The tale, which his inquiries elicited, was a very common one. Willie’s

father had been an artificer in one of the manufacturing towns; but too

eager for advancement, he imprudently threw up his situation and tried

independent business. Matters grew worse and worse; his family increased

and his means diminished. Hearing of an excellent opening at New York,

for an artificer like himself, he worked day and night to obtain

sufficient means to transport himself and family across the Atlantic,

and support them till a business could be established. His wife ably

aided him, when unhappily he was tempted to embark all his little

savings in one of the bubbles of the day, which he was confidently

assured would be so successful as to permit his embarking for America at

once, and so seize the opening offered. Few speculators had, perhaps, a

better excuse; but fortune did not favour him more than others; it

failed, and he was ruined. Three months afterwards he was thrown into

prison for the only debt he had ever incurred, and though he had friends

to persuade him to his ruin, he had none to liquidate his debt. His

wife’s health, already overworked, sunk under privation and sorrow; and

though she toiled even from her fevered pallet, her feeble earnings were

not sufficient to give her children bread.

Edward Langley was a creature of impulse; but in him impulse was the

offspring of high principle, and, therefore, though the following it

often caused him unlooked-for annoyance, it never led him wrong; and

Willie’s tale called forth sympathies impossible to be withstood.

“Edward,” said one of his numerous sisters one evening, about three

weeks afterwards, as they were sitting at tea—a meal which, bringing

them all together, was universally enjoyed, “what have you done with

grandpapa’s birthday present? You were to do so many things with that

money; and I have not heard you speak of it since my return.”

“Because wonderful things have occurred since you left, Fanny,” said

another slily. “He is going to accompany Mr. Morison’s family to Italy

and Paris; and bring us such splendid presents. His fair Julia cannot go

without him, and he has promised to join them.”

“Wrong, Miss Ellen, I am not going,” was the reply, with rather more

_brusquerie_ than usual.

“Why, have you quarrelled?”

“Not exactly.”

“But she will be offended, Ned; I am sure I should be.”

“No, you would not, Annie, if you knew my reasons.”

“What are they, Edward, dear? Do tell me, I am so curious.”

“Of course, or you would not be a woman!”

Against this all his sisters expostulated at once; and even his mother

expressed curiosity, adding, that he had talked of this continental trip

so long, and with so much glee, it must be a disappointment to give it

up.

“It is; but I do not regret it.”

“But you must have a reason.”

“The very best of all reasons; I cannot afford it.”

“Come to me for the needful, Edward,” said his father. “I cannot give

you luxuries; but this is for your improvement.”

“Thank you most heartily, my dear father, but I am, rather I was, richer

than any of you know. I earned so much for my last engraving.”

“And you never told us,” said his mother and sisters, reproachfully.

“I did not, because it was already appropriated. I wanted exactly that

sum to add to my grandfather’s gift; and that was what I worked so hard

for.”

“To purchase some bridal gift,” said Fanny, archly.

“No, Fan, I never mean to purchase love.”

“But if the lady requires to be so conciliated?”

“Then she is not worth having.”

“Of course not,” rejoined Annie. “But come, Edward, you have never kept

anything from us before. What is this mystery?”

“Out with it,” laughingly pursued Ellen. “Julia Morison will not thank

you for preferring anything to accompanying her, I can tell you; so, as

Annie says, what is this mystery?”

“No mystery at all, girls. You will all be disappointed when I tell you;

so you had better let it alone.”

But beset on all sides, even by his father and mother, Edward told the

simple truth, which our readers no doubt have already guessed. His money

had been applied in releasing Willie’s father from prison; restoring his

mother to health, by giving her and her children nourishing food,

securing a passage for them all to New York, and investing the trifling

surplus for their use on their arrival. He told his tale hurriedly, as

if he feared to be accused of folly, and his father did somewhat blame

him. He was provoked that the little scheme of pleasure and improvement,

which Edward had anticipated so many weeks, should be frustrated; and

annoyed that he should be disappointed, though the disappointment was

perfectly voluntary. How could he tell that the man’s story was true?

How was he sure the money would produce the good effect he hoped? He

must say he thought it a pity, a very great pity; a visit to Paris would

be so improving; Mr. Morison’s family such a desirable connection—and

other regrets, which, without being a very worldly parent, were not

perhaps unnatural.

“My dear father,” was Edward’s earnest and affectionate rejoinder, “do

not be vexed for my sake. A visit to the Continent would no doubt have

been improving; but I will work doubly hard in dear old England, and

that, though it may not be as much pleasure, will be just as

serviceable. With regard to Miss Morison,” his cheek slightly flushed,

“if her affections are only to be secured by being constantly at her

side, and always playing the lover, there could be no happiness in a

nearer connection for either. A separation for three or four months can

surely have no effect on real regard, and I am quite willing to subject

both myself and Julia to the ordeal. As to not being sure of doing the

good I hope—who can be? I do believe that poor fellow’s story, I

confess, and strongly believe he will do well; but I do not mean to give

the subject another thought, except to work the harder. The money is as

much gone as freely given, and I expect as little reward as if I had

thrown it on the waters—”

“Where thou shall find it after many days,” continued his mother, so

affectionately and approvingly, that Edward threw his arm round her and

kissed her tenderly. “You have done right, my dear boy; and if Julia

Morison does not think so, she is not worthy of your love.”

How quick is woman’s, above all, a mother’s penetration. From the first

allusion to Miss Morison in the preceding conversation, she knew that

something had occurred between them to annoy, if it did not wound her

son; and the moment she heard the story she guessed the actual fact.

Perhaps her penetration in this instance was aided by previous

observation. She had never liked Miss Morison, desirable as from worldly

motives the connection might be. Edward, youth-like, had been captivated

by her beauty and vivacity, and gratified by her very marked preference

for himself. His complete unconsciousness that he really was the

handsomest and most engaging young man of the town of L——, by depriving

him of all conceit, increased Miss Julia’s fascination. Mr. Morison was

member for the county, and had made himself universally popular; and

certainly took marked notice of Edward. The good people of L—— were too

simple-minded to discover that their member’s attractions were merely

graces of manner; and that he noticed Edward only because he was

perfectly secure that his daughter would never do such a foolish thing

as to promise her hand to the son of a country attorney, however

agreeable he might be.

Edward’s wish to accompany them to the Continent met with decided

approval. Mr. Morison thought the young man would save him a great deal

of trouble, as a kind of gentleman valet, without a salary; and Miss

Julia was delighted at this unequivocal proof of his devotion, and at

the amusement she promised herself in playing off her country beau on

the Continent, his simplicity being the shield to cover her manœuvres;

besides, he would be such an excellent _pis aller_, that she need never

be without a worshipper.

That such a person could appreciate Edward’s real character, or enter

into his motives for, and his disappointment in, not accompanying her,

was impossible. For regret, even for anger, he had prepared himself,

nay, might have been disappointed had she evinced no emotion; but for

the cold sneer, first of doubt, then of unequivocal contempt, which was

her sole rejoinder to his agitated confession, he was not prepared, and

it chilled his very heart. Still he tried to deceive himself, and

believe that all she said of benevolence, disinterestedness, and a long

et-cetera, was the sympathy he yearned for; but the tone and manner with

which she informed her father in his presence of his change of purpose,

and its praiseworthy cause, could not, even by a lover more infatuated

than Edward, have been misunderstood; his spirit rose, and with it his

self-respect. He said very little, but that little convinced both Julia

and her father that he was not quite the simpleton which they had

supposed him.

He left them, wounded to the core; to his warm, generous nature,

worldliness was abhorrent even in a man, and in a woman it seemed to him

something so unnatural, so revolting, that it dispersed at once the

bright creation of his enthusiastic fancy, and displayed Miss Morison

almost in her true character.

Still, notwithstanding all this pain and disappointment, Edward never

once regretted the impulse he had followed; and when, about six or seven

months afterwards, he received the most grateful letters from Willie and

his father, informing him that the opening offered, though attended with

many difficulties, promised fair, he felt the sacrifice was more than

recompensed, and from that hour never thought of it himself again. But

his assertion, that he would work the harder to make up for those

continental advantages which he had lost, was no idle boast; he did so

well, that even his father forgot his vexation; and his industry united

with great personal economy, enabled him to give his sisters richer and

more useful presents than the _bijouterie_ which he had laughingly

promised to bring them from France.

The marriage of Miss Julia Morison with some foreign Count, before six

months elapsed, had happily no effect on Edward’s equanimity; it might,

nay, it did cause a transient pang, but he recovered it much sooner than

his father did the loss of so desirable a connection.

“Never mind it, sir,” was Edward’s laughing entreaty; “I would rather

earn my own independence, and make a connection through my own exertions

than by the richest marriage I could make.”

“That’s just like your mother, boy,” said his father, somewhat

pettishly, “as if all depended on one’s self.”

“Thank you for the likeness, father. When I can bring you a daughter to

be to me what my mother is to you, I shall have formed a desirable

connection, though my wife be not set in gold.”

And this even his father acknowledged, when, two years afterwards,

Edward married the daughter of their vicar, who proved in his own person

that influence is not always inseparable from wealth, but may be found

with worth as well. Time rolled on; twenty, thirty years. In the

multitude of great and trifling events, which make up the sum of human

life, during those years Edward Langley had so entirely forgotten the

generous deed of his early youth, that he would have found it difficult

to recall even the name of Willie’s parents. His perseverance and talent

had been crowned with such success, that when only eight-and-twenty he

was taken into partnership by one of the first engravers of the

metropolis. For twenty more years the business so flourished as to make

all the principals very wealthy men; and Edward looked forward in two or

three more years to resign in favour of his son and retire himself from

active business. He had never been ambitious, and a series of domestic

trials in the loss of six children out of nine, all of that most

interesting age when childhood is giving place to youth, caused him to

turn with clinging love to those who remained, longing more to enjoy an

Englishman’s home than to continue amassing wealth.

Greatly against his wishes and advice, engagements and speculations had

been entered into by the firm to an immense extent, more especially with

establishments abroad. The dishonesty of distant agents, and the

careless supineness, if not equal dishonour, of one of the principals at

home, occasioned ruin to all, of course including Langley, though he had

been most unjustifiably kept in ignorance of the real extent of their

speculating schemes. Yet his high integrity enabled him to bear up

against this sudden change of circumstances with more fortitude than any

of his companions.

