Page images
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

of serious counsel to all present. But how surprised we were to find you not only unprepared for the duties of the occasion, but to have too painful evidence of your being under the influence of intoxicating drinks. We assure you, dear sir, the event has thrown gloom over all our minds and filled us with the deepest pain. When we look back to your eleven months' ministry we have had so much to encourage and cheer us that we are now precipitated by this one stroke from joyous hope into the greatest despondency. We feel sincerely for you-that talents so extraordinary and power of usefulness so striking, should be blighted by a passion so degrading. We weep over Zion, and know not how to act or where to go for counsel. We do not wish to take any steps rashly, but you know enough of us to be assured that on no account will we be ministered unto by anyone ever suspected of drunkenness. So that if this fearful infirmity is one that you cannot overcome, our union must obviously terminate. We shall be happy to meet you in the vestry of the chapel on Friday evening next, that we may mutually determine how to act; and we are sure that in the meanwhile you will be concerned with us to adopt all possible means for preserving the cause of Christ from the reproaches of the world.

We are, in sincere sorrow of heart, &c." Oswald read the note and flung it down on the table, that his wife might at once know the storm that was suspended over them. Her anguish was so extreme that Oswald was alarmed for her reason, and feared she would become a wretched maniac. No house in Britain that day was the abode of more intense and unmixed misery. At length, towards the evening, Mrs. Oswald rallied, and at once resolved to visit the chief elders and plead for an extension of probation for her infatuated husband. This she did, and with so much womanly tenderness that they could refuse her nothing. So it was resolved that, if the affair did not get abroad, when they met Oswald they would agree, on his solemn promise of greater vigilance in future, to go on for three months, but that, if anything occurred in the meanwhile of the same kind, the connection should be immediately dissolved. With Christian meekness, but with equal decision, all this was conversed about when they met, and Oswald signed a document that, if any appearance of intoxication was exhibited again, he would withdraw from the church, and also as early as possible leave the town.

And now Oswald is placed on his last trial; and on this will issue honour or degradation; usefulness or a corrupt influence; happiness or woe. Every. thing important to a man, sacred to a Christian, momentous to a father and husband, are now stakedyea, everything awful in the crisis of a man who may be exalted to heaven or sunk down to perdition. Which shall it be-a feast for fiends or a banquet for angels? Which, Oswald? You must now resolve, pray, agonise, for all is at stake. Yea, and you ought, to be safe, to place the poisonous draught at such a distance from you that it never can by any possibility of circumstances tempt you to your everlasting undoing. Oswald takes his stand, is concerned about excess, but even yet his eyes appear to be holden so that he does not see the one direct pathway of absolute safety.

As Mrs. Oswald's father was about to join them at this time, she had to write and urge him to delay the step for three months more. He did so, fearing the worst-and the re-union never took place-it was a postponement for ever. Six weeks had scarcely transpired when Oswald was found reeling home near midnight, and a policeman had to save him from a gang of prostitutes and thieves, who were hustling and intending to rob him. Yes, the policeman stepped forward in time, or he might have been found perhaps murdered in one of the low dens of infamy in the town. He was not conveyed to the police station, but conducted home; but the whole thing was publicly known next day, and his elders met and thus addressed him :

"Sir,-Your condition in the public street last night has filled us with utter shame and astonishment. We are so

bewildered by the whole thing that it might appear as if all moral sensibility within you were destroyed. We feel that to reason with or try to persuade you were as foolish as to employ our influence on insane persons. We have tried to save you from this calamity, but you have made all our efforts unavailing. So now we must part. The remainder of your salary due at the end of the quarter will be sent to you. May God in mercy save you. We could weep with your exemplary wife and your precious children, who deserve better at your hands. We again say, may God open your eyes and deliver you from this frightful passion for drink. Adieu!"

Completely stunned, he scarcely ate or drank for several days. His wife wept day and night-yea, reader, literally days and nights. His daughters were overwhelmed with shame. At length a communica tion came from Dalbreathe from the father to the daughter, to say that he would not see Oswald again, nor hold any intercourse with him; "but," he added, "I will advance you two hundred pounds of your portion, and go at once either to the United States or Canada. Let him give up the ministry and desecrate it no longer. Say if you accept of my offer, and the money shall be at once remitted. Soon," said he, "I shall die, and I shall be glad to get to a holier, happier world than this."

