Alone walkyng. In thought plainyng,And sore sighying. All desolateMy remembrying Of my livying.My death wishying Bothe erly and late.Infortunate, Is so my fateThat wote ye what, Out of mesureMy life I hate; Thus desperateIn such pore estate, Doe I endure.—Chaucer.
Alone walkyng. In thought plainyng,And sore sighying. All desolateMy remembrying Of my livying.My death wishying Bothe erly and late.Infortunate, Is so my fateThat wote ye what, Out of mesureMy life I hate; Thus desperateIn such pore estate, Doe I endure.—Chaucer.
Alone walkyng. In thought plainyng,And sore sighying. All desolateMy remembrying Of my livying.My death wishying Bothe erly and late.
Infortunate, Is so my fateThat wote ye what, Out of mesureMy life I hate; Thus desperateIn such pore estate, Doe I endure.—Chaucer.
Afew weeks have passed away since that terrible night, and we are again in Christian Melville’s quiet home. It is on the eve of the new year, but how different is the appearance of those assembled within this still cheerful room from the mirth and happiness which made their faces shine one short twelvemonth since. Our Christian is here, sitting with her headbent down, and her hands clasped together with convulsive firmness.Hereis little Mary drooping by her side like a stricken flower, while the only other person in the apartment sits sulkily beside them with a discontented, ill-humoured look upon her pretty features, which contrasts strangely, and not at all agreeably, with the pale and anxious faces of her companions—her sisters—for this unhappy looking, discontented woman is James Melville’s wife. Strange and terrifying news of Halbert have reached them, “that he has fallen into errors most fatal and hazardous to his future prospects, and all unlike as of his proposed vocation so of his former character, that he had become acquainted and been seen publicly with most unfit and dangerous companions,” writes a kind and prudent Professor, who has from the first seen and appreciated the opening promise of Halbert’s mind. Two or three days ago James, his brother, has setoff to see if these things be true or no, and to bring, if possible and if needful, the wandering erring spirit—we cannot call him prodigal yet—home. The spirit of Christian, the guardian sister, had sunk within her at these terrible tidings; was she not to blame—had she done her part as she ought to have done—had she not been careless—is she guiltless of this sad catastrophe? She remembered Halbert’s letter of the past new year—she remembered how studiously he had kept from home all this weary year—she remembered how, save for one hurried visit, he had stayed at a distance from them all, pleading engagements with his friend, that friend that had now proved so deadly a foe. A thousand things, unheeded at the time, sprung up in Christian’s memory in lines of fire. The friend of Halbert, free-thinking at the first, what was he? the unwonted restraint of the young brother’s correspondence, the studied omission of all reference to sacred things, or to his ownprospective avocations in his letters, which in former times used to be the chief subjects of his glowing and hopeful anticipations, the bitterness of tone which had crept into his once playful irony, all these which had only caused a momentary uneasiness, because of her dependence on Halbert’s steadfast settled principles, flashed back with almost intolerable distinctness now. Alas! for Christian’s recollections—“I am to blame; yes, I ought to have warned him, even gone to him,” she thinks; “was he not left me as a precious treasure, to be guarded, to be warned, to be shielded from ill? Oh! that he was home once more.” Alas! for Christian’s recollections, we say again; the iron fingers of Time measure out the moments of that last lingering hour; again light hearts wait breathless for its pealing signal, as they did of old, but these silent watchers here have no ear for any sounds within their own sorrowfuldwelling, though there is not a passing footstep on the street without that does not ring upon their anxious ears in echoing agony; there is not a sound of distant wheels bearing, mayhap, some reveller to and fro, which does not bring an alternate throb and chill to their painful beating hearts. This stillness is past all bearing, it is painfully unendurable, and Christian springs to the door and gazes out upon the cold and cheerless street, and as she does so a thoughtless passenger wishes her a “happy new year.” Alas! to speak of happiness, a happy new year to her in such a moment as this!
Mrs. James Melville is astonished at all this grief; she cannot understand nor fathom it. Suppose Halberthasbeen foolish, and behaved ill, what then? Why should her husband have gone off so suddenly, and her sister-in-law be in such a state? She was sure she could not comprehend it, and wouldhave been very foolish to have done such foolish things for all the brothers in the universe. Young men will be young men, and they should be left to come to themselves, instead of all this to-do being made about them; it was preposterous and absurd, and put her in a very ridiculous position; and so Mrs. James pouted and sulked and played with her chains and her rings, stopping now and then in her agreeable relaxation to cast a glance of contemptuous scorn at restless, excited, anxious Christian, and drooping, fragile Mary. A nice way this to bring in the new year, the first anniversary of her married life, the first return of the day of her wedding; a nice state James would be in for her party of to-morrow evening; and Mrs. James, by way of venting her ill-humour, shoved away with her slippered foot, a little dog which was sleeping before the cheerful fire. How Christian starts as it cries andcreeps to her feet: it is Halbert’s dog, and as her eye falls on it, its youthful owner seems to stand before her, so young, so frank, so innocent! now gay as a child, making the walls echo with his overflowing mirth; now grave and serious, like the dead mother whose latest breath had committed him as a precious jewel to her, and bidden her watch over him and guard him with her life. Oh, had she neglected her charge! Was this fault, this apparent wreckhers?