His wife’s little property had never been touched, and he was therefore

enabled to retire to a very small cottage in Cheshire, which soon

displayed the refined taste and artistic skill of its gentle-minded

inmates, to an extent that completely concealed their very humble means.

Not that they were ashamed of their poverty; but the same self-respect

that prompted their horror of all pretension, and resolution to live

strictly within their means, threw a comfort and refinement around and

within their lowly home, which the wealthiest might have envied.

For himself, Edward Langley would have been as happy as in the height of

his prosperity; but he could not help feeling a very pardonable pang at

this sad change in the prospects of his children. His son, emulating his

firmness, sought and obtained an excellent situation in a thriving

engraving establishment in Edinburgh, where his father’s name and

character spoke for him more forcibly than the highest premium. It was

on Helen Langley the blow had fallen heaviest; the only one of his

daughters who had reached the age of nineteen (for Fanny was still a

child), frail, delicate in seeming as a beautiful flower. She had been

nursed in luxury and affection, and guarded from even the approach of a

storm; the deserved darling of all who knew her, rich and poor, her

parents’ love for her amounted almost to idolatry. Engaged to the son of

one of her father’s partners, then studying as a physician, a bright and

happy future shone before them, when the thunderbolt fell before either

had seen a cloud. George Ashley was summoned from Paris just as his

diploma was obtained, and he was weaving fairy dreams of a speedy union

with his Helen; recalled, not as he believed, still to study and

gradually attain eminence, but to give up all ambitious dreams, and work

as a general practitioner for actual subsistence. To marry before he had

even the prospect of a connection and employment was absolute madness;

to live any distance from Helen he felt was quite as impossible; so he

settled himself in the old town of Chester, about three miles from her

home, and for her sake exerted himself more than he had once believed

was in his nature. At first, youth and excitement beheld only the

brighter side; but after six months’ trial, so endless and little

remunerating seemed his toil, that he sunk into the deepest despondency,

which neither Mr. and Mrs. Langley’s kind advice, nor Helen’s sweet

counsels could remove.

Fearfully would Mr. Langley look on his darling, dreading that this

constant pressure of anxiety and suspense would be as fatal to her as

disease had been to her sisters; but though more serious than had been

her disposition before, it was not the seriousness of gloom, but rather

of a firm yet gentle spirit, forming internally some resolution which

required thought and time for development. Her smile was as joyous, her

voice as gleeful, as in happier years; her pursuits continued with the

same zeal, if not with deeper earnestness. To persuade her to annul her

engagement never entered either parent’s mind, but the long vista of

dreary years which they believed must intervene ere it could be

fulfilled, was literally their only thought of anxious and unmitigated

gloom.

“Give me up, Helen! I have no right to fetter your young life with an

engagement which heaven only knows when we shall fulfil,” passionately

exclaimed young Ashley, about seven months after their misfortunes.

“Your sweet face, and sweeter temper, and lovely mind must win you a

position in life far higher than I can ever offer. You were only seen at

the ball the other night to be admired.”

“That unfortunate ball! I only went to gratify papa; and you are

jealous, George, that your poor Helen was admired.”

“No, Helen, no! I gloried in it; for I knew you were mine, mine in

heart, faith, all but name. But then I thought how selfish, how utterly

selfish I was still to claim you; to behold you wearing out your young

life in all the sickness of hope deferred; when, by resigning you, you

might be rich, admired, followed, occupy the station you deserve, and—”

“Be very happy, dearest George? This is a strange mood,” she said, half

reproachfully, half playfully. “Come, send it away, for it is not like

you. I am very sorry I cannot oblige you; but as I consider myself as

much yours as if the sacred words had actually been said, _you_ may

divorce me if you will, but _I_ will never give you up.”

“Helen, darling Helen! forgive me,” he replied, his repentance as

impetuous as all his other feelings. “Oh! if you would but be mine at

once, I am sure I should succeed; with such a comforter, such a cheerer,

work would be welcome. I would never despond again, dearest; loving as

we do, why should we not wed at once? We must then do well.”

“Must do well because we love, George? Yes, and so we shall, but not if

we wed now. Ah, now you look reproachfully again. Dearest, you know I

would not shrink from any hardship shared with you. I will work with

you, work for you, if needed; but, young as we both are, is it not

better to work apart a few years, that we may rest together? Think what

five years may do for both, it may be less; I put it only to the extent.

You are succeeding, and will succeed still more, the more you are known;

but had you a wife and an establishment to support now, even with my

very hardest exertions, we could not keep free from debt; and love,

potent as it is, could not then guard sorrow from our dwelling. When

wedded, if unlooked-for misfortunes come, we will bear them, and comfort

and strengthen each other; but would it be right, would it be wise to

invite them by a too early marriage? My own dear George, let us work

while we have youth and hope, and trust me we shall be very happy yet.”

It was scarcely possible to remain unconvinced by such fond reasoning;

but still Ashley referred with deep despondency to the long, long

interval which must elapse ere that happiness could be obtained.

“Not so long as you fancy, George. I never mean to be a rich man’s wife,

though you invited me to be so just now. I do not even intend to wait

for comforts, but only just for that competency which will prevent those

evil spirits, care and irritation, from entering our home; and to

forward this, listen to my plan, dearest George.” And with some little

tremour, for she dreaded his disapproval, she told him that she had

accepted an engagement as governess, in a family at Manchester; a Dr.

Murray, who was a widower, with four or five children: she had been

mentioned by a mutual friend, and the Doctor was so pleased with Mrs.

Norton’s account, that he agreed even to give the high salary Helen

required, without seeing her. He had said that his mother, who lived

with him, was too infirm to bear his children much with her, and he

therefore wanted more from his governess than merely to teach; he was

quite willing to pay for it, but a lady he must have.

“To bear with all his whims and fancies; to be tormented with spoiled

children; put up with the old woman’s infirmities; be insulted by

pampered servants. Helen, you shall not go!” exclaimed George.

“Now, George, don’t be foolish. I do not expect one of these evils; and

if I meet with them I can bear them, with such a hope before me,” she

continued, fondly looking in his face.

“But governesses are so insulted, so degraded.”

“Not insulted, if they respect themselves; not degraded, if those they

love do not think so. But perhaps, George, you are too proud to marry a

governess.”

A passionate reproach was his reply.

“Well then, love, listen to me a little longer. Mamma still means to

allow me enough for my quiet dress, so that I can put by every shilling

that I earn; and only think what that may come to in a few years. Then I

have a reason for choosing Manchester as a temporary home; you know I

can draw, but do you not know that I can design—William took so much

pleasure in teaching me—and, in a manufacturing town like Manchester, I

may not only be able to use this knowledge, but perhaps gradually get

introductions which will allow my successful pursuit of the art even

as—as your wife, dearest George; and then, what with our mutual economy

and mutual savings beforehand, and mutual work afterwards—oh, our future

will shine as bright as it did before this storm!”

“God for ever bless you, Helen, my own darling! you are indeed my best

hope, my best comforter already,” murmured George, half choked with

strong emotion, which he tried to conceal by pressing her to his bosom,

and kissing her cheek. “How can your parents part with you, and what

will drive away my fits of gloom, when I cannot come to you for

comfort?”

“Hope!” was her instant reply, in a tone so glad, so thrilling, that it

pervaded his whole being ever afterwards like a spell. “Think, dearest

George, of the hundreds who have to labour on, through lonely years,

uncheered by either love or hope; who must work, wearily and

unceasingly, only for means of existence. We have health and youth and

love, and, above all, mutual faith to sustain us; and therefore we must

be happy. You do not know how powerful is a woman’s will.”

“Not more so than man’s,” replied Ashley, more cheerfully than he had

yet spoken. “Helen, you have shamed me. I will become more worthy of

such love.”

Helen looked very much as if she thought that was impossible, but she

did not say so.

It was no light task this gentle girl had undertaken. Hopefully as she

had spoken and felt, her resolution had neither been formed nor matured

without suffering, nor had it been the least portion of the trial to win

over her parents to her wishes; but the wisdom of her plan was so

evident, that they conquered all selfish feeling for their child’s sake,

and tried to be comforted by Mrs. Norton’s assurance, that in Dr.

Murray’s family Helen would be as comfortable as she could be away from

home.

And so she was. In fact, so kindly was she welcomed and treated, that

she could scarcely understand it. Dr. Murray was a man in reality under

fifty, but looking much older, from a life of some hardship and much

labour, the fruits of which he now enjoyed in the possession of a

comfortable income. His manner, in general blunt and rough, always

softened towards Helen, whom he ever addressed with such respect, as

well as kindness, that all George’s terror of her encountering insolence

very speedily dispersed. Mrs. Murray had evidently not been born a lady,

but her regard for Helen was shown in such a multiplicity of little

kindnesses, that no feeling could be excited towards her but gratitude

and love. Constantly as she was occupied with her pupils, Helen’s

careful economy of time yet enabled her actually to accomplish the

purpose she had in her mind when she chose Manchester for her residence.

The idle, nay even the less energetic, would have declared it was

impossible for any one person to do what she did; but not even the

Doctor or his mother knew how her moments of made leisure were employed.

So nearly three years glided by; Helen’s health, instead of failing, as

her friends had feared, actually improved; and George declared there

must have been some spell in her words or her example, for his prospects

were brightening every year. Helen only smiled, and told him that the

spell was simply in his own more hopeful exertions.

