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1 


' 







ART 


OF CONTENTMENT. 




LADY PAKINGTON. 






a MtiD mmv. 




THE REV, W. PRIDDEN, 


M.A. 




LONDON: 




JAMES BURNS, 17 PORTMAN 


STREET, 




PORTMAN SQUARE. 






1841. 





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CONTENTS. 



I 



's Pbifacb 
L'a Pkbfacb 



CEAPTEEI. 

Of the necesBsrj connexion between baj>pine«i »nd «m- 



CHAFTBa II. 
Of God'a abiolatB sovBreignty 1* 

CHAPTER m. 
Of God's nnlimited bonntj 28 

CHAPTEK IV, 
Of the rorplnflage of our enjoyments above onr Bnffering« i 6 

CHAPTEK V. 
Of our demerit towards God ^2 

CHAPTER VI. 
Of God'i general providence ^' 

CHAPTEK VII. 
Of God's paiticnlar providence 



. 9S 



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COMTBHIS. 

CHAPTEKym. 



OtOMiAyantMgbot 



CHAPTEB rx. 
Of our misfortiiiiei compired with other men'i . . 127 

CHAPTER X. 
Of particnlu lids for the gaming contentment . . 145 

CHAPTER XL 
Of ratignation 159 

THX OLOSB . . -170 



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HE treatise which is 
^ here reprinted has long 
=' been valued by good judgea 
as one of the beat ptactical 
ChriatiaD treatises which our 
is; and many religious 
peraons have borne witness to the com- 
fort they have found in it under se- 
vere trials. But it has become scarce, 
and is now difticult to be met with in a separate 
form. It is to be found among the collected works 
of the author of the Whole Duty of Man ; an author 
whose writings will be treasured by the Chrbtian 
reader as long as the English language is spoken, 
and wherever the English Church is known. But 
as these collected works, from their great bulk, are 
not accessible tu the generality of readers, and they 
are not all of equal merit, selection has been made 
of one well-af^roved treatise, which seen\a to 
b 

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offer a kind of religious advice best suited for these 
times. 

The name of Dorothy, Lady Pakington, b now 
prefixed for the first time ; because it is presumed 
tliat the evidence ascribing it to that excellent per- 
son is suificiently strong to warrant the appearance 
of her name in the title-page. It is certainly one of 
the most remarkable cases in the history of letters. 
Hat the name of the author of a series of treatises 
so popular should have remained so effectually con- 
cealed. Never vere so many anonymous writings 
published with a design so pure. The opinion, how- 
ever, which assigns them to Lady Pakington is not 
of any recent origin ; it has been handed down ttotn 
the time of the first appearance of these writings ; it 
has lately become more general, and it is confirmed 
by private tradition, as well as some public testi-<^ 
monies. 

It is well known that the house of Sir John 
Pakington, Bart, Westwood, in the county of Wor- 
cester, was a place of refuge in the time of Crom- 
well's usurpation to many eminent sufferers of the 
King's party, and especially to that pattern of Chris- 
tian constancy and primitive zeal for the truth. Dr. 
Henry Hammond, whose life and writings remain 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



for the instruction of all ages that have come after. 
Here that great and good man was cherished for the 
last ten years of his life by the worthy owner of the 
mansion and his pious lady ; and here, just before 
the restoration of the royal family, according to 
his own heart's prayer, he peacefully resigned his 
soul to hi» Maker, April 25, 1660. 

It was known at the first appearance of these 
treatises, that the author was a friend of Hammond ; 
and this is almost the only fact concerning the 
author, which can be said to have been certainly 
known. Lady Pakington's warm regard for her dis- 
tinguished guest was such as to give her the best 
of all possible titles to be called his friend: it is 
instanced in other particulars mentioned in Bishop 
Fell's lAfe of Htmtmond, and more especially by the 
following impressive and affectii^ anecdote; 

" There was one Houseman, a weaver by trade, 
but by weakness disabled too much to follow that or 
any other employment, who was an extreme favourite 
of Dr. Hammond's. Him he used with a most affec- 
tionate freedom, gave him several of his books, and 
exunined his progiem in them, invited him, nay, im- 
portuned him still, to come for whatever he needed, 
and at his death left him ten pounds as a legacy. A 

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little time before his death, he and the Lady Pakiog- 
tan being walking, Houseman happened to come by; 
to whom, after the Doctor had talked a while in hia 
usual friendly manner, he let him pass ; yet soon after 
called him back with these words : ' Houseman, if it 
should please God that I should be taken from this 
place, let me make a bargaja between my lady and 
you, that you be sure to come to her with the same 
freedom jou would to me for any thing you want.' 
And so with a most tender kindness gave him his 
benediction. Then turning to the lady, he said, 
■ Will you not think it strange 1 should be more 
affected at Darting from Houseman than from 
you?'"' 

It cannot be surprising that one whose Christian 
benevolence and discernment were thus appreciated 
by Hammond, should have been, as Fell relates of 
her, a person who delighted much in the attractive 
-discourses of her guest, and who could imbibe their 
spirit. It has long been handed down and confi- 
dently received aa a fUmily tradition, and there is a 
small apartment in the top of the house at West- 
wood, which has always been pointed out as the 
room in which Lady Pakington, with the assistance 
' F^'a Ufe of HunmoDd, ed. 1661. p. 161, 3. 

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of Dr. HommoDd and Bishop Pell, arranged that ex- 
cellentvork, The Whole Duty of Man.^ 

Lady Pakington was the daughter of Thomas, 
Lord Coventry, keeper of the great seal of England 
for the first sixteen years of the reign of Charles L 
a man, as Clarendon testifies, of great abilities and 
the strictest integrity, vhoae death, in 1640, at the 
beginning of the Long Parliament, was looked upon 
as a singnlar misfortune to the King's cause. She 
was married to Sir John Pakington, a loyal and up- 
right adherent to the same party, who, after the loa» 
of 40,O00A expended in defence of his sovereign, 
and having been tried for his life under the govern- 
ment of the usurpers, lived to be returned member 
of parliament for his native county of Worcester in 
the first parliament which assembled upon t^e re- 
Btoration. The attachment of Sir John Pakington 
to the sufi'ering Church had been well proved in the 
days of her trial; as it appears that a friendly corre* 
spondence was constantly kept up between the house 
at Westwood and the loyal divines who were nnm 
bered among Hammond's friends, particularly Fell, 
Allestree, and the good and learned Bbhop Sander^ 

' Thia is stated from infarmatian kindly cammniiiia.tiid to 
the editon bj John S. FskingCan, Esq. ofWeitwood, M.P. 



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son; and hiajoy, when the Church and episcopacy- 
were restored, is strongly marked in the annals of 
the time. When Dr. George Morley, the newly ap- 
pointed Bbhop of Worcester, came, in September 
1661, to take possession of bis see, "the noble and 
loyal gentleman" rode out to meet him, two miles 
from the city, at the head of " his gallant troop of 
volunteers," and so escorted him onwards, till he was 
joined nearer Worcester by the lord lieutenant and 
a number of other loyalists, of the magistracy, gen- 
try, and clergy of Worcestershire.' Lady Paking- 
ton appears to have lived many years in happy union 
with her husband; and dying in 1679, was buried 
near the grave of her friend Dr. Hammond, in the 
chnroh of Hampton Level, the parish-church of 
Westwood. A memorial of her, inscribed on the 
monument of her grandson, speaks of her as exem- 
plary for her piety and goodness, and justly reputed 
the authoress of the Whole Duty of Man. 

The other auUiorities for attributing these writ- 
ings to Lady Pakington may be briefly enumerated. 
The learned Dr. Htckes, whose troubled life did not 
prevent him from rendering the greatest aid to the 
cause of religion and letters, is a^d, in his early days, 

< Letter from Worcaater, dsted September li, 1661, in 
Kenaett'a ChrDnicle, p, 535. 

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to have been acquainted with the family at West- 
wood, and he speaks as with a personal recollection 
of the lad<r of the house, commemorating her virtues, 
and practical graces of her Christian life. " She bad 
moreover," he says, "an excellent judgment, and a 
talent of speaking correctly, pertinently, clearly, and 
gracefully ; in which she was so accompliahed, par- 
ticularly in an evenness of atyle and consistent man- 
ner of writing, that she deserved to be called and 
reputed the author of a book concerning the Duty 
of Man."' To this Ballard adds, in his Memoirs of 
Britiih Ladiet? that a lady then living assured him 
that Dr. Hickei had informed her that he bad seen 
the manuscript of the Whole Duty of Man written 
in her ladyship's own hand, which, fiom the many 
erasures, alterations, and interlinings, he waa fully 
satisfied was the very original book. This manu- 
script is said to have been some time in the poases- 
sion of Mrs. Eyre of Rampton, a daughter of Lady 
Pakington; it was interlined with corrections by 
Bishop Fell,^ who seems, from the part he took in 
these publications, to have been in the author's 

■ Fref. to tJi Anglo-Saion aod Mceso-Gothic Qruomtrs, 
prefixed to his Theunnu. 
' Art laAj FskingtoD. 
■ Nwh's Hilt of Worccstcnhire, voL L p. 3S2. ed. 1761. 



secreL Mrs. Eyre always believed her mother to 
be the author of thta work, and of the Decay (^ 
CAriitian Piely ,- but is said to have expressed her- 
self doubtfully about the XreatUea.' Ab, however, 
Bishop Fell published them all as the works of the 
same author, there seems no reason to question that 
the Art of CotUetttment, and the rest, proceeded from 
the same hand. 

Should the general tenour of these works appear 
too learned to justify the supposition that the author 
was a lady, it must be borne in mind that female 
education in the days of Lady Pakington, though 
less general, went much deeper than in our owD. 
Lady Jane Grey and Ethelreda Cecil had learnt to 
write and converse in Greek as readily as in Englisbt 
and in the next century the sister of Sir Philip Sid- 
ney, Mary Countess of Pembroke, and Lucy Coun- 
tess of Bedford, were as much distinguished for their 
learning as for their beauty and accomplishments.* 
It was not till a much later age and a more effemi- 
nate generation, after the Revolution, that fashion- 
able gentlemen thought it requisite to decry female 

' Ballard, a< above. 

' " Lady Pembroke wrote verse witb grace and bcUity ; 
her chieF works, however," aaya William Gifford, " were works 
oCpietjr, and her virtues went still before her talenls." Ben 
Jonson's besutiful linee on Lucy, Countess of Bedford, " have 



iearniog. A lady of talent, wtio had Sir Nurlon 
KDatchbuH for ber preceptor in youth, and Dr. 
Hammond, Bishops Fell and Morley, for her friends 
and correapondents in later life, might veil be quali- 
fied to apeak of books, and write on subjects, which 
formed no part of a lady's acquirements in the eigh- 
teenth century. 

The careful and successful concealment of the 

tlie farther merit,'' u the Bsme girad critic obserrea, "of bang 
coiuoaant to tmth :" 

" This inorniDg, timd; rapt with hoi; fire, 

I thonght to tbnn unto my zealous Muse 
What Idnd otcre«tare I could most desire 

To boDimr, serve, aud lore ; as poets use. 
I meant to make her &ir, and free, and wise. 

Of greatest blood, uid jet moTB good tlum great; 
I meant tb« daj-atar ahonld not brighter rise. 

Nor lend like influence from his Incmt seat : 
I meant she should be courteons, bcile, sweet. 

Hating that aolemn vice of greatDesa, pride ; 
I meant each softest virtue tliere stionld meet, 

Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 
Only a learned and a manlj/ nml 

I jrarpoitd Atr / tbat shoold, with eren powers. 
The rock, the spindle, and the aheer* control 

Of Destiaj, and spin her own free hours. 
Sach when I meant to feign, and wiah'd to see, 

Mj Muse bade BinFonn write, and that was ibe !" 

Google 



Dame is in itself tbe best proof that the motiTe of 
this excellent person was the benefit of her fdlow- 
creaturea, not the advancement of her own reputa- 
tion. How much benefit abe conferred upon her own 
generation by a series of treatises bo popular, and 
so well calculated to beal tiie distempers of the time, 
bf setting forth an orderiv, and peaceable, and prac 
tical system of religion, " full of mercy and good 
fruits," in contrast to the bitter disputes and strifes 
of words, which bad set the kiagdom in a flame, we 
cannot now fully appreciate. Tbe sterling English 
style in which these writings are composed, has at- 
tracted the notice of a modem celebrated critical 
journal, (not otherwise remarkable for its favour- 
able opinion of English sacred literature), in which 
it is observed, that they contain scarcely a word or 
phrase which has become superannuated.' lu a 
very few instances, where the change of time, since 
the first appearance of this treatise, seems to have left 
the meaning obscure, a few words of explanation have 
been added at tbe foot of the page. 

Having thus introduced the treatise and its pre- 
sumed authoress to the reader's notice, the editor's 
part might be concluded; but the importance of the 
subject here treated of, and its seasonableness to 
■ Edinbuigli Review. 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



P&BFACB. XXI 

these times, have induced him to eubjoin a few re- 
. flections of liifl own. 

All must confess contentment to be a Christian 
duty ; but few can deny that it b a duly which 
Englishmen in this nineteenth century are very apt 
to forget to cultivate. The reasoo of thia fact is 
indeed, in some degree, to be found in human na- 
ture itself. It is not in the nature of man to be 
satisfied with what he possesses in this world ; and 
too frequently he vrUl not feel eontetUed, because he v 
cannot feel satisfied. But it is the Christian's duty, 
it is one of the lessons taught him by heavenly Wis- 
dom, while he owns the insufficiency of earthly 
goods, to own likewise that these, insufficient as 
they are in themselves, and scantily as they may 
have been bestowed upon him, are, notwithstanding, 
enough: if the servant of God has ever so little of 
silver and gold, he may be contented with these ; if 
he had ever so much, be could not have been per- 
fectly salit/ied with them. The chief inducement to 
contentment under our present lot, whatever that 
may be, is the possession of a sure and certain hope 
of better things in future; whereas one principal 
cause of a discontented spirit is, the absence of this 
hope ; instead of which, how often is to be found 



a vague fretful expectation of some uncertain ima- 
ginary good, which, if obt^ed, must be ere long 
lost again, — of the imperfection of which, even 
whilst it is most eagerl; desired, we arc painfully 
conscious. A deep feeling of the unsatisfactory na- 
ture of every earthly object of desire has generally 
prevailed ; and even during the gross darkness ot 
heathen ignorance, there has shone forth a glimmer- 
ing hope of escape from present evils, by which 
feeble light the minds of men have been cheered 
and lifted up with joyful thoughts of an approaching 
day of deliverance. Ever since the fall of Adam, 
the whole creation has been groaning, as it were, 
^deavouring to give birth to a better and more 
satisfying state of things than the present ; and na' 
tions that have never known nor received the gos- 
pel have been earnestly desiring such future bless- 
ings as the gospel offers. " And not only they, but 
ourselves also," who have received the promises of 
salvation, " even we ourselves groan within our- 
selves, wai^ng for the adoption, to wit, the redemp- 
tion of the body,"— the time when we shall be so- 
lemnly manifested to be the sons of God. Nor, 
though contented, can we be satisfied until this time. 
Blessed already with the first-fruits, we are yet ear- 
nestly desiring to gather in the harvest of God's 



PBEVAce. Mis 

mercies; eagerly do we look forwards to the day 
when our heavenly adoption shall be declared before 
men and angels, — when our bodies shall be for ever 
delivered fron. dm, and death, and corruption, — from 
those hateful influences, over which our victory in 
Christ will not be finally completed until " the 
trumpet shall sound." Then, indeed, " we shall be 
changed." Full of intense hope and anxiety re- 
specting this approaching change, we may well re- 
main indifferent to things temporal, considered in 
themselves; but this is not all, we may well feel 
contented and thankfiil in whatever situation God 
may have here placed us ; because we have good 
reason to believe that situation to be the very one 
best adapted for ns, most fitted to bring atmut the 
accomplishment of our heart's deure, and secure the 
completion of that final, that glorious change, to 
which all our thoughts are directed. Discontent 
very frequently arises from a feeling of icon/, rather 
than of positive taffering. The anllcipaUon of the 
fdlhful member of Christ can overpower either of 
these causes of disturbance. A heart that is fixed 
tipon *' all the fulness of God" can afford to forget 
the temporal want to which it may now be exposed ; 
a soul that b wrapt up in the contemplation of its 
heavenly inheritance has good cause for undervalo- 



iag " the suffering* or thia~ present time," when they 
are placed in comparison with " the glory that shall 
be revealed in us." The sight of that lofty, but not 
inaccessible height of Christian peri'ection, vhich 
rises up in eternal sunshine before us, is quite suffi- 
cient to carry us through the difficulties of the jour- 
ney, to render us insensible of tlie privations or evils 
which it may fall to our lot to encounter by the way. 
We suffer as weak creatures, children of fallen pa- 
rents, subject to vanity, brought under bondi^ to 
comiption. We shall be glorified as " children of 
God, and if children, then beirg, heirs of God, and 
joint-heirs with Christ, if so be that we suffer with 
Him, that we may be also glorified together." And 
how can any, or all the sorrows and the wants, — the 
■brief Borrowa, the mere earthly wants, — of mortal 
men be brought at all into comparison with the re- 
joicing, the endless rgoicing, of the sons of God P 

The hope which the Christian possesses is truly 
-called an anchor of the soul ; and it is by this hope 
alone that he can be protected from the continual 
fluctuation of spirits, the tossings to and fro, the al- 
ternations of vehement desire and disappointed ex- 
pectation, whereby the minds of all who seek for 
satisfaction in worldly objects are sure to be agitated. 
In life there is always something wanting to render 



life completely satisfactory. In iiifancyt the child 
eagerly desires to escape from that happy state, 
which is to others an object of eovy and regret ; he 
wishes for an iDcrease of bodily powers, for an ad- 
Tancement in mental capacity ; blind to the beauty, 
reckless of the fragrancy, of those flowers by which 
his early path of existence is adomed, — insensible to 
the blithe melody which floats sweetly and freshly 
upon the breath of life's new-born day, — he turns 
away from the goods he possesses, and his thoughts 
are fixed upon those he possesses not ; little are the 
delights of childhood valued, but his heart beats 
high with the future anticipations of the man. And 
when manhood at length arrives, are human beings 
at all nearer to the eiyoymeot of complete satisfac- 
tion P Can the flower of our strength, the noon-tide 
vigour of our day of life, the full perfection (so far 
as perfection can here be reached) of all our powers, 
whether of mind or body, can all these advantages 
suffice to fill up the craving void of our wishes, to 
satisfy " the earnest expectation of the creature ?" 
Not they. And if these things were otherwise, as 
complete as they are incomplete, as excellent as they 
are imperfect, one thing must needs be wanting, 
which ia eoniittuance. What human being, conscious 
of the presence within him of as immortal soul, could 



ever rest entirely latiBfied with a strength that must 
ooQ decay, with a knowledge that shall speedily fail, 
a momory that must become weak, a life that must 
ere long depart, a body, however healthy and vigor- 
ous now, which a few, a very few, years will as- 
suredly return, a mere mass of diist and ashes, unto 
the earth from which it came ? In age, there is yet 
less to satisfy us. If the life that may possibly be 
measured by years, or even by scores of years, be 
brief uid unsatisfactory, much more so the life which 
admits of no longer measurement, from season to 
season, than that of months, weeks, days, or hours. 
The young person desires what he has not yet; the 
middle-aged would fain keep or increase what he 
already possesses; but the old, " if in this world only 
he has hope," is, indeed, " of all men most miser- 
able ;" he fondly, vunly, bitterly regrets that which 
he has lost — that which, he well knows, b never to 
be regained. Thus it is that, without reference to 
any other outward circumstances, every age of Ufa 
may be shewn to have its peculiar eAuse of anxiety, 
every stage of our earthly being its own feeling of 
unsatisfactonnees. Thus it is that " through fear 
of death we are all our lifetime subject to bond- 
age." 

Numberless are the other onuses of want of satis- 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



fiwtioD in tiiia life, which every age must feel and 
every peraon experience. In whatever quarter we 
may be tempted to " set up our nest on high," aa 
though we could place ourselvee above the reach of 
evil, in that quarter we are almost sure of being, 
sooner or later, disturbed and disappointed. There 
is nothing in our condition here at all capable of 
filling up the desires, and realisiDg the anticipations, 
of a being originally created after the image of God, 
and gifted with a living soul. Imperjectum is the 
mark set upon all things below. Now, we were at 
first made capable of perfection, and are still capa- 
ble, through the Divine mercy, of being restored to 
our lost inheritance ; whence arises in all men an 
anxious expectation of the future, a positive inability 
to rest entirely satisfied with what is before us. To 
these feelings we confess that Christ's followers are 
not less, nay, are even more, subject than other men. 
Whilst it b our duty and our wisdom to be con- 
tented tM the world, it would be a vain and wicked 
attempt to aim at being contented wilA the world. 
And this is a difference always to be borne in mind, 
ibrming indeed one grand distinction between those 
that are and those that are not the servants of Christ. 
Like our great Example, we must be patient and re- 
signed ; we must meekly endure the present state of 



things, although we "love not the world, neithec the 
things that are in the world." Christ was reiifftied 
and patient in the highest d^ree ; but was He »atu- 
Jkd with that world in which He condescended to 
dwell) with the disciples " of little faith," with the 
city over which He wept, with the hypocrites upon 
whom He denounced woe, with the murderers for 
whom He pleaded, " Father, forgive them ; for they 
know not what they do ?" 

It may be assumed, then, that contentment will 
never dwell in a worldly mind, because there is 
nothing in the objects to which a mind of this de- 
scription attaches itself that can furnish a foundation 
for this Christian feeling. But if it is impocisible to 
cultivate a contented spirit whilst we look only at 
the things tiiat are seen, there can tie no cause for 
surprise at finding this happy spirit but rarely culti- 
vated, since our thoughts are, in the present day, 
from various causes, more especially liable to be 
engrossed and bound up in the contemplation of 
things temporal. To withdraw the heart from the 
outward objects of sight, and to lift it up to those 
■luseen but far better realities which are the objects 
of faith alone, should be the unceasing effort of every 
member of Christ ; and one among many happy re- 
sults of his endeavours will, in all probability, be a 



contented mind: a blessing, withoui wkieh all others 
ale unavailing, and with which all others are super- 
fluous. 

But, I fear, the discontent of the present time 
springs mainly from the want of another requisite, 
rarely to be found yet indispensable to the attain- 
ment of true contentment. Before we can enjoy 
litis tranquil happy state of mind, a lesson is to be 
learned, neither easy nor agreeable to our self-suffi- 
cient natures, — the duty of meek guhntistion U> atiOio- 
Htff, whether to God's direct authority, or to the 
same authority indirectly acting upon us through 
the instrumentality of those fellow-creatures whom 
He has thought fit to place over us. In both cases 
it is our duty to recognise and obey the power by 
which affairs are disposed ; and our so doing will 
most certiunly render us contented under every 
arrangement of Providence ; whereas, if we once 
give way to a habit of desiring to i«ttle for our- 
selves what has been already settled for us, then 
forewell peace, farewell contentment A rebellious 
self-sufficient spirit cannot be a contented one; 
indeed, in this respect it is as sure to produce its 
own punbhment as a meek and obedient disposition 
is certain of bringing with it its reward. In treat- 
ing of a subject like that before us, it may geem 

t;.H,gic 



inexpedient even to allude to party-feelinge. Chris- 
tian contentment U a common ground, upon which 
(at least in theory) all parties may meet ; ueverthe' 
less, at the hazard of appearing to provoke contro' 
versy, a few observations will be here offered, be- 
cause they contain, it is verily believed, the truth ; 
and that truth seriously reflected upon may, with 
the Divine blessing, prove useful to those whom it 
concerns. 

Now there are many Engliahmen who are avow- 
edly fond of "meddling with those that are," in 
various ways, "given to change," whether in the 
<^hurch or state, or, as it frequently happens, in 
both of these. Persons of this disposition, whatever 
may be their private virtues, are certainly, witli 
regard to public affairs, very far from studying or 
practising the art of contentment ; indeed, dissatis- 
faction often becomes their bond of union, and thus 
men are kept together in one party who differ en- 
tirely in their future plans, but agree in thinking 
that great changes are desirable. Too frequently is 
a total want of submission to authority, a reckless 
spirit of independence, displayed by such indivi- 
duals j and with these proud feelings contentment 
is rarely found to dwell. Many apparent grievances, 
and some real ones, mai freely be Owned to exist ; 



and y«t it by no means Follows tbat s^taratwn from 
the Church, or a perpetual effort to overthrow the 
establiahed order of things in the state, is hereby 
justified. Conduct of this kind is more likely to 
inflame and aggravate than to cure or diminish pre- 
iient evils. Imperfect beings must not reckon upon 
having perfect institutions; indeed these, however 
excellent in themselves, are sure to contract imper- 
fection in the hands of us frail human creatures, for 
whose benefit they are designed ; and a well-ordered 
mind, without in any degree foregoing its own privi- 
lege of judging, or its sober desire of real improve- 
ment, will always be disposed to submit to lawful j 
authority, and to feel thankful for the acknowledged 
benefits, instead of perpetually dwelling upon the 
supposed grievances, of the established system. This 
di^osidon is no enemy to true reform, but it eflec- 
tually checks wild innovation ; for it teaehes men, 
before they move, to consider well whither they are 
moving, and thoroughly to examine the comparative 
advantages and disadvantages of the intended change. 
Under the inEueuce of this feeling, far from seeking 
after grievances with the keen ardour of one who 
has a delight in the chase, 'ue shall rather lament 
them when they come in our way ; and while we 
humbly and constantly pray Gtod to remove those 



blemishes which may disfigure our constitution in- 
Cbnrch or state, we shall be quite content to wait 
His good pleasure ; we Hhall, aa private individuals, 
abst^n from " agitating " for the succesa of our own 
particular views; we shall be far better occupied in 
retumicjg thauka for the public blessings already 
bestowed upon ua, and in endeavouring to use tiiese 
to the moat advantage both for ourselves and for 
others. Let those uneasy restless spirits, who have 
felt, as many must have felt, the unwholesome elects 
of the habits of continual change in which they have 
been living ; let those whose tongues are fatigued 
with murmuring, tuid their lives wearing away in 
complaints that are unavailing, only make the ex- 
periment of cultivating an humbler frame of mind, 
and they will soon become more contented with the 
present state of affairs ; nay, there will be more hope 
of their seeing these really altered for the better. 
The advocates of reckless change have always been 
the greatest enemies to improvement ; nor would it 
be less for their own private happiness than for the 
benefit of their country, if these excited spirits would 
learn the art of contentment in public matters. Some, 
it is true, have indulged in angry uneasy feelings, 
until the very indulgence has afforded them a cer- 
tain morbid kind of enjoyment ; but no reallv wiiv 



man, who had once experienced the sweet and tran- 
quil feelings of Christian contentment and ChristiaD 
submission to lawful authority, would ever wish 
again to forsake this rest for the soul, in order that 
he may "spealc evil of the things that he under* 
stands not." 

The same disposition, which vill take off the 
edge of our feelings of public discontent, will also 
render us easy and contented in private life, always 
recollecting that it is not for us to question God's 
appointment, but " to do our duty in that state of 
life unto which it shall please Him to call us." In- 
deed, to speak the truth, want of aubniission to the 
Divine will must imply a certain want of futh. If 
we verily believe the great truths respecting God's 
government of the world, which are most forcibly 
brought before us in the following treatise, then we 
must be contented under all circumstances; and so 
far as we are deficient in this feeling, do we discover 
a want of full belief in those truths. God's glory is 
the first and highest object in the Christian's sight; 
and if that be our chief aim, we shall be quite con. 
tented, so long as that is forwarded and promoted, 
which may be done, indeed is often best done, under 
the pressure of earthly trials, and in the midst of 
evils and troubles : these, accordingly, need not dio- 

t;„,gic 



turb, ought not to disturb, the peace of mind and 
eontentment of the true believer. Indeed, when we 
turn to the evidenee afforded by experience, where 
is it that the discontented are to be founS? Is it 
among the zealous, devoted servants of Christ, or 
among those that know little or nothing beyond the 
mere name and profession of His holy religion? Is 
it in the life and conduct of the humble member of 
Christ's Church, or of the man who " leans upon his 
own understanding," that we see plainly developed 
the truth of the apostle's saying, " Godliness with 
contentment is great gain ?" 

Our Divine Master requires in us a disregard or 
indifference respecting worldly matters, and a sim* 
pie child-like submission to lawful authority; and 
these two requisites, which form the chief materials 
of contentment, religion alone can supply. Thus, if 
contentment is the object of our search, we cannot 
be successful unless we call in the assistance of reli- 
gion ; but if reli^on is cultivated duly, content- 
ment will follow in its train. The kingdom of 
God and his righteousness must, in the first in- 
stance, be anxiously sought after; and then, among 
the other things which will be added unto us, the 
blessing of a contented spirit will not be the least 
important or least valuable. The possession of this 



will Boothe the troubles and heighten the enjofmenta 
of our present condition ; and when the mind of the 
believer is turned (aa it often will be} towards a fu- 
ture state of more perfect satisfaction, confidently 
may he take up the words of the Psalmist, and say, 
" As for me, 1 will behold Thy presence in righteous- 
ness; and when I awake up after Thy likeness, I shall 
be satisfied with it." 

W. PRIDDEN. 
Bna:ted Viearagt, 
April 1841. 



:Biii5dj.G00glc 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



FOB DILIOENCB AND BESIONATION. 



[Ths fbtlawing pnqer waa copied frain i HS. >t Weitwood, 
bf a ladf , whoK name Ballard wys he wu not at liberty 
to meatioD, bat whose Tencity no one who wai acqoainted 
with her would ner cull ■□ queatton. (Baliard'i Brititk La- 
diet, p. 234-&.) By comparing it with other prafcn, on the 
nine aabjecta, io the Whole Duty of Man, the reader may 
peHupi Ibnn a jadgment of the probabiUty that they pro- 
ceeded (ram one and the aame author.] 

Lord, I beseech Thee to incline my aoni to do and suffer 
Thy will, whatsoever It is, with that readiness, and courage, 
and cheeifhlnesB here, with which they that do continually 
behold Thy face do always execute Thy conuuanda deli- 
vered in heaven. For the time that it shall be Thy will 
that I attend Thy senice here below. Lord, shew me the 
way that I should walk in, that I may Dot live unprofit- 
ably before Thee. Be Tloa pleased to employ me as Thy 
servant, though moat unworthy that bouonr, to bring in 
some glory to Thy name, some estimation to Thy holy 
faith whereunto I am called, some advantage to others, 
especially to those who are near unto me, some improvement 
in their spiritual eternal state, some fruit to my account, 
some groond of comfort and rejoicing to my own soul. 

Lord, carry me safe, and unmoved, and undefiled, 
through all the unquiet billows and defilements of thia 
life ; and in all the exercises of my vigilancy, patience. 



XMVIU A PBATBB. 

and coastaucy, do Thou continue to watch over me ; not 
to permit me to fall off from tliem in any part throngh 
the deceitfahieEE of sin, the repeated importauity of the 
tempter, the empty terrors, or the alloremeDta of the 
world, OT the sloth and treachery of my own souL Lord, 
it IB Thy restraining grace from which I acknowledge 
to have received all the degrees of innocence ; Thy pre* 
venting and assisting, from which I have derived all the 
strength unto victory over my sin : and be Thou pleased 
to continue these secnrities of Thine to me every hour 
and minute of my life, that under the shadow of Thy 
winga I may rejoice, that by this armour of Thine 1 may 
have trace or victory over all my ghostly enemies. 

And then. Lord, for viands of this short travail of 
mine, for the remainder of it, give me a heart to be aatia- 
fied and rejoice in my portion, be it the meanest that Thy 
wisdom, on the sight of my infirmities, shall see fittest to 
choose for me. And how long or how short space soever 
Thou shalt be pleased to continue me here, be pleased 
also to continue my thirst of Thee ; which, without for- 
sakiog my station, may antidpate the comfort and joy of 
beholding Thee ; that seeking and savouring of the things 
above. I may have my fruit nnto holiness, and the end 
everlastiug life, through Jesns Christ our Lord. Amen. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 




AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 



B desire of happinesB is bo coessentiBl 
I with our oatare, ao interwoven and in- 
I corporate with it, that nothing but the 
i dissolution of the whole frame con ex- 
tinguish it. This nms through tlie whole race of 
mankind, and, amidst the infinite Tsriety of oiher in- 
clinations, pretcrvei itself entire. The most various 
contradictory tempers do yet conspire in this; and 
men of the most unequal fortunes are yet equal in 
their wishes of being happy. 

But this concurrence, as to the end, is not more 
universal than the disagreement about the way. 
Every man would have happiness ; but wherein that 



r how it is to be attained, has been di- 
versely opined ; indeed the ultimate supreme happiness. 



.l.;eJj,GOOglC 



as it u anginally inherent in Qod, so it is viupt up 
in those clouds and darkness which, as the Psahnist 
says, are " round about him" (Ps. xviii. 1 1). • And we 
can see nothing of it, but in those gleams and rays 
he is pleased to dait out npon us ; so that all onr 
estimates, as to our final felicity, must be measured 
by those revelations he has made of it. 

But one would think our tempoiEl happiness were 
as much a mystery as our etenud, to see what variety 
of blind pursuits are made after iL One man thinks 
it is seated on the top-pinnacle of honour, and climbs 
tin perhaps he falls headlong. Another thinks it a 
mineral, that must be dug out c^ the earUi, and toils 
to " lade himself with thick clay" (Hab. ii, 6), and 
at last finds a grave, where he sought his treasure. 
A third supposes it consists in the variety of plea- 
anres, and wearies himself in that pursuit which only 
dors and distqipoitits. Yet every one of these can 
read you lectures of the gross mistake and folly of 
the other, whilst himself is equally deluded. 

Thus do men chase an imaginary good, till they 
meet with real evils ; herein exposing themselves to 
the same cheat Laban put upon Jacob, — they serve for 
Rachel, and ore rewarded with Leah ; court fencied 
beauty, and marry loathed deformity. Such delusive 
felicitieB as these are the largesses of the prince of 
the air, who once attempted to have inveigled even 
Christ himself (Matt. iv.). 

■ CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



ATITHOK 8 PSBFACK. Xfi 

But Ood'e propoBals are more Bincere : he knowB . 
how Bandy, how &lse a foundation all these external 
things must make ; and therefore warns ua not to 
build so much as our present satiefoction upon them ; 
but shews uB a more certain, a more compendious 
way to acquire what we gasp after, by telling ua, 
that OS godliness in respect of the next, so " content- 
ment" for this world " is great gain" (1 Tim. vi. 6). 
It is indeed the tnwnt neceiiarium, the one point in 
which all the lines of worldly heppinese are concen- 
tred ; and to complete its excellence, it is to be had 
at home, nay, indeed, only there. We need not 
ramble in wild pursuits after it; we may form it 
within our own breasts : no man wants materials for 
it, that knows but how to put them together. 

And the directing to that skill is the only design 
of the ensuing tract ; which, coming upon so kind an 
errand, may at least hope for an unprejudiced recep- 
tion. Contentment is a thing we all profess to aspire 
to, and therefore it cannot be thought an unfriendly 
office to endeavour to conduct men to it. How far 
the ensuing conaiderationa may tend to that end, I 
must leave to the judgment and experience of the 
reader; only desiring him that he will weigh them 
with that seriouaness which befits a thing wherein 
both his happiness and duty are concerned ; for in 
this, as in many odier instances, God has so twisted 
them together, that we caqnot be innocently miier- 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



■ able. The present infelicities of oar murmare and 
impatiences have an appendent guilt, which will con- 
eign us to a more irreveruble state of dissatieftictioa 

hereafter. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 




Wbt ^tt of CTontemnunt* 



CHAPTER I. 

OV TBI NBCSaSABT GOHHIXION BBTITIIH 




? OD, who u essentially happy in 
himself, can receive no acces- 
aioti to his felicity by the poor 
contributiona of men. He can- 
not, therefore, be supposed to 
have made them upon intuition' of 
increasing, but communicating, hia 
happiness. And this, his original de- 
sign, is very visible in all the parts 
of hU economy towards them. When lapsed man 
bad counteq)lotted agtiinst himself, defeated the 
purpose of the Divine goodneas, and plunged hia 
whole nature into the opposite state of endless 



■ /Hftrition, — DWd conunonlT t^ mental Tie*. 



Google 



J THK «BT OF CONTXHTUBNT. 

misery, he yet reinforced his first design, and, by 
an expedient as full of wonder as mercy, the death 
of his Son, recovers him to his former capacity 
of bli^s. And, that it might not only be a bare 
capacity, he has added all other methods proper 
to work upon a rational creature ; he has shewed 
him his danger, set before him in perspective that 
eternal Tophet which he is advised to shun. On 
the other side he has no less lively described the 
heavenly Jerusalem, the celestial country to which 
he is to aspire : nay, farther, has levelled his road to 
it ; leads him not, as he did the Israelites through 
the wilderness, through intricate mazes to puzzle his 
understanding — through " a land of drought, wherein 
were fiery serpents and scorpions" (Deut. viii. 15), 
to discourage and affright him, — but has in the 
Gospel chalked out a plain, a safe, nay, a pleasant 
path, — as much superior, both in the ease of the 
way and in the end to which it leads, as heaven is 
to Canaan. 

2. By doing this, he haa not only secured our 
grand and ultimate happiness, but provided for onr 
intermedial also. Those Christian duties which are 
to cany us to heaven are our refreshments, our via- 
ticum*'' in our journey; his yoke is not to gall and 
fret us, but an engine by which we may with ease 
(and almost insensibly) draw all the clogs and in- 
cumbraaces of human life. For whether we take 
Chrbtianity in its whole complex, or in its sevend 
' Viaiimm, — proviaion for a joomey. 

Google 



CH. I.] ITS CONKBXION W 

aad distinct branches, it is certainly the most excel- 
lent, the most compendious art of happy living : its 
very tasks are rewards, and its precepts are nothing 
but a divine sort of alchemy, to sublime at once our 
nature and our pleasures. 

3. This may be evidenced in every particular of 
the evangelical law ; but having formerly made some 
attempt towards it in another tract," I shall not here 
reasaume the whole subject j I shall only single out 
one particular precept wherein happiness is not (as 
in the others) only implied, and must be catched at 
the rebound by consequence and event, but is lite- 
rally expressed, gjid is the very matter of the duty 
— I mean the precept of acquiescence and content- 
ment; happiness and this true genuine contentment 
being terms so convertible, that to bid us be Con- 
tent is but another phrase for bidding us be happy. 

4. Temporal enjoyments, such as are pleasure, 
wealth, honour, and the rest, though they make 
specious pretences to be the measure of human hap- 
piness, are all of them justly discarded by the phi- 
losopher in his Ethics, upon this one consideration, 
that, coming from abroad, they may be withheld or 
taken from us ; and our tenure being precarious, we 
even for that reason are unhappy in our most desir- 
able possessions, because we are still liable to be 
so : and therefore he concludes, that felicity must 
be placed in the mind and soul, which stands with- 
out the reach of fortune ; and in the practice of 

• Decay of Christiiu Kety. 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



4 THl AiT OP CONTENTMENT. 

virtae, which io its own nature, and not in its'cwt^ 
tingent use, is trulj good, and therefore certainly 
renders the possessors Bucli. 

5> But this practice being diffused througlL the 
whole extent of moral duty, Epictetus thought he 
had deserved well of human nature when he drew it 
up in two short words, to »u$fain and abstain; that 
is, to bear with constancy Averse events, and with 
moderation enjoy thoee U)at are prosperous : which 
complesure of philosophy is yet more fully, as well 
as more compendiously expressed in the single no- 
tion of contentment, which involves the patient bear- 
ing of all miswlventures, and generous contempt of 
sensual illectives.^ This state of mind the Greeks 
express by c^ing it ahrApxcia, or self-sufficiettey, 
which we know, properly speaking, is one of the 
incMnmunicable attributes of the Divine nature ; and 
the Stoics expressly pretend, that by it mortal men 
are enabled to rival their god — in Seneca's phrase, 
to make a controversy with Jupiter himself. But 
abating the insolent blasphemy of an independent 
felicity, Christianity acknowledges a material truth 
in the assertion ; and St. Paul declares of himself, 
that, having " learned how to want and how to 
abound, and ia whatever state he happens to be in, 
therewith to be content, he is able to do all things 
through Christ that strengthens him" (Phil. iv. 11- 
13); " and having nothing, to possess all things" 
(2 Cor. vi. 10). 

* Entioements, allomnents. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. I.] 118 COMMBXION WITH HAFPIMBSB, 3 

6. Which great event comes about, not only 
because all good thloga arc emineDtly in the Dirine 
nature, and he who by virtue and religion possesses 
Him, thereby in a full equivalence has every thing, 
but also upon human measures and the principles of 
philosophy ; the compendious' address to wealth, as 
Plato rightly observed, being not to increase pos- 
sessions, but lessen desires ; and, if so, it will follow 
that the contented man must be abundantly provided 
for, being so entirely satisfied with what fae has, as 
to have no desires at all. Indeed, it b truly said of 
covetous men, and is equally verified of alt who 
have any desire to gratify, that they want no less 
what they have than what they have not; but the 
reverse of that parados is really made good by con- 
tentment, which bestows on' men the enjoyment of 
whatever they have, and also whatever they have 
not ; and, by teaching to want nothing, abundantly 
secures not to want happiness. 

7- On the other side, this one grace being ab- 
sent^ it is not in the power of any saccess or afflu- 
ence to make life a tolerable thing. Let all the 
materials of earthly happiness be amassed together 
and flung upon one man, they will, wiUiout content- 
ment, be but like the fatal prize of Tarpeia's trea- 
son, who was pressed to death with the weight of 
her booty. He that has the elements of felicity, 
and yet cannot form them into a satisfaction, is 
more desperately miserable than he that wants them : 



b2 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



6 THK AST O* COHTBMTUBHT, 

for be who wants has yet something to hope for, 
and thiukij if he had them, he might be happy ; but 
he who insignificantly^ possesses Uiem, has no re- 
serve, has not so mnch as the flattery of an expecta- 
tion; for he has nothing left to desire, and yet 
can be aa little said to enjoy. 

8. He, therefore, that would have the extract, 
the quintessence of happiness, must seek it in con- 
tent : all outward accessions are but the dross and 
earthy part ; this alone is the spirit, which, when 
it is once separated, depends not upon the fate of 
the other, but preserves its vigour when that is de- 
stroyed. St. Paul, whom I before mentioned, is 
a ready instance of it, who professes to be " con- 
tent in whatever state;" contentment being not so 
inseparately linked to external things but that they 
may subsist apart That diose are often without it, 
we are too sure ; and that it may be without them is 
as certainly true, though by our own default we 
have not so many examples of it. A heart that 
rightly computes the difference between temporals 
and eternals, may resolve with the prophet, " Al- 
though the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall 
fruit be in the vines ; the labour of the olive shall 
fiul, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock 
shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no 
herd in the stalls ; yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I 
willjoy in the God of my salvation" (Hab.iii.t7, 18). 
He that has God need not much deplore the want 
' Ituiffnificmllyi—iiUiioat importance or effect. 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. I.] ITS COKMBXIOir TTTTH HAPPmSS. 7 

of any thing elae ; nor can he that considers die 
pleat; and gloiy of his future state be much de- 
jected with the want or abjectness of his preeeot 

9. Yet BO indulgent is God to our infirmiUea, 
that, Icnowing how unapt our impatient natures are 
to " walk" only " by faith, and not at all by sight" 
(2 Cor. V. 7), be is pleased to give us fur antepast^ 
of satisfaction here ; dispenses bis temporal blessings, 
though not equally, yet so uniTersally, that he that 
has least has enough to oblige, not only his acqui- 
esceDce, but his thankfulness. Though every man 
haa not all he wishes, jel he has that which is more 
valuable than that be complains to want, nay, which 
he himself could worse spare, were it put to his 
option. 

10. And now, from such a disposure of things, 
who wonld not expect that mankind should be tiie 
cheerfulest part of the creation P that the sun 
should not more " rejoice to run his course" (Fs. 
xis. 5), than man should to finish his ; that a jour- 
ney which has so blessed an end, and such good 
accommodation by the way, should be passed with 
all imaginable alacrity ; and that we should live here 
practisers and learners of that state ofunmixed in- 
terminable joys to which we aspire. Bnt, alas! if 
we look upon the universality of men, we shall find 
it nothing so ; but while all other creatures glad- 
somely f<dlow the order of their creation, take plea- 
sure in those things God has assigned for them, we, 

' AiUepait, — ■ bretute, 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



8 THE AHT Of COMTBUTUBNT. 

with BuUen perverseDess, quarrel at what we should 
eiijoy> and in every thiug make it our businesa not 
to iit it for our use, but to find some concealed 
quality which may render it unfit. We look in- 
sidiously upon our blessings ; like men that are de- 
fflgned only to pick a quarrel and start a pretence 
for mutinying. From hence it is that man, who was 
designed the lord of the world, to whose satisfac- 
tions all inferior beings were to contribute, is now 
theunhappiest ofthe creatures; nay, as if the whole 
order of the universe were inverted, he becomes 
slave to bis own vassals, courts all those sublunary 
things with such passion, that, if they prove coy and 
fly his embraces, he is mad and desperate ; if they 
fling themselves into bis arms, he is then glutted 
and satiated ; like Aranon, " he hates more than he 
loved" (2 Sam. xiii. 15), and is sicker of his pos- 
session than he was of his desire. 

1 1. And thus will it ever be till we keep our 
desires more at home, and not suffer them to ramble 
after things without reach. That honest Roman, 
who from his estraordiuary industry upon his little 
spot of ground received such an increase aa brought 
him under suspicion of witchcraft, is a good example 
for us. God has placed none of us in so barren a 
soil, in so forlorn a state, but there b something 
in it which may afford us comfort; let us husband 
that to the utmost, aud it is scarce imaginable what 
improvements even he that appears the most miser- 
able may make of his condition. But if in a suUeu 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



cH. I.] ITS coNNBxtotr WITH HAPPiNxas. S 

humour we will not cultivate our own field, because 
we have perhaps more mind to our neighbour's, we 
may thank ourselves if we starve. The despising 
of what God has already given us, sure is bat cold 
invitatioD to farther bounty. Men are indeed forced 
sometimes to reward the mutinous ; but God is not 
to be 80 attacked, nor is it that sort of violence 
which can ever force heaven. The heathen could 
say that Jupiter sent his plagues among the poorer 
sort of men because they were always repining ; and 
indeed there is so much truth in the observation, 
that our impatience and discontent at our present 
condition is the greatest provocation to God to 
make it worse. 

12. It must, therefore, be resolved to be very 
oontrary to onr interest, and surely it is no less to 
onr duty. It is so, if we do but own ourselves men, 
for in that is implied a subordination and submission 
to that Power which made us so ; and to dispute his 
management of the world, to make other distribu- 
tions ofit than he has done, is to renonnce our sub- 
jection, and set up for dominion. But this is yet 
more intolerable as we are Christians; it being a 
special part of evangelical discipline cheerfully to 
conform to any condition, to " know how to be 
abased and how to abound, to be full and to be 
hungry" (Phil. iv. 12), " to be careful for nothing" v 
(ver. 6). Nay, so little does Christ give counte- 
nance to our peevish discontents, our wanton out- 
cries when we are not hurt, that he requires mora 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



10 THE A&T or COKTBITTIIBNT. 

than A contentment, an exultancy and transport of 
joy under the heaviest pressurea, under reproaches 
and persecutions; " Rejoice ye in that day, and 
leap for joy" (Luke vi. 23). And sure nothing can 
be more contrary to this than to be alwap whining 
and compliuning ; crying, in the prophet's phrase, 
" my leanness, my leanness, wo is me" (Is. xxiv. 16) ; 
when perhaps Moses' simile does better fit our state, 
" Jeshurun wased fat and kicked" (Deut> xssii. 15). 
13. And as this querulous humour is against 
our interest and duty, so it is visibly against our 
«ase. It is a sickness of the mind, a perpetual 
gnawing and craving of the appetite, without any 
possibility of satisfaction ; and indeed is the same 
in the heart which the caninus appetitw^ is in the 
stomach ; to which we may aptly enough apply that 
description we find in the prophet, " be shall snatch 
on the right hand, and be hungry', and he shall eat 
on the left, and not be satisfied" (Isaiah ix. 20). 
iVhere this sharp, this fretting humour abounds, 
nothing converts into nourishment — every new ac- 
cession does but excite some new desire; and, as it 
is observed of a trencher-fed dog, that he tastes not 
one bit for the greedy expectation of the next, so a 
discontented mind is so intent upon his pursuits, 
that he has no relish of his acquests.^ So that what 
the prophet speaks of the covetous, is equally appli- 
cable to all other sorts of malcontents : " he enlarges 

" A dog'a appetite ; « disease of inordinBte himj^. 
■ Aeqvttt,—ait; thing gsioed. 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. I.] ITS COVMBXION WITH HAPPINISS. It 

his desire as hell, and is as death, and cannot be 
satisfied" (Hab. i!. 5). And sure if the " desire ac- 
complished" be, as Solomon says, " sweet to the 
soul" {PrOT. xiii. 19)> it must be exceedingly bitter 
to be thus condemned to endless unaccompUshable 
desires ; and yet this b the torture which every re- 
pining, uncontented spirit provides for itself. 

14. What a madness is it, then, for men to be so 
desperately bent against their interest and duty as 
to renounce even their ease too for company I One 
would think this age were sensual enough to be at 
defiance with the least shadow of uneasiness. It is 
eo, I am sure, where it ought not; every thing is 
Jaborious when it is in compliance with their duty. 
A few minutes spent in prayer, " 0, what a weari- 
ness is it I" (MaL i. 13.) If they chance but to 
miss a meal, they are ready to cry out, their " knees 
«re weak through fasting" (Pa. cis. 23) ; yet they 
can, without regret or any self-compassion, mace- 
rate and cruciate"' themselves with anxious cares and 
veifations and, as the apostle speaks (1 Tim. vi. 10), 
" pierce themselves through with many sorrows." 
That proposal, therefore, which was very rashly 
made by St. Peter to our Saviour, " Master, pity - 
thyself" (Matt. xvi. 12), which we render " be it 
far from thee," would here be an advised motion to 
the generality of mankind, who are commonly mode 
unhappy, not by any thing without them, but by 
those restless impatiences that are within them. 

" Maeerate,-—ti(i make l««n ; trueiatt, — to tonnent. 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



12 

15. It may therefore be a seasonable office to 
endeavour the appeasing these Htorms, by recalling 
tbem to those sober ratiooal considerationB, which 
may shew as well the folly as nneasinesa of thia repin- 
ing, unsatisfiable humour. It is certain that in true 
reasoning we can find nothing whereon to found it* 
but a great deal to enforce the contrary. Indeed, it 
is so much against the dictate of reasonable nature 
to affect damage, ain, and torment, that, were there 
nothing ehK to be said but what I have already 
mentioned, it might competently di«coTer the great 
unreasonableness of tliis sin. 

16. But we need not confine onr appeal to rea- 
son, as it is only a judge of utility and advantage, 
but enlarge it to another notion, as it is judge of 
equity and right ; in which respect also it gives as 
clear and peremptory a sentence against all mur- 
muring and impatience. To evince this, I shall in- 
sist upon these particulars : First, that God is debtor 
to no man, and therefore whatever he affords to 
any, it is upon bounty, not of right — a benevolence, 
not a due. Secondly, that this bounty is not strait 
or narrow, confined to some few particular persons, 
and wholly overskipping the rest, but more or less 
universally diffused to all ; so that he who has the 
least cannot justly say but he has been liberally 
dealt with. Thirdly, that if we compare our bless- 
ings with our allays,^' our good things with our evil, 
we ahall find our good far surmounting. Fourthly, 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CB, I.J 1TB CONMBXION WITB HAPPINESS. 13 

that we shall find them yet more bo, if we compare 
them with tlie good we have done ; as, on the con- 
trary, we shall find our afflictioDS scarce discernible 
if balanced with our sina. Fifthly, that as God is 
the rector of the universe, so it apperttuns to him to 
make Buch altotmenta, such distributions, as may 
best preserve the state of the whole. Sixthly, that 
God, notwithstanding that universal care, has also a 
peculiar aspect oa every particular person, and dis- 
poses to him what he discerns best for him in spe- 
ciaL Seventhly, if we compare our adversities with 
those of other men, we shall always find something 
that equals, if not exceeds, our own. All these are 
certiun irrefragable truUis, and there is none of them 
single but may, if well pressed upon the mind, charm 
it into a calmneas and rengnation ; but when there 
is such a conspiration of arguments, it must be a 
very obstinate perverseness that can resist them; 
or, should they fail to enforce a full conviction, 
will yet introduce those subsidiary proofs which I 
have to allege so advantageously, as will, being pui 
together, amount unto perfect and uncontrollable 
eridence. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CHAPTER II. 







^HE first proposition, that God is debtor 
to no man, is too clear and apparent 
to require much of illustration ; for 
as he is a free agent, and may act 
I, so lie is the sole proprietary, and can 
wrongfully detain from none; because all orig^al 
right is in himself. This has been bo much ac- 
knowledged by the blindest heathens, that none of 
them durst make insolent addresses to their gods, 
challenge any thing of them as of debt, but by 
sacrifices and prayers owned their dependence and 
vants, and implored supplies. And sure Christi- 
anity teaches ua not to be more saucy. If those 
deities, who owed their very being to their votaries, 
were yet acknowledged to be the spring and source 
of all, we can with no pretence deny it to that 
Supreme Power in " whom we live, and move, and 
have our being" (Acts xvii. 28). For if it were 
merely an act of his choice to give us a being, all 
his subsequent bounties can have no other original 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CB. II.J OF OOD S AneOLUTB SOVBSBIBNTY. 15 

than his ovn good pleaBnre. We could put no obli- 
gation upon God before we were ; aod when we 
brgan to be, we were his creatures, and so by the 
most indisputable right owe ourselves to him, but 
can have no antecedent title on which to claim any 
thing from him ; so that the apostie might well 
make the challenge which he doth on God's behalf, 
" Who hath given any thing unto him, and it shall 
be recompensed to bim again?" (Rom. xi. 35.) 

2. Now, ordinary discretion teaches us not to be 
too bold in our expectaUon from one to whom we 
can plead no tight. It haii as little of prudence aa 
of modesty, to press impudently upon the bounty of 
a patron, and does but give him temptation, at 
least pretence, to deny. And if it be thus with 
men, who possibly may someUmes have an interest, 
sometimes a vanity, to oblige us, it must be much 
more so towards God, who cannot be in want of 
us, and therefore need not buy us : " Our good," 
Bs the Psalmbt speaks, " extends not to him" (Px. 
xvi. 2). He has a fundamental right in that little 
we are, which will stand good, though it should 
never be corroborated by greater benefits. With 
what an humble bashfulness should we then sue 
for any thing, who have no ai^ument to invite the 
least donation, being already so pre-engaged, that 
we cimnot mortgage so much as ourselves in con- 
sideration of any new favour I And surely extra- 
v^ant hopes do very ill befit people in this condi- 
tion. We see the modesty of good Mephiboshetli, 



16 THE AHT OV COSTBHTMBNT. 

vho, though he was by a slanderous accnsatioQ 
outed of half the estate David had given him, yet, 
upon a reflection that he derived it all from hia 
good pleasure, disputed not the sentence, but cheer- 
fully resigned the whole to the same disposure from 
which he received it, saying, " Yea, let him take 
all" (2 Sam. xix. SO). A rare example, and fit for 
imitation, as being adapted to the present case, not 
only in that one cireumatance of his having received 
all from the king, but also in that of the attainder 
of his blood, which he confesses in the former part 
of the veise i' for " all of my father's house were but 
dead men before my lord." And, alas, may we not 
say the very aame ? Was not our whole race tainted 
in our first parent? So that if God had not the 
primary title of vassalage, he would in our fall have 
acquired that of confiscation and escheat. And can 
we think ourselves, then, in terms to capitulate and 
make our own conditions, and expect God should 
humour us in all our wild demands P 

5. This is indeed to keep up that old rebellion 
of our progenitor ; for that couabted in a discontent 
with that portion God had assigned him, and covet- 
ing what he had restrained him. Nay, indeed, it 
comes up to the height of the devil's proposal, the 
attempting " to be as God" (Gen. iii. 5). For it 
is an endeavour to wrest the man^ement out of 
his hands, to supersede hia authority of dispensing 
to us, and to carve for ourselves. This is so mad 
■ Ralber at verse 2B. 

Google 



CH, II,] OF sod's ABSOLtTTfl BOVEBBIOlfTT. 17 

AD insolence, that, were it possible to state a case 
exactly parallel between man and man, it would 
raise the indignation of any that but pretended to 
ingenuity.^ Yet this ia, without hyperbole, the true 
meaning of every murmuring, repining thought we 
entertain. 

