The Project Gutenberg eBook ofChristian Melville

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofChristian MelvilleThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Christian MelvilleAuthor: Mrs. OliphantRelease date: October 20, 2023 [eBook #71919]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: George Routledge and Sons, 1873Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHRISTIAN MELVILLE ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Christian MelvilleAuthor: Mrs. OliphantRelease date: October 20, 2023 [eBook #71919]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: George Routledge and Sons, 1873Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive)

Title: Christian Melville

Author: Mrs. Oliphant

Release date: October 20, 2023 [eBook #71919]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: George Routledge and Sons, 1873

Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHRISTIAN MELVILLE ***

BY THEAUTHOR OF “MATTHEW PAXTON.”

“There he stands in the foul weather,The foolish, fond Old Year,Crown’d with wild flowers and with heather,Like weak, despised Lear,A King—a King!”—Longfellow.

LONDON:GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,BROADWAY, LUDGATE.NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET.1873.

’Tis beautiful to see the holy mightOf a strong spirit, dedicate to God,’Tis beautiful to mark the uplifted light,In vigorous hands pointing the heavenward road,Continuing steadfast in the noble strife,Through the world’s dimness shining strong and free;But fairer still, ’mid quiet household life,A calm sad chastened spirit praising Thee!Thee! oh, our Father! from whose hands its threadOf fate hath run in darkness. Grief’s wide veilMantling its youthful days—and o’er its head,The weeping cloud of fear, while yet its paleAnd gentle face is radiant with the faith,That clings although thou smite, nor quits its hold with Death.

But deep this truth impress’d my mind—Thro’ all his works abroad,The heart benevolent and kindThe most resembles God.—Burns.

THE sun had set upon the last evening of a cold and bleak December, and from the frosty sky, a few stars looked down upon the crowded streets of one of the largest towns in England; a motley scene, in which the actors, both gay and sorrowful, went whirling and winding onwards, altogether unconscious of other scrutiny than from the busy eyes of their fellows. It was still early, and the whole scrambling restless world of the great town was astir, pouring out its many-tongued din over the cheerful pavements,bright with the light from its open shops and warehouses, and throwing its wide stream, in ceaseless and ever-spreading volumes, through street and lane and alley. Working men were hastening homewards, with baskets of tools slung over their stalwart shoulders, and empty pitchers dangling “at the cold finger’s end.” Dignified merchants, lean men of arts and letters, spruce commercial gentlemen, blended among each other like ripples in a river. Here there was an eddy, where the stream, branching out, swept off in another direction; there a whirlpool, where the flood pouring in, from a world of converging ways, involved itself for a moment in mazy bewilderment, before it found its purposed channel once more: but everywhere there was the same full and incessant flow, bearing in its broad bosom the unfailing concomitants of loud-voiced mirth and secret misery, of anger and of peacefulness, poverty and wealth,apathy and ambition, which marked its stream for human.

It is not with these many-voiced brilliant streets we have to do to-night, but with a household in one of them. A very quiet house you may see it is, though not a gloomy one, for light is shining from the yet uncurtained windows, pleasant thoughtful cheering fire-light, and the room has about it the indefinable comfort and brightness of home. It has at present but one occupant, and she—there is nothing about her appearance at all extraordinary—she is not very young—not less than thirty summers have past over those grave and thoughtful features, and given experience to the quiet intelligence of those clear eyes—nor beautiful, though those who knew it, loved to look upon her face, and thought there was there something higher than beauty. You would not think, to see her now, how blithe her nature was, and how unusual this sadness;but sheissorrowful to-night. It may be, that in her cheerful out-goings and in-comings, she has not time to indulge in any sad recollections, but that they have overcome her, in such a quiet evening hour as this. The shadows are gathering thicker and deeper, and the windows of neighbouring houses are all bright, but this room retains its twilight still. Its solitary tenant leans her head upon her hand, and gazes into the vacant air, as though she sought for some retiring figure and found it not. And why may she not be sad? She is a Christian thoughtful and pure-minded, and the last hours of another year are wearing themselves away, and is there no food for sadness here?

But there are voices that breathe no sorrow nor sadness coming in through the half-open door. There is one, a sweet indefinite tone, which speaks half of childhood, and half of graver years; there is boisterous rejoicing andobstreperous boyishness in another, and there is a grave voice, as joyful, but deep and quiet; and, here they come, each one more mirthful than the other. There is a sprightly girl of some fifteen summers, a youth her proud superior by two undoubted twelvemonths, and an elder brother, whose maturer features bear a yet more striking resemblance to the silent sister, the eldest of them all, about whose ears a storm of fun and reproof comes rattling down.

“Christian had no time!” says the sage wisdom of seventeen; “yet here is grave Christian dreaming away her hours in the dim fire-light.”