Dr. Murray’s house was the frequent resort not only of men of talent

from the higher ranks, but frequently of clever manufacturers and

artificers, in whose works the Doctor and his mother were always

particularly interested. It happened that Helen was present one evening

when one of these gentlemen was regretting his inability to procure an

appropriate design for some window curtains, of a new material, which he

had invented; being no artist himself, he could not perhaps define his

wishes with sufficient technicality, but all which he had seen were

either so small as to have no effect, or so large as to look coarse and

common. Before he departed the conversation changed, and Dr. Murray

thought no more about it, until at a very early hour the next morning

Helen entered his study with a roll of paper, which she asked him to

examine, and tell her if he thought it the kind of thing Mr. Grey

required. His astonishment that she should remember any thing about it

was only equalled by his admiration of her work. So great was his

delight, that he declared he would convey it to Mr. Grey himself, and

get her something handsome for it. He was not disappointed. Mr. Grey

seized it with rapture, declared it was the very thing he meant; offered

to pay any sum for it, and was struck dumb with astonishment, when told

it was designed by the elegant young lady to whom he had been introduced

the previous night, and whom he had scarcely deigned to notice,

believing her the same as most young ladies—a very pretty but a very

useless piece of goods. One of his young men, who had been eagerly

examining it, said he was sure it was by the same hand as several other

elegant designs which they had been in the habit of purchasing the last

two years, but the name of whose inventor they had never been able to

discover. He brought some, and compared them, and even the Doctor’s

unpractised eye could discern the same hand throughout. But how could

Miss Langley have accomplished all this, and yet so done her duty to his

children? It was incomprehensible; and the good Doctor hurried home to

have the mystery solved. Helen speedily explained it, adding

ingenuously, that she had worked in secret, only because she feared the

Doctor or his friends might think she must neglect her duty to her

charge to pursue this employment; but since he had expressed such

perfect satisfaction, she had resolved on taking the first opportunity

to tell him all.

“But my good young lady, you must have some very strong incentive for

all this exertion.” Blushing deeply, Helen acknowledged that she had.

“Is it a secret, my dear child?”

For a minute she hesitated, then frankly told her story. The Doctor was

so much affected by it as to surprise her, and expressed the most

unfeigned regret that he had not known it before.

Not a fortnight afterwards, Mr. Grey sought an interview with Miss

Langley: he wished, he said, to monopolize her talents, and offered, in

consequence, with sufficient liberality as to tempt her to adhere to his

employment, instead of taking the chance of larger remuneration for

occasional designs. It was for this Helen had worked and prayed and

hoped—this which she had looked to, to follow even as a wife, and in her

husband’s house; and therefore we leave to our reader’s imagination the

gratitude with which it was accepted, the joy with which she wrote to

her parents, to George, to whom her woman’s heart so yearned in that

moment of rejoicing, that for the first time since she had loved him she

could scarcely write for tears. But the letters she received in reply

sadly alloyed this dawning happiness. Her sister Fanny was dangerously

ill; the same age, the same disease which had been so fatal to her

family. All George’s skill, and it was great, had been ineffectual;

nothing could save her, the distracted father wrote; she was doomed like

all the rest. But to Helen there was no such word as doom. She flew to

the Doctor, repeated to him as well as she could the symptoms, and the

remedies applied, conjuring him to think of something which would

alleviate, if it could not cure. What could she write?

“Write, my dear child! that will be of little use; we will go together.”

And though there were no railroads in that direction, man’s omnipotent

will carried Helen and the Doctor to Mr. Langley’s cottage in so short a

space, that it seemed to Helen like the transfigurations of a dream.

For four days fearful were the alternations of hope and dread; the

fifth, hope predominated, and by the end of the week, promptness and

skill in the adoption of an entirely new mode of treatment were so

successful, that Dr. Murray was blessed again and again by the

enraptured parents as, under heaven, the preserver of their child. But,

though all danger was over, the Doctor did not offer to quit the cottage

for another week, which time he spent mostly in his patient’s room, and

in earnest conversation with young Ashley. Helen had intended to remain

in his family till he could meet with some one to supply her place; but

this he now declared should not be. She must be wanted at home, at least

till she could finish her preparations for entering another; for, if he

were George, he would not wait another month; she had had her own will

too long already, and the future was bright enough now to permit him to

have his. Helen’s hand was clasped in her young sister’s as the good

Doctor spoke, but George’s arm was round her, and her reply seemed to

satisfy all parties.

All Mr. Langley’s attempts to obtain a private interview with his guest

were ineffectual until the day of his intended departure, when, with

trembling hands and swimming eyes, he tried to press a pocket-book into

the Doctor’s hand. “It is inadequate, wholly inadequate,” he said, with

emotion. “You have saved my child; so restored her, that she is better

than she has been since her birth. You have given us your time, your

skill, and you shrink even from my thanks. Were I a rich man, I should

feel as I do now, that a fortune could not repay you; but, as a poor

man, do not insult me by refusing the fee I can bestow.”

“Mr. Langley,” was the reply, “I tell you truth, when I assure you that

you owe me nothing. I am in your debt far more, far more than my

professional skill ever could repay.”

“In my debt, Doctor? Ah, you mean my Helen’s services; but those you

have so liberally remunerated, and treated her with such kindness, that

you have made me your debtor even there. No, no, I cannot allow Helen,

precious as she is, to come between me and justice.”

“I do not allude to Miss Langley, sir,” and the Doctor spoke as if

addressing a superior. “Her inestimable services to me and mine, indeed

nothing can repay; but it was not for her sake I came to you. The debt I

allude to is of more than thirty years’ standing, and is due to you

alone. On my first return to England, your position was higher, your

fortune far superior to mine; and had I then sought you, it might still

have been to receive benefits at your hand. In your noble endurance of

misfortune, it would have been an insult to have discharged my debt, and

therefore I waited and prayed for some opportunity not only to do

justice, but to evince gratitude. If I have made your child happy, and

shortened the term of her heroic exertions, you owe it to yourself. I

could not take from you even the full amount of this visit, regarding it

merely as professional, for I owe you in actual money more than that.”

Mr. Langley looked and expressed bewilderment; the Doctor’s manner was

too earnest to permit a doubt; but he tried in vain to recall to what he

could allude.

“Have you so completely forgotten Willie Murray, Mr. Edward?” continued

his companion, much agitated. “Willie Murray, the poor boy you not only

saved from sin, but made so happy by your generous kindness to his

family. Mr. Langley, I am that boy; my character, my success I owe to

you. How can such a debt ever be repaid?”

Mr. Langley’s astonishment was so great, as literally to deprive him for

the moment of words. He only remembered Willie Murray as a pale, thin,

intellectual boy of fifteen. To recognise him in the tall, stout,

somewhat aged-looking man before him, required more imagination than he

chanced to possess; but to doubt the identity was impossible. He grasped

his hand warmly, and insisted on his giving him that very hour the

history of his life. Our readers, however, must be contented with a very

brief sketch of these details. Suffice it, that neither Willie nor his

father rose to independence without constant toil and unwearying

perseverance. Profiting by the trials of earlier years, the elder Murray

laboured with an energy and skill which, until his timely release from

prison, had appeared foreign to his character. Many difficulties he had

to encounter; but once the manufactory established, competence was

secured; and as his labour rather increased than slackened, fortune

followed. His son’s marked preference for the medical profession grieved

him at first, but he lived long enough to see that he had chosen wisely,

and at his death left all his children comfortably provided for, each

possessing a share in the manufactory which his energy had established.

Willie had always yearned to return to England, and did so directly he

became a widower, his mother gladly accompanying him. He had finished

his medical education in France, had a large practice in America, and,

from his general intelligence, proved skill, and wide-handed

benevolence, very speedily became popular in England. But amid all the

chances and changes of his busy life, neither the fearful temptation of

his boyhood nor Edward Langley’s generous kindness had ever been

forgotten.

Joyous indeed, and full of hope, was Helen Langley’s bridal morn, though

neither pomp nor fashion attended it, such as might have been the case

some few years before. On retiring to change her dress, Helen found a

heavy packet, directed to Mrs. George Ashley, on her table. It was a

purse, containing three hundred sovereigns, with the following brief

lines:—

“This is your father’s gift, though it comes through me. I do but

return a sum lent by him to me and mine, with the accumulated

interest of three-and-thirty years. It is now added to the store

earned by Helen Langley’s meritorious exertions.”

“WILLIAM MURRAY.”

“Mother!” exclaimed Mr. Langley, after perusing this note, and turning

to his now aged parent with some emotion, “do you remember your words,

when I told you the money was as freely given, and I expected as little

reward as if I had thrown it on the waters, ‘that I should find it after

many days?’ You were right, I have found it indeed!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_The Triumph of Love._

Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth,

Unseen, both when we sleep, and when we wake.

MILTON.

I.

IT was a scene of unrivalled beauty; yet might some marvel wherefore it

was thus created, so far removed from mortal ken, so severed from the

habitations of sin and death, that foot of man had never sullied the

pure fresh green of the velvet grass; mortal hand had never culled the

brilliant flowers, gemming each silvery stream; corporeal sense had

never been regaled by their fragrant breath, or lulled by the sweet

music of the waters. The leafy branches of the ancient trees stretched

forth their deep green shadows, and hill, and stream, and valley, each

clothed in its own peculiar beauty, derived fresh charms, as the seasons

softly and silently sped by, leaving bright tokens as they sped. The

stars still smiled at their own sparkling rays gleaming up from the

gushing water; the pensive moon still touched the glossy leaves with her

diamond pencil, still lingered on the verdant mount, leaving rich

shadows on the luxuriant vales; the sun still sent forth its bright

beams, to revive and cherish the glistening flowers, to whisper of his

unfailing love; still did he bid them drink up the dewdrops, which,

trembling beneath his earnest gaze, yet sprung up from their homes at

his first call, eager to lose themselves in him. Day, in his mirth and

light, gave place to silent and shadowy night; and night again to-day.

Yet man was not there, and wherefore had such loveliness

birth?—wherefore was it so continually renewed?

Man would joy in the contemplation of beauty, such as this scene

presented; yet his imperfect vision would see no further than mount and

vale, and trees and shrubs, and streams and flowers; he would hear

nought but the rustle of the leaf, the murmur of the breeze, the music

of the brook, the luscious scents floating on the breeze, would be but

indistinctly distinguished, and his fancy perchance yearn towards them,

and long for perfume more defined, even as we sometimes seek to unite

into sweet melody the thrilling notes, which, one by one, at dreamy

intervals, linger on the distant air; and these things he would hear,

and feel, and see, and dream not there were sights and sounds hovering

around him too pure, too spiritual for earthly sense.

There were glorious spirits—angelic beings floating on the ambient air,

and lingering beside the waters, and sporting with the jewelled buds.