4. But, as bad as it is, who is there of ns that 
can in this particular say, " We have made our 
heart clean?" (Prov. xx. 9>) It is true we make 
some formal acknowledgment sometimes that we 
receive all from God's gift. Custom teaches us 
from our infancy, after every meal we eat, to give 
iiim thanks (though even that is now thought too 
much respect, and begins to be discarded as nnfa- 
shionable) ; yet sure fae cannot be thought to do 
that in earnest, that has all the time of his eating 
been grumbling that his table abounds not with 
such delicacies as his neighbour's. And yet at this 
rate, God knows, are most of our thanksgivings. 
Indeed, we have not so much ordinary civility to 
God as we have to men. The common proverb 
teaches ua not too curiously to pry into the ble- 
mishes of what is given us ; but on God's gifts we 
sit as censors, nicely examine every thing which is 
any way disagreeable to our fancies, and, as if we 
dealt with him under the notion of chapmen, dis- 
parage it, as Solomon says buyers use to do : " It 
's naught, it is naught, saith the buyer" (Prov. xx. 
14). Nay, we seem yet more absurdly to change 
' /n^tlHii^,— openness, &icncn, 
C2 

Ciooglc 



16 TBS ABT OF COimNTKBNT. 

the scene ; and, aa if God were to make oblatioiu 
to us, we as critically obaerve the defects of his be- 
nefactions BM the Levitical priests were to do those 
of the sacrifice, and, like angry deities, scomful];' 
reject whatever does not perfectly answer our wau-r 
ton appetites. 

5. And nov, should God take us at our words, 
withdraw all those blessings which we so faatidiouslj 
despise, what a condition were we in I It is sure we 
have nothing to plead in reverse of that judgment. 
There is nothing in it against justice ; for he takes 
but his own. This he intimates to Israel ; *' I will 
return and take away my com in the time thereof, 
and my wine in the season thereof, and will recover 
my wool and my flax" (Hos. ii. 9). In which he 
asserts his own propriety, " my corn, my wine," &C., 
and recalb them to the remembrance that they were 
but usufructuaries,-^ and it is as evident that our 
tenure is but the same. Nay, this proceeding would 
not be repugnant even to mercy, for even that 
is not obliged still to prostitute itself to our con- 
tempt. I am sure such a tolerance is beyond all the 
measures of human lenity. Should any of us offer 
an alms to an indigent wretch, and he, when he 
sees it is silver, should murmur and exclaim that 
it is not gold, — would we not draw back our hand 
and reserve our charity for a more worthy object? 
It is true, indeed, God's thoughts are not as our 

■ UtHftvtIaary, — one that hsa the Dse sod temporary 
profit, not the propertj, of s thing. 

Google 



CB. II.] OF aoD'S ABBOLUTE SOTSBBIONTT. 19 

thongbta, aor our deutow bovels equal meaaurei 
for the Divine compassions; and we experimentally 
find that his long-suffering infinitely exceeds ours; 
yet we know he does in the parable of the lord and 
theMirant (Matt. XTiii.) declare, that he will propor- 
tion his mercy by onre in that instance ; and we have 
no promise that he will not do it in this — nay, we 
have all reason to expect that he should ; for, siuce 
bis wisdom prompts him to do nothing in vain, and 
all his bounty to ns is designed to make us happy, 
when he sees that end utterly frustrated by our dis- 
contents, to what purpose should he continue that 
to UB which we will be never the better for? 

6- Besides, though he be exceedingly patient, 
yet he is not negligent or insensible ; he takes par- 
ticular notice, not only with what diligence we em- 
ploy, but with what affections we resent* every of 
bis blessings. And as ingratitude is a vice odious 
to men, so it is extremely provoking to God ; so 
that in this sense ako the words of our Saviour are 
most true, " from him that hath not," i. e. that hath 
not a grateful sense and value, " shall be taken away 
even that he hath" (Matt xxv. 29). But we may find 
a threatening of this kind yet more express to Israel, 
" because thou servedst not the Lord thy God with 
gladness and with joy tiilness of heart for the abund' 
ance of all things, therefore ahalt thou serve thine 
enemies, whom the Lord God will send among thee, 

* Betaif, — to t^e well, or ill : now geunllj used in the 

lattenerua. 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



so THE ABT OP 

in hunger, and in thirst, and in nakedness, and in 
want of all things" (Deut. xn-iii. 47, *8),— a aad and 
dismal inversion, yet founded wholly in the want of 
that cheerful recognition which God expected from 
them. And if Israel, the lot of his own inheritance, 
that people whom he had singled out from all the 
nations of the world, could thus forfeit his favour 
by untbankfulnesB, sure none of us can suppose we 
have any surer entail of it. In a word, as God lovea 
a cheerful giver, so he also loves a cheerful receiver 
— one that complies with his end in bestowing, by 
taking a just complacence in his gifts. But the 
querulous and unsatisfled reproach his bounty, ac- 
cuse him of illiberality and narrowness of mind ; so 
that be seems, even in his honour, engaged to bring 
them to a righter apprehension of him, and by a de- 
privation teach them the value of those good things 
which they could not learn by the enjoyment 

7> If, therefore, ingenuity and gratitude cannot, 
yet at least let prudence and self-love, engage us 
against this sin of murmuring, which we see does 
abundantly justify the character the wise man gives, 
when he telU us " it is unprofitable" (Wisd.i, ll)j 
he might have said pernicious also, for so it evi- 
dently is in its effects. Let us, then, arm ourselves 
against it, and to that purpose impress deeply upon 
our minds the present consideration, that God owes 
us nothing, and that whatever we receive is an alms, 
and not a tribute. Diogenes being asked what wine 
drank the most pleasant? answered, that which ii 



CH. II.] or OOD'S ABSOLUTE BOVBREIOITTT. 31 

drunk at another's cost. And this ciicumsUnce we 
can never miss of to recommend our good things to 
ns, — for, be they little or much, they come gratis. 
When, therefore, in a pettish mood, we find our- 
selves apt to charge God foolishly, and to think him 
strait-handed towards us, let us imagine we hear 
God expostulating with us, as the householder in 
the parable, " Friend, I do thee no wrong : is it not 
lawful for me to do what I will with mine own ?" 
(Matt. xs. 13, 15.) If God have not the right of 
disposing, let us find out those that have, aud see 
how much better we shall speed ; but if he hath, 
let us take heed of disputiug with him: we that 
subsist merely by his favour, had need court and 
cherish it by aU the arts of humble observance. 
Every man is ready to say how ill beggary aud 
pride do agree. The first qualification we cannot 
put off; O let us not provide it of the other so in- 
convenient, so odious an adjunct : let us leave off 
prescribing to God (which no ingenuous man would 
do to an earthly benefactor) ; and let us betakq 
ourselves to a more holy and successful policy, the 
acknowledgment of past mercies, and our own uu- 
worthiness. This was Jacob's method, " I am not 
worthy of the least of all the mercies and of all the 
truth which thou hast shewed unto thy servant ; for 
with nty staff I passed over this Jordan, and now I 
am become two bands;" and with this humble pre- 
face he introduces bis petition for rescue in his pre- 
sent distress, " Deliver me, I pray thee, from tbc 

Google 



22 THR ABT OF CONTENTIIBHT. 

huid of my brother," &c. (Gen. xxsii. 10, 1 J): an 
excellent pattern of divine riietoric, which the suc- 
cess demonstrates to have been very preTalent; and 
we cannot transcribe a better copy to render our 
desires as successful. Indeed, we are so utterly 
destitute of all arguments from ourselves, that we 
can make no reasonable form of address, if we found 
it not in something of God — and there ia nothing 
even in him adapted to our purpose but his mercy; 
nor can that be eo advantageously ui^ed by any- 
thing as by the former instances it has given of 
itself; for as God only is fit to be a precedent to 
himself, so he loves to be so. Thus, we find not 
only Moses but God often recollecting his niiracu- 
lous favours towards Israel as aa argument to do 
more : let us therefore accost him in his own way, 
and, by a frequent and gi-atel'iil recounting of his 
former mercies, engage him to future. Nor need 
we be at a loss for matter of «uch recollection, if we 
will but seriously consider what we have already 
received ; which is the subject of the next chapter. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CHAPTER III. 



is the knowncharacter of an UDWorthy- 
nature to write injuries in marble and 
fits in dust ; and however some 
(as Seneca well observes) may acquit 
themselves ot tbis imputation as to man, yet scarce 
any- do so ia relation to God. It is tiue, in- 
deed, the charge must be a little varied, for God 
neither will nor can do us injury; yet we receive 
any thing that is adverse with such a resentment as 
if it were, and engrave that in our memories with 
indelible characters, whilst his great and real bene- 
fits ore either not at all observed, or with so tran- 
sient an advertence, that the comparison of dust is 
beyond our pitch, and we may be more properly 
tiaid to write them in water. Nay, so far are we 
from keeping records and registers of his favours, 
that even those standing and fixed ones which sense 
can prompt us to (without the aid of our memories) 
cannot obtain our notice. 

2. Were it not thus, it were impossible for men 
to be so perpetually in the complaining key, as if 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



24 T&B ART OF CONTBNTIIBNT. 

their voices were capable of no other sound. One 
wants this, &nd another that, and a third somethiDg 
beyond them both, and so on ad infinitum; when all 
thb while every one of them enjoye a multitude of 
good things without any remark. That very breath 
wherewith they ntter their complaiots ia a blessiDg, 
and a fundamental one too ; for if God should with- 
draw that, they were incapable of whatsoever else 
they either have or desire. It is true, that some 
men's impatiences have risen so high as to cast 
away life, because it was not clothed with all cir- 
cumstances they wished. Yet these are rare io- 
stances, and do only shew such men's depraved 
judgment of things. A rich jewel is not the lees 
valuable because a madman in his raving fit flings 
it into the fire ; but as to the generality of men, the 
devil (though a liar) gave a true account of their 
sense when he said, " Skin for skin ; and all that a 
man hath will he give for his life" (Job ii. 4). And 
though, perhaps, in an angry fit many men have, 
with Jouah (chap. iv. 3), " wished to die," yet, ten 
to one, should death then come, they would be as 
willing to divert it as was the man in the apologue, 
who, wearied with his burdea of sticks, fiung it 
down and called for death; but when he came, 
owned no other occasion for him but to be helped 
upagun with his bundle. I dare in this appeal to the 
experience of those who have seemed very weary of 
life, whether, when any sudden danger has surprised 
them, it has not as suddenly altered their mind, and 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



GH. III.] OP GOD'a nWLIMITBD BODSTT. 25 

made them more desire life than before they ab- 
horred it. It is the commoii saying, as long as there 
is life, there is hope : there is so, as to secular con- 
cerns, for what strange revolutions do we often see 
in the age of man ! from what despicable begin- 
nings have many arrived to the most splendid con- 
ditions I — of which we have divers modern as well 
as ancient instances: and, indeed, it is admirable to 
see what time and industry will (with God's bless- 
ing) effect : " bnt there is no work, nor device, nor 
knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave" (Eccles. ix. 
10) ; we can improve no more when we are once 
transplanted thither. 

3. But this is yet much more considerable in 
respect of our spiritual state. Our life is the " day 
wherein we are to work" (yea, to work out our sal- 
vation); but " when the night comes" (when death 
overtakes), " no man can work" (John ix. 4). Now, 
alas, when it is considered how much of this day 
the most of ua have loitered away, how many of us 
have stood idle till the sixth or ninth hour, it will be 
our concern not to have our day dose before the 
eleventh. Nay, alas, it is yet worse with us : we 
have not only been idle, but very often ill-busied; 
BO that we have a great part of our time to unravel, 
and that is not to be done in a moment. For though 
our works may fitly enough be represented by the 
prophet's comparison of a " spider's web" (Is. lis. 6)1 
yet they want the best property even of that — they 
cannot be so soon undone. Vices that are radicated 

D 



26 THE ART OF COHTEITTMBNT. 

by time and cuatom lie too d^ep to be lightly swept 
away. It ia no easy thing to persuade ourselves to 
the will of parting with them. Many violences we 
must offer to ourselves, a long and strict course of 
mortjficalion must be gone through, ere we can find 
in our hearts to bid them be gone ; and yet when 
we do so, they are not so tractable as the centurion's 
servants; they will indeed come whenever we bid 
them, but they will scarce go so ; they must be ex- 
pelled by force and slow degrees ; we must fight for 
every inch of ground we gun from them: and aa 
God would not assist the Israelites to subdue ^e 
Canaanitea at once (Deut. vii. 22), so neither ordi- 
narily does he us to master perfectly our corrup- 
tions. Now, a process of this difficulty is not to be 
despatched on a sudden. And yet this is not all our 
task ; for we have not only ill habits to extirpate, 
bnt we have also good ones to acquire : it is not a 
mere negative virtue will serve our turns, nor will 
empty lamps enter ns into the marriage-chamber 
(Matt XXV. I0> " We must add to our faith virtue, 
and to virtue knowledge, and to knowledge temper- 
ance," &c. (2 Pet i. 5.) No link must be wanting 
of that sacred chain ; but we must, as the same 
apostle advises, " be holy in all manner of conver- 
sation" (1 PeLi. 15). 

4. And now I would desire the reader seriously 
to consider, whether he can upon good grounds tell 
himself that this so difficult (and yet so necessary) a 
work is effectually wrought in him. If it be, he is ». 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



cH. III.] 01 qod's uNuumD boitktt. 27 

happy man, and can vith no pretence compliun of any 
external want: he that is fed with manna mudt be 
strangely perverae if he murmur for a bellyful of 
" leeks and onions" (Num. xi. 5.) ; but, on the con- 
trary, he owes infinite thanks to God, that has spared 
him time for this important businefis, and did not put 
a period to his natural life before he had begun a spi- 
ritual; forlfearthereareamong thebestof usfew of 
so entire an innocence but they may remember some 
either habits or acts of sin, in which it would have 
been dreadful for them to have been snatched away- 
And then, how compreheusive, how prolific a mercy 
has life been to them, when it has carried eternity 
in its womb, and their continuance on earth has 
qualified them for heaven ! Neither are such per- 
sOTis only to took on it as a blessing in the retro< 
spect, as it relates to the past, but also in the pre- 
sent and future, — which, if they continue to employ 
well, doea not only confirm but advance their re- 
ward. Besides, God may please by them to glorify 
himself, make them instrumental to his service, 
which as it is the greatest honour, bo it is also the 
greatest satisfaction to a good heart. He shews 
himself too mercenary that so longs for his reward 
as to grow impatient of bis attendances; he that 
loves God thinks himself blessed in the opportunity 
of doing work, as well as in receiving wages. Thus 
we see how life is, under all these aspects, a mercy 
to a pious man, and such as not only obliges him to 
eoDtentment, but gratitude. 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



28 . THE AU 

5' But suppoeing a man cannot give this com- 
fortable account of hia life, but ia conscious that he 
haa spent it to a very different purpose, yet does 
not that at all lessen hia obligations to God, who 
meant he should have employed it better ; and that 
be has not done so is merely bis own fault. Nay, 
indeed, the worse his state is, the greater mercy it 
is that God baa not made it irreversible, that he has 
not cut him off at once from the earth and the pos- 
wbility of heaven too, but affords him yet a longer 
" day, if yet he will hear his voice" (Ps. xcv. T). 
This long-suffering ia one of the moat transcendent 
acta of Divine goodness, and therefore the apostle 
rightly styles it " the richea of his goodness, and 
long-suffering, and forbearance" (Rom. ii. 4); and 
so at last we commonly acknowledge it, when we 
have worn it out, and can no longer receive advan- 
tage by it. What a value does a gasping, despairing 
soul put upon a small parcel of that time wbicli be- 
fore he knew not how fast enough to squander I O 
that men would set the same estimate on it before ! 
and then certainly, as it would make them bett«r 
husbands of it, so it would also render them more 
thankful for it, " accounting that the long-suffering 
of our Lord is salvation" (2 Pet. iii. 15). 

6. Indeed, did men but rightly compute the 
benefit of life upon this score, all secular incum- 
brances and uneasinesses of it would be over- 
whelmed, and stand only as ciphers in the account. 
What a shame is it, then, that we should spend oar 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CB. III.] or god's unlihitbd Bontnr. 29 

breath in sighs and outcries, which, if we would 
employ to those nobler ends for which it was given, 
would supersede our complaints, and make us con- 
fess we were well dealt with ; that " our life" (though 
bare and stripped of all outward accessaries) " is 
given UB for a prey" (Jer. xlv. 5). And, indeed, he 
that has yet the great work of life to do, can very ill 
spare time or sorrow to bestow upon the regretting 
any temporal distress, since his whole stock is little 
enough to bewail and repur his neglects of his eter- 
nal concerns. Were all our lives, therefore, desti- 
tute of all outward comfort, nay, were they nothing 
but a scene of perpetual disasters, yet this one ad' 
vantage of life would infinitely outweigh them all, 
and render our munnurings very inexcusable. 

7. But God has not put this to the utmost trial, 
has never placed any man in such a state of un- 
mixed calamity, but that he still affords many and 
great allays. He finds it fit sometimes to defalk* 
some of our outward comforts, and perhaps em- 
bitter others ; but he never takes all away. This 
must be acicoowledged, if we do but consider how 
many things there are in which the whole race of 
mankind do in common partake. The four ele- 
ments, fire and water, air and earth, do not more 
make up every man's composition than they supply 
his needs : the whole host of heaven, the sun, moon, 
and stars, Moses will tell us, are by " God divided 
to all nations under the whole heaven" (Deut. iv. 
■ To dffiM, — to cut off, to lop iwif. 
D 2 

L-.vLjxGooglc 



80 THE AET or OOMTBHTUBtlT. 

19). Those resplendent bodies equally afford their 
light and ioflneDoe to all. The buu shines aa bright 
on the poor cottage as en the most magnificent 
palace ; and the stars have their benign aspects as 
well for him that " is behind the mill as for him 
that sitteth on the throne" (Es. si. 5). Propriety^ 
(that great incendiary below) breeds no confusion 
in those celestial orbs; but they are every man's 
treasure, yet no man's peculiar ; as if they meant to 
teach us, that our love of appropriation " descends 
not from above" (Jam. iii. 15), is no heavenly 
quality. 

8. And as they make no distinction of the ruiks 
and degrees of men, so neither do they of their vir- 
tues. Our Saviour tells us, God causes " his sun 
to rise on the good and on the evil, and sendeth 
rain on the just and on the unjust" (Matt. v. 45)> 
If now we descend lower, to the sublunary creatures, 
they equally pay their homage to man, do not dis- 
dain the dominion of the poor and submit to that 
of the rich, but shew us that their instinct ex- 
tends to the whole nature. A horse draws the poor 
man's plough as tamely as the prince's chariot; 
and the beggar's hungry cur follows him with as 
much obsequiousness and affection as the pampered 
lap-dogs of the nicest ladies. The sheep obey a 
poor mercenary shepherd as well as they did the 
daughters of the wealthy Laban (Gen. xxix. 9), or 
of Jethro, a prince (Exod. ii. 16) ; and as willingly 
' Propriety, — eicloiive ri^t. 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. III.] OF god's tTHLnilTBD BOUNTT. SI 

yield their fleeces to clothe Lazarus aa to make 
purple for Dives. And as animals, ao vegetables 
are aa communicative of their qualities to one man 
as another. The com nouriBhes, the fruits refresh, 
the flowers delight, the simples cure the poor maa 
as well as the rich> 

9. But I foresee it will be objected that these 
natural privileges are insignificant, because they 
are evacuated by those positive laws which bound 
propriety, and that therefore, though one man could 
use the creatures as well as another, yet every man 
has them not to use. I answer, that for some of 
the things I have mentioned they are still in their 
native latitude, cannot be enclosed or monopolised. 
The most ravenous oppressor could never jet lock 
up the sun in his chest : " he that lays house to 
house, or land to land, till there be no place" (Is. v. 
8), cannot enclose the common air. Aod the like 
may be aaid of divers of the rest ; so that there are 
aome (and those no mean) blessings, which continue 
still the indefeasible right of mankind in general. 

10. As for those other things which are liable 
to the restrictive term»{ of mine and tfiine, it is not 
to be denied but there is vast difference in the dis- 
pensing them ; as great as Nathan's parable de- 
scribes, when he speaks of the numerous flocks of 
the rich man, and the " single ewe-lamb of the 
poor" (2 Sam. xii. 23) : yet there is scarce any so 
deplorably indigent but that by one means or other 
he has, or may have, the necessary supports of life, 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



33 TBB ART or COKIBNTIfBKT, 

Perhapa they fall not into his lap by birthright and 
inheritance, yet they are acquirable by labour and 
industry, which b perhaps the better tenure. They 
cannot, it may be, arrive to " Sodom's fulness of 
bread," yet if they have not her " abundaoce of 
idleness" (Ez. xvi, 49), they commonly need not 
want diat which was the height of Amur's wish, 
" food convenient" (Prov. xxx. 8), It is true, in- 
deed, if they will fold their hands in their bosom, 
if, with Solomon's " sluggard, they wilt not plough 
by reason of the cold," they must take his fate in 
the summer, as they have his ease ia the winter, 
" they may beg in harvest, and have nothing" (Pror. 
XX. 1). But then it is visible they are the authors 
of their own necessities. And, indeed, to men of 
such lazy, careless natures, it is hard to say what 
degree of God's bounty can keep them from want, 
since we often see the furest fortunes dissipated aa 
well by the supine negligence as the riotous prodi- 
gality of the owners ; and therefore, if men will be 
idle, they are not to accuse God, but themselves, if 
they be indigent. 

11. But, then, there is one case wherein men 
seem more inevitably exposed, and that is when by 
age, sickness, or decrepitude, they are disabled from 
work, or when their family is too numerous for their 
work to maintain. And this, indeed, seems the 
most forlorn state of poverty ; yet God has pro- 
vided for them also, by assigning such persons to 
the care of the rich; nay, he has put an extra- 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



ca. III.] OF Q< 
ordinary mark of favour on them, given them the 
honour of being his proiciee and representatives, 
made them letters of attorney, as it were, to demand 
relief in his name, and upon his account And 
though it i» too true, that even that authority will 
not prevail with many of the rich to open their 
purses, yet, even in thia age of frozen charity, there 
are still some who remember upon what terms they 
received their wealth, and employ it accordingly. 
And though the number of them is not so great as 
were to be wished, yet there are in all parts some 
scattered here and there, like " ciUes of refuge" in 
the land (Dent. xix. 23}i to which these poor dis- 
tressed creatures may flee for succour. And I think 
1 may say, that between the l^al provisions that 
are made in this case and voluntary contributions, 
there are not very many that want the things that 
are of absolute necessity ; and we know St. Paul 
comprises those in a small compass, " food and rm- 
mcnt," and proposes them as sufficient materials of 
content (1 Tim. vi. 8). I say not this to contract 
any man's bowels, or lessen his compassions to such 
poor wretches. For how much soever they lend, I 
wish, as Joab did in another cuise to David, the 
Lord " increase it a hundredfold" (2 Sam. xxiv. 3). 
I only urge it as an evidence of the assertion I am 
to prove, that no man is so pretermitted^ by God, 
or his disposal of temporals, but that even he that 
seems the most abandoned has a share in his pro- 
• Prttermil, — to pan by. 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



S4 TBI AST OF COITTBNTmNT. 

Tidence, aod coasequentl; cannot justly murmur, 
aince even this state, which is the highest instance 
of human indigence, is not without its receipts from 
God. 

12. But the number in this form are but few 
compared to tiiose in a higher; for betwecu this 
and the highest affluence, how many intermedial 
degrees are there, in which men partake not only 
of the DccessarieB but comforts of life — that have 
not only food and raiment, but their distinction of 
holyday and working-day fare and apparel I He 
that is but one step advanced from beggary has so 
much, he that has got to a second has more than is 
necessary ; and so every degree rises in plenty till 
it comes to vanity and excess. And even there too 
there are gradual risings ; some having so much 
fuel for luxury, that they are at as great a loss for 
invention as others can be for materials, and com- 
plain that there are no farther riots left for them to 
essay. How many are there who have so cloyed 
and glutted their senses, that they want some other 
inlets for pleasure; and, with the rich man in the 
gospel, are in dbtress where to bestow their abund- 

13. And sure such as these cannot deny that 
they have received good things, yet generally there 
are none less contented; which is a clear demon- 
stration that our repinings proceed not from any 
defect of bounty in God, but from the malignant' 
temper of our own hearts. And as it is aa eaucr 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. III.] or aoo'a unlimitbd BonNTT. 35 

thing to satisfy the cravings of an hungry than to 
cure the nauseous recoilings of a surfeited sto- 
mach, BO certainly the diacontents of the poor are 
much easier allayed than those of the rich. The 
indigence of the one has contracted his desires, and 
has taught him not to look farther than a little 
beyond bare necessaries ; bo that a moderate alms 
satisfies, and a liberal transports him : but he who 
by a perpetual repletion has his desires stretched 
and extended, is capable of no such satisfaction. 
When his enjoyments forestall all particular put^ 
suits, and he knows not upon what to fasten his 
next wish, yet even then he has some confused un- 
formed appetites, and thinks himself miserable be- 
cause he ctannot tell what would make him more 
happy. And yet this is that envied state which 
men with so much greediness aspire to. Every 
man looks on it as the top of felicity, to have no- 
thing more to wish in the world. And yet, alas, 
even that, when attained, would be their torment. 
Let men never think, then, that contentment is to 
be caught by long and foreign chases i he is like- 
liest to find it who sits at home, and duly contem- 
plates those blessings which God baa brought within 
his reach, of which every man has a fur proportion, 
if he-tfUl advert to it 

H. For besides these external accessions (of 
which the meanest have some, the middle sort a 
great deal, and the uppermost rather too much), 
man is a prindpalit; within himself, and has ia 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



36 TSB AKT OF COMTBNTMEHT, 

his composition to maoy excellent impresses of his 
Maker's power and goodness, that he need not ask 
leAve of any exterior thing to be happy, if he know 
but aright how to value himself: the very meanest 
part of him, his body, is a piece of admirable work- 
manship, of a most incomprehensible contrivance ; 
as the Psalmist says, " he is fearfullj' and wonder- 
fully made" (Ps. cxxxis. IS); and it is astonishing 
to think of what a symmetry of parts this beantifiil 
fabric is made up. Nor are they only for show, but 
use ; every member, every limb, is endowed with 
a particular faculty to make it serviceable to the 
whole : and so admirable is the contexture of veins 
and arteries, sinews and muscles, nerves and ten- 
dons, that none are superfluous, but some way oi 
other contribute to vegetation, sense, or motion, 
Nay, -the most noble and most useful parts are all 
of them double ; not only as a reserve in case 
misadventure of one part, but also as an instance 
the bounty of the donor. And, indeed, it is ob- 
servable of Galen iu his writings, that after he had 
taken great care to exempt himself and all of hb 
profession from taking notice of the Deity, by say- 
ing, that to discourse concerning the gods was the 
task of speculative philosophers ; yet coming to 
write of the use of the parts of the body, de wgu 
parlhim, and considering the frame of human bo- 
dies, and therein discovering the wonderful con- 
trivance of every part in reference to itself, and 
also to the whole — their strength, agility, and 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



yarioua moTement, infinitely surpassing the powers 
of all mechanic engines, — he seems to have had 
the fate we read of Saul in holy Scripture, and 
against bis genius and purpose to become a pro< 
phet, breaking frequently out into hymns and sacred 
raptures; saying, these mysteries are more divine 
than the Sainothracian or Eleusinian, and confess- 
ing they both strietlj require, and infinitely excel, 
the low returns of human praise. But beyond the 
fabric of parts as organic, vhat an extract of won- 
der are our senses I — those " five operations of the 
Lord," as the son of Sirach rightly, and by way of 
eminence, styles them (Ecclus. xvii. 5). By these 
we draw all outward objects to ourselves. What 
were the beauties of the universe to us, if we had 
not sight to behold them; or the most melodious 
sounds, if we had not hearing ? and so of the rest. 
And yet these are not only generally given, but 
also preserved to the greater part of men ; and 
perhaps would be to more, did not our base un- 
dervaluing of common mercies force God some- 
times to instruct us in their worth, by making us 
feel what it is to want them. 

15. Multitudes of refreshments also God has pro- 
vided for our bodies; particularly that of sleep, of 
which he has been so considerate, as in his distribu- 
tions of time to make a solemn allotment for it ; yet 
who, almost, when he lies down considers the mercy, 
or when he rises refreshed rises thankful also P But 
if our rest at any time be interrupted by the cares 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



36 THB AET OF CONTEtTTUBNT. 

of onr mind, or pains of our bodies, then, and not 
till then, we consider that it is " God who gives his 
beloved sleep*' (Ph. cxsvii. 2), and think it a bless- 
ing worth our esteem. Thus it is with health, 
strength, and every thing else ; we despise it whilst 
we have it, and impa^ently desire it whilst we have 
it not: but in the interim, sure we cannot complain 
that God's hand is shortened towards us, when in 
the ordinary course of his Providence we com- 
monly enjoy these mercies many years, which we 
find so much miss of, if they be withdrawn but for 
a few hours. And, indeed, there is not a greater 
instance of human pravity than our senseless con- 
tempt of blessings, merely because they are cus- 
tomary ; which in true reason is an argument why 
we should prize them the more. When we deal 
with men, we discern it well enough : he that gives 
me once a hundred pounds, I account not so much 
my benefactor, as if he made it my annual revenue ; 
yet God must lose his thanks by multiplying his 
favours, and his benefits grow more invisible by 
their being always before us. 

16. But the body, with its enjoyments, is but 
the lowest instance of God's bounty ; it is but a 
decent case for that inestimable jewel he has put in 
it ; the soul, like the ark,* is the thing for which this 
whole tabernacle was framed ; and that is a spark 
of divinity, in which alone it is that God accom- 
plished his design of " making man in his own 
' See Heb. it 3, 4. 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. III.] OF god's uHLturtED BOUKTT. 39 

image" (Gen. i. 26). It would be too long to at- 
lempt an exact survey of its particular excellencies. 
The mere intellectual powers, wherewith it is en- 
dued, have exercised the curiosity and raised the 
adrniratiou of the great contemplatore of nature in 
all ages ; yet, after all, of bo subtle composure is 
the soul, that it is inscrutable even to itself: and 
though the simplest oiau knows he baa the faculties 
of imagination, apprehension, memory, reflection, 
yet the most learned cannot assign where they are 
seated, or by what means they operate. It is enough 
to us that we bare them, and many excellent uses 
for them ; one whereof (and a most necessary one) 
is a thankful reflection on the goodnesa of God who 
gave them. He might have made us in the very 
lowest form of creatures, insensible stocks or Btones ; 
or, if he had advanced na a step higher, he might 
have fixed us among mere animals, made us perhaps 
of the noxious, at best of the tamer, sort of beasts : 
but he has placed -us in the highest rank of visible 
creatures, and not only given " dominion over the 
works of his hands" (Ps. viii. 6), but has given us 
the use of reason, wherewith to manage that sove- 
reignty, without which we had ouly been the mora 
masterful sort of brutes. 

17. Yet still the soul is to be considered in a 
higher notion, that of its immortality and capacity 
of endless bliss ; and here, indeed, it owns its ex- 
traction, and is an image of the first Being, whose 
felicity is coexistent with himself- this, as it b the 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



40 TSB ART OF CONTBNTIfRNT. 

most transcendent accomplishmeDt of our nature, 
so it is most uaiversal. Whatever disparity there 
may be between man and man in other respects, 
yet in this all are equal. The poor beggar at the 
gate has a soul as capacious of eternal happiness, as 
he whose crumbs he begs for, nay, sometimes better 
prepared for it, ee that parable shews, Luke xvi. 21. 
And though the dignities of earth are the prize of 
the rich and noble, the subtle and designing, yet 
heaven is as easily mounted from the dunghill as 
the throne ; and an honest simplicity will sooner 
bring us thither than all the Machiavellian policy. 
Nay, God has not only designed us to so glorious 
an end, but has done all on his part to secure us of 
it — sent his Son to lead us the way, his Spirit to 
qnicken us in it. We need not dispute how uni- 
versal this is ; it is sure it concerns all to whom I 
am now speaking, — those that are within the pale 
of the Church : and if it should prove confined to 
them, the more peculiar is their obligation, that are 
thus singled out from the rest of the world, and the 
greater ought to be their thankfulness. The hea- 
then philosopher made it matter of his solemn ac' 
Inowledgment to Fortune, that he was bom a 
Grecian, and not a barbarian ; and sure the advan- 
tages of our Christianity are of a much higher 
strain, and ought to be infinitely more celebrated. 
The apostle we fiud often applauding this glorious 
privilege, as that which makes us " fellow -citizens 
with the saints, and of the household of God"(£ph., 

« C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



CH. III.] OP OOb'b FMUMITBD BOUKTY. 41 

ii. 19); nay, vhicb elerates ua to a higher state, 
*' the adoption of bods" (GaL iv. 5) ; nor only sons, 
but " heirs also of God, and joint heirs with Christ" 
(Rom. viii. 17). And what ambitioD is there so 
greedj which this will not satisfy ? Yet this is our 
common state, the birthright of our regeneration, 
if we do not degrade ourselves, and, with Esau, 
ba«e]y sell our tide. 

18. And now methinks every man may interro- 
gate himself in the same form wherein Jonadab did 
Amnon : " Why art thou, bdng the king's son, thus 
lean from day to day ?'' (2 Sam. xiii. 4.) Why 
should a person who is adopted by the King of 
kingd thus languish and pineP What ia there 
below the sun worthy his notice, much less his 
desires, that hath a kingdom above it P Certainly 
did we but know how to estimate ourselves upon 
this account, it were impossible for us with such 
sordid condescensions to court erery petty woridly 
interest, and so impatiently vex ourselves when we 
cannot attain it Alas I how unworthily do we 
bear the name of Christians, when that which car- 
ried the forefathers of our faith through the most 
fiery trials cannot support us under the disappoint- 
ment of any extravagant desire I They had such 
"respect to the recompense of the reward" (Heb. 
xi. 26), as made them cheerfully expose their fame 
to ignominy, their goods to rapine, their bodies to 
the most exquisite tortures, and their litres to death. 
Yet the same hopes cannot work us to any tolerable 
b2 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



43 THB ABl 

degree of patieoce, when we suffer but the smallest 
diminution in any of these. What shall we say P Is 
heaven grown less valuable, or earth more, than it 
was then ? No, surely, but we are more infatuated 
in our estimates; we have so long abetted the 
rivalry of the handmaid, that the mistress, like 
Sarah, appears despicable. Like Jonah, we sit 
down sullen upon the withering of a gourd, never 
considering that God has provided ua a better shel- 
ter, " a building of God, eternal in the heavens" 
(2 Cor. T. I). Indeed, there can be no temporal 
destitution so great which such an expectation can- 
not make supportable. Were we in Job's condition, 
sitting upon a dunghill, and scraping ourselves with 
a potsherd, yet as long as we can say with him 
" our Redeemer liveth" (Job six. 25), we have all 
reason to say with bim also, " blessed be the name 
of the Lord" (ch. i. 21). What a madness is it 
then for us to expose ourselves to be pierced and 
wounded by every temporal adversity, who have so 
impenetrable an armour I nay, what an ungrateful 
contumely is it to that goodness of God, to shew 
that we cannot make him a counterpoise to the 
most trivial secular satisfaction ! on which account 
sure he may again take up that exprobrating' com- 
plaint we find in the prophet, " A goodly price that 
I was valued at by them" (Zech. xi. 13). 

19. But how mean soever he is in our eyes, 

' To exprobrate, — to chai|;e upon with repnwch. 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



though Christ seem the some to us in his glory 
which he did in hia abjection, to have no t>eautf that 
we should deaire him ; yet be pats another rate upoa 
himself, and tells us that he " that loves father of 
mother, son or daughter, more than me, is not 
worthy of me" (Matt x. S7). Now our love and 
our joy are passions coincident; and therefore what- 
ever we joy more in than we do in him, we may be 
.presumed to love better; and if he cannot endure 
the competition of those more ingenuous objects of 
our love he here mentions, how will he suffer that 
of our vanities, our childish, wanton appetites? 
And yet those are the things after which we so im- 
patiently rave. For I believe I may truly afHrm, 
that if there were a scrutiny made into all the dis- 
contents of mankind, for one that were fastened 
upon any great considerable calamity, there are 
many that are founded only in the irregularity of 
our own desires. 

20> By what has been said, we may justly con- 
elude in the prophet's phrase, " God hath not been 
to us a wilderness, a land of darkness" (Jer. ii. 31), 
but has graciously dispensed to us in all our inte- 
rests. Yet the instances here given are only com- 
mon, such as relate to all, or at least the far greater 
part of mankiud ; but what volumes might be made, 
should every man set down his own particular 
experiences of mercy I In that case it wonld be 
no extravagant hyperbole we find John xxii. 25, 
" that even the world itself could not contain 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



44 TBI AKI or COKTXNTinRT. 

the books which should b« written." God knows 
our memories are veiy frail, and our ohserrations 
slight in this point! yet abstnc^Dg from all the 
forgotten or neglected favours, what rast catalogues 
may every man make to himself, if he would but 
yet recollect what effects he has bad of God's 
bounty in giving, of his providence in protecting^ 
of his grace in restraining and exciting, of his 
patience in forbearing I And certainly all these 
productions of the Divine goodness were never de- 
signed to die in the birth. The Psalmist will tell 
us, " The Lord hath so done his marvellous works 
that they ought to be had in remembrance" (Ps. 
cxi. 8). Let every man then make it his daily care 
to recount to himself the wonders God hath done, 
as for the children of men in genera], so for himself 
in particular. When the Israelites murmured under 
their bondage, Pharaoh imputes it to their idleness, 
and prescribes them more work as the readiest cure : 
a piece, indeed, of inhuman tyranny in him, but 
may with equity and success be practised by us 
upon ourselves. When we find our appetites mu- 
tinous, complaining of our present condition, let ua 
set ourselves to work — impose it as a task upon our- 
selves to recollect the many instances of God's 
mercies. And surely, if we do it sincerely and with 
intention,^ we cannot have passed through half our 
stages before our sullen murmurs will be beat out 
of desire, closeneM ef 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. III.] OP ooD'e I7HLIUITXD bohntt. 4S 

of countenance, and retire with shame when they 
are confronted with such a cloud of witnesses, such 
signal teBtimonies of God's goodness to us : for 
when we have mustered up all our little grievances, 
most critically examined all our wants, we shall find 
them very unproportionable to our comforts and to 
our receipts; in which comparative notion the ue\t 
chapter is to consider them> 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CHAPTER IV. 



r TBI SUBFLITBAaB o: 



nlO regulate our estimate of those things 
I which we either enjoy or suffer, there 
are three precedent queries to be made: 
e first, of their number or plenty; 
the second, of their weight ; the third, of their con- 
stancy and continuance ; for according as they par- 
take more of these properties, every good is more 
good, and every evil is more evil. It will therefore 
be our best method of trial, in the preseut case, to 
compare our blessings and our calamities in these 
three respects. 

2. And first in that of plenty: the mercies of 
God are the source of all our good, are set out to 
us in holy Scripture in the most superlative stnun. 
They are " multitude" (Ps. cvi. 7); " plenteous 
redemption" (Ps. cxxx. 7); " as high as the heaven" 
(Ps.ciil.n). He "fills all things living with plen- 
teousness" (Ps. cxiv. 16). His mercies, indeed, are 



C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



CH. IT.] ENJOTUENTS ABOVE SDFFBftlHGS. 47 

such as come not within tbe compass of number, 
but stretch themselves to infinity, and are best re- 
presented by such a calculation as God made to 
Abraham, when he shewed the ntimerousness of his 
posterity by the innumerableness of the stars (Gen. 
XV. 5). Wefe there but a single mercy apportioned 
to each minute of our lives, the sum would arise 
very high ; but how is our arithmetic confounded 
when every minute has more than we can distinctly 
Dumber I For, besideB the original stock men- 
tioned in the last chapter, and the accession of new 
bounty, the giving us somewhat which we had not 
before, what an accumulative mercy is it, the pre- 
serving what we have I We are made up of so 
many pieces, have such varieties of interests, spi- 
ritual, temporal, public and private, for ourselves, 
for our friends and dependents, that it is not a con- 
fused general regard that will keep all in security 
one moment. We are like a vast building, which 
costs as much to maintun as to erect ; and indeed, 
considering the corruptibleness of our materials, 
our preservation is no less a work of Omnipotence 
than our first forming; nay, perhaps it is rather a 
greater. Our original clay, though it had no apt- 
ness, yet it had no aversions to the receiving a 
human form, but was in the hand of the potter to 
make it what he pleased ; but we now have prin- 
ciples of decay within ub, which vehemently tend to 
dissolution : we want the supplies of several things 
without us, the failing whereof returns us again to 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



48 THE AET OF CONTBNTMBNT. 

our dust. Nay, we do not only need the aid, but we 
fear the hostility of outward things : that very air 
which sometimes refreshes us may at another starve 
and freeze us ; that which warms and comforts us has 
also a power of consuming us ; yea, that very meat 
which nourishes may choke and stifle us. In a 
word, there is no creature so despicable, so incon- 
siderable, which may not sometimes serve us, and 
which may not at any time (if God permit) ruin us. 
Now, whence is it that we so constantly, so fre- 
quently find the good, the benign eflicacy of these 
things, and so seldom, so rarely the evil P Whence, 
I say, is it, but from the active unwearied Provi- 
dence, which draws forth the better properties of 
the creatures for our use, and restrains the worse 
for our security; which, with a particular advert- 
ence, watches not only over every person, but over 
every several concern of that person ? And how 
astonishing a (wntemplation b this ! If the mere 
ebbing and flowing of the sea put the philosopher' 
into such an ecstasy, that he flung himself into it, 
because he could not comprehend the inscrutable 
cause of it ; in what perpetual raptures of admira- 
tion may we be, who have every minute within us 
and about us more and greater wonders, and those 
too in our favour, when we deserve rather the Di- 
vine Power should exert itself in our destruction I 
3. But, alas, our danger from the visible Grea> 
' The Btnry is related of Aristotle ; but it is not worthy of 
credit — En. 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH, IV.] HNIOYMBNTB ABOVS SUFFBRINQB. 49 

tures is little compared with that from the spiritu 
of darkness : " We wrestle not only with flesh and 
blood, but with principalities and powers, with spi- 
ritual wickedness," &c. (Eph. vi. 12.) So inveterate 
is the enmity between the serpent and the seed of 
the woman in general, that he watches all advan- 
tages against us, not only in our souls, but even our 
bodies, our goods, and in evety part of our concerns. 
Thus we see he not only assaulted Job's soul by 
the wicked insinuations of his wife, but (with more 
effect) his body with boila and sores, his possessions 
by the Chaldeans and Sabeans, and the images of 
himself, his dearest children, by a wind from the 
wilderness (Job i.). And can we think his malice 
is now worn out ? No, surely he still wishes as ill 
to mankind as ever; and we should soon see the 
woful effects of it, did not the same Power which 
let him loose for Job's trial restrain him for our 
safety : nay, had he but power to affright, though 
not to hurt us, evea that would make our life very 
uncomfortable. We cannot hear the relation of 
spirits or apparitions but our blood chills upon it, 
and a horror runs through our veins; what should 
we then do, if he ehonld make his night-walks 
through our chambers, and with hb illusory terrors 
disturb our rest I Yet all this, and much more, be 
would do, if God did not chain up this " old dra- 
gon" (Rev. sx.) ; nay, if be were not at the expense 
of a guard about us, and those no less than angels. 
I shall not dispute whether every person h^Uh not 



50 TSR AST OF conTBirriiRNT. 

his pecaliar guardian ; for, though many have not 
improbably asserted it, we have ground enough of 
acquiescence in the genend affirmation of the apostle, 
" that they are all ministering spirits, sent forth to 
minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation" 
(Heb. i. 14). And now, if the reader please to snm 
np how many are his concerns, and how many are 
the dangers which await him in them all, he cannot 
sure render the accoont of those mercies which 
preserve the one and divert the other in any other 
phrase than that of the Psalmist, " Tbey are more 
than I am able to express" (Ps. xl. 7)- 

4. We may now challenge the most miserable 
or tha most querulous man living to produce causes 
of complaint proportionable to those of thanksgiving. 
He that has the greatest stock of calamities can 
never vie with the heaps of benefits; the dispropor- 
tion is greater than that of the armies of Ahab and 
Benhadad, whereof the one was like " two little 
flocks of kids, the other filled the country" (I Kings 
5x. 27). God has told us that he " afflicts not 
willingly, nor grieves the children of men" (Lam. 
iii. SS); whereas, on the contrary, he " delighteth in 
mercy" (Mic- vii. 18). We may judge by ourselves 
which he is likeliest often to repeat, those acts which 
he doth with regret and reluctancy, or those which 
he does with pleasure and delight. But we need no 
inferences where we have the attestation of experi- 
ence. Let every man, therefore, make this his judge 
in the case; let him every night recollect how many 



Ca. IV,] BNIOTUBNTS ABOVE SUPFBSINOE. SI 



things within and about him he ia concerned in ; 
and conaider how many of those have been pre- 
Krved entire to him, still accounting every thing 
BO continued as a new donation. If he begin with 
his spiritual state, it is too possible he may some- 
times find he has lost his itinocence, committed 
some, perhaps many, sins ; but even in these be will 
find cause to justify God, if he do but recollect with 
what inward checks and admonitions, and outward 
restnuDts, God has endeavoured to bridle him. If 
he will break through those fences, that does not 
at all derogate from the mercy of God, which so 
guarded him ; but it rather illustrates his goodness, 
that, after so many quenchings of his Spirit, does 
yet continue its iaSuence. So that even he that 
has the most deplorably violated hie integrity, is yet 
to confess that God's purpose was to have preserved 
it entire ; and he might really so have kept it, had 
he complied with those aids which were afforded 
him. But in temporal coocerns we are not so apt 
to undennioe ourselves, and therefore shall more 
rarely find we have suffered detriment in them than 
in our spiritual ; but are there ordinarily like to 
meet with a better account. Let a man, therefore, 
consider what Is lacking to him of all the secular 
good things he had in the morning, and tell me 
whether, for the most part, he may not give such an 
account as the Israelitish officers did of their men 
after the slaughter of the Midianites, '■ that he hath 
not lost one" (Num. xxxi. 49) ; or if sometimes 



52 THE AST OP CONTENTMEtn'. 

lie do suffer a diminution, yet at the worst lie will 
tiod that many more good things have been pre- 
served to him than have been taken from him. A 
man may perhaps meet with some damage in his 
estate, yet it is manifold odds that that damage is 
but partial, and that he has still more left than id 
lost; or if it be more entire, yet if he have his 
health, his limbs, his senses, his friends, and all 
things beside his estate left him, so that for one 
thing he has lost he still retains a multitude, he 
may say of it as the disciples of the few loaves, 
" What is this among so many ?" (John vi. 9<) 
Aristippus being bemoaned for the loss of a farm, 
replied, with some sharpness, upon hid condoler, 
" You have but one field, and I have yet three left; 
why should I not rather grieve for you ?" intimating 
that a man is not so much to estimate what he has 
lost a^ what he has left. A piece of wisdom, which 
if we would transcribe, we might quickly convince 
ourselves that even in our most adverse estate there 
are, as Elisha speaks, " more with us than agunst 
us" (2 Kings vi 16) ; that our enjoyments are more 
than our sufferings ; and God's acts of grace do far 
outnumber those of his severity. 

5. And as they do outnumber, so also do they 
outweigh them. The mercies we receive from God 
are (as the last chapter has shewn) of the greatest 
importance, the most substantia solid goods ; and 
the greatest of all — I mean those which concern 
our eternal state — are so firmly fixed on us, that 



CH. IT.] XNIOTHBHTS ABOTB SnFFSBIWSB. 53 

unless we will voluntarily quit our claim, it is not 
in the power of men or devils to defeat iis. Light 
bodies are easily blown away by erery gust of wind; 
but this " weight of glory," as the apostle calls it 
(2 Cor. iv. 17), continues firm and stable, is proof 
against all storms, like the " shadow of a great rock 
in a weary land" (Is. zzzii. 2). Those dark adum- 
brations we have of it might have served to refresh 
and deceive the tediousnees of our pilgrimage ; and 
therefore the most formidable calamities of this life 
are below all measures of comparison with this hope 
of our calling, this " riches of the glory of our in- 
heritance" (Eph. iii. 16). The heaviest and most 
pressiug of our afflictions are to that " but like the 
small dust of the balance" (Is. x\. 15); so that if we 
should here stop our inquisition, we have a sufficient 
resolution of the present question, and must con- 
clude, that God has given us an abundant counter- 
poise of all we either do or caa suffer here. 

6. If, therefore, there be any so forlorn as to 
temporals, that he can fetch thence no evidence 
of God's fatherly care of him, yet this one con- 
sideration may solve his doubts, and convince him 
that he is not abdicated by him. We read of no 
" gifts" Abraham gave Isaac, yet to the sons of the 
concubines it is said he did (Gen. xxv. 6). It had 
been a very fallacious inference if Isaac should have 
concluded himself neglected, because his far greater 
portion was but in reversion. And it will be the 
fame in any of us, if we argue an unkindneea from 



J 



54 THB AHT OP COVTEHTHENT. 

any temporal wants, who have the entail of an eter- 
nal inheritance. But surely " God does not leave 
himself without witness" (Acts xiv. 17) even in 
secular things : there is no man breathing but has 
some blessings of his left hand aa well as his right, 
as I have already mentioned ; and unless it be some 
few prodigies of calamity, in whose punishment or 
patience God designs signally to glorify himself, 
there are none who enjoy not greater comforts of 
life than those they want — I mean such as are really- 
greater, though perhaps to their prejudiced fancies 
they do not appear so. Thus in point of health, if 
a man be disaffected in one part, yet all the rest of 
his body may be, and often is, well ; or if he have a 
complication, and have more than one disease, yet 
there is no man that has all, or half so many as arc 
incident to human bodies ; so that he is compara- 
tively more healthy than sick. So, again, it is not 
very common for a man to lose a limb or sense ; 
the generality of men keep them to their last ; and 
they who do, have in that an overbalance to most 
outward adversities ; and even they who are so un- 
happy to lose one, yet commonly keep the rest, at 
least the major part ; or if at any time any man 
is left a mere breathing trunk, yet it is by such 
stupifying diseases as deaden the senses, or such 
mortal ones as soon take them away, and so the 
remedy overtakes the malady. Besides, it pleases 
God very often to make compensation for the want 
of one member or faculty by improving the use of 



CH. IV. "I ENJOTMENTS ABOVE SUFFBKIKOS. ' 55 

another. We have seen feet supply all the nece«- 
lary uses of hands to those who have had none ; and 
it is a thing of daily observation, that men that are 
blind have the greater internal light, have their in- 
tellects more vigorous and active by their abstrac- 
tions from visible objects. 

7. Thus also it is in the matter of vealth : he 
that is forced to get his bread by the sweat of his 
bron, it b true he cannot have those delicacies 
wherewith rich men abound ; yet his labour helps 
him to a moi« poignant, a more savoury sauce than 
a whole collie of epicures can compound. His 
hunger gives a higher gust to his dry crust than 
the surfeited stomach can find in the most costly, 
most elaborate mixtures : so verifying the observa- 
tion of Solomon, " The full soul loatheth the honey- 
comb, but to the hungry soul every bitter thing is 
sweet" (Prov. xxvii. 7). He cannot indeed " stretch 
himself upon his bed of ivory" (Amos vi. 4); yet 
his sleeps are sounder than those that can. The 
wise mas telb us, and experience does so too, that 
" the sleep of a labouring man is sweet" (Eccles. 
V. 12)> He is not clothed gorgeously, has not the 
splendour of glittering apparel ; so neither has he 
the care of contriving it, the fears of being fore- 
stalled in a new invention, or any of those unmanly 
solicitudes which attend that vanity. He has the 
proper genuine use of clothing, the preventing 
shame and cold, and is happily determined to that 
which the wiser men of the world have voluntarily 



S6 TBR AKT OF COKTXimiBKT. 

chosen. To conclude, he has one advantage be- 
yond all these: his necessities rescue him from 
idleness, and all its consequent temptations; which 
is so great a benefit, that if rich men be not their 
own taskmasters, as his wants are his, — if they do 
not provide themselves of business, — that one want 
of theirs is infinitely more deplorable than all his; 
and he is not only happy, comparatively, with him- 
self, in having better things than he wants, but 
with them also. 

8. If we come now to reputation and fame, the 
account will be much the same. He that is pjni- 
nent in the world fot some great achievement, is 
set up as an object ot every man's remark; when, 
as his escelleneies on the one hand are visible, so 
his faults and blemishes are on the other; and as 
human faulty makes it too probable these latter 
will be really more, so human envy makes it sure 
that ihej shall be more precisely, more curiously 
observed, and more loudly blazoned. So that, upon 
the whole, a good quiet security, though it be not 
the road to glory, yet it is the likeliest fence against 
infamy. And, indeed, he that can keep up the re- 
pute of a sober integrity within his own private 
sphere, need not envy the triumphant sallies of 
others, which often meet with a fatal turn at the 
latter end of the day. But it will be sud, that even 
that more moderate sort of reputation is not every 
man's portion ; but that many lie under great igno- 
miny and scandals. I shall here ask, whether those 



CH. .v.] 

be just or unjuat. If they be just, they belong Dot 
to our present subject, which relates only to those 
iaflictioos which are the effects of God's immediate 
providence, not of our onn crimes; for I never 
doubted but that by those we may divest ouraelves 
of any, nay, of all the good things God has designed 
us. But if the obloquy be unjust, it is probable 
that it is taken up only by ill men, and that the 
good pass a more equitable sentence; and then 
surely the attestation of a. few such is able to out- 
weigh a multitude of the others. And in this case, . 
a man may not only find patience, but pleasure in 
reproaches. Socrates looked with trouble and jea- 
lousy on himself when ill men commended him, 
saying, "What ill have I done?" And sure a 
Christian haa a farther reason to be pleased with 
their revilings, they being his security against the 
" woe" pronounced to those " whom all men speak 
welt of" (Luke vi. 26). But sometimes it happens 
that even good men are seduced ; and either by the 
artifices of the wicked, or their own too hasty cre- 
dulity, give credit to unjust reports. And this, I 
confess, is a sharp trial to the injured person ; yet 
even this cannot often be universal. There can 
scarce be any innocence so forlorn but that there 
may be opportunities of clearing it to some or 
other, and by them propagating it to more. And 
if the cloud ever come to be dispersed, their fame 
will appear with the brighter lustre. But if none 
uf this happen, they have yet a certain and more 

Google 



58 THE ART OF COMTENTMBNT. 

blessed retreat, — even an app^l to the unerriDg 
Judge, who never beholds us with more approba- 
tion than when we are under the unjast condemna- 
tion of men. Indeed, we have then a doable tie 
upon him ; not only his justice, but his pity is 
concerned in our cause. God parliculariy owns 
himself as the refuge of the oppressed, and there 
is scarce a sharper and more sensible oppression 
than this of calumny; yet even thb proves advan- 
tage, whilst it procures God's immediate patronage, 
. makes ua the objects of his more peculiar care and 
compassion, who can " make our righteousness 
as clear as the light" (Ps. xxxvii. 6), if he see it 
fit; but if in his wisdom he choose not that for 
us, it is comfort enough for us that we have ap- 
proved it to him. It was Elkanab's question to 
Hannah in her disconsolation, " Am not I better to 
thee than ten sons?" (1 Sam. i. 8.) And sure we 
may say the like of God's approbation, that it is 
better to us, I say not than ten, but ten thousand 
eulogies of men. The very echo of it in the testi- 
mony of a good conscience is an unspeakable com- 
fort; and this voice sounds more audibly, more 
sweetly, among the loudest, the harshest accusations 
of men. So that we see even this assault too is 
not without its guard ; and these « waters of Ma- 
rsh" {Ex. XT. 23) may be rendered not only whole- 
some, but pleasant. 

9. I have now instanced, in the three most ge- 
neral concerns of human life, the body, goods, and 



Ci 



CH. IV.] BHJOTMBNTS ABOTB St*FKKKQ8. 59 

f^e ; to which heads may be reduced moBt of the 
afflictions incident to our outward stEtte, as far as 
immediately concerns ourselves. But there is no 
Riao stands so single in the world, but he has som« 
relations or friends in which he thinks himself in- 
lerested. And many times those oblique strokes 
which wovnd us through them are as painful as 
the moat direct. Yet here also God is ordinarily 
pleased to provide some allays, if we would but 
take notice of them. He who has had one friend die, 
has ordinarily divers othen surriTing ; or if he have 
not ibxt, Tisaally God raises him up atfaers. It is 
true we cannot have asuccession of fathers and mo- 
ibers, yet we often have of other friends that are no 
!es3 helpful to us; and indeed there are scarce in 
any thing more remarkable evidences of Providence 
than in this particular. " He that is able out of 
stones to raise up children to Abraham" (Matt. 
iiL 9)i does many times, by as unexpected a pro- 
duction, supply friends to the desolate. But we do 
sometimes lose our friends while they are living — 
they withdraw their kindness, which is the soul of 
fnendsbip ; and if this happen by our own demerit, 
we can accuse neither God nor them for it; nor 
can we rationally expect that God should provide 
supplies, when we wilfully despoil ourselves. But 
when they are unkind without provocation, then is 
the season for His interposition, who uses to take 
up those whom " father and mother forsake" (Ps. 
xxvii. 10). And we frequently see signal proofs 



of hiB care, in exciting the compassions of other 
fricDds and relatives, or, perhaps, of mere stran- 
gers; nay, Hometimes God makes the inhumanity 
of a man's relations the occasion of his advantage. 
Thus the barbarous malice of Joseph's brethren 
was the first step to his dominion over Egypt. 
And it is a common observation in families, that 
the most discountenanced child oft makes better 
proof than the darling. 