“You were too busy, Christian, to go out with me,” remonstrates little Mary—for the endearing caressing epithet “little,” though often protested against, was still in use in the household—“and you are doing nothing now.”

But Christian only smiles: strange it seems, that Christian should smile so sadly!

Now the youthful tongues are loosed. They have been on an important visit: to-morrow is to see that grave and blushing brother the master of another house, and that house has this night been subjected to the admiration and criticism of the younger members of the family, and all they have seen and wondered at must needs be told now for Christian’s information; but the elder sister listens with vacant inattentive ear, and irresponsive eye, until Robert grows indignant, and protests with boyish fervour, that “It’s a shame for her to be so grave and sad, and James going to be married to-morrow!” James, the bridegroom, does not however seem to think so, for he checks his youthful brother, and bends over Christian tenderly, and Christian’s eyes grow full, and tears hang on the long lashes. What can make Christian so sad? Letus go with her to her chamber, and we shall see.

It is a quiet airy pleasant room, rich enough to please even an Oxford scholar of the olden time, for there are more than “twenty books clothed in black and red” within its restricted space. There is one windowed corner, at which, in the summer time, the setting sun streams in, and for this cause Christian has chosen it, as the depository of her treasures. There is a portrait hanging on the wall; a mild apostolic face, with rare benignity in its pensive smile, and genius stamped upon its pale and spiritual forehead: too pale, alas! and spiritual; for the first glance tells you, that the original can no longer be in the land of the living. A little table stands below it, covered with books—a few old volumes worthy to be laid beneath the word of truth—and there too lies a Bible. It has a name upon it, and a far-past date, and its pages tell of carefulperusal, and its margin is rich with written comments, and brief, yet clear, and forcible remarks. Below the name, a trembling hand has marked another date—you can see it is this day five years—and a text, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they have entered into their rest, and their works do follow them.” The faltering hand was that of Christian Melville, and thus you have the story of her sadness. This place is the favourite sanctuary of that subdued and chastened spirit; a holy trysting-place, that has been filled often with a presence greater than that of earthly king or lord, and Christian is always happy here, even though—yea, verily, because—she does sit among these relics of a bygone time, of youthful hopes and expectations which long ago have come to an end and passed away for ever.

But Christian has other duties now. A heavier step has entered the dwelling, and shegoes calm and cheerful again, and hastens to take her seat at the merry table, where the father of the family now sits; their only parent, for they are motherless. Mr. Melville is a good man. There are none more regular, more exemplary, in the whole ranks of the town’s respectability; his pew has never been vacant in the memory of church-going men; his neighbours have not the shadow of an accusation to bring against him; his character is as upright as his bearing; his conscience as pure as his own linen. It has been whispered, that his heart has more affinity to stone than is befitting the heart of a living man; but Mr. Melville is a gentleman of the highest respectability, and doubtless that is a slander. He is of good means, he is just in all his relations, he is courteous, and if he be not pitiful withal, how can so small an omission detract from a character otherwise so unexceptionable? His wife has been dead for two or three years, andhe speaks of her, as “his excellent deceased partner.” Christian says, her mother had the spirit of an angel, and her memory is yet adored by all the household; but Mr. Melville is a calm person, and does not like raptures. His family consists of five children. Christian—whose history we have already glanced at, summed up in her precious relics—is the eldest; then, there is the bridegroom, James, an excellent well-disposed young man, just about to form a connection after his father’s own heart; next in order comes the genius of the family, gay, talented, excitable, generous Halbert, over whose exuberance of heart his correct parent shakes his head ominously. This Halbert is a student, and absent from home at present, so we cannot present him to our readers just now. Robert is the next in order, a blithe careless youth, having beneath his boyish gaiety, however, a good deal of the worldly prudence and calculating foresight ofhis father and eldest brother; and little Mary, the flower of all, finishes the list. Mary is the feminine and softened counterpart of her genius-brother; there is light flashing and sparkling in her eyes that owns no kindred with the dull settled gleam of the paternal orbs. There is a generous fire and strength in her spirit which shoots far beyond the coolness and discretion of prudent calculating James, and in her school attainments she has already far surpassed Robert—much to the latter’s chagrin and annoyance at being beaten by a girl—and these two, Halbert and Mary, are Christian’s special care.

