered, and

a gruff voice desired him to "come in." A stout fellow, with a surly

countenance and unshaven beard, was sitting over an apology for a fire,

and a female of the same age and condition was near him. She bore an

unhappy infant in her arms, whose melancholy peakish face, not

twelve-months old, looked already conscious of prevailing misery. There

was no flooring to the room, which contained no one perfect or complete

article of furniture, but symptoms of many, from the blanketless bed

down to the solitary coverless saucepan. Need I add, that the man who

sat there, the degraded father of the house, had his measure of liquor

before him, and that the means of purchasing it were never wanting,

however impudently charity might be called upon to supply the starving

family with bread?

The man did not rise upon our entrance. He changed colour very slightly,

and looked more ignorantly surly, or tried to do so.

"Well, Jacob Warden," said the incumbent, "you are determined to brave

it out, I see." The fellow did not answer.

"When I told you yesterday that your idleness and bad habits were

bringing you to ruin, you answered--_I was a liar_. I then said, that

when you were sorry for having uttered that expression, you might come

to the parsonage and tell me so. You have not been yet--I am grieved to

say it. What have I ever done to you, Jacob Warden, that you should

behave so wickedly? I do not wish you to humble yourself to me, but I

should have been glad to see you do your duty. If I did mine, perhaps, I

should give you up, and see you no more, for I fear you are a hardened

man."

"He hasn't had no work for a month," said the wife, in a tone of

upbraiding, as if the minister had been the wilful cause of it.

"And whose fault is that, Mrs Warden? There is work enough for sober and

honest men in the parish. Why was your husband turned away from the

Squire's?"

"Why, all along of them spoons. They never could prove it agin him,

that's one thing--though they tried it hard enough."

"Come, come, Mrs Warden, if you love that man, take the right way to

show it. Think of your children."

"Yes; if I didn't--who would, I should like to know? The poor are

trodden under foot."

"Not so, Mrs Warden, the poor are taken care of, if they are deserving.

God loves the poor, and commands us all to love them. Give me your

Bible?" The woman hesitated a minute, and then answered--

"Never mind the Bible, that won't get us bread."

"Give me your Bible, Mrs Warden."

"We have'nt got it. What's the use of keeping a Bible in the house for

children as can't read, when they are crying for summat to eat?"

"You have sold it, then?"

"We got a shilling on it--that's all."

"Have you ever applied to us for food, and has it been denied you?"

"Well, I don't know. The servant always looks grumpy at us when we come

a-begging, and seems to begrudge us every mouthful. It's all very well

to live on other persons' leavings. I dare say you don't give us what

you could eat yourselves."

"We give the best we can afford, Mrs Warden, and, God knows, with no

such feeling as you suppose. How is the child? Is it better?"

"Yes, no thanks to Doctor Mayhew either."

"Did he not call, then?"

"Call! Yes, but he made me tramp to his house for the physic, and when

he passed the cottage the other day, I called after him; but devil a bit

would he come back. We might have died first, of course: he knows, he

isn't paid, and what does he care?"

"It is very wrong of you to talk so. You are well aware that he was

hurrying to a case of urgency, and could not be detained. He visited you

upon the following day, and told you so."

"Oh yes, the following day! What's that to do with it?"

"Woman" exclaimed Mr Fairman, solemnly, "my heart bleeds for those poor

children. What will become of them with such an example before their

eyes? I can say no more to you than I have repeated a hundred times

before. I would make you happy in this world if I could; I would save

you. You forbid me. I would be your true friend, and you look upon me as

an enemy. Heaven, I trust, will melt your heart! What is that child

screaming for?"

"What! she hasn't had a blessed thing to-day. We had nothing for her."

Mr Fairman took some biscuits from his pockets, and placed them on the

table. "Let the girl come in, and eat," said he. "I shall send you some

meat from the village. Warden, I cannot tell you how deeply I feel your

wickedness. I did expect you to come to the parsonage and say you were

sorry. It would have looked well, and I should have liked it. You put it

out of my power to help you. It is most distressing to see you both

going headlong to destruction. May you live to repent! I shall see you

again this evening, and I will speak to you alone. Come, Mr Stukely, our

time is getting short."

The incumbent spoke rapidly, and seemed affected. I looked at him, and

could hardly believe him to be the cold and unimpassioned man that I had

at first imagined him.

We pursued our way towards the village.

"There, sir," said the minister in a quick tone of voice, "what is the

beautiful prospect, and what are the noble trees, to the heart of that

man? What have they to do at all with man's morality? Had those people

never seen a shrub or flower, could they have been more impenetrable,

more insolent and suspicious, or steeped in vice much deeper? That man

wants only opportunity, a large sphere of action, and the variety of

crime and motive that are to be found amongst congregated masses of

mankind, to become a monster. His passions and his vices are as wilful

and as strong as those of any man born and bred in the sinks of a great

city. They have fewer outlets, less capability of mischief--and there is

the difference."

I ventured no remark, and the incumbent, after a short pause, continued

in a milder strain.

"I may be, after all, weak and inefficient. Doubtless great delicacy and

caution are required. Heavenly truths are not to be administered to

these as to the refined and willing. The land must be ploughed, or it is

useless to sow the seed. Am I not perhaps, an unskilful labourer?"