The passing footsteps grew less and less frequent; what can detain them? Old Mr. Melville and his son Robert have gone to meet James and—Halbert—if Halbert be only with him, and Christian trembles as she repeats that pregnantif. Her heart will break if they come not soon: she cannot bear this burden of anxiety much longer. Hush! there are footsteps, and they pause at the door. Sick at heart, Christian rushes to it again withlittle Mary by her side; there at the threshold are her father, James, Robert; she counts them painfully, one by one; but where is Halbert? where is her boy? The long-cherished expectation is at once put to flight; the artificial strength of excitement has gone, and Christian would have fallen to the ground, but for James’s supporting arm.
“Christian,” he whispered, as he led her back to her seat in the parlour again, “I know you can command yourself, and you must try to do so now, for you will need all your strength to-night.”
James’s voice was hoarse, and his eyes bloodshot. Where is—what has become of Halbert? The story is soon told. When James reached Edinburgh, he had gone straight to Halbert’s lodging, and found when he arrived at it, that his brother had disappeared, gone away, whither the people knew not; his fellow-students and professors wereequally ignorant; and all that he could clearly ascertain was, that the reports they had been grieved so much with were too true; that one night some weeks before the day that James went to the lodgings, Halbert had gone out, been seen in several places of the worst character, with men known as profligates, and abandoned, and had come home very late. That since then he had been like a man in despair—mad—his simple landlady said; and she pointed to the books he had left, crowding the shelves and littering the floor of her little room; that two nights before James had arrived—having been shut up all the day—he had gone suddenly out, telling her to send a parcel lying on his table as directed, the next morning. On his mantel-piece was a letter, apparently forgotten, for Christian. “Here it is,” said James in conclusion, handing it to her, “would that it could comfort you!”
Christian broke the seal with eager, trembling fingers; perhaps, after all, there might be some comfort here:
“Christian,“Do not hate me! do not forsake me!” (thus did it begin; and it seemed as if the paper was blistered with tears, so that the words were almost illegible; and thus went on the trembling words of poor Halbert’s almost incoherent letter). “I am still your brother; but they will tell you how I have fallen; they will tell you of my guilt—but none—none can tell, can comprehend my misery. I dare not come near you. I dare not return home to pollute the air you breathe with my presence. I feel myself a Cain or a Judas, branded and marked, that all men may shrink from me as from a pestilence; and I must rush out from their sight afar, and from their contact. It is enough that I feel the eye of God upon me—of that God whom I have denied andcontemned, whose throne I strove to overturn with my single arm, feeble and frail as it is—continually upon me, on my secret heart burning in on the quivering spirit, my sentence of hopeless, helpless condemnation! They will tell you that I am mad. Oh, that I were, and had been so for these last months, that now I might lose the sense of my sin and of the hopeless despair which haunts me night and day! Christian, I am no infidel, or as the tempters called it, spiritualist now. I shrink and tremble just the same while alone, and when among the crowd, from that terrible Spirit that pursues and searches me out everywhere—terrible in holiness; inexorable in justice, and I cannot pray, ‘Be merciful, O thou holy and eternal One.’“Christian, do you remember that fearful word of Scripture, ‘It is impossible to renew them again unto repentance, seeing they crucify to themselves the Son of God afresh, andput him to an open shame?’Ihave entered into the unspeakable bitterness of its doom; it rings in my ears without intermission; ‘it is impossible to be renewed again.’ But you can pray, Christian;youhave not cast all hope behind you; and if it is not sin to pray for one accursed, pray for me. It may be I shall never see you again; I know not where I go; I know not what I shall do! There is no peace left for me on earth; and no peace, no hope, no refuge beyond it, that I can see.“Your brother,“Halbert Melville.”
“Christian,
“Do not hate me! do not forsake me!” (thus did it begin; and it seemed as if the paper was blistered with tears, so that the words were almost illegible; and thus went on the trembling words of poor Halbert’s almost incoherent letter). “I am still your brother; but they will tell you how I have fallen; they will tell you of my guilt—but none—none can tell, can comprehend my misery. I dare not come near you. I dare not return home to pollute the air you breathe with my presence. I feel myself a Cain or a Judas, branded and marked, that all men may shrink from me as from a pestilence; and I must rush out from their sight afar, and from their contact. It is enough that I feel the eye of God upon me—of that God whom I have denied andcontemned, whose throne I strove to overturn with my single arm, feeble and frail as it is—continually upon me, on my secret heart burning in on the quivering spirit, my sentence of hopeless, helpless condemnation! They will tell you that I am mad. Oh, that I were, and had been so for these last months, that now I might lose the sense of my sin and of the hopeless despair which haunts me night and day! Christian, I am no infidel, or as the tempters called it, spiritualist now. I shrink and tremble just the same while alone, and when among the crowd, from that terrible Spirit that pursues and searches me out everywhere—terrible in holiness; inexorable in justice, and I cannot pray, ‘Be merciful, O thou holy and eternal One.’
“Christian, do you remember that fearful word of Scripture, ‘It is impossible to renew them again unto repentance, seeing they crucify to themselves the Son of God afresh, andput him to an open shame?’Ihave entered into the unspeakable bitterness of its doom; it rings in my ears without intermission; ‘it is impossible to be renewed again.’ But you can pray, Christian;youhave not cast all hope behind you; and if it is not sin to pray for one accursed, pray for me. It may be I shall never see you again; I know not where I go; I know not what I shall do! There is no peace left for me on earth; and no peace, no hope, no refuge beyond it, that I can see.