Oswald decided for Canada. Preparations were made at once to leave the kingdom. He left the town privately, and having disposed of his chief furniture and library to a broker, he spent his last two or three weeks in Liverpool. The father came to give his blessing to his daughter and his grandchildren, but would not see Oswald, and said, when taking his last farewell, "Oh, that thy cradle had been thy coffin, rather than thy lot should have been cast with a drunkard, and thy soul crushed with a heartless husband."

Their passage was one of several weeks to Quebec, and then they went to Upper Canada to begin life afresh-life in a new world and by fresh struggles for existence. Oswald's father had been a farmer, and he understood pretty well the science of agriculture; but he was not well prepared to work his way amid the difficulties of Canadian farming, which requires hardihood, perseverance, and almost slavish toil-at any rate, at the commencement. His resources were sufficient, with the £200 given to his wife, to get a fair start, so he was able to get possession of a farm adapted to his means and position.

His chief

But look at him-an exile from his native land-a degraded minister-a confirmed drunkard. treasure was his incomparable wife and his good affectionate children. And their unquenched love and solicitude for his happiness had never slackened, never flagged-it probably saved him from self-destruction. For it had been evident for some time that his nervous system had yielded to the pressure of his evil habits. He was often extremely depressed -so much so that nothing could rally him. He moped and muttered to himself, sat for hours without uttering a word, complained of great bodily weakness, and was more fit to be placed in an invalid's asylum than to have had to go forth to the heavy labours of Canadian farming.

CHAPTER XIII.

CANADIAN LIFE- -M'DOUGAL'S DEATH, &C.

No sooner had Oswald got fairly started in his farm than he found he was surrounded by several families from that part of Scotland where he had formerly resided; and some of these had occasionally been among his hearers at Dalbreathe. Two or three miles off there was a respectable Presbyterian meeting-house the minister himself was a Scotchman, but had resided in Canada for twenty years. Here Oswald and his family regularly attended divine worship, and received great respect both from the pastor and his elders. As the time of the quarterly

:

OSWALD MANSE.

communion drew near the minister and one of the oldest elders waited on Oswald, and having got into friendly conversation, said they would like a little private confidential intercourse with him. This being agreed to they retired into an inner room, and the worthy minister said-"Well, brother, we have ventured to see you in order to show you Christian courtesy and respect; but as all real friendly feeling must be based on mutual confidence, we tell you at the outset that we are perfectly acquainted with both your name and ecclesiastical history, and, knowing how easily men get wrong in the old country on the subject of drink, we have nothing to say either in the way of censure or reproof. Indeed, we have no call to meddle with your affairs at all, but we are here to be your fellow helpers, and to take you by the hand, to cheer your heart, and do all in our power for the comfort of your family. If you would permit us to suggest in all kindness, we advise that you at once conform to the Temperance customs of the land of your adoption. Do not keep any intoxicants in your house; and if you will do this, and feel a desire at our next sacrament to unite with us, we will most heartily receive you in the name of the Lord."

Poor Oswald was quite broken down by this kindness, and when he could give vent to his feelings he said, with almost choking sobs and flowing tears"Your goodness unman's me. Why did you not let my dear wife have a share of this heavenly luxury? Precious woman, it would indeed be to her the sunshine of joy, or as cold water to a thirsty soul."

Well, she was called in, and after the scene had been a time of weeping, it was soon turned into a festival of gladness. Oswald and his wife agreed to accept the offer, proposed to join in the next sacramental ordinance, and all separated convinced that the finger of God was conspicuously manifest in the matter.

That evening was the happiest Oswald and Bella had enjoyed for years. Order now reigned in the house, diligent toil on the farm, and God prospered them in their work. Had Oswald come here ten years sooner he might have been saved from some of the crushing and desolating sins and woes that had been his miserable portion. In fellowship with the Church and respected by all around, the sky appeared clear above, and the prospect bright before them. Oswald's sons and daughters were useful in the Sabbath school, and in visiting the poor and afflicted. Mrs. Oswald's dignified mien and blame. less deportment had ever commanded respect, and she was now observed and admired by all. Her husband, too, as had ever been the wont and custom, rapidly gained the favour of all those who knew him. He had attended several benevolent public meetings and spoken with great effect. One Sabbath the minister was too ill to leave his house, and had not been able to provide a substitute; he wrote to Oswald and said :-"Now conduct public worship in any way you deem best; preach if you like, and no doubt the Presbytery will overlook any irregularity." He did so, and the people were astounded by the discourseso rich in evangelical truth; so clear, fresh, forcible, and direct. The elders present met afterwards and agreed to request their pastor at once to move and get Oswald restored to his ministerial office, that such talents might not be lying waste when there was such a demand for Gospel ministers all around.