10. We are yet liable to a third affliction, by 
the calamity of our friends, which, by the sympathy 
of kindness, presses us no less (perhaps more) sen- 
sibly than our own ; but, then, it is to be considered 
that theirs are capable of the same allaying circum- 
stances that ours are, and God has the same arts of 
alleviating their burdens : so that we have the same 
arguments for acquiescence in their sufferings that 
we have in our own, and shall do a more friendly 
office in impressing those upon them than in the 
most passionate adopting their sorrows. 

11. The last and greatest discomfort from friends 
is that of their sin ; and if ever we may be allowed 
that disconsolate strain of the prophet, " Turn away 
from me, I will weep bitterly ; labour not to comfort 
me" (Is. xxii. 4), — this seems to be the time; yet 
even this " valley of Achor* is not without a door 
of hope" (Hos. ii. 15). A vicious person may be 

' The Taller "f trouble, out of which the IsraeliteB timad 
" a door of hope," when their tronblea were followed by signal 
victorieB. See Joshua viL 26, and the next chapter. 



J BKJOTNBNTS ABOTB SVFFBBINOB. 61 



recalled ; multitudes have been : so that as long as 
God continues life, we ought no more to deposit 
our hope, than to quit our endeavour. Besides, 
there are few that make this complaint that have 
not something to balance, or, at least, to lighten it. 
1 shall instance in that relation which is the nearest 
and most tender, — that of a parent. He that has 
one bad child may have divers good. If he have 
but one virtuous, it is a very great mercy ; and it is 
another, that he may be the better taught to value 
it by the opposition of the contrary, fiut if any 
be so unhappy as to have many children, and " ^1 
to consume his eyes and grieve his heart" (1 Sam. 
ii. 33), it may be a seasonable reflection for him to 
esamine how far he has contributed to it, either by 
Eli's fond indulgence, or by a remiss and careless 
education, or, which is worst of all, by his own 
impious example. If any or all of these be found 
the cause, he is not so much to seek for allays to 
his grief as for pardon of his sin. And when he 
has penitently retracted his own faults, he may then 
have better ground of hope that God may reform 
those of his children. In the meantime, he may 
look on his own affliction in them as God's disci- 
pline on him, and gather at least this comfort from 
it, that his heavenly Father has more care of him 
thanbeiiad of his, and does not leave him uncor- 
rected. 

12. Thus we see, in all the concerns which are 
the most common and important of human life, and 

C.o>,gk 



63 THB ART OF CONTBNTIISKT. 

wherdD the justest of our complaints are usually 
founded, there ia such a temperature and mixture, 
that the good does more than equal the ill, and 
that not only in the grosser bulk, when our vhde 
state is weighed together, but in every single braoch 
of it ; God having herein dealt with this little world 
man, as h« has done with the greater, wherein be 
is observed to have furnished every country with 
specific remedies for their peculiar diseases. I hare 
only given these short hints by way of essay and 
pattern for the reader's contemplation, which, when 
he shall have extended to all tliose more misute 
particulars wherdn he is especially coacBroed, more 
curiously compared his sufferings wilJi his allays 
end comforts, — I cannot doubt but he will own 
himself an instance of the truth of the present 
thesis, and confess that he baa much more cause of 
thankfulness than complaint. 

13. This I say, supposing bis aiflit^ions to be 
of those more solid and considerable sorts I bare 
before mentioned. But how many are there who 
have few or none of such, who seem to be seated 
in the land of Goshen— in a place exempt from all 
the plagues that infest their neighbours ? And 
those, one would think, should give a ready suffrage 
to this conclusion, as having no temptatim to op- 
pugn it. Yet I doubt it is far otherwise, and that 
such men are, of all, the most unsatisfied. For 
though they have no crosses of God's imposing, 
they usually create a multitude to themselves. And 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. IV.] BNJOTHBNTS ABOVE SUFFBBINOS. 63 

faere ve may say with David, " It is better to fall 
into the band of God than into the hand of man" 
(2 Sam. xxiv. 14): it is easier to bear the afflic- 
tions God seods than those we make to ourselves. 
His are limited hotii for quantity and quality, but 
our own are as boundleas as those extravagant de- 
sires from which they spring. 

14. And this is the true cause why contentment 
is so much a stranger to those who have all the 
outward caoses of it, — they have no definite mear 
sure of their desires. It b not the supply of all 
their real wants will serve their turn ; their appe- 
titee are precarious, and depend upon conUngen- 
cies. They hunger not because they are empty, 
but because others are full. Many a man would 
have liked his own portion well enough, had he not 
seen another have something he liked better. Nay, 
even the most inconsiderable things acquire a value 
1^ being another's, when we despise much greater 
of our own. Ahab might well have satisfied him- 
self with the kingdom of Israel, had not Naboth's 
poor plot lain in bis eye ; but so raving were hia 
desires after it, that he disrelishes all the pomps of 
a crown, yea the ordinary refreshment of nature — 
" can eat no bread," till he have that to furnish him 
with salads (1 Kings sxi. 2). And how many are 
there now-a-days whose clothes sit uneasy, if they 
see another have had but the luck to be a little 
more ingeniously vain ; whose meat is unsavoury, if 
they have seen but a greater rarity, a newer cookery. 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



64 THR ittT OP CONTBKTHBNT. 

at anotber's table ; in a word, who make other peo- 
ple's excesses the standard of their own felicities I 

15. Nor are our appetites only excited thus by 
our outward objects, but precipitated and hurried 
on by our inward lusts. The proud man so longs 
for homage and adoration, that nothing can please 
him, if that be wanting. Haman can find no gust 
iu all the sensualities of the Persian court, because 
a poor despicable Jew denies bis obeisance (Esth. 
V. 13)> The lustful so impatiently pursues his im- 
pure designs, that any difficulty he meets in tbem 
makes him pine and languish like Amnon, who 
could no way recover his own health but by vio- 
lating his sister's honour (2 Sam. xiii. 14). The 
revengeful labours under an hydropic' thirst till 
he have the blood of his enemy; all the liquor of 
Absolom's sheep- shearing could not quench his, 
without the slaughter of his brother (2 Sam. xiii. 
29). And thus every one of our passions keeps us 
upon the rack till they have obtained their designs; 
nay, when they have, the very emptiness of those ^ 
acquisitions is a new torment, and puts us upon 
fresh pursuits. Thus, between the impetuousness 
of our desires and the emptiness of our enjoyments, 
we still " disquiet ourselves in vain" (Ps. xssix. 7)- 
And whilst we have such cruel tajskmasters, it b 
not strange lo find us groaning under our burdens. 
If we will indulge all our vicious or foolish appe- 
tites, think our lives bound up with them, and so- 
» Hydropie, — dropsical 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CR. IV.'] KKJOYHBNTS ABOVB SDPVBRJirQB. 65 

licit the satisfaction of them with as impatient a 
vehemence as Rachel did for children, " give me 
them, or I die" (Geo. xxz. 1), — do wonder that we 
are always complaiDing of disappointments, since in 
these the very success is a defeat, and is bat the 
exchanging the pain of a craviog ravenous stomach 
for that of a cloyed and nauseated. Indeed, men 
of this temper condemn themselves to a perpetual 
restleMness ; they are like fantastic mutineers, who, 
when their superiors send them blanks to write 
their own conditions, know not what will please 
them ; and even Omnipotence itself cannot satisfy 
these till it have new moulded them and reduced 
their desires to a certainty. 

16. But in the meantime how unjustly do they 
accuse God of illiberality, because every thing an- 
swers not their humoar I He has made them rea- 
sonable creatures, and has provided them satisfac- 
tions proportionable to their nature ; but if they 
will have wild irrational espectations, neither bis 
wisdom nor his goodness is concerned tu satisfy 
those. His supplies are real and solid, and there- 
fore have no correspondence to imaginary wants. 
If we will create such to ourselves, why do we not 
create an imaginary satisfaction to them ? It were 
the merrier frenzy of the two to be like the mad 
Athenian, that thought all the ships that came into 
the harbour his own ; and it were better, Ixion like, 
to have our arms filled with a cloud, than to have 
them perpetually beating our own breasts, and be 
o2 



66 THE ART or CONTBNTUBMT, 

Btill tormenting ourselves with unsatisfiable desires. 
Vet this is the state to which lueD voluntarilv sub- 
ject themselves, and theu quarrel at God because 
they will not let themselves be happy. But sure 
their very complaints justify tiod, and argue that 
he has dealt very kindly with them, and afforded 
them all the necessary accommodatious of life; for 
did they want them, they would not be so sensihte 
of the want of the other. He that is at perfect 
ease may feel with some vexation the biting of a 
flea or gnat, which would not be at all observable 
if he were upon the rack. And should God change 
the scene, and make these nice people feel the des- 
titution of necessaries, all these regrets about super- 
fluities would be overwhelmed. In the meantime, 
how deplorable a thing :s it, that we are still the 
poorer for God's bounty, — that those to whom he 
has opened his hand widest should open their mouth 
so too in outcries and murmurs I For I think I 
may say, that generally those that are the farthest 
removed from want are so from content too ; they 
take no notice of all the real substantial blessings 
they enjoy ; leave these (like the ninety-nine sheep 
in the wilderness) forgotten and neglected, to go in 
quest after some fugitive satisfaction, which, like a 
shadow, flies still faster in proportion to their pursuit. 
17. And now, would God they eould be recalled 
from this unprofitable chase, and instead of the 
horseleech's note, " Give, give" (Prov. xxx. 15), 
take up that of the Psalmist, " What shall I render 



to the Lord for all the benefits he hath dune unto 
me ?" (Pb. csvi. 12.) Let them count how maay 
valuable, or rather inestimable, things they have 
received from his mercy, and then confront tbem 
with those corrections they have found from bis 
justice ; and if they do this impartially, I doubt not 
they will find wherewithal to check their highest 
mutinies, and will join with me in confessing that 
their good things abundantly outweigh their ill. 

18. If now we carry on the comparison to the 
last circumstance, and consider the constancy, we 
shall find as wide a difference. Let us take the 
Psalmist's testimony, and there will appear a very 
distant date of his mercies and punbhments : " His 
mercies endure for ever" (Ps. cxssvi.) ; whereas his 
wrath " endures but the twinkling of an eye" (Ps. 
xsx. 5). And accordingly God owns his acts of 
severity as his "strange work" (Is. xsviii. 21), that 
which he resorts to only upon special emergen- 
cies ; but his mercies " are renewed every morning" 
(Lam. iii. '23). And doubtless we may all upon trial 
affirm the same. There are many of the most ne- 
cessary comforts of life which do not only some- 
times visit us as guests, but dwell with us as in- 
mates and domestics. How many are there who 
have lived in a perpetual affluence from their cra- 
dles to their graves — have never known what it is to 
want ! And though the goods of fortune are, per- 
haps, less constant to some, yet the refreshments of 
nature are usually so to us all. We eat and drink, 

Googk 



68 TMB ART or COHTBNTMSNT, 

we sleep, we recreate, we converse in a continued 
circle, and go our round almost as constantly as 
the sun does bis. Or if God does sometimes ■ 
little interrupt us in it — put some short restraint 
upon our refreshments, — yet that, companttively to 
the time we enjoy them, is but proportionaUe to 
the stop he has sometimes made of the sun (Jos. 
J. 13 ; 2 Kings xs. 8), or of the sea (Ex. xiv. 21), 
whicti, as they were no subversions of the course of 
nature, so neither are those short pauses he some- 
times makes, a repeal of those fixed and customary 
benefits bia providence usually allots ua. But who 
is there can say that any one of his afflictions has 
been of equal continuance, or has pressed him with 
so few intermisaions ? Perhaps he may have missed 
some few nights' sleep ; but what is that to a twelve 
month's, or perhaps a whole life's enjoying it? It 
is possible his stomach and his meat have not al- 
ways been ready together; but how much oftener 
have they met to his delight p and generally those 
things that are most useful are but rarely inter- 
rupted. Nay, to a great many even the delicacies 
of life are no less constant, and their luxuries are 
as daily as their bread ; whereas, unless their vices 
or their fancies create uneasinesses to them, those 
that come immediately from God's hand make 
long intermissions and short stays. Yet for all 
this, they that should measure by the incessantness 
of men's complaints would judge tliat the scene was 
(]uite reversed, and that our good things are, as 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



CH. IT.] BMJOTHBNTS ABOTB SU9PBBIR08. 69 

Job speaks, " swifter than a weaver's shuttle" (Job 
vii. 6) ; whilst our ilb, like Gebazi's leprosy, " cleave 
inseparably to us" (2 Kings t. 27)< 

19. The truth is, we will not let ourselves enjoy 
those intervals God allows us; but when a calamity 
does retire, we will still keep it in fiction and imagi- 
nation, revolve it in our minds, and because it is 
possible it may return, look upon it as not gone. 
Like aguish patients, we count ourselves sick on 
our well-day, because we expect a fit the next. A 
strange stupid folly thus to court vexation, and be 
miserable in chimera. Does any man, or indeed 
any beast, desire to keep a distasteful relish still in 
his mouth, to chew the cud upon gall and worm- 
wood ? Yet certtunly there are a multitude of people 
whose lives are embittered to them merely by these 
fantastic imaginary sufierings. Nor do we only 
fright ourselves with images and ideas of past cala- 
mities, but we dress up new bugbears and mormoes,' 
are poetic and aerial in our inventions, and lay ro- 
mantic scenes of distresses. This is a thing very 
incident to jealous natures, who are always raising 
alarms to themselves. A suspicious man looks on 
every body with dread. One man he fears has 
designs upon his fortune, another on his reputation, 
perhaps a third upon his life ; whilst, in the mean- 
time, the only ill design against him is managed by 
himself, hb own causeless fears and jealousies, which 
put him in a state of hostility with all the world, 
' AforiHO, — bugbtar, felse terror. 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



70 THB ABT OF CONTaMTUBHT. 

and do often betray him to the very things be 
gTOnndlessly Buspected ; for it is not seldom seen 
that men have incurred real mischiefs by a fond 
solicitude of avoiding imaginary ones. I do not 
question but this is a state calamitous enough, and 
shall acknowledge it very likely that such persons 
shall have little or no trace from their troubles, who 
have such an unexhausted spring within themselves ; 
yet we may say to them as the prophet did to the 
house of Jacob, "Is the spirit of the Lord straitened? 
are these his doings?" (Mie. iL 7.) Such men must 
not cry out that God's hand lies heavy upon them, 
but their own ; and so can be no impeachment to 
the truth of our observations, that God's blessings 
are of a longer duration, keep a more fixed steady 
course than his punishments. The result of idl is, 
that the generality of mankind have good things 
(even as to temporak), which do in the three re- 
spects forementioned exceed the ilL I mean the 
true and real ills which God sends, though not those 
fanciful ones they raise to themselves. 

20. And now why should it not appear a reason- 
able proposition, that men should entertain them- 
selves with the pleasanter parts of God's dispensa- 
tions to them, and not always pore upon the harsher ; 
especially since the former are so much a fairer 
object, and perpetually in their eye, why should we 
look on the more saddening spectacles of human 
frailty or misfortune through all the magnifying 
optics our fancies can supply, and perversely turn 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. ly.] KKJ0TM1HT9 ABOVB iUFFKRIMOS. 71 

away our eyes from the cbeerfuler? Yet this, 
God knows, is too much the caie with most of us. 
How nicely and critically do we observe every little 
adverse accident of our lives ; what tragical stories 
of them do our memories present us with, when, 
alas, a whole current of prosperity glides by without 
our notice I Like little children, our fingers are 
never off the sore place, till we have picked every " 
little scratch into an ulcer. Nay, like the lewder 
sort of beggars, we make artificial sores, to give us 
a protence of complaint. And can we then expect 
God should concern himself in the cure? Indeed, 
in the course of his ordinary providence, there is no 
cure for such people, unless it be by revulsion, the 
making them feel the smart of some very great and 
pressing affliction. They thcrofore put tiiemselves 
under an unhappy dilemma, cither to continue their 
own tormentors, or to endure the severest course of 
God's discipline. It is true the la«t is the more 
eligible; but I am sure the best way is to prevent 
both, by a just and grateful sense of God's mercies, 
wbidi will be yet farther illustrated if wc compani 
them widi our own demerits. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



^T is the common fault of our nature, that 
ire yetf apt to be particJ to our* 
selveE, and to square our expectations 
more by what we wish than by what 
we deserve. Something of this is visible in our 
dealings with men. We oft " look to reap where 
we have not sown" (Matt, xxv, 26), expect bene- 
fits where we do none: yet in civil traDsactioos 
there are still remaining such footsteps of natural 
justice, that we are not universally so unreasonable; 
all traffic and commerce subsisting upon the prin- 
ciple of equal retribution, giving one good thing for 
another equivalent; so that no man expects to buy 
com with chaff, or gold with dross. But in our deal- 
ings with God we put off even this common equity, 
are vast in our expectations, but penurious and base 
in our returns; and as if God were our steward, 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



GH. v.] OF OCR DEMERIT TOWARDB SOD. 73 

not OUT Lord, we require of him, with a confideace 
proper only to those who ask their own : whilst in 
the interim, what we offer to him ia with such a 
disdainful slightuess, as if we meant it rather an 
alms than an homage. 

2. God is indeed so munificent, that he " pre- 
vents us with his blessings" (Ps. ni. S), gives us 
many things before we ask: had he not done so, we 
could not have been so much as in a capacity of 
asking. But though the first and fundamental mer- 
cies are absolute and free, yet the subsequent are 
conditional ; and accordingly we find in Scripture, 
that God makes no promise either concerning this 
life or a better, but on condition of obedience. The 
Jews, who had much larger proposab of temporal 
happiness than Christians have, yet never had them 
upon other terms. God expressly articled for the 
performance of his commands, and made all their 
enjoyments forfeitable upon the failure, — as we may 
see at large in the book of Deuteronomy, And 
under the Gospel, St, Paul appropriates the " pro- 
mises as well of this life as of that to come" unto 
godliness (1 Tim. iv. 8). It will therefore be a 
material inquiry for every man, whether he have 
kept his title entire, and have not, by breach of the 
condition, forfeited his cl^m even to the most com- 
mon ordinary blessings: for if he have, common 
reason will tell him he can challenge none; and 
that the utmost he can hope for must be only upon 
anew score of unmerited favour. 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



3. And here certainly " every mouth muat be 
stopped, and all the world become guilty before 
God" (Rom. iii. 19). For, alas, who b there that 
can say his obedience has been in any degree pro- 
portionable to his obligatioD P It is manifest we 
have all received abundantly from God's hand ; but 
what has he had from ours P I may challenge the 
best man to cast up the account of hia best day, 
and tell me whether his receipts have not infinitely 
exceeded his disbursements; whether, for any one 
good thing he has done, he has not received many. 
Nor b the disparity only in number, but much more 
in valuot God's works are perfect, all he does for 
us, like the first six days' productions, " are all very 
good" (Gen. i.) ; but, alas, our very " righteousness 
is as filthy rags" (Is. Ixiv. 6). We ofi'er him « the 
blind and the lame" (Mai. i. 8); a few yawning, 
drowsy prayers perhaps, wherein he has the least 
share ; the fuller current of our thoughts running 
towards our secular or sinful coucems. We drop, it 
may be, a scanty alms, wherein it is odds our vun- 
glory scrambles for a share with him, if it do sot 
wholly engross it. We sit an hour at a sermon, 
but it is rather to hear the wit or eloquence of the 
preacher than the word of God. Like the duller 
sort of animals, we like well to have our itching 
ears scratched ; but grow sturdy and restive when 
we should do what we are there taughL In a word, 
all our services at the best are miseraUy maimed 
and imperfect, and too often corrupt and unsound. 

CBiiisdJ-'Googlc 



CB. V.} OF OUB DHfBUT TOWAkDB OOD. 75 

So that God may well upbraid ns as he did Israel, 
" Offer it DOW to thy gorernor, will he be pleased 
with it?" (Mai. i. 8.) These very iniquities of our 
holy things are enough to defeat all our preteDces 
to any good from God's hand. Yet, God knows, 
this is much the best side of us ; it is Qot every one 
that can make bo f^r an appearance as this amounts 
to. With many there is no place to complain of 
the blemishes of their sacrifices, for they offer none ; 
of whom we may say, in the words of the Psalmist, 
" God is not in all their thou^ts" (Ps. x. 4). I 
fear there want not those who drive away the day, 
the week, nay, the year, without remembering in 
-whose " hand their time is" (Ps. ixxi. 17). or pay- 
ing him any solema tribute of it; who enjoy the 
services of all inferior creatures without considering 
that theirs are more due to the supreme Lord ; in a 
word, who live as if they were absolutely indepen- 
dent, had their eststence purely from themselves, 
and had no Creator, to whom they owed their being, 
or any consequent duty. And sure men who thus 
discard themselves from God's family have very 
little reason to expect the provisions of it : yet even 
such as these have the impudence to complain, if 
any thing be wanting to their needs (shall I say ?), 
or to their lusts ; can ravingly profane God's name in 
their impatiences, which they know not how to use 
in their prayers, — as if the Deity were considerable 
in no oth^ notimi than that of their caterer or 
steward. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



76 TBB AKT 07 CONTIMTHBtIT 

4. If, now, we seriously reflect, what can be more 
admirable than that infinite patience of God, who, 
Dotwithstaodingthemiserableinfinnities of the pious, 
and the lewd contempt of the impious, still goes on 
resolutely in his bounty, and continues to all man- 
kind some, and to some dl his temporal blessings I 
He has no obligation of justice to do so, for it is uo 
part of his compact ; he has none of gratitude, for 
he is perpetually affronted and disobliged. Surely 
we may well say with David, " Is this after the 
manner of men, O Loni?" (2 Sam. tu, 19.) Can 
the highest human indulgence bear any proportion 
inth this Divine clemency 7 No, certainly; no finite 
patience hut would be exhausted with the thousandth 
part of our provocations. 

5. But is not our dealing, too, as little after the 
manner of men — I mean of reasonable creatures? 
For us, who have forfeited our right to all, and yet 
by mere favour are still kept in the possession of 
many great blessings, — for us to grow mutinous, 
because there is perhaps something more trifling 
which is denied us, is such a stupid ingratitude as 
one would think impossible to human nature. Should 
a tenant with us have at once forfeited bis lease 
and maliciously affronted his landlord, he would 
sure think himself very gently dealt with, if he were 
suffered to enjoy but a part of bis first estate; but 
we should think him not only insolent, but mad, 
who, when the whole were left him, should quarrel 
and clamour if he might not have his cottage 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CB. v.] OF ODK DKMSKIT TOWARDS OOS. 77 

adorned with marble floors and gilded roofs. Yet 
at this wild rate we behave ourselves lo our great 
Xiandlord ; grow pettish and angry, if we have not 
every thing we can fancy, though we enjoy many 
more useful, merely by his indulgence. And can 
there be any thing imagined more unreasonable P 
Let us therefore) if not for piety, yet at least to jus- 
tify our claim to rationality, be more ingenuous; 
let us not consult only with our fond appetites, and 
be thus perpetually soliciting their satisfaction ; but 
rather reflect on what tenure vre hold what we 
already have, even that of superabundant mercy; 
and fear lest, like insolent beggars, by the impudence 
of our demands, we divert even that charity which 
was designed us. In short, let every man when he 
computes what he wants of his desires reckon as 
exactly how much he is short of his duty ; and 
when be has duly pondered both, he will think it a 
very gentle composition to have the one unsupplied, 
so he may have the other remitted ; and will see 
cause contentedly to sit down and say with honest 
Mepbiboshetli, " What right have I to cry any more 
unto the king?" (2 Sam. zix. 28.) But if it be 
thus with us upon the mere score of our imperfec- 
tions or omissioas, what an obnoxious state do our 
innumerable actual sins put us in 1 If the spots of 
our sacrifices are provoking, what are our sacrileges 
and bold profanations P If those who neglect or 
forget God are listed among his enemies, what are 
tfaoae who avowedly defy himp Indeed, he that 
h2 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



78 THE ART OF COKTBKTHBNT. 

soberly considers the world, and sees faow daringly 
the divine Majesty is daily affroDted, cannot but 
wonder that the perversions of our manners, those 
prodigies in morality, should not be answered with 
as great prodigies in calamity too ; that we should 
ever have other ruin than that of Sodom, or the 
earth serve us for any other purpose than to be, as 
it was to Korah (Numb, xvi,), our living sepulchre. 
6. Nor is this forbearance of God observable 
only towards the mass and collective body of 
mankind, but to every man in particular. Who 
is there that, if he ransack his conscience, shall 
not find guilts enough to justify God in the utmost 
severities towards him ; so that how much soever 
his punishments are short of that, so much he evi- 
dently owes to the lenity and compassion of God? 
And who b there that suffers in this world the 
utmost that God can inflict? We have a great 
many suffering capacities ; and if those were all 
filled up to the height, our condition would scarce 
differ from that of the damned in any thing but 
duration. But God is more merciful, and never 
inflicts at that rate on us here. Every man's expe- 
rience can tell htm that God discharges not his 
whole quiver at once upon him, but exempts him 
in many more particulars than he afflicts him ; and 
yet the same experience will probably tell most oi 
us that we are not so modest in our assaults upon 
God; we attack him in all his coucems (as far as 
our feeble malice can reachj — in his sovereignty, in 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CU, v.] OF OUE OBMBRIT TOWABDS OOD. 79 

hb honour, in bis relatives, nay, sometimes in his 
very essence and being. And as they are uoiTersal 
in respect of him, so also in regard of ourselves; 
we engage all our powers in this war ; do not only 
" yield," as the apoatle speaks, " our members in- 
struments of unrigbteouaness" (Rom. vi. 18), but 
we press them upon the service of sensual and vile 
luats even beyond our native propensions. Nor 
are only tbe members of our body, but tbe faculde! 
of our souls also thus employed. Our understand- 
ings are busied first in contriving sins, and then 
excuses and disguises for them. Our wills are yet 
more sturdy rebeb ; and when the understanding is 
beat out of all its outworks, yet sullenly keep their 
hold in spite of all conviction ; and our afiections 
madly rush on, " like the horse into the battle" 
(Jer. viii. 6), deterred by nothing of danger, so 
there be but sin enough in the attempt. 

7. And now with what face can people that 
thus pursue an hostility expect that it should not 
be returned to them P Does any man denounce 
war, and yet expect from his adversary all the 
caresses, the obligements of friendship ? Self-de- 
fence will prompt even the meekest nature to 
despoil hb enemy at least of those things which 
he uses to his annoyance; and if God should give 
way even to that lowest degree of anger, where or 
what were weP for since we employ our nhole 
selves against him, nothing but destruction can 
avert our injuries. But it is happy for us we have 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



80 THl AKT OF GOKTIIfTMBNT. 

to do vith One who caonot fear ua ; who knows the ; 
impotence of our wild attempts, and eo ^lays his 
reseDtm«it of our insolence witJi his pity of our 
follies. Were it not for this, we should not be left 
in a possibility so oft to iterate our provocations ; 
every wicked imagination and black design would 
be at once defeated and punished by infatuation and 
frenzy ; every blasphemous atheistical speech would 
wither the tongue, like that " arm" of Jeroboam 
which he stretched against the prophet (2 Kings 
xiii. 4) ; and every impious act would, like the pro- 
hibited retrospect of Lot's wife, fix us perpetual 
monunoents of Divine vengeuioe. 

8. And) then, how much do we owe to the 
mercy and commiseration of our God, that " he 
suffers not his whole displeasure to arue" (Ps. Ixxviii. 
S9) ; that he abates any tiling of that just severity 
he might use toward as I He that is condemned 
to the galiows would think it a mercy to escape 
with any inferior penalty : why have we, then, such 
mean thoughts of God's clemency when he descends 
to such low compositions with us, corrects us so 
lightly, as if it were only matter of ceremony and 
punctilio, the regard of his honour, rather than the 
execution of his wrath 7 For, alas, let him among 
us that is the most innocent, and undeservedly 
afflicted, muster up bis sins and sufferings, and he 
will see a vast inequality; and (had he not other 
grounds of assurance) would be almost tempted to 
think those were not the provoking cause, they are 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. v.] OF UDll DBVBKIT.TOWAEDB BOD. 81 

-SO unpraportionably answered I He sidb in innu- 
merable luatancee, and is punished in few ; he sins 
habitually and perpetually, and suffers rarely and 
seldom; DB.y, perhaps lie has sometimes sinned with 
greediness, and yet God has punished with regret 
and reluctancy. " How shall I give thee up, O 
Ephraim?" {Hos. xi, 8.) And when all the dispari- 
ties are considered, we muet certainly join heartily 
in Ezra's confession, " Thou, O God, hast punished 
us less than oui iniquities deserve" (Ezra ix. 13). 

9. Nay, besides alt our antecedent, we bave 
after-guilts no less provoking ; I mean our un- 
gnicious repiuings at the light chastisements of 
our former sins; our outcries upon every little 
uneasiness, which may justly cause God to turn 
our whips into scorpions, and, according as he 
tiireatened Israel, " to punish us yet seven times 
more" (Lev. sxvi. 18). And yet even this does 
Bot immediately exasperate him. The Jews were 
an instance how long he could bear with a mur- 
muring generation ; but certainly we of this nation 
are a greater ; yet " let us not be high-minded, but 
fear" (Rom. xi. 20) ; for we see at last the doom 
fell heavy, though it was protracted ; a auccessiou 
of miraculous judgments pursued those munnurers, 
so that not one of them entered Canaan. And it 
is very observable, that whereas to other sins God's 
denunciations are in Scripture conditional and re- 
versible, this was absolute, and bound with an 
oath : " He sware in his wrath, that they should not 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



wiler into hu lest" (Ps. xcr. II). Aud ^ if (ra 
compare the hardshipe of the iKaelites in the wil- 
demess with most of our sufferings, we shall be 
forced to confess our mutiaiea have less temptation, 
and consequently less excuse; frcHU whence it is 
very reasonable to infer, as the greatness of our 
danger if we persist, so the greatness of God's long- 
Buffering towards us, who yet allows us space to 
reform : and sure new complaints sound very ill 
from us, who are liable to so severe an account for 
our old ones. I fear the most resigned persMis of 
us will upon recollection find they have upon one 
occBMOn or other outvied the number of the Israd- 
ites' munnuTs: thu«fore, unless we will emulate 
them in their plagues, let ua fear to add one more^ 
lest that make up the fatal iiun, and render our 
destrucdou irrevocable. 

IOl Upon all these considerations, it appean 
how little reason any of us have to repine at our 
heaviest pressures. But there is yet a farther cir- 
cumstance to be adverted to, and is too applicable 
to many of us ; that is, that our sins are not only 
the constant meritorious cause of our sufferings, 
but they are also very often the instrumental cause 
also, and produce them not only by way of retalia- 
tion from God, but by a natural efficacy. Solomon 
tells us, he that " loves pleasure shall be a poor 
man" (Prov. zxi. 17) ; and that " a whorish woman 
will bring a man to a piece of bread" (vi. 26); 
that " he that sits long at the wine shall have red- 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



OB. v.] OF ova rKHRBIT TOWASOi GOD. 83 

nesB of eyes" (xxiii. 29, 30); that " tbe slothful 
soul shall suffer hunger" (zix. 15) ; and all these* 
not by immediate Bupematural infliction from God, 
but as the proper genuine effects of those respective 
vices. Indeed, God in his original establishment of 
things has made so close a connexion between sin 
and punishment, that he is not often put to exert 
lus power in any extrawdinarj way, but may trust 
OS to be our own lictors :' our own " backslidings 
reprove us" (Jer. ii. 19); " and our iniquities are" 
of themselves enough to " become our ruin" (Ezek. 
xviii. 30). 

1 1. It may, therefore, be a seasonable question 
for every man to put to himself, whether the trou- 
bles be labours under be not of this sort ; whether 
the poverty he complains of he not the effect of his 
riot and profusion, bis sloth and negligence ; whe- 
ther when he cries out that " his comeliness is 
turned into corruption" (Dan. x. 8)> he may not 
answer himself, that they are his visits to the har- 
lot's house, which have tbus made " rottenness 
enter into his bones" (Hab. iii. 16); whether when 
he is beset with contentions, and has wounds with- 
out cause, " he have not tarried long at the wine;" 
when he has lost his friend, whether he have not by 
some " treacherous wound" (Ecclus. xxti. 22) forced 
him to depart; or when he lies under infamy, whe- 
ther it be not only the echo of his own scandalous 

' lAtlon were Boduui officers emplajed (liVe oar besdlei 
sr MDstsblet) to apprdieiid tnd punish oriminsli. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



84 THB ART or CONTXHTMBHT. 

crimes. If he find it thus with him, certainly his 
moutli is stopped, and he cannot, without the most 
disingenuous impudence, complain ofanr but him- 
self. He could not be ignorant that such effects do 
natnrally attend such causes ; and therefore if he 
would take the one, he must take the other also. 
No man sure can be so mad as to think God should 
work miracles (disunite those things which nature 
hath conjoined), only that he may sin at ease, have 
all the bestial pleasures he can project, and none of 
the consequent smart We read, indeed, God di- 
vided the sea; but it was to make " the way for 
the ranaomed of the Lord to pass over" (Is. li. 10), 
those who were his own people, and went in at his 
command; but when they were secured, we find 
the waters immediately returned to their 'chiuinel, 
end oTerwhelmed the Egyptians, who ventured with- 
out the same warrant. And sure the case is alike 
here : when any man can produce God's mandate 
for him to run into all excess of riot, to desecrate 
the temple of the Holy Ghost, " and make his body 
the member of an harlot" (1 Cor. vi. 15); in a 
word, when God bids him do any of those things 
which God and good men abhor, then, and not 
before, he may hope he may sever such acts from 
their native penal efi'ects ; for till then (how profuse 
soever some legendary stories represent him) ho 
will cert^nly never so bestow his miracles. 

12. But I fear, upon scrutiny, there will appear a 
yet farther, circumstance upon which to arraign our 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. T.] OT OUB DUIBBIT TOWAHDB OOD. 85 

mutiaies ; for thongh it be uoreasonable enongii to 
charge God witb the ill effect of our own lewdness, 
yet it is a higher step to murmur because we have 
not materials to be wicked enough. And this I fear 
is the case with too many of us, who, though they 
are not so despoiled by their sins, but that they 
can keep up their round of vicious pleasures, yet 
are discontented because they think some others 
have them more exquisite, think their vices are not 
genteel enough unless they be very expensive, and 
are covetous only that they may be more luxurious. 
These are such as St. James speaks of, who " ask 
amiss, that they may consume it upon their lusts" 
(James iv. 3) ; and sure to be muUnous on this ac- 
count is one of the highest pieces of frenzy. Would 
any man in his wits tell another he will cut his 
throat, and then expect he should furnish him with 
a knife for it P And yet to this amonnt our mur- 
murs against God for his not giving us those things 
wherewith we only design to wage war with him ; 
for surely if the discontents of mankind were closely 
inspected, I doubt a great many would be found 
of this kind. It concerns the reader, therefore, to 
make the inquisition in his own breast, both in this 
and all the former particulars ; and I doubt not, if 
be do it with any ingenuity and uprightness, he will 
be abundantly convinced that for his few mites of 
obedience he pays to God, he receives talents of 
mercies (even temporal) from him ; and that on 
the other side, God as much underpays bis sins as 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



86 tBK AST or covTKiinnmT. 

he OTerpayi hie services : by which God doeg mit- 
ficiently attest bow little he delights io our afflictioD, 
how gladly he takes any light occasion of caressiog 
and cherishitig, and overskips those of punishing 
na; which sure ought to make us convert all our 
displeasures against our sins, which extort those 
acts of severity from him to which his nature is 
most averse. And here, indeed, onr resentments 
Cfmaot be too sharp ; but towards God our fittest 
address will be in the penitential form of the pro- 
phet Daniel, " Lord, to as belongeth coaf osion of 
fece ; but to the Lord our God belong mercies and 
foi^veness, though we have rebelled against hitn" 
(Dan. ix. 8, 9). And as his justice is to be revered 
it) his inflictions, so is his wisdom also in so dispoung 
of events to particular persons as may best consist 
with the universal economy and mani^ement of the 
woridj the consideration whereof is die design of 
the next chapter. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CHAPTER VL 



SHEN God made the uaiverse, he in- 
BfgJ tended not only to glorify himaelf in 
l^^WH one transient act of his power, and 
I then leave this great and wonderful 
production of his, as the " oatricfa her e^s" in the 
wildernesB (Liun. iv. 3); but having drawn it out 
of its first chaos, he secured it from returning 
thither agun by establishing as a due symmetry of 
parts, so also a regular order of motion ; hence it 
b that the heavens have their constant revolutioMi 
the earth its succession of determinate seasons, ani- 
mals their alternate course of generation and cor- 
ruption ; and by this wise economy, the world, after 
so many thousand years, seems still in its spring 
and first beauty. But it had been in v&in to have 
thus secured against the defection of the creatures, 
if man, for whose sake they were made, had been 
excluded from this care. His faculty of reason 
would have made him but the more fatal instru- 
ment of confusion, and taught him the mot« com- 

Google 



8S THB AST OF CONTZRTlfBMTt 

pendious ways of dUturbing the worid. Job com- 
pares him to the " wild aas's colt" (Job si. 12), 
which takes its range without advertiag to asf 
thing of the common good. God has, therefore, 
doubly hedged in this unruly creature, made a 
fence of laws about him (bo.t!k natural and posi- 
tive); and besides has taken him into the common 
circle of hb providence ; so that he^ as well as the 
rest of the creation, has his particular station assigned 
him ; and that not only in reference to other crea- 
tures, but himself; has put a difference between one 
man and another, ordained several rajiks and classes 
of men, and endowed them with special and appro- 
priate qualifications for tho«e stations wherein he 
has set them. 

2. This, as it is a work of infinite wisdom in 
God, so it b of unspeakable advantage to men. 
Without this regular disposure, the world would 
have been in the same confusion which we read of 
ID the host of the Midianites, " every man's sword 
against his fellow" (Judges vii. 22). Nothing but 
force could determine who should do or enjoy any 
thing ; and even that decision also would have been 
repealable by a greater force; so that -we have all 
reason to confess the utility of that order God has 
Ret among men ; and even he that bears the lowest 
and most despicable place in it is certainly infinitely 
more happy by contributing to that general har- 
mony than he could be in any state of dbcord. 

S. Were this now well considered, methinks it 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



ca. Ti.] ov hod's eim&AL pkovidshcs. 89 

should silence all our complaints, and men ahonld 
not be so vehemently concerned in what part of the 
stnicture it pleases the great Architect to put them ; 
for every man is to look on himself only as a small 
parcel of those materials which God is to put into ^ 
form. Every stone is not fit for the comer, nor 
every little rafter for the main beam ; the wisdom 
of the Master-builder is alone to determine that. 
And sure there cannot be a more vile contempt of 
the Divine Wisdom than to dispute his choice. 
Had God wisdom enough to contrive thb vast and 
beautiful fabric, and may he not be trusted with 
one of us poor worms P Did he by his " wisdom 
make the heavens, and by his nnderataiiding stretch 
out the clouds" (Prov. iiL 19), and shall he not 
know where to place a little lump of figured earth ? 
This is certainly the most absurd distrust imagiD- 
able ; and yet this is really the true meaning of our 
raining at the condition he has placed us in. 

4. The truth ia, we are so full of ourselves that 
we can see notting beyond it ; every man espects 
God should place him where he has a mind to be^ 
though by it he discompose the whole scheme of r 
his providence. But liiough we are so senselessly 
partial, yet God is not so : he that comprehends at 
once the whole concerns of mankind, applies him- 
self to the accommodating those, not the humouring 
any particular person. " He has made the great 
and the small, and sareth for all alike" (Wis. vi. 7). 
i2 

■ CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



90 THE ABT or CONTKNTUBNT. 

He 18 the common Father of mankind, and di^toses 
tilings for the public advantage of this great family ; 
and it is not all the impatient cravings of a froward 
child that shall make him recede from his designed 
method. We are apt enough, I am sure, to tax it 
Dot only as a weaknesa but injustice too in a prince 
when be indulges any thing to a private favourite 
to the public dLsadvantage ; yet bo unequal are wei 
that we murmur at God for not doing that which 
.we murmur at men for doing. 

5. Besides, a man is to consider that other men 
have the same appetites with himself. If he dislike 
an inferior state, why should he not think others do 
BO too? and then, as the wise man speaks, " whose 
Toice shall the Lord hear?" (Ecelus. xsxiv. 24^) It 
is sure great imtotence in me to expect that God 
should be more concerned to humour me than those 
multitudes of others who have the same desires. 
And the more impatient my longings are, the leas 
in reason should be my hopes ; for mutiny is no 
such endearing quality as to render any man a daiv 
ling to God. But if all men should have equal 
satisfactions, we should puzsle even Omnipotence 
itself. Every man would be above and superior, 
yet those are comparative terms; and if no mao 
were below, no man could be above. So in wealth, 
most men desire more, but every man does at least 
desire to keep what he has ; how then shall one 
part of the world be sup^ied without the diminw- 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CB. TI.] 0> OOD's aiNKBAL PBOVIDBNCX. 91 

tioD of the other, unless there should be as miracu- 
louB a multiplication of treasure for man's avarice, 
OB there vaa of loaves for their hunger? (Matt. xvi. 
9<) It was a good answer which the ambassador! 
of an oppressed provioce made to Antony; "If, O 
emperor, thou wilt have double taxes from us, thou ■' 
must help us to double sprjugs and hairests." And 
Hure God must be at the expense of a new Creadon^ 
make us a double world, if he should oblige him- 
self to satisfy all the unreasonable appetites of 
meo ; and if he satisfy not all, why should any 
particular person look that his alone should be 
indulged to P 

6. Yet, as unreasonable as it is, the most of ua 
do betray such a persoasion. No man ia discon- 
tented that there are lower as well as higher degrees 
in the worid, — that there are poor as well as rich,— 
but all sensible men assent to the fitness of it : yet 
if themselves happen to be set in the lower form, 
tiiey exclaim, as if the whole order of the world were 
subverted ; which is a palpable indication that ther 
think that Providence, which governs others, should 
serve them, and distribute to them not what it but 
themselves think good. This immoderate self-love 
is the spring and root of most of our complaints, 
makes us such unequal judges in our own concerns, 
and prompts us to put in caveats and exceptions on 
our own behalf, as David did on his son's, " See 
that thou hurt not the young man Absalom" (2 Sank 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



92 TBM AKI 0> CCNTBNTIIXHT. 

xviiu 5); a« if Gml were to manage the govern- 
ment of the woHd with a particular regard to our 
liking, and were, like the angeU at Sodom (Gen- 
xix. 22)> to " do nothing till we had got into Zoar," 
— had all our demaads secured to us. 

7> It would indeed astonish a considering mao 
to Bee, that althoagh the concerns of men are all 
disposed by an unerriDg Wisdom, and acknowledged 
by UtemselTes to be so, yet that scarce any man is 
pleased. The truth iS| ve have generally in us the 
worse part of the leveller's principle ; and though 
we can very contentedly behold multitudes below 
ns, yet are impatient to see any above us; not only 
" the foot" (to use the apoatle's simile) " complains 
that it is not the band, but tlie ear because it is not 
the eye" (1 Cor. xiL IS, 16). Not only the lower- 
moat, but the higher ranks of men are uneasy, if 
there be any one step above them. Nay, so impor- 
tunate is this aspirii^ humour, that we see men are 
forced to feed it, though hot with air and shadows. 
He that cannot make any real advance in his quality, 
will yet do it in effigy, in all little gaieties and pa- 
geantries of it Every degree, in these respects, 
not only emulates but imitates its superior, till al 
last, by that impatience of their proper distance^ 
they make it greater, and siak even below their 
first state by their ridiculous profusion. Indeed, 
the world seems to be so overrun with this vanity, 
that there is little visible distinction of degrees; and 



CBiiisdJ-Gcioglc 



CH. Tl.] OP OOS'S GSNBXAL PXOTIDEKCB. 93 

one had need go to the herald's office to know mcD'a 
qualities ; for neither their habit nor equipage do 
now-a-days inform us with any certainty. 

8. Bat by all this it appears that mea look on 
themselves only as single persons, without reference 
to the community whereof they are members. For 
did they consider that, they would endeavour rather 
to become the places wherein they were set, by 
doing the duties belonging to them, than be per- 
petually projecting for a change. A tree that is 
every year transplanted will never bear fruit; and a 
mind that is always hurried from its proper station 
will scarce ever do good in any. This is excellently 
expressed to us by Solomon, " As a bird that wau- 
dereth from his uest, so is a man that wandereth 
from his place" (Prov. xxvii. 8). It is easy to 
(fivine the fate of those young ones from whom the 
dam wanders ; and it is as easy to guess how the 
dutiesofthatplace will be performed, whose owner is 
always upon the wing and making towards another. 
I wish we had not too costly experiments, both in 
Church and State, of the truth of this obaerration. 
Alas, we foi^t that we are all servants to the same 
Master, and that he ia to appoint in what office we 
shall serve him I How should we like it in any of 
our own families, to have an inferior officer leave 
his work undone, because he has more mind to be 
major-domo P Yet this insolence we every day re- 
peat towards God, sullenly diBput« his order, and. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



94 THB AM OF CODTKNTinBT. 

unlen we may chooee oar own employments, viti 
do nothing. 

9. It is evident tbia perrene temper ofmaakind 
breeds a great deal of mischief and disturbance in 
the world, but would breed arrant confusion and 
subveruon if it were suffered to have its full range. 
If God p^mit bat one ambiUous spirit to l»«ak 
loose io an age, as the instrument of hb wrath, what 
destruction does it oftenUmes make I how does it 
" cause the whole earth to tremble, and shake Ling- 
domsl" as is said of Nebuchadnezzar (Is, xiv. 16)^ 
flJid may be said of many others of those wholesale 
robbers who iiave dignified the trade. But if every 
asfHriug huBiour should be as prosperous, where 
would it find fuel to mainbun the flame 7 No doubt 
every age produces men of as nnbounded desires as 
Aleximd^ or Cnsar, but God gives them not the 
same <qiportunities to trouble the world; and ac- 
cordingly, in the more petty ambitions of private 
men, he often orders it so that those soaring minds 
can find no benign gale to help their mounting. 
He that sets bounds to the sea, saying, " Hitherto 
shalt thou come, and no farther; and though the 
waves thereof toss themselves yet can they not pre- 
vail ; though they roar, yet can they not pass over" 
(Jer. v. 23), — does also depress the swelling pride 
of men, hangs clogs and weights upon them, that 
they cannot rise to their affected heighL For thoi^h 
we are all willing to forget il, yet God remembers 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



oa. Ti.] Q* ood's sbmxsal raavamxc*. 95 

that he is the Rector of the uriverae, and will assert 
hia dominion. The subtilest coatriTaDce cannot cir- 
cuiDTeDt bini) the most daring pretender cannot wrest 
any tiling out of his hand ; " the Lord will still be 
King, be Ihe people never so impatient" (Pb. xcix. 1 ). 
It will therefore sore be u well our prudence as our 
duty, to " be stifl and know that he is God" (Pt. 
xlvi. 10), with an bumble dereliction of onr own 
wills acquiesce in his, and not by ineffective strag- 
glings [woTok^ whom we ue sore never to subdue. 
We may, like nnmaiuiged horaes, foam and fret, but 
still God has tbe bridle in our jaws, and we citntiot 
advance a step fiuther than he permits us. Why 
should we then create torment to ouraelves by our 
repining^ which only seta us farther from our aims? 
It is God's declared method to exalt the lowly j and 
it is obserrable tn the first two kinga of Israel, who 
were of God's immediate election, that he surprised 
them with that dignity when they were about mean 
and humble employments, — the one searching his 
fiither's asses, the other keeping his father's sheep : 
and wuuld men honestly and diligently exerdse 
themsdves in the basiness of their proper callings 
they might perhaps find it a more direct road to ad- 
rancement than all the sinister arts by which ambi- 
tiouB men endeavour to climb. Solomon sets it 
down as an aphorism, " Seest tium a maa diligent 
in his busiDMs^ he shall stand before kings, h* 
shall not stand before mean men" (Prov. xxii 
39). But whether it iaippea to have that efileet 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



96 THE ABT OF COin'SHTUIINT. 

or no, it will have a better ; for it will i 
his present condition, divert bia mind from mu- 
tinous reflections on other men's height, and his 
own lowness ; for it ia commonly men who mind not 
their work that are at so much leisure to gaze. He 
that carefuU; plies his own business will hare his 
thoughts more concentered : and doubtless it is no 
small happiness to hare them so ; for it is their gad- 
ding too much abroad, looking on other men's con- 
ditions, that sends them back (like Dinah defloured) 
to put all in an uproar at home. The sou of Sirach 
speaks with transportation of the state even of him 
that labours and is content, and calls it " a sweet 
life" (Ecclus. xl. 18); and certainly it is infinitely 
more so than that of the greatest prince whose 
mind swells beyond his territories. 

la Upon all these considerations, it cannot but 
appear very reasonable that we should leave God to 
govern the world ; not be putting in, like the sons 
of Zebedee, for the highest seats, but continually 
rest ourselves where he has placed us, till his provi- 
dence (not our own designs) advance us. We can 
no where be so obscure as to be hid from His eyes, 
who, as he valued the widow's mite above the great 
oblatious of the rich, so he will no less gradously 
accept the humble endeavours of the mean than 
the more eminent services of the mighty ; himself 
having declared, that he accepts " according to what 
a man hath, and not according to what he hath not" 
(2 Cor. viii. i2). So that in what rank soever .a 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. VI. 1 ov ood's gbnbr&l providkhgs. 97 

man ia set, he has still the same opportunity of ap- 
proring himself to God ; and though in the eye of 
the world he be a vessel of dishonour, yet in the 
day when God comes to " make up his jewels" (MaL 
iii. 17). there will be another estimate made of 
him who regularly moves in hia own sphere. And 
sure he that aits down in this acquiescence is a hap- 
pier man than he that enjoys the greatest worldly 
splendours, but infinitely more so tfaEin he who im- 
patiently cbvets but cannot attain them ; for such a 
man puts bimaelf upon a perpetual rack, keeps hia 
appetites up at the utmost stretch, and yet has no- 
thing wherewith to satisfy them. Let therefore our 
ease, if not our duty, prompt us to acquiescence, 
and a ready submission to God's disposals ; to which 
we have yet a farther indu<;ement from that distinct 
care he hath over every man's peculiar, by which 
he proportions to him what is really best for him ; 
of which «e are farther to consider in the next 
chapter. 



C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



CHAPTER VIL 



IT IB the imperfection of our finite nature 
tbat we cannot at once attend to divers 
things, but the more vehement our in- 
tention is upon one, the greater is our 
negttct of the rest But God's infinity cannot 
tie so bounded ; his eyes at once see, and his 
providence at once orders, all the most distant and 
disparate things in the world. He is not such an 
Epicurean Deity' as to sequester himself wholly to the 
enjoyment of his own felicity, and to despise the 
concerns of poor mortals ; but though he have his 
" dwelling bo high, yet he humbleth himself to 
behold the things in heaven and earth" (Ps. csiii. 5). 
Kor does his providence confine itself to the more 

> " Oodj Ib ttwit TCr; luton rnnat enjor 
As eidle« life, ud peaea withoni aUaf ; 
From nuo^B coneenu remor^d ud fu Apart. — 
From peiUa fma. — tnv ftom &11 grief ot hoirt.— * 
The;. lelT-aufflcLeiit, tuugbt of oun eui ne«d. 
Nor more r^ud the good Uuti otD deed." 

fioetxatst, book L S7-Sa. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. Til.] OF SOD'b PAKncULAk FROTIDKNCl. 99 

splendid and greater ports of management, the con- 
duct of empires and statea, but it descends to the 
lowest parts of his creation, to tbe fowls of the air, 
to the lilies of the field ; and then sure our Saviour's 
inference as to muikind is irrefragable^ " Ate ft 
not much better than they?" (Matt vi. 26.) If s 
sparrow (as he elsewhere tells his disciples) cannot 
fall to llie ground without God's particular notice 
surely no human creature is less considerable to 
him; nay, if our very hurs are numbered, we can- 
not think the excrescence ia of more value than 
the stock, but must conclude that God with a par- 
ticular advertence watches over the coocenu of 
every man. 

2. Now God being infinitely good cannot thus 
attend ua upon any insidious design of doing ua 
mischief; he watches over us us a guardian, not aa 
a spy ; and directs his observation to the more sea- 
sonable adapting his benefits : and as he is thus 
gracious in designing our advantage, so he is no 
less wise in contriving it. " All things," says tha 
nise man, " are not profitable for all men" (EU^ilus. 
xzxvii. 28)< Indeed nothing is absolutely good but 
God ; all created things are good or ill in reference 
to that to which they are applied. Meat b good ; 
but to a surfeited stomach it is not only nauseous 
but dangerous. Fire is good ; but if put in our 
bosoms, not only bums our clothes but flesh. And 
as human wisdom directs the right application of 
these and the like, so the Supreme and Divine 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



J 



100 IflB ART OP CONTSNTHENT. 

orders events according to the disposition of the 
person concerned; " he knows our frame" (Ps. ciii< 
14). and discerns what operation such or such things 
will have upon us ; while we, who know neither 
ourselves nor them, caa make but random guesses 
and worse choices. Andsure he thatdoes butthns 
in the general acknowledge God's providence, good- 
ness, and wisdom (which he is no Christian who 
does not), has a sufficient amulet agunst all his 
solicitudes, much more his repinings. He cannot 
think he suffers unawares to Him who sees all 
things; he cannot think his sufferings are designed 
for ill to him, because thej are disposed by Him who 
intends and projects his good ; nor can he fear those 
intentions can miscarry, which are guided by an 
infinite anci unerring wisdom, and backed bjr an 
uncontrollable power. And sure this is, as the 
apostle speaks, ■' strong consolation" (Heb. vi. 18), 
if we would but duly apply it 

S. Yet, because general notions do often make 
but light impressions on us, it may not be amiss to 
make a little more inspection, and to observe how 
applicable they are to the several kinds of our dia- 
contentfi. Now those may be reduced to two ; for 
either we are troubled at the want of something we 
desire, or at the suffering of something we would 
avert; so that the two notions of privative andposi^ 
tivo divide between them all our affliction. 

4. The first of these is usually the most compre- 
hensive; for there are few who have not more tor- 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. VII.] o* eos's rAancm^B pkotidbncb. 101 

ment from the Etpprefaension of eomcwhat the; vant 
than from the smart of any thing they feel ; and 
indeed whilst our desires are so vBgnnt and exoT< 
hitant, they will be sure to furnish matter enough 
for our discontents; but certainly there is not in 
the vorld such a charm for them as the conaidera- 
tion that God is more vise to discern, and more 
careful to provide what is reailj good for us than 
we ourselves. We poor purblind creatures look 
only on the surface of things ; and if we see a beau- 
tiful appearance, somewhat that invites our senses, 
we eourt it with the utmost eamestoess; but God 
penetrates deeper; he see* b> the hottsm both ofns 
and those things we deiire, and finds often that 
though they may please our appetite, they will 
hurt our health; and wilt no more give them to us 
than a careful father will to his child those gilded 
poisons he cries for. Perhaps this man i* taken 
with the enchanting music of fame, likes not his 
own obscure station, but would fain present himself 
upon a more public theatre, come into the eye and 
crowd of the worid : but how little does he know 
hov he shall act his part there — whether he shall 
come off with a plaudit or a hiss I He may render 
himself but the more public spectacle of scorn ; or 
if he do not that, he may by a better success feed up 
his vainglory to such a bulk as may render him too 
great weight for that tottering pinnacle whereon he 
stands ; and so after he has made a towering circle, 
he may fall back with more ignominy to his first 
k2 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



102 TBB AR1 

point. Another, it may be, no less eagerly desires 
wealth, thinks (as once Croesus' did) that he that 
abounds in treasure cannot be empty of felicity ; 
but, alas, how knows he bow he shall employ it? 
There are two contrary temptations that attend 
riches, — riots and covetousness ; and he ia sure a 
little too confident that dares promise himself, that 
when there is such odds agtunst him, he shall cer- 
tainly choose the one just mean ; and if he do not, 
he does only inflame hb account at the great audit- 
Besides, the more wealth he has, the fairer booty he 
is to the avarice of others ; and it has been often 
seen, that many a man had not died bo poor, if he 
had lived less rich. Another, perhaps, thinks not 
himself so much to ij;ant wealth as children to heir 
it, and complains with Abraham, " Lord, what wilt 
thou give me, seeing I go childless ?" (Gen. xv. 2) ; 
yet how knows he whether that child be so much 
desires " shall be a wise man or a fool" (Eccles. ii. 
19), a comfort or a vexation to himself, if he live, 
to see his proof? and if he do not, be does but 
project for an access to his dying cares in what^ 
hands to leave him. Rachel solicited this satisfac- 
tion vrith the greatest impatience, " Give me child- 
ren, or I die" (Gen. xsx. l); and it is observable 
that the grant of her wish proved the loss of her 
life (Gen. XXXV. 19). 