There were rich tones lingering on the breeze—sweet thrilling voices

mingling with golden harps and silvery flutes; there were luscious

scents ascending to the arching heaven; even as if, guided by

ministering spirits, each floweret sent up her grateful incense to the

throne of her Creator. As the dazzling flash of the diamond, the softer

gleam of the emerald, the radiant beam of the sapphire, the intense rays

of the ruby, so shone these beautiful beings, as they fleeted to and fro

on their respective tasks. Some replenishing the brooks with living

waters from vases which seemed moulded from precious gems. Some tending

the flowers, inhaling and bestowing fragrance, or whispering those sweet

memories, with which man ever finds the flowers of the desert filled.

Some lingering in groups upon the mount, crowning its flowery brow as

with a circlet of living rays. Some flying downwards, agitating the

valley with soft delicious winds, and others freshening the rich tints

of the far-spreading foliage; and far and near their voices sounded in

one rich hymn of praise, whose theme was love; and the golden harps

prolonged the hallelujahs, sounding up through the blue realms of space,

till they mingled with the deeper, mightier harmonies around the

Eternal’s throne, bearing along its thrilling echo, joined by

innumerable voices till the whole air seemed filled with song, and still

that song was Love!

Beautiful as were these celestial spirits—beautiful and blessed above

all conception of finite man—yet they were not of the highest class of

angels.

Incapable of sin, unconscious of pain or sorrow, but not yet admitted to

hover over the dwelling of man, to minister unto the afflicted, to tend

the couch of the dying, to whisper of rest to the weary, hope to the

desponding, joy to the mourner.

Sensible of the Eternal’s presence, their bliss made perfect in His

glory, their task was to watch and tend inanimate creation;—to sing His

praises amidst the glorious shrines of nature, till His works proclaimed

Him unto man.

Activity and obedience were the sole virtues demanded of these celestial

beings in the tasks above enumerated, and when these had been

sufficiently exercised, they graduated to a higher order of angels,

nearer the Eternal’s throne, who were permitted to receive His will and

make it known to man. The desire to obtain this privilege was lively in

all, but far removed from that grosser passion known to man as ambition.

In them it did but add zest to enjoyment; give energy to love,

inspiration to obedience. Faith they needed not; for to them the Eternal

was revealed. Anticipation was lost in fulfilment—hope in completion.

Their nature was not susceptible of a deeper sense of bliss; but as they

ascended higher and higher in the scale of angels, the deeper, fuller,

more glorious blessedness was met by a nature yet more purified,

spiritualized, exalted, fitted for its reception, and strengthened to

retain it.

II.

Reposing on a sunbeam lingering on the brow of a hill, a spirit lay,

apart from his fellows. His brow was wreathed with the opal, emerald,

and ruby; so blending their several rays that they seemed but as a

circlet of ever-changing light. His long flowing hair shone as if each

clustering ringlet had been bathed in the liquid diamond. His downy

wings, woven of every shade, gently waved in air, wafting the richest

perfume, and dyeing the sunbeam on which he lay in every brilliant tint.

A light mist enveloped his angelic form—softening, not lessening, his

resplendent loveliness. His eye shone as the midnight star; a bloom,

softer, lovelier, purer than the earliest rose, played on his cheek;

sparkling smiles wreathed his lips. He spoke, and his voice was music,

though his golden harp lay silent by his side.

“Love! love;” he murmured. “Hallelujah to the Lord of love! Let the full

choirs of heaven chant forth the immortal theme; proclaim, proclaim Him

Love! Earth! air! ocean! shout with your hundred tongues, send up your

echo to the voice of heaven! Man, art thou insensible?—Hearest thou not

these living tones?—Can doubt be thine, as I have heard whispered in the

celestial courts? Created by Love—placed in a world of Love—distant as

thou art, yet cherished and beloved by Love, destined for immortal union

with the Love that gave thee being!—canst thou be faithless, canst thou

be senseless?—when above, below, around, within, soundeth the deep

eternal voice of Love! Oh, insensates, if such things be! Immortal

glory, bliss unfading, can it be for ye!”

Awhile he paused. A slight shadow passed athwart the brilliant rays with

which he was encircled. He folded his wings around him, and laid his

brow upon them.

“My thought has been rebuked,” he said; “I have done ill. Enough for me

the consciousness of love. Wherefore should I condemn, as yet unworthy

to look on man? Let the hallelujahs sound forth again. Glory to the

Eternal!—His works are wisdom, His thoughts are love!”

He swept his hand across his harp—the shadow had departed from his

wings;—his chaplet shot forth again its living light. Celestial music

flowed forth from his voice and hand:—the spirit smiled once more.

Suddenly the hallelujahs ceased. To the eye of man twilight had

descended; the stars began to light up the dark blue heavens. Mortal

vision might trace the semblance of a falling meteor of unwonted

brilliance, dropping into space. The purified orbs of the seraph crowd

knew that one of the highest class of angels was departing from his

resplendent seat, and winging his flight towards them. Instantly they

rose up from their several resting-places, forming in files of

unutterable brilliance. Increased happiness shed a new lustre on their

brows, and heightened the glowing iris of their wings. One alone felt

penetrated with an awe, which slightly lessened the feelings of joy

which the visit of an angel ever caused. He feared it was to him the

celestial mission came: that his condemnation of beings, whose nature

and whose trials he knew not, had exposed him to censure, perhaps to a

longer banishment from the higher spheres of glory; and while his

brother spirits thronged round the favoured minister, to bask in the

resplendent brightness of his smiles, to list to the words of melody

flowing from his lips, to gaze on the mild yet thrilling softness of his

celestial features, Zephon stood aloof, for the first time shrinking

from the glance and voice he loved. He saw not that the glittering helm

and dazzling sword were laid aside, that his brow was wreathed with the

softly gleaming pearl, his shining wings glistening through silvery

radiance, bespeaking tenderness and mercy, and not now the wrath and

chastisement of which, at his Maker’s will, he was at times the

minister.

His voice, melodious and thrilling as the silver trumpets of the

empyreal heavens, sounded through space, as it called “Zephon!” The

seraph paused not a moment, but darting through the incensed air,

prostrated himself at the archangel’s feet.

“Arise! and fear not, youthful brother,” spake the messenger of the

Eternal, departing not from the grave majesty of his demeanour, but

smiling with such ineffable sweetness, the seraph felt its reviving

influence, and spread forth his silken pinions rejoicingly again. “I

come, the harbinger of peace and love. Thine impassioned zeal was

checked ere it became a fault—checked ere it led thee to desire

forbidden knowledge. Charged with a message of love and mercy from the

Most High, I have besought and obtained permission to take thee as my

companion. To thine imperfect vision it seemeth strange that man, so

especially the beloved, the cherished of the Eternal, framed to display,

to uphold His stupendous power, to proclaim His might—His love—should

ever fail either in obedience or adoration. Thou hast heard that such

has been; for where sin hath so fearfully prevailed that an immortal

spirit has been excluded from these glorious realms, a dim shadow hath

spread over Heaven’s resplendent courts, and the celestial spirits of

every rank have prostrated themselves before the invisible yet terrible

Presence, adoring justice, while they supplicated mercy. Zephon! not yet

may be revealed to thee the glorious mystery of the Eternal’s secret

ways. Thou mayst gaze with me on the earthly beings I have charge to

tend; but it is forbidden thee to ask or seek the wherefore of what thou

seest. Thou wilt behold, even in this limited glance, enough to prove,

that even if the human heart refuseth to send up its thrilling echo to

the theme of Love, which thy zeal demandeth, the unfathomable love of

its benignant Creator will receive and bless its faintest sigh; for to

Him, and to Him alone is known the _extent_ of its trial—the bitterness

of its grief—the difficulty of its belief in an ever-acting love.

Zephon! if still thou wilt, thou shalt look on the human heart: yet

pause awhile;—is thy love sufficiently strong to uphold thee in the

contemplation of decrees, whose motives thou art not yet permitted to

conceive? In thy blissful dwelling, thou hast no need of Faith; thou

knowest not even its name; but if with me thou goest, Faith must be thy

safeguard. Here thine eye seeth, thine ear heareth nought but love;

there it may be darkly hidden from thee. Yet if thy faith or thy love

should fail, if thou demandest the wherefore of what thou seest, it is

of our Father’s will, that thou shalt be banished unto earth—banished

from this glorious abode, condemned to struggle with the ills and

sorrows of mortality, till pure and perfect faith shine forth, and fit

thee once again for heaven. Speak then, my brother; wilt thou depart

with me, or still linger here? The choice is now thine own.”

Awhile the seraph paused; the face of the archangel beamed on him with

compassionating tenderness and redoubled love. The looks of his brother

spirits, the soft fluttering of their wings, seemed to woo him to

remain, to entreat him not to tempt the fate threatened if his love

should fail, and therefore did he pause.

“No, no! wherefore should I fear?” he cried; “I will go with thee,

minister of love. I will look upon my Father’s dearest work, and despite

of mystery and gloom—of sorrow—of pain, I will love and bless Him

still!”

A fuller, richer burst of melody filled the realms of air; thousands and

thousands of voices swelled forth in triumphant harmony. A starry cloud

descended, and, folded in its spangled robe, the departing spirits

vanished into space.

III.

“Thy wish is fulfilled; the peculiar treasure of our Father is revealed.

Zephon, behold!” the angel spake, as the shrouding cloud rolled away

towards the fields of ether, and the celestial spirits hovered over the

abode of man. A sudden, an indescribable consciousness of increased

powers, of heightened intellect, shot from the starry eyes of the

youthful seraph. Man in his majesty, his beauty—bearing in his every

movement, his exquisitely-formed frame, his complicated economy of

being, yet more impressive, more startling evidence of the might, the

wisdom, the benevolence of his glorious Maker, than even the source of

the river, the structure of the flower, the growth of the tree, over

which the seraph had presided, finding even in such things ample scope

for the soaring intellect which characterised his race. Man, proceeding

from, destined for, immortality—the beloved, the peculiar care and

treasure of the Eternal—man, beautiful man, stood revealed before him.

Yet amidst the thronging multitude on which he gazed, but _one_ HEART,

in all its varied impulses, its hidden throbs and incongruous thoughts

and ever-changing fancies—but one beautiful intellect, in all its secret

powers and extent, was open to his inspection; and lovely, even to the

eyes of a spirit, was the being in whom such glorious things were

shrined.