“Your brother,“Halbert Melville.”
And where is Christian now? She is lying with rigid marble face and closed eyes, insensible to all the care bestowed upon her, in a dead faint. They are chafing her cold hands and bathing her temples, and using all the readiest means at hand for her recovery. Is Christian gone?—can this letter have killedher?—has she passed away under the pressure of this last great calamity. No: God has happier days in store for his patient servant yet; and by-and-by she is raised from her deathlike faint, and sits up once more; but it seems as if despair had claimed a second prey, so pitiful and mournful is that face, and its expression so changed, that they are all afraid; and little Mary clasps her hand in an agony, and lifts up her tear-stained face to her sister, and whispers—
“Christian! Christian!” in broken, tearful accents.
“We will make every inquiry possible to be made,” said James, soothingly; “we may yet bring him back, Christian.”
“I don’t know what this frenzy means!” says Mr. Melville. “Depend upon it Halbert will come back, and he’ll soon see the folly of this outburst of feeling; and you see, Christian, he says he’s no infidel or atheist now, so youneed not be so put out of the way by his letter.”
Mary says nothing more but “Christian! Christian!” and her arm glides round her sister, and her graceful head rests on Christian’s bosom. It is enough: she may not—must not sink down in despair; she has duties to all those around her; she must not give way, but be up and doing.
And there are words of better comfort spoken in her ear to-night ere sleep comes near her; the hand that rocked her cradle in infancy, that tended her so carefully in childhood, draws the curtain gently round her.
“Dinna misdoubt, or lose hope, Miss Christian,” sobs old Ailie, her own tears falling thick and fast the while she speaks; “the bairn of sae mony supplications will never be a castaway; he may gang astray for a while, he may be misled, puir lad, or left to himselfand fall, and have a heavy weird to dree or a’ be done, but he’ll no be a lost ane. No, Miss Christian, no, dinna think sae, and distress yoursel’ as you’re doing—take my word, ye’ll baith hear and see guid o’ Mr. Halbert yet.”
Oh, holy and sublime philosophy, what sure consolation flows in your simple words!
So closes that dawn of the new year on this sorrowing household. Alas, how strange the contrast! A year ago, all, masters and servants, with fervour and enthusiasm, and with heartfelt prayers, wished a “Good, a happy New Year to Halbert” far away; but there is none of that now, Halbert’s first year has been a year of trial, mental struggle, and failure so far, and though the same deep love—or even deeper, for these loving hearts cling even more closely to him now, in his time of distress and despair—animates them still, they dare not wish each other, far less openly propose for him, the “happy new year” so usual.Poor household, it may be rich in world’s gear, and world’s comforts, but the chaplet has lost a rose, and he, so precious to them all, is lost to their ken, vanished from their sight, as it were, and all the remembrance of him that remains is that of a “broken man.”
But where is Halbert? Away, in a struggling ship, tossing on the stormy bosom of the wide Atlantic, alone upon the storm-swept deck, whence everything, not fastened with wood and iron, has been driven by these wintry seas; boats, bulwarks, deck load and lumber, are all gone into the raging deep, and yet he stands on the deck, drenched by every sea, watching the giant billows, before which all but he are trembling, uncovered, while the lightning gleams athwart the seething waters, and the thunder peals out in incessant volleys overhead; unsheltered, while the big raindrops pour down in torrents from the heavycloud-laden sky. There is no rest for him; in vain does he stretch himself in his uneasy cot; in vain forces the hot eyelid to close upon the tearless eye; since he wrote Christian, all weeping and tears have been denied him. Sleep, which comes in healing quietness to all his shipmates, does not visit him; or, if for a moment wrapped in restless slumbers, dreams of fearful import rise up before him, far surpassing in their dread imagery the gloomiest and most horrible conceptions of his waking thoughts or fancy, too horrible to bear; and the wretched dreamer starts out into the dreary air, thinking himself a veritable Jonah, to whom this tempest and these stormy seas are sent as plagues, and he stands a fit spectator of that external elemental warfare, which is but a type and emblem, fierce though it be, of the raging war within.
See, how he stands, invulnerable in hisdespair, the strong masts quivering like wands in the furious tempest, the yards naked, and not a rag of sail that would stand before it for an instant; the decks swept by the sea at every moment, and nothing looked for now, by the staunchest seaman on board, but utter and speedy destruction. “The ship cannot stand this much longer,” whispers the captain to his chief mate; “she’ll founder in an hour, or become water-logged, which would be as bad, or worse, at this season and in this latitude. Stand by for whatever may happen.” And yet, all this time, there is not an eye in that strained and struggling ship but Halbert’s, that does not shrink from looking upon the boiling sea; there is not a heart but his, however hardened or obdurate it be, which does not breathe some inward prayer, though it be but some half-forgotten infant’s rhyme. But Halbert Melville stands alone, uncompanioned, and uncomplaining in his secretgrief; no blessed tear of sorrow hangs on the dark lash of his fevered eye; no syllable of supplication severs his parched lips; the liberal heavens, which drop grace upon all, are shut, in his agonised belief, to him alone. He cannot weep; he dare not pray.
There’s joy and mourning wondrously entwinedIn all that’s mortal: sometimes the same breezeThat bringeth rest into one weary mindHeralds another’s sorer agonies;Sometimes the hour that sees one battle endBeholds as sad a time of strife begin;And sometimes, hearts rejoicing as they winThemselves the victory, tremble for a friend.Ah me! how vain to think that mortal kenCan ever, with love-cleared vision, judge aright.Doth danger dwell alone ’mong stranger men,Or safety aye ’neath home’s protecting light?Shield us, our Father! in our every lotThou blendest joy and grief that we forget thee not.
