104 THE METAPHYSICIAN. some tokens of affectation or hypocrisy, which would relieve his mind of the growing apprehension that this was a Divine power moving on the hearts of the people. every shape and lineament, till Mr. L. could scarcely || other more minutely. He thought to detect in them realize that the great Intercessor himself had not suddenly re-appeared to pour his healing benedictions on that vast multitude. At this instant there was a stir in the midst of the assembly. Mr. L. cast his eye in its direction, and saw a man, in the meridian of life, of remarkably athletic appearance, rushing through the crowd towards the stand. His hands were clenched, and raised toward heaven, and his features were distorted with agony. He reached what was called the altar, and falling upon his face, gave one shriek, which sounded like a note of despair, and lay helpless and silent, a spectacle to the gazing multitude. "Come forward!" exclaimed the ministers from the stand, repeating the invocation with pressing earnestness. In a minute their words were responded to by groans, shouts, shrieks, and halleluiahs. The voices of the preachers were no longer heard, but they continued to wave their hands, and by gesture invite the people forward. A rush commenced for the altar, and scores were soon kneeling or fallen within it, while others, in masses, were pressing around them, mingling their loud expressions of triumph with the wailings of their unconverted but heart-stricken friends. The preachers descended from their stations, and mingling with the people, pointed sinners to the cross, and urged the devout to plead in prayer for their conversion. Mr. L. watched the progress of the scene with emotions which he could scarcely endure, yet could by no effort suppress. He had heard just such scenes described. He supposed that a view of them would provoke in his bosom no other feeling but disgust. But it was otherwise. He felt a solemnity, an awe, so great, that a faintness came over him; and unwittingly he leaned, pale and trembling, against a tree, and every now and then his hand was upon his heart, as though it were uneasy and pained within him. Nor did he observe that his friend, with a sang froid peculiar to himself, eyed him closely, and read in his manner the perturbations of his mind. At length the Doctor said, "Mr. L., suppose we step forward and see what is going on." "Doctor, I am sick of it. This is a singular scene, and I am at a loss what to think. I believe we had better return." "Tut! we must stay long enough to speak with these ministers, and hear one or two more of them preach." So saying, he seized Mr. L. by the arm, and casting at him a significant glance, as much as to say, "Are you frightened?" drew him along to a position where more than a hundred sin-sick souls were crying for mercy. The sight was wholly new to Mr. L. He had never until then seen a sinner convicted to the point of crying aloud in the presence of others for the pardon of sin. Now, to behold so many writhing in such insupportable agony, though he strove to be a stoic, nearly overwhelmed him. But he endeavored to rally himself, and at last resolved to examine one convict after an The first upon whom he fixed his attention was a young man kneeling before him, with his face in his handkerchief, uttering suppressed cries for mercy; and, though not loudest in his grief, apparently one of the most earnest in petition. With the right hand he pressed his handkerchief to his face, and with the left alternately clutched the railing, smote his breast, or seized his own hair with a violence which it was painful to witness. "I will watch him," thought Mr. L., "until I see the result." He fastened his eyes upon the youth, as resolved to detect in him the cause of his real, or the proof of his pretended distress. For half an hour the struggle increased in violence, and then, from exhaustion, grew more and more feeble. At last the young man became motionless and silent. Mr. L. was about to relinquish his position, but had not yet turned away his eyes when the young man began to say, in an under tone, "Blessed Savior!" with frequent yet solemn repetitions; his voice, meanwhile, waxing louder and louder, and his manner more and more confident and joyful, till at last, springing to his feet, he uttered in loud accents the raptures of his soul. What was Mr. L.'s surprise to find, from his features, till now concealed, that this was a youth of his acquaintance, in whose good sense and sincerity he had unbounded confidence. The suspicion of fraud was quickly banished, and it remained to inquire for the cause of so great sorrow, succeeded by such joy. At this moment, Mr. L.'s attention was drawn another way. The leader of this melee-the rude athletic man who first approached the altar-had risen from the ground, and, with loud cries for mercy, was plunging