In due time this was effected, and Oswald was again secured to proclaim the Word of Life to his fellow sinners. As occasion offered, he exercised himself in the good work, and his fame went abroad in every direction. His course had been so unmistakeably correct that no surmises existed; nor even suspicions of his restoration to a healthy moral state cherished by any. Even those who had known him

119

in his palmy days at Dalbreathe honestly acknowledged that he never looked so much like a true ambassador of Christ as now.

Having been free for some time from hotel-keeping, Bella's father had gradually been led to see that the calling was not so honourable and safe as it was generally considered, and he felt that it was just possible that Oswald had been accelerated in his downward career by the potions which had been supplied at his own table. For this he felt humbled before God, and often said to himself, "I must do all I can to make Christian restitution to those who have been injured by my unconscious influence." Yes, reader! we all exert not only a conscious but an unconscious influence; and it would be well for philanthropic and Christian brewers and distillers, and dealers in drinks, and all who have to do with the traffic, to ask themselves before God if their course and profession, however careful they may be, will not be baneful to society, and if so, will it not be displeasing to God? At any rate, M'Dougal felt

now as he had not done before.

The day before his death he said to an attendant friend,"Fetch our minister, and say I want to see him on especial business." When he arrived he was surprised to see M'Dougal so much worse than he expected. The conversation was, however, most cheering as to spiritual things. He then said to his friend, "Now, oblige your dying elder by taking pen and ink and put down what I dictate." He did so, and the dying Christian said-" Well, first of all, a letter to Bella and to Oswald. Say that their letters have been as refreshing as angel's visits-that they have cheered my soul and filled me with ecstatic delight. Say how I have prayed for them, blessed God on their account, and would gladly have seen them once more in the flesh. Say, too, that if departed ones can converse with sainted friends I will bear in the depths of my spirit the joy I feel, and will tell Bella's mother, if she has not known before, of Oswald's penitence and restoration; but, doubtless," he added, "there has been joy already in heaven over his repentance. Say that my dying prayers and blessings are theirs; and add that I, too, bitterly regret that ever I had the least connexion with the traffic in intoxicating drinks." Having rested a while he now said, "Minister, dare you read this when you say a word after my funeral:-"I, A. M'Dougal, on my dying bed, sincerely repent, and seek God's pardoning mercy for having bought, sold, or used intoxicating drinks. I did it, however, ignorantly; and yet I feel that Oswald's degradation and Bella's misery may justly be traced to our wicked drinking customs, and that I especially have a full share in the reproach and sin belonging thereto.'

The minister promised to read the note, and added, with evident emotion-"Yes, and I will endorse it, and urge it, and do all I can to make it effective; for you know not it is not seven years ago since my aged father died a hopeless drunkard; so believe me I feel its force, and will do your bidding."

M'Dougal died. His funeral was attended by hundreds, for all revered his integrity and Christian consistency and goodness. His note was read, and some at least felt the truth of it. Many tears-yea, bitter tears were shed that day. The old people remembered Oswald, and knew the whole sad history; and many of the young persons felt it would be wiser to avoid those deadly customs which degraded even the most talented and noble-hearted in their midst.

The mournful document reached Canada; but with it also the good that had evidently been produced. That day was a holy fast in the Canadian farm, and its impressions remained for many years.

(To be continued.)

120

LITTLE MARY.-ROUGH WATERS.

Little Mary.

By THOMAS HENRY.

I KNEW poor little Mary as a child,

I knew her as a woman and a wife;
She seemed, she was so beautiful and mild,
Born for the very topmost joy of life.