It is quite true, that her watchful attention hovers about her cold father in a thousand different ways. It is quite true, that there cannot be a more affectionate sister than Christian to her elder and younger brothers; but little anxiety mingles with her affection for, and care of, them. Their names are not forgotten in herfrequent prayers, and her voice is earnest and fervent, and her heart loving, when she craves for them the promised blessings and mercies of the Almighty; but her accents tremble in her supplications when those other names are on her lips, for visions of snares and pitfalls laid for their beloved feet have darkened her foreboding fancy with visions of shipwrecked faith and failing virtue, of ruined hopes and perverted talents, until the very agony of apprehensive love has invested its objects with a higher interest than even that of closest kindred. It is hers to watch over, to lead, to direct, to preserve the purity, to restrain the exuberance of these gifted spirits, and therefore is there a dignity in Christian’s eye when she looks on these children of her affections, that beams not from its clear depths at any other time, and an unconscious solemnity in her pleasant voice when her kind and gentle counsel falls upon their ears, that strangerswonder at—for Christian is young—to be so like a mother.

Such is the family of Mr. Melville, of the prosperous firm of Rutherford and Melville, merchants, in the great English town, to whom we beg to introduce our readers.

Yes, the year is growing old,And his eye is pale and blear’d!Death, with frosty hand and cold,Plucks the old man by the beardSorely,—sorely!—Longfellow.

IT is New Year’s Eve. There is no twilight now in Mr. Melville’s cheery parlour, the light is glimmering in the polished furniture, leaping and dancing in the merry eyes that surround it, and even the grave features of the head of the house have relaxed into an unwonted smile. The young people have not forgotten the old Scottish celebration of “Hogmanay,” in all its observances, and Christian’s stores have been plundered, and James has fled blushing from their raillery,pursued by the glad echo of their ringing laughter. How pleasantly it sounds! the passengers without on the cold pavement linger at the bright window, arrested by its spell; involuntary smiles steal over grave sober faces, as it rings out in its frank youthfulness challenging their sympathy, and younger passers-by echo it with interest in a chorus of their own, and send it on, louder and louder, through the cold brisk air. How merrily it sounds!

And Christian is smiling too, but her smile is like the first April sunbeam, whose fleeting brightness tells of tears at hand. Her thoughts are solemn; this evening is sacred to the dead, whose image floats before her pensive eyes, and whose cherished memory hangs about her inmost heart. She sees the worn and weary frame, so long since laid down in peace, to sleep and be at rest within the bosom of its mother earth. She holds communion withthe immortal nature so long since perfected. She is alone amid that mirth, surrounded by mournful remembrances; amongthem, but united to the dead.

But “James is to be married to-morrow!” and there are household preparations to make, and when these are finished the hour has come for their usual evening worship; a pleasant hour at all times to Christian Melville. Her father has chosen his Psalm appropriately this night, and the solemn and simple melody swells up, full and clear, through their quiet habitation.

“Lord, thou hast been our dwelling placeIn generations all,Before thou ever hadst brought forthThe mountains great or small;Ere ever thou hadst form’d the earthAnd all the world abroad,Ev’n thou from everlasting artTo everlasting, God.”

How vivid is the realisation of Christian, as she sings the words of that solemn acknowledgment of God’s power and man’s dependence, and, in true heartfelt appreciation of the Lord’s providential loving-kindness on the closing night of the year, recognises and gives thanks for His great goodness. And there is a quivering aged voice blending with the sweet youthful accents in the song of gratitude; Christian knows right well that it comes from a heart, a very babe’s in godly simplicity, which, in the meek confidence of faith, is enabled and privileged to take the inspired words of the Psalmist for its own. It is old Ailie, her dead mother’s faithful and trusted servant, and her own humble friend and counsellor. The reading of the Word is past, the voice of supplication has ceased, and, gathering round the warm fireside, they wait the advent of the new year; happily and with cheerfulness wait for it,—for it, for the breath of praise and prayer has driven away the gloom from the calm horizon of Christian’s gentle spirit, like a cloud before the freshening gale, and the young faces that know no sorrow are shining with the very sunlight of happiness. Robert’s eye is on the time-piece, watching its slow fingers as they creep along to midnight, and Mary has clasped Christian’s hand in her own, that none may be before her in her joyful greeting, and the father lingers in his seat half disposed to melt into momentary kindness, and half ashamed of the inclination. Twelve! Listen how it peals from a hundred noisy monitors, filling the quiet midnight air with clamour, and followed by a storm of gratulation and good wishes in this cheerful room, and out of doors from so many human tongues, and so often insincere. There is no feigned affection, however, in this little circle; hand clasps hand warmly, and voice responds to voice with genuine heartiness. Even Mr. Melville has foregone his frost, and hurries away that nobody may see him in hismolten state, and Christian calls in Ailie and her younger assistants to give and receive the “happy new year.” Christian is no niggard in her annual dainties, and she has risen now with her eyes sparkling:

“A happy new year to Halbert!”

There is a glistening look about those cheerful eyes—for they are cheerful now—which shows that their brightness is all the brighter for a tear hovering under the long lashes; and cordially does every voice in the room echo her wish, “A happy new year to Halbert!” if he were only here to give it back!