this way and that way, to the detriment of those around, and not without danger to himself. A glance or two satisfied Mr. L. that he, also, was an acquaintance. In a civil suit, involving petty interests, he had applied for counsel; and this had revealed his character to Mr. L. in a most repulsive light. He was a sinner extraordinary. But his appearance did not indicate that he meant to continue such. He was repenting. They who knew him could not doubt it. His face was bruised and bleeding. His lips were compressed, and unequivocally bespoke the horrors of unaneled contrition. Mr. L. grew dizzy as he gazed, and, like the tones of the last trumpet, these words of Jesus fell upon his heart, "Verily, I say unto you, the publicans and harlots go into the kingdom of God before you." The word of God is "quick and powerful;" but the Spirit makes it so. Its blow was heavy then on the conscience of Mr. L. He became sick and faint. His friend saw it, and though an infidel, he was for a moment moved. They drew back from a scene so uncongenial to their tastes, and took a seat where they could not see, yet might hear the continued expressions of grief or joy. (To be continued.) Original. MANNERS AND MORALS. MANNERS AND MORALS.* In resuming the narrative of Louisa, my young readers will recollect that we left her at a point of the story where, denying her heart, and following the bent of her will, she had refused to marry the man that she both admired and esteemed, because he was poor; and we must not so qualify her fault as to call it a mistake. But to our narrative. 105 of the best houses in the city, elegantly furnished, an equipage, numerous servants, &c. And under these circumstances, the gay young couple were not likely to be neglected by society. The husband was liberal and indulgent, and their house was the resort of all who wished to participate in its luxuries and delights. And now possessed of all she had desired, poor Louisa was doomed to find how insufficient are the mere outward circumstances of life to bestow happiness. Amongst the earliest letters she wrote to her mother is one in which, after pathetically bewailing her separation from Yet The gentleman she married was a man of fashion, amiable, fluent, and easy in conversation, and with that gracefulness of deportment which betokens its un-"the friends of her life," she says, "Yet I am now doubted derivation of gentility. And he was pos- possessed of all that I wished for. I have an assured sessed of a very large fortune. He was a native of friend, and society proffers me its homages. My attenthe south, and made his proposals to the lady in a dants come at my beck and call-all that fortune can shorter time after his introduction to her than a New bestow is mine-I tread upon the softest of Turkey Englander would have thought decorous. And so, carpets, my chandaliers have twenty burners, and poltoo, thought Louisa; and although her mind was fully ished mirrors reflect the splendor of my rooms. made up to accept him, yet she bantered the subject, what is it all! In the midst I sit like the enchanted saying, "There is one thing, sir, that I admire, and princess of the eastern tale; but I, alas! am disenthat is your modest assurance' in letting me know chanted! All to me seems vapid and unreal. I am your mind so soon. We have now been acquainted," low and sad, and a continual want pervades my bosom ! said she, counting on her fingers, "Thursday, Friday, I miss not my family only, but I miss my friends; for Saturday, Sunday, Monday, five, and Tuesday is six-conversation here, with all its refinements, is not what six whole days, and you wish an answer-a positive I have been accustomed to-it seems to me not so intelassurance." But seeing him look wounded and annoyed, she added in a more serious tone, "I know I ought to admire most your willingness to take me on trust. I ought to thank you for your good opinion-which I do—and I would wish to retain it; but," she added playfully, "you must know I am very discreet; and the proverb says, ' after two persons have eaten a bushel of salt together they know each other better than they did before.' So, sir, you must stay and partake of our hospitality awhile, and then, if you please, you may speak again." When she related this conversation, her friend remarked to her, "But, Louisa, were you not afraid of offending your lover, and that he would think you trifled with his regard?" "No," said she, "what other play had I left? Upon so precipitate a declaration how could I know if indeed he were in earnest or not? And so I affected to believe him in jest. We must have our little tactics on our side as well as the gentlemen on theirs; and it is commonly their aggression which calls ours out." "But that caution is so unlike you," said the friend. "Not at all," replied Louisa, "you have never seen me yet where marrying was the question;" and she added with a characteristic mixture of levity and good sense, "One can't be too careful with strangers. I declare, I almost think of marriage as the philosopher, Gibbon, did of death, 'that at best 'tis but a leap in the dark!" But to our narrative. In the course of a few weeks, the expiration of Mr. C.'s sojourn at the north, he renewed his suit, and was accepted. They were married; and after making a bridal excursion, the tour of the cities, Louisa was introduced to her splendid home in C. She had one VOL. III.