Tom thought he loved her, and with pleading oft
He hailed the glorious time-their sorrows o'er-
When their two spirits should be borne aloft

Into the heaven of love, to part no more!
And they at length were wedded-happy day!-
With a new impulse either breast did stir;
The one was joyous-was contented-gay,

But Mary-why should doubt remain with her?
Ah me!-to love and doubt! Tom kissed the tear
From her dark eyelid ere it downward stole ;
"Oh why, my Mary-wherefore do you fear?
I love you, dearest, in my very soul!"

Three months have passed away, and then at eve
The little wife would wait beside the door,
And wonder, till her foolish heart would grieve,
Why Tom was not so early as before?

But when he came, and gentle words were said,
And either bosom beat with feelings kind,
The little wife would laugh away her dread,
Till cloudless lay the azure of her mind.

Time passed away-the nights were dark and long,
And when the business of the day was done,
Still Mary waited-still her love grew strong,
As streams that gather vigour as they run.
She waited and she sighed; and then at last
The sharp conviction pierced her tender mind,
That he who vowed to love till life was past,

Was growing dissolute, and not so kind.

She tried to touch his heart, and Tom, distressed
With her mild argument, acknowledged all
His weakness and her love-and while he pressed
Her yielding heart, he vowed no more to fall.
No more to fall! Oh, habit most accursed!

How vain to boast when once the Demon's in; 'Tis hard to drive him out when ye have nursed The petty evil into bloated sin.

Tom could not-he was bound, like him of old,

Who, maimed and bleeding, cried among the tombs ; Gone stern resolve; and mind, no more controlled, His habit, like a frenzy, life consumes.

Poor Mary! with the expiring dream of youth,
Sank like a blighted lily, and she died;
And the sweet flowret of her love and truth,
In folded arm, is resting by her side.

And he he tries his suffering to conceal;
Down from the dignity of manhood hurled,
He lives the bitterness of life to feel:
Alas! how many like him in the world!

Rough Waters.

CHAPTER XII.

A VERY YOUNG AND A VERY EXTRAORDINARY
GUARDIAN ANGEL.

"JACK, what are we to do ?" said Richard Singleton, with that hopeless air which men wear who see no hope anywhere. It was strange to see this strong young man seeking counsel of a mere boy--a poor ragged, unkempt urchin, whose clothes would not fetch a sixpence. He saw within the last hour so much presence of mind in that little form, that he was glad to avail himself of his opinion in the critical position in which he found himself. His estimation of Jack rose to admiration when he heard of his journey in the barrel, and insensibly he began to feel that their fates were linked together; this was by no means wonderful, for the one detective was in quest of both. Jack had stolen the papers which gave him the money he had-he had warned him of danger just as he was walking into it; no marvel then, that Jack, too, felt the same as Richard Singleton, and said, "We must sail in the same boat, or that nabby cove will have a double shot at us;" which, literally interpreted, meant, that both of them should go back to London by the next train, and hide in the same place, and thus not give Mr. Catchwell a double opportunity, for Jack knew well enough that that gentleman was acquainted with every thief-haunt in London. Jack, therefore, suggested that he and Mr. Singleton should take lodgings in a decent locality for a week or so, and then at the end of that time their chance of escape would be greater. Be it here understood, that by a "decent locality" Jack meant no more than a place where thieves did not reside. Once he ventured into Hyde Park, and ever after retained a recollection of it as equal to the Garden of Eden; his religious instruction having been sadly neglected, his theological opinions gathered up at the ragged school were very vague indeed. I am not quite certain but this young city Arab would have puzzled, by his questions, the Bishop of London as effectually as that clever Zulu savage (I beg his pardon) bothered arithmetical Colenso.

Back to London they went, and were twenty miles on the way by the time the "Seamew" started, Mr. Catchwell having waited up to the last moment expecting to see his victim fall into his clutches. Anything to equal his disappointment cannot be conceived; he made so sure of capturing Singleton, that he did not exercise his usual ability. Sitting on the gangway of the "Seamew," he watched every passenger with the close scrutiny of a cat watching a mouse hole. One gentleman, the very last to come on board, and who certainly bore a sort of resemb lance, as far as age and height were concerned, to Richard Singleton, was at once pounced upon by Mr. Catchwell, who, in quite a familiar way, walked up to him, and, putting his hand on his shoulder, said,

[ocr errors]