There’s joy and mourning wondrously entwinedIn all that’s mortal: sometimes the same breezeThat bringeth rest into one weary mindHeralds another’s sorer agonies;Sometimes the hour that sees one battle endBeholds as sad a time of strife begin;And sometimes, hearts rejoicing as they winThemselves the victory, tremble for a friend.Ah me! how vain to think that mortal kenCan ever, with love-cleared vision, judge aright.Doth danger dwell alone ’mong stranger men,Or safety aye ’neath home’s protecting light?Shield us, our Father! in our every lotThou blendest joy and grief that we forget thee not.
There’s joy and mourning wondrously entwinedIn all that’s mortal: sometimes the same breezeThat bringeth rest into one weary mindHeralds another’s sorer agonies;Sometimes the hour that sees one battle endBeholds as sad a time of strife begin;And sometimes, hearts rejoicing as they winThemselves the victory, tremble for a friend.Ah me! how vain to think that mortal kenCan ever, with love-cleared vision, judge aright.Doth danger dwell alone ’mong stranger men,Or safety aye ’neath home’s protecting light?Shield us, our Father! in our every lotThou blendest joy and grief that we forget thee not.
Then followed that beautiful season,Called by the pious Acadian peasants the summer of All Saints!Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscapeLay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the oceanWas for a moment consoled.—Longfellow’sEvangeline.
Then followed that beautiful season,Called by the pious Acadian peasants the summer of All Saints!Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscapeLay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the oceanWas for a moment consoled.—Longfellow’sEvangeline.
Then followed that beautiful season,Called by the pious Acadian peasants the summer of All Saints!Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscapeLay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the oceanWas for a moment consoled.—Longfellow’sEvangeline.
TWO years have worn on their slow course, two tedious, weary years, and the first days of December have again arrived. We are now under a sunnier sky than that of England, and on the outskirts of an old, wide-spreading, perhaps, primeval forest, full of giant pines and hemlocks, and the monarch oak, beside which the axe of the back-woodsman has never yet been lifted. It is morning, and thesun gleams on the brilliant, dewy leaves of trees, in detached and scattered groups, each clad like the beloved of Jacob in his coat of many colours. The Indian summer, pleasant and evanescent, is on the wane, and there is a soft murmur of falling leaves, as the morning breeze steals through the rustling foliage, and save for that, and the usual sounds of the forest—the diapason of that natural organ—all is still, and hushed, and silent. We are on the eve of winter, we witness the russet leaves falling before every breath of wind, but yet the grass is as green as ever, and wild flowers and creepers, luxuriant among the tangled under-brush, festoon the branches with their hanging blossoms. Here is one leafy arcade, where sunshine and shadow dance in tremulous alternation on the soft velvety turf beneath; and hark! the silence is broken; there are the sounds of footsteps on the green sward, the crackling of dried twigs which havefallen, and the sounds of some approaching creature. The charm is broken, into this natural temple some one has entered; who can it be, and for what end does he come?
Down this arcade comes the intruder, deeper and deeper into the forest; he seems to have no settled purpose here, but wanders below the drooping branches in meditative silence, communing with his heart, and inhaling as it seems the melancholy tenderness which floats in the shadowy air—melancholy because anticipating the departure of those bright lingerers in summer’s lengthened train; and tender, because remembering how Nature, the universal mother, gathers in beneath her wintry mantle those children of her care, and nourishes them in her genial bosom till spring robes her anew with their verdure and their flowers. He seems no stranger to these gentle sympathies, this solitary wayfarer, but looks upon the gay foliage and clinging flowers asif they were ancient friends. He is young, but there is a shadow on his face which tells of mental suffering and grief, though it seems of grief whose agony and bitterness has past away. His face is thin, worn, and thoughtful, there are deep furrows on his cheek and brow, the traces of some great and long-enduring struggle; his eyes are cast down, and his lips move from time to time, as though they were repeating words of comfort, with which he was striving to strengthen himself, and ever and anon he anxiously raises his earnest eyes to heaven, as if he sought for light to his soul and assurance there; and then again his head is bent down towards the greensward as if in sudden humility, and a sigh of conscious guilt or unworthiness breaks from his labouring breast, and he writhes as if he felt a sudden agonising pang. It is evident that this lonely man seeks for something which he has not, of the lack of which he is fully conscious, andwhich he desires with all the intensity of a soul’s most ardent and earnest longing to obtain; wealth it cannot be, nor fame, nor honour, for this wild wilderness, this place so solitary and far from the abodes of men, is not where these are either sought or found. On the trunk of a giant pine which lies across the green arcade, a trophy of the last winter’s storms, he seats himself; the gentle gale breathes through the wood in long low sighings, which come to the ear like a prolonged moan; the leaves fall softly with a pleasant plaintive cadence to their mossy grave; the sun looks down from the heavens, veiling his glory with a cloud, as though he feared to gaze too keenly on a scene so fair and solemn; the heart of the lonely meditative man is fairly melted within him; the object he has been searching for, which he has so longed to possess, which has shone upon him hitherto so distant, so far off, beyond the reach of hisextended hand, and never been seen save in such transient glimpses of his straining eyes that again and again, and yet again, his doubts and fears have returned in almost their original force, and the despair, which almost engulfed him in the old sad time, seems near at hand to enshroud him once again, is suddenly brought to nearest neighbourhood. A holy presence fills that quiet air; a voice of love, and grace, and mercy steals into that long bereaved and mourning heart; he throws himself down on the dewy grass, and its blades bend beneath heavier and warmer drops than the soft tears of morn and even. Listen! for his voice breaks through the stillness with a tone of unspeakable joy, thrilling in its accents, and its words are “all things;” hark how the wind echoes them among the trees, as though so worthy of diffusion, so full of hopeful confidence, that even it loved to linger on and prolong the sound. “All things are possible—with God.” His trembling form is bent in the hallowed stillness of unuttered prayer; his frame quivers with an emotion for years unfelt. Oh! how different from all his past shakings and tremblings, how different from all that has gone before is this! But who dare lift the veil which covers the deep humility of that supplicating spirit, or break in upon the holy confidence with which it approaches, in this its first communion, its God and Father. It is enough that there is joy in heaven, this blessed morning, over the returned prodigal, the lost and wandering child, “he that was dead is alive again, he that was lost is found,” and Halbert Melville at length is at rest.