She was a young and noble maiden, perfect in form and face; her virtues

scarce sullied by a stain of earth, although, from the spirit of Poetry,

the living fount of Genius, dwelling within, open to grief and trial,

even from the faintest breath too rudely jarring on the heavenly-strung

chords with which her heart was filled. A deep, lowly, clinging piety

was ever ready to check the first impulse of impatience, to turn to the

sweet joys of sympathy and universal love the too vivid sense of sorrow

either for herself or others. Humility was there, to lift up that young

spirit in thankfulness to its Creator, and to devote that powerful

intellect, ever seeming to bear all difficulties before it, to His

service in the good of her fellow-creatures.

Zephon saw that the praise of man was a source of pure, inspiring

pleasure; but instead of filling her soul with pride, it ever bore it up

in increased devotion to its God. He marked her graceful form, sporting

to and fro amid the stately domains of her lordly ancestors. He marked

the love of parents, brothers, friends, that ever thronged around her,

and the fulness of joy that love bestowed. He saw, too, the impassionate

longings for yet stronger love, the yearnings for fame; appreciation,

not alone from the noble and the gay, but from the gifted and the good:

the desire to awake, by the magic touch of genius, the same thrilling

chords in other hearts, as the spell of others had revealed in hers.

The seraph looked long and earnestly. Suddenly he saw her standing in

the centre of a lordly room, and loving and admiring friends around her;

her lip, her eye, her heart breathed joy, well-nigh as full and

shadowless as the blessedness of heaven. After awhile the angel spake.

“There is nought here to call for Faith,” he said. “Yon favourite child

of genius but awakens deeper yet more adoring love. Her lot _is_

blessedness; her heart so pure, earth hath scarce power to stain that

bliss. But now look yonder, Zephon. Seest thou amidst the multitude a

being equally, though differently lovely—equally powerful in intellect,

equally the child of genius, as richly gifted, alike in wisdom as in

virtue, as fully susceptible of joy and sorrow; the same feelings, the

same desires, the same deep yearnings for love on which to rest, for

appreciation, fame; the same strung heart, thrilling to melody as keenly

as to neglect. Mark well, young brother, and thou wilt trace these

things.”

Anxiously the seraph gazed, and again he was conscious of sufficient

power to read the human heart. Again, amidst the multitude, one gentle

being stood unveiled before him; and, save for the difference in form

and face, he had thought perchance it was the same on whom he had gazed

before, so similar were their virtues, powers, temperament, and

genius;—similar in all things, save that the sense of bliss in the one

already appeared more chastened, more timid than in the other. He

looked, then turned inquiringly towards his companion.

“The will of the Eternal,” he said, in answer, “produced at the same

instant these lovely beings, and breathed into both the spirit which

thou seest. Their souls are twin-born—TWIN-BORN in sensation, in power,

in beauty, formed of the highest, most ethereal essence, and thus

creating that which earth terms genius; destined at the same moment to

animate the beautiful habitation formed for each, and at the same moment

depart from it. Until now, their fate hath been, with little variation,

the same, differing only according to their station; the one standing

amidst the highest and noblest of her land, findeth fit companions for

that nobleness and refinement indivisible from genius; the other already

feeleth there is that within her incomprehensible to those around her;

yet is the consciousness of little moment, for freely and joyously she

roams amid the varied scenes of nature. She mingles but with those eager

and anxious to enhance her innocent pleasures—to give to her exalted

mind and gentle virtues the homage naturally their due. She looks on the

world from a distance, and hath peopled it with all things fond, and

bright, and beautiful, which take their exquisite colouring from her own

lovely and loving mind. She yearns for appreciation, as thou seest—for

the praise of the multitude won by her talents, but she asks not to

mingle with them. She seeks but the love of one, and the proud

consciousness of doing good to many. She demands not a statelier home, a

prouder station. Thus, then, thou seest the earthly fate of these

twin-born spirits hath rolled on the same; but now it is the will of the

All-wise, All-merciful, All-just, that a shadowy change should pass over

the one, and bliss, fuller, dearer, perfect as earth may feel, be

dawning for the other. Thou hast marked the quick throb of joy now

playing on the heart of the noble child of genius. She beholds her first

triumph in the book she clasps. The thoughts that breathe, the words

that burn, have found their echo in the multitude, and loving friends

throng around to proclaim her dawning fame. There are tears in those

lovely eyes; but ’tis a mother’s voice of love, of tenderness, that

calls them there. See, clasped to a parent’s bosom, the swelling fulness

of the spirit finds vent in tears, for joy, that pure, stainless joy,

which is sent as the dim whisperings of heaven, ever turns to pain on

earth, and had it not relief in tears, would bear the soul away to that

world of which it speaks. She hath flown from the detaining throng, and

hark!—hearest thou not the hymn of thanksgiving ascending upon high,

till the tumultuous joy subsides, and peace is gained once more?”

He ceased; a brighter radiance passed over his benignant brow, and the

voice of the seraph spontaneously flowed forth in kindred harmony with

the hymn of earth, bearing it on the wings of melody to the realms of

song. ’Twas hushed, and the Hierarch again spake.

“Behold!” he said, the music of his voice subdued and softened, “behold,

yet murmur not! It is the will of the Eternal, and therefore it is

well.”

The seraph gazed on a changed and darkened scene.—As deep, as full as

was the bliss from which his eye had that moment turned, so deep, so

intense was the anguish he now beheld. The gentle being in whom that

twin-born spirit breathed, knelt beside the couch of the dead. He marked

the wrung and bleeding heart; he read its utter loneliness, its agonized

despair; he read it was a mother’s loss she mourned—a more than mother,

for by her, by her alone, her child’s ethereal soul, her fond

imaginings, her strong affections had been known, and loved, and

fostered; to her, her beautiful had ever come, to seek and find that

sympathy which she found not in another—and she was gone, and the dark

troubled strivings of that desolate heart not yet could deem it love.

“She weeps, and shall we condemn, young brother, that not yet her voice

may join in the universal hymn? She weeps, yet knows not all her woe.

The stability, the honour, the strength of her father were derived from

the mild counsels, the gentle unobtrusive virtues of her mother; in him

they have no stay. That moral evil, too darkly prevalent on earth, once

more will gain dominion, and the joys of the innocent, the helpless, are

blighted ’neath its poison. On earth she stands alone—yet hark! What

means that burst of triumph in the skies?”

Ineffably brilliant was the smile on the countenance of the angel; and

Zephon, startled, yet entranced, looked again on that bleeding heart.

The dark and troubled waves within were stilled; there was no voice—no

sign; but the lamp of faith was lit; her soul had murmured Love! and

bowed, adoring and resigned.

IV.

Again did the youthful spirit gaze down on earthly joy, chastened in its

fulness, yet ecstatic in its nature. Love, pure, perfect, faithful love,

had twined around that fair and gifted child of earth, and filled the

blank which yet remained; though fame, appreciation, triumph, sympathy,

affection, all were hers. She had found a kindred soul, round which to

weave the clinging tendrils of her own; virtues to revere, piety to

support, uphold, and cherish the soarings of her own. She had found one

whose praise might still those passionate yearnings, the which to

satisfy she had vainly looked to fame;—one, from whose lips how sweet

became the praise of the world;—one to give new zest to her exalted

genius; for by him it was most valued, most beloved; Zephon looked on

the beautiful blossoming of genius, the expansion of intellect, the

flowering of every budding hope; and he saw, too, the chastened

humility, the unwavering love, which traced these rich gifts to their

source, and lifted up her heart in universal love and grateful

adoration; and again his voice joined hers in thanksgiving.

Once more, at the voice of the archangel, he sought and found the

kindred essence, and love was on that heart, deep mighty, whelming love,

bearing before it for awhile even the sere and withered leaves, with

which its depths were strewed. He looked on the wreck of that which he

had seen so lovely—the wreck of all save the gentle virtues, the meek

submission which had characterised her youth; the rosy dreams, the

glowing visions presented but a crushed and broken mass; their bright

fragments seeking ever to unite, but ever rudely severed. Genius, in its

deep, wild burnings, its impassioned breathing, feeding as a smothered

fire upon her own young heart, seeking ever to find a vent, an echo—to

be known, acknowledged, loved; but falling back with every effort, till

even genius seemed increase of sorrow—and hope yet glimmered there,

pale, sickly, shadowy, in its faint rays emitting but increase of light,

to be immersed in deeper gloom. And love was there, intense, all-mighty,

yet it brought no joy.

“She loves—she was beloved,” again spake the angelic voice; “but the sin

of the father is visited upon the child. A little while he appeared

devoted unto her, and to the memory of the departed; and though he led

her from the scenes she loved, to mingle more closely with the world,

his affection soothed, his hopes inspired; but he knew not the ethereal

nature of that soul, and the scenes which earth terms gay and joyous

touched no answering chord in _her_, and led _him_ once again astray.

Yet, for a brief while, happiness was hers, banishing those vain

yearnings, ever proceeding from a soul too sensitive for earth; but the

same hour which awoke her to a consciousness of love, given and

returned, turned back that fountain of bliss upon her seared and

withered heart, and changed it into gall. The child of a dishonoured

parent was no fit mate for nobleness and honour, and earth is lone once

more.”

Tears, the sweet bright tears that angels weep, bedewed the eyes of the

seraph; yet riveted their gaze on that one sad child of earth, as if in

its dark and troubled chaos there was yet more to read. He saw, too, the

slight and beautiful shell in which that spirit was enshrined quivering

beneath the tempest till at length it lay prostrate and unhinged, and

intense bodily suffering heightened mental ill.

“’Tis the struggle for submission and resignation that hath done this,”

continued the angel. “Seest thou no dream of unbelief, no murmur of

complaint hath entered that heart; anguish may wither up the swelling

hymn, may check the voice of love, but faith is _there_! And mark!

though, in His unquestionable wisdom, the Eternal’s will is to afflict,

though in impenetrable darkness, save to those beside His throne, He

hideth the secret wherefore of that will, invisibly His ministers are

charged to hover round His favoured child, to comfort and sustain,

though lone and desolate on earth. Behold?”

Bright, beautiful spirits, robed in light and glory, hovered round the

couch of sorrow; yet earth hid them from their kindred essence. She saw

them not; felt not the mild reviving influence of their spiritual

presence, save that gradually and slowly the chains which bound those

beautiful limbs were loosed. The whirlwind sweeping over that heart

subsided into partial calm; and strength was given her to struggle on

and live.