Mr Fairman stopped at the first house in the village--the prettiest of

the half dozen myrtle-covered cottages before alluded to. Here he tapped

softly, and a gentle foot that seemed to know the visitor hastened to

admit him.

"Well, Mary," said the minister, glancing round the room--a clean and

happy-looking room it was--"where's Michael?"

"He is gone, sir, as you bade him, to make it up with Cousin Willett. He

couldn't rest easy, sir, since you told him that it was no use coming to

church so long as he bore malice. He won't be long, sir."

Mr Fairman smiled; and cold as his grey eye might be, it did not seem so

steady now.

"Mary, that is good of him; tell him his minister is pleased. How is

work with him?"

"He has enough to do, to carry him to the month's end, sir."

"Then at the month's end, Mary, let him come to the parsonage. I have

something for him there. But we can wait till then. Have you seen the

itinerary preacher since?"

"It is not his time, sir. He didn't promise to come till Monday week."

"Do neither you nor Michael speak with him, nor listen to his public

preachings. I mean, regard him not as one having authority. I speak

solemnly, and with a view to your eternal peace. Do not forget."

Every house was visited, and in all, opportunity was found for the

exercise of the benevolent feelings by which the incumbent was

manifestly actuated. He lost no occasion of affording his flock sound

instruction and good advice. It could not be doubted for an instant that

their real welfare, temporal and everlasting, lay deeply in his heart. I

was struck by one distinguishing feature in his mode of dealing with his

people; it was so opposed to the doctrine and practice of Mr Clayton,

and of those who were connected with him. With the latter, a certain

degree of physical fervour, and a conventional peculiarity of

expression, were insisted upon and accepted as evidences of grace and

renewed life. With Mr Fairman, neither acquired heat, nor the more

easily acquired jargon of a clique, were taken into account. He rather

repressed than encouraged their existence; but he was desirous, and even

eager, to establish rectitude of conduct and purity of feeling in the

disciples around him: these were to him tangible witnesses of the

operation of that celestial Spirit before whose light the mists of

simulation and deceit fade unresistingly away. I could not help

remarking, however, that in every cottage the same injunction was given

in respect of the itinerant; the same solemnity of manner accompanied

the command; the same importance was attached to its obedience. There

seemed to me, fresh from the hands of Mr Clayton, something of bigotry

and uncharitableness in all this. I did not hint at this effect upon my

own mind, nor did I inquire into the motives of the minister. I was not

pleased; but I said nothing. As if Mr Fairman read my very thoughts, he

addressed me on the subject almost before the door of the last cottage

was closed upon us.

"_Bigoted_ and _narrow-minded,_ are the terms, Mr Stukely, by which the

extremely liberal would characterize the line of conduct which I am

compelled by duty to pursue. I cannot be frightened by harsh terms. I am

the pastor of these people, and must decide and act for them. I am their

shepherd, and must be faithful. Poor and ignorant, and unripe in

judgment, and easily deceived by the shows and counterfeits of truth as

the ignorant are, is it for me to hand them over to perplexity and risk?

They are simple believers, and are contented. They worship God, and are

at peace. They know their lot, and do not murmur at it. Is it right that

they should be disturbed with the religious differences and theological

subtleties which have already divided into innumerable sects the

universal family of Christians whom God made one? Is it fair or merciful

to whisper into their ears the plausible reasons of dissatisfaction,

envy, and complaining, to which the uninformed of all classes but too

eagerly listen? I have ever found the religious and the political

propagandist united in the same individual. The man who proposes to the

simple to improve his creed, is ready to point out the way to better his

condition. He succeeds in rendering him unhappy in both, and there he

leaves him. So would this man, and I would rather die for my people,

than tamely give them over to their misery."

A tall, stout, weather-beaten man, in the coarse dress of a fisherman,

descending the hill, intercepted our way. It was the man Cuthbert,

already mentioned by Mr Fairman. He touched his southwester to the

incumbent.

"How is the boy, Cuthbert?" asked the minister, stopping at the same

moment.

"All but well, sir. Doctor Mayhew don't mean to come again. It's all

along of them nourishments that Miss Ellen sent us down. The Doctor says

he must have died without them."

"Well, Cuthbert, I trust that we shall find you grateful."

"Grateful, sir!" exclaimed the man. "If ever I forget what you have done

for that poor child, I hope the breath----" The brawny fisherman could

say no more. His eyes filled suddenly with tears, and he held down his

head, ashamed of them. He had no cause to be so.

"Be honest and industrious, Cuthbert; give that boy a good example.

Teach him to love his God, and his neighbour as himself. That will be

gratitude enough, and more than pay Miss Ellen."

"I'll try to do it, sir. God bless you!"

We said little till we reached the parsonage again; but before I

re-entered its gate the Reverend Walter Fairman had risen in my esteem,

and ceased to be considered a cold and unfeeling man.

