the parent to commit the error, and your child, some little sensitive Seymour such as you were a few years ago, would have been the one to complain of you. Now, you will be the wise parent, your son the happy being to profit by your wisdom. So the world goes on: the good which a beneficent Creator has all along designed for it, slowly working its way out of the evil, the folly, the strange mistaken doings of those creatures whom he has placed here to fulfil his will, but who madly and perversely prefer to fulfil their own." "Ah! my dear Aunt, this is all very well, if one could only think and talk in this way, as you do, for instance, without feeling in one's own heart and life the bitter consequences of which we have spoken." "Do you suppose, Seymour, that I have always been a thinker and a talker only? Do you suppose I have not also been a sufferer?" "I cannot tell. You appear so cheerful, and so calm now, that I should scarcely imagine you had suffered much -not as I suffer, at all events." "God only knows how we any of us suffer. When you have lived to my age, Seymour, you will be better acquainted with this fact, that it is not an easy life, exempt from trouble, which can give any one the cheerful calm of which you speak. I believe it is rather to have lost all which the heart most pines for, and so to have been made willing to receive whatever God may please to give. The sooner we are brought to this state the happier, the more cheerful our lives will be. Some are brought to it by gentle means, others by protracted discipline, and others by one sudden, desperate wrench which breaks the strong anchor of the heart, as the vessel is broken from its moorings and dashed upon a troubled sea, God only knows how long. But, my dear Seymour, what does it matter if only the sure and peaceful haven is found at last?" "Yes, at last; but that last is so long in coming." "It will come in God's own time, Seymour, often, sooner than it is expected, or wished for." "Oh! when will it come to me! I cannot bear this struggle long. I feel like a caged bird that must dash out my life against the wires of my prison. Oh! [ could do so much, and bear so much if it was only for some purpose,-if I had only a motive, an object to do and suffer for. Do you think it would be very wrong, my dear Aunt,-very wrong, or very foolish, if sometime or other I should absent myself from what they call my duty; if I should quit my ship, for instance, and so be left behind in some distant island, or in some other way so manage as just to be missing, and never heard of again?" "Indeed I do think it would be both wrong and foolish, thus to break the trust reposed in you by your parents. I think it is always wrong and foolish to do a thing in a covert and mysterious manner, so as to bring trouble on your friends, when the same end might have been answered by open, honourable conduct. To speak plainly, Seymour, I do think even now, that your course of life might be altered for you without dishonour. I would do my best to intercede for you. What do you say?" "Not now, my dear Aunt, not now. I will give it one more trial. It would be dreadful for me to throw myself back upon my family just now, when Robert is pressed on every hand with claims which he does not know how to meet. No, I will give the sea one more trial. Perhaps it will swallow me up this time, and then I shall trouble none of you again." "Seymour, I cannot bear to hear you talk in that manner. If in the path you pursue-and no one absolutely compels you to walk in it-if in the path you pursue, there are trials to be encountered, meet those trials like a man, not in a halfdesperate, half- desponding spirit, which is sure to yield in the first conflict. I have more dread of this kind of spirit, that any language can describe; more, almost, than I have of your brother Philip's strong passions." "How so?" "Because it is so deceptive and insidious, and can assume so many pleasant forms. But, beyond this, beware. I once lost so much by it. But, no matter: let us speak of other things. Did you see any one enter by the garden-gate just now?" "No. Did you?" "Yes; a tall figure like your brother Robert's walked into the house, it seemed He was not expected, "Not that I know of. Shall we go into the house?" It was true enough; the figure which had entered the garden, and walked into the house, was that of Robert Clifton. His business was with his mother, and they remained closeted together for the space of an hour, to the no small astonishment of the rest of the family, who feared that some evil tidings might have brought their brother thus unexpectedly amongst them. it right to explain so much as to put them upon their guard should any attempt be made to obtain money from them; as well as to prepare them in some degree for the recurrence of what might be alarming or disastrous in that quarter. It was right, too, Robert thought, that all should know the conditions of trial on which his brother now stood with the Lindens; and, beyond this, it had been pleasant to him to report the favourable progress of this trial so far as it went, in order that all might rejoice together. 