"Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous,
but grievous; nevertheless, afterward it yieldeth the
peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are
exercised thereby."--Heb. xii. 11.
"Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now have
I kept Thy word."--Psalm cxix. 67.
Perhaps there is no state more dangerous to a Christian's peace of
mind than one of continual prosperity. In adversity even the worldly
man will sometimes talk of resignation, and feel that it is a good
thing to be acquainted and at peace with God, and that when all human
help is cut off, it is a sweet thing to have a sure refuge in an
almighty Saviour. But in prosperity the ungodly never look to Him;
and His own children, carrying about with them a sinful nature, against
which they must continually maintain a warfare, are too apt to forget
the Giver in his gifts, and to imagine that all is well because nothing
occurs to disturb the regularity of their blessings.
Our little Louis, though the trial he now underwent was a bitter one,
and though at times it seemed almost too hard to be endured, learned by
degrees to feel that it was good for him. He had been in too high favor,
he had trusted too much in the good word of his school-fellows, and had
suffered the fear of man to deter him from his duty to God; and now,
isolated and looked upon as an unworthy member of the little society
to which he belonged, he learned to find his sole happiness in that
sweet communion which he had now solitary leisure to enjoy. His very
troubles carried him to a throne of grace; his desolate condition made
him feel that there was only One who never changed nor forsook His
people; only One who could understand and feel for the infirmities
and sorrows of a human creature; and though to the ungodly it is a
terror to know that there is "nothing that is not manifest in God's
sight," to the true child of God it is an unspeakable comfort to feel
that his thoughts and actions are "known long before" by his unwearied
Guardian.
The effects of Louis' lonely communings were soon visible in his daily
conduct, and after his term of punishment had expired, the meekness of
his bearing, and the gentle lowliness of his demeanor, often disarmed
the most severe and unpitying of his youthful judges. There was no
servility in his manner, for he neither courted nor shunned observation;
nor, though he was as willing as ever to do a kind action for any
one, did he allow himself to be persuaded to give up all his time to
his idler school-fellows. There seemed more firmness and decision in his
naturally yielding disposition, and those who knew not the power of
assisting grace, looked and wondered at the firmness the sweet but weak
boy could at times assume. He would have told them it was not his own.
He was very quiet, and spoke little, even to his brother, of what was
passing in his mind, and sometimes his thoughts were so quietly happy
that he did not like to be spoken to. To Ferrers, Louis was as gentle
and courteous as to the rest of his companions, and, indeed, he had now
little other feeling towards him than that of sorrow and pity.
There had been an unusual noise in the study one evening, while Louis
was absent, and when he entered it, he found the confusion attendant on
a grand uproar. Very little was doing, and tokens of the late skirmish
lay about the floor in torn and scattered books, and overthrown forms.
Among others, Ferrers was hunting for a missing book, but to discover
it in such a chaos was a difficult task, especially as no one would
now allow the candles to be used in the search.
With many expressions, so unfitted for refined ears that I do not choose
to present them to my reader, Ferrers continued his search, now and then
attempting to snatch a candle from the table, in which he was regularly
foiled by those sitting there.
"Well, at least have the civility to move and let me see if it is under
the table," he said at length.
"You have hindered us long enough," said Salisbury; "Smith, Jones, and
I have done nothing to-night. If you will have rows, you must e'en take
the consequences."
"Can't you get under the form?" asked Smith, derisively.
Ferrers was going to make some angry, reply, when Louis dived between
the table and the form, with some trouble, and, at the expense of
receiving a few unceremonious kicks, recovered the book and gave it
to Ferrers, who hardly thanked him, but leaning his head on his hand,
seemed almost incapable of doing any thing. Presently he looked up,
and asked in a tone of mingled anger and weariness, what had become
of the inkstand he had brought.
"Loosing's seeking,
Finding's keeping,"
said Salisbury. "Which is yours? Perhaps it's under the table too."
"Hold your nonsense," cried Ferrers, angrily. "It's very shabby of you
to hinder me in this manner."
Louis quietly slipped an inkstand near him, an action of which Ferrers
was quite aware, and though he pretended not to notice it, he availed
himself presently of the convenience. A racking headache, however,
almost disabled him from thinking, and though he was really unwell,
there was only the boy he had so cruelly injured who felt any sympathy
for his suffering.
Louis carefully avoided any direct manifestation of his anxiety to
return good for evil, for he felt, though he hardly knew why, that
his actions would be misconstrued, but whenever any little opportunity
occurred in which he could really render any service, he was always
as ready to do it for Ferrers as for another; and now, when from his
classmates Ferrers met with nothing but jokes on his "beautiful temper,"
and "placid state of mind," he could not help feeling the gentleness of
Louis' conduct, the absence of pleasure in his annoyance, and the look
of evident sympathy he met whenever he accidentally turned his eyes in
his direction. For a few days after this he was obliged to keep his bed,
and during this time, though Louis only once saw him, he thought of every
little kind attention he could, that might be grateful to the invalid.
Knowing that he was not a favorite, and that few in the school would
trouble themselves about him, he borrowed books and sent them to him for
his amusement, and empowered the old cake man to procure some grapes,
which he sent up to him by a servant, with strict orders to say nothing
of where they came from. The servant met Hamilton at the door of the
room, and he relieved her of her charge, and as she did not consider
herself under promise of secrecy towards him, she mentioned it, desiring
him at the same time to say nothing to Ferrers.
Louis had now established a regular time for doing his own lessons,
and kept to it with great perseverance to the end of the half-year,
with one exception, when he had been acting prisoner in a trial
performed in the school-room, by half his own class and the third,
and let the evening slip by without remembering how late it grew.
His class-fellows were in the same predicament as himself, and as
they had barely time to write a necessary exercise, they agreed among
themselves to learn each his own piece of the lesson they had to repeat.
Louis did not seriously consider the deceit they were practising, and
adopted the same plan. One of the number, not trusting to his memory,
hit upon the singular expedient of writing the whole of his piece and
the next on a piece of paper, and wafering it to the instep of his shoe
when he went up to his class. Unhappily for his scheme, he was so placed
that he dared not expose his foot so as to allow him to avail himself
of this delectable assistance, and consequently, after much looking on
the floor for inspiration, and much incoherent muttering, was passed
over, and the order of things being thereby disturbed, of course no one
could say the missing lines until the head boy was applied to, and the
lower half of the class was turned down, with the exception of Louis,
who, standing on this occasion just above the gentleman of shoe memory,
had been able to say his share.
As they were breaking up, Mr. Danby said to Louis, "You have been very
industrious lately, Louis Mortimer: I am glad you have been so correct
to-day."
Louis blushed from a consciousness of undeserved praise; but though
his natural fear of offending and losing favor sprung up directly, a
higher principle faced it, and bearing down all obstacles, forced him
to acknowledge his unworthiness of the present encomium.
"I ought to learn mine, sir,--I learned my piece to-day."
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Danby.
"I learned my part of the lesson, as well as Harris, Williams, Sutton,
and Charles Salisbury. We forgot our lessons last night, but it is quite
an accident that I have said mine to-day."
"I am glad you have had the honor to say so," said Mr. Danby.
"Of course you must learn yours, but let me have no more
learning pieces, if you please."