We dined; the party consisting of the incumbent, the six students, and

myself. The daughter, the only daughter and child of Mr Fairman, who was

himself a widower, had not returned from the cottage to which she had

been called in the morning. It was necessary that a female should be in

constant attendance upon the aged invalid; a messenger had been

despatched to the neighbouring village for an experienced nurse; and

until her arrival Miss Fairman would permit no one but herself to

undertake the duties of the sick chamber. It was on this account that we

were deprived of the pleasure of her society, for her accustomed seat

was at the head of her father's table. I was pleased with the pupils.

They were affable and well-bred. They treated the incumbent with marked

respect, and behaved towards their new teacher with the generous

kindness and freedom of true young gentlemen. The two eldest boys might

be fifteen years of age. The remaining four could not have reached their

thirteenth year. In the afternoon I had the scholars to myself. The

incumbent retired to his library, and left us to pass our first day in

removing the restraint that was the natural accompaniment of our

different positions, and in securing our intimacy. I talked of the

scenery, and found willing listeners. They understood me better than

their master, for they were worshippers themselves. They promised to

show me lovelier spots than any I had met with yet; sacred corners,

known only to themselves, down by the sea, where the arbute and

laurustinus grew like trees, and children of the ocean. Then there were

villages near, more beautiful even than their own; one that lay in the

lap of a large hill, with the sea creeping round, or rolling at its feet

like thunder, sometimes. What lanes, too, Miss Fairman knew of! She

would take me into places worth the looking at; and oh, what drawings

she had made from them! Their sisters had bought drawings, and paid very

dearly for them too, that were not half so finely done! They would ask

her to show me her portfolio, and she would do it directly, for she was

the kindest creature living. It was not the worst trait in the

disposition of these boys, that, whatever might be the subject of

conversation, or from whatever point we might start in our discourse,

they found pleasure in making all things bear towards the honour and

renown of their young mistress. The scenery was nothing without Miss

Fairman and her sketches. The house was dull without her, and the

singing in the church, if she were ill and absent, was as different as

could be. There were the sweetest birds that could be, heard warbling in

the high trees that lined the narrow roads; but at Miss Fairman's window

there was a nightingale that beat them all. The day wore on, and I did

not see the general favourite. It was dusk when she reached the

parsonage, and then she retired immediately to rest, tired from the

labours of the day. The friend of the family, Doctor Mayhew, had

accompanied Miss Fairman home; he remained with the incumbent, and I

continued with my young companions until their bedtime. They departed,

leaving me their books, and then I took a survey of the work that was

before me. My duties were to commence on the following day, and our

first subject was the tragedy of _Hecuba_. How very grateful did I feel

for the sound instruction which I had received in early life from my

revered pains-taking tutor, for the solid groundwork that he had

established, and for the rational mode of tuition which he had from the

first adopted. From the moment that he undertook to cultivate and inform

the youthful intellect, this became itself an active instrument in the

attainment of knowledge--not, as is so often the case, the mere idle

depositary of encumbering _words_. It was little that he required to be

gained by rote, for he regarded all acquisitions as useless in which the

understanding had not the chiefest share. He was pleased to communicate

facts, and anxious to discover, from examination, that the principles

which they contained had been accurately seen and understood. Then no

labour and perseverance on his part were deemed too great for his pupil,

and the business of his life became his first pleasure. In the study of

Greek, for which at an early age I evinced great aptitude, I learnt the

structure of the language and its laws from the keen observations of my

master, whose rules were drawn from the classic work before us--rather

than from grammars. To this hour I retain the information thus obtained,

and at no period of my life have I ever had greater cause for

thankfulness, than when, after many months of idleness and neglect, with

a view to purchase bread I opened, not without anxiety, my book again,

and found that time had not impaired my knowledge, and that light shone

brightly on the pages, as it did of old. Towards the close of the

evening, I was invited to the study of Mr Fairman. Doctor Mayhew was

still with him, and I was introduced to the physician as the teacher

newly arrived from London. The doctor was a stout good-humoured

gentleman of the middle height, with a cheerful and healthy-looking

countenance. He was, in truth, a jovial man, as well as a great

snuff-taker. The incumbent offered me a chair, and placed a decanter of

wine before me. His own glass of port was untouched, and he looked

serious and dejected.

"Well, sir, how does London look?" enquired the doctor, "are the folks

as mad as they used to be? What new invention is the rage now? What

bubble is going to burst? What lord committed forgery last? Who was the

last woman murdered before you started?"

I confessed my inability to answer.

"Well, never mind. There isn't much lost. I am almost ashamed of old

England, that's the truth on't. I have given over reading the

newspapers, for they are about as full of horrors as Miss

What's-her-name's tales of the Infernals. What an age this is! all crime

and fanaticism! Everyman and everything is on the rush. Come, Fairman,

take your wine."

Mr Fairman sat gazing on the fire, quietly, and took no notice of the

request. "People's heads," continued the medical gentleman, "seem turned

topsy-turvy. Dear me, how different it was in my time! What men are

about, I can't think. The very last newspaper I read had an

advertisement that I should as soon have expected to see there when my

father was alive, as a ship sailing along this coast keel upwards. You

saw it, Fairman. It was just under the Everlasting Life Pill

advertisement; and announced that the Reverend Mr Somebody would preach

on the Sunday following, at some conventicle, when the public were

invited to listen to him--and that the doors would be opened half an

hour earlier than usual to prevent squeezing. That's modern religion,

and it looks as much like ancient play-acting as two peas. Where will

these marching days of improvement bring us to at last?"