Zephon looked on the child of sorrow, and a faint shadow stole over the

brilliant iris of his wings; the living rays on his brow grew dim.

V.

Again did the seraph look down on earth, again did he gaze on the

favoured child of joy. The ecstatic sense of bliss he had marked before

had subsided into happiness as full, as pure, as thrilling, yet

chastened in its fulness. There were young and lovely forms around her;

a mothers love has added its unutterable sweetness to her lot. He looked

on her heart, and marked how sweetly and beautifully its every dream,

its every hope, had bloomed to full maturity. How softly its light cares

were soothed by sympathy and love on earth, and trust and hope in

heaven; how earnestly it sought to pour back its every gift into the

gracious hand from which it sprung, and lead her children as herself, to

the threshold of Eternal joy. He looked on that unveiled heart, as,

wandering with those she loved amid the glorious shrines of nature, she

found in every leaf, and stream, and bird, and flower somewhat to bid

her children love, and add to the inexhaustible spring of poesie and

genius which rested still within, and gave new zest, new brightness to

her simplest joy.

He gazed on her alone, amidst the books she loved, the studies her

genius craved; he read the deep, pure, shadowless joy it was to feel

that gift had done its work, and sent its pure and lucid flame amidst

the unthinking crowd, and carried blessings with it; that its rich music

had left its impression on many a thoughtless heart; had shed sweet balm

over hours of sad, lonely sickness; had spoken its soft sympathy to the

diseased and sorrowing mind, and sent new, brighter, purer joyance to

the young, eager, and imaginative soul. It had done these things, and

was it marvel she rejoiced?

Zephon gazed; but the shadow passed not from his wings, and hastily and

silently he turned once more to seek the kindred essence. The whelming

woe had given place to a strangely complicated mass of cross and twisted

strings, which tightly fettered down each glorious gift, each cherished

hope, each fond aspiring, yet gave them space to throb, and live, and

whisper still. The bright undying flame of genius never seemed to burn

with mere o’er-sweeping power; yet the flashes that it sent but scorched

the heart that held them. Hope still was there, sending forth her lovely

blossoms; but to be nipped and blighted ’neath the close and icy strings

that stretched above them. There were chains upon that spirit, binding

it to earth, when most it longed to spring on high; and the shell, the

lovely shell which held it was dwindling ’neath its withering spell. The

seraph marked the tension of each vein and nerve, and pulse, till it

seemed as if the very next breath of emotion, however faint, would snap

them in twain; the painful effort to restrain the irritation of bodily

and mental suffering, the agony of remorse which the slightest

ebullition of impatience caused.

He beheld her hour by hour, the centre of a noisy group of children,

possessing not one attribute to call forth that torrent of love and

tenderness with which her soul was filled. He marked the starting of

each nerve, the hounding of each pulse, at every shout of rude and noisy

revelry, the inward fever attending every effort to restrain and

instruct. He saw her, when midnight enwrapped the earth, alone for a

brief space, in a poor and comfortless room; the bright visions of

genius thronging tumultuously on mind and brain; incongruous and wild,

from there having been so long pent up in darkness and woe. He beheld

the effort to give the burning fancies vent; the utter failing of the

mortal frame; the prostration of all power, save that which yet would

lift up heart and hands in the low cry: “Father, it is thy will; I know

not wherefore; yet, oh! yet, if Thou willest it, it is, it must be

well!” and he heard unnumbered harps bear up that voice of Faith, in

melody overpowering in its deep rich tones. He marked the spirits of

light and loveliness still hovering around, moulding those burning tears

into precious gems, changing each quivering sigh to songs of glory; yet

still his sight seemed strangely dim, the shadow passed not from his

wings.

“And man, her brother man, hath he no love, no tenderness, no thoughts

for sorrow such as hers?” the seraph asked; “knows he not of the

precious gifts, the gentle virtues that frail shell enfolds? Wherefore

is she thus lone?—hath man no answering chord?”

“Man sees not the interior of that heart, as thou dost,” rejoined the

Hierarch. “When through disobedience sin entered yon beautiful world,

man’s eyes became darkened towards his fellows, and but too often his

rebellious and perverted mind wilfully refuses knowledge of his brother,

lest sympathy should bid him share the griefs of others. In some envy,

foul envy, the base passions which first darkened earth with death,

wilfully blinds, lest the genius and the virtue of the poor should be

exalted above the rich; in others it is ignorance, contempt, neglect,

spring from that rank poison selfishness, or the loathsome weed

indifference, which flings a thick veil over others’ woe, and so

confines the gaze—it sees no farther than itself. To mortal vision yon

gentle being is composed and calm. Man marks but the outward frame; love

alone might trace the decline of strength, the failing of bodily power;

but there is none near to love. Poverty hath flung those chains upon the

heart, confining the ethereal spirit, dragging it down to earth, yet

deadening not its power. Poverty, privation, have thrown her amongst

those whose grosser, more material natures are incapable of appreciating

the heavenly rays of genius; of comprehending its effect upon the

temperament and the frame. They deem her lot a happy one, for they

cannot know how much more she needs—what cause she has for sorrow. They

would laugh in bitter scorn at those griefs which have their birth in

_feeling_, whose intensity, whose depth of suffering are to them utterly

unknown. No! man may not alleviate woes like hers. In the dark circle

her fate is fixed; earth, mortal fading earth, is all; they have no time

for dreams and thoughts of heaven. A spirit like to hers, bearing on its

brow a stamp of glory not its own. Alas! my brother, man will not mark

such things. Sin, foul sin, hath dimmed its gaze.”

The seraph folded his beautiful wings around him. There was a strange

dim sense of pain upon him, undefined yet sad, as the first clouding of

mortal visions unto man, ere sight departs for ever. When he looked

forth again, the scene was changed, and it was bright and beautiful,

though death was there.

The blessed, the loved, the cherished!—she lay there, calm, yet

rejoicing,—though the loved around her wept. Recalled to its native

home, ere age or sorrow dimmed the spirit’s glory, joyfully, willingly,

she heard the call, for death had no pang for her. She knew she parted

from her beloved to meet again, “where never sounds farewell.” She knew

she was departing to that blissful bourne, whose glorious light had

beamed so softly and beautifully on her earthly course, gilding MORTAL

happiness with IMMORTAL glory; to that goal, where each bright gift

would be made perfect, her finite wisdom find completion in infinity.

Still, still the comfort of her voice consoled the hearts that wept

around; her lip yet sent forth gentle words to soothe and bless when she

was gone; the mind, the beautiful mind, yet shone in all its living

light—death had no power to dim its lustre. Brighter and brighter

gleamed the departing soul; and thoughts, sweet thoughts, came thronging

on that heart, of duties done, of life that sought but good, of

universal love, benevolence, and peace; and blessings of the poor, the

needy, and the sorrowing hovered round her as angels robed in light.

Joy! joy! oh, still was that gentle spirit wreathed in joy,—the grave

had lost its sting, and death was swallowed up in victory!

Irresistibly and rapidly the seraph sought the twin-born spirit,—which,

at the same hour, was to wing her flight from earth. There were none to

weep around her couch of loneliness and pain; but one, a kind and lowly

hireling, was near to mark that spirit’s parting pang,—to smooth the

pillow, and whisper of repose. No sign of luxury was there, no gentle

hand, with luscious fruit or cooling draught, to tempt the fevered lip,

the parched and tasteless tongue. Dark, close, confined, the chamber of

the dying—but a few pale flowers, children of field and brook, alone

stood beside her, to whisper ’twas a poet’s dying home. Save that,

perchance, the treasured volumes still around, disclosed that the mind

was bright, and strong, and lovely still. Her thin hand still clasped a

book, her eyes lit up as they gazed upon the page, and for a brief space

her cheek shone with a bloom that scarce could seem of death. Zephon

looked within the heart and started. Hope gleamed up amidst its crushed

and broken chords; hope, aye, and one bright flash of joy, darting forth

as a sunbeam midst the shrouding mass of clouds, and momentary, coeval

with that joy, the wish, fond wish to live.

“Start not, my brother!” the thrilling accents of the angel once more

spake. “She gazes on her own fond dreams, her own pure visions; she

clasps their record in the volume that she holds. Acknowledged, sought,

appreciated; her genius hast burst through the veil of obscurity and

woe, and fame, undying fame, hath wreathed his laurels to adorn the

dead. Man will weep upon her grave, will wreath her name with glory,

will reverence too late the genius that hath gone, and therefore would

she live. It is the last struggle, the last pang,—the spirit is too

pure, too free, to fold too long the chain which earth holds forth, even

though its links are joy. Behold!”

The seraph looked once more. There had been a struggle—a brief and

anguished pang; joy and hope lay crushed for ever, beneath the sickening

consciousness; ’twas all too late, and she must die! There came one

murmuring doubt, one painful question—wherefore she was thus called

away, when earth gave promise of such sweet reviving flowers? And

darkness spread forth her pall, and shrouded up that heart, but speedily

it passed; a soft and mellowed light gleamed up; the blackened shade

rolled up and fled; the ruin and its chains were gone, and PEACE, and

FAITH, and JOY twined hand in hand together.

VI.

Zephon looked not on the abodes of man. The Hierarch alone stood before

him, surrounded by a blaze of glory. Ineffable brilliance shone forth

from his brow and wings, yet softened into compassionating tenderness

was his radiant look, his thrilling voice. A trembling awe spread over

the seraph, and involuntarily he bowed before him.

“Thy will is accomplished, youthful brother, thou hast glanced on man,”

spake the angelic voice; “yet know, that which thou hast seen is but as

a single grain amid the spreading sands of the boundless desert; as a

single spark of earthly fire amid the countless stars and blazing suns

of heaven, compared with the scenes of woe yon world of beauty holds.

When Sin entered, Joy fled trembling up to the heaven whence he came.

Twined as he was with purity and innocence, without them earth could

have for him no stay, no resting;—man reaps the fruit he sows,—for not

in a guilty world may the Eternal mark the distinction between the

righteous and the wicked. In that which thou hast seen there was no

guilt, no sin. Twin-born in purity, as in their high ethereal essence,

yet, from the imperfection of earth, so widely severed their mortal

fates, so strangely parted, if such things are, is’t marvel that the

hymn of love, of praise, from lips of man should be so faint and weak?