But the blithe ceremonial is over, the embers are dying on the hearth, and the young eyelids are closed in sleep; why does Christian linger here? The room is dark, save when some expiring flame leaps up in dying energy before it passes away, yet there she bends in silent contemplation, as the dusky red grows darker and darker, and the ashes fall noiselesslyupon the hearth. Is she dreaming over the extinguished hopes which she has hid in mournful solitude within her steadfast heart? Is she comparing, in grief’s pathetic power of imagery, these decaying embers with the happy prospects, the abundant promise, which Death’s cold fingers have quenched? Ah! Christian has gone far back through the dim vistas of memory to a chamber of sorrow; a darkened room, where lies in its unconscious majesty the garment of mortality which a saint has laid aside. In imagination she weeps her tears all over again, but they are sweet and gentle now, for Time’s hand is kind, and there is healing in the touch of his rapid fingers; and now that bitterness worse than death has passed away, and Christian rejoices even in the midst of her sadness, for the one she mourns derived his lineage from the highest blood on earth—the household of faith—and Death has carried him home.

Kind messages, that pass from land to land;Kind letters, that betray the heart’s deep history,In which we feel the pressure of a hand—One touch of fire,—and all the rest is mystery!Longfellow.

THE morning of the new year is dawning as brightly as winter morning may, and Christian is up again among her household, preparing for the great event of the day. Mary and Robert are still employed in their personal adornments, and James, waiting for his graver sister, watches the door in terror for their entry; but Christian at last leads the bridegroom away, and bids the merry youthful couple follow, and James will not forget, for many a year of the new life on which he isabout to enter, the gentle sisterly counsel which he now receives: how unselfish, how generous she is! His future wife may be a sister in name, but she can never be so in spirit; Christian knows that well, but how sweetly she speaks of her, how warmly she encourages her brother’s affection, how gently she leads his thoughts to his new duties, and urges upon him, in admonitory yet tender kindness, their lasting obligation. His home will be a happy one, if he becomes what Christian wishes and presses him to be.

Mr. Melville fancies that there could not, by any chance, be a better arrangement than James’s marriage with Elizabeth Rutherford, the only daughter of his wealthy partner; so natural at once, and business-like, for James of course, will just step into the place vacated by his worthy seniors, when their time comes to depart from Exchange and counting-house:a most excellent arrangement; Elizabeth is a pretty girl too, a little gay perhaps, but time will remedy and quiet that. Christian said some foolish thing about the Rutherfords being vain worldly people, but Christian always spoke foolishly on such subjects. There could not have been a better arrangement, and armed with this deliverance of paternal wisdom, James had been a successful wooer and suitor, and gay Elizabeth Rutherford will be Christian’s sister to-day.

We leave the wedding, with all its vows, and pomps, and ceremony, to the imagination of the gentle reader. It will suffice to say, that James was married, and that all went off as well and as merrily as is usually the case. But it is now the new year’s night and Christian is at home, and there, lying on her own table, at her own corner of the cheerful fireside, lies a prize; “a letter from Halbert!” Christian has thrown herself intoa chair, and is busy unfolding the precious document, and little Mary’s bright eyes are sparkling over her shoulder; but we must not describe Halbert’s epistle, we shall rather give itin extenso.