5> Thus in these and innumerable other instances- 
' See some scconnt ofblm in Wilberforce'i " Five Em- 
frins," Englishnun's Libruj, di. x. p. 75-77. 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



CH. VII.] or OOD's PARTICTLAR PBOTIDBNCB. 103 

we drive on blindfold, and veiy often impetuously 
pursue that which would ruin ua; and were God 
as shortsighted as ve, into nhat precipices should 
we every minute hurry ourselves ! or were he so 
unkind as to consider our importunity more than 
our interest, we should quickly sink under the 
weight of our own wishes ; and as Juvenal, in his 
tenth aatire, excellently observes, perish by the 
success and grant of our prayers. I suppose there 
is no man that soberly recollects the events of bis 
life but can experimentally say, he has sometimes 
desired things which would have been to his mis- 
chief if he had had them, and that himself has after 
looked en the denial as a mercy ; as, on the other 
side, when be has prospered in bis aims, and had 
what his soul lusted after, it has been but like the 
quails of the Israelites, a conviction and punish- 
ment rather than a satisfaction. And now surely 
God may complain of us as he did of Israel, " How 
long will it be ere you believe me?" (Num. liv. ] 1.) 
After all the attestations he has given of his care 
and providence over us; after all the experiments 
we have bad of the folly of our own elections, we 
cauDot yet be brought either to distrust ourselves, 
or rely upon him. We will still be choosing, and 
look on bim as no farther concerned than as the 
executioner of our designs. 

6. This is certainly a strange perverseness, atul 
such as no sensible man would be guilty of in any 
other instance. In all our seculu afiiurs we trust 

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104 THE ART or COMTBKTMBNT. 

those vhom we have cause to think nndeiBtand 
them better than ourselves, and rely upon men in 
their own faculty. We put our estates in the 
lawyer's hand, ottr bodies into the physician's, and 
submit to their advice, though it be against our 
humour, merely because we account them more 
competent judges. Yet this deference we cannot 
be persuaded to pay to God, but will still be pre- 
scribing to him, and are very angry if his dispensa- 
tions do not exactly answer our fancies. And can 
we offer him a greater affront than thus to diatrust 
him? What is it but interprelatively to deny 
either his wisdom or his goodness, or both, and bo 
derogate from him in two of his essential attributes? 
for there can be no rational account given by any 
who believe those, why they should not remit their 
whole conoema to him. So that the short account 
is, that in our distrusts we either deny him to be 
God, or ourselves to be men, by resisting the moat 
evident dictates of that reason which distinguishes 
us from brutes ; for certainly there is not in human 
discourse a more irrefragable maxim, than that we 
ought for our own »akes to resign ouraelvea to him, 
who we arc infallibly sure can and will choose better 
for us than we for ourselves. 

7. This was so apparent by mere natural light, 
that Socrates advised men to pray only for blessings 
in general, and leave the particular kind of them to 
God's election, who best knows what is good for 
us: and sure this is snch a piece of divinity as ex- 

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CR. Til.] OF GOD S PARTICULAX PKOTIDBNCB. lOS 

tremely reproaches us Christians, who cannot match 
a heathen in his implicit faith to God. Nay, in- 
deed, it is the vilest defamation upon God himself, 
that we, who pretend to know him more, should trust 
faim less. So that we see our repinings do not ter- 
minate ID their own proper guilt, but do in their 
consequences swell higher, and our discontents pro- 
pagate themselves into blasphemy ; for while we 
impatiently complun of our wants, we do tacitly 
tax God to want either that wisdom, power, or love, 
whereby he should supply us. And sure he must 
be very atheistical to whom this will not give a 
competent prejudice against this sin. 

8. And this very consideration will equally pre- 
judge the other branch of our discontents, I mean 
those which repine at the ills we suffer. And not 
only our privative, but our poutive afflictions may 
by it have their bitterness taken off; for the same 
goodness and wisdom which denies those things 
we like, because they are hurtful for us, does 
upon the very same reason give us those distaste- 
ful things which he sees profitable. A wise phy- 
sician does not only diet, but, if occasion be, pui^e 
his patient also ; and surely there is not such a 
purifier, such a cleanser of the soul, as are afflic- 
tions, if we do not (like disorderly patients) frustrate 
their efficacy by the irregular management of our- 
selves under them. 



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CHAPTER Vm. 



t|T were the work of a volume to give 
I an exact aad mioute account of the 
1 benefit of afflictions. J shall only puint 
] at Boue of the more general and ob- 
vious. And first, it is one of the most anakeu- 
iug calls to repentance ; and to this end it b 
that God most usually designs it. We Bee tiie 
whole scene of it. Hob. t. 15; "I will go and 
return to my place, till they acknowledge their 
offence, and seek my face ; in their affliction they 
will seek me early ;" and in the very next verse we 
find this voice of God echoed forth by a penitential 
note, " Come, and let us return unto the Lord : for 
he hath torn, and he will heal us ; he hath smitten, 
and he wilt bind us up." Thus we find the brethren 
of Joseph, though there had a long interval passed 
betwixt their barbarous usage of him and his feigned 
rigour to them, yet when they saw themselves dis- 
tressed by the one, then they began to recollect the 

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CH. TIII.J or THB ADVANTAOB OF AmtCTIOKS. 107 

other, Baying, " We are Terily goiltj concerning 
onr brother" (Gen. slii. 21). Prosperity is an in- 
toxicating thing : and there are few hrains strong 
enongh to bear it ; it lays as asleep, and amuaes us 
frith pleasant dreams ; whilst in the mean time Satan 
riflea our treasures, and spoils ns, by the deceitful 
eharm» of sin, of our innocency and real happiness. 
And can thero t>e a more tViendly office done for a 
man in this condition than to ronse him, and bring 
him to apprehend the designs that are laid agtunst 
him P And this ia the errand on which afflictions 
are sent ; so that vra have reason to looL on them 
as our &iends and confederates, that intend our 
rescue, and to take the alarm they give us, and 
diligently seek out those intestine enemies of which 
they warn ns. And he that instead of this quarrels 
at their interposing, thinks them his " enemies be- 
cause they tell him the truth" (Gal. i*. J6); does 
miserably pervert " the counsel of God against him- 
seir' (Luke vii. 30) ; and may at last verify his own 
■ealonsies, and by so provoking an ingratitude con- 
vert those into the wounds of an enemy, which were 
originally meant ai the corrections of a father. 

2. And as afflictions do thus in general ad- 
monish us of sins, so it pleases God most frequently 
so to model and frame them, that they bear the 
very image and impress of those particular guilts 
they are to chastise, and are the dark shadows that 
attend our gay delights or flagrant insolencies. The 
wise man observes, that the turning the Egyptian 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



108 THI ABT OP COITTBNTMBHT. 

waters into blood was a manifest reproof of that 
cruel commandment for the murdering of the He- 
brew infknts (Wisd. xii. 5). And aurel; we might 
in most, if not all our sufferings, see some snch cor- 
responding circumstances as may lead us to the 
immediate provoking cause of it. God, who does 
all things in number, weight, and measure, does in 
punishments also observe a aymmetr; and propor- 
tion, and adapts them not onl; to the heinousness, 
but even the very specific kind of our crimes. The 
only fixed immutable rule he has given for his vice- 
gerents on earth to punish by, is that in the. case of 
murder, which is we see grounded on this rule of 
proportion, " He that sheddeth man's blood, by man 
shall his blood be shed" (Gen. ix. 6). And though 
he have now rescinded the inferior retaliations of 
the " eye for the eye, the tooth for the tooth" 
(Exod. xxi, 24) — probably for the hardness of our 
hearts, because he saw our revengeful natures would 
be too much pleased with it, — yet he has not pre- 
cluded himself from acting by those measures ; but 
we see he does very often signally make men feel 
the smart of those violences or injustice they have 
used to others. Of this, sacred story affords several 
examples (as Adooibezek, Judges i. 6; and Ahab, 
1 Kings xxi. 19), and profane many more, and daily 
experience and observation most of all. And though 
this method of retaliation is not always so evident 
and apparent to the world, because men's sins are 
not always so, yet I believe if men would duly r»- 

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CH. Till,] 1)» THE ADTANTAOB OP ArotlCTIONS, 109 

collect, it would be for the most part diacernible to 
their owd consciences; and they would apparently 
see that their calamities did but trace the footstepa 
of their sins. 

'3. Now if we rightly weigh thia, we cannot but 
think it a very advantageoua circumstance. We 
are naturally blind, when we look inward ; and if we 
have not some adventitious light to clear the object, 
will be very apt to overlook it : therefore, since the 
end of all our afflictious is our repentance, it is a 
wise and gracious disposal, that they do thus point 
to ua those particular sins of which we are to re- 
pent. The body of sin will not be destroyed in the 
whole entire bulk, but must be dismembered, pulled 
to pieces limb by limb. He that attacks it other- 
wise will be like Sertorius's soldier, who ineffec- 
tively tugged at the horse's tail to get it off at once, 
when he that pulled it htur by hair quickly did it. 
Therefore, as it is a great part of our spiritual wis- 
dom to know in what especial parts the Samson-like 
strength of our corruptions lies, so it is a great in- 
stance of God's care of ns, thus by his corrections 
' to discipline and instruct us in it 

4. In all our afBictions, therefore, it is our coi 
cern nicely and critically to observe them. I mean, 
not to enhance our murmurs and complaints, but 
to learn by them what is God's peculiar controversy '' 
against us. This is, indeed, to " hear the rod, and 
who hath appointed it" (Micah vi, 9). Let him, 
therefor^ that suffers iu any of his concerns examine 



C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



1 10 TBI AKi 

whether he have DOt some corresponding gailt which 
answers to it, " as face answers face" (Prov. xxvii. 
19). He that is impoverished in his estate, let 
him consider, first, how he acquired it; whether 
there were not somethiiig of fraud or injustice, 
which like a cancerous humour mised in its very 
elements and coustitution, and ate out its bowels ; 
or whether some sacrilegious prize, some coal from 
the altar, have not fired his uesL Or, if nothing 
can be charged upon the acquest, let him consider 
how he has used it ; whether he hath not made it 
the fuel ofhis lusts in riots and excesses, or the ob- 
ject of his adoration in an inordinate value of it. la 
like manner, he who is afEicted in his body, and groans 
under the torment of some grievous disease, may 
very seasonably interrogate himself, whether it have 
not been contracted by his vice; whether " hb 
bones be not" (in a more literal sense than Job 
meant it) " full of the sins of bis youth " (Job xs. 
11); and his surfeiting and drunkenness be not the 
cause " that his soul," as the Psalmist speaks, ■■ ab- 
hors all manner of meat, and is even hard at death's 
door" (Pa. cvii. 18); or, at least, whether the not 
employing his health and strength to those purpose.s 
for which it was given, is not the reason of its being 
withdrawn. He also that is invaded in his reputa- 
tion, that lies under some great infamy, is to con- 
sider whether it be not deserved ; whether some 
part, if not the whole guilt of which he is accused, 
stick not to him; or if he be clear in that particular 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CB. Tin.] OS THE ADTANTAOE Of APFLICnONB. Ill 

instance, whether some concealed Bin of his would 
not, if it were known, incur ae great scandal ; for 
in that case he has in right forfeited his reputation, 
and God may make the seizure as well by an unjust 
as a just accusation. Or, if his heart accuse him 
not here^ yet let him farther reflect, whether hia 
vain-glorious pursuits of praise, and high conceits 
of himself, have not made this an apt and necessary 
humiliation for him. Or, lastly, let him recollect 
how he has behaved himself towards others in this 
kind ; whether he hath had a just tenderness of 
his neighbour's fame, or hath not rather exposed 
and prostituted it. In these, and many other in- 
stances, such a particnUr scrutiny would, in all 
probability, discover the affinity and cognation be- 
tween our guilts and our punishments ; and by 
marking out the spring and fountain-head, direct 
us how to stop or divert the current. And he that 
would diligently employ himself in this inquisition, 
would find little leisure and less cause to condole 
his afiiictions, but would divert all his complaints 
upon himself, " accept of the punishment of his 
iniquity, and thank the Lord for thus giving him 
warning" (Ps. xvi. 8). 

5. A second benefit which God designs us in 
our afflictions, is the weaning us from the world, 
to disentangle us from its fetters and charms, and 
draw us to himself. We read in the story of the 
deluge, that so long as the earth was covered vrith 
waters the very raven was contented to take sbelter 

Google 



112 THE AKI 

in the ark ; but when all was fair and dry, even the 
(love finally forsook it (Gen. viii, 12). And it is 
much so with us ; the worst of men will commoniy 
in distresses have recourse to God ; the very heathen 
mariners in a storm could rebuke Jonah for not 
calling upon his God (Jon. i. 6) ; when yet the very 
best of Tis are apt to forget him amidst the blan- 
dishments and insinuations of prosperity. The kind 
aspects of the world are very enchanting, apt to 
inveigle and besot us ; and therefore it is God's 
care over us to let us sometimes see her more avert- 
ing countenance in her frowns and storms, that, as 
children frighted by some ugly appearance, we may 
run into the arms of our Father. Alas, were all 
things esactly fitted to our humours here, when 
should we think of a remove? and had not death 
some harbingers to prepare us for him,, what a sur- 
prising guest would he be to us I It is storied of 
Antigonus, that seeing a soldier in his camp of so 
daring a courage that he always courted the most 
hazardous attempts, and observing him also of a 
very infirm sickly habit, he took a particular care 
of him, and by medicines and good attendance re- 
covered him ; which no sooner he bad done but the 
man grew more cautious, and would no longer ex- 
pose himself as formerly ; and gave this reason for 
it, that now he was healthy his life was of some 
value to him, and not to be hazarded at the same 
rate as when it was only a burden. And should God 
cure all our complaints, render us perfectly at ease. 



CH. VIi:.] OP TKB ADTAKTABB OF AnLICTIOKS. 113 

I fear too msDy of us would be of the soldier's 
miad, — think our lives too good to resign to him, 
UQcIi more to hazard for him, as our Christianity 
in man; cases obliges us. The son of Sirach ob- 
serves how " dreadful death is to a man that is at 
rest in bb possessions, that hath abundance of all 
things, and hath nothing to vex him ;" nay, he de- 
scends much lower, and puts in him " who b jet 
able to receive meat" (Ecclus. sli. 1). The truth 
is, we do so passionately dote upon the world, that. 
Like besotted lovers, we can bear a great deal of ill- 
usage before we quit our pursuit. Any little slight 
favour atones us afler multiplied afiVonte ; and we 
must be disciplined by repeated disappointmeuts 
ere we can withdraw our confidence. But how 
fatally secure should we be, if God should permit 
this siren' always to entert^n us with her music, 
and should not, by some discordant grating notes, 
interrupt our raptures, and recall us to sober 
thoughts ! 

6. Indeed, it is one of the highest instances of 
God's love, and of his clemency also, thus to pro- 
ject our reducement We were all in our baptism 
affianced to him with a particular abrenunciation 
of the world, so that we cannot without the greatest 
disloyalty cast ourselves into its embraces ; and yet, 
when we have thus " broken the covenant of our 
God" (Prov. ii. 17), he does not pursue us with a 
' Siren, — a goddess who enticed men by nngii^, and de- 
voured them i any mlacMeTous enticer. 
L 2 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



114 TBI AKT OF CONTBKTMENT. 

jealons rage, with the severity which an abused 
rivalled kindness would suggest ; doth not give iia 
a bill of divorce, and disclaim his relation; but 
contrives how he may reclum and bring us back 
to himself. The transcendency of this lenity God 
excellently describes, by the prophet, in the case of 
Israel ; " They say, If a man put away his wife, and 
she become another man's, shall he return unto her 
again 7 but thou hast played the harlot with many 
lovers ; yet return unto me, saith the Lord" (Jer. 
iii. 1): and this, though a great height of indulgence, 
is no more than he daily repeats to ua. After we 
have basely adulterated with the world, converted 
our affections from God to it, he does not ^ve us 
over, abandon us to our lewd course and conse- 
quent min, but still invites our return ; and lest 
that may not serve, he does, with a great deal of 
holy artifice, essay to break that accursed league 
into which we are entered, pulb off the disguise in 
which the world courted us, and makes us see it ae 
it 18 in itself, — a scene of " vanity and vexation of 
spirit" (Eccles. i. 14). 

7. And as he does this in general, so also with 
a particular application to those temporal satisfac- 
tions wherewith we were most transported. The 
things to which we are more indifferent do not so 
much endanger us; it is those upon which we have 
more vehemently set our hearts, which become our 
snares and awake his jealousy; and accordingly we 
frequently see that it is in those he chooses to cross 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 






us. How often does it happen that those which 
are enamonred of theinselves, dote upon their own 
features, do meet with Boine disease or accident 
which blasts their beauty, withen that fair flower, 
and makes their winter overtake their spring! So 
in our friends and relations, it is usually seen we 
soonest lose those for whom we have the greatest, 
the most immoderate passion. If there be one fond- 
ling among our children, it is odds but that is taken 
away, or made as much the object of our grief and 
sorrow as ever it was of cur joy and love. When 
God sees our hearts so ezceesively cleave to any 
transitory thing, he knows it is necessary to sever 
them ; for whilst we have such clogs upon us, " our 
souls will cleave to the dust" (Ps. cxix. 1), will not 
be able to soar up to the higher region for which 
they are designed. 

8. In a word, God so loves us, that he removes 
whatever he sees will obstruct that intimate union 
which he desires with us : and sure this is so obliging, 
that though he should bid us to our loss, though 
he could not recompense us for what he takes from 
us, yet we must be very ill-natured, if we can be 
angry at so much kindness. But when to thb is 
added, that all this is principally, nay, solely designed 
for our advantage ; that God takes from us all these 
empty, delusory contentments, merely that he may 
instate us in solid and durable joys, — we betray as 
much ignorance of our interest as insensibleness of 
our obligation, if we repine that God makes us so* 



C.i 



116 THB AKT OF CONTBNTUENT. 

much his care. It is true, indeed, the things to 
which we have so inordiDate);^ adhered do stick so 
close, that they cannot be pulled away without some 
pain ; yet for our corporal Bcourity we can endure 
the sundering of parts that do Dot only cleave, but 
grow to us. He that has a gangrened member suf- 
fers it to be cut off to save his whole body, and 
does not revile, but thank and reward the surgeon ; 
yet where our souls are concerned, and where the 
things have no native union with us, but are only 
cemented by our passions, we are impatient of the 
method, and think God deals very hardly with us 
not to let us perish with what we love. The sum 
of all is this, God, though he be abundantly con- 
descending, yet he will never stoop so low as to 
share his interest in us with the world : if we will 
devote ourselves to it, it is nut all our empty forms 
of service will satisfy him ; if we cannot divorce 
our hearts from it, he will divorce himself eternally 
from us ; and the case being thus, we are sure verr 
ill advised if we do not contentedly resign onrselves 
to his methods, and cheerfully endure them, how 
sharp soever. The only expedient we have for our 
own ease, is to shorten the cure by giving our assist- 
ance, and not by strugglings to render it more dif- 
ficult and painful. Let us entirely surrender our 
wilb to him ; and when we have done that, we 
may without much pain let him take any thing else. 
But the more difficult we find it to be disentangled 
from the world, the greater should our caution be 



CH. VIII.] OP THE AD7ANTAQB OF ArPLICTIOKB. 117 

against all future engagements to it. If our escape 
hath been, as the apostle says, " so as by fire" 
(Jude 23), vith much smart and hazard, let us at 
least have so much wit as the common proverb 
allows children, and not ag^n expose ourselves ; 
let ns never glue oar hearts to any external thing, 
but let all the concerns of the worid bang loose 
about us ; by that means ne shall be able to put 
them ofi' insensibly, whenever God calls for them ; or 
perhaps we shall prevent his calling for tbem at all, 
it being for the most part our too close adhesion to 
them which prompts him to it. 

9- A third advantage of afflictions is, that it is 
a mark and signature of our adoption, a witness 
of our l^ilimation. " What eon is he," saith the 
apostle, "whom the father chastiseth not? But if 
ye be without chastisement, whereof all are par- 
takers, then are ye bastards, and not sous" (Heb. 
xii. 7, 8). Jacob clad his darling Joseph in a parti- 
coloured coat ! and God'a favourites do here wear 
a livery, interwoven with a mixture of dark and 
gloomy colours; their " long white robes" are laid 
up for them against they come to the " marriage of 
the Lamb" (Rev. xis. 7)- Indeed, we much mis- 
take the design of Christianity, if we think it calls us 
to a condition of ease and security. It might suit 
well enough with the votaries of the golden calf to 
" sit down to eat and drink, and rise up to play" 
(Esod. xxxii. 6); but the disciples of the crucified 



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118 THE ABI OP CONTBNTUBNT. 

Saviour are trained to anoUier discipline; our pro- 
fession enters us into a state of warfare ; and accord- 
ingly our very baptismal engagement runs all in 
military terms, and we are not only servants of 
Christ's family, but soldiers of his camp. Now we 
know in a war men must not expect to pass their 
time in ease and softness, but, besides all tlie dan- 
gers and difficulties of the combat, have many other 
hardships to endure — hunger and thirst, heat and 
cold, hard lodgings and weary marches; and he 
that is too nice for those will not long stick to hu 
colours. And it is the same in our spiritual warfare, 
— many pressures and sufferings are annexed to it ; 
and our passive valour b no less tried than our 
active. In respect of this it is, that our Saviour 
admonishes his proselytes to compute first the dif- 
ficulties incident to their profession : and that he 
may not ensnare us by proposing too easy terms, 
. he bids us reckon upon the worst, and tells us, that 
he " that forsakes not all that he hath shall not be 
his disciple" (Luke xiv, 26) ; " and that we must 
through much tribulation enter into the kingdom 
of God" (Acts xiv. 22). Indeed, it were very 
absurd for us to expect easier conditions, when 
these are the same to which our Leader has sub- 
mitted. The " Capt^n of our salvation was per- 
fected by sufierings" (Heb. ii. 10) ; " and if it be- 
hoved Christ to suffer before he entered into hts 
glory" (Luke xxiv. 4fi), it were insolent madness 



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CH. Till. J OF THB ADVANTAGE OF AirFLICTIONH. 119 

for us to look to be carried thither upoD our beds 
of ivoty, or from the noise of our harps Bj)d viols 
be immediately rapt into the choir of angels. 

10. This hafi been so much considered by pious 
men, that they have looked upon their secular pro- 
sperities with fear aud jealousy ; and many have 
solemnly petitioned for crosses, as thinking them 
the necessary attestation of their sonsbip, and means 
of assimilation to their elder Brother. Why, then, 
should that which was so desirable to them appear 
80 formidable to us ? or why should we so vehe- 
mently deprecate what they so earnestly invited ? 
If we indeed think, it a privilege to be the sons of 
God and fellow-heirs with Chriat, why do we grudge 
at the condition P The Roman captain tells St. 
Paul, that he obttuned the immunities of a Roman 
" with a great sum" (Acts xxii. 28) ; and shall we 
expect so much a nobler and more advaotageous 
adoption perfectly gratis, — look that God should 
change his whole economy for our ease — give ua an 
eternal inheritance, discharged of those temporal 
incumbrances himself has annexed to it? This 
were sure as unjust a hope as it would be a vain 
one. When David had that ensnaring proposal 
made him, of being the king's son-in-law (I Sam. 
xviii. 21), he set such a value upon the dignity, 
that he despised the difficulty of the condition ; and 
sure we must have very low abject souls, if, when 
so infinitely a higher advancement is sincerely offered 
us, we can suffer any apprehension of hardship to 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



divert us. In a word, let us remember that of the 
apostle, " If we suffer, we shall also reiga with him" 
(2 Tim. ii. 12). And though our afflictiona be in 
themselves not joyous, but grievous, yet when they 
are considered as the earueBt of our future inherit' 
ance, they put on an another face, and may rather 
enamour than fright us. 

II. A fourth advanta^ of afBictious is, that 
they excite our compassions towards others. There 
is nothing qualifies us so rightly to estimate the suf- 
ferings of others as the having ourselves felt them ; 
without this our apprehensions of them are as dull 
and confused as a blind man's of colours, or a deaf 
man's of sounds. They " that stretch themselves 
upon their couches, that eat the Iambs out of the 
flock and the calves out of the midst of the stall, 
that chant to the sound of the viol, drink wine in 
bowls, and anoint themselves with tbe chief oint- 
ments, — will not much be grieved with the afflic- 
tions of Joseph" (Amos vi. 4). Nay, so necessary 
is our experience towards our commiBeratiou, that 
we see it was thought a requisite accomplishment 
of our High-priest (that highest example of un- 
bounded compassion} ; and therefore saith the apos- 
tle, " It behoved him in all things to be made like 
unto his brethren, that he might be a merciful and 
faithful High-priest in things pertaining to God, to 
make reconciliation for the sins of the people : for 
in that he himself hath suffered, being tempted, he 
is able to succour them that are tempted" (Heb. ii. 

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I. Till.] OF THX ADTAKTAOB OF AFPLICTIOVS. 121 



17) 18). But if he, whose mere sense of our miseries 
brought htm down to us, chose this expedient to 
advance bis pity, how necessary is it to our petrified 
bowebl And since God has aasigned our mercie* 
to our brethren as the standard by which he will 
proportion his to us, it is more ours than their ad- 
vantage to have them enlarged ; so that when, by 
making us taste of their cup, acquainting us with 
the bitter relish of their sufferings, he prepares us 
to a Christian sympathy with them, it is but a re^ 
moter way of obliging and quali^ing us for a more 
ample portion of his mercy. Nay, besides the pro- 
fit, there is an honour accrues to ns by it. Com- 
pamoa is one of the best properties of our nature, 
and we unman ourselves when we put it off : nay, 
more, it is an attribute of the Divinity; and the 
more we advance in it, the closer approaches we 
make to him. And therefore we have all reason to 
blesa him for that ducipline by which he promotes 
in us so excellent, so necessary a grace. 

12. A fifth benefit of affliction is, that it is an 
improvement of devotion, — sets us with more hear- 
tiness to our prayers. Whilst prosperity flows in 
upon us, we bathe ourselves in its streams, but are 
very apt to forget its Source ; so that God is fain to 
stop the current, leave us dry and parched, that our 
needs may make us do what our gratitude would 
not, — trace our blessings up to the original Spring, 
and both acknowledge and invoke him as the Author 
ofall our good. Xhis effect of afflictions is observed 

H 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



122 THB AKT OV CONTBKTIIBNT. 

by tbe prophet : " Lord, in trouble have they visited 
thee, they poured out a prayer when thy chastening 
was upon them" (Is. xxvL 16). And I believe I 
may appeal to every man's experience, whether his 
prayers be not more frequent, and more hearty too, 
when he is under some distress. Then how im- 
portunate are we in our petitions I how profuse in 
our vows and promises I saying with Israel, '* De- 
liver us only, we pray thee, this day. And they put 
away the strange gods from among them, and served 
the Lord" (Judges x. 15). I confess it is no good 
indication of our temper, that we need thus to be 
put in the press ere we will yield any thing : yet 
since we are so disingenuous, it is a mercy in God 
to adapt his methods to us, to extort when we will 
not give; and if he can have no free-will offering, 
yet at least to exact his tribute. Nor does he design 
the effect of this should cease with the calamitv that 
raised it, but expects our compelled addresses should 
bring us into the way of voluntary ones, and happily 
ensnare us into piety. And indeed herein ore we 
worse than brutish, if it do not. We think it a bar- 
barouB rudeness to engage a man in our affairs, and, 
as soon as we have served our own turns, never take 
farther notice of him. Nay, indeed, the very beasts 
may lecture us in this piece of morality, many of 
them paying a signal gratitude where they have re- 
ceived benefits; and shall we not come up at least 
to their pitch ? ShaU Dot the endearment of our 
deliverance bring our Deliverer into «ome repute 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. Till.] OETHB ADVAl«TAOB Or AFFLICTION. 123 

and connderatioti with ns, and make va desire to 
keep np an acqutuntance and intercourse with him ? 
Yet, if ingenuity work not with us, let interest at 
least prevul ; and the remembrance how soon we 
may need him again, admonish us not to make our- 
selves strangers to him. God compluns of Israel, 
" Wherefore say my people. We are lords ; we will 
come no more at thee ?" (Jer. ii. 31) — a very in- 
solent folly, to renounce that dependence by which 
alone they subsisted ; and no less will it be in any 
of OS, if we stop our recourse to him because we 
have had advantage by it. We have no assurance 
that the same occasion shall not recur; but with 
what face can we then resume that intercourse 
which in the interval we despised ? So that, if we 
have but any ordinary providence, we shall still so 
celebrate past rescues as to continue in a capacity 
of begging more ; and then we cannot but also (Con- 
fess the benefit of those first calamities which in- 
spired our devotion, and taught us to pray in earnest, 
and will be ashamed that our thanks should be ut- 
tered in a fainter accent than our petitioiw ; or our 
daily spiritual concerns should be more coldly soli- 
cited than our temporal accidental ones. 

13. Nor is it only our devotion that b thus im- 
proved by our distresses, but many other graces, — 
our faith, our hope, our patience, our Christian suf- 
ferance and fortitude. It is no triumph of faith to 
tmst God for those good things which he gives us 
in hand — this is rather to walk by sense than faith; 

Google 



124 THB ART OP COHTBKIUBNT. 

but to rely on him in the greatest destitution, " and 
against hope to believe in hope," this is the f^th of 
a true child of Abraham, and will be " imputed" to 
US (as it was to him) " for righteousness" (Rom. 
iv. 22). So also our patience owes all its oppor- 
tunities of exercise to our afflictions, and conse- 
quently owes also a great part of its being to them ; 
for we know desuetude will lose habits. What im- 
aginable use is there of patience where there is no- 
thing to suffer? In our prosperous state we may 
indeed employ our temperance, our humility, our 
cautioa ; but patience seems then a useless virtue^ 
nay indeed, for aught we know, may be counterfeit, 
till adversity bring it to the test. And yet this is 
the most glorious accomplishment of a Christian, 
that which moat eminently conforms him to the 
image of his Saviour, whose whole life was a per- 
petual exercise of this grace; and therefore we love 
our ease too well, if we are unwilling to buy this 
pearl at any price. 

14. Lastly, our thankfulness is (at least ought 
to be) increased by our distresseo. It is very natu- 
ral for us to reflect with value and esteem upon 
those blessings we have lost, and we too often do 
it to aggravate our discontent; but sure the more 
rational use of it is to raise our thankfulness for the 
time wherein we enjoyed them. Nay, not only our 
former enjoyments, but even our present depriva- 
tions, deserve our gratitude, if we consider the 
happy advantages we may reap from them. If we 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



CH. Till.] or TKB AIITAI«TA«B OP APPLICTIONS. 125 

will perversely east them away, that unworthy con- 
tempt pays no scores ; for we still stand answarable 
in God's account for the good he designed, and we 
might have had by it ; and we become liable to a new 
charge, for our ingratitude in thus " despising the 
chastisement of the Lord" (Heb. xii. 5)> 

15. And now, if all these benefits of afflictions 
(which are yet but imperfectly recited) may be 
thought worth considering, it cannot but reconcile 
us to the sharpest of God's methods, unless we will 
own ourselves such mere animals as to have no 
other apprehensions than what our bodily senses 
convey to us. For sure, he that has reason enough 
to understand that he has an immortal soul, cannot 
but assent that its interests should be served, though 
with the displacency of his flesh. Yet, even in re- 
gard of that, oar murmuriDgs are oft very unjust; 
for we do many times ignorantly prejudge God's 
design towards us even in temporals, who fre- 
quently makes a little transient uneasiness the pas- 
sage to secular felicities. Moses, when he fled out 
of Egypt, probably little thought that he should 
return thither a " god unto Pharaoh" (Ex. iv. ]6) ; 
and as tittle did Joseph, when be was brought thither 
a sla»e, that he was to be a ruler there ; yet as dis- 
tant as those states were, the divine Providence had 
80 connected them, that the one depends upon the 
other. And certtunly we may often observe the 
like over-ruling hand in our own distresses, that 
those events which we have entertained with the 



126 THB A&T or COyriMTHENT. 

greatest regret have in the consequenceB been very 
beaeficial to us> 

16. To conclude : we have certainly, both from 
speculation and experience, abundant matter to 
calm all our disquiets, to satisfj our distrusts, and 
to fix in us an entire resignation to God's dis- 
posals, who has designs which we cannot penetrate, 
but none which we need fear, unless we our- 
selves pervert them. We have our Saviour's word 
for it, that " he will not give us a stone when we 
ask bread, nor a scorpion when we ask a fish" 
(Matt. vii. 9). Nay, his love secures us yet farther 
from the errors of our own wild choice, and does 
not give us those stones and scorpions which we 
importune for. Let ua, then, leave our concerns to 
Him who best knows them, and make it our sole 
care to entertain his dispensations with as much 
submission and duty, as he dispenses them with 
love and wisdom. And if we can but do so, we 
may dare all the power of earth, and hell too, to 
make us miserable ; for be our afflictions what they 
can, we are sure they are but what we, in some 
respect or other, need ; be they privative or positive, 
the want of what we wish, or the suffering of what 
we wish not, they are the disposals of Him who 
cannot err; and we shall finally have cause to say 
with the psalmist, " It is good for me that I have 
been afflicted" (Ps. csix. 71). 



J, Google 



CHAPTER IX. 



^E come now to impress an equally just 
, wld useful consideration, — the com- 
* paring our misfortuues with those of 
ner men ; and be that does that will 
certaialy see so little cause to thiuk himself sin- 
gular, that he will not find himself snperlatiTe 
in calamity; for there is iio man living that can 
with reason aiBnu himself to be the very unhap- 
piest man, there being innumerable distresses of 
others which he knows not of, and consequently 
cannot bring tbem in balance with his own. A 
multitude of men there are whose persons he knows 
not, and even of those be does, he may be much a. 
stranger to their distresses ; many sorrows may lie 
at the heart of him who capnes a smiling face, and 
many a man has been an object of envy to those 
who look but on the surface of his state, who yet, 
to those who know his private griefs, appears more 
worthy of compassion. And sure this confused 
uncertain estimate of other men's afflictions may 



128 THB ART OP COHTBNTMBNT. 

divert us from all loud outcries of our own. 
SoloD, seeing a friend much oppressed with grief, 
carried bim up to a tower that overiooked the city 
of Athens ; and shewing him all the buildings, said 
to him, " Consider how many sorrows have, do, and 
shall iu future ages inhabit under all those roofs, 
and do not ves thyself with those inconveniences 
which are common to mortality, as if they were 
only yours." And sure it was good advice ; for 
suffering is almost as inseparable an adjunct of our 
nature as dying is. Yet we do not see men very 
apt to embitter their whole lives by the foresight 
that they must die ; hut seeing it a thing as uni- 
versal as inevitable, they are more forward to take 
up the epicure's resolution, " Let us eat and drink, 
for to-morrow we die" (1 Cor. xv. 32). And why 
should we not look upon afflicdons also as the com- 
mon lot of humanity ; and as we take the advant- 
ages, so be content to bear the encumbrances of 
that state P 

2. But besides that implicit allowance that ie 
thus to be made for the unknown calamities of 
others, if we survey but those that lie open and 
visible to us, the most of us shall find enough ta 
discountenance our complaints. Who is there that, 
when he has most studiously recollected his miseriesi 
may not find some or other that apparently equals, 
if not exceeds, him ? He that stomachs his own, 
being contemned and slighted, may see another 
persecuted and oppressed; he that groans under 



CH. IX.] OUR MISFOETUNRS COMPABBD. 12S 

some sharp pain, may see another afflicted with 
sharper ; and even he that has the most acute tor- 
ments in his body, may see another more sadiy 
cruciated by the agonies of his mind. So that if we 
would but look about us, we should see so many 
foreign occasions of our pity, that we should be 
ashamed to confine it wholly to ourselves. 

3. It will perhaps be said, that this cannot be 
universally true, for that there must in comparative 
degrees be some lowest state of misery. I grant it; 
but still that state consists oot in such an indivisible 
point, that any one person can have the enclosure; 
or if it do, it will be so hard for any to discern who 
that one person is, that I need desire no fairer a 
composition, than to have every man suspend his 
repinings till he can evince his title. But, alas, 
there are but few that can make any approaches to 
such a pretence ; for though, if we advert to men's 
complaints, ne should think all degrees uf compa- 
rison were confounded, and every man were equally 
the greatest sufferer, yet certainly, in the truth of 
things, it is nothing so ; for (not to repeat what was 
before loentloned, that probably no man is miser- 
able in any proportion to the utmost degree of pos- 
sibility,) the remarkably unhappy are very far the 
less number. And how passionately soever men 
exaggerate tbeir calamities, yet perhaps in their so- 
ber mood they will scarce change states with those 
whom they profess to think more happy than them- 
selves. It was the saying of Socrates, that if there 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



130 THS AKT OP COirTRNTUBNT. 

were a common bank made of all men's troubles, 
most men would rather choose to take thoae they 
brou};ht, than to venture upon a new dividend. And, 
indeed, he had reaaon for his supposition ; for, con* 
sidering how great a part of many men's afflictions 
aie of their own making, fictitious and imagiuary, 
tLey may justly fear lest they should escbange fea- 
thers for lead, their own empty shadows for the real 
and pressing calamities of others ; and cannot but 
think it best to sit down with their own, which serve 
. their declamations as well, and their eaae much better. 
We oft see men, at a little misshaping of a gar- 
ment, a scarce-disc eruible error in their cook, or 
the shortest interruption in their sports, in such 
transports of trouble, as if they were the most un- 
fortunate men in the world ; yet for all that, you 
shall hardly persuade them to change with him whose 
coarse clothing supersedes all care of the fiishiou, 
whose appetite was never disappointed for want of 
sauce, and whose perpetual toil makes him insen- 
sible what the defeat of sport signifies. 

4. Nay, even where the exchange seems more 
equal, where the afflictions are on both sides solid 
and substantial, yet a prudent man would scarce 
venture upon the barter. It is no small advantage 
to know what we have to contest with, to have 
experimented the worst of its attacks, by which 
we become better able to guard ourselves ; but a 
new evil comes with the force of a surprise, and 
finds us open and disarmed. It is, indeed, almost a 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CIT. IX.] OUB HISVORTUNEB COHPABBD. 131 

, miraculous power that custom Las in reconciliDg us 
to things otherwise displeasing : all our senses are 
taught to remit of their avereion by familiarity with 
ungrateful objects; that ugly form trbich at firet 
makes us start, by u^ divests its terror; and we 
reconcile ourselves to barsh sounds and ill relishes 
by long custom. And sure it has the very same 
effect upon our mtods : the most fierce calamities 
do by acquaJntance grow more tractable; so that 
he that exchanges an old one for a new does but 
bring a wild lion into his bouse instead of a tame ; 
it may, for aught he knows, immediately tear him 
to pieces, but at least must cost him a great deal 
of puns to render it gentle and familiar; and cer- 
tainly DO wise man would wish to make such a 
bargain. 

5. By all this it appears that, how extravagantly 
floever we aggravate our own calamities, and exte- 
nuate other men's, we dare not upon recollection 
stand to our own estimate; and what can be said 
more in prejudice of our discontent? Itisagranted 
maxim, that every man must have afflictions : " Man 
that is born of a woman," says Job, " is of few days, 
and full of trouble" (Job xiv. 1) ; and we must re- 
verse God's fundamental law, before we can hope 
for a total exemptiou. All that any man can aspire 
to, is to have but an equal share with others; and 
the generality of men have so — at least none can 
prove he has not so ; and till he can, his murmurs 
will sure be very unjustifiable, especially when they 



132 THE ABT or CONTBNTMEKT. 

have this convincing circumstance againet then), 
that he dares not, upon sober thoughts, change his 
afilictious with most of his neighbours. He is an ill 
member of a community who, in public assessments, 
would shuffle off all payments; and he is no better 
who, in this common tax God has laid upon our 
nature, is not content to bear his share. 

6. And truly, would we but consider that iu all 
our sufferings nothing befalls ub but what is com- 
mon to our kind, nay, which is extremely exceeded 
by many within the verge of our own obserration, 
— we must be senselessly partial to be impatient. 
The apostle thought it a competent consolation for 
the first Christians that " there had no temptation 
befallen them but what was common toman" (1 Cor. 
X. 13) ; aud we betray very estravagant opinions of 
ourselves if it be not so to us. Indeed, it were scarce 
possible for us to be so unsatisfied as the greatest 
part of us are, did we, in the comparing ourselves 
with others, proceed with any tolerable ingenuity. 

7. But, alas, we are very fallacious aud deceitful 
in the point ; we do not compare the good of others 
with our good, nor their evil with our evil ; but with 
an envious curiosity we amass together all the de- 
sirable circumstances of our neighbour's condition, 
and with as prying discontent we ransack all our 
grievances, and confront to them. This is so insin- 
cere a way of proceeding, as the most ordinary un- 
derstanding can detect. If I should wager that my 
arm were longer than another man's, and for trial 



CB. IX.] OUR UISFORTUHBB COHPAKBD. 133 

measure m; arm with hia finger, he must be stupidly 
silly that should award for me ; and yet this were 
not a grosser cheat than that which we put upon 
ourselves in our comparisons with others. And it 
is a little strange to observe unto what various pur- 
poses we can apply this one thin piece of sophistry ; 
for when we compare our neighbours and ourselves 
in point of morality, we do but reverse the fallacy, 
and presently make his vices as much exceed ours 
as our calamities did his in the other instance. They 
ore indeed both great violences to reason andjustice, 
yet the latter is sure the pteasanter kind of deceit. 
A man has some joy in thinking himself less wicked 
than his neighbour ; but what imaginable comfort 
can he take in thinking himself more miserable? 
Certainly he that would submit to a cozenage had 
much l>etter shift the scene, and think his sufferings 
less than they are, rather than more ; for since opi- 
nion is the thing that usually sets an edge npon our 
calamities, it might be a profitable deceit that could 
steal that from us. 

8. But we need not bliudfold ourselves, if we 
would but use our eyes aright, and see things in 
their true shapes ; and if we did thus, what a strange 
turn would there be in the common estimates of the 
worid ! How many of the gilded troubles of great- 
ness, which men at a distance look on with so much 
admiration and desire, would then be as much con- 
temned as now they are courted I A competency 
would then get the better of abundance ; and the 

N 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



134 THB AET OP CONTBNTMBNT. 

oow-envied pomp of princes, when btdanc«d with 
the careB and hazards annexed, would be so far froni 
a bait, that men, like Saul (1 Sam. s. 22), would 
" hide themselves" from the preferment ; and he that 
understood the weight would rather ehoose to wield 
a flail than a sceptre ; yet so childishly are we be- 
sotted with the glittering ^pearance of things, that 
we conclude Felicity must needs dwell where there 
is a magnificent portico ; and being possessed with 
this fancy, we overlook her in her own humble cot- 
t^es, where she would more constantly reside, if 
she could but find us at home; but we are com- 
monly engaged in a rambling pursuit of her where 
she is scldomest to be found, and in the interim miss 
of her at our own door. 

9. Indeed, there is scarce a greater folly or un- 
happinesa incident to man's nature than this fond 
admiration of other men's enjoyments, and contempt 
of our own. And whilst we have that humour, it will 
supplant not only our present, but all possibilities of 
our future content ; for though we could draw to our- 
selves all those things for which we envy others, we 
should have no sooner made them our own than 
they will grow despicable and nauseous to us. This 
is a speculation which has been attested by innu- 
merable experiments ; there being nothing more 
frequent than to see men with impatient eagerness, 
nay, often with extreme hazards, pursue those ac- 
quests, which, when they have them, they are im- 
mediately sick of. There is scarce any man that 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



PARED. 135 

may not give himself instaaces of this in his own 
particular; and yet so fatally stupid are we, that no 
defeats will discipline us, or take us off from these 
false estimates of other men's happinesses. And 
truly, while we state our comparisons so unequally, 
they are as mischievous as the eommou proverb 
speaks them odious ; but if we would begin at the 
right nnd, and look with as much compassion on the 
adversities of our brethren as we do with envy on 
their prosperities, every man would find cause to 
sit down contentedly with his own burden, and con- 
fess that he bears but the proportionable share of 
bis common nature, — unless, perhaps, it be where 
some estraordinary demerits of his own have added 
to the weight ; and in that case be has more reason 
to admire his afflictions are so few than so many. 
And certainly every man knows so many more ills 
by himself than it is possible for hira to do by an- 
other, that he that really sees himself exceed others 
in his sufferings will find cause enough to think he 
does in sins also. 

10. But if we stretch the comparison beyond 
our contemporaries, and look back to the genera- 
tions of old, we shall have yet farther cause to 
acknowledge God's great indulgence to ns. Abra- 
ham, though the friend of God, was not exempted 
from severe trials. He was first made to wander 
from his country, and betake himself to a kind of 
vagrant life ; was a long time suspended from the 
blessing of his desired o^pring ; and when at last 



136 THB AKT Oy CONTBITTHRMT. 

his beloved Isaac was obtaiaed, it caused a domes- 
tic jar, which he was fain to compose by the expul- 
sion of Ishmael, though his son also. But what a 
contest may we think there was in his own bowels, 
when that rigorous task was imposed on him of 
sacrificing his Isaac ; and though his faith glori- 
ously triumphed over it, yet sure there could not 
be a greater pressure upon human nature. David, 
the man after God's own heart, is no less signal for 
bis afHictions than for his piety. He was for a 
great while an exile from his country, and (which 
he most bewailed) from the sanctuary, by the per- 
secutions of Saul ; and after he was settled in that 
throne to which God's immediate assignadon bad 
entitled him, what a succession of calamities had he 
in his own family: the incestuous rape of his daugh- 
ter ; the retaliation of that by the unnatural murder 
of Amnon, and that seconded by another no less 
barbarous conspiracy of Absalom against himself; 
bis expulsion from Jerusalem; the base revilings of 
Shimei ; and, finally, the loss of that darling son in 
the act of his ain, — a cluster of afflictions, in com- 
parison whereof the most of ours are but like the 
''gleanings," as the prophet speaks, "after the vin- 
tage is done." It were, indeed, endless to instance 
in all the several forefathers of our faith before 
Christ's incarnation. The apostle gives us a brief, 
but very comprehensive, compendium of their suf- 
ferings : " They had trial of cruel mockings and 
scourgings, yea, moreover, of bonds and imprison- 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



Ca. IX.] OUR UISPOKTTINBS COUPARBD. 137 

menu ; they were stoned, were sawn asundt^r, were 
tempted) were slain with the sword ; they wandered 
about in sheep-skina and goat-skins, being desti- 
tute, afflicted, tormented ; they wandered in deserts 
and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the 
earth " (Heb. xt. 36-38). And if we look on the 
primitive Christians, we shall see them perfectly 
the counterpart to them : their privileges consisted 
not in any immunities from calamities, — for their 
whole lives were scenes of sufferings. St Paul 
gives us an account of his own ; ■< In labours more 
abundant, in stripes above measure, in prisons more 
frequent, in deaths oft: of the Jews five times 
received I forty stripes save one ; thrice was I 
beaten with rods, once was I stoned, thrice I suf- 
fered shipwreck, a night and a day have I been in 
the deep, in joumeyings often," &c. (2 Cor. xi. 23) : 
and if his single hardships rose thus high, what may 
we think the whole sum of all his fellow-labourers' 
amounted to together, with that noble army of 
martyrs who seated their faith with their blood, of 
whose sufferings ecclesiastic history gives us such 
axtonishing relations. 

1 1. And now, " being compassed about with so 
great a cloud of witnesses," the apostle's inference 
is very irrefragable, ■' let us run with patience the 
race which is set before us " (Heb. xii. 1, 2). But 
yet it is more so, if we proceed on to that consider- 
ation he adjoins : " Looking unto Jesus, the author 
and finisher ofour faith, who forthe joy that was set 



138 THE ABT OF COtrTKITTIIBMT. 

before him endured the cross, deepisiog the abarae " 
(ver. 2). Indeed, if we contemplate him ia the 
whole course of his life, we »hall find him rightly 
styled by the prophet "a man of sorrows" (Is. liii. 3). 
And as if he had charged himself with all our griefs 
as well as our siaa, there is scarce any buman cala- 
mity which we may not find exemplified in him. 
Does any complain of the lowness and poverty of 
his condition ? Alas, his whole life was a state of 
indigence : he was forced to be an inmate with the 
beasts ; he lay in a stable at his birth ; and after 
himself professes that he " bad not where to lay his 
head " (Luke ix. 58). Is any oppressed with in- 
famy and reproach? He may see his Saviour ac- 
cused as a "glutton and a wine-bibber" (Luke vii. 
34), "a blasphemer" (John z. 33). "a sorcerer" 
(Matt. xii. 24), " a perrerter of the nation " (Luke 
xxiii. 2) ; yea, to such a sordid lowness bad they 
sunk bis repute, that a seditions thief and murderer 
was thought the more eligible person, " not this 
man, but Barabbas " (John xviii, 40) ; and, finally, 
all this scene of indignities closed with the spiteful 
pageantry of mockery acted by the soldiers (Matt, 
xxvii, 28), and the yet more barbarous insultinga 
of priests and scribes (ver. 41). Is any man de- 
spised or deserted by his friends? He was con- 
temned by his countrymen, thought frantic by 
his friends, betrayed by one of his disciples, aban- 
doned by all, unless that one who followed him 
'ongest to renounce him the most shamefully by a 



. IX.J OUB UISFOKTtlNEB COHPABED. 139 



threefold abjuration ; nay, what is infinitely more 
than this, he seemed deserted by God also, as is 
witnesaed by that doleful esclamation, " My God, 
ray God, why bast thou forsaken me ?" (MatL xxvii. 
46.) Is any dissatisfied with the hardships or la- 
boriousness of his life ? Let him remember his 
Saviour's was not a life of delicacy or ease ; he was 
never entered in those academies of lusury, where 
men are " gorgeously apparelled and live delicately " 
(Lulie vii. 25) ; but he was brought up under the 
mean roof of a carpenter, and consequently sub- 
jected to all the lowness of such an education. His 
initiation to his prophetic ofHce was with the mira- 
culous severity of a forty days' fast ; and in his 
discbarge of it, we find him in perpetual labours, 
" going about doing good " (Acts x. 38) ; and that 
not in triumph, like a prince bestowing his lar- 
gesses, but in weary peregrinations, never riding 
but once, and that only upon a borrowed beast, 
and to fulfil a prophecy (Matt. xsi. 4). Does any 
man groan under sharp and acute pains ? Let 
him consider what his Redeemer endured ; how in 
his infancy, at his circumcision, he ofibred the first- 
fruits, as an earnest of that bloody vintage when 
" he trod the wine-press alone " (la. Ixiii. S). Let 
him attend bim through all the stages of bis direful 
passion, and behold his arms pinioned with rough 
cords ; his bead smitten with a reed and torn with 
his crown of thorns ■ his back ploughed with those 
"long furrows" (Pa. cxxix. 3) the scourges had 



140 THE ART OF CONTBNTM£NT. 

made ; his macerated feeble body oppressed with 
the weight of his croi», and at lost racked and ex* 
tended on it; his hands and feet, those nervous and 
consequently most sensible parts, transfixed with 
nails; hia whole body fastened to that accursed 
tree, and exposed naked to the air in a cold sea- 
son ; his throat parched with thirst, and yet more 
afflicted with that vinegar and gall wherewith they 
pretended to relieve him ; and, finally, his life ex- 
piring amidst the full sense of these accurate tor- 
ments. Lastly, does any man labour under the 
bitterest of all sorrows, importunate temptations to,' 
or a wounded spirit for, sin ? Even here also he 
may find that he haa a " High-priest who hath 
been touched with the sense of his infirmities" 
(Heh. iv. 15). He was violently assaulted with a 
succession of temptations (Matt, iv.), and we can- 
not doubt but Satan would on him employ the ut- 
most of his skill. Nor was he less oppressed with 
the burden of sin (ours, I mean), though not his 
own. What may we think were his apprehensions 
in the garden, when he so earnestly deprecated that 
which was his whole errand in the world ? What 
a dreadful pressure was that which wrung from 
him that bloody sweat, and cast him into that inex- 
plicable agony, the horror whereof was beyond the 
comprehensions of any but his who felt it I And, 
finally, how amazing was the sense of Divine wrath, 
which extorted that stupendous complaint, that 
"strong cry" on the cross (Heb. v. 7), the sharp 



accent whereof, if it do aright sound on our hearts, 
must certainly quite overwhelm our loudest groans ! 
And now certainly I may say with Pilate, " Ecce, 
homo — behold, the man !" or, rather, with a more 
divine author, " Behold, if ever there were sorrows 
like unto his sorrow " (Lam. i. 12). 

12. And sure it were but a reasonable inference, 
that which we find made by Christ himself, " if these 
things be done in a green tree, what shall be done 
in the dry?" (Luke xjiii. 31.) If an imputative 
guilt could nourish so scorching a flame, pull down 
BO severe a wrath, what can we expect who are 
merely made up of combustible matter, whose pro- 
per personal sins cry for vengeance? Sure, were 
we to judge by human measures, we should reckon 
to have more than a double portion of our Saviour's 
sufferings entailed upon us ; yet such is the efficacy 
of his, that they have commuted for ours, and have 
left us only such a share as may evidence our rela- 
tion to our crucified Lord ; such as may serve only 
for badges and cognisances to whom we retain. 
For, alas, let the most afBicted of us weigh our sor- 
rows with his, how absurdly unequal will the com- 
parison appear I And therefore, as the best expe- 
dient to baffle our mutinies, to shame us out of our 
repinings, let us often draw this uneven parallel, 
confront our petty uneasinesses with his unspeakable 
torments ; and sure it b impos^ble but our admira- 
tjon and gratitude must supplant nur impatiences. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



142 THB AST OP CONTBNTHRNT. 

I3> This is, indeed, the method to which the 
ftpostle directs as, "Consider him that endured 
such contradiction of sianers against himself, lest ye 
be weary and faint in your minds : ye have not yet 
resisted unto blood" (Heb. xii. 3, 4). Was he con- 
tradicted, and shall we espect to be humoured and 
complied with? Did he resist to blood, and shall 
we think those pressures intolerable which force 
only a few tears from us ? This is such an un- 
manly niceness, as utterly makes us unfit to follow 
the Captain of our salvation. What a soldier is he 
like to make that will take no share of the hazards 
and hardships of his general ? Honest Uriah would 
not take the lawful solaces of his own house, upon 
the consideration that his " lord Joab" (though 
but his fellow-subject) " lay encamped in the open 
fields" (2 Sara. si. 11), yea, though he was sent by 
him from the camp. And shall we basely forsake 
ours in pursuit of our ease ? He is of a degeuerous 
spirit, whom the example of bis superior will not 
animate. Plutarch tells us, that Cato, marching 
through the deserts, was so distressed for water, 
that a small quantity was brought to him in a hel- 
met as a great prize ; which he refusing, because he 
could not help hb soldiers to the lilie, they were so 
transported with that generosity, that it extinguished 
the sense of their thirst, and they were ashamed to 
complam of what their leader voluntarily endured 
for their sakes. And surely we extremely discredit 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CB.IX.] OUR AUSFOBTUHES COHFABBD. 143 

our institution, if we cannot equal tbeir ingenuity) 
and follow ours with as great alacnty through all 
the difficulties he has traced before us and for us. 

14. Nor let us think to excuse ourselves upon the 
impotency of our flesh, which wants the assistance 
which his Divinity gave him ; for that plea is super* 
seded by the fore-mentioned examples of the sunts, 
men of like passions with us, who not only patiently 
bnt joyfully endured all tribulations; by which it 
appears it is not impossible to our nature, with 
those Euds of grace which are common to us with 
them; for cerUunly the difference between them 
and us is not so much in the degrees of the aids, as 
in the diligence of employing them. Let us, there- 
fore, as the apostle advises, " lift up the hands which 
hang down and the feeble knees" (Heb. xii. 12), 
and with a noble emulation follow those heroic 
patterns they have set us. And since we see that 
even those favourites of heaven have smarted so 
severely, let us never dream of an immunity ; but 
whenever we find ourselves inclining to any such 
flattering hope, let every one of us upbraid ourselves 
in those terms the Jews did our Saviour, *' Art thou 
greater than Abraham and the prophets? whom 
makest thou thyself?" (John viii. S3.) Nay, we 
may descend lower, and take in not only all the in- 
ferior Blunts of former times, but alt those our con- 
temporaries in sufferings, which are most within our 
view, and may ask the apostle's question, " What 
then, are we better than they ?" (Rom. iii. 9.) If 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



144 THB AKT OP CONTENTMENT. 

yre thinlt we are, it is certaio we are so much worse 
by that insolence; and if weconfesffwe are not, upon 
what score can we pretend to be better treated? 
To conclude : let ua not pore only upon our peculiar 
evils, but attentively look about us, and consider 
what others endure ; and since in frolics we can 
sport ourselves with many uneasinesses for company- 
sake, let us not be more pusillanimous in our sober 
moods, but every man cheerfully take his turn iu 
bearing the common burden of mortality, till we put 
off both it and its appendages together, "when thid 
mortal shall put on immortality" (1 Cor. xv. 5+}. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CHAPTER X. 



alAVING now passed tiirough all those 
consideratioDa at first propoBed, I may 
trust the considering reader to make 
own collections ; yet because im- 
patience is the vice that has been all this while 
arraigned, I am to foresee, if possible, that those 
who have the greatest degree of that may be the 
least willing to attend the whole process ; and there- 
fore I think it may not be amiss for their ease to 
suit and reduce all into some short directions and 
rules for the acquiring contentment. 

