THE MOTHER'S MISTAKE. CHAPTER XX. PERHAPS it was well for Robert Clifton that so many, and such urgent cares were pressing upon his mind at the same time, as to preclude the possibility of his feeling any single cause of sorrow, anxiety, to the full extent of what would otherwise have been its influence upon him. or How often is it well for us all that such is the case! How often is it our best earthly consolation that one grief takes off the edge of another, that one anxiety pushes off, as it were, the burden of another. People are thought to be peculiarly afflicted, sometimes even hardly dealt with, when a series of troubles falls upon them, in quick succession; but a single solitary grief standing out in the midst of life's sunshine,-a single arrow sent into the heart when all else is peace, and luxury, and repose,-a single adder in the path when the ground is thickly strewn with flowers, -a single drop of poison in the draught when the lips are regaling VOL. X.-NO. CXVIII. themselves with sweets,-we fancy these, in the experience of any human heart, would be found even worse to bear, than a whole host of calamities heaped one upon another. Such calamities fall like winter upon the soul, and like winter it braves them. We know when the frosts of autumn come that the leaves will fall from the trees, and we prepare for blast, and storm, and biting cold; but the hurricane of summer leaves a desolation behind it more cruel in proportion as the peace and the beauty which it found was more entire. "Well," said Robert again, as he turned over his troubles, one after another, "I could bear anything better than the spectacle of that sweet girl. I could bear anything, and everything, in which guilt was not concerned. Guilt?" he said again, fearing he was hard upon his brother. "Yes, guilt," he repeated, "for it is guilt, even to be thoughtless and selfish where such a depth of misery to another is incurred. It is guilt to act upon the mere animal passion of a moment, when God has given us higher powers by which these passions can be mastered, and made Q even useful in their subservience to reason and to right. Yet, after all, I do not know but that even Philip is to be pitied. What could he do with nothing to occupy him but classics, mathematics, and such mere mental occupations? Why, he should have been a pioneer for an army, or at any rate for an exploring expedition of engineers. He should have done the bold, hard, bodily work, with that fine Herculean frame of his, for a party of settlers in some barbarous and inhospitable country. He should have had to fell trees, build houses, drag boats across the land, to dig, cleave, hew, and even to fight, -but wild beasts only. I should be sorry to find Philip ever involved in fighting with his fellow-men. It would be a battle to the death, on one side or another. Poor Philip! The question is, what can he do He did hint something about emigrating, and, certainly, so far as I can see, there is nothing within the range of possibility that would suit him so well." now? Self-reliant as he had become, and as circumstances had compelled him to be, Robert was still young enough, and possessed sufficient of the genial warmth and sympathy of youth, to feel the need of a friend, and not to value that friend the less because she wore the graceful form of woman. Indeed, his nature was one which could not so easily have held intercourse with any man on the same terms of perfect openness and freedom. Linden; but it was a natural, and almost necessary relief to his overburdened heart to tell this, in part, at least, to Mary Maitland, for she listened with such intense interest, and yet with such tender, womanly sympathy, that it seemed almost as if she gathered the grief into her own bosom, to nurse it there, and so to keep it sacred from any vulgar or familiar touch. Besides which, she was personally a stranger to the poor sufferer. They had never met, and, in all probability, never would meet; and from this cause also, there seemed less breach of confidence in speaking to Mary on that sad subject freely and openly. It would have been a curious study for an indifferent observer to have watched these two companions in trouble and anxiety; to have marked their careworn countenances, to have heard their sage reflections, and then to have been told that they were young, and, more than that, that they were lovers. Alas! for the young affection that is born under such a cloud. Alas! indeed, if love were only the fabled image of the poet's fancy-capricious, light, and ever on the wing! Alas! for love indeed; for in the serious intercourse of these two friends, love was scarcely mentioned-marriage scarcely thought of. And yet they perfectly understood each other; and without venturing to give a name to their feelings, they each found expression in little acts of kindness and consideration, which the other understood; and they each reposed in the affection of the other, with a confidence, perhaps, even more unshaken and entire, than where love finds utterance in vows and promises, and rapturous expressions. On reaching London, then, he lost no time in seeking this friend. The hour was too late for business, but he knew that Mary would be waiting for him with anxious expectation. He knew that in her he should find all the careful solicitude of a sister, while she listened to his sad story. To her alone would it have Still there is something sad, though been possible for him to tell it, for there sweet, in affection thus sown, and nouwas something too sacred in the sorrow herished into life under the shadow of dark, had witnessed, for him to describe it even to his own family; and he had hastened from his sisters on the plea of being compelled to return immediately to London without allowing them time to press him with minute inquiries. That Philip had disgraced himself was sufficient, and too much the rest could be imagined. To no man, however intimate or confidential, could Robert have told what transpired during his interview with Grace gloomy