Long and fearfully has he struggled since that fearful night in hoary Edinburgh; been tossed in Atlantic storms, seen the wonders of the Lord on the great deep, in the thunder, and the lightning, and the tempest, and experienced His goodness in being brought toland in safety once again. For years since then, on every wall, his tearless eyes have seen, as though written by an unseen hand, those terrible words, “It is impossible,” and a voice heard by no mortal but himself, has rung again and again in sad reiteration into his despairing ears, “It is impossible,” like an “anathema maranatha,” ever binding and irreversible. But to-day the whole has changed, the cloud has been dissipated and the sun shines forth once more; another voice sweeter than that harp of sweetest sound has brought to him joy for mourning, and blotted out from his mental horizon his fancied doom, with that one word of gracious omnipotence, “All things are possible with God.” It has told him of the might that can save to the uttermost, of the grace that casts away no contrite heart, and of the love to sinners which passeth all knowledge; and in the day of recovered hope, and in faith which has already the highestseal, the spirit’s testimony ennobling its meek humility, Halbert Melville arises from beneath these witness trees, from that altar in a cathedral of Nature’s own fashioning for its Maker’s worship, more grand and noble than the highest conception of man could conceive or his highest art embellish, with a change wrought upon his enfranchised spirit, which makes him truly blessed. In his despair and hopelessness he had pronounced this “impossible,” and he stands now rejoicing in the glorious words of one of old, “Return unto thy rest, oh, my soul! for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.” The summer was nearly past, the winter had nearly come, but Halbert Melville was saved.
But Halbert must go home; alas, he has no home in this wide continent. In all the multitude of breathing mortals here, there is not one whose eye grows brighter or heart warmer at his approach. He is, on the contrary, regardedcuriously and with wonder; sometimes indeed with pity, but he is still the stranger, though nearly two years have passed since first he received that name. His home, such as it is, is in a great bustling town, at a distance from this quiet solitude, to which long ago—there are places near it famed in the catalogue of vulgar wonders,—a sudden impulse drew him, a yearning to look on nature’s sunny face again, as he had done of old in his days of peace and happiness, or a desire, it might be, to attain even a deeper solitude than he, stranger though he was, could find amid the haunts of men. But now he must return to his distasteful toil, and solitary room. Ah! Halbert, how different from the solitary room in old Edinburgh, the books, congenial studies, and pleasant recreations before the tempter came! but it is with a light step and a contented heart for all that, that Halbert Melville retraces his steps along the lonely way. Now there ishope in the sparkle of his brightened eye, and a glow of his own old home affections at his heart, as he catches the wide sweep of the distant sea, and the white sails swelling already in the pleasant breeze, that will bear them home. Home! what magic in the word! it has regained all its gladdening power, that hallowed syllable, and Halbert is dreaming already of Christian’s tearful welcome, and little Mary’s joy; when a chill strikes to his heart. Is he sure that the letter of the prodigal, who has brought such agony and grief upon them, will be received so warmly? No, he is not, he doubts and fears still, for all the peace that is in his heart, and Halbert’s first resolution is changed; he dare not write; but his fare shall be plain, his lodging mean, his apparel scanty, till he has the means of going home, of seeking pardon with his own lips, of looking on their reconciled faces with his own rejoicing eye; or of bidding them an adieu for evermore.
Halbert has reached the noisy town again, and is threading his way through its busy streets, among as it seems the self-same crowd he traversed on his departure; but how differently he looks on it now; then he noticed none but the poor, the aged, the diseased; and thought in the selfishness of engrossing care, that the burdens which they bore were light in comparison with that which weighed him down. Now he embraces them all in the wide arms of his new-born and sympathetic philanthropy, and is as ready in the fulness of his heart to rejoice with them that do rejoice, as to weep with those that weep. His was a true, an early love, which flies to make its master’s presence known to those who are out of the way; who see him not, or seeing understand not; and laden with its own exceeding joy, yearns to share it with all who stand in need of such peace and rest as he himself has found.