66 "Now, indeed," thought Seymour, as he still walked with his sisters, compelled to talk with them, though he did so incoDuring this hour which seemed unbear-herently, and with his thoughts elsewhere, able in its length, all waited and won- now, indeed, if the trial should be over; dered. Even Mr. Clifton began to feel if Philip should have disgraced and desuspicious and painfully agitated, so that graded himself below all hope?" all the kind soothings and the gentle attentions of his sister were needed to beguile him into the garden, or anywhere away from the scene of this strangely prolonged interview. The sisters walked together with Seymour betwixt them, backwards and forwards on a gravel-walk before the windows of the house, ever and anon directing anxious looks towards the still closed door of a small breakfast-room, into which Mrs. Clifton had retired with ker son. "I am quite sure," said Kitty, "that I heard sobbing as I passed that door. Something dreadful must have happened to Philip. Don't you think it is so, Seymour?" Kitty was too much agitated herself, and too deeply absorbed in her own thoughts, to observe the change which this suggestion brought upon her brother's face. Once he stopped suddenly, and would have clasped his hands upon his forehead, as if to keep down the contending emotions which threatened to overthrow his reason; but his sisters drew his hands within theirs, and gently led him on, unsuspicious of the excitement which so powerfully agitated his frame having any other cause than anxiety on behalf of his younger brother. Indeed Philip Clifton had lately become a source of serious and painful anxiety to other members of his family besides his brothers. Robert had not told all to any but Seymour. He had, however, thought "I think it must be about Philip," said Kitty again, and still glancing, every time she passed, at the closed door, "I think it must be about Philip. What do you think, Seymour? Do speak to us, and tell us what you think." "Oh-I?-yes; I should think-but, indeed, it is impossible to say. Has there been a letter lately?" 66 a "Oh, yes!" exclaimed both sisters, most pleasant, clear, and hopeful letter." "I, for one," said Helen," do not believe that anything is wrong there. I think it is the business. Perhaps there has been some heavy loss, and then what shall we do?" "Oh! you need not mind so much," said Kitty. "I should mind for others, if not for myself," replied Helen. "But, see, the door is opening. It is Robert himself. He beckons us in. I suppose we must all go." With these words, and at a sign from their brother, the little party turned silently into the house. Seymour felt not the ground beneath his feet; he felt only the beating of his heart, which he almost fancied they all must hear. Robert Clifton had no other greeting for his brother and his sisters than a silent pressure of their hands, as he drew them into the parlour. The object which struck their attention there was the figure of Mrs. Clifton, in an attitude of deep distress, and weeping bitterly. She stretched her 'Is it poor Philip?" asked Kitty. No, no," replied her brother, be too much disturbed. 66 don't Let It is only a common calamity which has befallen us. us thank God that it has not come out of any one's misconduct, nor has to do with guilt in any way. Seymour, let us thank God for that." "Yes," said Seymour, "let us thank God." But his lips were white as ashes while he spoke. "You know, I think," Robert went on to say, "that the business on which we are all dependent has not been particularly prosperous of late-has, indeed, been a losing rather than a profitable concern." "We do," said his sisters; but Seymacur offered no response. 66 During this last month we have had some heavy losses, and yesterday's post brought us letters of a very alarming nature. To-day the intelligence is confirmed. Many of our city merchants are losers in the same way, but we are almost reduced to beggary. The question now is, what to do?" "Then all is right with Philip?" asked the sisters. "Perfectly," said Robert; "at least so far as I know. Only the money which has been advanced for him leaves us so much the worse." "Oh, never mind that," said Kitty. 66 No, never mind that," echoed Helen. "If every one does their best, and nobody goes wrong, we shall all do very well, I feel no doubt." "Your marriage portion, Helen-" "Oh! don't think a moment of that. Even if I had a portion, I should give it all back into the family stock, of that I am quite sure." "Is there nothing I can do?" asked Seymour, in the manner of one awakening from a dream. Had he been dreaming? Or was the pit of darkness in which his soul had just been struggling-was that the reality, and his present rebound of better feeling his liberation, as it seemed, from the very jaws of hell-was this only the dream? Whatever it was, Seymour rose and seemed to shake himself free "Is there nothing I can do?" he asked again. "Yes," said Robert. "You will forgive me when I say, you