care. There is always something sad in that affection which, though mutual, the lips are afraid to speak of, because of the heavy pall which hangs around it, making the heart in which it is nursed, however tenderly, more like a sepulchre than an altar of Hymen. There is something sad in that affection which is cherished, however fondly, without venturing to look onward, or fix a date, even in imagination, when friends thus united, and thus necessary to each other, shall share their worldly lot together, walking hand in hand through the remainder of their earthly pilgrimage. We blame, and blame justly, the selfish imprudence of those who choose to marry under these circumstances; and we know that nobler hearts and higher principles would have taught them the virtue of I waiting, rather than risking the chance of ruin to themselves and others; but we fancy it is the desolateness of this long hopeless waiting-the picture they draw for themselves of their future, which I drives them to this alternative, more than any deliberate calculation upon what they shall gain by their rashness and imprudence. But the two friends here described, besides their own high sterling principle, had been so schooled by circumstances, that the habit of consulting duty had become with them a kind of second nature; and thus they scarcely listened to the voice of inclination where a duty had to be done. It would have weakened their resolution to think on all subjects, first, what they should like. They both felt this, and, consequently, they were the better able to support each other in thinking only what was right, and fittest to be done. Making this the first rule in their actions, they were, perhaps, more happy in such pleasures as fell to their lot by the way, than any can be in this world who think of the pleasure first, and then turn to the duty as a secondary thought-if, indeed, it ever does come second, where pleasure occupies the first and highest place. Much more frequently is duty last-and then how hard, how difficult how bitter is the taste of duty on the lip which has drank with eagerness the cup of pleasure, leaving the duty to the last. One of the great considerations which occupied Robert Clifton's mind about the present was what was best to be done with regard to his prospects in life. In this he knew that Mary could assist him, for her judgment was mature beyond her years, and she had early formed the habit just alluded to, of looking to that which was wisest and fittest to be done, rather than to that which was most attractive and agreeable. In the settlement of this great question, Robert was afraid of | himself, because he had from the very first been constitutionally averse to the line of occupation which had been selected for him. Thus, he was afraid, and very justly so, of being deceived by his tastes and inclinations. He was afraid of persuading himself that the thing was right which it was most agreeable for him to do. Still there was nothing very agreeable which presented itself to his choice. If he gave up his present business, he knew of no practicable means of escaping poverty and wretchedness in future. But then, poverty and wretchedness seemed inevitable now; and besides this, he had no chance whatever of retaining even his present precarious position, except by borrowing large sums of money which, until they were repaid, he felt might prove a burden that would weigh him into the grave. It had always been a principle with Robert to beg rather than borrow, and to work with his hands at the hardest and most degrading occupation, rather than do either. He knew that his father had borrowed largely. He had felt the galling weight of these loans like a chain of spikes around his neck. In order to pay them off, he had strained every nerve, and worked at his desk with a diligence that left him scarcely time for necessary rest or sleep. If the business should be given up now, he knew that on a moderate calculation there would be enough to pay all, besides purchasing a small annuity for his parents. For himself, he did not care. He had health and youth, though both had been sorely taxed; but he could work in a thousand ways, he doubted not; and surely the busy world-surely even the great city of London itself would afford him something to do. Robert knew the great city of London, however, quite well enough to understand how an able hand, even when accompanied by a willing mind, may remain long unoccupied within its smoke and dust. He knew how weary feet may pace its busy streets in vain; and he began to regret, when it was too late, that he had cared so little for society as to have but few influential or able friends to whom he could apply for direction in the way of finding employment. As a prosperous city merchant, he might have had friends in plenty, and friends, too, who would have been happy to assist him, if, under such circumstances, he could have wanted help; but to relinquish the business altogether, to break up the old standing firm, and to walk penniless about the streets, that was a very different matter, and argued, all who heard of it would have thought, either disgraceful incompetency on his part, or something very strange in the conduct of affairs which had to be brought to so dishonourable an issue. Well acquainted as he was with the popular opinions of mankind on subjects of this nature, Robert deemed it best to keep his own counsel, with the exception of that one adviser who brought to their mutual deliberations as sage a countenance, and, perhaps, as wise a judgment, as ever were found in connection with so short an experience of life. Both, as they sate together consulting, expressed their terror and their fear of debt; both saw the risk-in the present instance the more than risk-the absolute probability that what might be borrowed could never be repaid. "And then-." Both said these words at the same moment, and they looked at each other as if the earth was opening at their feet. 66 Anything but that!" said Mary, and her companion answered-" Anything