Zephon, thou hast looked on earth; thou hast marked the dealings of our

Father with His children. Speak then, my brother, oh, speak! will the

song of joy, of adoration, still flow from thy lips—still, still canst

thou proclaim Him Love?”

The harps of heaven were stilled. The invisible choirs hushed their full

tide of song. Darker and darker, for a brief space, became the shadow

around the youthful seraph, and his radiant brow was buried in its

shrouding folds. Deep, awful was that momentary pause, for it seemed as

if the hosts of heaven themselves were hushed in sympathy and dread.

A sudden flood of dazzling effulgence burst through the gloomy shade,

dispersing it as a thin vapour on either side. Beams of living lustre

illumined that glorious brow, and in liquid music his voice flowed

forth.

“Shall I be less than mortal—I, who serve my Father amidst His chosen

choirs, who knew Him, unobstructed by the veil of earth? Let the full

song burst forth; let the bright seraphim strike the bold harps again;

let the rich hymn swell out in deeper glory; hallelujah to our Father

and our King! His ways are dark, but His will is love! Praise Him, ye

myriads of angels; praise Him, ye Heaven of Heavens; proclaim, proclaim

Him Love! His ways are pleasantness, His paths are peace.—Praise Him, ye

glorious hosts—hallelujah, He is Love!”

VII.

There was rejoicing amidst the heavenly choirs, rejoicing amidst the

seraph band; for a bright and beautiful spirit, whose lot, even on

earth, was joy, released from mortal chains, had joined their glittering

files. Wafted from earth amidst strains of glory, lifting up her voice

with theirs in thanksgiving, and consummating, in the centre of that

glorious band, the hymn of beauty and of love commenced on earth.

There was rejoicing amid the angelic choirs, beside the shrouding veil,

which softened even from their purified orbs the transcendent glory of

their Father’s throne—rejoicing amidst the archangelic choirs; for a

bright and beautiful spirit, whose earthly doom had been shrouded in the

impenetrable mists of darkness and woe, was wafted towards them on a

golden cloud, amid a rich burst of glad triumphant harmony,

rejoicing!—for mystery and gloom were removed from a child of God, and

unsealed for her the secret of his ways.

There was rejoicing in the angelic hosts,—rejoicing through the central

choirs,—for a youthful seraph, springing up on the bright wings of faith

and love, had joined their glittering files, and songs of joy and melody

encircled him, rejoicing!—above, below, within, till each resplendent

court of heaven darted forth rays of inexpressible brilliance, and the

whole universe of space, peopled with its myriads of angelic and

archangelic spirits, sent forth its mighty depths of harmony, its

thrilling voice of song; and still, oh still, its theme was

Love!—Eternal, changeless, unfathomable Love!

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

NEW EDITION OF THE WORKS

OF

GRACE AGUILAR.

-------

This elegant Edition, large crown 8vo, is printed from new type, on

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_HOME INFLUENCE._

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CRITICISMS ON GRACE AGUILAR’S WORKS.

=HOME INFLUENCE.=—“To those who really knew Grace Aguilar, all

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=WOMAN’S FRIENDSHIP.=—“We congratulate Miss Aguilar on the spirit,

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=VALE OF CEDARS.=—“The Authoress of this most fascinating volume has

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=DAYS OF BRUCE.=—“The tale is well told, the interest warmly sustained

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=HOME SCENES.=—“Grace Aguilar knew the female heart better than any

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same masterly analysis and development of the motives and feelings

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=WOMEN OF ISRAEL.=—“A work that is sufficient of itself to create and

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------------------------------------------------------------------------

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THE WANDERING MASON

AND

OTHER STORIES.

BY W. T.

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CONTENTS: The Wandering Mason—The Golden Ram—Milton’s Golden Lane—One

New Year’s Eve—A Night of Tortures—Going Hopping—Loitering by the

Way—The Abbot’s Garden—The Elixir of Life—An Englishman’s Castle.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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FOOTSTEPS TO FAME

A BOOK

TO OPEN OTHER BOOKS.

BY HAIN FRISWELL.

Author of “The Gentle Life,” “Out and About,” etc.

--------------

CONTENTS: The Uses of Fame—Great Thinkers—Heroes—Rulers of

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Science—Ploughers of the Deep—Pioneers of Science—Great

Workers—Lovers of Nature—Searchers of the Skies—Watchers on the

Shore—Patriots—Benefactors of their Kind—Workers and Thinkers.

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“Written not only to instruct and amuse, but also with the purpose of

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always kindly, often noble, and mostly shrewd and clever.”—_Illustrated

London News._

“The title-page intimates that it is ‘a book to open other books.’ It

will do that and perhaps more, for it may be the means of making other

books, by inciting its younger readers to follow the examples of its

heroes, and thereby making themselves famous enough to have their lives

recorded in a book. ‘Footsteps to Fame’ is a book worth the reading and

remembering.”—_City Press._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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CLIMBING THE HILL

A STORY

FOR THE HOUSEHOLD.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “A TRAP TO CATCH A SUNBEAM.”

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_NEW EDITION OF THE WORKS_

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ANNA LISLE.

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SELF AND SELF-SACRIFICE

OR,

NELLY’S STORY.

BY ANNA LISLE.

--------------

“A very beautiful story, with characters well drawn, scenery vividly

described, and interest admirably sustained. The tendency of the volume

is not only unexceptionable, but excellent in a Christian point of view.

We have seldom seen a book in which the best and highest aim is so

manifest without the attractiveness of the tale being at all lessened by

the embodiment of religious principles.”—_Eclectic Review._

“The story is so delightful, and the whole spirit of the book so pure,

that it compels our admiration.”—_Daily News._

“Since ‘Currer Bell’ we have read nothing more genuine, nor more

touching. ‘Nelly’s Story’ has power to carry the reader right through

with it, and can hardly fail to impress a moral of inestimable

importance.”—_Carlisle Journal._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_In One Volume, Large Crown 8vo, Illustrated, price 5s._

QUICKSANDS:

_A Tale._

BY ANNA LISLE.

“It is a thoroughly woman’s book. We can fairly say that we have seldom

met with a graver or more striking warning against the consequences of

over eagerness about worldly position and advantages, more forcibly and,

at the same time, gracefully conveyed.”—_Literary Gazette._

“Contains a great deal of quiet and powerful writing. Marty, the maid of

Mrs. Grey, might pass for a creation of Dickens. The moral of

‘Quicksands’ is at once comprehensive and striking.”—_Weekly Mail._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

MR. SHIRLEY HIBBERD’S BOOK ON THE IVY.

_Fcap. 4to, cloth elegant, Illustrated with Coloured

Plates and numerous Wood Engravings, price 10s. 6d._

THE IVY:

=A Monograph. Comprising the History, Uses, Characteristics, and

Affinities of the Plant, and a Descriptive List of all the Garden Ivies

in Cultivation.=

BY SHIRLEY HIBBERD.

CONTENTS.—I. Preparatory Observations.—II. Historical and Literary

Memoranda.—III. The Characteristics of the Plant.—IV. Uses of the

Ivy.—V. The Cultivation of the Ivy.—VI. The Species and Varieties of the

Ivy.—VII. Descriptive List of Garden Ivies:—1. Green-leaved climbing

forms of Hedera helix. 2. Variegated climbing forms of H. helix. 3.

Green-leaved arborescent forms of H. helix. 4. Variegated arborescent

forms of H. helix. 5. Green-leaved climbing forms of H. grandifolia

(canariensis). 6. Variegated climbing forms of H. grandifolia. 7.

Green-leaved arborescent forms of H. grandifolia. 8. Variegated

arborescent forms of H. grandifolia. 9. Green-leaved climbing forms of

H. coriacea (colchica). 10. Green-leaved arborescent forms of H.

coriacea.—VIII. Selections of Ivies, comprising the most Distinct and

Beautiful in the several Sections.

--------------

“Mr. Shirley Hibberd has performed an acceptable task in laying before

the public, in this pretty volume, the results of his experience. The

writer evidently found his task a pleasant one, and he has executed it

pleasantly. He descants on the characteristics of the plant, the uses to

which it may be put, and gives a long descriptive catalogue of the

several varieties. Numerous illustrations are given which appear to us

to be very faithful representations.”—_Athenæum._

“Among the numerous gift-books of the season there is not one more truly

elegant or more fitted, by its very beautiful coloured plates, and other

well-engraved illustrations, to constitute a dainty present than Shirley

Hibberd’s ‘Monograph of the Ivy.’ Until we read this charming book,

enriched as it is with vignettes of old castles ivy-covered, we had no

idea how much the ivy could be rendered permanently useful in the

decoration of a room, or add to the beauty of a garden in winter. We

would heartily recommend the purchase of the volume for its real value,

as well as for its beauty.”—_The Treasury of Literature._

“In the charmingly attractive and lavishly, as well as beautifully

illustrated, book before us, the subject has been so dealt with as to be

exhausted. Everything that we desire to know, all indeed, that we can

know, concerning the ivy, has been supplied to us by a most

conscientious and intelligent guide. The best authorities are quoted;

science and art have been valuable contributors; the aid of a hundred

poets is evoked; and the result is one of the most pleasant and

instructive books of the season.”—_Art Journal._

“The volume is charmingly got up, and the wood engravings, in addition

to the coloured plates, are profuse.”—_Standard._

“A gracefully conceived, and well wrought out work, with excellent and

faithful illustrations.”—_Daily Telegraph._

“Mr. Shirley Hibberd’s ‘Monograph of the Ivy’ is a fine work, and forms

an enduring monument of his literary research, original inquiry, breadth

of generalization, and patient and successful cultural skill; should the

work become as popular as it deserves to be, ivy-hunting will become as

favourite a pastime as fern-gathering.”—_Scotsman._

“This is a charming monograph. Throughout, Mr. Hibberd is a delightful

companion, and even his hardest description is picturesquely written,

and the eye is relieved and satisfied with abundant illustrations.