must no longer loiter here. I don't know what enchantment holds you; but, Seymour, my dear fellow, you must go, indeed you must." Seymour's countenance in an instant became overspread with the deepest crimson. His eyes flashed, his whole figure seemed to grow taller and stronger. There was some anger in the energy which his general attitude and bearing assumed; there was more of pain-nay, of absolute agony, in the quivering of his lip. The inward struggle to a soul like his was almost more than nature could sustain. But the good this time obtained the mastery, and he answered in a firm and manly voice, "I will go, Robert. I will do my best, and if I fail it shall not be for want of determination on my part." Robert shook his brother by the hand as if to confirm this resolution; but he did not speak, for his own heart was heavy-his spirit sorely pressed with care. He had spent sleepless nights of late, and weary days, toiling without hope. It seemed as if the very spring of his life was gone out of him-as if some master wheel in the machinery of his existence had been prematurely worn away, and yet he must continue to work on-he must continue to support others when needing support himself." But Robert had no He morbid or sentimental tenderness. took his troubles only as they came, and they were so commonplace and practical, so real, and so urgent in their pressure, that he had even less time than inclination to sit down and despond. "And now," said he, "there are many questions which in a few minutes must be answered, for I must be back again to town; what shall we do about my father? Is it necessary that he should be told?" "You know best," replied Helen. "Oh, let us keep it all to ourselves," exclaimed Kitty. Their mother had been silent up to this time-silent only for her heavy sobs; but she now gave it as her opinion that, so far as was possible, this matter should be kept from her husband; and thus it was settled by general consent. EVENINGS AT HOME; OR, WINTER IN SPITZBERGEN.* NINTH EVENING. (Continued from page 343, Vol. III., New Series.) Now the sign agreed upon sounded outside, and the pilot hastened thither, in order to place the bridge over the trench. The two hunters returned home with a stout buck reindeer, which they had shot. "What is that fine and strong smell?" cried Ivan, as he entered the cave. is just as if we were in a bakery of Archangel!" "Yes, indeed I have been baking," answered the pilot, and, with selfpleased look, showed the astonished friends the produce of his baking. He had already set on tea. But MARIA. That is indeed true. they ought not to compare themselves with other men of whom they knew, that they were more fortunate, if they did not wish to become disquieted. MOTHER. That was not necessary; it would have been hurtful to their contentment. You can, my children, best understand that in your own case. You would not deny that you possess a great many good things; you have your parents; you have clothing, food, a dwelling to shelter you. You are healthy, and re"Itceive instruction in what it is necessary for you to know. But many thousand children have all this, and are far better off than you are; they have all that they wish; not a pleasure is denied them; they have for their instruction the most costly books, wear the finest clothes, -in a word, they have, in this aspect, all imaginable advantages. If you now should compare your situation with that of these more fortunate children, how would your lot appear to them? JULIA. And so the tea-drinking was as merry and joyous among them as it possibly could be. FATHER. They certainly were good men, and we rejoice that they were. "In your absence I have made a discovery," said the old pilot, "which is of invaluable worth." With these words he held out to them the rock-salt. "See here, this is the most beautiful rock-salt, of the purest taste." Then he told his friends how he came to make the discovery, and they thanked God and their friend for the newly-received blessing. MARIA. And yet there was still wanting so much to their happiness! FATHER. That is true; but the wise man looks not always at what is wanting to him, but at what he has. Our friends at Spitzbergen had found themselves in such a situation; they knew that it was not by their own fault that they were in this solitude, but that their business and philanthropy had prepared this destiny for them. Besides, they were healthy, had their necessary subsistence, were friendly affected towards one another, active, and industrious: the hope of being, sooner or later, freed from this sorrowful abode, enlivened their spirit, and thus they could be more tranquil and cheerful than might have been supposed at first view. Providence reconciles us to many ills. Gus. That I have never done, and will never do! MOTHER. But suppose that you should make such a comparison, the result would be you would become discontented with your situation; you would imagine yourself to be unhappy, not because you really were so, but because you saw others who, according to your opinion, were