2. The first and most fundamental is, the mor- 
tifying our pride, which as it is the seminary of 
most sins, so especially this of repining. Men that 
are highly opinioned of themselves are commonly 
iinsatisfiable ; for how well soever they are treated, 
they still think it short of their merits. Princes 
have often experimented this in those who have done 
them signal services ; but God finds it in those who 
have done him none ; and we expect he shall dispense 
to us according to those fake estimates we put upon 



C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



146 THB AET OF CONTENT MBNT. 

ourselves. Therefore he that aapires to content 
must first take truer measures of himself, and con- 
sider that as he was nothing till God gave him a 
being, so all that he can produce from that being is 
God's by original right, and therefore can pretend 
to nothing of reward ; so that whatever he receives 
b sitill upon theaccount of new bounty; ajid to com- 
plain that he has no more, is like the murmurs of 
an unthankful debtor, who would still increase those 
scores which he knows he can never pay. 

S. In the second place, let every man consider 
how many blessings (notwithstanding his no claim 
to any) he d^ly enjoys, and whether those be so 
impatiently raves after be not much inferior to them. 
Nay, let him ask his own heart, whether he would 
quit all those he has for them he wants ; and if he 
would not (as I suppose no man in his wits would, 
those wits being part of the barter), let him then 
judge how unreasonable his repinings are, when 
himself confesses he has the better part of worldly 
happiness, and never any man living had all. 

4. In the third place, therefore, let him secure 
his duty of thankfulness for those good things be 
hath, and that will insensibly undermine his impa- 
tiences for the rest, it being impossible to be at 
once thankful and murmuring. To this purpose it 
were very well, if he would keep a solemn catalogue 
of all the bounties, protections, and deliverances be 
has received from God's hand, and every night 
e what accessions that day has brought to 



Bdj,Googlc 



CH. X,] AIDS FOtt CONTBSTMBNT. 147 

the sum ; and he that did this would undoubtedly 
find 30 many incitationa to gratitude, that all thoae 
to discontent would be stifled in the crowd. And 
since acknowledgment of God's mercies is all the 
tribute he exacts for them, we must certainly loolc 
on that as an indispensable duty ; and therefore he 
that finds that God shortens his hand, stops the 
efBux of his bounty towards bim, should reflect on 
himself, whether he be not behind in that homage 
by which he holds, aud have not by his unthankful- 
ness " turned away good things from him" (Jer. 
V. 25)> And if he find it so (as who, alas, b there 
that may not?), be cannot, sure, for shame, com- 
pltun, but must in prudence reinforce his gratitude 
for what is left, as the best means to recover what 
he has lost. 

5. But bis murmurs will yet be more amazingly 
silenced, if, in the fourth place, he compares the good 
things he enjoys with the ill be baa done. Certainly 
this is a most infallible cure for our impatiences, the 
holiest man living being able to accuse himself of 
such sins as would, according to all human mea- 
sures of equity, forfeit all blessings, and pull down 
a greater weight of judgment than the most miser- 
able groan under. Therefore, as before I advised 
to keep a catalogue of beneflts received, so here it 
would be of use to draw up one of sins committed. 
And, doubtless, he that confronts the one with the 
other, cannot but be astonished to find them both 
so numerous, equally wondering at God's mercy in 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



148 TDE AKT 09 COITTKNTHBMT. 

continuing bis blessings, in despite of all his provo- 
cations, and at his own baseness in continuing his 
provocations, in despite of all those blessings. In- 
deed, it ii nothing but our affected ignorance of our 
owu demerits that makes it possible for us to repine 
under the severest of God's dispensations. Would 
we but ransack our hearts, and see all the abomina- 
tions that lie there, nay, would the moat of us but 
recollect those barefaced crimes which even the 
world can witness against us, we should find more 
than enough to balance the heaviest of our pres- 
sures. When, therefore, by our impatient strug- 
glings, we fret and gall ourselves under our bur- 
dens, let us interrogate our souls in the words of 
the prophet, " Why doth a living man complain, — a 
man for the punishment of his sin ?" Let us not 
spend our breath in murmurs and outcries, which 
will only serve to provoke more stripes; but "let 
us search and try our ways, and turn again to the 
Lord " (Lam. iii. 3% 40) ; diligently seek out 
that accursed thing which has caused our discom- 
fiture (Jos. vi. 18), and by the removal of that, pre- 
pare the way for the access of mercy. But, alas, 
how preposterous a method do we take in our af* 
flictionsi We accuse every thing but what we 
ought, furiously fiy at all the second causes of our 
calamity, nay, too often at the first, by impions 
disputes of Providence ; and in the meajitime, as Job 
says, " the root of the matter is found in us'' (Job 
six. 28). We shelter and protect in our bosoms 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. X.J AIDE FOB CONTBNTMBNT. 149 

the real author of our miseries. The true way, thetii 
tu alia; the sen«e of our sufferiogs, is to sharpen 
that of our bIdb. The prodigal thought the meanest 
condition in his father's family a preferment, " Make 
me one of thy hired seiranta" (Luke xv. 19). And 
if we have his penitence, we shall have his Bubmia- 
sion also, and calmly attend God's disposals of ua. 

6. As every man in his affliction is to look inward 
on his own heart, so also upward, and consider by 
whose Providence all events are ordered : " Is there 
any evil (i. e. of punishment) in the city, and the 
Lord hath not done it?" (Amos iii, 6.) And what are 
we worms that we should dispute with him P Shall 
a man contend with bis Maker? " Let the potsherd 
strive with the potsherds of the earth" (Isa. xlv, 9). 
And as bis power is not to be controlled, so neither 
is his justice to be impeached : " Shall not the Judge 
of all tbe earth do right ?" (Gen. xviii. 25.) And 
where we can neither resist nor appeal, what have 
we to do but humbly to submit ? Nor are we only 
compelled to it by necessity, but induced and in- 
vited by interest, since his dispensations are directed 
not barely to assert his dominion, but to evidence 
his paternal care over us. He discerns our needs, 
and accordingly applies to us. The benignity of his 
nature permits him not to take delight in our dis* 
truses; "he doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the 
children of men" (Lam. iii. 33); and therefore, when- 
ever he administers to us a bitter cup, we may be 
tore the ingredients are mediciaal, and such as our 
02 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



150 THE AST or COMTBNTHBNT. 

infirmities require. He dares not trust our intern' 
perate appetites with uumixed prosperities, — the 
lusciousoess whereof, though it ma^ please our 
palates, yet like St. John's booli (Rev. x. 9), that 
honey in the mouth may prove gall in the hovels, 
—.engender the most fatal diseases. Let us there- 
fore, in our calamities, not consult " with flesh and 
blood" (Gal. i. 16), which, the more it is be- 
moaned, the more it compltuns, — but look to the 
hand that strikes, and assure ourselves, that the 
stripes are not more severe than he sees necessary 
in order to our good ; and since they are so, they 
ought in reason to be our choices as well as his; 
and not only religion, but self-love will prompt us to 
say, with old Eli, " It is the Lord ; let him do what 
seemeth him good" ( I Sam. iii. 18). But, alas, we do 
not understand what is our interest, because we do 
not rightly understand what we are ourselves. We 
consider ourselves merely in our animal being, our 
bodies and those sensitive faculties vested in them ; 
and when we are invaded there, we think we are 
undone, though that breach be made only to relieve 
that diviner part within us, besieged and oppressed 
with the flesh about it (for so God knows it too 
often is) ; or if we do not consider it in that notion 
of an enemy, yet at the utmost estimate, the body 
is to the soul but as the garment to the body, a 
decent case or cover ; now, what man (not slark 
frantic) would not rather have his clothes cut than 
hb flesh ? and then, by the rate of proportion, we 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. X.'] AIDS FOR CONTBimiBNT. 151 

may well questioa our own sobriety, when we re- 
pine that our aouU are secured at the cost of our 
bodies; and that is certainly the worst, the unkindest 
design that God has upon us ; and our impatient 
resbtances serve only to frustrate the kind, the me- 
dicinal part of afflictions, but will not at all rescue 
us from the severe. Our murmurings may ruin 
our souls, but will never avert any of our outward 
calamities. 

7- A seventh help to contentment is, to have a 
right estimate of the world, and the common state 
of humanity ; to consider the world but as a st^e, 
and ourselves but as actors, and to resolve that it is 
very little material what part we play, so we do it 
well. A comedian may get as much applause by 
ac^i^ the slave as the conqueror, and he that acts 
the one to-day may to-morrow reverse the part, and 
personate the other. So great are the vicissitudes of 
the world, that there is no building any finn hopes 
upon it. All the cpitainty we have of it is, that in 
every condition it has its uneasinesses ; so that when 
we court a change ; we rather seek to vary than end 
our miseries. And certainly he that has well im- 
pressed upon his mind the vanity and vexation of 
the world, cannot be much surprised at any thing 
that befalls him in it. We expect no more of any 
thing but to do its kind ; and we may as well be 
angry that we cannot bring the lions to our cribs, 
or fix the wind to a certain point, as that we cannot 
secure ourselves from dangers and disappointments 

cLiL-j^Googlc 



152 THB ART OP CONTBNTMEKT. 

iu thin rough and mutable worid. We are, there- 
fore, to lay it aa an infallible maxim, that in this 
vale of tears every man must meet with aorrons 
and disasters; and then sure we may take our pecu- 
liar with evenness of temper, as being but the na- 
tural consequent of our being men. And though 
possibly we may every one think himself to have 
a double pordon, yet that is usually from the de- 
ceitful comparison we make of ourselves with 
others. We take the magnifying glasoes of discon- 
tent and envy when we view our own miseries and 
others' felicities, but look on our enjoyments and 
their sufferings through the contracting optics of 
ingratitude and incompassion ; and whibt we do 
thus, it is impossible but we must foment our own 
dissatisfactionit. He that will compare to good par- 
pose, must do it honestly and sincerely, and view 
bis neighbour's calamities with the same attention 
he does his own, and his own comforts with the 
sa/ne he does his neighbour's ; and then many of 
the great seeming inequalities would come pretty 
near a level. 

8. But even where they do not, it, in the eighth 
place, deserves, however, to be considered, how ill- 
natured a thing it is for any man to think himself 
more miserable because another is happy ; and yet 
this is the very thing by which alone many men 
have made themselves wretched ; for many have 
created wants, merely from the envious conlempla- 
tioD of other men's abundance. And, indeed, there 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CB. X.] AIDS FOB CONTENTUBNT. 153 

is nothing more disingenuoua, or (to go higher) 
more diabolical. Lucirer was happy enough in his 
original state ; yet could not think himself ao, be- 
cause he was " not like the Most High" (Is. xiv. li). 
And when by that insolent ambition he had for- 
feited bliss, it has ever since been an aggravation 
of his torment, that mankind is assumed to a capa- 
city of it ; and accordingly he makes it the design 
of his envious industry to defeat him. Now, how 
perfectly are the two first parts of this copy tran- 
scribed by those who first cannot be satisfied with 
any inferior degree of prosperity, and then whet 
their impatiences with other men's enjoyments of 
what they cannot attain ? And it is much to be 
doubted, that they who go thus far may complete 
the parallel, and endeavour, when they have oppor- 
tunity, to undermine that happiness they envy; 
therefore, since Satan is so apt to impress his 
whole image where he has drawn any of his linea- 
ments, it concerns us warily to guard ourselves, 
and by a Christian sympathy with our brethren, 
"rejoice with them that do rejoice" (Rom. xii. 15); 
make the comfort of others an allay, not an im- 
provement of our own miseries. Charity has a 
■trange magnetic power, and attracts the concerns 
of our brethren to us ; and he that has that in his 
breast can ne^er want refreshment whilst any about 
him are happy ; for by adopting their interest, he 
shares in their joys. Jethro, though an alien, "re- 
joiced for all the good God had done to Israel" 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



154 TUB AST OF UOHTBNTUBNT. 

(Exod. xviii. 9) ; and why should not we have as 
sensible a concurrence with our fellow-Christians? 
And he that has so will still find something to 
balance hia own sufferings. 

9. Let him that aspires to contentment set 
bounds tu hb desire. It is our common faalt in 
this affair, we usually begin at the wrong end ; we 
" enlat^ our desires as hell, and cannot be satis- 
fied" (Hab. ii. 5), and then think God uses us ill, 
if he do not fill our insatiable appetites; whereas, 
if we would confine our expectations to those things 
which we need, or he has promised, there are few 
of us who would not .find them abundantly an- 
swered. Alas, how few things are there which our 
nature (if not stimulated by fancy and luxury) 
requires I And how rare is it to find them who 
wont those ; nay, who have not many additionals 
for delight and pleasure ! And yet God's promise 
under the Gospel extends only to those necessaries ; 
for where Christ assures his disciples that "these 
things shall be added unto them" (Matt. vi. S3), 
the context appai'ently restrains " these things" to 
meat, and drink, and clothing. Therefore, " take 
no thought for your life, what you shall eat, or what 
you shall drink, nor yet for the body, what you 
shall put on" (v. 25). Now what pretence have we 
to claim more than our charter gives us? God 
never articled with the ambitious to give him 
honours, with the covetous to fill hb bags, or 
with the voluptuous to feed his luxuries. Let us, 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. X.l AID9 FOK CONTBHTUBNT. 155 

therefore, if we espect to be satisfied, modestly 
confine our desires witliin the limits he has set us, 
and then every accession which he superadds will 
appear {what it is) a largess and bounty. But 
whilst our appetites are boundless, and rather 
stretched than filled with our acquests, what pos- 
sibility is there of their satisfaction ? and when we 
importuue God for it, we do but assign him such a 
task the poets made a representation of their hell, — 
the filling a sieve with water, or the rolling a stone 
up a precipice. 

10. A great expedient for contentment is to 
confine our thoughts to the present, and not to let 
them loose to future events. Would we but do 
this, we might shake off a great part of our bur- 
den ; for we often heap fantastic loads upon our* 
selves by anxious presses of things which perhaps 
will never happen, and yet sink more under them 
than under the real weight that is actual upon us; 
and this is certainly one of the greatest follies ima- 
ginable; for either the evil will come, or it will 
cot : if it will, it is, sure, no such desirable guest 
that we should go out to meet it, — we shall feel it 
time enough when it falls on us, we need not pro- 
ject to anticipate our sense of it ; but if it will not, 
what extreme madness is it for a man to torment 
himself with that which will never be, to create 
engines of tortures, and by such aerial afflictions 
make himself as miserable as the most real ones 
could do! And truly this is all that we usually 

Google 



166 THB AVt OP COIfTKNTMKNT, 

get by our foresights. PreviBion is one of God's 
attributes ; and be mocks at all our pretences to it, 
by a frequent defeating of all our forecasts. He 
does it often in our hopes; some little cross cir- 
cumstance many times demalishea those goodly 
macbines we rase to ourselves : and he does it no 
less in our fears; those ilb we solemnly expected 
often balk ns, and others from an unespeoted coast 
suddenly inrade us. And since we are so blind, ao 
short-sighted, let us never take upou us to be 
scouts, to discover danger at a distance (for it ia 
manifold odds we shall only bring home false alarms), 
but let us rest ourselves upon that most admirable 
aphorism of our blessed Lord, " SiifBcient unto the 
day is the evil thereof" (Matt. vi. 34); apply our- 
selves with Christian courage to bear the present, 
and leave God either to augment or diminish, as be 
sees fit, for the future. Or if we will needs be 
looking forward, let it be in obedience, not contra- 
diction to our duty ; let us entertain ourselves witlt 
those futurities which we are sure are not chimeras, 
death and judgment, heaven and hell. The nearer 
we draw these things to our view, the more insen- 
sible will all intermedial objects be ; they will de- 
ceive our sense of present, and much more fore- 
sbdl the apprehension of future evils ; for it is our 
neglect of things eternal that leaves us thus at lei- 
sure for the transitory. 

11. In the last place, let us in all our distresses 
supersede our anxieties and solicitudes by that most 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



GB. X.] AIDS POK contkhtheht. 157 

effectual remedy the apostle preseribes, "Is any 
man afflicted, let him pray" (Jamea v. 13). And 
this sure is a most rational prescripUon ; for, alas, 
what else can we do towards the redress of our 
griefs ; we who are so impotent, that we have not 
power over the most despicable excrescence of our 
own body, cannot make " one hur white ci black" 
(Matt V. 36), — what can we do towards the new- 
moulding our condition, or modelling things with- 
out us? Our solicitudes serve only to bind our 
burdens faster upon us; but this expedient of prayer 
will certainly relieve us. " Call upon me," says 
God, " in the time of trouble, and I will hear thee, 
and thou shalt praise me" (Ps. 1. 15). Whenever, 
therefore, we are sinking in the floods of affliction, 
let us thus support ourselves by representing our 
wanta unto our gracious Lord, cry unto him as 
8t Peter did, and he will take us by the hand, 
and, be the winds never so boisterous or contrary, 
preserve ua from sinking (Matt xiv. 30) : the waves 
or billows of this troublesome world will serve but 
to toss us closer into his arms, who can with a 
word appease the roughest tempest, or rescue from 
it 0, let us notr'then, be so unkind to ourselves 
as to neglect this infallible means of our deliver- 
ance, but, with the psalmist, take our refuge under 
the " shadow of the divine wings till the calamity 
be over-passed" (Ps. Ivii. 1). And as this is a sure 
expedient in all our reid important afflictions, so is 
it a gpod test by which to try what are so. We 
p 

Google 



158 TBR ±ax or comtentmbht. 

ue often peerbh and disquieted at trifles, nay, we 
take up the quarrels of our lusts and vices, and are 
discontented when they want their wished supplies. 
Mow, in either of these cases, no man that at all 
considers who he prays to, will dare to insert these 
in his prayers, it being a contempt of God to in- 
voke him in things so slight as the one, or impious 
as the other : it will, therefore, be good for every 
man, when he goes to address for relief, to consider 
which of his pressures they are that are worthy of 
that solemn deprecation ; and when he has singled 
those out, let him reflect, and he will find he has in 
that prejudged all his other dbcontents as frivolous 
or wicked; and then sure he cannot think fit to 
harbour them, but must for shame dismiss them, 
since they are such as he dares not avow to Him 
from whom alone he can expect relief. God al- 
ways pities our real miseries, but our imaginary 
ones dare not demand it. Let us not, then, create 
such diseases to ourselves as we cannot declare to 
our physician ; and when those are precluded, for 
all the rest St. Paul's recipe is a catiwlicon? " Be 
careful for nothing ; but in every thing by prayers 
and supplications, with thanksgiving, let your re- 
quests be made known to God" (Phil. iv. 6). 

' Caihoticm, — an oniveraal medicine. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CHAPTER XI. 



OW RKSiaHATIOH. 

g^^BlND now, amicUt such variety of re- 
'^^ ceipts, it will be hard to iostance any 
^-,. one BOrt of colatnit^r whicb can escape 
^^^ their efficacy, if they be but duty ap> 
plied. But, indeed, we have generally a compen- 
dious way of frustrating all remedies by never 
making use of them; like Fantastic patients, we 
are well enough content to have out disease dis- 
coursed and medicines prescribed, but when the 
physic comes, have still some pretence or other to 
protract the taking it. But I shall beseech the 
reader to consider, that counsels are no charms, to 
vork without any co-operation of the concerned 
person ; they must be adverted to, they must be 
pondered and considered, and finally they must be 
practised, or else the utmost good they can do ns, 
is to give ns a few hours' divertisement in the 
reading; but they do us a mischief that infinitely 
outweighs it, for they improve our guilts by the 
ineffectiTe tender they make of rescuing us Irom 



Bdj,Googlc 



160 THB AET OP COHTBNTMKNT, 

them, and leave uit accountable, not only for the 
original crimes, but for our obstiDate adhesion to 
them in spite of admonition. 

2. I say this, because it is a little too notorious, 
that many take up booke only as they do cards or 
dice,' — as an instrument of diversion. It is a good 
entertainment of their curiosity to see what can be 
stud upon any subject ; and be it well or ill handled, 
they can please themselves equally with the in- 
genuity or ridiculousness of the composure ; and 
when they have done thie, they have done all they 
designed. This, indeed, may be tolerable in ro- 
mances and play'books, but sure it ill befits divinity. 

. And yet I fear it oftenest happens there; for in the 
former some do project for some trivial improve- 
ments, as the embellishing of their style, the inspi- 
riting of their fancies; and some men would scarce 
be able to drive their peddling trade of wit, did 
they not thus sweep the stage ; but, alas, how many 
books of piety are read, of which one cannot dis- 
cern the least tincture in men's conversations I which 
sure does in a great measure proceed from the want 
of a determinate design in their reading, men's prac- 
tice being not apt to be less rovers than their specu- 
lation. He that takes a practical subject in hand 
must do it with a design to conform his practice to 
what he shall there be convinced to be his duty ; 
and he that comes not with this probity of mind is 
not like to be much benefited by his reading. 

3. But one would think this should be an un- 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CH. XI.] OF KSSIQITATION. 161 

necessary caution at this time; for since the intent 
of thb tract is only to shew men the way to con- 
tentment, it is to be supposed the readers will be as 
much in earnest as the writer can be, it being every 
man's proper and most important iuterest, the in- 
stating him in the highest and most supreme felicity 
that this world can admit; yet for all this fair pro- 
bability, I doubt many will, in this instance, have 
the same indifference they have in their other spiii- 



4. It is true) indeed) that a querulous repining 
humour is one of the most pemiciona, the most ugly 
habits incident to mankind; bnt yet as deformed 
people are oft the most in love with themselves, so 
this crooked piece of our temper ia of all others the 
most indulgent to itself. Melancholy b the most 
stubborn and nntractable of all humours ; and dis- 
content, being the offspring of that, partakes of that 
inflexibility ; and accordingly we ace how impreg- 
nable it often is against all assaults of reason and 
reli^on too. Jonah, in a sullen mood, would justify 
his discontent even to God himself, and in spite of 
that calm reproof, " doat thon well to be angry ?" 
(Jon. iv. 9) aver " he did well to be angry even to 
death." And do we not frequently see men, upon 
an impatience of some diaappointment, grow angry 
even at their comforta 7 Their friends, their chil- 
dren, their meat, their drink, every thing grows 
nauseous to them, and, in a frantic discontent, they 
r 2 

CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



162 THB AET OP COKTBMTMiJJT. 

ofEen fling away those things which they most value. 
Besides, this peevish impatience ia of so aerial a 
diet, that it is scarce possible to starve it It will 
nourish itself with phantasms and chimeras, suborn 
a thoasand surmises and imaginary distresses to 
abet its pretences ; and though every one of us can 
remoDstrate to one another the unreasonableness of 
this discontent, yet scarce any of us will draw the 
argument home, or suffer ourselves to be coDviuced 
by what we urge as irrefragable to others. Nay, 
farther, this humour is impatient of any diversion, 
loves to converae only with itself. In bodily pains, 
men that despair of cure are yet glad of allays and 
mitigations, and strive by all arts to divert and de- 
ceive the sense of their Einguish ; but in this disease 
of the mind, men cherish and improve their torment, 
roll and chew the bitter pill in their mouths, that 
they may be sure to have its utmost flavour ; and by 
devoting all their thoughts to the subject of their 
grief, keep up an uninterrupted sense of it, — as if 
they had the same tyranny for themselves which 
Caligula had for others, and loved to feel them- 
selves die. Indeed, there is liot a more absurd con- 
tradiction in the world, than to hear men cry out of 
the weight, the intolcrableness of their burden, and 
yet grasp it as fast as if their life were bound up 
in it ; will not deposit it, no not for the smallest 
breathit)g-time. A strange fascination sure, and 
yet so frequent, that it ought to be the fundamental 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CB. ZI.] OF KBBIONATION. ]63 

care of him that would cure meo of their discoti' 
tentSi to bring them to a hearty wiUiDgDeaa of being 
cured. 

5. It may be this will look like paradox, and 
every man will be apt to say he wishes nothing 
more in earnest than to be cured of his present dis- 
content. He that is poor would be cured by wealth, 
he that is low and obscure by honour and great- 
ness; but so an hydropic (dropsical) person may 
say he desires to have his thirst cured by a perpe- 
tual supply of drink; yet all sober people know that 
that is the way only to increase it ; but let the 
whole habit of the body be rectified, and then the 
thirst will cease of itself. And certainly it is the 
very same in the present case ; no outward acces- 
sions will erer satisfy our cravings ; our appetites 
must be tamed and reduced, and then they will 
never be able to raise tumults, or put us into mu- 
tiny and discontent ; and he, and none but be, that 
submits to this method, can truly be said to desire 

6. But he that thus attests the reality of his de- 
rires, and seeks contentment in its proper sphere, 
may surely arrive to some considerable degrees of it. 
We find in all ages men that only by the direction of 
natural light have calmed their disquiets, and rea- 
soned themselves into contentment even under great 
and sensible pressures ; men who, amidst the acutest 
torments, have still preserved a serenity of mind. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



164 TBB ABT OF COVTEKTHBHT. 

and have frustrated contetnpta and reproaches by 
disregarding them. And sure we give a veiy ill ac> 
count of our Christianity, if we cannot do as much 
with it as they did without it- 

?• I do not here propose such a stoical insensibility 
as makes no distinction of eventS) which, though it 
has been vainly pretended to by many, yet sure was 
never attuned by any upon the strength of reason- 
ing. Some natural dulnesa or casual stupefaction 
must concur to that ; and perhaps by doing so, has 
hod the luck to be canonised for virtue. I mean 
Only such a superiority of mind as raises us above 
our sufferings, though it exempt us not ttom the 
sense of them. We cannot purpose to ourselves a 
higher pattern in any virtue than our blessed Lord ; 
yet we see he not only felt that load under which 
he lay, but had the most pungent and quick sense 
of it, such as prompted those earnest deprecations: 
" Father, if it be posuble, let this cup pass ;" yet 
all those displacences of his flesh were surmounted 
by the resignation of his spirit, " nevertheless, not 
what I will, but what thon wilt" (Luke xxii. 42). 
And certainly he that, in imitation of this pattern, 
does, in spite of all the reluctances of his sense, thus 
entirely submit his will, however he may be sad, 
yet he is not impatient, nor is he like to be sad long ; 
for to him that is thus resigned " light will spring 
up" (Ps. xcvii. 11); sowe good angel will be sent, 
like that to our Saviour, to reUeve his disconsolation ; 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



cu. SI.] oi aBBioNATiON. 165 

God will send either some outward allays, or give 
Bucb interior comforts and supports, as shall cohd- 
terpoise those afflictioDs he takes not off. 

8. Indeed, the grand design of God in correcting 
US is (the same with that of a prudent parent towards 
his child), to br«ak our wills. That stubborn faculty 
will scarce bend with easy touches, and therefore 
does require some force ; and when by that rougher 
handling he has brought it to a pliantness, the work 
is done. It is therefore our interest to co-operate 
with this design, to assist as much as we are able 
towards the subjugating this unruly part of our- 
selves. This is that Sheba (2 Sam. xx. 21), the 
surrendering of whom is God's expectation in all 
the close sieges he lays to us. Let us then be so 
wise as, by an early resigning it, to divert his farther 
hostilities, and buy our peace with him. 

9. And truly this is the way not only to gain 
peace with him, but ourselves too: it is the usurpa- 
tion of our will over our reason which breeds all 
the confusion and tumults within our own breasts, 
and there is no possibility of curbing its insolence 
but by putting it into safe custody, committing it 
to Him who (as our Church teaches us) alone can 
order the unruly wills of sinful men. Indeed, no- 
thing but experience can fully inform us of the 
serenity and calm of that soul who has resigned hb 
will to God. All care of choosing for himself is 
happily superseded ; he is tempted to no ausious 
forecasts for future events, for he knows nothing 

cLiL-j^Googlc 



166 XHB ART OP COtrTBNIHBHT. 

can happen in contradiction of that supreme will in 
which he hath sanctuary, which will cert^nly choose 
for him with that tenderness and regard that a f^th- 
ful guardian would for his pupil, an indulgent father 
for his child that casts itself into his arms. Certainly 
there is not in the world such a holy sort of artifice, 
BO divine a charm to tie our God to us, as this of 
resigning ourselves to him. We find the Gibeouites, 
by yielding themselves vassals to the Israelitee, had 
their whole army at their beck to rescue them in 
their danger (Jos. x. 6) ; and can we think God is 
less conmderate of his homagers and dependents? 
No, certainly ; his honour as well as his compassion 
is concerned in the relief of those who have sur- 
rendered themselves to him. 

10. Farther yet: when, by rtugnation, we hare 
tinited our wills to God, we have quite changed the 
scene; and we who, when our wills stood single, 
were liable to perpetual defeats, in thi^ blessed com- 
bination can never be crossed. When our will ia 
twisted and involved with God's, the same Omni- 
potence which backs his will does also attend ours. 
God's will, we are sure, admits of no control, can 
never be resisted ; and we have the same security 
for ours, so long as it concurs with it. By this means 
all calamities are unstinged ; and even those things 
which are most repugnant to our sensitive natures 
are yet very agreeable to our spirits, when we con- 
sider they are implicitly our own choice, since they 
are certainly His whom we have deputed to elect for 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



CH. II.] or RBBIGHATION. 167 

UB. Indeed, there can be no tkce of adversity so 
averting and formidable, wbicb, set in thb light, will 
not look amiable. We see d&ily how many uneasi- 
nesses and prejudices men will contentedly suffer in 
pursuit of their wills; and if we have really espoused 
God's, made his will ours, we shall with as great — 
nay, far greater — alacrity embrace ita distributions, 
how uneasy soever to our sense ; our souls will 
more acquiesce in the accomplisbment of the Divine 
will, than our flesh can reluct to oppose any severe 
effects of it 

11. Here, then, is that footing of firm ground, 
on which whosoever can stand may indeed do that 
which Archimedes boasted — move the whole world.' 
He may, as to himself, subvert the whole course of 
sublunary things, unvenom all those calamities which 
are to others the gall of asps, and, in a farther sense, 
verify that evangelical prophecy of " beating swords 
into ploughshares, and spears into pnining-hooks" 
(Is. ii. i) : the most hostile weapons, the most ad- 
verse events, shall be by him converted into instra- 
ments of fertility, shail only advance his spiritual 

12. And now, who can choose but confess this 
a much more eligible state, than to be always liit- 
rassed with solicitudes and cares, perpetually either 
fearing future defeats, or bewailing the past? And 

' Ad allnmoii to the well-known ujiiig of tliat great matbe- 
nuticisn; " GiTS me s ipot to itand upon, and 1 will more 
the world." 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



I6S THE AKT OF CONTBNTHeNT. 

then, what can we call it less than madness or en- 
chantment for men to act so contrary to their own 
dictates, yea, to their very sense and experience, to 
see and acknowledge the inexplicable felicity of a 
resigned will, and yet perversely to hold out theirs, 
though they can get nothing by it but the sullen 
pleasure of opposing God and tormenting them- 
selves? Let us, therefore, if not for our duty or 
ease, yet at least for our reputation, the asserting 
ourselves men of sobriety and common sense, do 
that which upon all these interests we are obliged; 
let us but give up our wills, and with them we shall 
certainly divest ourselves of all our fruitless auzie- 
ties, and cast our burdens upon Him who invites us 
to do BO. He who beara all our sins will bear all 
our sorrows, our griefs too. If we will but be con- 
tent to deposit them, he wilt relieve us from all those 
oppressing weights which make " our souls cleave 
to the dust" (Ps. csis. 25), and will in exchange 
give us only his "light, his pleasant burden" (Matt, 
xt. SO). In a word, there will be no care left for 
us but that of keeping ourselves in a capacity of 
his; let us but secure our love to him, and we are 
ascertained that " all things shall work together for 
our good" (Rom. viii. 28). 

To conclude, resignation and contentment are 
virtues not only of a near cognation and resemblance, 
but they are linked as the cause and the effect Let 
us but make sure of resignation, and content will 
flow into us without our farther industry ; as, on 

C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



CB. SI.] OP BBSIGNATION. 169 

the contrary, whilst our wills are at defiance with 
God's, we shall always find things at as great de- 
fiance with ours- All our subtilties or industries 
will never mould them to our Batisfactions till we 
have moulded ourselves into that pliant temper that 
we can cordially say, " It is the Lord ; let him do 
what seemeth him good" (1 Saro. iii. 18). 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



THE CLOSE. 

^HIS short inatitution of the Art of Con- 
I tentment cannot more naturally or more 
i desirably draw to a conclusion than in 
: rcoort we have given it, in the 
bosom of Divine Providence. The Roman con- 
querors, as the last pitch of all their triumphs, 
went to the C^itol and laid their garlands in the 
lap of Jupiter; but the Christian has an easier 
way to triumph, to put his crown of thorns (for 
that is the trophy of his victories) witbiu the arms 
of bis gracious God ; there lodge his fears, his 
wants, his sorrows, and himself too, as in the best 
repository. 

2. The Gospel-command of "not caring for the 
morrow" (Matt vi. 34), and being " careful for 
nothing" (Phil. iv. 6), nakedly proposed, might 
seem the abandoniog of us to all the calamities of 
life; but when we are directed to "cast all ouf 
care" upon a gracious and all-powerful Parent, and 
are assured that "he cares for U8"(l Pet. v. 7), that 
"though a woman may forget her sucking child, 
that she should not have compassion on the sou of 

cLiL-j^Googlc 



THB CLOBf . 171 

her womb, yet will he not forget" his ehildr^a 
(Isaiah xUx. 15). thb will abundantly aupersede all 
cavil and objection. Whilst worldly men trust in 
an arm of flesh, lay up " treaMure on earth," a jwey 
for "rust and moth" (Matt. vi. 19), and "a tor- 
ment" to themselves (Jamesr. S), the Christian haa 
omnipotence for bis support, and a "treasure in 
heaven, where no thief approaches, nor moth cor- 
rupts" (Matt vi. 20). Whibt bold inquirers call in 
question God's secret will, oblige him to their sub- 
or supra-lapsarian schemes, their absolute or con- 
ditional decrees, their grace foreseen or predeter* 
mined; the pious man, with awful acquiescence, 
submits to that which is revealed, resolves for ever 
to obey, but never to dispute; as knowing that the 
beloved disciple leaned on his Master's bosom, but 
it is the thiefs and traitor's part to go about to 
rifle iL 

3. It is surely a modest demand in the behalf of 
God Almighty, that we should allow him as much 
privilege in his world, as every peasant claims in his 
cottage — to be master there, and dispose of hb 
household as he thinks best ; to " say to this man. 
Go, and he goeth ; and to another. Come, and he 
Cometh; and to his servant. Do this, and he doeth 
it" (Matt viii. 9). Andifbe wouldafford him this 
liberty, there would be an immediate end put to all 
clamour and complunt 

4i We make it our dsilj prayer, that the "will" 
of God "may be done in earth as it is in heaven," 



172 XHB AET OPCOMIENTMBKT, 

Tith a ready, swift, and uointermpted constancy. 
As it is giaot-like rebellion to set up our will against 
his, BO is it mad perveraeness to set it up against 
ourown; be displeased that our requests are granted, 
and repine that his, and therewith our will is done. 
It were indeed not only good manners but good 
policy to observe the direction of ttie heathen, and 
follow God, not prejudge his determination by ours ; 
but in a modest suspension of our thoughts, "hearken 
what the Lord God will say concerning ua, for he 
will speak peace unto his people, and to hi« saints, 
that they turn not again" (Fs. Uzxv, 8). 

5> Or, however, upon surprise, we may indulge 
a passionate affection, and dote upon our illegiti- 
mate of&pring, our darling guilts or follies, as David 
did upon that child who was the price of murder 
and adultery ; yet when the " ehild is dead," it will 
become us to do as he did, rise from our sullen 
posture on the earth, and " worship in the house of 
the Lord" (2 Sam. xii. 20). It will behove us, ss 
he says in another place, to " lay our hand upon 
our mouth, because it was bis doing" (Ps. xxxis. 
10) ; and with holy Job (si. 4), when charged with 
his murmurings, " Behold I am vile ; what shall I 
answer ? Once have I spoken, but I will not an- 
swer; yea, twice, but I will proceed no farther." 

6, Soorates rightly said of contentment, oppos- 
ing it to the riches of fortune and opinion, that it 
is the wealth of nature, for it gives every thing that 
we have learned to want and really need ; but re- 



C.i 



THB CLOfll. 173 

eignation iB the riches of grace, bestowiag all things 
that a Christian not only needs but can desire, eveo 
Almighty God himself. He, indeed, as the school- 
men teach, ig the objective happiness of the crea- 
ture ; he who is the fountain of being must be also 
of bleesednees ; and though this be only communi- 
cable to us, when we have put off that " flesh which 
cannot enter into the kingdom of God," and laid 
aside that " corruption" which cannot " inherit in- 
corruption" {1 Cor. it. 50), yet even in this life 
we may make approaches to that blessed state by 
acts of resignation and denial of ourselves. It was 
the generous saying of Socrates, being about to die, 
unto his friend : " O Crito, since it is the will of 
God, 80 let it be: Anytus and Melitus may kill me, 
but cannot hurt me." But such a resignation, as it 
is infinitely a greater duty to a Christian, bo it is 
also a more firm security. In that case it is not 
the martyr, but Jesus of Nazareth who is thus per- 
secuted, and he who attacks him will find " it hard 
to kick against the pricks" (Acts ix. 5). 

7. There could not be a greater instance of the 
profligate sensuality of the Israelites than that they 
murmured for want of *' leeks and onions" (Num. 
xi. 5), when they ate angels' food, and had bread 
rained down from heaven. It is impossible for the 
soul that is sensible of God Almighty's favour to 
repine at any earthly pressure ; " The Lord is my 
' shepherd," said David ; " therefore can I lack no~ 
thing" (Fs. xxiii. 1). And, " thou hast put glad- 

Cunglc 



174 THB ABT OP CONTBirrHENT. 

ness into my heart, more than when their corn, and 
wine, and oil increased" (iv, 7) ; and in passionate 
rapture he cries out, " Whom have I in heaven but 
thee P and there is none upon earth that I desire in 
comparison of thee : my flesh and my heart faileth ; 
but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion 
for ever" (Ps. Isxiii. 25). And likewise, " God is 
our hope and strength, a very present help in trou- 
ble. Therefore will we not fear, though the earth 
be moved, and though the hills be carried into the 
midst of the sea ; though the waters thereof rage 
and swell, and though the mountains shake at the 
tempest of the same. If God be in the midst of us, 
we shall not be removed ; he will help us, and that 
right early" (Ps. xlvi. 1). Let us, therefore, possess 
ourselves of this support, and, as the prophet advises, 
" neither fear nor be afnud" in any eiigence, how 
great soever ; but " be still and quiet, and sanctify 
the Lord of hosts himself, and let him be our fear, 
and let him be our dread (la.' viii. IS)." 




CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



:Biii5dj.G00glc 



M 




^^0dm of gjJat^eilkgf 



Ciie Eetiolnttoni8ts, 






M 



gout Slalcfi from ttK Seman 

»f 

IJe Sacoiuosi at la fl?om Jouquf, 



^ 



flta^i 






CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 



bog's letters to Doctor Matthew, and ae quickly carried back 
Doctor Matthew's anewera to Stockholm. 

When iuch tales as these came to hia ears, Doctor Mattheiv 
would laogh heartily, and espUin the extraordinaiy speed of thdr 
correspondence by an exact calculation of the post, which from 
time to time passed between him tmd hie Mendj or, if his 
hearers were not convinced by this, he would conclude by telling 
them, between jest and earnest, of a pigeon post which hastened 
beyond belief bis intercourse with the Swedish sage ; and it was 
not to be denied that the most beantifiil pigeon through all the 
beautiful south of France might be seen flying in and out of 
Doctor Matthew's pleasant &rm, which ky in the suburbs of 
Marseilles. 

On the erenii^ of the day on which this history be^ns, the 
learned Doctor Matthew sat alone, and seemed to have no thongbt 
but for his grave and deeply mysterious studies ; even the thunder 
of an approaching storm, which gradually grew louder and louder, 
could not wake him from the reverie in which the circles, squares, 
and triangles, lying on the paper before him, held him, as it were, 
ftat bound. 

Nevertheless, as if this thought too formed part of his reverie, he 
mghed almost inaudibly, " Sophie Ariele ;" and then added, smiling, 
or indeed almost laughing, " When I am fortunate — or, I should 
Bay, unfortunate — she comes, just at the end, and scatters all my 
labour to tils winds ; and then I have measured and calculated in 
vain." 

In the mean time, however, he did not suffer these doubts 
to prevent him from diligently pursuing his work, and he looked 
up as though he were disagreeably disturbed, when a servant an- 
noimced the arrivB] of a stranger, who had come to ask his medical 
ad^ce. But before the message was ended every symptom of dis- 
satit&ction that had appeared on the good man's face was checked, 
and his grave, noble countenance changed to an expression of 
cheerful kindness as he beckoned to the servant to conduct the 
stranger to his presence. 

The tall figure of a man in a military dress, of noble bearing and 
youthful appearance, entered the room ; and Doctor Matthew said, 
after the first ulntationa were over—" I have the honour, if I un 



not tniataken, to welcome in you a Swedish officer, arrived here, aa 
I suppose, by the advice of my friend Farenbeig, of Stockholm." 

" It is BO, sir," returned the stranger; " I am the Swedish 
cdonel, GuBtAvuB GyUenakiold, n^iom your friend Fannberg ha> 
sent hither, in the hope of deriving from you that assistance which 
the profound nature of bis studies will not sufier bim to confer on 
me immediately. 

Doctor Matthew looked for some time upon hia guest in tfaought- 
fbl silence; at length he said, " The proposal is difficult; it nntnda 
almost as though it were sent as a temptation. Shall I be able to 
render assistance where my friend has fidledf And besides, 
your appearance, sir, ^yea evidence of the most blooming health. 
What cure is it that you reqnire i If yonr tmth-telling eyea and 
noble courtesy did not forbid the sua^don, I should say you h&d 
come here to insult me by a pretence of illness." 

An expression of indignation, that he seemed to restrain with 
difficulty, passed over the countenance of the young stranger. The 
doctor good-naturedly extended his hand to him, with these words, 
" I would not have said so much, had I for a moment fancied it 
would really hare afiected you. My nobk guest, there is only one 
unguler httle 'if' intheway; but, come, in all truth I will not 
grant a place in my heart for any such ' ifa' as these." 

GuBtavus Gyllenskiold seized the hand so kindly profieied, and 
the doctor added, " In what can I belp you, Inii I am ready 
irith joy to do it, to the utmost in my power. Your malady is, I 
doubt not, of the greatest moment; for, however miny fanciful 
uck people may be found in the world, it is not possible for a 
man like yourself to suffer imder the influence of unsubstantial 

Then the young stranger slowly drew his hand from that of the 
physician, and said, shaking bis head, " If you are one of those, 
sir, who consider dreams to be of no importance, either for good 
or evil, I must not reckon upon your assistance; for my malady 
consists entirely in evil dreams. Waking, I aro healthy and well; 
but slumber seldom sinks upon my eyes without bringing with it 
the most ghastly visions, which disturb and terrify my soul. Yet, 
I pray you to forgive the dreamer, who has robbed you of so much 
of your precious time, and who can flatter himself with no hope 



4 SOPHIE ahielx. 

that you will enter into his case, or in the least participate with and 
help him in hie sufferings. Farewell." 

But Doctor Matthew, with engaging cordiality, begged bis. sin- 
gular guest to remain, telling him that, if he could not reckon upon 
his aaraatance, he might with confidence expect hia sympathy, which 
indeed had been already assured to him by their mutual friend, 
Farenherg. " Indeed, it is incomprehensible to me," he added, 
as Gyllenskiold cheerfully yielded to his request, " how the philo- 
sopher, who is in general so seldom wrong, should send yon to me 
under these circomstances ; for our ideas concerning dreams-are 
the only point at variance between us in our scientific path. For 
though, like him, I acknowledge many deep myateiies in natore, 
and look upon them both with reverence and awe, y^ dreams are 
mysteries which I can only attribute to a phyncal cause ; while our 
friend belieres, not only that physical breath is often imparted to 
tliem, but that if they are not indeed to be exalted to the nature of 
heavenly apparilionB, they are at least meaaengerB in spiritual com- 
municatdons. It is possible, cert^nly, that he may have suddenly 
and completely changed his views, and has sent you to me that I 
may put you in the way to recovery by a difierent method fhim that 
formerly adopted by himself." 

- " Of that I have much doubt," returned Gyllenskiold. " Hia 
injuncdons respecting you were wrapped in that mystery which 
often accompanies his words ; and I should fancy, ftom what you 
now say, that I had deceived myself by a misunderstanding, if this 
billet in his handwriting did not prove to us both that he has sent 
me to you, at Marseilles." 

" Unaccountable," said the physician, after some consideration, 
while &om the well-known characters he read over and over again 
the words, and at last ahnost spelt them : " ' Cure for friend Gyl- 
laiskialdfrom his evU dreamt, by friend Malthxw at Maraeilla.' 
Unaccountable I" he repeated, musing as hefiire ; " for, if my vanitf 
induced me to believe that Farenberg had yielded to my o^nnion, 
a moment's reflection reminds me that long after your departure 
from Stockholm, very long after (for the posts, when properly 
managed, pass and repass inconcdvably faster than travellers), I 
received a letter from him, confirming his full belief in the mys- 
tery of dreams, and promising me s fresh demonstration of the 



cnith of his way of dunking. And I cannot doubt. Colonel, that 
in aUnding to this fresh instance of his theory, he spoke of you. 
But the principal thing now to be considered is your health. And 
it seems certain, at any rate, that in your partindor case our Mend 
plax^d Bome dependence upon my art for the treatment of thcM 
sort of maladies ; I pray you, Uierefore, shew me the saine con- 
fldeuce, and give me a clear deacriptdon of youi maladyi and the 
vny it came first upon you." 



Chaptek II. 

Gyllienbkiolo sat down in an arm-chair, near the physician's 
table, and said, after sorrowfiilly muaing for a long tJme — 

" How my malady firat came upon me ! Alas ! dear Mr, from 
the very hour that I waa born. It is at any rate probable that, 
in th^ very first dreams of my childhood, the same ghastly cloud- 
spirit which still followB me was on the watch. Those who were then 
around me say, that, when an infant, I often awoke from slumber 
with fearful screams, and that at other times I smiled in my sleep 
like an angel." And, indeed, at these words sweet smiles, like those 
of an aagel, passed over his proud features; yet soon a dark 
cloud of sorrow agiun overspread his countenance, and he said — 
" Whether this was pity or flattery, or a self-deception, or whether 
it waa indeed a truth which has passed away with the happy Para- 
dise of childhood, I know not ; now — " 

He stopped, and sang sofdy to the moving tones of an old song-* 
" Now i« it &r othemiie 1" 
TTien he held his hand before his eyes, while he leant his elboW 
Upon the arm of the chair, and the Doctor thought he could see 
soft tears stealing down the cheeks of his strange guest. But, as 
the phyneian wished on no account to disturb this fit of gentle 
melancholy, he avcnded observing him too closely. 

Suddenly Gustavus Gyllenskiold looked up proudly and steadily, 
and casting a piercing glance upon the physician, he stud— -"I am 



6 BOPBIB ASIELE. 

certain yon will not diink 80 meaiil7 of me as to believe that dreamB 
alone, be their images ever so evil, could have power to drive me to 
that Btate of melancholy depreeaion into which I felt myaelf sunk a, 
moment ago; butlthinkif mymother had died earlier, if Ihad never 
■een her glad, heavenly smiles, when I awoke to the morning aun 
out of dreamless, or even sweetly dreaming sleep ; or, if I bad never 
heard her happy, hopeful words, when she said how, in time to 
come, she would prepare for the marriage festival of her Gustavus. 
or would salute him when be returned home from the field of battle 
as a victorious hero, or &om some dialant country as a noble 
ambassador." 

Agmn he was silent for a few moments, and it seemed aa 
though, mih his dark glowing blue eyes, he looked sorrow- 
fully down into the depths of his own soul; then he said, 
quite collected, and in almost as indifferent a tone as though he 
were speaking of the un&vourable circumstantxs of some other 
person — 

" In this case, ur, those fearful dreams might not have come, 
nor the still more fearful awaking ; for, at the end, when aJieert 
of any worth becomes recognised in a half a quarter of an hour— 
when people do find a little time for sensibility, though five minutes 
after they have forgotten, perhaps, everything about it — Ah I well ; 
the way of the world is still the way of the world; and just con- 
trariwise, also, a heart is atill a heart. It is a painful history, too, 
that of the heart ; but, after a man has pud a few apprentice' 
fees to Sorrow, he gets to understand its course, and becomes 
reconciled to it. Just so it is, also, when Glory smUes sweetly 
and temptingly upon us, like an amorous wanton, and in thoae 
smiles lies hidden the promise — 'Now I greet thee I now I kiss 
thee ! Now art thou mine I now am I thine 1' And neither greet- 
ing nor kiss follows, and the promise of the glorious union 
only becomes a swelling poison in the vuns ! Ye«, yes ; the 
man who possesses a really superior soul submits to all this, 
and thinks at last — ' Let me only be laid in the grave, and 
beautiful golden characters be set upon my coffin or my tomb, 
and the bng-estranged lover will then all at once become faithful, 
and turn and abandon my sepulchre no more ; but she will gaze, 
with looks of infinite tenderness, upon the breathlees corpse of him 



SOPHIE) ABIELE. 7 

whom, in life, she dragged — by her decatfiil, entdcing, changeful 
features — through ataewilderinglabyrinthof error!' And can any, 
from a prince to a alave, long hope for any hett«r consolation tlian 
this, before he is shut up in his silent, narrow cabin, within six 
black boards, bedizened, it may be, with a few golden n^a (V 
painted characters I It were pretty much the same, indeed, 
whether one had performed the deeda thej commemOTale or not ; 
and the sliadowy forms of our great forefathers might shake their 
long-bearded heads at pleasure. Bnt when one thinks bow the 
sweet, proud hopes of a lovely mother for our worldly career have 
been deceived — how it is nought but sorrow, notwithatanding, 
which has taken poaaession of our heart— yee, then one might—" 

He stood up (tin of excitement, as if suddenly a clond- 
spirit had ^)peared to combat with him ; then sitting calmly down 
again upon hia arm-chair, he siud, smilii^t ""'^ making a gen- 
tle movement with his hand, to prevent the soothing answer of 
the phyudan, " Let them alone, good sir, I have comfort 
for such griefs as theae ; I know indeed that t^e is only tkatk. 
And why should the go-called life so especially concern us { Have 
we not equally to do mth the so-called death ? The last ia indeed 
only the culminating pomt of the fhst. It is not so much for the sake 
of a peaceful life as of a peaceful death that I ask for your advice in 
the name of your friend Farenberg. The experiroait with moat 
men is long in being made, and," added he, in a low voice, " I 
Buppose that few would wish it shortened. I am still young, dear 
sir ; render therefore my lingering death as gentle as possible, while 
you scare away or lighten the fearful dreams of my life." 

" And those dreams," asked the physician, who bad listened 
eagerly, " do they always appear to you in the same form I or do 
they alter, according to the difierent dispositions of your soul .'" 

Gustavus answered with a smile, "He who could thus account for 
the variouB dispositions of hia soul, and from their echoing tones 
know how to watch for the bungs of the visible or invisible world, 
would scarcely need to ask advice of any; he would himself be 
able to write the prescription for his cure, or, it may be, the 
reason why it is incurable, for indeed the die is even." 

" Hearken !" said Doctor Matthew, somewhat harshly. " My 
noble profession is no game at dice ; and if it has any unworthy 



members who consider it ae Buch, I am not, God be thftoked ! one of 
the number. But I know that, without the entire confidence of the 
patient, no physician in the world can do any good, UnquesCiooably, 
sir, you have discovered something in my appeai'ance that has de- 
prived me thus soon of your confidence ; for it seems you avoid 
unfolding to me the mystery of your dreams ; and therefore, for 
my part, I can only grieve that you have taken the long joDmey 
from Sfockholm to Marseilles in vain." 

Gvstftvua Gyllenskiold rose from his seat with ill-repressed anger, 
andstoodin the act of taking a cold, but courteous fitreweU. Then 
the door gently opened, and the graceful form of a Isdy with a 
white dove on her Bnn, herself as tender and as snowy white as ho' 
dove, floated in. At the unexpected sight of the stranger, a soft 
blush overspread her pale cheek : with unspeakable grace she bent 
down over Uie phyeician, arid whispered a few words in lua ear, then 
in a moment disappeared through the open door. The soothing 
magic that the presence of woman sheds over the too sorrowful 
heart of man, swelled sweetly and tenderly through the eoul of the 
young soldier ; he already laid down again the hat that be had 
taken up for his departure, and said in an altered voice, " Dear 
sir, a little while ago I declared, in a moment of anger, that 1 
would renounce your assistance ; and now, in just such a fit of 
anger, you withdraw your assistance from me. We have both been 
unjust towards each other ; but let me say one thing, should not 
the physician have more indulgence with the patient, than the 
patient with the physician i And indeed the happy ought to show 
far more gentleness to the unhc^jpy, than the unhappy can he 
expected to towards the happy." 

Deeply touched, Doctor Matthew took the noble youth In his 
arms, and Gustavus said, " Now you have indeed unlocked my 
heart, and 1 will willingly confide to you what I myself know 
of my dreams." 

Mutual confidence being thus restored, they both returned to 
their eeaU, and Gyllenskiold related the following history. 



C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



BOPHIE ARIELE. 



Chapter III. 



" Even when b boy I vna piuaued by dreami. Tby fomu 
played around me : they were injinitely amalkr than I was myself 
at that time; yet even thnr dwarfish nze excited in me a most 
peculiar dread— more horrible, perhaps, than if now a monater, 
gigantic as the tower of yon cathedral, were to ofier me combat 
hand to hand. Then M any rate it would be quickly decided, 
and in no wise an in^rioua conteat. Bat to be atruck dead 
by mites, by ants! and it waa thua that the visions of my 
dreams appeared before me, little men, only a finger long, 
with sharp needles for aworda, fiercely enraged one against the 
other, and all together againat the world, but particularly against 
me. How often, when my tender mother laid me in my h6A, 
and aaw my infant limbs tremble, or my cheeks grow pale, how 
often did ahe say, ' Oh, Guetavua — my own child I — what luls 
thee ? Let me only know what gives thee pain, and surely, with 
God's assistance, I would chase it from thy dear, tender sonl[' 
But it seemed to me then that my lipa were aealed ; I did nothing but 
sigh deeply in my heart, and think — ' Ah, jf you only knew about 
the wicked little wizards 1 But what then ? ITiey would not be so 
obedient to you as your poor Gustavua, and you would not be able 
to preserve him from them. Much better is it therefore that you 
should know and understand nothing at all about them?' — So I kept 
the secret from my dear mother until she died ; when even then I 
strove to tell her of it in my childish lamentations, the little wizards 
disappeared, and 1 thought that perhaps their evil forms would 
come more seldom. But it turned out far otherwise ; they came 
only more often, andworeamorefeaiAil appearance than ever. By 
little and little, out of the dark world of dreams, forms rose up" — 

He stopped, and, with hie eyes half closed, mused for a long time, 
shuddering as if he could find no words to express the horror in 
his boaom. At last be continued in a hoarse voice, speaking 
almoat like a frenned man — " Doctor Matthew, have you ever 
read the ' Germania' of Tadtus i But what do I say ? so learned a 
man, and not acquiunted with the ' Germama' oS Tadtos ! Well, 



you must have read there — ' There shall ariae at various times 
from tlie waves of the north-eastern ocean strange, brilliant forms 
— beautjful, but absolutely fearful on account of their marvel- 
lously solemn beauty ! ' That was the idea, at least, which always 
came to my mind when 1 read that enigmatical passage. And when, 
as a schoolboy, I had to explain the description of it, I was blamed 
because Iput my own fearful meaning upon it; yet it seemed to me 
that I could bare explained my dreams, as they increased upon me, 
in the enigmatical words of the old Soman. Even to you, dear 
ur, I can scarcely describe tbem more clearly. — 'Will you have 
patience with me i" 

The physician begged be would desist from the explanation that 
seamed so singularly painful to him, and to wait for some mora 
bvourable moment. But Oyllenskiold quickly composed himself, 
and said with a forced smile, " He would indeed be a brave soldier 
who must wait for the right hour before he can face the enemy I No, 
forwards I From the misty world of dreams there arise kings' heads 
with long grey beards, and maidens with such wondrously bright 
ibrms, that my closed eyes are tdten pained at Hieir exceeding 
brightness. These might be called beautiM ; but such a strange 
expression of scorn plays around their sharply curved coral lips, 
and their eyes sparide sometimes mth such triumphant hatred, that 
a deep, inexpresaible horror fills my whole soul. And then they 
sing so wildly and fesrfi^y; and it seems, ever and anon, as though 
I understand thur words, and yet I understand them not ; while, 
from musing perpetually on the meaning, which at one time seems 
plain, and at another eludes my grasp, my brain becomes per- 
fectly diiiy. The old crowned heroes shake thrar white heads dis- 
approvingly, as though in anger; and. the women grow pale, 
as if with fear, and distort their livid, hideous features ; and 
then all of a sudden they are changed to the white crowned 
heads, and the old heroes to the horrible blooming women. 
Thm they all quarrel, and pursue each other with mad eagerness ; 
then arise such wild dancing and chasing, and at last they 
fall to the earth, misshapen, disfigured corpses ; and all 
around, in the air, is heard a most fearful chorus-^' L^e it 
thaih !' — and involuntarily I sing with them, and my own voice 
swells with the dull souni^ of the dream, louder and louder, till at 



BOFIIIE ABIELS. II 

last, terrified, I awake ; but the ghastly sound pursues me : ' lAfe ia 
death !' and the earth aeems to me dark and dead, and the light of 
the Bun changes into a grey mist ; and rejoicings and festivals are 
nought but sorrow for me, and the noon-day ia changed into mid- 
night," 



Chapter IV. 