but that. Yes; anything-a mud cottage in a wilderness, with nothing but wild roots and berries to exist upon, would be preferable to that. Mary, would you like to go to a new country?" "I often think I should. Perhaps it is something peculiar to my situation; but I do feel so weary sometimes, and then I think I should like to go to a new country, and begin life again, quite upon a different plan." "Yes," said Robert, "there is much to grow weary of in this. We live in a state of society so artificial-so complex, that any single interest seems entangled and inwoven with other interests; so that if you lay hold of one thread there is no calculating what it may draw out after it." things. I am afraid we shall not help the philanthropist much until we have learned how to do good to ourselves." "Oh! that is a very narrow and low view of yours." "Does not care, as the old song says, always bring us down to be narrow and low, making the young man selfish as well as gray?" "That is the worst of anxiety and trouble; it compels us to think so much about ourselves, - to plan and act so generally with a view to our own interests, that we cease almost, in time, to care anything about the interests of others. It is well you and I have found each other out in this great wilderness." "It is, indeed well, Mary; but in what respect do you mean? " "I mean because I have you to think about, and you have me; and, consequently, we never more can be wholly wrapped up in ourselves." "We could follow out this plan more entirely, if we left this country altogether, and began life afresh in a new and distant world. What say you, Mary? Seriously will you go?" "Oh! Robert, remember my mother. She would pine to death in a state of existence that would be luxury to you and me. And your parents, also, what would become of them, when their prop was taken away from them?-your sisters, too, who would stand by them, and keep them? Ah! I know what it is to have no brother-no father-no protector." "But what can I do, Mary?" "Oh! you have already done so much for us all!” "But what can I do in the way of making a living, if I must ask that vulgar question?" "What have you tried?" "Nothing yet, except the old business. I don't know what to try." "Talking to an indifferent person, I should say, what can you do?" "If that is the question, I can draw; but what of that?" "In any little attempt we may make to "To be sure, drawing is not much in do good," said Mary, "this fact is very itself; but yours is not a simple genius striking. And how much more so it for drawing, as an art. There is somemust be in any great attempt!" thing else you can do, and something "You and I," said Robert, "had, per-upon which I fancy that your drawing is haps, better keep our attention to little mainly dependent." Music, above all other arts, requires mechanical adaption of the muscles to that rapid execution which can only be attained by long and patient practice. One may learn the theory of music at any age, but the practice requires a vast number of muscular efforts which are not familiar, and, consequently, extremely difficult when the hand is firm and stiff, and unaccustomed to these movements. Drawing, on the other hand, requires nothing of the muscles different from what they are employed in every day, in writing, or in various kinds of employment familiar to all.” "I understand you. But still I should have so much to learn that I should stand at a great disadvantage amongst men whose early training had been expressly for the same pursuit. Besides which, my natural inclination leads me so entirely this way, that I am afraid of trusting myself, and of calling that the decision of judgment, which is only the bias of taste. It is one of those questions on which I need the help of an impartial mind, and, therefore, it is no mere compliment when I appeal to you for your best and most sage advice." pied in public affairs, and I do not like to intrude myself upon his notice." No, certainly, not without sufficient reason; but don't you think the offer of your services might be a reasonable ground for application? Now, don't shake your head despondingly, nor let that misanthropic pride of yours stand in your way. Thousands of applications of this kind are being made every day by much grander men than you are, and men who don't consider themselves degraded by it, either." "It is partly because of the number of these applications to men situated like Mr. Peterson, that I cannot edge myself in amongst them.” "And partly-I will confess it for you partly because of a little natural independence of spirit, which I call pride.” "I confess it." "I have felt the same, and, therefore, ought to understand what it is. But I have learned to think that we are a little unreasonable in the exercise of this kind of pride, for it makes us forget, on such occasions, that we are really asking no favour. In my own case, where should I have been now,-where would my poor mother have been, if I had stood upon this pride, and refused to ask employment, when all that I wanted was a fair remuneration for my services? We talk about a new world, and a more natural order of things. I confess there are some views of the old that make me not only weary, but sick at heart. One of these is the distorted manner in which people here have come to regard the exchange of necessary commodities for money. I often think of this, as I walk the streets of London, and see the cringing, servile, despicable methods people have recourse to, in order to induce purchasers to deign to look in upon what they have to sell. As if there was any condescension in the matter at all,-as if one party was not quite as much obliged and accommodated as the other. Indeed, I almost fancy the one who is permitted to buy what he wants, who has not only the best article got ready for his use, but an endless variety of similar articles spread before him out of which he may make his own choice,—I almost fancy, in my simplicity, that this person is the one who ought to acknowledge obliga |