Ha, ha, ha, my friend, Mr. Gilby is very uneasy about you, and sent me to conduct you to London." The stranger looked at him for a moment, and, thinking him mad, made no reply, but shook off his hand with a sort of don't-bother-me air. Catchwell saw well enough that the look of astonishment was not feigned, and knew at once this was not his man; but in all such cases some one must be taken, for the sake of professional reputation, though he were to be released the next hour; he was therefore determined to make a prisoner. "No gammon, my good fellow; aint you Mr. Singleton, formerly clerk in the office of Gilby & Co. ?" The stranger turned fiercely upon him; he had not yet spoken, but the few words he

ROUGH WATERS.

now said were enough to show that Mr. Catchwell would have a dangerous game to play if he persevered in his plans.

"See, if you don't take yourself off in a few seconds, I'll throw you overboard."

This was said in the calm, distinct tone of a man Mr. Catchwell took that would not be trifled with. a paper from his pocket-book.

"Yes, five feet ten; dark complexion; well-made; regular features;" and while he read the description he "You must come with me, looked at the stranger. you're my prisoner." Just as Mr. Catchwell uttered these words, a sailor passing the gangway touched his hat to the stranger

"Doctor, the captain wants to see you in the cabin."

"Here, Bill, give this fellow a rope's end; the land shark mistakes me for some pounds-shillings-andpence fellow he is after."

[ocr errors]

Ay, ay, sir," was the sharp sailor-like response, and Mr. Catchwell quickly beat a retreat, followed by happy to Bill, who, as he himself expressed it, was pitch into such a cove."

While this by no means pleasing episode in Mr. Catchwell's life was taking place, Jack and Richard Singleton were going at railway speed, as we have mentioned, back to London, and got to the Paddington station by the night mail, exactly at half-past twelve. The night seemed most congenial to Jack's habits, for, throwing off all fear, he assumed the guidance of this companion with all the cunning of an Ulysses. "We must steer clear of that lane," he said to Richard Singleton, as he was turning down a narrow entrance to one of those courts where murder and robbery stalk in open day-those cursed spots which supply the "horrible tragedies" to the daily papers.

"I might meet some of my old pals, and I don't want to." After a few more windings and turnings they came to Elephant Lane, and when passing the corner they were almost blinded from the blaze of light which came from the gin-palace of Messrs. Stoute & Co., most respectable men and worthy citizens, whose application for a spirit license for their hotel (they did not call it a gin-palace), was backed by Alderman Roundabout and the Rev. Jonathan Smoothtone. Wearied and hungry, Jack suggested that they should go in here and get something to eat.

Let others describe gin-palaces; they who have the powers of Dickens or Thackeray. It is easy enough to tell of the cursing, drunkenness, fighting, the Jaughter that is not mirth, the coarse jests bandied between men and women, as if modesty had deserted the earth and left her mantle nowhere; easy enough to tell of these things, and to suggest as a suitable inscription for the sign-board

"All hope abandon, ye who enter here." But I dare Dickens, with his unrivalled powers of description, or Thackeray, with all his minute dissections of human character, to depict such scenes as, night after night, are witnessed here. The poor drunken sot, who has spent all, and then is turned out to lie in the kennel if he likes, or the fierce, drinkmaddened ruffian, who strikes his poor miserable looking, miserably clad wife, who in vain asks him to come home; or the entertaining inebriated fool, who is the subject for laughter, have been written of, spoken of, and witnessed over and over again, but no pen dare tell by what steps every blush of shame was wiped away from the cheeks of that young girl, who has not yet reckoned twenty summers. There is a history there so damning, so withering, and so foul, that to write it would corrode a pen of gold. Yet the clergyman of that parish preached sermons in aid of "The Fund for Clothing the Naked Children

of Booroogoolo," for "The Society for Teaching Em-
broidery to the Females of Nakeedladee," and at
missionary meetings, spoke in strong forcible language
of the "awful cruelty," the "hideous custom" of
crippling children's feet in China; yet he never once,
in the house of God, nor at any public meeting, nor
at any private gathering, nor at any place else that
I ever heard of, spoke against the public-house system
in general, nor made even the most distant allusion
to the doings in the Gin Palace in particular, which
was sending souls to hell as fast as he baptized chil-
dren.