“My dear Christian,“I have been congratulating myself, that amidst all your multitudinous avocations at this eventful time, the reading of my periodical epistle will be some relief to you, and in benevolent consideration of your overwhelming cares, intend—in spite of your late reproof on my levity, which natheless, dear Christian, is not levity, butfun—to fill this, at present unsullied sheet, with as much nonsense as possible. However, I will so far subdue my propensities, as to make my second sentence—concerning, as it does, so very important an event in the family—a serious enough one. I have a feeling about thismarriage of James’s which I can hardly explain, even to myself; I suppose, because it is the first break in the family, the first introduction of change; and it seems so extraordinary a thing at first, that we, who have lived all our lives together, should be able to form connections nearer and dearer with others, than those which exist among ourselves. I could almost be glad, Christian, thatyourloss—forgive me for speaking of it—will preserve you to us all; and James’s choice too rather surprises me! I was not wont to have a very high idea of Elizabeth Rutherford’s qualities; I hope, however, for James’s sake, that I have been greatly mistaken: I have written him a congratulatory letter. I must confess to you though, that my congratulations would have been much more cordial, had our new sister-in-law come nearer my ideal. You know that I have a very high standard.“We are enjoying our moment of breathing time very much—we students—in our classical and poetical retreats in the attics of Edinburgh, putting the stores of mentalplenishing, which have been accumulating on our hands or lying in disorder in our heads for the past months, into their fitting places and order, and preparing the still unfurnished apartments for the reception of more. I suppose you will be thinking, that in one suite at least of these same empty inner rooms, there will be a vast quantity of clearing out required, before the formerly unmolested heterogeneous literary rubbish give place to the fair array of philosophical and theological lore, which must needs supplant it—and so there is. I do assure you, that at this present moment, the clearing out and scouring goes on vigorously. You should see how I turn my old friends out of doors to make way for the flowing full-robed dignity of their statelysuccessors. The toil of study has, however, so much real pleasure mixed with it, after the first drudgery is over, that I don’t long very anxiously for its conclusion, though that is drawing near very rapidly. I suppose, if I am spared, I shall be ready to enter upon the work, to which we have so often looked forward, in little more than eighteen months. Well, time is not wont to be a laggard, and I hope when he runs round that length, he will find me better prepared for the duties and labours of my high vocation than I am now. Do you know, Christian, I have had lately a kind of fearful feeling, whenever I think of the future; what is the cause I cannot tell, unless it be one of those presentiments that sometimes—at least so we have heard—overshadow the minds of people who are, or who are about to be, exposed to danger. I am not, you know, in the least; nevertheless, I have not the same pleasure in looking forward that I used to have. I wish you would try and explain this enigma for me.“I told you lately, you will remember, that I had made a very agreeable acquaintance, in a Mr. Walter Forsyth. I like him better the more I see of him, for he has great natural ability and extraordinary cultivation, united to the most captivating manners. I know you are very impassive to our masculine attractions, yet I hardly think, Christian, you could help being much pleased with him. He is a good deal older than I am, and is moreover of considerably higher station in the world than a student, and therefore I feel his attention to me the more gratifying. I have been at his house several times, and have met a good many of our Edinburghsavansthere: none of them of the kind though that you would expect me to be associating with; for Forsyth’s friends are not exactly of the same characteras my future position would require mine to be. Don’t think from this that I have got into bad company—just the reverse, I assure you, Christian—they are almost all very accomplished agreeable men, and I like them exceedingly. Forsyth is very liberal in his ways of thinking, perhaps you might think too much so; but he has mixed much with the world, and travelled a great deal, and so has come to look upon all kinds of opinions with indulgence, however much they may differ from his own: altogether, I cannot sum up his good qualities better than by saying, that he is a most fascinating man. I am afraid you will think I am getting very suddenly attached to my friend, but I feel quite sure he deserves it.“I charge you to remember me, with all fraternal kindness, to our new sister-in-law. I suppose I shall have to beg pardon personally for various bygone affrays, of which Iwas the provoker long ago, ‘when we were bairns.’ Tell Mary I am very much afraid she will be following James’s example, and that she must positively let me be first, and for yourself, dear Christian, believe me always“Your very affectionate brother,“Halbert Melville.”

“My dear Christian,

“I have been congratulating myself, that amidst all your multitudinous avocations at this eventful time, the reading of my periodical epistle will be some relief to you, and in benevolent consideration of your overwhelming cares, intend—in spite of your late reproof on my levity, which natheless, dear Christian, is not levity, butfun—to fill this, at present unsullied sheet, with as much nonsense as possible. However, I will so far subdue my propensities, as to make my second sentence—concerning, as it does, so very important an event in the family—a serious enough one. I have a feeling about thismarriage of James’s which I can hardly explain, even to myself; I suppose, because it is the first break in the family, the first introduction of change; and it seems so extraordinary a thing at first, that we, who have lived all our lives together, should be able to form connections nearer and dearer with others, than those which exist among ourselves. I could almost be glad, Christian, thatyourloss—forgive me for speaking of it—will preserve you to us all; and James’s choice too rather surprises me! I was not wont to have a very high idea of Elizabeth Rutherford’s qualities; I hope, however, for James’s sake, that I have been greatly mistaken: I have written him a congratulatory letter. I must confess to you though, that my congratulations would have been much more cordial, had our new sister-in-law come nearer my ideal. You know that I have a very high standard.

“We are enjoying our moment of breathing time very much—we students—in our classical and poetical retreats in the attics of Edinburgh, putting the stores of mentalplenishing, which have been accumulating on our hands or lying in disorder in our heads for the past months, into their fitting places and order, and preparing the still unfurnished apartments for the reception of more. I suppose you will be thinking, that in one suite at least of these same empty inner rooms, there will be a vast quantity of clearing out required, before the formerly unmolested heterogeneous literary rubbish give place to the fair array of philosophical and theological lore, which must needs supplant it—and so there is. I do assure you, that at this present moment, the clearing out and scouring goes on vigorously. You should see how I turn my old friends out of doors to make way for the flowing full-robed dignity of their statelysuccessors. The toil of study has, however, so much real pleasure mixed with it, after the first drudgery is over, that I don’t long very anxiously for its conclusion, though that is drawing near very rapidly. I suppose, if I am spared, I shall be ready to enter upon the work, to which we have so often looked forward, in little more than eighteen months. Well, time is not wont to be a laggard, and I hope when he runs round that length, he will find me better prepared for the duties and labours of my high vocation than I am now. Do you know, Christian, I have had lately a kind of fearful feeling, whenever I think of the future; what is the cause I cannot tell, unless it be one of those presentiments that sometimes—at least so we have heard—overshadow the minds of people who are, or who are about to be, exposed to danger. I am not, you know, in the least; nevertheless, I have not the same pleasure in looking forward that I used to have. I wish you would try and explain this enigma for me.