"Tell me, Mayhew," said Mr Fairman, "does it not surprise you that a

girl of her age should be so easily fatigued?"

"My dear friend, that makes the sixth time of asking. Let us hope that

it will be the last. I don't know what you mean by '_so easily_'

fatigued. The poor girl has been in the village all day, fomenting and

poulticing old Mrs Barnes, and if it had been any girl but herself, she

would have been tired out long before. Make your mind easy. I have sent

the naughty puss to bed, and she'll be as fresh as a rose in the

morning."

"She must keep her exertions within proper bounds," continued the

incumbent. "I am sure she has not strength enough to carry out her good

intentions. I have watched her narrowly, and cannot be mistaken."

"You do wrong, then, Fairman. Anxious watching creates fear, without the

shadow of an excuse for it. When we have anything like a bad symptom, it

is time to get uneasy."

"Yes, but what do you call a bad symptom, Doctor?"

"Why, I call your worrying yourself into fidgets, and teazing me into an

ill temper, a shocking symptom of bad behaviour. If it continue, you

must take a doze. Come, my friend, let me prescribe that glass of good

old port. It does credit to the cloth."

"Seriously, Mayhew, have you never noticed the short, hacking cough that

sometimes troubles her?"

"Yes; I noticed it last January for the space of one week, when there

was not a person within ten miles of you who was not either hacking, as

you call it, or blowing his nose from morning till night. The dear child

had a cold, and so had you, and I, and everybody else."

"And that sudden flush, too?"

"Why, you'll be complaining of the bloom on the peach next! That's

health, and nothing else, take my word for it."

"I am, perhaps, morbidly apprehensive; but I cannot forget her poor

mother. You attended her, Mayhew, and you know how suddenly that came

upon us. Poor Ellen! what should I do without her!"

"Fairman, join me in wishing success to our young friend here. Mr

Stukely, here's your good health; and success and happiness attend you.

You'll find little society here; but it is of the right sort, I can tell

you. You must make yourself at home." The minister became more cheerful,

and an hour passed in pleasant conversation. At ten o'clock, the horse

of Doctor Mayhew was brought to the gate, and the gentleman departed in

great good-humour. Almost immediately afterwards, the incumbent himself

conducted me to my sleeping apartment, and I was not loth to get my

rest. I fell asleep with the beautiful village floating before my weary

eyes, and the first day of my residence at the parsonage closed

peacefully upon me.