But now he has entered his own dwelling,just as the sudden gloom of the American night, unsoftened by gentle twilight, falls thick and dark around. It is a place where many like himself in years, station, and occupations, engaged in the counting-houses of that great commercial city, have their abode. Young men gay and careless, with little thought among them for anything beyond the business or amusement of the passing hour. A knot of such are gathered together in the common sitting-room when Halbert enters; but they scarcely interrupt their conversation to greet him: he has kept apart from all of them, and almost eschewed their society or companionship. The night is cold, it has grown chilly with the lengthening shadows, and a glowing fire of logs burns brightly and cheerfully upon the hearth, and Halbert, wearied and cold, seats himself beside it. The conversation goes on, it flags not because the stranger is an auditor; one young man there isin this company, a merry scoffer, whose witty sallies are received with bursts of laughter, the rather because just now, and indeed usually, they are directed against Scripture and holy things. There is another who inveighs against the fanaticism and bigotry of some portion of the Church, which is, according to his foolish notion, righteous over much, and therefore, in his clear and conclusive logic, the Church universal is only a piece of humbug; and there is a third whom Halbert has long marked, a cold argumentative heartless sceptic, who, emboldened by the profane mirth of the other young men around him, has begun to broach his infidel opinions, and for them finds a favourable auditory. Look at Halbert’s face now, how it beams in the fire-light, as he hears the cold-blooded insinuations, and words of blasphemy, the dead negations, the poison of his own heedless youth, from which he has suffered so sorely, again propounded in theidentical guise and semblance which bewitched himself of old. See him! how his dark eyes sparkle with righteous fire; how his bent form grows erect and stately, and his features expand in unconscious nobility, as though there was inspiration within his heart, because of which he must interfere, must speak to these youths, should he perish.
The solitary man bends over the cheerful blaze no longer. See him among these wondering youths, with the light of earnest truth beaming from every noble line of his prophet face. Listen to his solemn tone, his words of weighty import. Hear what he says to them, amazed and confounded that the stranger has at last found a voice. What does he say? he tells the story of his own grievous shipwreck; he tells them how he was tempted and how he fell; tells them of all the wiles and stratagems by which he was overcome, and how he found out only at the very last, howhollow, false, and vain they were; bids them remember the miserable man bowed down by secret sorrow, that they have all along known him, and his voice trembles with solemn earnestness, as he warns them as they love their lives—as they love the gladness which God has given them, the heritage of their youth—to refuse and reject the insinuations of the tempter, and to oppose themselves to the serpent-cunning of the blasphemer, refusing even to listen to his specious arguments and hollow one-sided logic, if they wish it to be well with them. The air of the room has grown suddenly too hot for the discomfited sceptic, the scoffer has forgotten his gibe, the grumbler his grievance, and their companions their responsive laughter. Halbert’s words of sad and stern experience, spoken in solemn warning, sink into their hearts with much effect, at least for the time. Perhaps the impression will not last, but at this moment,these thoughtless youths are startled into seriousness, and whatever the effect may be ultimately, the recollection of that thrilling appeal will linger, and that for long, in their memories.
Sweet slumber and pleasant dreams has Halbert Melville this night. He lies in that fair chamber, whose windows open to the rising sun, where rested after his great fight of afflictions that happy dreamer of old, where peace is, and no visions of terror can enter, and Halbert Melville, whatever his future fate may be, whether calm or tempest, fair or foul weather, has like the pilgrim found rest.
Maiden! with the meek brown eyes,In whose orb a shadow lies,Like the dusk in evening skies!* * * * *O, thou child of many prayers!Life hath quicksands—Life hath snares!Care and age comes unawares!—Longfellow.
Maiden! with the meek brown eyes,In whose orb a shadow lies,Like the dusk in evening skies!* * * * *O, thou child of many prayers!Life hath quicksands—Life hath snares!Care and age comes unawares!—Longfellow.
Maiden! with the meek brown eyes,In whose orb a shadow lies,Like the dusk in evening skies!* * * * *O, thou child of many prayers!Life hath quicksands—Life hath snares!Care and age comes unawares!—Longfellow.