GuBTAVUS Gyllenskiold leaned back in the arm-chair, pale as 
a wounded soldier after a faard-fought battle. 

Doctor Matthew looked at him thoughtfully, deeply pondering 
over what he had heard, and considering it according to the rules 
of his healing art ; he turned one attentive look on GyUenskiold, 
asked him a few hasty searching questions, then moved his chair to 
the table to write some prescriptions and receipts of a simple kind, 
but still more to think over and judge of what he had heard, and 
note down a general, Wew of the state of the sufferer, and the 
changing expression of lus face. 

Meanwhile a soft slumber stole insensibly over the eyes and 
soul of tbe exhausted youth. But while he slept his wild 
fearful dreams rose not up before him. It seemed to him as 
though he stood upon the top of an exceeding high moun- 
tun, and had never before breathed or felt such pure, reanimat- 
ing air. It poured through all his veins like a healing torrent, 
and overflowed liis whole frame, when gently his heart ceased 
to beat, and a sweet voice sang ; — 

" How beantUVil it death, 

When in pure light we die ! 
Not tearful U the parting brenth. 
It is but sleep in which we lie : 
Death is not night, 
Bat pore and glorioos Hght." 

Wondering, he looked behind hi Tf to the place from whence the 
singing came, and near him he saw a white dove, that silently and 
sweetiy looked on him with its thoughtful eyee. 

" Do the doves sing upon the lo% monntains of the south I" he 



\2 SOPHIE ARIELB. 

BBked. Then he heard a pleasant vdce whisper, "No, not yet!" 
and a lov, gentle laugh. 

But this WRB no dream. He had awaked long ago ; and looking 
up, he saw indeed the white dove, but upon the shoulder of the same 
fan*, tender lady, whose lovely appearance had before checked the 
rising quarrel between liim and the physician. She held in her while 
hand some sheets of paper, which she laughingly tore in pieces and 
let fly out of the window, amusing herself with watching the white 
fragroents borne hither and thither by the evening wind, and then 
sinking down into the darkening surface of the ndghbourinjf sea. 

Doctor Matthew looked at her in astonishment ; still holding the 
pen in his right hand. These little loose fragments were all that 
remained of the description he had juet finished of GyllenskioId'H 
morbid world of dreams. The graceful vision murmured still more 
clearly, "No, not yet;" and she added, as she stooped down and 
kissed his brow, " but how could you undertake anything wittiout 
coiksulting mel" Then, for the tirst time noticing that Gyllens- 
kiold had awaked, with a swift step she glided out of the room, 



Chaptrk V. 

"A BTRAMOE series of circumstances,"' said the physician, after 
some moments' pause, " compels me. Colonel Gylleoskiold, to let 
you have some deeper and earlier insight into the history of my Bfe, 
than might seem advisable between prudent men on so short an 
acquaintance ; but it will be no painful task to me to show this con- 
fidence to one of your noble and courteous demeanour. And, besides, 
we are already bound closely to each other by our mutual love and 
respect for the wise and learned Farenberg. Listen then, in order 
that you may not take me for a weak-hearted fool, who is ready 
every moment to saciiflce his views of life and skill to the caprices 
of a beautiful wmnan." 

Gyllensklold pressed the hand of the physician; grateful for his 
frank and noble confidence, and it seemed to liim as though a 
sweetly sounding stream of air, like the murmuring of bees, breathed 



SOPHIE ARIELK. 13 

through the apartment. Doctor Matthew also must have percdved 
it, for a emile of pleasure passed over his countenance, while he 
softly, almost imperceptiblj', shook his head, llien he stud — 

" It is now almost six years ago since I made a botanical expedi' 
tion over the cham of mountaiuB which separate Genoa from the 
plains of Lombard^ ; and one beantiful spring eveoiog, I found my- 
self at so great a height that I was as it were quite alone in the 
world, and that everything around me had disappeared from view 
amid shapeless clouds, llie mountain summit on which 1 stood rose 
up into the sunny blue air from the sea of mist at my feet, like some 
lonely island. Monnttun herbs lilled the idr with the most delicious 
odour, and the most exquisite moss grew under my feet, giving me 
thus as sweet an enjoyment of nature as can be found in this wide, 
beautifril world. But every trace of the footpath had now disap- 
peared, and half fearing, half smiling, I thought of the haughty 
physician, who, in a sumptuous feast, was placed by the jesting 
tyrant at a separate table, and entertained Oidy with perfumes, 
that he might be satisfied with Olympic fare. While I was 
looking for a path by which 1 might easily descend, I beheld 
in the surface of the sea of mist my own reflection, pale, 
stiff, and distorted. Horror and giddiness seized me ; I felt 
myself precipitated into some unknown abyss, and became in- 
sensible as I felL When I again recovered my senses, 1 found 
myself in a shepherd's cottage stretched upon a soft bed of 
moss. In my head and breast I felt severe pain ; but, notwithstand- 
ing, an unspeakably sweet feeling, as of etberial balm, floated 
aromid me, and filled my whole soul. I believed that it was the 
sensation that followed a happy death, and thought a fair, tender 
woman's form at my side was an angel guiding me home. And oh, 
my friend 1 though since that wondrous moment 1 have led a b^py 
and, in comparison with other men, a blissfiil life, and have seen, 
God be pnused ! manifold joys spring up before me on my earthly 
path, yet the glorious feeling of that moment sometimes makes 
me wish that it had been my last, and that I had been conducted, 
as I then believed, to the eternal joys of Paradise. But 1 ag^ 
sank back into a gentle insensibility. When 1 recovered, the beautiful 
vision had disappeared. A grey-headed shepherd, with a benevolent 
countenance, stood bymy bed, saying, 'Take comfort, my dear sir; 



you will not die.' Knowledge and experience, however Bimplf eic- 
quired, I never despised; but mth my returning senses, awoke also 
within me a sort of medical ptide, and 1 answered the good old man, 
' Doyouknowthat? and who has told you f* 'The lady ArieleherselT 
he said, in a tone of confidence, that seemed to put every douht of re- 
covery out of the question ; and eo indeed did it seem to me. * The 
lady Ariele herself {' Irepestad,Bsifrespondingtohiswords. 'Yes — 
yes I' And in my heart 1 knew fiill well that she was the same fiur 
vision that I had thought an angel, and whom my fevered brain 
had since represented as a being endowed irith a mysterious iireristi- 
hle influence, whose presence alone could infuse healing power 
into the expiring breath of man." 

" Something tike the purest and most refreshing breeze ?" asked 
Gyllenskiold. 

The physician answered, with some astoniahment and confusion, 
"Exactly. But what led you to think of that strange compariBon!" 

"Only," returned the other, "as we often hit upon certwn 
thoughts without being able to give any exact account of their 
origin. It came to me from the dark, sweet, inexplicable sympathy 
of our common nature." 

" Very true," said Doctor Matthew, with an eipreaaion of perfect 
satisfaction, "very true; and I now feel a greater pleasure in dis- 
closing to you the progress of my strangely happy fortunes. 

" The lady Ariele lived, as I learned on the recovery of my health, 
in almost soUtary seclusion, in the restored ruins of an old castle, 
which had once belonged to the noble race of Belmont. The air 
around this castle was very pure and delightful, but of so singular 
a quality that only a few of the beautiful lady's servants and 
attendants could stay there for a long time together; and while 
those around her were obliged to leave the place, the lady herself 
bloomed in as perfect health as they who lived in the regions lower 
down in the valley. Yet attendants never biled her. Not that they 
considered it any sacrifice, and did it for the sake of charity ; but 
there was a peculiar charm, and a silent, delightfiil authority in her 
whole life and nature, wonderfully united to an almost childisli 
gaiety, which chained every heart to her presence ; and the domestics 
who had left her, always returned to the castle, earnestly praying to 
be adnutted afresh into her service. By these changes m her 



bouBehold, ttie fame of Sophie ArieVs gentieneBB anil goodness 
ejjread further and fiuther through the country. And she herself 
often descended, like a protecting angel, to heal the sick, to cherish 
the wounded, and by her sweet presence to cany peace wherever 
discord or anger were kindled between any of the inhabitants of the 
deep valleys. And an instance was never known in which Hhe had 
failed to reconcile them ; no sick man, whose restoration she had 
attempted, remained unhealed. And perhaps she might have been 
honoured in those valleys as a smnt, only that her joyousness, 
which sometimes burst out into laughing merriment, forbade those 
exceedingly solemn thoughts. 

" By the gracious care of this beautiful physician I was soon so 
completely cured that I was able to pay a visit of thanks to her 
lofty castle. It is true that I felt my art as a physician to have 
been completely superseded, for I must acknowledge that when I 
became better, and endeavoured narrowly to observe Sophie's 
method of cure, her medicines and restoratives were for the most 
part quite unknown to me, or seemed completely unimportant and 
almost childish. Yet 1 knew, from experience, that 1 could never 
have restored a person so severely wounded, in the short time that 
Sophie had required to complete my cure. 

" light as a chamois, and happy as a lark in spring, I climbed the 
mountun path to Ariele's castle, in order to thank my mysterious 
preserver. You ask what 1 foimd there? Spare me, my friend, 
the task of describing the capricious strangeness of this ahnost 
aeriel dwelling i or — for I feel that you would wish to know more 
concerning it — spare me at least at present. At another time onr 
conversations may lead us back to this subject, when I will gratify 
your curio^ty, Sophie was not, as I had at first supposed, one of 
those strange learned Italians who had obtained a degree in medi- 
cine for their skill and knowledge. No one was further than Sophie 
Ariele from possessing academic knowledge. But her mind is tuned 
in snch sweet and innocently deep accord with all things with which 
she is acquainted, as it were without art or learning, that she floats 
above all my science Uke a glittering breath of air playing upon the 
waves and drctea of the sea. It is true she acknowledges that justice 
and goodness are often to be found in my manner of thinking and 
acting i but it frequently happens, as it did just now, that she 



16 eOPUIK AB1&LB. 

laughs at toy preacriptionB and receipts, or whatever notes of the 
kind I have prepared — tears them to pieces, as a child would a 
daisy, and pves them as a sport to the winds. But in all the 
various cases in which experience has taught me that my lovely 
wife poasesses a true judgment, in its highest and noblest form, 1 
have never met with one that appeared to me so singular as your 
own. Indeed, sir, I now hope, with the utmost confidence, to be 
able very soon to banish your fearful dreams j and to r^mce our 
friend Farenberg with a favourable account of the issue of your 
journey to Mars^lles." 



Chapter VI. 

Doctor Matthbw now invited his patient to their evening 
meal, that was aw»ting them in the garden by the sea shore ; and 
they went out together. More balmy than uaual, after the thunder 
and lightning of a distant storm that had just passed away, the 
blossoms and flowers of the herbs breathed fragrance from the 
beds where they grew, partly in beautifiil order, partly in capricious 
confiision, throughout the green plantation. 

"It is Sophie's work," said the doctor, smiling, while Gyllens- 
kiold with pleased astonishment followed him through the shaded 
walks which wotmd between the various trees, forming little bowers 
in the slmibberies as they passed along, and displaying every now 
and then to the view a transient prospect of the beautifully swelling 

The physician, with the sweet feelings that now breathed through 
his soul, beholding the grave snules of Gustavus as a bright mirror 
of his own thoughts, softly said — 

" One evening, as I stood upon the walls of Ariele'a mountain 
castle, and looked with her at the setting of the evening sun, and the 
veil of mist which gradually sank over the deep valleys, the feeling 
at that sweet hour stole over my heart, that she indeed was the soul 
of my life ; and a supplication for her pure love breathing from my 
lips was answered by a softly whispered yes. At this moment 
it seemed to me that upon these happy mountwis my earthly 



BOPHIE ARIELti. 1? 

destiny was fullillecl. I spoke, as a matter of coune, of the future 
that I was to spend henceforth in the distant castle. But she 
looked at me in astonishment, and a bght shade of displeasure 
passed over her features, as on a bright summer day the shadow 

of a cloud sometimes passes over the flowery meadows. She chid 
me gently for iatending, by this secluBion, to deprive niy fellow- 
creatures of the advantage of those fiLCulties which God had placed 
in my soul, and in ths art I exercised. She would go with me, 
aesietiug me by the ^d of that perception which had been granted 
her by nature, and which, until now, she had only been able to 
use ibr the assistance of a few families of shepherds. ' But,' added 
she, blushing, ' supported by the arm of a protecting husband, 
and by his name veiled from the v^, rude glances and praises 
of the world, I hope to do more good than I have ever 
before been able to accomplish, all to the glory of the invisi- 
ble Creator, and the happiness of liis dear creatures.' Full of 
delight, 1 gave myself up to Sophie's sweet direction, and begged 
of her to consider whether her tender frame could for a long 
continuance support an atmosphere lees pure and clear than 
that she breathed in her mountain castle. 'Take me to a city 
by the sea,' she answered, after some consideration, 'to the south, 
to a city by the sea, that overlooks the waves of the sea — the holy, 
wonderful, hving sea. The breezes blow there as undisturbed and 
refreshingly as upon the top of these lofty monntains.' To me, as a 
physician, this opinion of her health seemed true and reasonable. 
And for five years, now, I have lived a most happy husband, some- 
times as her scholar, sometimes also — though it is true in but few 
cases — as an instructor to my beautiful Sophie Ariele." 

"Sophie Ariele!" repeated GyUensldoh], aftera sweet, dream-like 
fit of musing, " Sophie Ariele ! How graceful the name sounds I 
And is this beautiful creature, that almost seems wafted to you from 
heaven, without either friends or kindred! And is Ariele her second 
Christian name — or the name of her race!" 

" On this Buhject," said the physician, with an open-hearted 
smile, " I can give you no other account than one which will seem 
to you almost childish. Sophie was separated from her parents, 
under peculiar circumstances, in her eftrly childhood. All that she 
can recall of her relations carries with it the ideas connected with 



her infancy, as it vaa only as a child that she rememhera them. 
She laughs sometimee at her own history ; yet more often, the tears 
drop from her blue, angehc eyes, when she recalls—though the 
remembrance is now only indistinct — the harsh and cruel separa- 
tion. I entreat you, therefore, my noble guest, disturb not the 
serenity of that blue heaven by any allunon to Sophie Ariele's 
birth." 

Blushing, from a dight feeling of displeasure, Gyllenskiold said — 
" 1 hope that I have not behaved to my noble host with such rude 
or uncourleouH manners, that he could be justified in fearing from 
me an error against all rules of courtesy. Is it probable that at 
our thst meeting I should inqiure of a noble lady of her origin, and 
her early relations V 

" But let me hope," answered the physician soothingly, " that 
we shall see you often at our house; and it was only in conudera- 
tion of this, that" — 

"That you find it necessary to warn me against rudeness towards 
a, noble lady," eagerly interrupted Gyllenskiold. "Hiis caution, 
Doctor Matthew, was perfectly unnecessary, for I can assure you, 
on my word of honour, that the gentlemen of Sweden understand 
quite as well the courtesy tiiat is due to noble ladies as the most 
chivalrous of the hnights of France." 

An indignant reply rose to the lips of the physician. But at 
that moment soft sounds murmured through the peighbouring 
trees, and he laid his fingers on his mouth, while Gustavus bent in 
a kind of embairaseed compUance, and an angel-voice sang the 
following words, to the soft, irregular accompaniment of the almost 
motionless, but gently murmuring chords : — 

" Street evening bi-eezes of the sea — 

Doubly sweet the thuoder over — 
From every flower, from every tree 

Woo its sweetness, like a lover. 
Hide not yourselves in vale or glen. 

Or in earnest or in jest ; 
The storm is over : come again, 

Breathe on every meadow's breast. 

" Spring laid ber down awhile, anJ slept, 

And in her absence storms arose i , - i 

She has awaked— tbe flower that wept < iVHH^k' 
Hm dried its tears, and fresher blows i 



Life's perfect circle does not cetue, 
For iill is safe, till dcmds are over j 

Strife unconscious turns to peace, 
And life and jo; are friende for ever," 



Chapter VII. 



Towards the north were dark, thick forests; towards the south 
the immeaHurable ocean, extending free and boundless in the 
horizon, and blending in the already darkening evening hour with 
the rosy-Unted ch>uds of heaven. It seemed to Gyllenskiold's 
ravished senses as if the world was nesrl}> dissolved into nothing- 
ness, and f et at the same time expanded into infinity. Half-shud- 
dering, he looked out into the imdcfined distance, which appeared 
to him the type of his own uncertain future; so that for some mi- 
nutes he forgot the presence of his noble host, and even of his beau- 
tiful hostess, softly sighing to himself, " Life is' death I and the 
white sails upon the dark blue surface are my fearful dreams, sor- 
rowfully waving to and fro betwixt sleeping and waking 1" 

But Sophie Ariele said joyfully, in an inexpresBihty melodious 
voice, " life is life ; and. the white sails upon the darkening waves 
are messengers of glorious promises, from a distant and infinitely 
more beautiful and blooming shore." 

GustavUB Gyllenakiotd, with sweet emotion, bowed low before 
her graceful form : it was as diough a joyons blessing had de- 
scended upon his soul from above, chasing the shadow from every 
gloomy thought. ■ It was only by a strong effort, and by the assist- 
ance of his natural and high-bred courtesy, that he could suddenly 
fall into the easy tone of common conversation, while he implored 
the mistress of the place to forgive his strange and most uncour- 
teoua ivonder at the astonishing beauty of everything that sut" 
rounded him. 

Sophie Ancle's beautiful head shook half-disapprovingly, as a 
little flower trembles on its stalk before the rough blast of evening. 
It was evident there was something not quite right in the words of 
the guest; yet with gentle compliance she continued in the "■>■-- 



30 BOPHIE AKIELE. 

tone in which GyllenEkiold had spoken. The three were soon sit- 
ting together, surrounded by dishes, glasses, and flowers, talking 
OB carelessly and merrily as if they were in an elegant saloon at 
Pans, llie words of a Uttle French song came into Gyllenskiold'e 
mind, which might, perhaps, be rendered — 



" Unknawn trcMnrea, fiury pleunres, 

Lafisbed on this world of ours ; 
Joyi whon.home we oaonot trace, 
Tdllng of some ftirer place— 

SmuiThogn! 
OisGcAil, langUi^, li^ at air, 

Sonny a* the sunny weather — 
Without a pain, nithoiit a cars — 

Jeat andlani^ter Uent toge&Br. 

" Atknotwhy the violet blowi — 

Why the bloom is on the roM : 

Joy will not be set to task ; 
Winged, light, ahe roameth free. 

Too curious mortal, do not uk 
What or whence thy blisi may be : 

The sweetest bloom upon the rose 
lies deepest in its bosom's core ; 

Seek not iCa petals to onckMo^ 
Bared to the world, its charm is o'er." 

But as they thus mernly conversed together, there was suddenly 
heard the sound of full, rich, powerful chords, as from a solemn 
chrar : the most exquisite harmony fell on the ear, while the me- 
lody was more felt than expressed. Gyllenskiold perceived that it 
proceeded from harps Hmt were hidden in the trees. It was, in- 
deed, the same sound that had before, with softer breathings, 
accompanied Ancle's song, which now, under the influence of the 
rising night wind, swelled into these mighty, solemn tones- Thia 
kind of wild natural music was now so extremely uncommon, and 
to moat people so entirely miknown, that t^ young Swede felt 
tempted to think it sorcery, or some such superhuman power. In 
his cradle he remembered to have beard songs and tales of the an- 
cient heroes of bis country, in which, though untouched by lingere, 
the harpB of tlie Scalds breathed music from the soft breezes of the 
air, or from the tlireatening motions of the storm. Soon, there- 
''ve, thia strange music became familiar to bim • only the sportive 
and fancies that had come into bis mind so short a time be- 



fore, now gave place to a far different feeKng of deep joy, that was 
difiiised through his whob soul. Gravely and Hilently the north- 
man looked up to the deeply darkening clouds, and Ijetened in 
joyous transport to the wonderful tones of the harps. 'Xlien So- 
phie Ariele wluHpered, in a soft voice, " On just such an evening as 
this 1 was separated from my parents." Her husband and the 
stranger youth gazed on her astonished ; but as they Uet«ned to the 
ribntions of the wonderful harps, and beheld Sophie Ariele's sweet 
melanchoiy smile, they could find no words by which to change 
the conversation from this subject, which was so dear, and yet so 
fuB of sorrow. Dreamily smiling, she continued — " I see it stil] 
before my eyes, though the meaning of the whole has never been 
distinctly clear to me. My mother rocked me in a beautiful silver 
cradle, and prattled to me in little poems and tales, that I might 
not be fiightened at the thunder of the mighty btUtle which my 
father and some other noble warriors were fighting, deep, deep 
down in the echoing valleys. The noise of the combat sometimes 
anwe to our high mountain castle, and re-echoed from its rocky 
walls ; then I laughed at the sweet chattering of my dear mother, 
and becatwe she laid me again in my cradle (for I was too old for 
such a baby's bed). I could already chase the butterfly in its swift 
course—'I could never catch it, but would sing after it wild songs, 
which only made it fly more rapidly than before, and the various 
colours of its fluttering wings glisten more brightly. 

" But now the thunder of the battle rattled nearer, and the glittering 
of the lighting host beamed wilder, My mother anxiously called for 
her servants. ' They are all flown, from terror of death, noble mis- 
tress,' said, in a moumhd, faltering voice, the only one of her train 
who remained faithful to her, and heard her. We always called this 
gentle creature lUublein,* because she was so soft and white and 
mild. I beUeve that, in the stammering of my earliest child- 
hood, I had by chance first called her by this name, instead 
of the one that really belonged to her ; and it suited her so well, 
that she ever afterwards retmed it. But to continue. The gentle 
Taublein floated in, sighing, ' Ah, that I could bring an oUve- 
brancb, the glorious typeof rest and peace! But all is trouble and 

* Tilnbleia i) a Gemuu word, ^gnlfying HItk dovt. 



war ; the Rquadrons of my noble lord yield ; and fearfully eoimding, 
the trumpet-call and arrowa of tike enemy threaten them mth 
pursnit!' 

" ' No enemieH have ever broken in hitherto,' aaid my mother, 
.with a proud smile, that fell like a sunbeam on my terrified 
soul; 'and,' continued she, 'my noble husband and hero has 
built his castle so high above all the other dwdlings, that no fear 
for me, or for his only child, might ^sturb his mighty b^dea 
against the fierce foe rising from the hot south, Tlose coward 
slaTes have fled in foolish, needless fear, and they will soon re- 
pent of having forf^ted thnr happy abode in this secure CBHtle ; but 
you, dear little creatm^,faithfu]TBublein, shall besomnch the dearer 
toua, now you are the only one left to us. It may be that we 
shall enjoy a far more quiet, peaceful, and happy life vdien my hus- 
band goes no more down to fight in the plain. But, alas ! how nil! 
he support that sad, sad peace which foils to the lot of the van- 
quished r 

"Then my dear mother began to weep burning tears, and at the 
nme time my father entered the lofty room, his head sunk low upon 
his breast : I still see him before me. Wild as a cloud of mist m a 
storm, a soldier's white mantle flew around his shoulders. The 
metal of his helmet or cap — for 1 do not rightly know what he wors 
upon his raven locks — strangely gbstened in the brilliantly lighted 
saloon, outvying the brightness' of the wax candles, and 
made me break forth into a scream of sorrow and lamentation. 
Then my proud father restrained his noble passion, and talked in 
alow voice to my beautiful mother. Few words did I catch of 
what they said to each other, for soon I sank into a deep, deep 
slumber, overcome by weariness and fear. But such words 1 Even 
now 1 hear them sometimes in my sorrowful dreams, full of the most 
desponding meaning; now threatening separation — now promising 
hope ; now wraghing down my soul into the depths of an abyss — 
now raising it again to the glorious heights of heaven." 

With a singular expression in her soft eye, she first looked down 
before her, as into her grave ; then up to heaven, as towards a place 
in which she had already secured everlasting blessedness. Giua- 
tavns Gyllenskiold was almost tempted to ask about these 
dreams : it was in dreams that all his own sonow dwelt, and he 



eOPHIX ABIKLB. S3 

ezperienced a secret hope and a aweet delight that he had seldom 
felt before. Juat as lie was about to speak, he was stopped by a 
gentle sign from Sophie Ariele's sylph-Uke hand — a eign that 
seemed to say — 

" Ob, silent, silent be I 

Speak not, ask not, think not : 
ThCTe's mnwc, sweeter far 

Than song or voice — 
Oil, ailent, ailent be ! 

Speak not, sak not, think not; 
life a dream, liie'a hope, life's joj 

Keep secret, hid ; 
While ailent, ailenUj 

A.re woTen onknoim spells. 
Unknown, bat true 1" 

Was it that she had in reality sung these words, or had Gus- 
tavus only imagined them i For a few moments his mind hovered 
in the pleasing uncertunty of abeautiful dream. — But she continued : 

" When I awoke, the kind attendant Taublein was sitting on my 
little bed, with bright tears in her loving eyes : she told me a won- 
derful tale of a little princess, whose parents, Uving formerly in 
great magnilicence, had wished, on the loss of their fortune, that 
their only daughter should remain in quiet seclusion trom the evil 
race of men that dwelt elsewhere, and should find a recoropence in 
the deep joy of giving and receiving love, for the lost pomp and 
power of her former station. And then she punted to me sobcaU' 
tifuUy the sweet joys of such a life, that I felt tears of eagerness 
upon my cheeks. Then my mother came in, and s^d, 'Thou, thy- - 
self, art the Uttle princess, dear Ariele ; and thy wiee father has 
destined for thee as happy a lot as Taublein has just sketched,' 

" At that time I was a more than usually thoughtless child ; but 
the feeling that 1 was to be separated from my parents for ever, 
brought streams of tears into my eyes ; and even now, when I 
think of it, when — " 

Her bright blue eyes were filled with tears, and holding a snowy 
white handkerchief before her sweet child-like features, she disap- 
peared from the bower. 

-i C.,l.;eJj,,GOOglC 



Chapter VilL 

Both her companions for a long time remaned silent and deeply 
affected, each looking down on the ground before him, ennk in 
earnest contemplation. After awhile, Gyllenskiold smd mildly, " I 
hope my noble host knows how perfectly innocent I was of giving 
any inducement to call forth the sorrowful recollections which the 
sweet lady felt in her tender heart ?" 

Doctor Matthew only pressed the hand of his guest in silence. But 
the harps in the trees sounded even more solemnly, in full-toned 
chords, from the rising blasts of the night-wind ; their harmony 
seemed all at once to open the secrets of the physician's heart, and 
he said, " Sophie has to-day disclosed her beautiful sovd and her 
strange recollections to you, as I have never before seen her in the 
presence of a stranger. Neither wiE I, therefore, any longer con- 
sider you a stranger, but tell you all I have ever been able to diacm'er 
of her wonderfiil condition. In v^n, since the time that Sophie be- 
stowed on me her love, and extended to me her beautiful hand, in 
promise that I was her chosen husband, I have endeavoured to 
gain the least traces of her uncertain origin. She could tell me no 
more, besides what she has Just related, than that her futhfol at- 
tendant, whom she called Taublein, had carried her from the won- 
derfid palace of her parents down into a lonely village, and had 
confided her to the core of a kind shepherd's family ; rewarding the 
good people, for the attention they were expected to bestow 
upon her, with rich jewels, prepared from the moat ex- 
qnisite mountain crystals. But the simple shepherds understood 
not the value of these costly gifts, hut gave them for playthings to 
their children ; while they brought up Sophie from pure compas- 
sion for her condition, that seemed to them so helpless. But those 
things which men often do from charity, reward them for ever — 
certainly hereafter, and it may be even in this present world. In 
both cases did Sophie's foster-parents unquestionably find it so. 
Two leamedmineralogists, from some distant city, sought and found 
hospitable protection in the shepherd's house. At this meeting — 



flOPHIK ARIE1.E. 25 

which we might, periiaps, erroneoiuly suppose to have come abont 
by chance — the Btrengers told them of the value of thdr crystalB, 
uid offered, when their condition should allow them to do so, to 
purchase them, as their own conscience and the coatlinesx of the 
jewels required. After that time, Sophie's foster-parents lived in 
great, and for thejn almost unheard-«f, happiness ; and they would 
have loved the child Ariele, who had brought such good fortune, 
still more deeply than before, if it had been possible. At last the 
two good people, ahnost on the same day, passed into a higher ex- 
istence 1 and Sophie Anele now employed her wealth in leading 
that benevolent life that I pictured to you before, twm which 1, if 
it may be so said, took her away, yet only in order to guide her, ac- 
cording to her own wish, in a still nider circle of benevolent peace 
and hleesed performance of her duties, llie b^py influence ovet 
my phyucal thak, and my profesnon generally, which she has 

He stopped short, for now Sophie again entered the bower, the 
Uttle white dove upon her shoulder; her face sweetly beaming with 
unruffled serenity, like the stars appearing upon the beautiful 
southern brow of heaven. It might almost have been doubted 
whether she was indeed the same person who So short a time be- 
fore had been overwhelmed in so deep a sorrow. She eaid, with a 
happy, silvery laugh, " Do not believe everything, my friend, that 
Doctor Matthew has been pleased to tell you about his wife I for that 
he was talking of her 1 can easily perceive, by his so suddenly 
breaking off the conversation, and by his still embarrassed ulence. 
Not, peihaps, that 1 thought such a wise bead could wish to teaze 
you wtb silly stories. No; Doctor Matthew imagines everything 
marvellous that he relates of me : I only wonder that he has ne^'or 
been pleased to declare that my parents are of high imperial de- 
scent ; or that I am some sort of demi-goddess — and this merely 
because 1 intrude a httle now and then upon the domain of his ait, 
and am wonderfully successful in it too 1" 

Gyllenekiold smiled, and was silent ; he could not help thinking 
of what he bad quite distinctly seen and beard on his awaking, 
namely, how Ariele had torn to pieces the prescription so carefully 
written by the Doctor, and let them fly out of the window — and 
bow she bad so playfully scolded her husband for having done any- 



36 BOPHIE ARIELE, 

thing without consulting her. It seemed aa if Sophie understood 
the smile of her guest. With, a slight blush she stud — " But there 
is one, of whom my good hushand cannot have said enough — I 
mean in all that he has said in pnuBe of that fiuthful servant of my 
parents, whom we we called Tauhlein. Unfortunately, I hare never 
ieen her since the day when she put me luider the care of the good, 
kind shepherd ; yet, at the sight of real dovea, her pure form seems 
to return to me, almost as if she had heena real dove herself I" And 
then a soft laugh passed over Sophie's tender lips; yet soon be- 
coming serious again, she said to the physician, " Do yon not 
think, my love, that my frolics with the dove you are so food of 
might now be of some U8e in helping to drive from our noble guest 
his unhappy dreams ? for, you see, I have managed to pick up 
some few scraps out of your lectures — the animal vital power of an 
innocent animal over the sulphureous — I meant to say, over the 
nitrous — over the exhalation of the demoniacal natural powers, I 
think — " She stopped, and said, at last, half in jest, but almost 
weeping, " Now help me a httle, when you see that 1 am puzzled 
with your teamed way of talking, and in my sorrow and necesnty 
use one word for another, or even three for one !" 

Doctor Matthew s^d, laughing, " I have already told our new 
Mend, dear Sophie, tiiat you would win a doctor's hat, not in a 
common university, but by dint of your own peculiar fiiculty of sci- 
ence, although your beautifid name signities as much as wisdoms 
but a much higher, fac more infallible wisdom — " and his voice be- 
came louder as he spoke, and bis eyes sparkled with a giow of in- 
spiration — " this, Sopiiie Ariele, is yours, and I willingly put myself 
under your skilful guidance." 

Ashamed, she let her soft eyes sink upon the ground ; yet, when 
the physician, with the eager questions which the love for his mys- 
terious profession and his vividly aroused sympathy for Gyllens- 
kiold inspired, began to inquire in what way the little dove would 
contribute W the recovery of his guest, Sophie forgot all her shy 
timidity. As if winged with eagerness for the health of the suf- 
ferer, she said, "My favourite dove must be near him when 
he slumbers : as soon as she hears him speak or ugh in his evil 
dreams, or moan as though in pain, then, fiightened, she Suttere 
about her wings ; so he wakes, and his eyee seeing the pure white 



wingB Bs they hover around him, while he is sofllf bimed by their 
gentle motioii, the demon fonns of that dark world will be for- 
gotten, and a perception as of the protecting presence of a pure 
angel wiU fall on his softened soul. Truat me and my dove i auch 
tender inhabitants of the air are a fear and horror to night demons, 
ae the golden hreeze» of the morning to bats and owIb. Yea, my 
little dove will conquer I It lives and laughs in the noon-day sun* 
shine ; the gloomy, unsubstantial world of dreams flies far away, 
where only innocence, light, and joy reign !" 

She repeated the last words almost singing, and immediately 
she took the white dove caressingly in her tender hands ; then 
placed it upon Gustavus's shoulder, and whispered a few words, as 
if in conmiand, which it was almost impossible to hear, for at that 
moment the harps in the treea sounder louder than ever. With a 
deep inward shudder, Guetavus remembered his dreaming stru^^efl 
tounderstand the songs of those fearfully beautiful women. But 
here was the sweet opposite of them all : instead of the sharply 
glancing, mockingly laughing forms, a sweet, gentle countenance 
beamed on tiim ; instead of their wild songa, breathed a mild, 
peaceful whisper through his inmost being. The dove, which at 
first had moved somewhat piunfuUy upon his shoulder, now bent 
down, sweetly caressing him. 

With one look at Sophie Ariele, Doctor Matthew, as became his 
duty as host, accompanied the poor dreamer to the bed that was 
carefully prepared for him. 



Chaftbk IX. 

A SHALL chamber, softly scented by franldncenae, had been pre- 
pared for the youth. From the ceiling waa suspended, by a silver 
chain, a beautifully shaped silver lamp ; and on the aide where Gyl- 
lenakiotd's bed was standing, its too dazzling hght was tempered 
by a tall shade ; while in the opposite direction, where the walls 
were covered with green silk hangings embroidered with silver, it 
etonmed with to much the greater brilliancy, like the light which 



2S SOPHIE ARIBLE. 

the full moon shedB upon a ^nt meadoiv. By the side of the plea- 
eantly darkened couch was placed a young laurel-tree, in an elegant 
antique vesiel : upon iti branches the dove instantly alighted, soon to 
sink with dreamy cooing into sweet slumber. Outside the high win- 
dow, that was partly open, and only defended from the air by a thin 
curtain, nightingales were einging upon bloeeoniing orange-trees. 
One BoUtary picture was upon the wall, representing a group of angels 
as large as life, with all the sweet magic of their form and colour, 
watching over the sleep of the pious pilgrim and patriarch Jacob ; 
while the demons and wild animals of the desert flew far away, and 
could be dimly seen in the indistinct darknesH of the back-ground. 

When Gustavus had laid himself down to rest, the physician, 
from a crystal cup, gave him a sleeping potion, which passed 
through his veins pleasantiy cooling, and at the same time softly 
glowing, and said, ndth a smile — " You see I would fain connect 
something of my profession with the cure that is to be wrought by 
the lady .\riele's dove ; but do not think that I meddle anbiddeo 
in her work. I prepared for you this cup with the approval of my 
guiding nymph ; for," added he, " though I do not by any means 
consider myself a Numa, yet she sranetimes seems to me to be an 
Egeria." Then glancing at the picture of the protecting angels, he 
BMd, gravely — " May they be with you 1" and left the chamber. 

FuU of inexpressible delight, Gustavus sank into a refreshing 
end, at flrst, perfectly dreamless slumber. Yet soon the griely 
tong-bearded kings' heads rose up before the tormented youth, and 
he groaned — "Away from me, ye threatening forefathers! or at 
least, keep tar away from me those woman-forms which shine with 
such unearthly beauty !" But these sparkling forms, with their 
blasting eye-balls, were just rising up out of the chaos, and Gustavus 
moved in fearful shuddering ; when something floated around his 
head like a pleasantly cooling bree!« of May. Waking, he saw the 
dove startled from her slumber, fluttering about mth extended 
wings. A sweet melancholy filled his heart, at the white, brightly 
glandng vision ; smiling, he beckoned to her, and she sank down 
upon the pillow of his bed, caressingly laying her white feathers oa 
hia burning cheeks, then again flew up to the laurel tree, and for a 
long time looked kindly at the youth from her watchful eyes, turn- 
ing her graceful head from one side to the other, till at last again 



Sophie arIelb. 2d 

in slumber, ahe hid it under her snowy mug. Then GiwtBvus also 
laid himself down again in soft sleep. 

But aAer a white, the kings' heads from the world of his 
dreamB sprang up indeed, but far, far away; looking at him 
more in earnest sorrow than in anger. And the .other gUtler- 
ing forms hovered about in the horizon, but like distant' stare, 
HO small and distant did they seem. " It is the moat glorious 
firmament that I have ever seen," said the dreamer. Then 
the sparkling forms floated nearer, encircling each other Uke wild 
shadowy comets, and describing wonderfully strange figures of 
a dance, which the youth felt himaelf obliged, he knew not why, to 
follow and define. Then the enigmatical franUc song again began 
to sound, and the kings' heads rose up red with passion, like flames. 
Yet ag^n the dove hovered and fluttered around him ; again the 
youth awoke, breathing deeply, and again the dove and the youth 
sank down to sleep. And now the dreamer saw the kings' heads 
and the women as in the deep slumber of death, stretched upon a 
wide ocean ; the surface was undisturbed by the slightest breath of 
air, while it bore thdr horrible corjwes as if it had been firm land. 
" 1b tliis ocean then frozen V Gyllenskiold asked. Then the death- 
sleepers b^^n to sing thrar old song—" Life is death," and Gus- 
tavUB began involuntarily to sing with them ; it is true only sofUy, 
very softly, but he knew well enough that the sound arose louder 
and louder from his breast ; and just before he was waking in wild 
fear, he sighed to himself — " Oh ! help me little dove ! oh ! wake 
me, little dove, thou tiuthful attendant '." But the little dove must 
have been now very fast bound in sleep, for it stirred not from the 
boughs of the laurel tree. Yet in the dream of the youth something 
floated like a dove. A white, tender creature, with butterfly wings, de> 
scended from the clouds ; while, tnmi above, a king clothed in sky- 
blue armour, and a queen in silvery white garments, which were set off 
as it were by the glowing twilight and the soft rays of the moon, 
looked down after it. And &e hero said to the lady — " Yonder see 
our beloved daughter Psyche l now must she accomplish her first 
VEuidering upon earth ; but animated with an inexpressibly higher 
love, she will agfun float up to us." The queen smiled approvingly, 
through the tears which filled her eyes, and drew again the clouds 
of dew like curtaiiu befon herself and hei husband. The hover- 



ing form Bang eoft tones, half like the cooing of a do\-e, and half 
like the murmuring of harps ; and at her song the horrible chorus 
rising from the slumbering dead was hushed, and they them- 
selves sank into the aea. But the sea had suddenly become a. 
beautiful gre*n meadow ; the form of the lady descended upon it, 
and walking here and there sowed a quantity of flowers, which im- 
mediately sprang up, while the beautiful vision said— "lifeis life!" 
Then the dreamer sang after her, with overflowing joy — 

" Spring np beneath her waad, 
He flowers she cheriiheth ) 
There is b life beyond 
The life that perislieth. 

" Praise on her happy breath, 
Wafting away all strife ; 
For this life is not death- 
No i life indeed ia life !" 

He heard himself sing, and he awoke, but this time not in terror, 
but intense dehght; drinking in the rosy tints of the young morn- 
ing, and surrounded by the songs of nightingales and the hannony 
of ^olian harps; and near him, on the pillow, sate the white dove, 
joyously caressing him with her wings, and looking on him slill 
more kindly than the evening before from the boughs of the laurel 



Chapter X. 

Gyllekskiold continued to Uve after this at the house of the 
physician, spending such days as those only can imagine who 
have passed out of fearful woe into joy, from morbid misery 
into sound health of body and mind, llie sweet quiet wtuch 
was wonderfiilly united in Ariele's whole nature and exist- 
ence with almost childhke gaiety, filled his proud heart with 
the magic of an idyllic blessed peace. No earthly wiah, not even 
the least pang from any selfish desire, once troubled the calm 
serenity of Gustavus'a soul. He felt that there were bonds in thitb 



wfaich belong infinitely more to eternity thau time i and for this 
reason liis spirit felt no more impulse after relationa of this world, 
biU flew as on the ivings of the dove upwards to its heavenly 
habitation. 

The hateful glittering women had almost entirely vanished from 
hie dreams ; the pale countenances of the old crown-bearers did 
indeed sometimes appear, but they were mild and kind, and in 
Koft, indistinct whispers breathed reconciliation to the soul of the 
now happy youth. When once he answered in his dreams — " Yes, 
life is not deatli ! yes, life is life !" the oldest of the crowned heroes 
approached him, rising as high as his girdle from the chaotic mist of 
dreamy waves, and said in a deeji-toned voice, which was in har- 
mony with the strange accompaniment of distant thunder — " Yes, 
life is life '. but the nisdom of Asa knew a still more beautiful 
language which I will teach you, and which you shall demand of 
the beautifiil elves of the air, when — " He was silent. Then the 
breast-wound which hod given him his glorious death, a hundred 
years ago, suddenly reopened and covered Gyllenskiold's garment 
ivitb a dee|) purple like a gushing fountain; so that he said, 
>vith rejoicing spirit — " See ! old ancestor, now I also glory in 
royal garments, now I revel in them as well as you!" But as he 
slept, his own voice again sounded clear and fearful, and with a 
scream of terror he woke from his slumber. 

Doctor Matthew sate near him, and said, with a smile, shaking 
his head — " So, so I the Lady Sophie Ariele has again shewn herself 
right, and I have judged quite wrong about her infaUibility — when 
she maintained that in the wonderful web of your dreams, among 
other companions you have one very self-satisfied comrade, or 
rather master, who may be called Pride." 

With a sorrowful smile Gustavus looked up at the physician, 
and whispered — " What ! could Sophie Ariele really think anything 
so ill of me?" 

" It is not Uie worst thing that can be thought of a man," re- 
turned the physician, kindly. "Besides," he added, joking, "as 
to ambition, the less I^y Ariele says of that the better, since sho 
herself inhabited so lofty a dwelling, until my love, or rather hei 
ivish to aid me in my physician's calling, enticed her down to the 
strand of this southern sea, and you herself may detennine if she 



32 SOPHIE ARIELE. 

would love the deep with so unspeakable a love did not some- 
thing of the high heaven belong to it ?" At the last words his 
voice and the expression of his noble face had again become 
grave. 

Gyllenskiold mused for awhile, then he sad—" Why ahould the 
patient hide anything from the physician ! especially from so good 
and kind a physician — a physician who works under Sophie 
Ariele's beaotiful direction, and is clearly conscious of it lumself ? 
You must know, then, that ever since I first began to think, 
perceptions of proud magnificence have hovered round me ; 
they floated even in the unconscious dreams of my child- 
hood. It might have been only the ^lly tales of my first 
nurses, or deceiving elves sporting with my soul ; but ever since 
that time I have believed myself to be the unfortunate son of royal 
parents, who by the contrary storms of life had been driven back 
into the darkness of private station ; and I remember, even now, 
andent tales or sayings which refer indeed to a princely, yes, regal 
descent of our race. I have already often related these to you and 
Ariele. It is true that I cannot escape from the proud images of 
B splendour that has passed away. When now the crowned heads 
in my dreams shake their grey heads so disapprovingly, I think of 
myself as their great great grandson, whom they blame for his in- 
activity and weakness, and who has done nothing to restore the 
past glory of his race. And indeed, my noble friend, they are not 
wrong, for see — " 

But his proud words were silenced, for the lovely sounds of 
Sophie Arieie's harp murmured from the garden, and her beautiful 
Voice accompanying it with the following song ; — 

" Fairy children, happy dwellers 

Of the palace of the air. 
In the battle of eziatcnce 

Conquering wiUiout rtrife or care j 
Gambollers in the golden aunUgbt, 

Wearers gifted with high gong — 
What creatnre yoa doth most TCBGmblet 

All the breathing world among ? 



" Gverr thing 



soDgi of hutpy words, Gooolc 

1 but Irnnw it rirhtlv. ^ 



BOPHIK ARIBLE. 33 

" You are almoat like the flowers — 

Bat thai; yon your pinions raise 
Unto higher, holier boners, 
More aerial sanctnaiies. 

" They nbo aing the sweetest chorus 

Mount upoQ the highest air ; 
Mounting, ranging — siogiog, soaring — 

Joys are ronnd them everywhrae. 
Oh I nhat height has each one ventured 

Far into the skies alone ! 
Aye ! what life has Ac attuned to, 

Who bis God has truly known '," 

The laet line was repeated ag^a and again, with beautifiil varia- 
tions, till at last it reeiembled choral music, and ceased in one loud, 
awelLng chord. 

"'Who his God has truly known,' " awdGustavus, deeply moved, 
pressing the hand of his host and physidfm, and Aen adding — 
"From henceforth the old crowned heads, with their ambitious 
dreams, shall no more trouble me." 



Chapter XI. 

GtJSTAvuB GvLLENSKiOLD performed what he had promiBed,anil 
more too; as it often happens with human expectations and pro- 
mises, either the intention b forgotten, or else it is overstepped. 

Since the morning on which Sophie Ariele had given her guest 
permission to relate to her something of the ancient noble ballads 
of his northern ancestors, he had often sunk into a gloomy silence, 
for he liad formerly desired to be united with that glorious com- 
pany of heroes. And if she looked at him with a questioning 
smile, he used to softly hum the words— 



But one day an expression of discontent passed over the beautiful 
lady's cotmtenance ; she took her harp, and struck the strings with 
such a Jirm, proud touch, you would not have believed her tender 



34 SOPHIE ARIELE. 

fingers poBsesBed so much power, and sang to a melodioufi ur the 

following verseB ; — 

' ' All things sre as God hu willed them 

To the pure and upright mind; 

All thipgB hii, if men ftilfilled them, 

Taating of the joyi diej find. 

" T«ke then borne, sweet peace, snd cherieh 
AH the silent gifte she hringi ; 
Shield her, gu&rd her. lot should peruh 
The ftir uiings to which she clingB. 

" Thirst not tor the fight bo sorely, 
AU's not lost that is delayed ; 
Many a noble wish is granted 
"Wliile in peace oar hearts are stayed. 

" Not in vain the ancient heroes. 
Clad in glory haont yom rest ; 
Not in vun their breath^g chonu 
Stin the life-blood in yonr breast. 

" Noble deeds they come to waken, 
Thoughts of old heriidc days, 
ETery oirtb.bom tie to slacken. 
Every meaner thought to raise. 

" Yet, poor dreamer, rest a leason — 
Alt's not lost that is delayed ; 
Many a noble wish is granted 

While in peace oar hearts are stayed." 

" If you would only tell me plainly what I ought to do, and what 
I ought 'not to do, kmd Sophie Aiiele," s^d Gyllenakiold, eagerly. 
But she only shook her heautiful head disapprovingly, and when 
he expected to receive a reproof, vanished, without one partJng 
word, behind the sky-blue curtains of her apartment. 

"One caiuiot be displeased with her," said Doctor Matthew, 
laughingly, as he wished his Swedish guest a good night and tran- 
quil dreams ; at the same time begging him not to consider it an 
inhospitable disturbance if he was awakened early the following 
morning by a noise at his chamber-window. " For," added he, still 
it is time to expect a carrier-pigeon from Farenberg, 
and his winged messengers pay no respect to our sublunary cir- 
cumstances. They flutter impaljently agaiuat the flrst window they 

me to, and your chamber looks towards the north." 

Gustavus took leave of his noble host, with a countenance 



L 



SOPHIE ABIELB. 35 

more Bmilit^ than the gloomy state of bis mind warranted ; al- 
tbongh he would fain have concealed his trouble even from himself. 
Sophie's displeasure (if displeasure it might be (?alled) threw an 
oppressive weight upon his whole being, for he too plainly felt that 
she was angry with him on account of the too-yielding submissive- 
ness which sometimeB strangely humbled his proud spirit, and with 
which he bad already so often reproached himself. Well might the 
beautiful lady imagine he did not really possess any of those noble 
lon^gs after high deeds which, in trae men, never die; since they 
enly ihowed themselves aa pale, spectral images, or as phantastic, 
fitting meteors, which soon again yielded to the sleepy clouds of 
Ondistuibed repose. And yet he was tndy conscious that tho 
words Ariele had that morning sung were hut a message, pointing 
out to his too rash thoughts and wild imaginations the way to 
peace ; and, moreover, that this was only to be gained by a con- 
tinual series of hard, inward struggles. 

" Oh, Ariele !" he softly murmured, as he closed his eyes in 
sleep, "thou graceful, capricious Ariele, changing like the airy 
images in a stormy morning in Spring— now Eoft and gentle, now 
earnest land solemn as arrayed for some holy war; and you, ye 
brave hero princes of my ancestors, shall again possess your power 
over my soul. Ah, well; we shall eee." And the proud, slumber- 
ing youth whispered the following words of a song !— 

" From the golden clouds descendiag, 

Bome upon the midnight air, - 
With the stormy ocetm blendinf , 

Above, below, and everywhere, 
Pressing on my mind and same 
With a mighty influence, 
Gleamli^ non, now overcast, 
Comes the glory of the past." 

Scarcely had sleep closed the outer world from the eyes of 
,Gu8tavuB, than he saw the moat ancient of the kingly heroes stand- 
ing by his side ; the same who had talked with him of the wisdom 
of Asa, and had promised to teach him a more beautiful lan- 
goage. But tins time he rose only, as far as the girdle, from out of 
the billowy flood of cloud which was always seen in the dream. 
In majestic beauty the ancient hero stood before him, clad in 
glittering steel ; the joints of Ws armour were adorned with golden 



36 nOFHIE AIIIB1.E. 

foliage, and the rivets mth goiden Boget-beada ; wliile from the 
wound in his breast flowed the pure blood, encirchng hi« cuirsBa 
as a bright purple scarf given by a beautiful lady to a noble knight 
as a bve token of victory ; and the hero, kindly bending over his 
descendant, whispered to him — 

"At present you do not imderstand what true love ia — you do not 
understand the word as it comes to you in the old songs from the 
beautiful heroic ages. Love is no seliish desire. Loveisaholy re- 
membrance. Love is the reSection of the inward heavenly life, like 
the bright image of the sun seen upon the surface of the tranquil 
waters. Ixtve even preserves the image of Us sun, though that sun 
be long set, long since veiled behind the awful shadow oftba 
earth." 

"How often does concealment hasten on fulfilment!" said the 
dreaming Gustavus, 

"Right," answered the hetoj "therefore life is not death, 
nor is life always life. But — " He seemed about to conjure up 
from the ever-gushing fountains of his immortal life some em- 
blematic vision, and at the same time wore a look of almost painful 
compassion, as if he was fearful of frightening the poor listener with 
his words ; but at this moment a rustling and fluttering 
was heard egunst the window of his chamber, which drove away 
this prophetical dream. Full of astonishment, the youth looked 
about him ; but quickly remembered Doctor Matthew's warning 
of the evening before. And then Sophie Ariele's white dove, which 
always perched near his couch on the laurel branches, like a kind 
protector, flew towards her dark companion, who was beating ivith 
his wings and beak agtunst the window, and increased bis desire to 
get into the room. Gustavus sprang up to let in the distant 
traveller, when there sounded a frightful rusthng of (pgantic ivinga 
in the night air. The little dove might well tremble before a vul- 
ture or an eagle, and with the strength of despair he flew against 
the window, and shattering one of the panes to fragments fluttered 
into the bosom of the youth, that his little trembling heart might 
beat against the heart of the brai-e knight. Gustavus kindly 
caressing' the little creature, discovered the letters neatly fastened 
ben^th its ivings, so that they should not hinder it in its flight, 
and yet be safely sheltered from the dew and rain. The dore. 



flOPHIR ABIRLK. 37 

patiently allowed the letters to be taken from him, anil then flew to 
the laurel branches to Mb white companion, where with gracefbl 
movement of their beads, they kept up an eager cooing, for they 
had much to sap to each other. Meanwhile Gustavua exammed 
the two letters, and recognised the hand-writing and the seal of Ids 
friend Farenbei^. "Die one addressed to Doctor Matthew he 
carefully laid aside ; hut the other, which was directed to himself, 
he quickly opened, and read the following words : — 

" By the time die dove retnmeth 
BeolUi ia ahnoat thine again, 
Clmuhed b? a gentle being, 

Whoae rare like soft and sammer rain 
Od tlie flowen folia noiselessly, 
Without harm or injury. 
" Spread not thon thy arma, embracing 
liie noloiowa, yet sweet delight : 
Glowing cheek a have ury breexea — 
Yet who greeteth air and light ? 
" Calm, inhumlile meekness follow 
Wheresoe'er she guideth thee : 
Be not carefU to discover 
What or whence her state may be. 
" Even I can scarce imagine 

What her kindnv], what her race ; 
Yet am ever mo«l deairona 
To spy out her airy trace. 
" This beieemeth high inqniren, 
Spiritnal paths that tread ; 
Bnt let sweet antidpatloa 
Satisfy thy heart instead. 
" Live and love, thy boaam keeping 
Fare as spirit of a sylph g 
Stmggle nobly as a lunv, 
Sme thy miatrese, rule thyself. 
" Pat the norld and evil visions 
Manfully beneath thy feet ; 
What refrolies, and not injorea, 
Ii in natnie pore and sweet. 
" Yea, before my dove retumeth, 
Health, I fetl, is thine again ; 
Clierished by a gentle beii^. 

Whose care oa aoft as summer rain --. . 

On the flower* ftUs noiselessly, l^iOOglC 

Withoat harm ot injnry." 



GnaUvui glanced involimtanly at the two dovu, aa if they could 
help him to interpret the sense of these mysterious words ; they 
BBte upon the laurel branches cooing and caressing each other, 
when suddenly, with afiright, they nestled together. The window 
cliBttered; a )ai^ bird of prey flew against it, either caught in the 
fngments of the broken glass, or filled with rash boldness from 
a deaire after such beautiful prey. Making horrible screams he 
strove to get hia^^reat body into the room, when Gnstavus Gyl< 
lensUold seized bis good sword and plunged it into the hold 
robber'a heart, and it fell back ^ent and lifeless. The doves 
nestled still and peacefully iogeiba, and the youth tank back on 
lus couch, in a sweet shrniber. 



Chaftbr XII. 

On the day following. Doctor Matthew might be seen walking 
cautiously towards the sea-shore, preceded by a Moor, in an 
African dress, whose bleeding bnnw was carefiiUy bound up with 
healing bandages and balsams. At his slightest motion to leave 
the footpath, the Doctor threateningly raised the well-polished 
pistol he held in his hand. The Moor was terrified, and bowed 
submissively, with hiH hands crossed on bis breast, before Doctor 
Matthew, who pointed in the direction in which thdr path lay. 
After walking in this strange' way for some time, the Doctor 
g^d, in the linffva Franca, which is understood by almost all Mus- 



" Will you Bwear to me by your AUah, that yonder pirate ship, to 
whose gang you belong, «ill leave our coast within an hour V The 
Moor nodded in affirmative. " And," continued Doctor Matthew, 
" that from IhiB hour you will injure no one on these shores, dther 
in freedom or property i" The Moor agan bowing hia head, swore 
the fulfilment of these conditions with the most fearful and horrible 
oaths. 

In vain he motioned to tiie wretched man to cease his hor- 
rible imprecations; when at last be had made an end of hia 
fteiM words, he leant against the stem of a tall poplar, to regain 



his breath ; the tree seemed to shrink from his approach, and all ita 
leaves began to tremble. 