It was at the breakfast table on the succeeding morning that I beheld

the daughter of the incumbent, the favourite and companion of my pupils,

and mistress of the house--a maiden in her twentieth year. She was

simply and artlessly attired, gentle and retiring in demeanour, and

femininely sweet rather than beautiful in expression. Her figure was

slender, her voice soft and musical; her hair light brown, and worn

plain across a forehead white as marble. The eye-brows which arched the

small, rich, hazel eyes were delicately drawn, and the slightly aquiline

nose might have formed a study for an artist. With the exception,

however, of this last-named feature, there was little in the individual

lineaments of the face to surprise or rivet the observer. Extreme

simplicity, and perfect innocence--these were stamped upon the

countenance, and were its charm. It was a strange feeling that possessed

me when I first gazed upon her through the chaste atmosphere that dwelt

around her. It was degradation deep and unaffected--a sense of shame and

undeservedness. I remembered with self-abhorrence the relation that had

existed between the unhappy Emma and myself, and the enormity and

disgrace of my offence never looked so great as now, and here--in the

bright presence of unconscious purity. She reassured and welcomed me

with a natural smile, and pursued her occupation with quiet cheerfulness

and unconstraint. I did not wonder that her father loved her, and

entertained the thought of losing her with fear; for, young and gentle

as she was, she evinced wisdom and age in her deep sense of duty, and in

the government of her happy home. Method and order waited on her doings,

and sweetness and tranquillity--the ease and dignity of a matron

elevating and upholding the maiden's native modesty. And did she not

love her sire as ardently? Yes, if her virgin soul spoke faithfully in

every movement of her guileless face. Yes, if there be truth in tones

that strike the heart to thrill it--in thoughts that write their meaning

in the watchful eye, in words that issue straight from the fount of

love, in acts that do not bear one shade of selfish purpose. It was not

a labour of time to learn that the existence of the child, her peace and

happiness, were merged in those of the fond parent. He was every thing

to her, as she to him. She had no brother--he no wife: these natural

channels of affection cut away, the stream was strong and deep that

flowed into each other's hearts. My first interview with the young lady

was necessarily limited. I would gladly have prolonged it. The morning

was passed with my pupils, and my mind stole often from the work before

me to dwell upon the face and form of her, whom, as a sister, I could

have doated on and cherished. How happy I should have been, I deemed, if

I had been so blessed. Useless reflection! and yet pleased was I to

dwell upon it, and to welcome its return, as often as it recurred. At

dinner we met again. To be admitted into her presence seemed the reward

for my morning toil--a privilege rather than a right. What labour was

too great for the advantage of such moments?--moments indeed they were,

and less--flashes of time, that were not here before they had

disappeared. We exchanged but few words. I was still oppressed with the

conviction of my own unworthiness, and wondered if she could read in my

burning face the history of shame. How she must avoid and despise me,

thought I, when she has discovered all, and how bold and wicked it was

to darken the light in which she lived with the guilt that was a part of

me! Not the less did I experience this when she spoke to me with

kindness and unreserve. The feeling grew in strength. I was conscious of

deceit and fraud, and could not shake the knowledge off. I was taking

mean advantage of her confidence, assuming a character to which I had no

claim, and listening to the accents of innocence and virtue with the

equanimity of one good and spotless as herself. In the afternoon the

young students resumed their work. When it was over, we strolled amongst

the hills; and, at the close of a delightful walk, found ourselves in

the enchanting village. Here we encountered Miss Fairman and the

incumbent, and we returned home in company. In one short hour we reached

it. How many hours have passed since _that_ was ravished from the hand

of Time, and registered in the tenacious memory! Years have floated by,

and silently have dropped into the boundless sea, unheeded, unregretted;

and these few minutes--sacred relics--live and linger in the world, in

mercy it may be, to lighten up my lonely hearth, or save the whitened

head from drooping. The spirit of one golden hour shall hover through a

life, and shed glory where he falls. What are the unfruitful,

unremembered years that rush along, frightening mortality with their

fatal speed--an instant in eternity! What are the moments loaded with

passion, intense, and never-dying--years, ages upon earth! Away with the

divisions of time, whilst one short breath--the smallest particle or

measure of duration, shall outweigh ages. Breathless and silent is the

dewy eve. Trailing a host of glittering clouds behind him, the sun

stalks down, and leaves the emerald hills in deeper green. The lambs are

skipping on the path--the shepherd as loth to lead them home as they to

go. The labourer has done his work, and whistles his way back. The

minister has much of good and wise to say to his young family. They hear

the business of the day; their guardian draws the moral, and bids them

think it over. Upon my arm I bear his child, the fairest object of the

twilight group. She tells me histories of this charmed spot, and the

good old tales that are as old as the gray church beneath us: she

smiles, and speaks of joys amongst the hills, ignorant of the tearful

eye and throbbing heart beside her, that overflow with new-found bliss,

and cannot bear their weight of happiness.

Another day of natural gladness--and then the Sabbath; this not less

cheerful and inspiriting than the preceding. The sun shone fair upon the

ancient church, and made its venerable gray stones sparkle and look

young again. The dark-green ivy that for many a year has clung there,

looked no longer sad and sombre, but gay and lively as the newest of the

new-born leaves that smiled on every tree. The inhabitants of the

secluded village were already a-foot when we proceeded from the

parsonage, and men and women from adjacent villages were on the road to

join them. The deep-toned bell pealed solemnly, and sanctified the vale;

for its sound strikes deeply ever on the broad ear of nature. Willows

and yew-trees shelter the graves of the departed villagers, and the

living wend their way beneath them, subdued to seriousness, it may be,

by the breathless voice that dwells in every well-remembered mound.

There is not one who does not carry on his brow the thoughts that best

become it now. All are well dressed, all look cleanly and contented. The

children are with their parents, their natural and best instructors.

Whom should they love so well? To whom is honour due if not to them? The

village owns no school to disannul the tie of blood, to warp and weaken

the affection that holds them well together.

All was quietness and decorum in the house of prayer. Every earnest eye

was fixed, not upon Mr Fairman, but on the book from which the people

prayed, in which they found their own good thoughts portrayed, their

pious wishes told, their sorrow and repentance in clearest form

described. Every humble penitent was on his knees. With one voice, loud

and heartfelt, came the responses which spoke the people's acquiescence

in all the pastor urged and prayed on their behalf. The worship over, Mr

Fairman addressed his congregation, selecting his subject from the

lesson of the day, and fitting his words to the capacities of those who

listened. Let me particularly note, that whilst the incumbent pointed

distinctly to the cross as the only ground of a sinner's hope, he

insisted upon good works as the necessary and essential accompaniment of

his faith. "Do not tell me, my dear friends," he said, at the conclusion

of his address--"do not tell me that you believe, if your daily life is

unworthy a believer. I will not trust you. What is your belief, if your

heart is busy in contrivances to overreach your neighbour? What is it,

if your mind is filled with envy, malice, hatred, and revenge? What if

you are given over to disgraceful lusts--to drunkenness and debauchery?