-14 Concluded from page 80. lectual." This latter complaint, not just in the general, was so in the particular. And the instance, alas! in which she perceived the deficiency, was in her own husband. And though she expressed not this, yet involuntarily she compared his with the more gifted mind of one with whom she had been accustomed to converse since the days of her childhood. She had too much principle to dwell upon this idea; nor did it estrange her feelings from him she had chosen. But to her consciousness the violated right of a true sentiment was vindicated, and the false principle of a marriage of interest was ever apparent. And there came across her a change. Her lively mind was flattened. For her wit there was no recipient-no auditor for the delectable stores of her fancy-her eloquence was unelicited and unrewarded. My reader will perceive that, had Louisa been religiously trained, all these things had been subordinate, and that the interest of her feelings had been sufficient to hold them in check; but now they seemed to occupy a portion of her character which should have been devoted to more important concerns; and they tended rather to annoy than to console her. Yet her good sense sustained her equanimity, though not her cheerfulness; and she soothed her silent reverie by the determination never to complain. "I acknowledge my mistake, but I will bear the consequence. My pride has deceived me, and my disappointment is of my own seeking. I ought," said she, "to be satisfied in the friendship of my husband;" but when she had got so far she was startled; for she could not deny that though he was unboundedly liberal and indulgent to her, yet he had never given any evidence of character enough to value a woman for any but the extrinsic merits of beauty and personal accomplishments. He 106 MANNERS AND MORALS. tioned her dream to Mr. C., he told her she was nervous and feverish, and that there was nothing more of it than that. But the real signification was that, together with her imaginative cast of mind, she also entertained unacknowledged apprehensions that her health was declining unto death. had expressed himself well pleased, it is true, with her | She awoke weeping and agitated, and when she mencompliant disposition, and that she seemed satisfied to submit her tastes to his in the arrangements he had provided for her; for she had far too much delicacy, considering he had provided them, to dissent in matters which involved no serious principle. Again she wrote to her mother, saying that she believed she was not unhappy. But she was not happy. She did not know The society of her brother and her sister cheered what was the matter. She wished she had something her up for awhile; but she soon relapsed into deep to wish for. Alas, for her moral sensibility!-alas, for sadness. At this time her brother wrote his mother, her spiritual deadness! She suffered the penalty of that she had better write on and solicit her daughter her ignorance, unknowing of relief! Finally, she said and husband to come north to her, and that perhaps that she had been so accustomed to a large family at old scenes and her native air might restore Louisa's home, that she believed if her mother could send her health. This was done immediately. Mr. C. wilon a few of the children, she should feel better. And lingly acceded to the arrangement; and as his affairs she thought her health was not as good as usual. And required his presence in England, he was pleased to indeed it was not. The very great change of climate leave his wife in the protection of her friends during had begun to take effect upon her constitution, and to his absence. He brought her on to her mother at sap away its soundness and its strength. She lost her B- He supplied her liberally with funds, and spirits with her health, and her beauty in some mea- staying one day, he bade his wife adieu, and took passure declined. And her husband became, not unkind, sage for England from the city of New York. Louisa, but in some degree indifferent to her. And this anx-in the spirit of old times, bade him a cheerful adieu, yet iety oppressed her. But her kind mother prevailed upon a son, a year younger than Louisa, to go to her, and a sister, aged fifteen, accompanied him. Mr. C., the husband, who had joined in the invitation, was almost