IT is well that there are swifter ways of mental travel, than even the very quickest means of transit for the heavier material part, or we should be too late, even though we crossed the Atlantic in the speediest steamer of these modern days, and with the fairest winds and weather, for Mrs. James Melville’s new year’s party. Mrs. James looks none the worse for these two years that have glided away since we saw her last; she isdressed in all her holiday smiles to-night, though, as you pass up the lighted staircase to her drawing-room, you can hear a shrill tone of complaint coming from some far-off nursery, which shows that James’s pretty house has got another tenant; and, truly, his paternal honours sit well on our old friend. The street without is illuminated by the lights which gleam through the bright windows, and are alive with the mirth and music that is going on within. There is a large company assembled; and, amid the crowded faces, all so individual and dissimilar, beaming on each other, here is one we should know—pale, subdued, and holy, like the Mary of some old master. It seems out of place, that grave, sweet countenance in this full room, and among this gay youthful company. It is our old friend Christian, hardly, if at all, changed since last we saw her, save for her deepened, yet still not melancholy sadness; it is said that her smiles, since thatterrible time of Halbert’s disappearance, have been more sad than other people’s tears, but she does smile sweetly and cheerfully still; there is too little of the gall of humanity about her, too little selfishness in her gentle spirit to permit the cloud, which hovers over her own mind, to darken with its spectre presence the enjoyment of others. Christian likes—as may be well believed—the quietness of her own fireside better than any other place; but James would have been grieved had she stayed away, and therefore is she here amid this crowd to-night. But there is a graceful figure near her that we shall not recognise so easily, though coming from a contemplation of that thin, worn face, inspired as we saw it last in yonder American city, and looking as we do on Christian there before us, we see that the features of her brilliant countenance are as like as brothers and sisters may be—like, and yet unlike, for the pressure of that greatsorrow has fallen lightly on little Mary’s buoyant spirit. She is still “little Mary,” though her head is higher now than Christian’s, who calls her so. Those two years have added no less to her inner growth than to her stature, and Mary Melville, with all the mirth and joyousness of her earlier girlhood, has the cultivated mind of a woman now. There are many bright young faces shining in this gay room, but there is not one like little Mary’s; not one eye in this assembly can boast such a sunny glance as hers, graver than her peers when it is called to look on serious things, and beaming then with a youthful wisdom, which tells of holy thoughts and pure intents within, and anon illumined with such a flash of genuine mirthfulness and innocent gaiety, so fresh and unconscious in its happy light, as would startle the sternest countenance into an answering smile. She is much loved, our sprightly Mary, and is the very sun and lightof the circle she moves in; and friends who have known her from her childhood, tell one another how like she is to Halbert, and shake their heads, and are thankful that she can never be exposed to similar temptations. Do they think that Mary, like her brother, would have fallen, that she must succumb too, before the adversary’s power, if tried as hardly? Ah, it is not well that the innocent lamb, so tender, so guileless and gentle, should be exposed to the power of the wolf, and who can tell but that there may be deadly danger lurking about her even now.
Christian’s smile grows brighter as it falls on Mary, “little Mary’s” sparkling face, and her voice is happier and more musical in its modulation as she answers her affectionate inquiries. They speak truly who say that Christian has no thought of herself: at this hour Christian would fain be on her knees in her solitary room, pleading for her lostbrother; not lost, deaf Christian, say not lost—is there not a lingering tone of sweet assurance in thy mournful heart, which, if thou would’st but hear it, speaks to thee out of the unknown secret stillness and says, Not lost, not lost, dear Christian, though thou yet knowest not how the faithful One has answered thy weeping prayers.
But, hush! little Mary is singing; a simple plaintive melody, as natural in its pleasant notes, as the dropping of the withered leaves around her absent brother, in yon far American forest. There is a charm in these old songs which far surpasses more artistic music, for scarce is there a single ear on which they fall that has not many remembrances and associations awakened, or recalled, it may be joyful, it may be sorrowful, connected with their simple measure and well-known words, and in such, and in no other, does Mary Melville delight. There is one sitting by Mary’s side who seems to comprehend whatfew of the listeners do, or care to do, the singer’s delicate and sweet expression of the feeling of her well-chosen song. He has never seen her before to-night, but he seems to have made wonderfully good use of the short time he has spent beside her; and Mary has already discovered that the gentleman-like stranger, who devoted himself to her all through the evening, is a remarkably well-informed, agreeable man, and quite superior to the frivolous youths who generally buzz about in Elizabeth’s drawing-room, and form the majority of her guests. He has brilliant conversational powers, this stranger, and the still more remarkable art of drawing out the latent faculty in others, and Mary is half-ashamed, as she sees herself led on to display her hoards of hidden knowledge, adorned with her own clear perceptions of the true and beautiful, which, unknown to herself, she has acquired. It is a strange, an unusual thing withMary to meet with any mind, save Christian’s, which can at all appreciate her own, and she is rejoicing in her new companion’s congenial temperament, and, in a little while, there is a group of listeners collected round them, attracted by something more interesting than the vapid conversations which are going on in this large room. Mr. Forsyth’s accomplishments are universally acknowledged, and he shines resplendent to night; and one after another, dazzled by his sparkling wit and still more engaging seriousness, join the circle, of which Mary is still the centre.
“Who would have thought,” say we, with Mrs. James, as she gazes wonderingly over the heads of her guests on the animated face of her young sister-in-law,—“who would have thought that Mary knew so much, or could show it so well!”
Is Christian’s care asleep to-night; what is she doing that she is not now watching overher precious charge? No, it is not; her eyes, which have strayed for a moment, are now resting fixed on Mary. See! how her cheek flushes at that man’s graceful deference. Listen to the laugh that rings from the merry circle at some sally of his polished wit. Mary looks grave and anxious for a moment, for his jest has just touched something which she will not laugh at, and he perceives it, and at once changes his tone, and turns with polished ease the conversation into a new channel. Is it well that Christian should be ignorant of one who is engrossing so much of her sister’s attention? No, it is not; and she feels that it is not; so she calls James, and is even now, while Mary’s joyousness is returning, anxiously inquiring of her brother who this stranger is. James does not even know his name. A cousin of Elizabeth’s brought him to-night, and introduced him as a friend who had been of great service to him; then Elizabeth herself is appealed to; Mrs. James is quite sure that Mr. Forsyth is a very respectable, as well as a very agreeable man; he could never have found his way into her drawing-room had he been other than that; her cousin never would have brought him had he not been quite certain and satisfied on that point. He is very rich, she believes, and very accomplished, she is sure, and, being unmarried, she is extremely pleased to see him paying so much attention to Mary. Christian shudders—why, she does not know; but she feels that this is not well, there is a something in his look—such nonsense! But Christian has always such strange, such peculiar notions, and is so jealous of all that approach Mary.