What if you are ashamed to speak the truth, and are willing to become a

liar? I tell you, and I have warrant for what I say, that your conduct

one towards another must be straightforward, honest, generous, kind, and

affectionate, or you cannot be in a safe and happy state. You owe it to

yourselves to be so; for if you are poor and labouring men, you have an

immortal soul within you, and it is your greatest ornament. It is that

which gives the meanest of us a dignity that no earthly honours can

supply; a dignity that it becomes the first and last of us by every

means to cherish and support. Is it not, my friends, degrading, fearful

to know that we bear about with us the very image of our God, and that

we are acting worse than the very brutes of the field? Do yourselves

justice. Be pure--pure in mind and body. Be honest, in word and deed. Be

loving to one another. Crush every wish to do evil, or to speak harshly;

be brothers, and feel that you are working out the wishes of a

benevolent and loving Father, who has created you for love, and smiles

upon you when you do his bidding." There was more to this effect, but

nothing need be added to explain the scope and tendency of his

discourse. His congregation could not mistake his meaning; they could

not fail to profit by it, if reason was not proof against the soundest

argument. As quietly as, and, if it be possible, more seriously than,

they entered the church, did the small band of worshippers, at the close

of the service, retire from it. Could it be my fancy, or did the wife in

truth cling closer to her husband--the father clasp his little boy more

firmly in his hand? Did neighbour nod to neighbour more eagerly as they

parted at the churchyard gate--did every look and movement of the many

groups bespeak a spirit touched, a mind reproved? I may not say so, for

my own heart was melted by the scene, and might mislead my judgment.

There was a second service in the afternoon. This concluded, we walked

to the sea-beach. In the evening Mr Fairman related a connected history

from the Old Testament, whilst the pupils tracked his progress on their

maps, and the narrative became a living thing in their remembrances.

Serious conversation then succeeded; to this a simple prayer, and the

day closed, sweetly and calmly, as a day might close in Paradise.

The events of the following month partook of the character of those

already glanced at. The minister was unremitting in his attendance upon

his parishioners, and no day passed during which something had not been

accomplished for their spiritual improvement or worldly comfort. His

loving daughter was a handmaid at his side, ministering with him, and

shedding sunshine where she came. The villagers were frugal and

industrious; and seemed, for the most part, sensible of their

incumbent's untiring efforts. Improvement appeared even in the cottage

of the desperate Warden. Mr Fairman obtained employment for him. For a

fortnight he had attended to it, and no complaint had reached the

parsonage of misbehaviour. His wife had learned to bear her imagined

wrongs in silence, and could even submit to a visit from her best friend

without insulting him for the condescension. My own days passed smoothly

on. My occupation grew every day more pleasing, and the results of my

endeavours as gratifying as I could wish them. My pupils were attached

to me, and I beheld them improving gradually and securely under their

instruction. Mr Fairman, who, for a week together, had witnessed the

course of my tuition, and watched it narrowly, was pleased to express

his approbation in the warmest terms. Much of the coldness with which I

thought he had at first encountered me disappeared, and his manner grew

daily more friendly and confiding. His treatment was most generous. He

received me into the bosom of his family as a son, and strove to render

his fair habitation my genuine and natural home.

Another month passed by, and the colour and tone of my existence had

suffered a momentous change. In the acquirement of a fearful joy, I had

lost all joy. In rendering every moment of my life blissful and

ecstatic, I had robbed myself of all felicity. A few weeks before, and

my state of being had realized a serenity that defied all causes of

perturbation and disquiet. Now it was a sea of agitation and disorder;

and a breath, a nothing had brought the restless waves upon the quiet

surface. Through the kindness of Mr Fairman, my evenings had been almost

invariably passed in the society of himself and his daughter. The lads

were early risers, and retired, on that account, at a very early hour to

rest. Upon their dismission, I had been requested to join the company in

the drawing-room. This company included sometimes Doctor Mayhew, the

neighbouring squire, or a chance visitor, but consisted oftenest only of

the incumbent and his daughter. Aware of the friendly motive which

suggested the request, I obeyed it with alacrity. On these occasions,

Miss Fairman used her pencil, whilst I read aloud; or she would ply her

needle, and soothe at intervals her father's ear with strains of music,

which he, for many reasons, loved to hear. Once or twice the incumbent

had been called away, and his child and I were left together. I had no

reason to be silent whilst the good minister was present, yet I found

that I could speak more confidently and better when he was absent. We

conversed with freedom and unrestraint. I found the maiden's mind well

stored--her voice was not more sweet than was her understanding clear

and cloudless. Books had been her joy, which, in the season of

suffering, had been my consolation. They were a common source of

pleasure. She spoke of them with feeling, and I could understand her. I

regarded her with deep unfeigned respect; but, the evening over, I took

my leave, as I had come--in peace. Miss Fairman left the parsonage to

pay a two-days' visit at a house in the vicinity. Until the evening of

the first day I was not sensible of her absence. It was then, and at the

customary hour of our reunion, that, for the first time, I experienced,

with alarm, a sense of loneliness and desertion--that I became

tremblingly conscious of the secret growth of an affection that had

waited only for the time and circumstance to make its presence and its

power known and dreaded. In the daily enjoyment of her society, I had

not estimated its influence and value. Once denied it, and I dared not

acknowledge to myself how precious it had become, how silently and

fatally it had wrought upon my heart. The impropriety and folly of

self-indulgence were at once apparent--yes, the vanity and

wickedness--and, startled by what looked like guilt, I determined

manfully to rise superior to temptation. I took refuge in my books; they

lacked their usual interest, were ineffectual in reducing the ruffled

mind to order. I rose and paced my room, but I could not escape from

agitating thought. I sought the minister in his study, and hoped to

bring myself to calm and reason by dwelling seriously on the business of

the day--with him, the father of the lady, and _my master_. He was not

there. He had left the parsonage with Doctor Mayhew an hour before. I

walked into the open air restless and unhappy, relying on the freshness

and repose of night to be subdued and comforted. It was a night to

soften anger--to conquer envy--to destroy revenge--beautiful and bright.