Doctor Matthew asked ^i m angrily who had taught him to call 
such horrible powers to his aid. The Mow answered hastily, 
grinning in scorn — " You, yourself; if you wish to make qmte sure 
of a thing, I have given you all you could derare on such oecasionaj 
and perhaps rather more, .so you see I am not only an honourable 
merchant, but also a very liberal one. May 1 now be Buffered to 
dqiart without danger from that little villain of a pistol you an 
aiming at me behind }" 

"Wait!" sud the physician, authoritatively; then with finn 
steps he ^proached the African, and examined with great pieaeiiM 
of mini^^ and with the most cnntle hand, the dresong on his bloodr 
brow; and finding everything in right order, he said — "Nowyjni 
may depart ; yet for the sake of freedom. Wc and hwllh, I should 
connsel you to remain. Go, and think of your oath." 
. "Die liberated Moor dhnbei swiftly np a steep rock that ant' 
hung the sea, looking down and laughing contemptuously as soon a> 
he was ont of reach of Doctor Matthew's shot. " Yes. I will think 
of it. We bold sailors will raise anchor without hurting any one^ 
in life or goods; but what happens whea we come again has 
nothing to do witb my oath." 

" Peijured infidel I" exclaimed Doctor Matthew, raising his pistil 
to take sure ^m on the black, so soon as he should again emerge from 
bis hiding place, fint the cautious Moor knew another nray back 
to the dinre, and he was not visible till he was far distant. Doctor 
Matthew fired after him ineffectually. He coold see the black put 
off from shore in a well-manned boiU, and joining the inrate ship 
about a cannon's shot off, then put to sea." 

Gustavus Gyllenskiold, who was seeking his friend and pbynciaiti 
heard the report of the pistol, and hastened to him, inquiting the 
cause of the disturbance, and of the displeasure expressed on Doctor 
Matthew's countenance. 

" It is ootlmig," said he, laughing ; " I have only been playing 
Don Quixote, and in a way perhaps more suited to an inexperienced 
boy than a physician more than thirty years old ; listen, and you 
shall judge me. 1 rose early, in order to make some eipetiments 
in the theory oi sound and echo, by filing my pistols, and went down 
e2 



40 SOPHIE ARIBLE. 

to the Bhore, in the hope of finding some object for my aim, for it 
seemed foolish to be carrying a weapon in my hand for no other 
end than (o make s useless noise ; and so far I was right, as the 
event proved ; for Bcarcely had I arrived at a spot hetveen the 
hillB that was suitable for my experiment, than I saw a Moorish 
pirate-skip cruising along our coast, and a bandit, with a drawn 
sabre, sprang from the thicket upon me. I retreated from my bold 
antagonist through the bushes until I had loaded my pistol, then 
toned my face towards my enemy, and fired. Ilie ball struck 
my asBulant, who fell bleeding to the ground. Until then, yon 
see, 1 was not to blame. I then hastened to him, raised him from 
the ground, and, after taking away his arms, bound up his wound 
to the best of my power ; nor perhaps would any one condemn 
me for this." 

"I, at least, would not, so heaven help me!" said Gustavus 
Gyllenskiald, eagerly, "When an enemy lies wounded on the 
ground, who would do otherwise, especially if he were master of 
your noble art }" 

"Well," continuedthe physician, "but then, instead of taking 
him to the city prison, and seeking to gain information of the whole 
robber crew, which might have saved, many unprotected vessels 
ii-om the effect of bis cannon, I sought to bind a [urate by an oath, 
and allowed the spy to return safely to bis companions. Pray, 
Colonel Gyllenskiold, what do you say to this excellent policy i" 

"That probably, if he had attacked me," answered Gustavus, 
after much consideration, " 1 should have dismissed lum in the 
manner you have done." 

"Do not nuBunderstand me," said the doctor, laughing; "this 
is not all — if the matter were to end here, it would be an afiair of 
Don Quixotism merely." 

" Certainly not," said Gustavus, joyfully, " and I understand the 
possibility of an approaching contest. Thanks to the dove-cure of 
your kind sylph, Sophie Ariele, I may yet take part in it." 

" Sylph I" repeated the physidan, laughing, and shaking his head. 

" So she appears to me, both waking and dreaming," continued 
Gustavua ; " and perhaps the extraordinary letter I have received 
from Farenberg has strengthened the idea ; for you must know, 
doctor, that the dove-carrier came to me some hours ago. There b 



KOPKIE ABIBLE. 4t 

your letter ; mine I hope you will exjriain to me ; our friend haa 
written to me in verse, as the Pythian nbyls o£ old to their votariw. 
But now you had better iuuten, that yoa may give bU the informa- 
tion you can about these robbers ot Tunii, and that we may take 
the necessary measnrei! for the security of the town. Fmbafa my 
military experience and love of war may be of service to your city. 
We Swedes can fight as well by sea as by land." 

Hie physician took his Mend's arm, and (^ discuiung their 
means of defence, they hastened over the fiovery tkutt buk lo 
MarseilleB. 



Chap. XIIL 

In the meantime Sophie Ariele was in the garden with the daril 
carrier-pigeon, and her own white favourite ; at the first beam of 
twilight they bad fled through the broken window, chasing eadi 
other through the leafy branches, and as they caught each otiier by 
turns, ever and anon b^inning again the joyfiil sport. As soon as 
they ssw their kind mietrets api^oaching, diey Blighted on her ahoul- 
ders with sweet caresses. And so shepassedonthroughtiieflowwy 
glades Uke the spirit of mom, bearing on one shoulder the image of 
day, andon the other that of night i bo well the adornment of the 
white and dork dove suited the beautifiil lady's form. Sophie 
knew the meeseog^ too well not to look beneath its wing; she was 
surprised to find there no letter for her husband. The dove looked 
in her face, as tbou^ it would say — 

" Yes, yea ; 1 bn>ught than eafely, but some oae who has a 
right to them haa taken them away." 

Sophie glanced around her inquirin^yi then she saw her husband 
and his guest coming from the town towards the garden) engaged 
in earnest converistian ; they were busily discussing some subject* 
when Sophie's bright eyes discovered them. Sophie was amused, 
as we may ourselves have besn, by sewng other people mumng 
and pondering over some subject which we do not understand, and 
iriiieh appears to us very unimportant; deep study and iareatiga- 



42 SOPHIE ARIELE. 

tion formed no part of Sophie Ariele's nature. Her gUnce of Hgfat 
quickly and clearly penetrated ei'ery myelery, or passed it by as a 
light cloud not worth analysing. And now the playful gambols of 
the two doves diverted her attention from the conrersation of her 
huBband and his guest, which was, in truth, turned excluravelyupon 

Doctor Matthew said to Gyllensluold, " You must read what our 
mysterious friend Farenberg writes to me. Your verses and my 
prose may throw some light on each other ; read me the letter, and 
perhaps between ue we shall discover his strange meaning." 

Gustavus read aloud the follomng words, written in the elegant 
characters of the Northern magi : — 

" You are a irise phyndan, oh, Matthew ! and you are right to 
love a gentle Sylph, and honour her aa a guide. Hie flame of 
human philosophy rises towards beftven. You are right. The 
recovery of our friend Gustavus can only come from some higher 

"Yet I do not lightly nnderstand why this biiy child, rich 
in all ^e delights of feminine charms, should have placed herself in 
your path, friend Matthew. The spirits who speak to me on the 
subject are Sylphs ; and, of all the elemental apiiits, their language 
it the most indistinct, though at the same time the sweetest, ezcqtt- 
ing perhaps the water~nymphs, whom Theophrastua calls Undines. 

" They could give me an account of the air-sprites, or Sylphe ; 
bat they entertain some jealousy against them, and will not. 

"As to flre-spirita— weD, Matthew, a good physiologist like you 
must know that there is no sporting with Salamanders, when they 
■re permitted to mingle in the dance with the spirits of the air. 
The Sylphs, to be sure, take care of themselves, and keep safely 
away from the noisy sons of the flame, soaring aloft with their 
murmuring and buising into a pure, crystal sphere, which is the 
peculiar abode of those lovely children of the air; bat the Sala- 
manders ruse together a confused noise and bustle, which 1 cannot 
here ckariy describe. 

"llie earth-spirits, or Gnomes, cannot belong to the subject of 
your etherial compianion and mistress, friend Matthew. 

" Thus it is : although 1 know, in fact, neirt to nothing of your 
concerns, yet I feel impelled by an inward virice to write to you. 



BOPHIE ARIELB. 43 

Look well to your sylph-like protecting epirit, for rt is on Ihe 
very point of vanishing from you. But there must be some won- 
drous circumstances attending so lovely an apparition. Who 
knows but her parents expect her return 1 Dost thou know her 
parents, Matthew i Perhaps thy beautiful lady will vanish just as 
thou art attentively reading these lines for the tiiird or fourth time. 
Strengthen thyself agtunst this blow, but remember its posubility." 
It seemed at once, both to the physidan and the soldier, as if 
they had never before read the concluding lines of the mysterious 
letter ; and yet a punful, but cloudy, remembrance of them swept 
across their thoughts. Frightened, they first looked upwards, and 
then gaxed, bewildered, around them. But there stood Sophie Ariele 
smiling before diem, with her favourite white dove upon her arm. 



Chaptbr XIV. 

Fkom this day, Gyllenskiold spent much time in providing for 
the defence and protection of the coast, in case of the return of the 
A&ican pirate ship. His name, as a bold warrior, was not unknown 
in these re^ons, though be was far from having reached that rank 
which his ambitious heart had long aimed at ; and to himself he 
appeared quite a forgotten and insignificant person. But the 
dtiiens of Marsnlles rejoiced to he able to giun advice for their 
security from the Swedish Colonel, so renowned for writings on the 
military art, as well as warlike achievementB ; and the officers of the 
garrison, for the most part very young, received willingly the 
suggestions of the friendly Northlander, so that, herides bong their 
counsellor, he soon became the commander of their forts. 

In the delights of hia favourite profession, Gustavua found him- 
self quite freed from hia evil dreams ; what Sophie's dove-cure had 
begun, or perhaps nearly finished, was quite perfected by his now 
constant activity both of body and mind. When, after a bard 
day's work, devoted to putting the batteries in a state of defence, 
the disposing of sentinels, or the exercise of arms with the eagerly 
assembled citbens and country folks, he came back towards 



44 SOPHIE ARIKLE. 

evening to enjoy a little quiet conversation with his noble host, 
and then retired to re&eahing aluinber, he no longer needed 
Arisle's white dove to be on the wateh for his dieami, and to 
awaken him from the charmed drele (rf his horrible nightly 
visitors. If the old kings ever appeared, they were kind and 
mild. The old hero had never taught his descendant the language, 
who indeed seemed no longer to need it; for ArieVs Bweet woria, 
" life is life," had quite perfected Gustavns's serenity, and the ptire 
s[ririt of these words was often wafied in harmony to Ouetavtis's 
slumbering soul from the garden bower, where the gentle lady sate 
late in the evening singing to her husband. Ilierefore, ttie white 
dove returned to the beautiful service of its minreas; and the 
recovered invalid, pressed on all sides, agreed to ftay at Haraeillss, 
as tlie protector of their shores. For Maraeilles bad ^yen hiTn & 
new existence, an existence which he formerly would have considered 
paradise. It seemed as thougK he tiad been conducted by a series 
of exquisite delights to this soothing retreat. 

It is possible the reader may consider these ideas of the restored 
patient as visionary or eiEtravagant; his daily occupations in the 
fortifications, or in reviewing dw young soldiers, recalled him to 
active life. The more he was ammated by hie exertions, the more 
light and unimportant ^ipcared his ibimer thoughte ; and Gyllen- 
skiold had no time to tliink of Farenberg, or his enigmaticBl 
letters. The phyucian, too, was engrossed with the same appre- 
hension, and the means taken to prevent the attack of the horde of 
robbers, which was known to be large and powerful. Sophie, mean- 
time, showed so great an attention to the a&irs of every day life ; 
and though ahe sometimes liad womanly fears, yet ehe soon 
recovered her cslmneas witii such pious, trusting confidence, so like 
one of the graceful children of earth, that the two Mends considered 
the mysterious hints of the northern sage as more and more im- 
probable, and at last began to laugh together at the delunon, 
which before they had almost credited — that Sophie would pass 
away, tur into air, like a dreamy clond^mage. 

At last, tile expectation that the Moorish robbers would attack 

MarsuDes was given up, and the citixens felt half ashamed of having 

made so many preparations on account merely of the chance attack 

. made by a jorate vessel. Yet they feh alto that their pains and 



BOPHIE ABIBLE. 45 

trouble had not been thrown away in dieciplining their young 
eoldiers, and in the bulwarks Gylknskiold had ereOed on their 

Gustavus began now to talk of his journey home ; he loved his 
father-land too dearly, not to wish to carry back to it his soul and 
body, novanimated with renewed health and courage. His noble host 
honoured these feelings in him, else he would have wished still to 
keep him on the beautiful shore of Provence. But now the little 
quiet circle felt the thoughts of their approaching separation, not 
with deep sorrow or affliction, but with soft emotions of gentle 
melancholy, thinking on the blessed, blooming harvest which the 
sunny rays of true fKendship should hereafter warm into smiling, 
mpUowed maturity. Yet Matthew, always desirous to maintain the 
fresh joy of life, struggled at these times against such feelings, by 
suggesting some joyAil or pleasant conversation. 

Thus it happened, one evening, a few weeks before Guetavus's 
intended departure, when they two stood alone on a beautiful vine 
mountain ; before them lay a distant prospect of the varied country, 
now clothed in all the goi^eous tints of autumn, and of the dark 
sea, whose blue waves glittered in the bright rays of the southern 
sun. From the happy soul of Dr. Matthew streamed a flowery 
vein of jests and pleasant stories. And at times Gustavus smiled, 
pleased at the pleasure of his friend ; yet, in a thoughtful mood he 
gazed into the heavens above, where the light fleecy clouds were 
passing hither and thither across the blue firmament, sometimes 
blending into fanuliar forms, and then again separating hke a peaceful 
flock of sheep in a pleasant pasture. But now all the clouds had 
united in a strange enigmatical form, like some sorrowful figure, 
beautiful, and deeply veiled. Gustavus suddenly interrupted his 
friend's playful conversation, and pointing upwards, stud — 

" Do you see that 1" 

The physician looked up, and stud — " Yes, it is a beautiful cloud," 
and added, laughing — " our friend Farenberg might easily 
fancy it a melancholy Sylph, and deitunttlrate in his own way every 
conceivable t^ng from that one sign; imagine, 1 should perhaps 
have said, for, in spite of all his great wisdom, his imaginative 
phantasies often get the upper-hand of him." 

But Gustavus answered uith melancholy eameatnessi for he bad 



46 HOPHIE ARIBLB, 

with difficnhy tuppreased, tUl now, the heavy feelings of bis 

" Oh ! my nable friend, why are we so incredulous of this 
northern sage i why ao mistrustful of his spiritual knowledge, that 
we should throw aaide his prophetic warning only as an impoBsible 
dream i It was very natural that our warlike preparations shonld 
make us forget these mysterioua suspicions, and call na out of the 
world of conjecture. But since every one has given up the proba- 
bihty OF even the posnbility of an approaching combat; nnce even 
my eager expectations, I might almost say my mshes, have vaniahed 
before the general opinion, the words of Farenberg*s letter have 
gained fresh power over my soul, and I know not irtiether — " 

He paused, embarrassed; and Qic doctor laughingly continued 
his friend's sraitence : — 

"Whether at last Madame Sophie Matthew be not really and 
truly a spirit of the aii, thoagh from discretion she relinquishes the 
titie of Syl[di in her signatures and preaentationa." 

Without aympathising in bia merriment, Gustavus observed-r 
" Yes ; what you eay sounds absurd, yet I cannot quite give up the 
idea. Then," be continued, with earnestness, " you have quite 
passed over tha name of Ariele; and you, who so much delight in 
the works of the English Shakapeare, so Uttle understood by ntoat 
Frenchmen, you cannot have forgotten that the most channing 
of all sylphs concuved by poet's fancy is called Ariel." 

Doctor Matthew appeared completely surprised, and very natu- 
rally so, for it was one of those occasions in which, by a nngle 
chance word, a long-felt and never clearly understood coinddence 
in the varying visions of this life is unexpectedly and at ones ex- 
plained. 

" You are right," said he, after some thought, " aikd yet I might 
still be inclined to laugh, tiiat in the fanciful images of a poet you 
have found the clue by which I am to find out my wife's lineage-" 

But he did not laugh, and Gustavus said — 

" The sages of the old world have always held the dreams of the 
poets as the highest wisdoni; and where is true wudom to be 
found, if not in the mysterious creations of the old world, from 
which flawed the inward and holy life of the poet in an inex- 
haustible stream i" 



Doctor Matthew's countenance bad grown grave and solemn. 

" Gome," laid he, wi& emotion, " home to my quiet hearth, that 
Sophie's gentle behaviour may convince you and me — for I must 
condescend for a moment to your poetic Andea — that she ie not a 
a^nrit of the air, hut a heavenly child of earth, bound, as we all are, in 
this Buhlunaiy world, to her own sphere of existence. Come, she 
\riU scold us for keepng her waiting for supper." 

"With quickened steps the two fnends returned home through the 
deepening twihght, when the astonished domeHlicH met them with 
the queatios — 

" Oh [ have you not met Madame Matthew i She went to find 
you, to call you to supper, and she has been gone already more 
than an hour." 



Chaptkk XV. 

It is impossible that the writer of tins narrative should describe 
the bitter apprehension tiiat fen, as some fearful night vision, on the 
soul of the physician ; he seemed struck as by a thunderbolt at these 
words of the domestics. Still less can he relate the unspeakable 
anguish of both Matthew and Gytlenskiold when they returned in 
the first beam of the morning twilight, alter having wan^red the 
whole night along the coast, in the vain search for one who seemed 
to have vanished as a thin cloud. They could say nothing with 
looks and weeds, but, "Vanished — vanished, like a pale mist." 

Heaven, in mercy to the sensitive heart, stupifies it with dark un- 
certainty, before it undergoes the most bitter of all sorrows, the loss 
of some infinitely loved being. Without any accurate perception 
of the truth, the soul is one moment awakened to certainty, and the 
next tossed in all the feverish exdtement of hope, while the most 
fearfiil CDDJectures in a confiised medley pursue us, sn^ng us as 
with harpy ckws. 

Exhausted by his fearful woe, on the evening of the Eolloniag 
day, Doctor Matthew fell into a feverish slumber ever murmuring 
in his dreams, " Farenberg was right. Her royal relations have 
enticed her back to them. Air into air!" But at last, iriiile a few 



48 BOPSIR ARItLB. 

solitary teua BtiH trickled through his closed eyelids, hia sad 
kmentatioiu gave way to a peaceful slumber, which preaeed bo 
heavily upon him, that he was not disturbed ; when about midnight 
there aroae a violent storm of thunder and lightning — the sea 
rolled mounlainB high, and the earth trembled and ahook as be< 
fore an approaching earthquake. 

But thia atrife of nature was, to the bold-spirited Swediah youth, 
the tinmipet-call to battle. The soldier never bears misfortune 
better than in that proud moment when Ufe and death are mingled 
together ; and if they do not ofler to the poor mortal immediate 
repose, yet with glittering hands they hold over him beautiful 
laurel wreathe, beckoning, " Dare I — seize it, fear not — and it is 
thine!" 

Hoi»ng to be led to some glorioua field of eiertian, Guatavus 
Gyllenskiold hurried through the terrified town. There mingled 
many good and noble feelings in the strong tumult of bis conflict- 
ing ideaa. But death would not crown his resolution, nor ofler a 
balsam for the wound which Sophie Arielc's loss had left in his soul. 

So had he wandered till nearly morning, when kind nature 
BDOthed her afflicted child, lulling his wearied soul to rest by ifae 
soft influence of the peaceful autumn air; and though the deepest 
Borrow etill held its power over Gustavus, yet the firat feelings of 
his anguish were over. Under the kindly shelter which the close- 
matted bou(^ of a thicket opportunely oflered, he Btrelched his 
limba, as in preparation for a peaceful death; and sleep wound her 
airy net around him, bringing all that sweet delight which we might 
call heavenly, were not heaven rather an awaking than a slum- 



Chaptbb XVI. 

" Drath is LiPK !" With these words, after a short time, Gas- 
tavuB awoke from sleep. 

The old crowned hero had appeared to him in a gorgeous dream, 
opening to him the gates of a wonderfully beautifiil world. 



SOPHIE AHIBLH. 4S 

' And there, mth the golden nys of the iDoming sun etreaming 
over him, stood the young wanderer, in all the glow of youthful 
beauty; he looked, as it were, like some cherub who, descending 
oa some mighty errand, glances proudly orer the earth as the 
momentary theatre on which hia heavonty misaion is to be accom- 
plished, and already moves hia invisible piniona, as if on the 
point of returning to hia ever blboming home. 

" Death is la£e," repeated he, and the words came from hia lips 
in Bong, and seemed accompanied in some wonderful manner by 
muaic, as Ariele'e bndful discourse formeriy had mingled with the 
wild chorus of the ^olian harp. "life is not Death! Oh, no — kind, 
graceful Allele ; thou art right — life is life — a sweet, innocent life 
— purified like thine own horn the bitterness of death. Yet, when 
at last death approaches at the end of many, many happy years, 
when it comes at last serene and peaceful, for that eventful hour, O 
beautiful Ariele, has the old royal hero and priest of Asa, from whom 
I am deacended, taught me in a hallovrad dream this great truth. 
Death ia Ijfe ! I will, I must teach it you also. Yet where, O 
sweet lady — Sophie Ariele — where shall I Und you !" 

Then the tenth came before his bemldered senses, that her lovely 
form had disappeared from the world of reality, and hia joyfol 
aerenity of aoul was changed into the most poignant ^ef. Bewil< 
dered.he looked around him, as if in search of some magical means 
of opposing the arts by which he supposed Ariele had been stolen 
away. Something rustled over him among the houghs that were just 
tinged by the beams of morning; and wearied and shy, yet with 
kind caresses, Ariele'a favourite white dove ahghted on his breast, 
displaying a little paper fastened under her wing by a dark nlk 
thread. With joyful feelings, Oustavns opened the artfiilly folded 
paper, and read the followiiig wtn^s : — 

" With my white dove on my still breast, f joyfully went to meet 
you loiterers, and dreamt a beaulifut dream on a beautiful evening. 
The wise say that aU life is only a beautiful dream, and so I have 
found it. Dark, fearful Moora, Uke demons who start from the 
earth to arize the spirits from smne higher aphere, broke with 
laughter from the buabea,'and srized me, and bore ine to thnr ship, 
which lay at anchor in the gloomy bay. Oh I ye pradent ! what 
was the use of all your defeneea, and all your eserdses in bright 



90 WpniH AHBLE. 

anaour? they have stolen Ariek away traia you. Yettlie old reed- 
crowned man of the deep, called N«ptune in the heathen day, hat 
shown himself kind to me : I beard him called the fother of the 
Undioea. He raised his diree-pmnted spear in auger; the salt 
waves were a^tited in storm, obliging the distressed pirate-Bbip to 
rebun to the shores of IVovence. Eihansted fay the storm, the 
ship and mariners rest quietly in the easteni cove. Now fight! 
now rescue Ariele, oh, ye brave ones ! Thou, my dear husband, 
and thou notde Noctblander, who knoweet how to arrange the 
battle — quick 1 A few hoori are yours for action, or ywi mill never, 
never see Ariele more, until when body and soul are divided. 
Then fly my faithful, b^ved little dove— fly, and may the spirits 
of ur gmde thee light I" 

The little dove looked at . Guatsvus with its mild eyes, and thea 
ihook its head, as ihan^ it woald ask — " Have I done tight i" 

" Quite tight," said Guatavas, and gravely yet gently he 
beckoned with his hand to the little dove to fly on to Ih-. Matthew's 
dwelling. After a few moments' delay, the little creature obediently 
flew away to his quiet home ; and the young soldier thought for an 
instant — " What has giv«t me in this etrar^e manner a power 
over such tender little creatures i" Yet what would have produced 
it hut the idea of So|^iie's deliverance ! 

Guttaviu suddenly started up, and hastened to (he place where 
the brave yotmg soldiers of MBnteilles were accustomed to assemble, 
for they had not yet relinq^hed their fevourite wariUce exerpjses. 
Ihe fearful st^mn of the preceding night had not kept them from 
their place of meeting. The yyaik on guard called out through the 
gray twilight — " Unit I vita goes Ibere i" 

" War is ou watchword once more !" answered Gyllenskiold, 
^th enthugiasm. " Glorious ditngw alands at the gates of the 
next hotir, and beckons ,na on> What ! my worthy young comrade, 
you glow with joy at the sound, ha i Well, weUj we are in teal 
earnest now. Statind! call to erms <" 

With eager delight the young soldier sent forth the animiiting 
can, and in a twinkling the httW phaksx stood in well-disciplined 
order under arms, glad to exhibit their at^ivity to their leader and 
instmctcH', and i^deoed still more as he strode to and fro along 
the ruiks, and disclosed to them, in words short but piercing as the 



lightning flasbee, the splendid deed of deliverance which was before 
them. Id modest grace and tender beauty Soiihie Aiiele was the 
jewel of all Marseilles. Tp bflng back in triumph to her home 
tAaf lovely lady, what young heart would not beat with joyous, 
ardent enthuaiaiiii ! 

Attached as they were by their earliest remembrances and habits 
to their native spot, and relying with proud confidence upon thur 
power to defend it, which thar practice in warlike ezercisea had 
^iven them, the young Kddiera eargerly seixed upon thnr leader's 
plan of attack upon the stranded Goraair. lliey lost not a mo- 
ment, hut, silent and detcmuned, the littlo anny broke up into 
small divisions, which separated in difierent directions, in order to 
prevent the pirates from. renewing the embarkation of &/ai plnn- 
der. What were nombera to them I would not a fir leM number 
of Froven^alea prove Tictorioua, when liglitiiig in the cause of 
Sophie Ariele ! 

With the adroitness of a general, Gyllenakiold sketched out to the 
dismembered little parties the plan of advance, bo that ike one 
lidiich first fell in with the Moors might be promptly aupported by 
the rest. If however, as might be hoped, the weary enemy care- 
lessly anowed them to get round them, they were all to unite tat a 
camtaned attack at the head of the eaaton cove. The overflowing 
ieehnga of the combatants, as tliey pressed on tbeirmonung'a inarch 
to meet the enemy.burst forth in many a martial song. To be sure, 
this was, properly speaking, forbidden by the neccesity there was of 
taking their adversaiiea by surjRise, in order that they might close 
in upoii the hne of their retreat towards the galley, and also that 
by finishing the contest as quickly as poBsible, they might expose 
the lovely pme to the least posrible danger. But the stiQ anzioua 
march to the battle field has in bself its own peculiar pleasure, 
which may almost be compared to the mystehoua delight of a 
Christmas-eve, and has been felt by every sotd who has once ex- 
perienced, in all its vronderfully minted lights and shadows, the 
gloiioas deli{^ of war. 

— _. C.,l.;eJj,GOOglC 



Chapter 3CVir. 

Doctor Matthew was at length awakened ham his Elnmb«- hj 
the firing of the not very distant batde. Neither the thunder and 
%htning nor the howling of the eea of the precedii^ night, had 
shaken ttis heavy sleep ; yet was he now aroused by the cracking 
report of small arms, mingled now and then with the booming can- 
non-shot of the galley. But it is not always the loudest noise that 
awakens us from sleep ; it is much more the interest the soul of the 
eleeper taked in the sound, which recalls the powers of his mind to 
real occurrenees of this outer world. The mind of this bold and 
noble physician, who had formerly fought for his home and his 
country, was more affected by the sound of battle than by the 
thunder storm. Yet in his awakened soul the idea of those 
threatening pirates was in no way connected with the inexplicable 
disappearance of his sweet Ariele. 

Hastily arming himself, and without allowing himself time to ask 
a single question, he rushed down through the trees of his garden — ' 
the laughing tokens, alas I of a happiness perhaps for ever flown 1 — 
in the direction in which the thundering roar of the battle led him, 
which, the nearer he approaciied it, seemed every instant to resound 
more loudly. 

Uncertain which way to continue his course, he stood still at 
last under the thick foliage of some lovely acacia trees, and sighed 
from the bottom of his heart — " Oh, blessed God ! show me my 
part also in these strange events which are going on around me ; 
and unfold to me the terrible import of a day which has com< 
menced ao wonder^y, so fearfully, and so bloodily [" 

It seemed aa if his prayer had been lieard, and answered in pro- 
portion both to its fervour and pety ; for, on the instant, a wounded 
Moor tumbled from the precipice close by at Itis feet, madiy shriek- 
ing as he fell, with his bloody aabre still fast clenched in his handj 
and he bellowed once more in frantic rage ; then there was a fearful 
rattling in his throat, and he stretched Imnself out, and — died. 

But the little birds flew merrily over the scene of horror, spor- 
tively chasing one another, and warbling their joyous songs. 



Chaptek XVIIl. 

" Yov must ceaee protecting me, brave Northnunl" said Sophie 
Ariele, when GuslavuB offered ber his arm to aseist her descmt 
from B hin on the beach to a green sheltered vaUef. " Ceaee I" ehe 
repealed gravely; " I, your rescued ladye, command you." 
■ He bent low, humbly drawing back ; and as if bome by invisible 
wings, she floated away to the fragrant turf pleesuitly watered by 
a silver river. Then she sat almost exhausted upon a pilgrim's 
Beat surrounded by flowers, and said, kughing — 

" But, for heaven's sake, my bold knigbt and preserver, do tell 
me the reason that it seemed to you so very necessary to lead and 
assist me ! For truly — if ymi will not interpret it wrong, which I 
am sme you cannot — it seemed to mo tbtt you are so exhausted 
sAer your exertions, that I can far better protect you, than yoo 

" Very possibly I" said Gustavns, siaiUng t while he gently sank 
down into the fragrant grass id Siqtbie's feet. 

But sbe said suddenly, ghuidng eagerly, almost sorrowfully 
around, "But I have lost one thing, nevertheless ; my beautifrd vol 
bleached in moon£gfat !" 

" Bleached in moonbght !" returned Gnstavus, dreamily; "oh 
yes, the same that the elves make in northern lands. The fearfully 
beautiful daogbter of thdr monarch ofiered tiie knight UM such B 
handkerchief bleached in the moonlight, in token thM he might com- 
mand her hand in the marriage dance. Yet the knight Olef remained 
faithfiil to hie chosen bnde, and tiie elf stmck lum, so that he 
died." 

Sophie answered musingly — " Yet, it WW so, indeed; it is an 
ancient, but very true etory. But do not imagine that the elf was 
praised, or even excused by ber tender kindred. To win a noble- 
hearted man, and by the priestly benediction, to giun mth him a 
more beautiful, more imperishable life — -ah, my friend, that is irital 
a sylph or elf nught well deairel But to destroy the chosen 
fnnid .«4th 4eatb1y magical greetingi, merely because he has not 
chosen us 1 — oh, shame, shame !" ' ■ 



54 BOPHIE ARIBLE. 

Then Bbe covered her pale little cheeks with her hande. But 
then again looking up she Hud, laughing — 

" Where tanies Doctor Matthew, my chosen lord and hueband i 
if he knew bH, aa the people Bay of doctors and profestiors, he ought 
also to know that bis Soplue Ariele, carried away by coraaire, was 
rescued by a knightly soldier \" 

'With these words she extended her wonderfully beautifiil hand to 
the warrior resting at her feet, adding with a sweet whisper — 

" But now, I entrc&t you 1 give me back my veil dyed in moon- 
light. I know that you have it i Isawyou tear it from the Turkish 
robber, when he sank down under your sword-blade." 

At (his serious prayer, Gustavus looked gently at the lady with 
his blue, melancholy eyes, as B clear sea which brightens before 
the heaven looking peacefully down upon it ^m above, and said — 

"Now all is well! till now your veil dyed in moonlight has 
staunched the blood flxim the wound which was struck by your 
enemy's sword. Take it agun, sweet lady. In the ligld of the 
full moon the fairies will cleanse it pure from my blood, and will 
make it tender and beautiful again. Oh, take it away, and hear 
from my dying lips the sweetest motto which now penetrates my 
whole existence with blessed joy : Death is Life ! Oh, doubt it not, 
sweetest Sophie Ariele. It is certainly true \" 

And, as though he would immediately seal his words by hia 
death, he sank back on the grass, bis pale face overspread with 
sweet smiles of j<^, while with his exhausted hand he softly drew 
the v^ horn hia breaet, from which the purple blood was now 
streaming, and suffered it to gush forth at Sophie'a feet. " Death id 
life 1" be joyfully whispered once more. Then he lay motion- 
leas, in silent, blessed foigetfulness of all the troubles of^the world. 

Then Sophie Ariele again pressed the vnI upon bis bleeding 
breast, and tried to quench the blood, and let her soft tears, like 
drops of balsam, SaU in the wound of her deliverer. But the 
poweriess youth remained silent and pale as death. In anguish she 
began to look around her, whispering to the cool breezes of the 
valley and the sea — 

" Alas ! and ia my art ended here! For such deathly wounds of 
fcarfiil weapons, ndtber I nor my pooi little dove know BDy cure> 
Matthew, help, help 1" 



aOVatt ABIBLK. 



Chapter XIX. 



And soon there stood beside them Doctor Matthew, the wise, 
futhfal, deeply-loving physinan and friend. 

Drawn thither by Sophie Allele's cry for help, after he had 
bravely helped to repulse the hat desperate stand of the Moorish 
pirates, he now hastened to bind up the'womuls of the brave 
GuBtavus, and so became an assistant to the aaasting. 

And, perhaps, it might happen so everywhere upon earth, if every 
one rightly understood his power, and desired to employ it in love. 

Very soon, with certain confidence, Matthew assured his rescued 
Ariele that he could preserve the life and health of his friend. 

Concerning the manner of this cure, history is silent. It was 
accomplished only by surgical skill and deep medical science, and 
of this the muse of febulous description has nothing further to say 
than— it attuned its end. Her severer sister, the scientific muse, 
could relate for less, or rather, nothing at all, at the cure accom- 
pfishcd by Ariele's dove. Nevertheless, all was accomplished. 
Strong for Bdion, and free from dreams ; blooming with health, 
and clear in mind, stood Gustavns Gyllenskiold before his restoring 
friends to bid them adieu. 

But, as it ofren happens in the sorrowful moment of separation, 
no word escaped their Ups ; they looked at each other with gentle 
glances, and had inexpressibly much to say to each other, but 
yet remjuned ever silent. 

Then Sophie Ariele took up her friendly guitar, and drew ftura it, 
aa if questioning, a few sweet tones, and then sang, as in answer 
to them, the following words ; — 

" Eindied of the laughini breezes. 

Sounds that wander Uirougb the air, 
Sneet voiced spirits ! soothe his bosom, 

Melt it. as tbe melted ore. 
Lest too deep a mortal sadness 

Press the soul to darksome night. 
The sweet muses from our sorrows, C k h i<> k' - ^ 

Out of woe awakea U^ i "^ .: . 



S6 BOfHlE AMELE. 

And it ai>arklei, spitrkles brigbtlf , 

That was dim and dead before ; 
And the world, no longer troubled, 

Mimn back heaven^s smile once more i 
He that trulf aeeks what knawledge 

Should ifiom the traating mmd, 
Heaven's blisaminglins with earth's Borrow, 

Sanbetm erer Imght ahall find." 

In the last lingeiiiig chord of ttue Bong, Gustavua whispered — 
" You mA it->you cgnmumd it with sweet power, kind song-i 
etreea! Therefore 1 will utter, uafarewell salutation, the question 
that sinks deepest into my earthly life — ah, yes, and it reaches also 
to my eternal life ! Sophie Ariele, art thou nn airy daughter of the 
fimumieut, a lovely cloud-image, near us everywhere, yet every- 
where !xc Bway from us? or art thou a child of mortality like one of 
us — trunhling, yet rejoicing, as we do, within the narrow boundl 
of an earthly life, n-here joy and sorrow are ever mingling, erer 
changing — trembling, fearing, yet joyously hoiung, like we, for 
an etaiBsl blessed peace, for an eternal refreshing communion which 
shall be hallowed by a pui%, child-like innocence ; trembling 
in our hope, I say—for our path conducts ua through the grave i 
joyful in our fear — for that dark, nightly path guides us on to 
everlasting happiness i Sophie Aiiels, thou beauti^ unspeakably 
beautiful vision, who akt thou i " 

Frightened at the words of his own conjuration, wln^h SD in* 
voluntarily had esci^ied his lips, the youth suddenly stopped. 
Indignant glances darted from the eyes oJF the physician, beuuise a 
stranger (for the nearest and most deserving friend often seems aa 
such when he meddles uncalled for in tender secrets) could dare to 
ask a question of his enigmatical, beautiful wife, which he tmd 
himself never found courage to ask. 

But Sophie Ariele suspecting nothing of earthly confusion, Itud 
her tender hands across each other on her bosom, raised her soft 
blue eyes to heaven, and whispered with a sweet voice — " He that 
is above knows that I am Ilis for ever." 

Involuntarily her two companions bowed low before the upward- 
glancing figure, and then as involuntarily grasped each other's hand. 
But it was not in token of reconciliation — this was not needed : it 
wu an involuntary sign of ttw deepco^ most blessed brotherhood. 



SOPHIE ARtELE. 57 

Laughing like a child, after a few minutes of silence, Sophie Ariele 
said, " But it eeeme droll, I muEt acknowledge — very droll, that I 
know not what to think of myself, whether I am at home properly in 
the common real world or not. In truth, dear Mends, dreams have 
sometimes risen up before me, that the airy castle of my parents 
was a Bylph palace ! But then 1 scold myself for being a little fool, 
and believe right well to understand that the whole phantom only 
springs from the wonderful stories which that faithful maiden, called 
l^ublein, was often accustomed to chatter and to sing to me in my 
sleep, when a merry and sportive child. Now so much is certain, 
that if my parents were not aylphs, they were prineeB I and if they 
were not princes, yet," she added mth mock solemnity, " I am still 
very high bom in my paternal lofty castle." Then soon, with deep 
serene gravity, she said again — " All we, who are called mortals, 
are, in truth, very high bom 1 altogether children of the Most High, 
refreshed by His heart, which is love ; and preserved by His love 
from everlasting destruction, if we will only allow ourselves to be 
preserved. And our origin arises from dark, holy clouds, like the 
streams which spring between high rocks and the vapour of heaven ; 
a wonderM riddle never, to be understood, until it is seen in 
sweetly refreshing, or fearfully thundering power. Sophie Ariele 
is nothing fearful ! "Why will you torment her and yourself, bj 
eorrowfully inquiring from whence she came i IWly she betedf 
knows iiot I" she added almost moumfiilly, her little hands folded 
together across her breast. But then she took ber harp, and sung 
solemnly, with her eyes cast up to heaven, the following words, ac- 
companied by the chonu-like harmony of the strings— 

'■ That whicli im> a touch of Borrow, 

Yet rejoices Ariele'i iodI : 
Ariele striTes for nhat ii distant 

Id the hesvena, and beautiful. 
When we come from, all is darltDeni 

It is plain whereto we rove — 



" Who that, in the night's itill watdua, 
Gazea on the mjBtic itars, / - 

Feela not that his sonl is lifted ^ ■' 

Far above aU earfUy caret ? 



■5s SOPHIB ARIELB. 

Yet'iTB the; but ilinunenng ahadawi 

Of the eternal fight of love ; 
To Uie rsptore'druDkeii spirit 

Shall be giTcn Die fbont above. 

" We our names in vordji like eonbeama 

Written in the hea»«iu shall find, 
If ire here in l(nrl]r meekncu 

I^nre with tme and faJthfDl mind : 
Thoogh awhile in mortal udnees 

Here we bear our earthly strife, 
^Hioii^ tbewodd may fiwra apoii u, 

HesTSn ihall Emile, toi DtatA i» li^t .' " 

For the last time, wMIe these words were dying away, she laid ,<{ 
her hand in that of Gustavus. He breathed a Bofl kiss upcm it; 
then pressed his friend to Us hreast, in a brotherly embrare, and 
hastened quickly from the room. And nother Sophie nor the phy- 
sieian ever saw Cfustaviie agwn wth their mortel eyes. 



Chapter XX. 

f OK more than twenty years, in cambat of different kinds. Colonel 
Gylteneldcdd led an active, richly varied, and beautiful life ; widioot 
once going back to the strand of MarsnlleB, or hearing any definite 
news of his kind frirads who lived there. Sontetimea, indeed, 
wben flights of doves swept iu joyous drcles above bis head for a 
moment be would ftmc^ that Sophie Ariek's fsTouhte floated with 
tbe crowd ; or, perhaps, when at one time before bis tent, or on tlie 
sea, close before tbe window of his cabin, a white dove rested, and 
looked in upon him with her innocent, patient eyes, kindly cooing 
and decking her tender feathers in tbe aimsbine or in tbe silvery 
moonlight, then be indeed thought he beheld a messenger fom that 
sweet lady of Provence, But often, as such dove-teaming visions 
came tobim, no one of them all had any mMeage, any Ngn to bring 
for him; for, however softly and cautiously be approached them, like 
other wild dwellers in the air, the shy creatures instantly spread 
their wings and disappeared. 
But what, however, never kft him, was a sweet and joyfid enthu- 



B0PH1S ARIGLE. fi9 

Biasm, which, fike a promue of success, before such saKitiUdoii irf 

the doves, each time filled the soul of Gustavus Gyllenekiokl. His 
soldiers, both on land and sea, had quickly remarked it. They 
called thedores omens of victory for their colonel; and when a little 
soft one was seen to hover near Gyllenskiold, the old warriors wero 
accustomed to present their anne nith particular care, admorushin^ 
their yonnger comrades in the well-known lines : — 

" When the dove greeta GiUenskiold, 
Then for battle tbirsta GylleDStiold ; 
Tbe braien die rattles and rolls — 
Bollt for victor;, not for gold, 
And victory Bmilefl on Gjllenaldold 1" 

One day, the bold Gustavos crossed with a &igat^ in sight of an 
almost uninhabited island on the African coast ; to this island a 
corKur, from whom he had rescned a Freflch merchant-man, had 
fled for reftige. Gyllenskiold, terrible to the pirates above all thiat 
Other enemies, determined on no accountto let this destructive Moi» 
Blip a second time from his hands, and took up his station, there- 
fore, off the entrance of the narrow cove in which he lay. Further 
in he could not follow bim ; for both the fast-doeing shades of 
evening, and his Swedish crew's want of acquaintance with the 
iron-bound coast, rendered that for the present impracticable. 

In the clear moonlight the frigate kept in sight of the island har- 
bour, and the French merchantman whom she had rescued did not 
move from her aide. Gyllensidold imputed this solely to the wish 
of ber captain that she should not remain in this dangerous region 
without the protection of the Swedish man~(rf-war; and he bad 
already made a resolution, after he should hare completely gained 
the victory, of accompanying his protef^ to some Spanish or 
Portuguese seaport-town. The boat wbich he bad dispatched with 
this message, and with the question how far the marcbantman 
would wish for his guidance, brought tbe answer back — " Home to 
MarsriHes !" 

Gyllenskiold'B heart beat high at this answer, and higher still 
when some Marsnllan youths, armed, came on board, singing one of 
those joyous battle songs wbich bad been often sung in thek miU- 
tary exercises on the coasts of Provence; and when, a« the leader of 
these brave strai^cers, stood before him «ne who vmiA have been 



more properly called a hoy than & man : something in his pleas- 
ing countenance reminded Guslavus of Sophie Ahele's Jeminine 
flofCne^R, something also of the physician's bold, manly strength ; 
hut he reg^nhled much more the former than the latter. Yes, it 
wa« in truth Sophie's and Doctor Matthew's joyous son, who was 
trave11inj( on a journey from Marseilles, and who now with generous 
courage had persuaded the captun of the trader to allow him, with 
one or two other companions who were equally disposed for the en- 
terprise, to strengthen the crew of their preserver. 

Gustavus Gyllenakiold, in the midst of his joy at this happy 
meeting, was terrified at the thought that the hlooming youth, by 
an unseen higlier Providence, might be torn away from his mde in 
Hk approaching deadly combat. And then the piteous lamenta- 
tions of Sophie Aiiele, and the deep mourning of the hospitable 
physician, filled the soulof their former guest ; and with an eloquence 
that the brave soldier till now, perhaps, had never used even to 
urge his companions to arms, he strove to deter the dear youth 
from the approaching battle. But he felt the current of bis well- 
meaning words soon checked by an indignant glance from the 
youth, and still more by the question — 

" How is this i My father and my mother have often spoken 
with approving words of your noble enthusiasm in war; and now 
by such petty fears would you dissuade my parent's only son from 
a feat of arms that might bring him honour 1 Ttiat would aeem very 
unlike you. But pardon me. Sir Colonel, tl:at noble fire which 
sparkles from your eyes at my too hasty language assures me to 
whom I am come, to the Colonel Gustavus GyUenskiold I Your 
earnest dissuasions bad almost made me err. Indeed, the boldness 
wth which you loosed our ship from the coruur, and turned the 
tables upon him in his tnm, this might have — tins should have — " 

But his voice had become every moment softer, and, notwithstand- 
ing all his efibrts to prevent it, every moment more faltering, aa 
GyUenskiold' B searching and glowing eyes met his. He grew 
qiute silent before this kind but earnest glance, and thought to 
himaelf, "Ah! truly; with my too forward boldness I have de- 
stroyed one of the dearest joys of my life. For I can plainly see, 
that, for my presumption and disrespect, be will not take me witb 
him to the attack upon the rocky island." 



SOPlflP. ARtRLR. Gl 

And as if Gustavus had perceived the thoughts of the youth, 
be BuBwered him — " You Bhall, notwithgtanding, go with lu, 
dear boy." But in the joy which lighted up all the features of 
the youth trae mingled an expression of indignant pride, and he 
murmured — 

" Boy ! I'hat is a name I have not been accustomed to hear for 
many a long day. Pardon me, sir, for what 1 say. My Cbristian 
name is GustaruB, and hAct you 1 have the honour of being so 
chriBtened. A long year indeed it was after you went away 
from Marseilles, that 1 came into the world ; yet the baae of the 
many beautiful, knightly deeds of the noble Gustavus Gyllenskiold 
oftentimes reached it ; and m my parents thought, and indeed with 
good truth, that they could provide me no more noble incentive for 
a glorious career than if they christened me after their noble guest, 
Gustavue. May 1 request, sir, that ymi will in future caU me by 
this honourable name 1" 

"Bight mllingly, from my heart, my brave Gustavus!" said 
Gyllenakitdd, deeply moved, as he preased him in his arms, 

And now they sat together at the joyous evening meal, liberal as 
the ship'a fare could well afford i and Gyllenekiold said, " I must 
show you, Gustavua, diat I have learnt something of entertainment 
under the pUaaantly hospitable roof of your parents ; or perhaps 
not under ibdr roof, for our most happy meal-times we passed in 
your garden by the sea, and spent there certainly our most refresh- 
ing hours." 

Then it seemed to Ibe heart of Gyllenskiold, moved by many 
sweet emoliona, that he was agun indeed at MarseiUeB, in the gar- 
den of Doctor Matthew. There lay the ship, now at anchor, as still 
and firm as a sea-coast rooted by imperishable rocks, and the vesvea 
splashed and bubbled against it as agunst a peaceful shore. 

Gyllenskiold could not refrain from asking the youth about his pa- 
rental dwelling; and as, with that peculiar clearness of remembrance 
which is common to all, or at least to the most part of north coun- 
trymen, he dwelt on the peculiarities of Doctor Matthew's home and 
economy of life, the young Gustavus felt himself transported back 
to that sweet place and all his earliest remembrances. As he was 
once describing one of his boyish battles, and the provocation 
viaeb had caused it, he suddenly stopped short; a slight blush of 



embarraBsment passed over his cheeks ; jret soon, as if laughing at 
himself, he added joTfnIly— 

" Would you believe it possible. Colonel ? — nevertheless it is 
qiute true — that my quarrel with my schoolfellow arose entirely, 
because the foolish boy nwntained that my dear, beautifiil mother 
was, in reality, not a child of earth, but, as he was pleaswl to 
express it, only a mere spirit of the air. I was left conqueror in 
^e contest, and willingly fo^ave him from my heart all tlie pain he 
had caused me, and ever since then we have loved each other 
dearly ; and he is here also upon your noble ship, the dsareat and 
bravest of all my companions. But, strange as it may seem, it is 
also true, dear sir, that some quite grown-up peofde in Marsnlles 
have also taken it into their head that my mother was origmally a 
spirit of the lur; and is only by marriage with my fiither con- 
nected trith this earthly life." 

Tie boy had scarcely sud this than be shrank back, seiced by a 
peculiar shudder, and whispered, " What was that.'" 

It was nofliing more than a white dove, which hov»ed about 
them in soft, scarcely audible flutterings ; then quickly ascendmg, 
disappeared in the feeble starii^t of the darkling heaven. 

Blushing, the youth said, " You will argue nothing in my favnur 
from this strange trembling. Colonel. To-momnr, among the firing 
of guns and clashing of swords, ! will show no signs of fear j but 
this white dove came before my eyes so strangely. Iliese beautifiil 
white birds are always especially fostered by my parents, and it is 
for tills reason that my mother by some people is thought to be a 
spirit of the air. It is true they have one other reason for suppos- 
ing BO, but it might seem like boasting or pride in me, if I were 
t» tell it to you," 

" Never mind ; but tell me, dear Gustavus !" sud Gyllenskiold, 
" you need fear nothing of that kind from me." 

"Be it so," exclaimed the youth, joyfully; "I will not, then, 
conceal Irom you that my mother stiU blooms as before, in the 
almost childlike beauty of spring. Often, in my boyish years, she 
seemed to me to be my playfellow; and now as my sister, even aa 
my younger sister. There may be many autumnal and winterly 
souls which do not understand this beautiful freshness ; and while 
some have said that my beautiful mother is like the ever-reviviA^ 



SOPHIE A BIB LB. 63 

breeze of spring', th&t grows not (dd. others have looked npoo her 
entirely as a ipirit of the wr." 

At disee words ho laughed heartily ; bnt again a white dove flew 
near him, aad he bent low to it, full of grave emotion, and whis- 
pered — " If thou helongest tmly to the band of my molher'i 
doves, greet Sophie Ariele ivith kind flutterings of thy wing, at a 
aalntadon irom her GiulavuB, and also bom the brave Colond 
Gyltenehioid." 



Chapter XXI. 

Dbeply moved by these words of his young fellow-soldier, the 
noble Swede soon saw him sink into a tranquil slumber ; hie gentle 
form breiUhing silently, as in the bosom of the sweetest peace. 
And now how very like, when the fire of his eye, which he inherited 
from his father, was hidden beneath the covering of his soft eyeUd, 
and no proudly indignant or boldly laughing emotion passed over 
his tenderly cluseUed Ups — now how inexpressibly and afiectingly 
was he like his mother ! 

" Oh 1 may Gad guard thee, and for her sake preserve tbee on 
the morrow," s^d the Colonel, softly ; and spread his mantle care- 
fully over the slumbering youth. 

At this moment the boy became disturbed. At length, over* 
powered with the deep sleep of childhood, he stammered the words, 
" Mother t" and " Fatiier !" and " Good night." And then added, 
mrae pladdly, " Let ma now have my sleep out quietly. To- 
morrow, indeed, the Colonel shall teach me the solemn sentence) 
but it is quite right to sleep well, long, and peaceiiilly before a 
solemn lesson. Is it notP' 

And thereupon he stretched hunself at length, and lay, as the 
moon shed her pale beams npou him, like a marble statue at his 
friend's feet. 

Gyllenikiohi felt tears flow over his cheeks, and murmured, as he 
raised his eyes and thoughts to Heaven — " Oh 1 thou all'merdfiil, 
turn away tha solmni words, before which my soul trembles ! In- 



deed, indeed : Death it Life. But, all! for tliis blooming angel- 
boy ! earthly life in, oh yet, so beautiful, so lovely ! — " 

Here one of his ufficera entered, with a mesHage of im- 
portance; and GyUenskiold felt himBelf cheerfully enlivened 
by the expectation of the morrow's battle and triumph. His 
alarm about the solitary youth faded before his eager anxiety 
for the management of the combat. He launched a boat imme- 
diately, that he might prove with his own eyea the truth of the 
intelligence he bad heard ; and, in company with a few chosen and 
fully armed soldierB, steered to the bushy promontory, to fix on a 
good place to make ihe attack on the morrow. 

The rocky coasts lay fearfally atJU before them, surrouaded and 
danced over by the foamy heads of the breakers. Relying securely 
on thrir watchhl sentinels, the wearied inrates had almost aUof them 
fidlen into the deepest sleep. Groups of dark figures could be easily 
discovered through the clearness of the night, as they were stretched 
upon the slopes or summits of the lofty hills of the island. A few 
sentinels were standing here and there, but they were also weary, 
and leant carelesiily upon thnr arms, so that they seemed rather 
to be resting than watching. Meanwhile the roaring of the 
breakers completely drowned the sound made by the oars of their 
approaching enemy ; while, at the same time, the towering clouds of 
spray, and, in some degree also, the close, leafy underwood of the 
headland, continued to conceal them Grom ught. 

The boat thus landed unnoticed, and scarcely had Gyllenskiold 
with his quick glance marked the fovourable position of the place, 
than he immediately sent back the light boat, in order that, by quick 
passages to and fro, it might fetch over as many of the crew as possible 
before break of dawn ; for he had resolved, if it were practicable, 
to spare his Mgate the danger of stuling among the shallows of a 
bay so Uttle known. In vain did his soldiers implore him to go 
back again now to the ship, and return with the last division, and 
then, without needlessly compromising his safety, to lead 
the united force to victory. He looked at them, as if 
blaming them for supposing that he would do so; "Yet," 
he added, kindly, "I thank' you for having reminded me 
of the last division — with this, and on no account sooner — 
Hearken, my friends, who are now about to steer back to the aUp ; 



SOPHIE A HI RLE. 69 

remember what I say, and perform it fsttfaAiUy. On uo account 
\diatever let the young Frenchman, who joined us from the Mar- 
Beillan ship, come over before the last time. This is my express 
command, let him and his bold companions object as they fdease." 

And now with a perfectly light heart — for he hoped that all 
danger would be over before the snival of the last comiwny — full 
of secret yet brave delight, he ordered everything for the appraaeh- 
ing decisive combat. 

But scarcely had the boat deposited two of its httk cargoes 
upon the shore, and had pushed off from the land, in order 
to return for a third, than a gun from «ne of the sentind 
Swedes soohded through the silent mgfat, and the ninding cliffii of 
the island re-echoed it again and again. In a moment the Mooriab 
robben could be seen upon the hillf, aroused from thnr slumber, 
sazing thcdr weapons, and ananging themselves in order for btttlei 
so that a sudden attack on the part of the few irtio had landed — and 
GyUenskiold, for om moment, did enteriain ibxk idea— ^would be 
nxMn^ bat to leap from despair into utter deatruAion. No rourse, 
tlunfore, was left him to pursue, but to conceal, as long aa possible, 
the small number of his followers smong the bushes on the ahotet 
until there was a chince they might receive suffident reinforce- 
menta from the ship. 

The shrubs and trees on the strand fitvoared this design> 
and the quiet, cool vahiur of the northern soldiers led them 
still to hope for a prosperous issue. The firm wild attack of 
the pirates was eom]detely repulsed, and before the well-stmed guns 
and [ristols of the Swedes a considerable number of Mnasehnen, 
either dead or severdy wounded, covered the field, while the prin- 
cipal put collected on the hill to prepare for a fresh attack, lliat 
this fresh attack must take place was beyond dl doubt, for the 
{Hiates must, by this partly won victory, haVe discovered the only 
possible waythat remained for the preservatifni of their bold enemies ; 
for when the clear moonlight should discover to itie terrified aentiaels 
how slowly, and wilh how few men the boat would steer through Oie 
breakers, it was certain that they would immediately, with all the 
force of despair, attack the lioldiers who were already landed. 

Calmly conudermg all these disadvantages, QyllensUtdd angiiiy 
walked iqi to the tentind, inquiring fr<»n him the canse of the 
O 3 



6G BOPBIE ARIELB. 

fooliah aUnn gun. The bearded soldier calmly replied — "Colonel, 
for that you njust not chide me. It wa» no Moorish enemy, but a 
fneai from the ancient heroes of bygone dayi, come perhapa to 
call you and me, and our companions, home to thoBe blessed halls 
above ; and would not you, my brave Colonel, gladly receive bo 
solemn, yet so welcome a mesaagei" 

Ciyllenskiald bent his proud head affirmatively, and the Swede 
related his official news in the fallowing words : — 

"From the foamy waves you see yonder, eprang up what 
seemed to be the beads of men, but not as if they were swiDmung, 
but walking upright through the waves, as reapers marclung 
through high luxuriant com ; they came through the breakers 
that every moment foamed more wildly, and mingled with than 
were heads of women, with cheeks of grizzly red — how hideous in 
the pale moonlight I and there were heroes of noble bearing, with 
crowns on thrir heads — " 

"Iknowthem! Iknowthem!" eEudGyllen8luold,inth difficulty 
repressing the shudder that passed through his inmost senses. 
" You need not, at such a moment, describe merely unsubstantial 

But the Swede interrupted haughtily — " la good truth, Cokmel, 
you do me wrong ; I have neither slept nor dreamed, but watched 
at my post as beseems an honourable warrior of our north coun- 
try to do. And if at fint I imagined the heads in the waves to be 
ghostly inhabitants of the world of spirits, yet 1 soon became aware 
that they were not mere shadowy forma, h^rect and kinglike, one 
of the crown-bearers came walking to the land. He had a deep 
wound in the breast. He stood opposite to me, and bent hia head — 
whether to me, or to some one else, or to us all, I do not rightly 
know; but I presented my weapon to him, as to a royal personage 
whether livmg or dead. That he did not belong to the Sanwens 
you might be perfectly certain, if you only once kwked into his laige 
rolling blue eyes. But when he moved on, as though he would 
pass my post, I lowered my weapon and said, ' Stop, if it please 
your m^esty, the soldier must fulfil his duty. Give me the pass- 
word, or I must fire!' Then he laid his hand on his ponderous 
sword, and advanced with giant strides. I fired ! aai like a flash 
of Ughtning, or a sweeping sword-stroke, it lighted the empty 



SOPHIE ABIELB. 67 

epace arounil me. Then tbe kmgly form atniled as he floated away 
upon a Bnow-white steed (when or from whence tbe noble creature 
came I know not), aitd beckoned kindly to me, as if be would aay. 
' Come joyfully aAer me, you will hare many good companions.' 
And how, I ask youj could a faithful aoldier upon watch act other- 
wise than I have done? If any one was to blame, it was tbe old 
crowned hero ; and you and I, my Colonel, and perhaps indeed 
many more among us, may call upon bim to answer to the charge, 
before the sun rises over these southern waves." 