“I told you lately, you will remember, that I had made a very agreeable acquaintance, in a Mr. Walter Forsyth. I like him better the more I see of him, for he has great natural ability and extraordinary cultivation, united to the most captivating manners. I know you are very impassive to our masculine attractions, yet I hardly think, Christian, you could help being much pleased with him. He is a good deal older than I am, and is moreover of considerably higher station in the world than a student, and therefore I feel his attention to me the more gratifying. I have been at his house several times, and have met a good many of our Edinburghsavansthere: none of them of the kind though that you would expect me to be associating with; for Forsyth’s friends are not exactly of the same characteras my future position would require mine to be. Don’t think from this that I have got into bad company—just the reverse, I assure you, Christian—they are almost all very accomplished agreeable men, and I like them exceedingly. Forsyth is very liberal in his ways of thinking, perhaps you might think too much so; but he has mixed much with the world, and travelled a great deal, and so has come to look upon all kinds of opinions with indulgence, however much they may differ from his own: altogether, I cannot sum up his good qualities better than by saying, that he is a most fascinating man. I am afraid you will think I am getting very suddenly attached to my friend, but I feel quite sure he deserves it.

“I charge you to remember me, with all fraternal kindness, to our new sister-in-law. I suppose I shall have to beg pardon personally for various bygone affrays, of which Iwas the provoker long ago, ‘when we were bairns.’ Tell Mary I am very much afraid she will be following James’s example, and that she must positively let me be first, and for yourself, dear Christian, believe me always

“Your very affectionate brother,“Halbert Melville.”

The first night of the year fell on a happy household. The senior of all, its head, satisfied and self-complacent; his grave and gentle daughter, full of such hopeful and pleasant thoughts as stifled the strange misgivings and forebodings that had sprung up within her when she had read the character of that much esteemed friend, who already seemed to have secured so large a portion of her brother’s affection—in Halbert’s letter; and the younger pair, as became the evening of so great a holiday, tired out with their rejoicing. The evening closed cheerily around them, andthrew its slumberous curtain about every separate resting-place, as though it had a charge over them in their peaceful sleep, and predicted many a sweet awakening and many a prosperous day.

Behold the tempter!—to the expectant airThe hoarse-voiced wind whispers its coming dread,And ancient Ocean from his mighty headShakes back the foaming tangles of his hair,Gathering his strength that giant power to dare,That chafes to fury all his thousand waves,And digs in his deep sand unlooked for graves,Whelming the hapless barks that voyage there.Fierce is the rage of elemental strife;Yet who may tell how far exceeds that warThat rends the inner seat of mental life,Veils the soul’s sky—shuts out each guiding star.The fiercest tempest raging o’er the sea,But pictures what the might of mental storms may be.

That there is not a God, the foolDoth in his heart conclude:They are corrupt, their works are vile;Not one of them doth good.* * * * *There feared they much; for God is withThe whole race of the just.—Psalmxiv.

ANOTHER December has begun to lower in the dim skies with wintry wildness, to bind the earth with iron fetters, and to cover its surface with its snowy mantle, as we enter for the first time another town, far from that English borough in which we lingered a year ago. An ancient city is this, within whose time-honoured walls the flower and pride of whatever was greatest and noblest in Scotland,has ever been found through long descending ages. Elevated rank, mighty mental ability, eminent piety, the soundest of all theology, the most thorough of all philosophy, and the truest patriotism, have ever been concentrated within its gates. Here men are common, who elsewhere would be great, and the few who do stand out from amid that mass of intellect stand out as towers, and above that vast aggregate of genius and goodness are seen from every mountain in Christendom, from every Pisgah of intellectual vision, whereon thoughtful men do take their stations, as suns amid the stars. And alas that we should have to say it, where vice also erects its head and stalks abroad with an unblushing front, and a fierce hardihood, lamentable to behold. We cannot, to-night, tread its far-famed halls of learning, we may not thread our way through the busy, seething multitudes of its old traditionary streets; but there is one chamber,from whose high windows a solitary light streams out into the murky air, into which we must pass.