The gay young people that are around Mary make room for Christian, as she glides in to sit down by her sisters’s side. She is very grave now, as always; but some of them have heard her story, and all the nature in theirhearts speaks for her in tones of sympathy, and their voices are quieter always when beside her. Over most of them she has some other power besides this of sympathetic feeling; there is hardly one there to whom she has not done some deed of quiet kindness, which would not even bear acknowledgment; thus they all love Christian. She sits down by Mary’s side, and her heart grows calmer, and more assured again; for Mary bends over her, and seeks forgiveness for her momentary forgetfulness. Pardon from Christian is easily obtained; yet, gentle as she is, it seems not so easy to win her favour. Mr. Forsyth’s fascinating powers, displayed and exerted to the full, are all thrown away. See how coldly she listens to and answers him; nay, how impatient she is of his courteous attentions. What has he done wrong? what can ail Christian?
Mr. James Melville’s party has been a verybrilliant one; but it is all over now: the street grows suddenly sombre and silent opposite the darkened windows, and Mrs. James is not in the sweetest of moods: the baby, now that all the other music has ceased, is exercising his vigorous lungs for the amusement of the tired household; his weary mamma is aggravated into very ill-humour, and unfortunately can find no better way of relieving herself, nor any better object, than by railing at Christian’s folly. Mrs. James is sure, if Mr. Forsyth were to think of Mary Melville, they might all of them be both proud and pleased, for he would be an excellent match for her. She could not think what Christian expected for her—some unheard-of prodigy she fancied, that nobody but herself ever dreamt of—thus did the lady murmur on to the great annoyance of James.
But we must leave Mrs. James and her indignation to themselves, that we may followthe sisters home. They had little conversation on the way. Christian was silent and absorbed in her own thoughts, and Mary wondered, but did not disturb her; for Mary, too, has thoughts unusual, which she cares not to communicate; and soon, again, we are in the old room, no way changed since we saw it first, three years ago; and Mr. Melville—how shall we excuse ourselves for passing him over so lightly and so long—is here unaltered, as much a fixture in his wide, soft chair, as any piece of furniture in the well-filled room; and Robert, we lost him amid the belles of Mrs. James’s party! but here he is again, distinct, full grown and manly, and still retaining the blithe look of old. Christian alone has yet a disturbed apprehensive expression on her usually calm and placid face, and she wonders,
“How can James like such parties? it is so different from his wont.”
“Yes,” says Mary innocently, “I wonder that Elizabeth likes them. If there were just two or three intelligent people like Mr. Forsyth, it would be so much better.”
Poor Christian!
The protection of the Almighty has been implored “through the silent watches of the night,” and Mr. Melville’s household is hushed in sleep—all but Christian; for this quiet hour when all are at rest, is Christian’s usual hour of thoughtful relaxation and enjoyment. But she had a clouded brow and an uneasy look when she entered her room to-night—that room of many memories. At length there is no mist of disquietude to be seen upon her peaceful face; no doubt in her loving heart: she has gone to the footstool of the Lord, and borne with her there that child of her tenderness and affection, over whose dawning fate she has trembled, and has committed her into the keeping of the Father of all; and she haspoured forth, with weeping earnestness, the longings of her soul for that lost brother, whom even yet she knows not to be within the reach of prayer. Often has she thought that Halbert may be dead, since day after day these years have come and gone, and no tidings from, or of him, have gladdened her heart. Her spirit has been sick with deferred hope, as month after month went by and brought no message. But she is calmer to-night; the load is off her soul; she has entrusted the guardianship of the twain into His hands who doeth all things well, and with whom all things are possible; and wherefore should she fear!
The light in her chamber is extinguished, and the moonbeams are streaming in through the window. A few hours since she watched their silvery radiance stealing, unheeded and unseen, into yon crowded room, drowned in the flood of artificial light which filled it, andthen she had thought these rays an emblem of Heaven’s Viceroy—conscience—unknown and unnoticed, perchance, by those gay people round about her, but even then marking with silent finger upon its everlasting tablets, the hidden things of that unseen and inner life in long detail, moment, and hour, and day, for each one of them. But now, in the silence of her own room, these beams have another similitude to Christian, as they pour in unconfined, filling the quiet chamber. They tell her of peace, peace full, sweet, and unmeasured,—not the peace of a rejoicing and triumphant spirit,—the sunbeams are liker it,—but of one borne down with trial and sorrow, with a sore fight of affliction, with a fear and anguish in times past, yet now at rest. Oh, happy contradiction! distracted with cares and anxieties, yet calm amid them all, full of the memories of bygone sorrow, of forebodings of sorrows yet tocome, but peaceful withal, how blessed the possession!
It falls upon her form, that gentle moonshine, and her features are lit up as with a twilight ray of heaven: it lingers over her treasures as though it loved them for her sake. It streams upon that portrait on the wall, and illuminates its pensive and unchanging face, as with the shadow of a living smile; and Christian’s heart grows calm and still within her beating breast, like an infant’s, and holy scenes of old come up before her liquid eyes, like ancient pictures, with that steadfast face upon the wall shining upon her in every one; not so constant in its sad expression, but varying with every varying scene, till the gathering tears hang on her cheeks like dewdrops, and she may not look again.
And there is peace in that household this night, peace and sweet serenity, and gentlehopefulness; for a blessing is on its prayer-hallowed roof and humble threshold, and angels stand about its quiet doorway, guarding the children of their King—the King of Kings.