The hills were bathed in liquid silvery light, and on their heights, and

in the vale, on all around, lay passion slumbering. What could I find on

such a night, but favour and incitement, support and confirmation,

flattery and delusion? Every object ministered to the imagination, and

love had given that wings. I trembled as I pursued my road, and fuel

found its unobstructed way rapidly to the flame within. Self-absorbed, I

wandered on. I did not choose my path. I believed I did not, and I

stopped at length--before the house that held her. I gazed upon it with

reverence and love. One room was lighted up. Shadows flitted across the

curtained window, and my heart throbbed sensibly when, amongst them, I

imagined I could trace her form. I was borne down by a conviction of

wrong and culpability, but I could not move, or for a moment draw away

my look. It was a strange assurance that I felt--but I did feel it,

strongly and emphatically--that I should see her palpably before I left

the place. I waited for that sight in certain expectation, and it came.

A light was carried from the room. Diminished illumination there, and

sudden brightness against a previously darkened casement, made this

evident. The light ascended--another casement higher than the last was,

in its turn, illumined, and it betrayed her figure. She approached the

window, and, for an instant--oh how brief!--looked into the heavenly

night. My poor heart sickened with delight, and I strained my eyes long

after all was blank and dark again.

Daylight, and the employments of day, if they did not remove, weakened

the turbulence of the preceding night. The more I found my passion

acquiring mastery, with greater vigour I renewed my work, and with more

determination I pursued the objects that were most likely to fight and

overcome it. I laboured with the youths for a longer period. I undertook

to prepare a composition for the following day which I knew must take

much thought and many hours in working out. I armed myself at all

points--but the evening came and found me once more conscious of a void

that left me prostrate. Mr Fairman was again absent from home. I could

not rest in it, and I too sallied forth, but this time, to the village.

I would not deliberately offer violence to my conscience, and I shrunk

from a premeditated visit to the distant house. My own acquaintances in

the village were not many, or of long standing, but there were some half

dozen, especial favourites of the incumbent's daughter. To one of these

I bent my steps, with no other purpose than that of baffling time that

hung upon me painfully and heavily at home. For a few minutes I spoke

with the aged female of the house on general topics; then a passing

observation--in spite of me--escaped my lips in reference to Miss Ellen.

The villager took up the theme and expatiated widely. There was no end

to what she had to say of good and kind for the dear lady. I could have

hugged her for her praise. Prudence bade me forsake the dangerous

ground, and so I did, to return again with tenfold curiosity and zest. I

asked a hundred questions, each one revealing more interest and ardour

than the last, and involving me in deeper peril. It was at length

accomplished. My companion hesitated suddenly in a discourse, then

stopped, and looked me in the face, smiling cunningly. "I tell you what,

sir," she exclaimed at last, and loudly, "you are over head and ears in

love, and that's the truth on't."

"Hush, good woman," I replied, blushing to the forehead, and hastening

to shut an open door. "Don't speak so loud. You mistake, it is no such

thing. I shall be angry if you say so--very angry. What can you mean?"

"Just what I say, sir. Why, do you know how old I am? Seventy-three. I

think I ought to tell, and where's the harm of it? Who couldn't love the

sweetest lady in the parish--bless her young feeling heart!"

"I tell you--you mistake--you are to blame. I command you not to repeat

this to a living soul. If it should come to the incumbent's ears"--

"Trust me for that, sir. I'm no blab. He shan't be wiser for such as me.

But do you mean to tell me, sir, with that red face of your'n, you

haven't lost your heart--leave alone your trembling? ah, well, I hopes

you'll both be happy, anyhow."

I endeavoured to remonstrate, but the old woman only laughed and shook

her aged head. I left her, grieved and apprehensive. My secret thoughts

had been discovered. How soon might they be carried to the confiding

minister and his unsuspecting daughter! What would they think of me! It

was a day of anxiety and trouble, that on which Miss Fairman returned to

the parsonage. I received my usual invitation; but I was indisposed, and

did not go. I resolved to see her only during meals, and when it was

impossible to avoid her. I would not seek her presence. Foolish effort!

It had been better to pass hours in her sight, for previous separation

made union more intense, and the passionate enjoyment of a fleeting

instant was hoarded up, and became nourishment for the livelong day.

It was a soft rich afternoon in June, and chance made me the companion

of Miss Fairman. We were alone: I had encountered her at a distance of

about a mile from the parsonage, on the sea-shore, whither I had walked

distressed in spirit, and grateful for the privilege of listening in

gloomy quietude to the soothing sounds of nature--medicinal ever. The

lady was at my side almost before I was aware of her approach. My heart

throbbed whilst she smiled upon me, sweetly as she smiled on all. Her

deep hazel eye was moist. Could it be from weeping?

"What has happened, Miss Fairman?" I asked immediately.

"Do I betray my weakness, then?" she answered. "I am sorry for it; for

dear papa tells all the villagers that no wise man weeps--and no wise

woman either, I suppose. But I cannot help it. We are but a small family

in the village, and it makes me very sad to miss the old faces one after

another, and to see old friends dropping and dropping into the silent

grave."