It is a plain room, not large, and rich in nothing but books; books which tell the prevalent pursuits, tastes, and studies of its owner, filling the shelves of the little bookcase, covering the table, and piled in heaps on floor and chairs: massive old folios, ponderous quartos, and thick, dumpy little volumes, of the seventeenth century, in faded vellum, seem most to prevail, but there are others with the fresh glitter of modern times without, and perhaps with the false polish of modern philosophies within. With each of its two occupants we have yet to make acquaintance; one is a tall, handsome man, already beyond the freshness of his youth, well-dressed and gentleman-like, but having a disagreeable expression on his finely formed features, and a glittering look in his eye—a look at onceexulting and malicious, such as you could fancy of a demon assured of his prey. The other, with whom he is engaged in earnest conversation, is at least ten years his junior; young, sensitive, enthusiastic, he appears to be, with an ample forehead and a brilliant eye, as different as possible in its expression from the shining orb of the other. There is no malice to be seen here, no sneer on those lips, no deceit in that face, open, manly, eloquent and sincere. Famed in his bygone career, he is covered with academic honours, is full of vigour, of promise, of hopefulness, with eloquence on his lips, and logic in his brain, and his mind cultured thoroughly, the favoured of his teachers, the beloved of his companions, the brother of our gentle Christian, our acquaintance of last year in his letter to Christian—Halbert Melville.

But what is this we see to-night! Howchanged does he seem, then so beautiful, so gallant; there is a fire in his eyes, a wild fire that used not to be there, and the veins are swollen on his forehead, and stand out like whipcord. His face is like the sea, beneath the sudden squall that heralds the coming hurricane, now wild and tossed in its stormy agitation, now lulled into a desperate and deceitful calmness. His lips are severed one moment with a laugh of reckless mirth, and the next, are firmly compressed as if in mortal agony, and he casts a look around as if inquiring who dared to laugh. His arm rests on the table, and his finger is inserted between the pages of a book—one of the glittering ones we can see, resplendent in green and gold—to which he often refers, as the conversation becomes more and more animated; again and again he searches its pages, and after each reference he reiterates that terrible laugh, so wild, so desperate, so mad, while his companion’s glittering serpent eye, and sneering lip, send it back again in triumph. What, and why is this?

Look at the book, which Halbert’s trembling hand holds open. Look at this little pile laid by themselves in one corner of the room, the gift every one of them of the friend who sits sneering beside him, the Apostle of so-called spiritualism, but in reality, rank materialism, and infidelity, and you will see good cause for the internal struggle, which chases the boiling blood through his youthful veins, and moistens his lofty brow with drops of anguish. The tempter has wrought long and warily; Halbert’s mind has been besieged in regular form; mines have been sprung, batteries silenced, bastions destroyed—at least, to Halbert’s apprehension, rendered no longer tenable; point by point has he surrendered, stone by stone the walls of the citadel have been undermined, and the overthrowal is complete.Halbert Melville is an unbeliever, an infidel, for the time. Alas! that fair and beauteous structure, one short twelvemonth since so grand, so imposing, so seeming strong and impregnable, lies now a heap of ruins. No worse sight did ever captured fortress offer, after shot and shell, mine and counter-mine, storm and rapine had done their worst, than this, that that noble enthusiastic mind should become so shattered and confused and ruinous.

There is a pause in the conversation. Halbert has shut his book, and is bending over it in silence. Oh, that some ray of light may penetrate his soul, transfix these subtle sophisms, and win him back to truth and right again; for what has he instead of truth and right? only dead negations and privations; a series of Noes—no God, no Saviour, no Devil even, though they are his children; no immortality, no hereafter—a perfect wilderness of Noes. But his tempter sees the danger.

“Come, Melville,” he says rising, “you have been studying too long to-day; come man, you are not a boy to become melancholy, because you have found out at last, what I could have told you long ago, that these nonsensical dreams and figments, that puzzled you a month or two since, are but bubbles and absurdities after all—marvellously coherent we must confess in some things, and very poetical and pretty in others—but so very irrational that they most surely are far beneath the consideration of men in these days of progress and enlightenment. Come, you must go with me to-night, I have some friends to sup with me, to whom I would like to introduce you. See, here is your hat; put away Gregg, and Newman, just now, the Nemesis can stand till another time—by-the-by, what a struggle that fellow must have had, before he got to light. Come away.”

Poor Halbert yielded unresistingly, rosemechanically, put away the books so often opened, and as if in a dream, his mind wandering and unsettled so that he hardly knew what he was about, he listened to his companion’s persuasions, placed his arm within his “friend” Forsyth’s, and suffered himself to be led away, the prey in the hands of the fowler, the tempted by the tempter. Poor fallen, forsaken Halbert Melville!