happier than you; you would look on them with envy, and would really become what you feared yourself to be-unhappy. But now, on the other side, how many thousands there are to whom God has denied your happiness! Poor children, whe now, probably, have not even a warm room, a bed, warm food or necessary clothing, for whose instruction no one cares, the fatherless and motherless orphans, who are compelled thus early to feel all the wretchedness of mankind-if, now, you wish to obtain a clear view of your good fortune, compare yourself with these, who are so deserving to be pitied. Ask yourself why you are happier than they are. Ask yourself, whether the poor unfortunates are more to blame for their wretchednesswhether you are better than they are? Gus. Mother, you cannot but believe that we are very, very well contented with our situation. с FATHER. You have reason to be so, and you can the better see this, always the more you look at the more unfortunate below you, than at the more fortunate who are above you. And now to return to our friends, who were the more tranquil and contented, because they were rational and wise in looking at the bright side of their condition. Frequently they talked together of their blessings, which God had granted them in their sorrowful destiny; and if at any time a trifling uneasiness crept in, they struck up a hymn or read some passage in God's word. Then Ivan and Gregory took their guns and axes, to drive away every moody feeling by hunting or chopping wood: the pilot also seized on some work to be done, made some necessary utensil or household implement still needed, baked up a supply of bread, or went out to make some new discovery in the cavern. Then, when they came together again, their anxiety and unpleasant feeling was gone, and with pleasure they enjoyed their frugal meal; sleep brought a beneficial strength, and with new powers, after a few hours' rest, they went again to their work. On a certain time the old pilot was all alone. He had finished his usual labours, and as he was not wont to let his hands lie idle in his lap, it occurred to him to examine the stores in that upper cavern, with all of which they had not yet become acquainted. MOTHER. Observe that, Maria and Julia. Many useful things are often found, that would otherwise have remained unnoticed or forgotten. FATHER. And you, Max and Gustavus, there is a rule about this which applies to many things. I have always been accustomed in my leisure hours, to look through my books, and have thereby gained many a new view, or at least recalled again many things, which I had forgotten. It is a kind of looking over one's stores. But to go on with our story. The five or six little casks which stood above were all alike, and our friends believed nothing to be more certain, than that they all contained flour. The pilot opened the last barrel, and found MARIA. Certainly, gold--was it not, father? FATHER. No, my child, a store of beautiful white beans. Still more eagerly he struck on the cask standing next, and was surprised by the sight of fine yellow peas. The third one afforded him not less joy, for it was wholly full of lentils. JULIA. Grand! grand! Now he went to cooking them! FATHER. As the old pilot knew that his friends were wont to return after having been absent some hours, and usually with an excellent appetite, he immediately concluded to prepare for them a domestic comfort, and surprise them with a new dish. This consisted of a good portion of peas, which he immediately carried down into the lower cave, and after he had carefully cleaned and washed them, put on the fire with a smoked bear's ham. Of all dishes this must have been best understood by him, for, except the bear's ham, it was a common dish among sailors. The pilot had often cooked it on board of the ship. In the most cheerful mood he awaited the return of his friends, who he knew, after their laborious exercise in the pure cold air, would wish for nothing so much as a well-covered table; and the time seemed to him almost too long, before he heard their call before the hut. Finally, they returned home, and as soon as he had let them in, Gregory's first words were, "To-day we have been hard at work, and are very hungry; we have been a great distance: but for it, we have brought home a large fat reindeer buck." "And I," said the good pilot, interrupting him, "will treat you to-day to a new dish!" With that he went to the hearth and brought to them, waiting full of expectation and wonder, the peas, smelling most deliciously. How the dish so pleasant, especially to sailors, and of which they had been so long deprived, was relished! While they were eating, the pilot told his friends how he had found the peas, and raised still more their joy, by informing them that they had in store a considerable quantity of beans and lentils. MARIA. Now then, they had more than many families can boast of. If I had been in the pilot's place, I would have arranged a regular bill of fare for the whole week. MAX. My little sister, that could not have been done. MARIA. Why not? |