as much rejoiced as Louisa to welcome them, both out of courtesy and out of good feeling to his wife, and above all because her declining health had rendered her a burden upon his hands. Mr. C. was too amiable to commit any ungentle act; yet poor Louisa could not but perceive that she was deserted at unnecessary hours, and that this disposition was changing from neglect to estrangement. She had ever had the principle of loving her husband, and with all his inferiority she had loved him. For such a change to take place when her health had become low, was more than her sinking spirits could bear; and still, for want of religious training, or of religious example about her, she had not entertained one idea, or had hardly an apprehension upon the subject of spiritual consolations. Her natural character was one of much fortitude, and she strove with a sort of stoic pride to bear her griefs. And all but that which touched her tenderness she could bear. But here the repressed sensibilities of her life found vent, and her pillow was wet with many a tear. She had ever been entirely free of superstitious belief. Despite of this, in the low tone of her health, she had a dream which affected her, and fastened itself upon her. I have not mentioned that two years before her marriage Louisa had lost her beloved father. Her dream now was that he had come to her, bringing two "pale horses," and told her that she must ride one of the horses, and that he should also leave the other! She remonstrated, and said that she feared to ride the horse-when he smiled upon her, and broke into the beautiful sailor song of Dibden "There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, And watches the life of poor Jack." feeling, in her own heart, that in like circumstances she could not have left him. She knew that her husband was not mercenary, and that the motive of his voyage was a mixed one. He could not bring himself to voluntary attendance upon a sick chamber. His trip, he said, would take him at most but three months— he would hasten his return and find her well. At parting, as I have said, she bestowed a gratuitous smile, and seemed to assent to his words of consolation; but when he was indeed gone, she retreated hastily to her chamber, where her mother found her in a passion of tears. And now again her young companions gathered about her. They told her how well she lookednever more so than now-told her how bright were her eyes-how fine her complexion! It is true, her eyes were never more brilliant than now; and, though unknown to them, it was the hectic that "glowed on her cheek and reveled in her eye." But it is impossible that the changes attendant upon even the first approaches of disease should not occasion many a sad distrustful moment to the sufferer; and though these are mostly unacknowledged, are not the less perceived, but only more impressive and saddening for that. And Louisa, now returned to the bosom of her family, and the long excitement of traveling, of new characters, and of varied scenes, being past, she had time to think; and her health changing from week to week, first the parlor was relinquished, then the sofa was changed for the bed, and the Doctor's visits became more frequent. He was more anxiously expected, and his brow became a shade sadder when he bade her "Good morning," and his voice a note lower when he would try to re-assure her; for his was a kind and humane heart, and he knew full well that his young patient was hastening to the grave. Nor should we charge him with unfaithfulness; for we know that it is the physician's device to cherish as long as possible the principle of hope MANNERS AND MORALS. 107 feast of life, and am sated. Now I go to a better state, where my position shall be ascertained and assured— where God the Savior is all in all!" Once she seemed called back to this life. She exclaimed, "My dear Harry! I shall see him no more!" and she wept herself down to composure, and spoke of him not again. For two or three nights before her death she declined taking an opiate as usual, saying with a firm voice to the Doctor, "I await my God, and I would be entirely sensible." And so it was. dying hour was a long, hard struggle. She would speak at times, giving assurance to her friends. At last she said, "It is hard, but it is almost over." Previously she had given orders to be robed in the plain coffin, for there really is none left in my heart." Her And now was the funeral! Fifteen months before, those rooms had been filled with the bridal party—now was assembled there the same company; but in the midst was a corpse-pale shadow of humanity-and the marble brow-the long closed lashes-a quiet smile, and the folded hands; and above the breast, upon a doubled kerchief, was placed-a ring! Seven months after the death of Louisa, the young the natural hope of recovery. And so it was in the