As she spoke the church-bell tolled, and she turned pale, and ceased. I

offered her my arm, and we walked on.

"Whom do you mourn, Miss Fairman?" I asked at length.

"A dear good friend--my best and oldest. When poor mamma was dying, she

made me over to her care. She was her nurse, and was mine for years. It

is very wrong of me to weep for her. She was good and pious, and is

blest."

The church-bell tolled again, and my companion shuddered.

"Oh! I cannot listen to that bell," she said. "I wish papa would do away

with it. What a withering sound it has! I heard it first when it was

tolling for my dear mother. It fell upon my heart like iron then, and it

falls so now."

"I cannot say that I dislike the melancholy chime. Death is sad. Its

messenger should not be gay."

"It is the soul that sees and hears. Beauty and music are created

quickly if the heart be joyful. So my book says, and it is true. You

have had no cause to think that bell a hideous thing."

"Yet I have suffered youth's severest loss. I have lost a mother."

"You speak the truth. Yes, I have a kind father left me--and you"--

"I am an orphan, friendless and deserted. God grant, Miss Fairman, you

may be spared my fate for years."

"Not friendless or deserted either, Mr Stukely," answered the young lady

kindly; "papa does not deserve, I am sure, that you should speak so

harshly."

"Pardon me, Miss Fairman. I did not mean to say that. He has been most

generous to me--kinder than I deserve. But I have borne much, and still

must bear. The fatherless and motherless is in the world alone. He needs

no greater punishment."

"You must not talk so. Papa will, I am sure, be a father to you, as he

is to all who need one. You do not know him, Mr Stukely. His heart is

overflowing with tenderness and charity. You cannot judge him by his

manner. He has had his share of sorrow and misfortune; and death has

been at his door oftener than once. Friends have been unfaithful and men

have been ungrateful; but trial and suffering have not hardened him. You

have seen him amongst the poor, but you have not seen him as I have; nor

have I beheld him as his Maker has, in the secret workings of his

spirit, which is pure and good, believe me. He has received injury like

a child, and dealt mercy and love with the liberality of an angel. Trust

my father, Mr Stukely."--

The maiden spoke quickly and passionately, and her neck and face

crimsoned with animation. I quivered, for her tones communicated

fire--but my line of conduct was marked, and it shone clear in spite of

the clouds of emotion which strove to envelope and conceal it--as they

did too soon.

"I would trust him, Miss Fairman, and I do," I answered with a faltering

tongue. "I appreciate his character and I revere him. I could have made

my home with him. I prayed that I might do so. Heaven seemed to have

directed my steps to this blissful spot, and to have pointed out at

length a resting place for my tired feet. I have been most happy

here--too happy--I have proved ungrateful, and I know how rashly I have

forfeited this and every thing. I cannot live here. This is no home for

me. I will go into the world again--cast myself upon it--do any thing. I

could be a labourer on the highways, and be contented if I could see

that I had done my duty, and behaved with honour. Believe me, Miss

Fairman, I have not deliberately indulged--I have struggled, fought, and

battled, till my brain has tottered. I am wretched and forlorn--but I

will leave you--to-morrow--would that I had never come----." I could say

no more. My full heart spoke its agony in tears.

"What has occurred? What afflicts you? You alarm me, Mr Stukely."

I had sternly determined to permit no one look to give expression to the

feeling which consumed me, to obstruct by force the passage of the

remotest hint that should struggle to betray me; but as the maiden

looked full and timidly upon me, I felt in defiance of me, and against

all opposition, the tell-tale passion rising from my soul, and creeping

to my eye. It would not be held back. In an instant, with one

treacherous glance, all was spoken and revealed.

* * * * *

By that dejected city, Arno runs,

Where Ugolino clasps his famisht sons.

There wert thou born, my Julia! there thine eyes

Return'd as bright a blue to vernal skies.

And thence, my little wanderer! when the Spring

Advanced, thee, too, the hours on silent wing

Brought, while anemonies were quivering round,

And pointed tulips pierced the purple ground,

Where stood fair Florence: there thy voice first blest

My ear, and sank like balm into my breast:

For many griefs had wounded it, and more

Thy little hands could lighten were in store.

But why revert to griefs? Thy sculptured brow

Dispels from mine its darkest cloud even now.

What then the bliss to see again thy face,

And all that Rumour has announced of grace!

I urge, with fevered breast, the four-month day.

O! could I sleep to wake again in May.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

* * * * *

IMAGINARY CONVERSATION. BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

SANDT AND KOTZEBUE.

_Sandt_.--Generally men of letters in our days, contrary to the practice

of antiquity, are little fond of admitting the young and unlearned into

their studies or their society.

_Kotzebue_.--They should rather those than others. The young _must_

cease to be young, and the unlearned _may_ cease to be unlearned.

According to the letters you bring with you, sir, there is only youth

against you. In the seclusion of a college life, you appear to have

studied with much assiduity and advantage, and to have pursued no other

courses than the paths of wisdom.

_Sandt_.--Do you approve of the pursuit?

_Kotzebue_.--Who does not?