Here Jack and Richard Singleton entered. They
had not their eyes closed, but we must close ours,
and content ourselves with saying that they got
something to eat and drink, and remained until six
o'clock, when Jack went out to look for lodgings in
Elephant Lane, which he informed Singleton was a
Left to himself, Richard Singleton
tip-top place.
had time for reflection; during the last few months
he seemed like one who had a night-mare, or as a
person in a dream; and very little did he reflect upon
the awful position in which his own folly had placed
him, the anxiety for personal safety alone occupying
his thoughts. He thought of

"Childhood's day and the happy hours of play,"
and up before him came the quiet evenings when, on
returning from Mr. Gilby's office, Adelaide played,
and darling Amy sung her childish, happy song, in
How
which he himself joined. Oh! God, what a terrible
contrast to the scenes around him now!
changed were his own feelings-peace was now a
stranger to him! The condition of the Prodigal Son,
in the parable of our blessed Saviour, was pitiable in
the extreme; yet he had a father's home to go to
when he "came to himself," but poor Richard Single-
Tears
ton had no earthly father to rejoice over his return,
nor had he a house to which he might go.
came fast and hot. Young man! I have a hope of
thee. Repentant tears they were not, for he did not
yet feel that his offence was against God; but, like
the cloud no bigger than a man's hand, which told of
coming rain, so let us hope these tears of his tell of
a sorrow which will work a repentance unto salvation
not to be repented of.

Jack came back to say he had got lodgings at three bob a week, that there would be two or three tramps in the room with them, and that he should sew up the money in a roll round the waist of his trousers, for which operation Jack informed him he had purchased a needle and thread.

"We will keep to the house for a week," said this young mentor, "and then go to Liverpool, and, won't you take me to Australia ?"

I could not go without you. "Take you, Jack! You and will begin a new life when once we are there."

"All right," and Jack held out his hand to close the bargain.

At ten o'clock they went to their lodgings, 135, Elephant Lane.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DARK CLOUD STILL OVERHEAD.

TRUE to her promise, Mrs. Letstieg came the next
morning to see the Singletons. So bent was she
upon doing good, upon comforting the afflicted, that
she neither complained of the long drive, nor wasted
her thoughts in pity that they should be driven to
"Ministering angels," sent from
such a locality.
Heaven! Yes, we know that; but the ministering
angels on earth, with flesh and blood like to ourselves,
Here was one with
are not so rare.
"The fairest of all faces,"

[blocks in formation]

and a heart so pure, and affections so chastened, that, like the "sea of glass," it reflected only what was pure and spotless.

Adelaide saw her coming out of the carriage, and ran down to meet her at the door; yielding as much to affection as to the necessity she knew there was for guiding her through the creaking stairs and dark lobbies. Sunshine in shady places is agreeable both literally and metaphorically; peace in the midst of troubles gives a double joy; a word from those we love, whose image we carry and shall carry for ever in our hearts, thrills us with triple gladness when given under a pressure of calamities enough to overset the brain; but equal to any of these is the joy of seeing the face of a true friend in your house when the dark wing of sorrow has overshadowed you. Blessed are they who give this comfort, and blessed are they who receive it!

Mrs. Letstieg went up stairs, following Adelaide, who held her hand. This was a visit to the living, the dying, and the dead. Amy died that morning at five o'clock, the very hour the tears came into the eyes o Richard Singleton in the Gin Palace! What a coincidence! Did that angel form hover near him and connect the visible and the invisible-the known and the unknown? We have felt such-an unseen link connecting us with others, and thus becoming partakers of their joys and sorrows, and impressing future events upon us with a startling reality.

Amy was now "straightened for the grave." You would have thought that death, in pity, left life in those features, and that literally she only slept. In another bed Henry lay moaning in pain and overcome with sorrow; while in mute despair, the sorrowstricken mother sat at the foot of the bed rocking her. self to and fro. Few but would have shrunk from giving words of comfort at such a time. Mr. Letstieg silently shook hands with Henry, and, with all the affection of a daughter, put her arms around Mrs. Singleton's neck and kissed her; then quietly sitting down by the bed-side, leant her head on her hand, and calmly, but tearfully, looked upon the face of the dead. After one long silent gaze, she brushed aside her tears, and, taking a Bible from her little black bag, read the 12th chapter of the 2nd Book of Samuel. Whether from the peculiar sweetness of her voice, or from the depth of emotion with which the touching narrative was read, or the solemnity of the scene, combined with the description which brings with such vividness the stricken king of Israel before us, I cannot tell, but the living were as silent as the dead in their deep attention to the chapter. We forget the king in the mourner, and join our prayer with his, that God may be merciful to him and spare the child. Hopeless prayer! for the child was doomed to die, even before it began to live. She offered no comment on the chapter, but knelt down at the close of it, and, with a loving heart, asked a loving Father to comfort the family upon whom He had laid the rod of affliction; and He did.