case of poor Louisa. Her mother had foreborne to speak to her on the subject of death. Yet there was no attempt at concealment. What was not expressed was yet implied; and she thought that the awful conviction, working by the natural changes of disease, might be trusted to the mercy of nature, and would in this way lose some of the harshness of announcement by words. She observed, too, that a great change had come over the spirits of her daughter-she seemed busying herself in preparation. She confined her reading to the Scriptures and to some books of hymns. And one morning, when the physician appeared, she said to him, "Doctor, tell me one thing, which I have never yet asked you-a thing which I ought to be con-est manner, saying, "Let there be no vanity about my firmed in-tell me if I must die." And the answer was, "It is impossible that you can ever recover!" Louisa turned over in her bed with her face to the wall and her eyes cast upwards; and for more than an hour she neither spoke nor answered, but waived away with her hand all approach, and seemed to be in one long prayer-a communing with her own soul-an intercession for a strength beyond her own, which she now relinquished. The Doctor, at the request of the mother, had waited in another room. He now re-sister who had visited her, died. The climate of the turned, and found his patient calm-assured, as it were. She said, "Now, Doctor, I shall not live long. Hope was interwoven with my vitality-when the one is disturbed, the other must be shaken. Yet it is much better that I be settled. I can now give all my attention to my soul's wants. And, O, how changed does every thing appear to me in the view of death! Had I my life to live over again, how much nearer to God would I live! I have thought myself animated, lively, and interested; but what has it been?-the rush of health, the play of the spirits, and comparatively nothing of reality in it all! It is only now that I seem to liveso much deeper seated is my consciousness-so much more earnest my desiring! But my aspiration is now for God; and there is no unsteadiness about it! O, may I not exchange that sense of worldly hope for a hope that shall be subject to no more change?" And so it was. south had probably precipitated the death of both. And the husband? He returned a few weeks after her death, and wept upon her grave. He placed a costly tomb over her, and turned away and took the world again! And now does my young reader assert that my narrative affords her no instruction? I would hope not so. It is true I have presented a faulty character to her, but one which at the same time, she can perceive, might have been rendered both useful and happy. Had Louisa lived in other days-in these days-she had probably surpassed, in true worth, many who at a casual reading may pass judgment against her. The ground of her character, perverted by false usages, was generally good; and although she was possessed of an inordinate pride, yet that, as well as other sins, had her heart been early regenerated, had fed the pile of sacrifice. We see that she was sincere, and possessed a good aptitude of truth; and whatever she had proposed to do, she would have given herself to do effec She lingered longer than she had expected, and the care of her soul seemed to absorb her whole being. Her physician observed of her that she evinced a sur-tually and really. She died very young, aged twentyprising strength of mind. "I would," said he, "give half I am worth in the world, could money purchase it, to be possessed of her fortitude-her resignation!" Some young friend spoke her regrets that one so young should die. "Having made my peace with God, I am old enough," said she; "I wish not to live-life in all its forms has had a distaste to me, and I have never until lately known why. It was because a capacity of my being my soul-has been entirely left out of the one years and ten months. Had the influences of society then been as correct, as circumspect as now, her good sense had doubtless, in time, prevailed over her more glaring errors of character, and she would have conformed herself to those models of propriety which she would not have been slow to discern. One unsuspected evil betrayed her greatly-I mean the Circulating Library-in those days made up of the details of heroism, instead of those of piety, and inculcating exaggerated views, and giving false lights of character. Louisa married a man who, though not actually vicious, was light and frivolous, and unsuited to engross As to mere worldly prosperity," continued she, "I have her power of sympathy. The most capital mistake had enough of it. I have tried it all—I have been to the || one can make, as it regards this life, is to choose wrong account! "This world is vain, 108 FIRE-SIDE GLEANINGS. in marriage. And when the motive is put on a wrong basis, one cannot fail to