Anyone who has a bit of dead wall to cover, a screen to make, or a

window or trellis to adorn, can learn all he wants from it.”—_Glasgow

Herald._

“It might be thought difficult if not impossible to fill a portly volume

with a scientific and practical account of a single plant. This,

however, Mr. Hibberd has done; and what is more, he has contrived to

make a very captivating book, and to do good scientific work. His book

is beautifully got up, and the illustrations, both coloured and plain,

are simply admirable.”—_Manchester Courier._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Crown 8vo, cloth, price 6s. Illustrated with Coloured Plates and

numerous Wood Engravings._

THE AMATEUR’S

GREENHOUSE

AND

CONSERVATORY:

A COMPLETE GUIDE TO THE

_Construction, Heating, and Management of Greenhouses

and Conservatories._

And the Selection, Propagation, Cultivation, and Improvement of

Ornamental Greenhouse and Conservatory Plants.

--------------

“The approach of winter naturally turns the thoughts of the owner of a

greenhouse or conservatory to the putting their houses in order, and Mr.

Hibberd’s manual, brimful as it is of practical information, will be

found a most useful guide, not only to the furnishing of the house and

the treatment of its contents, but also to the construction of the

building, and to all the appliances needful for the preservation and

proper cultivation of the plants. It is a work which no amateur, at

least, should fail to consult.”—_Art Journal._

“This book is well adapted for amateurs, being plain and not prolix. It

points out, in its earlier chapters, the main considerations which

affect the construction and heating of conservatories and greenhouses,

this part of the volume containing many illustrations. In the fourth

chapter the amateur is initiated in the routine of greenhouse

work—potting, composts, propagation, &c., being discussed. Then follows

a series of chapters in which the treatment of the different groups and

families is explained. Greenhouse Herbaceous Plants, in alphabetical

order, leading the way, followed by the Chrysanthemum, to which a

chapter is given; Greenhouse Soft-wooded Plants; Pelargoniums; Fuchsias;

Greenhouse Hard-wooded Plants; Ericas and Epacrises; Camellias, Azaleas,

and Rhododendrons; Greenhouse and Conservatory Climbers; Oranges, &c.

Hard-leaved Plants, as Agaves, Dracænas, &c.; Succulent-leaved Plants;

Orchid and Pitcher Plants; Greenhouse Roses, &c. One chapter is devoted

to naming a general selection of Greenhouse Plants; another to summer

Cucumbers and Seedling Pelargoniums; while others treat of Hardy Plants

in a greenhouse, or afford reminders of monthly work. The volume is

nicely printed and elegantly bound; and, so far as we have had the

opportunity of testing it, seems to be sound as to its practical

recommendations.”—_Gardeners’ Chronicle._

“Mr. Hibberd has put together a series of hints on greenhouses and

conservatories and the fittest tenants for them, which we do not

hesitate to pronounce more practical and practicable than those of his

bulkier contemporaries. The value of this volume to amateurs of moderate

means and appliances, cannot fail to be great.”—_Saturday Review._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cr. 8vo, cl. gilt, price 6_s._, Illustrated with Coloured Plates and

Wood Engravings.

The Amateur’s

ROSE BOOK,

COMPRISING THE

Cultivation of the Rose

In the Open Ground and under Glass: the Formation of the Rosarium: the

Characters of Wild and Garden Roses: the Preparation of the Flowers for

Exhibition: the Raising of New Varieties: and the Work of the Rose

Garden in every Season of the Year.

BY SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.H.S.

-------

CONTENTS: Wild Roses—Forming a Rosarium—Dwarf Roses—The Propagation of

Roses by Buds and Grafts—Stocks for Roses—Garden Roses—Exhibition

Roses—The Characters of Roses—Climbing Roses—Pillar Roses—Roses under

Glass—Seedling Roses—Roses in Town Gardens—The Fairy Rose—Yellow

Roses—Hedgerow and Wilderness Roses—Roses for Decorations—The Enemies of

the Rose—Sending Roses by Rail and Post—On Buying New Roses—Curiosities

of Rose Growing—Reminders of Monthly Work—The Rose Show—Selections of

Roses—Roses and their Raisers.

“We have great pleasure in thoroughly recommending to our readers Mr.

Hibberd’s ‘Rose Book.’ It is written by one who has fully mastered the

subject, and the directions he gives are of that practical utility so

much needed.”—_Journal of Horticulture._

“Mr. Hibberd writes in such a clear, practical, common sense way, that

we do not hesitate to affirm that it is the amateur’s own fault if he

fail to profit largely by his study of the rose book. Every rose grower

should possess it. It is an elegant volume. The coloured illustrations

are beautiful.”—_Literary World._

“The work is eminently clear, earnest, and instructive. Every idea,

plan, and notion of propagation and growing roses appears to be touched

upon. A perusal of Mr. Hibberd’s pages will not only assist the amateur

grower, but will also prevent many disappointments.”—_Lloyd’s Weekly

News._

“It is a sound practical work, brimful of excellent advice, and

possesses the merit of being as useful to the amateur of small as of

large means.”—_Leeds Mercury._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cr. 8vo, cl. gilt, price 3_s._ 6_d._, Illustrated with Woodcuts and

Coloured Plates.

The FERN GARDEN

HOW TO MAKE, KEEP, AND ENJOY IT;

OR,

Fern Culture Made Easy.

BY SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.H.S.

-------

CONTENTS: Ferns in General—Fern Collecting—How to Form an Out-door

Fernery—Rock Ferns—Marsh Ferns—Ferns in Pots—The Fern House—Fern

Cases—The Art of Multiplying Ferns—British Ferns—Greenhouse and Stove

Ferns—Tree Ferns—Fern Allies.

“Mr. Hibberd’s books are always worth possessing, and this one is an

excellent specimen of his work. All who love ferns, or who start a glass

case or a rockery, should buy it.”—_Publishers’ Circular._

“A charming treatise. Ladies interested in the beautiful art of fern

culture will find Mr. Hibberd’s book a pleasant and useful

companion.”—_Daily News._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, Illustrated with Coloured Plates and

numerous Wood Engravings, price 6s._

THE AMATEUR’S FLOWER GARDEN

_A Practical Guide to the Management of the Garden and the

Cultivation of Popular Flowers._

BY SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.H.S.,

Author of “Rustic Adornments for Homes of Taste,” “The Rose Book,”

“Profitable Gardening,” “The Fern Garden,” “Field Flowers,” “The Town

Garden,” etc., etc.

--------------

CONTENTS:

CHAP.

I. Forming the Flower Garden.

II. The Parterre.

III. The Bedding System, and the Plants

required for it.

IV. Cultivation of Bedding Plants.

V. A Selection of Bedding Plants.

VI. Hardy Border Flowers.

VII. A Selection of Hardy Herbaceous

Plants.

VIII. Tender Border Flowers.

IX. Hardy Annuals and Biennials.

X. The Rose Garden.

XI. The American Garden.

XII. The Subtropical Garden.

XIII. The Perpetual Flower Garden.

XIV. The Rockery and Alpine Garden.

XV. Flowers for Winter Bouquets.

XVI. The Making and Management of the

Lawn.

XVII. Garden Vermin.

XVIII. Additional Selection.

XIX. Reminders of Monthly Work.

----------------------------

_The following Critical Notices have appeared of this Book._

“It is practical throughout; the book will be useful and

acceptable.”—_Gardeners’ Chronicle._

“For any one with tastes and opportunities for gardening, it may be

recommended as of more enduring value than books of greater interest for

the superficial reader.”—_Standard._

“An elegant and charmingly illustrated volume. It is intended for those

who possess what may be called ‘homely’ gardens as distinguished from

great and grand gardens; and it is wonderful to find under the author’s

guidance how much may be made of ever so small a piece of garden

ground.”—_Leeds Mercury._

“Ladies fond of gardening will find an immense amount of useful

information in this handy and reliable work.”—_Treasury of Literature._

“No amateur should be without a copy. In fact he had better have two;

one for use, and one for the drawing-room table.”—_Fun._

“No amateur can be at a loss, whatever exigency may arise, with Mr.

Hibberd’s book at hand.”—_Scotsman._

“We have here one of the most useful works to the amateur that has ever

been published.”—_Sunday Times._

“‘THE AMATEUR’S FLOWER GARDEN’ will be hailed with delight by the

multitudes who find intense delight in their flower gardens. The

beautiful illustrations enhance immensely the value of the book.”—_John

Bull._

“A first-rate present for all who, of any age or either sex, take

pleasure in gardening.”—_Daily News._

“A charming gift-book for a lady, full of sound practical information,

and liberally illustrated with beautifully coloured plates.”—_Lady’s Own

Paper._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

GROOMBRIDGE & SONS’

SERIES OF

COLOURED PRINTS

SUITABLE FOR

_Screens, Scrap-Books, and General Decorative Purposes,_

EMBRACING

BIRDS, FIGURES, FLOWERS, FERNS, FRUITS, ANIMALS, INSECTS, SCENES, AND

ARTICLES OF VERTU.

-------

Price 3d. each, or 2s. 6d. per Dozen. Post-Free for Stamps to amount

of Order. Or may be procured by order of any Bookseller.

-------

=A PRINTED LIST WILL BE FORWARDED POST-FREE UPON APPLICATION.=

In ordering from this List, it is only necessary to state the numbers

prefixed to the Prints, and the quantities of each required.

-------

This large and unique Collection of Prints at present comprises:—

91 Separate FLOWERS, FERNS, ORCHIDS, and

Prints of LEAVES.

10 Ditto FRUITS and VEGETABLES.

48 Ditto BIRDS (some of them groups of

several).

18 Ditto FIGURE SCENES.

27 Ditto INSECTS (some of them groups of

several).

38 Ditto SCENES and LANDSCAPES.

8 Ditto ASTRONOMY.

48 Ditto NATURAL HISTORY (embracing Animals,

Fishes, Reptiles, Seaweed, etc.).

14 Ditto ARTICLES OF VERTU, etc.

_Complete List Post-free._

--------------

GROOMBRIDGE & SONS, 5, Paternoster Row, London.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

● Transcriber’s Notes:

○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.

○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.

○ Inconsistently-accented characters were regularized.

○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only

when a predominant form was found in this book.

○ Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in

bold by “equal” signs (=bold=).

End of Project Gutenberg's Home Scenes and Heart Studies, by Grace Aguilar