In an hour after that prayer Mrs. Singleton was able to speak calmly about her afflictions, and to make preparations for the funeral.

"Don't trouble yourself about the funeral; I will get Mr. Letstieg to see that everything will be attended to."

She called Adelaide aside, and with very much entreaty prevailed upon her to accept some money to meet any pressing demands, and, after the burial of Amy, to look out for better lodgings in some healthier locality.

Mrs. Letstieg left, having promised to come in the morning with Mr. Letstieg. When she went away, the gloom came over them again; she cheered them like a sunbeam, and in her presence they forgot their

cares, but now with no kindly voice to comfort them, each felt the bitterness of the trials which had fallen upon them, and daughter and mother, locked in each other's arms, wept like those who refuse to be comforted. Yet their tears were more for the living than the dead. Poor Henry was wasted to a skeleton, and seemed more death-like than the corpse at the other side of the room. But the mother thought, throughout those days of sorrows, of her absent onethe prodigal son who had wandered far; perhaps he was lying sick, with none to comfort him. Perhaps he was even now in a jail. Oh! she could bear poverty, she could see her child go out to burial, knowing she would hunger no more, neither thirst any more, but the sad uncertainty about the fate of her darling Richard was sinking her into her grave by inches. Terrible is misfortune, but more terrible

a thousand times is suspense, where the heart forebodes the worst.

In the evening, mourning dresses came for Ade. laide and her mother, and the messenger who brought them, brought also a note from Mrs. Letstieg:

:

"MY DEAR MRS. SINGLETON-As neither you nor Adelaide can go out at present, burdened with so much anxiety, I have taken the liberty of sending you some dresses. I was very fortunate after I left you yesterday, to see an advertisement about a cottage. I went at once and saw it. It will be quite ready for you in a few days. My husband intends to furnish it, and as we are often up in London, we will ask you to give us two rooms.

"Believe me, yours, affectionately, "14, Russell Square."

"LOUISA LETSTIEG.

Genuine people are ever the same; were we to think of the world and judge of the world by the selfish ones who meet us in every turn of life, we would have grown wearied of it long ago; but we bless God that characters like Mrs. Letstieg are not imaginary. Blessed, thrice blessed thought! there shall be a communion of such when

"The old world passeth away,

And the new world taketh its place."

Well, thank God, life has some sunny ripples upon it, and the Dead Sea has an outlet somewhere; stooping to the tempest's wrath won't diminish its fury; so, frail barque, bear nobly on, and the silver current which runs unseen will bear thee to the "White-robed throng, palm-bearing, crowned with golden glory."

At one o'clock the undertaker came; quietly he went about his work, and stepped noiselessly to and fro. He asked Mrs. Singleton to leave the room for a few minutes, while he and his young friend were putting the body into the coffin, saying, in rather a kindly tone, "You're very weak, ma'am, and it will grieve you too much."

She went over, and, for the last time, kissed her own darling child; Adelaide did the same; poor Henry could not leave his bed, but, raising himself on one arm looked over and said "Good-bye, Amy; and ask God to take me to you very soon." Even the undertaker, accustomed to sad sights, wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. They shrouded up the face, screwed down the lid, and she was hid for ever from their sight-no, not for ever, but until the Resurrection morn. Then

then,

"The mother finds her child;"

"Dear families are gathered,
Who were scattered on the wild."

At two o'clock the hearse came, and after it a close carriage, containing Mr. and Mrs. Letstieg. She got out, and went up stairs to remain with the mourners until her husband returned from the grave-yard.

Mr. Letstieg was the only person to follow Amy Singleton to the grave. The undertaker stood irresolute for a moment; humanity prompted him to go, but he had business to attend to, and he went his way.

« PreviousContinue »