choose wrong. Louisa was not very unhappy in her marriage; but in this instance she might have been eminently happy. She might have married a man whose regard could have influenced her day by day to higher motives and purer aspirations, even to the making up of her character by those graces which she obtained only on her death-bed. These are better times than those. And following the leadings even of custom, it is now easier to go right, and less excusable to go wrong than it then was. Finally, whilst the gentlemen deny any admixture of good to "the times" which do not afford them a "bank," let females, eschewing politics, take a gentler interpretation, and acknowledge that these are at least the days when temperance prevails-when all the world may read-when "the poor have the Gospel preached to them”—and revivals in all Churches, tend to the hastening of that millenium which consists in Christ's kingdom upon earth. Original. FAR, far into yon dome of misty blue My spirit soars beyond the sparkling sun, Have I not sought the shelter of thy wings, Rest to the soul which has by grief been stung? The beauteous skies to thy pure eyes look dim; "Tis vain to tell me that thou art not there, For nature sings it in her daily hymn! Do not the trees look upward to the sky? The star-like flow'rs that spring up thro' the sod, The birds, with nature's impulse, spring on high, And point unto the dwelling of our God! Ò, darkest mystery of the moral world, Original. FIRE-SIDE GLEANINGS. CHAPTER IV. THE WANDERER RETURNING. MORE than a year has rolled away since the third chapter of the Gleanings appeared in the Repository. Another chapter was sent in, but being partly poetry, it, by some mishap, lost its heading, and appeared without its original title. As spring advanced, the subject might still have been an appropriate one, at least as far as the writer was concerned; for in the chilly north ❝lingering winter threw his diamond frosts upon the lap of spring," as though reluctant to depart, and we hovered over our fire-sides until summer roses blushed around our doors. Yet although surrounded by objects calculated, by the associations of memory, to inspire the mind with glowing thought, I forgot distant duties in the sweet enjoyment of the present; for having returned, after an absence of many years, to the home of my youth, like a miser I clung to my new found treasures, lest the next moment should tear them from my embrace. Conversation with the living, and sweet communions with the departed, filled up every hour not occupied with the necessary duties of passing life; and when I remembered absent friends, it was only to sigh that they were not with me to heighten my enjoyment. But once more safely domiciled in the "far west," the home of my adoption, I feel at my fingers' ends a most unaccountable itching, the cause of which sensation I shall leave those to explain who best understand it; and if my readers will forgive the frequent use of the first person singular, or of its imperial scape-goat, we, (both of which, for the last half hour, I have with the most laudable perseverance been laboring in vain to expunge,) and thus shield me from the charge of egotism, I will endeavor to interest them with a few reminiscences of the land of my forefathers. Yet I must be allowed to wander, and in accordance with the title under which I am writing, to glean a little here and a little there, that I may, if possible, extract the honey of improvement from every source. LONG ISLAND SOUND-SCENERY-REFLECTIONS. The rays of the morning sun danced lightly over the blue wave, as we left the harbor of New York, and were rapidly wafted on our way towards the familiar shores That some should deem the Christian's creed in vain, of old Connecticut. Although the month of May was That reason's shafts should be so often hurl'd, To prove it but a phantom of the brain! O, dark, indeed, would be our weary lot, If Bethlehem's star shone not with cheering ray If thou, O uncreated One, wert not! Were there no hope of an unclouded day! I know that thou art there, for upward mount far advanced, nature had but scantily assumed her accustomed robe of green, and vainly sought to hide her nakedness with the blushing flowers of the fruit and forest tree. As we passed up the East River a host of incidents were called up from memory's domain, and dwelt upon with mingled feelings of satisfaction and regret. On one of the tallest hills of yon surf-dashed island, stood a spacious dwelling-house, where, in days The burning thoughts which thou hast given to me- of yore, at the tender age of seventeen, I had been The gentle waters of my heart's warm fount In their deep quietude are stirr'd by thee. S. J. HOWE. engaged as a private teacher. From my window I enjoyed as varied and picturesque a view as often meets the eye. In one direction the spires of New York, |