The quiet moments of the winter evening steal along, the charmed hour of midnight has passed over the hoary city, slumbering among its mountains. Through the thick frosty air of that terrible night no moonbeam has poured its stream of blessed light; no solitary star stood out on the clouded firmament to tell of hope which faileth never, and life that endures for evermore, far and long beyond this narrow circuit of joys and sorrows. Dark, as was one soul beneath its gloomy covering, lowered the wide wild sky above, and blindingfrost mist, and squalls laden with sleet, which fell on the face like pointed needles, had driven every passenger who had a home to go to, or could find a shelter, or a refuge, from the desolate and quiet streets. In entries, and the mouths of closes, and at the foot of common stairs, little heaps of miserable unfortunates were to be seen huddled together, seeking warmth from numbers, and ease of mind from companionship, even in their vice and wretchedness. Hour after hour has gone steadily, slowly on, and still that chamber is empty, still it lacks its nightly tenant, and the faint gleam of the fire smouldering, shining fitfully, now on the little pile of poison, now on the goodly heaps of what men call dry books and rubbish, but which a year ago Halbert considered as the very triumphs of sanctified genius. Hither and thither goes the dull gleam, but still he comes not.

But hark, there is a step upon the stair, ahurried, feverish, uncertain step, and Halbert Melville rushes into his deserted room, wan, haggard, weary, with despair stamped upon his usually firm, but now quivering lip, and anguish, anguish of the most terrible kind, in his burning eye. He has been doubting, fearing, questioning, falling away from his pure faith—falling away from his devout worship, losing himself and his uprightness of thought, because questioning the soundness of his ancient principles and laying them aside one by one, like effete and worthless things. He has been led forward to doubt by the most specious sophistry—not the rigid unflinching inquiry of a truth-seeker, whose whole mind is directed to use every aid that learning, philosophy, history, and experience can furnish, to find, or to establish what is true and of good repute, but the captious search for seeming flaws and incongruities, the desire to find some link so weak that the whole chain might bebroken and cast off. In such spirit has Halbert Melville been led to question, to doubt, to mock, at length, and to laugh, at what before was the very source of his strength and vigour, and the cause of his academical success. And he has fallen—but to-night—to-night he has gone with open eyes into the haunts of undisguised wickedness—to-night he has seen and borne fellowship with men unprincipled, not alone sinning against God, whose existence they have taught Halbert to deny, whose laws they have encouraged him, by their practice and example, to despise, contemn, and set aside, but also against their neighbours in the world and in society. To-night, while his young heart was beating with generous impulses,—while he still loathed the very idea of impurity and iniquity, he has seen the friends of his “friend,” he has seen his favoured companion and immaculate guide himself, whose professions of purity and uprightness have oftencharmed him, who scorned God’s laws, because there was that innate dignity in man that needed not an extraneous monitor, whose lofty, pure nature has been to Halbert that long twelvemonth something to reverence and admire; him has he seen entering with manifest delight into all the vile foulness of unrestrained and unconcealed sin, into all the unhallowed orgies of that midnight meeting and debauch. Unhappy Halbert! The veil has been torn from his eyes, he sees the deep, black fathomless abyss into which he has been plunged, the hateful character of those who have dragged him over its perilous brink, who have tempted him to wallow in the mire of its pollutions and to content himself with its flowing wine, its hollow heartless laughter, its dire and loathsome pleasures.

The threatenings of the Scriptures, so long forgotten and neglected, ring now in his terrified ears, like peals of thunder, so loudand stern their dread denunciations. His conscience adopts so fearfully that awful expression, “The fool hath said in his heart there is no God,” that the secret tones of mercy, whispering ever of grace and pardon, are all unheard and unheeded, and he was in great fear, for the Lord is in the generation of the righteous. He leans his burning brow upon the table, but starts back as if stung by an adder, for he has touched one of those fatal books, whose deadly contents, so cunningly used by his crafty tempter, overthrew and made shipwreck of his lingering faith, and has become now a very Nemesis to him. With a shudder of abhorrence and almost fear, he seizes the volume and casts it from him as an unclean thing, and then starts up and paces the room with wild and unsteady steps for a time, then throws himself down again and groans in agony. See! he is trying with his white and quivering lips to articulate the nameof that great Being whom he has denied and dishonoured, but the accents die on his faltering tongue. He cannot pray, he fancies that he is guilty of that sin unpardonable of which he has often read and thought with horror. Is he then lost? Is there no hope for this struggling and already sore-tired spirit? Is there no succour in Heaven? The gloom of night gathering thicker and closer round about him, the dying sparkle of the fire, the last faint fitful gleam of the expiring candle leaping from its socket, and as it seems to him soaring away to heaven, cannot answer. Surely there will yet be a morrow.

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