"That is probable!" said Gyllenskiold, thoughtfully; "the 
Moors upon the bilk ace gathering in stronger and better arranged 
order." 

. Once more Gyllenskiold glanced towards the ship, as if, by a 
rapid movement, it was possible she might yet release him from the 
threatening overwhelming force of tbe enemy. But her befriending 
form rocked peacefully in the moonlight, and sail anji pennant 
drooped sleepily from the spars. A perfect calm paralysed all her 
movements. Then over Gyllenskiold 's bps passed tbe tune of a 
song, the first lines of which, when a boy, he bad beard sung with 
peculiar emotion : — 



Loud and joyfully be called to bis Swedes — " Bravely are we called 
to die 1" and resolutely they returned the salute, and pressed close 
together, man to man ; a noble band united in the brotherhood of 
death. The Saracena descended slowly and deliberately from the 
hill, their two wings stretching forward in overwhelming force, so 
that the whole body wore the appearance of th«i own banner of 
victory, the crescent, which rose proudly in the midst. 

One more look, as taking leave of Ariele's son, Gyllenskiold 
turned towards his slup ; and, in the hope that be might once more 
see the beloved form of the youth, he raised to his eyes a glass 
given him by Farenberg, and constructed purposely for sea 
Voyages. Then suddenly a form appeared on the edge of the ship, 
in a white flying mantle ; it wa« the same while mantle with which 
he had before covered the slimibering Gustavus ; and, as if with 
wings, the vision stretched forward. "Tbe boy will throw himself 
into the sea, in order to reach the shore !" thought Gyllenskiold, 



terrified ; " apractised swimmer in the prime of manhood would wnW 
make the passage hither. And then the breakers ! And if he got 
through them — to meet a bloody death here on land. " Stili the 
youth aeetned to wish to spring into the water, but he was pre- 
vented by thoBS around lum ; he struggled angTily to free himself 
from their hold. Suddenly he nused both hands, as if he were 
vehemently imploring the silent night-heaven; andlo, &e pennant 
of die ship began to Qj, the sails to swell in the favouring breese, 
the busy crowd on the deck to increase. Then the frigate rocked 
in the rising mnd of the early dawn ; and, rapidly advannng to the 
K«ne of combat, it thun<toed a cannonade of shot into the wing 
of the advancing Saracens. Howling, the broken lines fell bach 
one upon the other. "Forward!" cried Gyllenskiold, ezultingly, 
u he rushed vnth his Swedes from the bushy strand, and put thai 
Urrifled enemies to an irretrievable rout. 



Chaptbb xxir. 

The battle was completely over. Hie prate ship had been takoi, 
its crew were either killed or dispersed. But in vai» did th« 
Swedes seek for their brave leader, in vain did the youths of Mai- 
sdUes seek for iheir brave comrade Gustavus. Could the two have 
perished in some way together i If so, the victory over these 
h(»:des of barbarians would seem indeed to be most dearly pur- 
chased. 

Notwithstanding all Uie inquiries that were made for the noble 
friends, no farther trace of them could be discovered than that the 
youth Gustavus, after he had caused the ship to enter the bay by 
hjs strange invocation of the breezes, had thrown himself over- 
board fuU of mad desire for the combat, and reached the land- 
Some declared they had seen his white mantle again after that 
fluttering among a crowd of Moorish figures, But the exact place 
of this encounter, after the tumult of the nightly battle, and in the 
ulence of the rising morning, they did not remember sufficiently 
well to find again. Gyllenskiold had been seen for the last time 



COPHIE ARIELE. 69 

by his Swedes, ruahing tvith sudden and to them incomprehen- 
Hibie maduebs dmvn a Rteeii precipice after a number of the flyinf 
enemy, bo that it was not clear whether he hud fallen or leapt. 
By (lie time liia less adventurous followers liad gained the 
level beach below, he and his adrersaries had entirely disap- 
peared. It almost seemed as if the surf had washed them away 

A low sobbing sound of lamentation, almost like that of a softly 
weeping boy, who had only just ended his first angry, sorrowful 
burst of passion, at length drew the eager soldiers to a place on the 
woody ahore, where traces of blood on the boughs indicated a 
hardly fought battle, that was indeed scarcely over. Somewhat 
further, two Moors lay dead on the sand, their heads cleft in twain. 
After a few steps to the nearest winding of tile clilF, the Swedes 
found their noble leader, at least his corpse, with a fearful wound 
upon his valiant breast, pouring out his heart's blood. 

It was afiecting to behold how the young Marseillais, Gustavtu, 
supported his sinking head, and shed besides such hot, scalding 
tears ; while a snowy-haired old sailor, looking on in silence, aat 
mth folded hands at the feet of the departed hero. 

The hoy cried, full of lamentation, to the newly arrived soldiers — 
" Ah ! woe is me ; mine is the fault 1 It was in rescuing me, 
that the pious, generous knight fell. Oh, what a cursed seal was 
it that drove me from the ship, and made me swim to shore ! Hera 
two Moors halted in their flight, and rushed in wUd fury agunst 
me, intending to make my death an offering to their revenge. 
Alas ! would that they had accomplished their angry purpose t 
I lay already spent upon the ground, and only gave faint blows, 
that fell rather in the air than upon my enemies (beetles, over- 
powered by ants, struggle thus in the empty rage of despair), when 
suddenly, from the neighbouring clifni,my noble godfather, Guslavug 
Gyllenskiold, saw my distress ; and, like a gloriously ndnged mes- 
senger of heaven, he flew down upon my foes, and laid them low 
in the sand upon the shore ;— they must be still lying there ; — but 
when he turned towards roe — oh, horror \ — then I saw that his gar- 
ment and breast were dyed with the terrible wound which he had 
received in the battle for my preservation ; and here he now lies ! 
and here be will now die 1" 



He began again silently to weep, and one of die eoldisrs, who 
bad just arrived, said Eomewhat roughly, and unfeelingly — 

" Yes, indeed, that is what we get by it I Here he lies now, and 
here he dies, and our loss ia aod always will be the greateat. 
Would that the French rascal had remained altogether upon his 
Marsdlles ship I We should then have bad our beloved, nobk 
colonel still safe and sound among us." 

And the poor lamenting youth only began to weep stillmoreheaitily 
and despuringly. But then the silver-haired sailor at Gyllenakiold's 
feet arose, and said reprovingly to hie angry feUow-soli^er — 

" You— take heed ! What you have said was not exactly the 
best thing that you conld have said — throughout, it was not well ! 
God forbid that our dear, dying Colonel should be aware of this; 
else you have given pain to his departing farao's soul; uidlookl a 
painful quiver about his mouth makes me almost fear that it is so ; 
so I will speak in his stead — will speak such words as would flow 
from his brave soul, and would be proper for the protection and 
happiness of this noble boy. Where would have been our brave 
Colonel without him i Where should aB we, who first landed 
upon the island, have been without him i Stretched out upon the 
earth ye would be lying, like those bloody Moors ; or shackled, 
yon would have been gnashing your teeth, or groaning in the 
power of the pirates. For, while the calm hdd us bound irith 
our ship in idle view of your combat and your distress, this won- 
derful boy called on the breezes to swell our sajls, and they obeyed 
hia voice, and carried us softly and swiftly towards the shore, so 
that we could easily fire upon your overpowering enemy 1" 

AH looked astonished at the youth ; but be, drying his tears, and 
pushing hia ^r locks from his open brow, said just as aston- 
ished, " What then do you expect to find so strange in me f You 
are in error ; I have indeed invoked the breezes, invoked them fidl 
of the deepest, most fervent angmah of soul ; but that their sinrits 
heard, or at any rate answered to my call, of that I know nothing. 
1 pray you do not perplex me by such wonderful words, which 
even in my earliest childhood flitted about me decdvingly, and 
which now in my deep, deep anguish of soul, occur to me again. 
IVitly I am no fickle child of the breezes ; alas, if it were so, 
would the death-wounds of this djnng hero cause me such nn- 



SOPHIK ARIRLR. 71 

gpeakable sorrow?" And again he wept bitterly; and, puahin^ 
away from his forehead and tonples the golden locka that fell over 
them, he bent hia blooming Uct over the qwet and motionlesa one 
of his Mend. 

Tile old north-country man then *aid, " Whether conaciooely 
or tmconecioualy he holdi such stmoge dominion over the ele* 
mente, matters but little; to me it certainly appeared that it waa 
at the fairy call of this youth that our euls swelled. And wera 
h not so, it was still hit words of tire, his noble eameet pray«-a, 
Ms raind and animating signs, lightening us all up like a fladiing 
meteor — above all, it was his wonderful power, which inspired Um 
dullest and most anxious among us with hope to venture every' 
thing and strength to perform it, and urged us to run our ship into 
the dangerous bay, and to preserve our heroic Colonel, and you 
all. That is what this boy has done I" 

They all bent with one accord before the weeping youth j but he 
■aid, looking up most sorrowfiilly, " Yes ; would that it had been 
an act of preservation, then it might have passed for something 
hononrable. But there he lies, alas '. and there he dies I" 

" Death is Life I" sud Gyllenskiold, once more unclosing hia eyes 
in inexpressible serenity to the light of an earthly day ; and turning to 
the youth, he continued in a firm and solemn voice, " See, my young 
Gustavns ; now everything is clear to me. I saw in my last drcun 
yonr dear parents, and they declared to me what you should learn 
from me before you go forth upon your journey. The sentenct 
might indeed have sounded too solemn, in the moment of separation, 
for them to have spoken it to thee, although it is in reality a sentence 
foil of gladness ; they referred you therefore to me. Oh, my young 
friend, in a fearfully dark path of error I entered your parents' house 
for the first time. ' Iiffe is Death !' cried for ever the horrible viaMii 
of my decaying, dreamily darkening existence, ' Life is lAfs f tha 
sweetly peaceful days at Marseilles taught me. But in on# in* 
finitely more blessed hour there, I laid hold of a far higher truth. 
' Beoih is lA/e I' I then could say, and ' Death is Life I' yom 
beautiful mother sang to me, full of inspiration, at the moment 
when we separated ; and now to you, sweet (justavus, yet in the bright 
spring-time of your earthly life, now when 1 am dying, I can say to 
you, with the transporting assurance in my soul, ' Death is life !' 



Not that, dear fresh blooming youth, the joys of thy life should eink 
for that reason towards the grave. No; hut in order that they maj- 
lise more swiftly to heaven, ttnd may shine the more brightly in the 
blissful certainty that — there is no dealt. Lo ! the solemn messenger 
we are accustomed to call by that name eoroeti to me, and my sinkinic 
eyes fail before his heavenly glance ; this earthly world of dreams dis- 
appears ; and deep, deep within, the holy light from the divine 
throne shines full upon me ; secretly, quite secretly, it glimmered 
in me before. How strangely till now the shadows of dreams have 
hidden and concealed it ! What irill it now signify whether in this 
ever-changing, enigmatic world we have borne crowns or garlands, a 
ihepherd's cap or a beggar's hood ? 

. " The old crown-bearer indeed beckons kindly to me from 
above. But as long as I remained here in this dark world of 
dreams 1 misunderstood him ; he meant by his aigns to point to a 
far difierent, a tat richer cruwn. And the spirit of the air ! Oh, 
Sophie Ariele, thou lovely, wise confidant of heaven 1 how clearly 
thou studst we were very high-born ! "We are all watered by the 
blessed fountains of the highest love 1" 

And Love was his last breath. He lay a beaudful corpse, smihng 
sweetly under the brightly beaming light of morning, and 
the flowing waves of the sea sang a soft lullaby to the hut 
ahmiher of their friend. " And Love," so the young Gustavus felt 
it breathe through his soul, moved by the sweetest sorrow, " love 
■hall sound as the first jubilee of the departed warrior in the eternal 
halls of victory !" 

After the interval of some years, when Ariele's son brought home 
this solemn news. Doctor Matthew, as soon as his weighty busi* 
nesB pennitted, erected a monument loGyUensldoId's memory at the 
place m the garden where the three united souls had often felt 
together a happy participation of joyftil emotions. The emblem 
and motto he reqiured and obtained from Sophie Ariele; and at ha* 
desire he ornamented the monument of his friend with the figure, 
in raised alabaster work of a [do\-e, flying from out a sea of flame 
towards heaven, with the inscription — 

" »eaih ta lift." '-"■'H'sI^- 



THE 



N' a mountain village, not far from a lat^ and 
populouH cammerdal town, tlie elderly wife of a 
worthy retired merchant was otting one after- 
noon of a ChristmaB Eve, spinning at the win- 
dow. As she tamed her little wheel, she revolved, in thought, 
the cycle of the pest, and joined, on the extended thread, one 
departed yrai to another. In this manner many a Christmas 
festival agwn set up its little Ught before her; while that of 
to-day awaited only, as formerly, (he flash of joy by which it ' 
should he kindled. "It was, then, alaal another time," she 
righed, as, raising her eyes from her work, and to avoid the 
afflicting retrospect, she looked forth upon the garden ; but 
I heavy fleece of mow, pressed down by thawing, watery 
vapours, had fidlen without, and lay along the earth, giving it' 
o n>b» of cheerful whiteness, but rather one of sullied mms- 
iK, as its festal garb. The good woman let fall her thread, 
and still moving the wheel mechanically with her foot, folded' 
her arms, leant back in her low-cushioned chair, and cast her' 
tbonghta and eye over the garden-hedge, towards the church- 
yard wall, that sheltered the grave of a little maiden who had' 
died in childhood. She said nothing, and might, perhaps, havai 
bad only indistinct thoughts; yet she felt a heavy melancholy. 



3 THE CRXISTUAI TKEE. 

Solitary teare ran down her ch«eka, and quite obliterated all tmagea 
of Chrinmaa joy. 

But it waa the heavy preasure with which the presence of an only 
Bon, who, dragged from hie early career in life, had become a prey 
to Mckneas, that chiefly burthened her. When yet almost a boy, he 
had been drawn away, by aome auidliarieB, to the French anay j and 
now, nipped in his bloom, weary and wasted, was aent back agtun to 
hia paternal home. It waa true his youthful nature seemed now 
slowly to revive; but the genuine activity, the energy which resists 
and overcomes oppoaMon, that power, she was obliged to confess, 
might never, or only through long, considerate care, be again with 
difficulty restored. And what would be the end of the slippery 
courae of his nustaken life ? whither would it lead I Outgrown as 
to his earlier pursuits, spoiled for bodily exertion, for mental unfitted, 
who would suppoitthe helpless one,wben his father's eyes ahould be 
closed, or her busy hands no more be able to ply thdr accustomed 
labour ? She had now trouble enough to maintain the tottering 
household, and rince the ravages of the war, the slender income had 
already been too scant, for her to think of any saving for the foilom 
one's future condition. "It is a misfortune," her husband was accus- 
tomed to reply to similar complaints ; " but it must bs borne." She 
had alao heard, on the prerioos Sunday, an excellent ^course on 
the test — "Benot anxious for the coming morrow." Her heart had 
thereby been comforted, and made more trustful. On returning 
from the church, she had gratefully pressed her husband's hand, and 
with the courage of inspiration, had spoken of overcoming present 
sorrows, and of her confidence in better days. But that which 
then raised her sprits, though it had not altogether ^caniahed, httd 
yet been interrupted and weakened by numberless daily triala. 

" He has well apoken," thought she, retting her head upon her 
hand. "It ia for me to endure; and the hour may yet come when the 
burden will be reckoned U> me yet more heavy and oppressive. Still we 
are bidden to be of cheerful heart — ' He who clothea and cherishes 
the liliea of the field, and the fowls of heaven, has also for thee and 
thine warm winter raiment and sustenance ; and beeidea, a joyful 
day in store, when it shall be needed.' Yes, yes," she sighed, 
shaking her head, "there, in my husband's chamber above, which 



THS CHKiaTUAB TRXE. 3 

no one approaches within ten pacea, where neither question nor 
complaint intrudes, where it is warm and still and lonely, there also 
abides the soul, tranquil and retired ; and whatever storm bnrata in 
upon it, it can also, liy itself, contend with : hut here, below, all 
that is painfid and trying has to be accomplished." While thus 
gradually yielding to disquiet, her sadness was interrupted by the 
Eq>pTOBcb of her sickly son : she heard him cough while yet at the 
tbrrahold. The sound, to-day, seemed to her more hollow than 
formerly. Her bosom was painfiilly agitated : anxiously she be- 
held his sorrowful figure, as he entered, reflected in a looking- 
glass oppoute the door. Yet she forbore to look on himself as her 
observant glance was ever sensitivB of hie presence ; and in order 
to appear less anxious, she turned herself towards the window, at 
the same time exclaiming, "Old Martha's gay mantle flutters about 
her BO widely in the snow-storm, as if she were hurrying with 
something wonderful." 

The yoong man, who had also gone up to the window, replied, 
" Does the robust old woman still carry the letters round the 



" Certainly, certainly," said his mother. " Yes," ahc continued, 
smiling, "heremay be seen liow one's humour faafaions things in 
one's-self and others. At the time thou wert absent, when I saw 
betMreen the bushes the tip of the mantle glimmering down the hUl- 
patb, my heart beat so violently, as if— God forgive me— Provi- 
dence itself were dedding on our weal and woe. Now, Martha is 
to me — just as she is — only a letter-carrier, who can neither ffvt 
me much, nor take away." She said the last words with a careless 
tone and demeanour, whilst the thought arose in her with strange 
lividness — " What if the post should bring me, to-day, something 
very pleasing and agreeable ! Perhaps, some quite imexpected, joy- 
ful intelUgence !" She had no conception of what it might be that 
should BO nearly concern her from afar ; but the thought, undefined 
as it was, served to quicken her imagination with unusual activi^. 

" Dear mother," rejoined her son, whom her e-xpressionB luul 
arrested, " the future is a secret for ei-ery one : man often knows 
not how much he expects from it, but, in the end, all hope for the 
best. He who looks into it otherwise, doe« but plunge into a 
bottomless abyss. 



4 THE CHIIUTIIAB TRU. 

It affected Uw agitated lady indeschbablf, to hear him bo apeak 
ol the futurf . Whom did he mean i his nearest kindred oa nirtb, 
ot' another, who perhaps lay nearer to him than he was conecioiu 
oti " Benjamin I" she loftly said, seiii&g and aniioiuily preraing 
hiBhand. 

He might well have felt what she was not able to expresa; he, 
however, let it remain bo, and, in order to divert her attention, 
hastily inquired, " What does busy Martha do there over the nar- 
row bridge, at the little nuned sh^herd'a hnt i I think it ataikda 
empty i at least I am told ao." 

" In that you have been rightly iDformed," responded hie motho-. 
" After the death of old David, who would not leave the decaying 
cottage, no one has again occuined it. Bat who knowa whether the 
dejcterous woman may not there have discovered a little comer for 
the more convetuent beatowalof some of the articles she brings with 
her, until she has finished her rounds i Such people understand 
well how to make use of every thing. I should lilce to know, how- 
ever," she continued inquisitively, "what she really purposes." 
Here she paused, as she attentively looked in the spedfied direc- 
tion i whik Benjamin, tired, and having no particular sympathy for 
the mysterious village incident, seated himself in an arm-chair. 
" How, by accident, one thing springs out of another 1" resumed 
his mother, after a while. "See! Benjanun,Ih)okmany ymesaday 
towards the bridge, and beyond it ; must look thither, if I only direct 
my eyes on the road. I do so, and think nothing of it | but to-day, 
cdd stories, long banished from my thoughts, come again to me, to 
make my heart still sadder, and this holy eve, which should he for 
all one of joy, more lonesome and melancholy. Thou uuderstandest 
well what I mean," she added, wiping away a tear. 

" No I" replied her son, astonished, and vainly endeavouring to 
realize the import of hei words. 

"Noi" inquired she, wondering. "But," she continued, "1 
know that the loss of the good and beantiAil Anna cannot affect 
thy heart as it does mine. She was still a child when Uiou lefieet 
thy paternal home : and when also thou taughtest her to read 
and write, and wast so glad that we stood to the poor orphan 
in her parents' room, thou wast yet a wayward boy, and sawest 
little of the timid child, Afterwards, when she was so aaaccouDt- 



THE CHRISTMAS THEE. i 

ably lost to US, thou wast far aivay, and time, and the numy mv 
events of the present, have aU too much effaced the distant imagw 
for thee now to have any particular reeoliedion of them." 

"Yet, yet!" said the young man, striving, as well as he wu 
able, to recall what he had forgotten, " I very distinctly remember 
the pretty child, whom you as tenderly cherished as if she wero 
your own. Ah, yes!" he added, with animation, "1 was then 
fourteen years old, when I went to my uncle's residence, ia 
order to attend school, and Anna might have been eight or nine. 
Since then, indeed, I have not again been here. First come my 
removal, then my studies, afterwards service in the army> A 
broad gulf lies between now and then." 

" Therefore it is," replied his mother, resuming the thread of her 
contemplations, " that thou const not at all sympatbise with me in 
&>e sentiments which yonder little but awakens." 

" I have ever forborne," replied Benjamin, calmly, "to ask yoU 
of the minuter circumstances of the poor orphan's disappearance, 
from unwillingness to revive ptdnful recollections in your soul." 

"Kind son I" she smiled, with emotion, as with one hand she wiped 
the tears from her cheeks, and extended the other towards him. 

He kissed her hand, and said — " Yet tell me, dear mother, if it 
will not pain you, how came Anna to forsake you!" 

"Forsake I Benjamin," exclaimed his mother, sensitively ( "she 
did not forsake us ; she was torn from us — that I shall ever be- 
lieve. But who they were that dealt us the blow — How crafty 
villuns have contrived to keep the wicked deed so long concealed 
that is known to God only, who, in due time, will yet bring all to 
light ; but this much I tell thee, that, from the first moment, the 
cluld clung to me even as the ivy that creeps on yonder wall. I 
know too well that her heart was rent asunder when they dragged 
her away from hence." 

"Dragged away!" asked the youngman, incredulously. "Have 
you then any trace that such a deed of violence was done V 

"No trace," she replied, vehemently ; " yet sooner would we that 
themysteiy were unexplained than mistrust a faithful heart. See ! my 
dear," she continued, " as when I first beheld Anna's open counte- 
nance, and a vmce spoke within me, ' In her there is no guile,' so 
she still remains ever before me, and no one shall be able to dis^ 



6 THE CIIBlSTlfAB TREt. 

figure m* pervert the image. There," the proceeded, toniing hei- 
«elf nearer to the window, and tapinng, with extended finger agunat 
the panes, "there, npon the narrow phink, «at the foriors child, 
CHivlesE and cracking nut«, aa contented as if the world were hers, 
whitat I went carrying to the dying grandikther hia final meal. I 
waa startled when I caat my eyes upon her ; for before 1 had never 
seen her, nor eren known of her esatence. Aa 1 was now about 
croBsing the bridge, and ahe kept running on, and then sitting 
down in my way, 1 atopped and accoated her. She raised up her 
head, ahook the long &ir ringlets from ber brow, and filing her 
large eyes confidingly npon me, flnuled, and reaching forth hei 
delicate little hand, offered me of her atore of nnts, which she had 
previously taken from her pocket. I thanked her for the present, 
and inqnired who she waa, and whence she came; whereupon, 
abashed, she muttered sometlung half-aloud between ber hpa, drew 
up her httle feet, and hastened away. I gased after her ; ahe so 
moved me, I knew not what to think of her. Ferh^ts, 1 thonght, 
she might belong to the old ahepherd, who, from kindness, had 
lately brought her hither. But what would become of the fair 
violet amid the matted moaa i it would surely be stified. As thus 
thinking, 1 entered the little room, and said, 'Good day, father,' and 
having set on the table the little proviaion I had brought, I aai 
down by the side of the sick roan's bed. ' He sleeps well I' I said, 
softly, and remained quiet a while. I wished to wait till he shotdd 
open hia eyes, and observe me ; hut hia ahunber lasted long, while 
my heart throbbed with anguish; every moment I became more 
uneasy. I then glanced round upon the walla, for I did not truat 
myaelf to look upon the sleeper beside me. Above the bed htmg 
the shepherd's wtdlet, and by the side atood his tall staff, at the 
lower end hound with iron, while from its top a long, &ded ribbcra 
rolled down to the grey-headed man'a pillow. There he lay atrrtcb- 
ed out at hia length, his white hair and ailvery beard goltly quiver- 
ing as he Boftly drew his breath. The silk band on the staff wai 
now stdrred by a rush of wind from the opened door, aa the httle 
one entered. She timidly remuned standing behind the old man's 
bed, while I beckoned her cautiously to approach ; but my care 
was superfluous. The locks around the chin and temples quivered 
no more ; all was now over, the honest shepherd had ceased to live. 



THK CRRIBTMAB TREE. 7 

A shudder went thrcmgh my aonl ; I took tlie child by the band, 
and led her to our home. Afterwards I leamt that the poor 
child was an orphan, sent hither from a distant village, where her 
grandfather stiU lived, who should have released the parish from 
the obligation of bringing- her up. This duty we now undertook, 
and never regretted it, till the day that her absence so wounded our 
hearts ; then I thought if I had never seen her, 1 should not now 
have to bewail her. But 1 only punished myself with such thoughts) 
and so eerere, Benjamin, were thy bther'a reproof, that I shed 
ahnost as many tears on their account as for our loss. However, I 
did not long remain idle; t searched and inquired, hither and 
thither, promising thanks and reward to any one who would give 
me intelligence, but none I gained, more than I already knew. 

The fair maiden bad not, in truth, bloomed unobserved upon 
our mountains ; end Anna was obliged for weeks together to keep 
within the threahold, from fear of a tall, sUm, saUow captun of 
Dragoons, who followed her about at every step. At last her tor- 
mentor left the ne^hbourhood; and in order, af^ so much dis- 
quiet, to give the poor child some recreation, tby fktber took ber 
with him on a journey to the neighbouring city. He took her with 
him, Benjanun, but he did not bring her back." 

Thus she ended ; sighing deeply at the painfiil remembrance. 

Her son, who had Ustened with fixed attention to the end of her 
story, now asked impatiently how it bad happened, and what had 
be^dlen his father, that he so lost the object of bis care. But his 
mother could tell him no more than that both had arrived together 
at the harbour, and there saw the merchantmen lying at anchor. 
Hie father described to the observant maiden the pleasures 
of a sea-'VoyBge, and the intercourse of various nations. Anna 
listened to him very attentively, and remained constantly by his 
side. But it happened that some negro boys, belonging to the 
sUps, sprang ashore, thereby causing a tumult and outcry among 
the children of the town. The throng and pressure became so 
great that each one was obliged to stop and look before him. At 
this moment the pastor, for Anna's better protection, grasped bei* 
hand ; but he suddenly lost ber, and she vanished from his nght. 
He called her, be cried aloud, and worked his way after ber through 
the crowd ; but all in vain, slie was lost. 



8 THE CHRISTMAS TREE. 

" UnaccDuntabk ! " replied Beiyamin, deep in thought, ^d 
meditating on the incident ; While his mother, already diverted to 
another subject by the approach of the oimblB Martha, was atten- 
tively tratching whether, to-day, ao joyful meEsage should be 
brought to her. 

" Now surely ! " she exclaimed, " old Martha is passing ui 
by. Ah ! I thought the days of good fortune had long since 
gone from us. On our night no joyful ray is to shine. 
Benjamin !" she added nith suppressed voice, amid stifled teare. 
" Thy father's books from the re&ding-club are bU that she is 
giving in such haste to the maid ; nothing else, nothing for 
us I" 

" What else dost thou expect I " inquired her husband, now 
entering, as he set down on the table his lamp, which, as it wan 
dark, he had carried in his hand ; at the same time, with a coun- 
tenance unusually bright and joyful, approaching her. 

" Ah nothing," she replied, with an eut cold and constrained. 
She avoided looking at him, from fear of betraying the involuntary 
emotions of her heart ; she therefore rose &om her seat, and pushed 
the spinning-wheel, with more than needfiil precision, into its place. 

" Nothing !" he repeated calmly. " Now I know that thou werl 
looking out upon the road towards some one." 

" That was only a thought," she replied. 

" But thoughts have thdr foundation," he smiled. "They come to 
Us not for nothing and m vain. I venture to think that the Holy 
Eve has also hallowed thy heart, and that pious images, full of happy 
fulfilment, have arisen upon thy soul." The eicited and agitated 
woman here held her apron to her eyes, and wept vehemently, 
without having power to anstter, though she wished to do so. 
Sympathiiingly, her husband aaied her hand. For a wtule he was 
silent, as if he wished for time to collect himself; then, gently 
rebuking, he SEud, "Oh, if you Would only have confidence in God!" 
She let fall the apron from her eyes, raised them towards heaven, and 
KtclEumed with consdous agony, "Oh, I have held fast, and still 
hold fast my trust. But — " 

" But what!" inquired he, earnestly. 

She heeded him not, but continued pasnonately, " I am not un- 
believing. No! I do not doubt God's almighty power. Bitt he 



THE CHBlSTMAi TBmB. 9 

will pardon his weak creature, who, amid the presaure of accuma- 
lated tiials, groans, and eorrowa, would rather close faer eyes than 
vainl}' task them to discover some ray of hope. And if thou wilt 
not pity me" she added ivith bitter tears— "rae, poor old woman, 
to whom everything- fails, and on the day when the child in the 
cradle i« joyful, hare no joy, because I can prepare none for otbera ; 
yet ia my grief seen by One above, who reckons tears and fflghs, and 
will dry the wet eyes and heal the broken heart." Here she sat 
down exhauated, leaning her head on the ahoulder of her son, 
who struggling aniid sympathy and embarrasament at the painful 
scene, repeatedly pressed her band, without rainglii^ in the con- 
veraatioQ. 

"Strange!" resumed the husband; " thou haat hope in this Great 
Comforter, and nevertheless thou doubtest ! And aa he spoke, his 
countenance reflected a confidence which, besides the heavenly, be- 
spoke the fulfilment of an earthly promise Benjamin now regtu^led 
him attentively, while hia mother also was involuntarily excited and 
restlesa, " I do not, however, well perceive," resumed his father, 
after a short paose, " what it is that just now so untunes thy mind 
for the holy featival.xinless it be the dream of which tbou spakest to 
me this mormng, and which deluded thy imagination with expecta- 
tions that thou now findest unfulfilled. Didst thou not see a Christ- 
mas-tree, nith numerous lights and varied many flowers, suddenly 
standing amidst thy old house-furniture, our children's cradle and 
their broken toys! and, on awaking, didst thou not find tears of joy 
in thine eyes ?" Hia wife here nodded asaent, for great inward emo- 
tion made her unable to speak. "Nowwert thou not thinking," he 
smiled good-hnmouredly, " of some unexpected good fortune, and 
that Martha would bring the happy intelligence by the post i " 
Here he paused as if awaiting her answer; but, as she was silent, he 
proceeded : " Dreams are moat commonly intended as a trial ; they 
are die thermometer of a right faith ; they are generally adhered to 
with a strange tenacity, while one seeks for something behind them, 
and forgets the power that is almighty. But, to spare the distressed 
heart of the afflicted wife, he took her fervently by the hand, aaying, 
"Forgive me, if to cause you a surprise, I have hitherto been silent 
as to what will give you joy." She stared at him incredulously, and 



to THS CHKIITMAR TREE. 

icarceljr nnnpreheiided btm, u he aow sud, " Martha has, how- 
ever, brought BomMhing mth her. God chooses his mesBeiifierB 
where and how he will. Only be comforted; the Christmas-tree is 
already lighted I come witli me and see it." 

She had mechamcally faUotrad him into the middle of the room ; 
now, however, she suddenly stopped, while doubt and expectation 
were pictured in her countenance. MistnistfiiUy smiling, she said, 
as she drew her arm away from her husband's, " Pray go ; thou 
art jesting with me, or dse thou hast some design, in order to 
mortify me." 

" God forbid ! " exclaimed he, letting fall his folded handa in 
astonishment. " Why has thy heart become so tenacious of susih- 
don, and so stubborn against the kindness of God, that with this 
promise thou thinkest only of an unseemly jest, or of harsh sdf- 
willedoess i Only look at me. Thy glance is become uncertain. 
Thou seest things unfairly and anxiously. I pray thee, only look 
at me calmly, and see if there is in my eyes aught else than a joyful 
heart." 

She made no reply, and (rillingly allowed herself to be led to die 
doori yet her timid step and cODVulsive movement showed her 
anxious and ill at ease, and that she only watched an opportunity in 
order to turn back. As she now met the maid at the thresho^ 
who was wailing with the lantern, Benjamin, by his Other's de«re, 
threw over her shoulders her thin, time-wom, fur-mantle. They 
then crossed the court-yard onto the road; while his mother, sdsed 
by a strange imagination and inwardly trembling, cLung fiister to 
her husband's arm. 

" Great God I" her Upa ejaculated, " art thou leading us then to 
the church-yard i" 

" Hard by," was the short answer, wliich in the gloom sounded 
to her as that of a spectre, and caused a crowd of bewildering 
images to rush through her mind. The maid now, at her inast«''s 
bidding, held the lantern a little higher ; thereby the darkness was 
somewhat interrupted, but where the light shone not, only made 
darker. Every object around, as the diurch, the tower, and the 
trees, all appeared larger through the gloom. 

"This is a frightful p«h!" groaned the lady. t",un«ik' 



TBB CBRIITUAS THSE. 11 

" Look fonrard ! " replied her hasbaiidi "we aieninrCTOluiig 
the bridge, and going up the hill." 

" What !" ehe cried, indignantly, " ait thou leading us amid rub- 
bieh and ruinx to the place of deaolation, and deluding our sentea 
with the dBEzling lights of Chriatma^ ? For Hearen's aake I let na 
go no further 1" she vehemently added, in the high exdtement c^ 
her feelings, and with a geature of averaion. 

Benjamin, who was also perplexed, hesitated to fallow hia 
father. 

" t tell you," exclaimed the latter, almost scolding, " there is no 
cause for doubt. Have you forgotten the five baaketg with bread 
and the few fishes, for the thousands of believers on the mountains ; 
Come, come! I promise you that to-day you ihall yet be ashamed of 
your cowardice I" 

So he led her on till they came to the dwelling of the deceowd 
shepherd, David. As they now stood before the latched door, 
and her husband knocked, his wife listened to a secret whispering 
inside, whilst she followed the motion of the many li^s, whose 
flickering flame glimmered through the chinks of the dil^idated 
wall. Meanwhile, she had no time to give utterance to her joy and 
wonder, for soon far different objects arreBted her attention. On 
the door now being opened, they entered, and a fragrant odour of 
the yew-tree, of spiced cakes and Christmas candles came floating 
towards them, with all the charm of the sweet, dear days of child- 
hood. A glare, as of a thousand stars, fllled the Uttle apartment 
so that nothing was distinguishable but the flitting to and fro of t 
young, beautiful lady, who Uke a kind fairy, in the midst of a nar- 
row circle closed around her, was distributing her gifts, great and 
small, and acknowledging with angel~tones the thanks and greet- 
ings of the little ones. 

"Anna! my Anna!" cried the wife, at the first aoimd of the 
long missed voice ; and hastily disengaging her arm from hsr 
husband, clasped her dear foster-danghter to her heart. 

" An thou my child — art thou 1" she inquired repeatedly, glanc- 
ing at the noble beauty of the stranger's countenan«. Then scru- 
tinising the refined features, the talkr stature, the noble carriage, 
the ricbness of a gold chun, and the rings on her delicate fingers ; 
" art thou really she i" she agaiii inquired. 

A 



13 THB CBKUTUAB TRKE. 

'Hw maideiii who with difficulty suppressed .her tears, nodded 
assent ; &nd in order to check the overpowering enution, led her 
foiter-parenta and youthful friend to the Christmas-tree, which was 
itanding in the middle of the room, surrounded with all that the 
provident daughter had been able to procure for their entertainment 
and delight. There lay baskets and catketa, with articles of dothing, 
fine linen, rich furs, costly works ecclesiastical and secular, and the 
finest flax, for the busy hands of her friend. She likeinse recced 
a handsome red leather-purae, in which, as she curiously opened it, 
•he found a considerable sum, with this express designation — " For 
the care of the sickly son." 

" Child ! my dear child I" stammered the overpowered, astonished 
woman ; " art thou bo rich i and are they good spirits that I have 
to thank?" Ab she said this, she glanced, somewhat furtively, at 
two dark-complexioned boys, who in thdr fire-coloured loose gar- 
ments and coral ornaments, were, with strangely anxious looks, 
straying amid the lights, and especially towards the fruits and sweets 
Uid toys for the children. 

"Be tranquH, my love," said the husband, calming the solici- 
tude of his wife ; " 1 know, and will in due time inform thee of olL 
For the }n«Hent, delight thyself imdisturbed, and let no anuous 
thoughts ntUy thy joys." 

" I do rgiHce," she replied, sitting down. " Certainly, I very 
much rgoice. But Anna, whence contest thou 1 and where hast 
thott been? If all were magic, and thou a fairy-queen ih' child of 
the feya"— 

" Dear mother !" Anna interrupted her, smiling ; " we know not 
what great things God can do. His wonders ever seem to us 

" Right, my daughter," assented the foster father. " We take away 
the honour from Him to whom it bdongs ; and whilst we doubt in 
Him, we give to folly and superstition a broad access to our reason. 
Do not be foolish," he admonished his reddening spouse, fiuniliarly 
laying bis hand on her shoulder. " Thou wilt also bethink thyself, 
when thy mind is agaia in its right position, and there will then be 
no [dace but for thanks and praise." 

Bo^amin, who meanwhile had contemplated with restless sympa- 
thy the strange and yet to his recollection .familiar form of the 



ram cheistuas trbi. 13 

jwing angel, as sbe reaUf seemed to faira, nov asked whether all 
along Anna had not tnviribly been hovering around, in order to be 
acquainted mth th^ joys and eoirows ; and now, to gratify th»r 
heartfelt longinga, had returned to them in all her former truth and 
reality. 

She wHnnly replied, that ever eince her return to her father-land, 
it had been the sole aim of her life to inform herself of the fortunes 
of her never-to-be-forgotten benefactors ; for whose sake, alone, 
she had gone the long distance over the sea. 

" Over the sea ? " asked the wife, as if recoiling in terror at the 
monstrous idea. " There, where the men are of another coraplexiou, 
and the sun atanda still day and night — hast thou been there, Anm } 
What villain has kept thee so long a captive ?" 

"Nothing: nothing about it to-day," interposed her husband. 
" Let it suffice that she is here. And let us be calm to hear the 
recital." 

"Ah t" replied his wife, " I think thou art well instructed, and 
niayeat easily exercise patience ; for, if I err not, Martha brought 
thee, on the last post-day, a letter containing what we moat desired. 
Since then thou hast been, as it were, inverted ; and little prophetic 
gift was needed to foresee some revolution in our wheel of fortune. 
Thou needst not dissemble, old man :" she laughed slily, " and I was 
only vexed that thou wouldst not explain thyself." 

" So, so I" remarked he, smiling ; " whence, then, the dteam, the 
impatience, and the discord i But come, children," he continued ; 
" it was Anna's denre to greet ua at her grandfather'a dilapidated 
hearth ; (md to the fulfilment of this her earnest wish, I have, ac- 
cording to my ability, ^th Martha's as^stance, laboured in secret. 
But now she shall be once more at home by our fireside : so con- 
duct her after me. Thou, my son Benjamin, bring agun our 
daughter into our house." 

Here he beckoned the youth with his young companion to 
follow him; whilst he, supporting the too happy mother, pre- 
pared to kave the hut. But she once more cast a glance 
behind her, and forced him also to look back; at the same time 
Baying, " It was here, upon this spot, that I first found the dear 
heart; andhere, also, as from the night of obhvion, has she tetomcd 



U THE CHRIRTMAS TRXK. 

to US. I know not how it happened, nor can 1 trace the connejdon, 
but thii Uttle hut haa become to me as a temple that has shewed me 
life and death, and through hoth has exalted my soul. 'Iliere," 
she continued, thoughtfully, pointing with extended hand towards 
the illuminated table, " there stood old David's dying bed. The 
shepherd's wallet and BtalT, with the faded ribbon which Anna's 
grandmother gave to her young love, are resting with him under 
the earth. Now, garlands of fresh evergreen are hanging on the 
vacant spot. All has become new," she added, gratefully, clasp- 
ing her hands. 

"Also thy fitith," whispered her husband, "let it nevermore 
«Iuinber or die," besought he, calmly pressing her to his bosom. 
They were soon quietly seated around the arm-chair of the good 
housewife, who had set out on the large dinner-table all her stores, 
her glance now attracted by the gifts, now by the giver ; her pro- 
^dent mind already busy in thought, with cutting up the linen and 
BtufTs for the wants of herself and household, with counting over 
the large sum of money, whereby she saw her beloved son restored 
to vigour and comfort. The old man, who was recUning at his ease, 
broke silence, by saying — " Now, dear daughter, let thy mother also 
know the story of the paat, and so let all mystery be solved." 

Anna, as if struck by a sudden pain, dropped her e}'elids, and 
was unable immediately to find words for the recital. 

Benjamin perceived what was passing in her mind, and as he 
had already obtuned 'the wished-for intelligence from his young 
IViend, he replied to his father, " Let ua spare the fatigued one the 
superfluous exertion. You have a letter from Anna, and 1 knmv 
her writing is beautiful and clear, llie lines contain quite enough 
to make us content." 

"Art Uiou so satisfied!" ssii his father, laughing, or — now I 
guesa thou needest to learn nothing further; but thy mother shall 
hear the story from ray lips. The dear maiden, at the moment when 
I last percnved her, saw her pursuer, the capttun of dragoons, amid 
the crowd, approaching her. In her anxiety, she sprang aside 
among the negro-boys, and seeking safety behind them, was hidden 
as under a dark cloud. It was no contrivance, nor purpose, but 
the working of terror that prompted her. In her anguish she fol- 



THX CHRIBTHAB TBKK. IS 

lowed the troop, which last was lost among the throng- But the 
falcon, who had got her too well in his eye agun to lose sight of her, 
pierced through the dark maze in which she was entangted; and the 
]aAs being overawed by his soldierly appearance, hie threats and re- 
proaches, he was on the point of seizing the trembUng m^dea, 
when the negroes, piping aloud, called an old man, with wliite hair, 
and firm, commanding aspect, to her assistance. Tliie was the ship- 
master, who, viewing ndch rising indignation the danger of the 
young, excited child, now hastened to her rescue. 'Back!' he 
exclaimed, as Anna, unconsciously sank into his arms, fast dining 
to him ; ' back ! I will defend the helpless one with my last drop of 
blood.' In vain the capt^ endeavoured to make good his claim 
to Ani:a with boasting words of falsehood ; in vain he ewoK to be 
revenged of such resistance. The old navigator reraiuned unshaken, 
and, as at last the foaming Frenchman, availing liimaelf of his mili- 
tary ^gnity, gave orders to summon the watch, Atma's protector 
drew his short broad sabre, which hung at hie side, resolved rather 
to make the last venture tlian expose innocence to insult. By tlus 
defensive attitude he covered lier retreat, while the nimble blacks 
bore the stranger m^den to the ahip, wliither he slowly and 
thoughtfully followed her." 

"God beprused!" cried the pastor's wife, ardently embracing 
her foster-child, as if she now saw her rescued from the threatened 
tnieibrtune, 

" Do not r^oice too soon," admonished her husband. " In the 
sphere where no one commanded but that brave old man, she 
was indeed secure from the dragoon captwn, but Heaven 
willed for her yet another tnal ; for just ae the ship was ready 
for departure, unfavourable winds, and other untoward dr- 
cum^tances, caused a furtlter delay before weighing anchor. 
Then it sped away into tlie sea, and when Anna awoke from her 
swoon, she found herself surrounded by black and white servants, 
and reclining upon a couch in the most commodious part of the 
cabin, comprehending no more than if she were dreaming, and 
realizing the forgotten images of her childish imagination." 

" What ! " cried the wife, interrupting her husband, " did 
he take her with him into a strange cotmtry ? So the last event 



16 1 

WM worse than the first. Wberefore, then, before didst thcra praise 
the batefiil Ha-robber i" 

" Dear mother," acdd Anna, appeasing her wrath, " do you blame 
the bra\'e, though somewliat despotic man, who, old, lonely, and 
childleaa, was returning from his last roj'age, more dreading a 
useless, sickly old age, than even death i He considered that he 
had won my gratitude, and had bound me by perpetual obligation. 
A danghter, a cberisher, the child of hie chcdce he saw in me. 
' Thou canst hare no heart within diee,' he often said, 'ifthouloreat 
not thy deliverer. Thou bast no parents, and one foster-fatber is 
as good as anotber. None can do more for thee than I have.' " 

" Nor was be, in his way, so very wrong," observed the old man; 
" certain it is, he meant well, and he did welL Like a princess has 
our child Uved in her splendid palace at Calcutta. The lustre of im- 
mense riches surrounded her. Everything she had, except news from 
her home ; for it is more dian probable that none of Anna's letters 
found their way over the ocean. It was only the death of the rich 
factor that loosed her golden fetters. Now that he was obliged 
to forego her presence, he no longer opposed her return to this 
continent. By his will, wherein he had named her as his heiress, 
he had ordered everything needful for her voyage, and snitabls 
accommodation. And now she is here," after a short pause; 
"for the rest God will provide." 

And he proceeded still further in the same kindly strain as be 
had begun. Amia built upon the spot where stood old David's 
hut a. handsome, commodious mansion; and when the next 
retuming festival demanded of the good village fairy a Christmas 
tree, it illuminud the friendly ball of the new habitation, which, led 
by Benjamin's band, she that hallowed evening entered, thenceforth 
not less a happy wife than a pious daughter. 



CBiii5dJ.Googlc 




r event haa its time — so had the French revolu- 
.. Wherever ivilfulneBB breaks through the law 
} it {(ive^ something to see and to experience. In one 
k respect the whole world is a nation : people agaem- 
ble from all quartera, and join themBelves to each other, in order 
o share in what is newest. The prelude, even the early scenes of 
that bloody catastrophe, corrupted the unprejudiced mind that did 
not suspect the evil that lay beliind. With quite incredible sim- 
plicity, people ran to the lire, only to see it bum, One drama like 
tbe other eirpands, agitates, and terminates in the accustomed 
s for this reason that many travellers now met 
together on the way to France. 

On a December night, more disagreeable than inclement, in tlie 
year ITQOj a close-shut travellii^-carTiage was proceeding on the 
road from Mayenee to Strasburg; the post-horsCs were going for- 
ward at a brisk trot. Well-kept roads left all the fewer hindrances 
.0 be expected ; and two bright lanterns from tlie coach-box threw 
down a distinct ch-cle of light upon the ground. 'lite mOre start- 
ling was it that, on a sudden, the horses prantied aside, and the 
postilion with difficulty kept himself and the carriage on the bal- 
ance. The matter did not subside without much cursing and out- 
cry, in which the ser\'ant, descending angrily from his elevated 
t, joined in fbU voice; with ttits difference, however, that be, in 

13 



2 THK XBVOLUTIOKIgTS. > 

hie wrath, gal's back to the driver the abuse which the latter let 
forth upon his horses. Owing to the noise thus occasioned, a 
young, handsome man, within die carriage, drew lus chin from 
under a large over-lapping ftir cloak, and knocking repeatedly at 
the front window, without opening it, asked, as they were now 
stopping, what was the matter outside. The postiUon had, in the 
meantime, dismounted ; and just as his master was directing to 
him the Question, exclaimed — "What I a cabriolet in front, over- 
turned in the middle of the road 1 The horse with the broken-off 
pole, must have run away I Whoever sat there mnst indeed have 
had a pretty fall !" 

" Open ! Paul, open the door immediately !" was the cry from 
ont the unclosed coach window. " Perhaps those poor people are 
losing thdr way, looking about here after the horee, and we can 
help them." 

Paul, who was already at the carriage, standing uncovered, and 
turning the handle of the door, reminded his gracious master, at the 
same time, that it was cold, damp, unpleasant weather ; that his 
trouble would be fruitless, and that this delay on the road would 
greatly retard thrir ami's] at Strasburg. 

" What is that to me ?" rephed his master. " Open !" 

" Keep your seat," counselled the postilion, who in the mean- 
time had more closely examined the remains of the damaged vehicle ; 
" keep your seat 1 it is dark as the grave all around ; one seea 
only so far as the lamps throw a light The unfortunates in the 
thing there will surely have been wise enough not to hunt after the 
beast in such darkness ; that would aviul nothing. Probably they 
have taken their luggage, and gone on, on foot. The carriage is 
empty ; this small chest and an article of clothing, are all that they 
have left." With these words he handed a lady's folded silk 
mantle into the carriage, pushing after it the flat lealher-coi'ered 
trunk, and adding — ■" At the next station we may probably obt^ 
information as to the owners." 

Uneasy at having this strange package l>y him in the carriage, 
the young man, whom Paul styled " Herr Colonel," drew himself 
further into the comer, and yielding, not altogether imwillingly, to 
the reasoning of the postilion, desired him only to be miikdful that 
they got forward. In an instant, Ihey were agiuji in motion. They 



made their journey still more quickly than before ; it wfu as if die 
short disturbance had made them all the more hvely, and had taken 
away from them the bearinees of the night. The postilion piped and 
Bang alternately; Faul,whowaa,aawellBatheotber,aiiative of Alsace, 
accorded with the custom of his people. The Colonel could not sleep, 
but kept rocking himself to and fro ; whilst doing this, he observed 
that a strong vapour of tuberoses filled the carriage. He searched 
in every pocket, lest haply a small case eontuning this perfume 
had acddenlally opened. In feeling and grasping about, he caught 
the mantle in his bands ; as he moved it the odour became 
stronger. Thereupon, astonished and curioufi, he drew it nearer 
towards the light ; and looked, as if questioning, at it. The black 
BBTcenet, with inlaid wadding, and bordered with lace of the same 
colour, was new, fashionably made ; the collar above adapted for 
the slenderest, most deUcate neck. Involuntarily the young tra- 
veller let the ties which attached the folds tt^ther glide over his 
lingers, which caused a crowd of undefined images to rush through 
his tniud. Rroiling, he carefully laid aside the elegant covering 
of an unknown, perhaps beautiful form, resolving as soon as pos' 
sible to rid himself of it, as also of the cheat. This latter was 
about six inches deep, and a foot in dituneter ; a yellow metal plate 
concealed the lock, which seemed artfully wrought, and only to be 
opened by a peculiar kind of key. tlie nearness of that strange 
object caused the Colonel much disquiet ; and scarcely had he 
arrived at the ne-tt station than his first word was to Inquire 
Bfler the travellers in the cabriolet, He caused the postilion to 
describe it in the most precise manner, then he exhibited the mantle 
«4iich one of the persons who sat in the vehicle must have worn, in 
order to give a clue to their recollection of the persons ; in short, 
he n^lccted no means of gaining light upon the subject, and of 
affiirding to those, of whom, notwithstanding all his trouble, he 
Could lind no trace, the prospect of recovering thdr property. 

"With this special view he left with the postmaster a card with 
the name — " Count Victor Medjerski, Colonel of a Pohsh regi' 
ment of lancers," and added on the back, in pencil, "re- 
mains three days in Straahurg, at the ^Vhite Hotel, and m 
case, hy that time, no inquiry is made after them, will deliver 
the found articles to the tribunal at Strasburg, to await the 



i THE RKVOLVTlOMIBTS. 

claim of tbe rightful owners." Tliis clone, he went on to the 
next chanjfe of hones, where he directed the same inqiuries, and 
left behind the same directionii, but with as httle auccess. He re- 
peated thin, with incrcaaing (Usquietude, up to the baniers of Stras- 
burg, where he at length urived early io the morning, fatigued, 
cold, and out of humour. He was surprised, on entering his 
chamber, to find that he had involuntarily relieved the Widters of the 
trouble of carrying up the little black portmanteau. He bore it under 
his arm, and as he was now about to place it aside, he discovered 
that, lust aa he waa in thought, the mantle also, hidden between the 
folds of his cloak, was tnuling around him. Almoatsahamed, he cast 
both aside, and his cloak upon them. 

A city, such as that in which he now found himself, at so ex- 
cited a period, couhl not fml, by the influx of foreigners, to occupy 
his attention speedily in other ways. The pohtical condition of the 
country was that especially which had drawn the Polish colonel 
hither. Partly from his own impulse, partly in the interest of a 
popular party, he had undertaken the journey. Wealth, activity, 
acuteness, with a combination of other tine qualities, rendered the 
ardent youth adapted for observation, and the more so as nature 
and habit had endowed his exterior with an air of dreamy indo- 
lence, which, wbila it disarmed the circumspectian of others, gave 
full Hcope to the exercise of this quahty in himself. He therefore 
threw himself carelessly into the tumult of coffee-houses and 
theatres, in order that he afterwards might be able to collect his 
thoughts at the more temperate discussions of the hotel table. The 
decree of the 27th November, against the priests who refiised the 
oath, held for the moment all eyes in stedfast gaze at what should 
be the result of so deduve a procedure. If the example of great 
and exalted firmness on the one ude, quickened hope and courage, 
so, on the other, thoughtless wit sharpened its scornful darts, infi- 
delity and wild projects of liberty thdr hitter liatred against the 
venerable victims of the new era. Wondering and anxious, the 
former party beheld the king; tbe latter watchfully followed on his 
steps. He had declared himself against tbe apostates, and had 
taken the persecuted under his protection. 

All this enkindled the minds of the revolutionisla. The newest 
- ^>^riBiBii journals pused with wild haste fnmi hand to hand; load 



THS KEVOLUTIOMISTS. a 

was the conUntion thereupon, and not seldom an empty dogmatisin 
brought one and another's written or spoken wotds to a bloody test. 
So excited by one folly after another, the revolution raged in the 
maddest manner among its adherents. Count Medjerski regarded 
with increasing earnestness the aattnuBhing effects of the moral dis- 
order ; he felt disposed to have no judgment in the matter. Never- 
theless, however, there were fco many kindred elements at work 
among the youth of those days for the daring mind of the Pole not 
to be flushed ; for his heart was taught to beat more quicldy at the 
name of liberty. More excited than usual with much that he had heard 
at the table, and what he himself had there spoken, he was pacing, 
on the second night of his abode at Strasburg, amid rising prefects 
and proud expectations, up and down his chamber. His heart was 
fiill, his blood was warm ; the more as a lively exclamation escaped 
his lips, accompanied, too, by a vehement motion of his 
hands and arms. In such a^tation he came, at a turn, upon 
something that, by a rustling noise, bespoke its nearness. The 
sound went thrilling through his soul. He stopped, looked up, 
and glanced at the taffeta mantle, which was han^g at its full 
length from a beam in the wainscoting, and which seemed, with 
its long-flowing, swelling folds, to encompass ahuman form. The 
Colonel started. He had, amid the whirl of other weightier sub- 
jects, forgotten the accidental occurrence. Involuntarily he ad- 
vanced ag^n with outstretched finger towards the silken stuff, as 
if he wished to try whether that sound had arisen from the former 
contact. The effect was naturally the same. " Hem !" thought he, 
" dost thou lu'ge me to a new investigation ? It is true that I have 
as good as forgotten the whole matter; perhaps I had here been 
more fortunate in my endeavours." He now seriously resolved on 
the morrow to try once more, whether in some way the 
right clue could not be found. Besides, it was the last day of his 
sojourn at this place, and consequently the extreme term which he 
had fixed for returning the found articles. Thenceforward, the 
owners, if such should appear, would have to do with the magistrate. 
When a strange and sudden thought perplexes us, by intruding 
into another circle of ideas, we are ine\'itably cast upon the double 
struggle of retdning our vanishing impressions, as well as of 
grasping those which have intervened; the combination throws us 



from our balance, and not aeldom we &11 into afeveriBh excitement, 
which unnaturally heightens the occurrence, and gives to it in these 
circumstances a painful dominion over the imaginatJon. Such was 
the Count's discomposure, on the flight of his bold plans of free- 
dom, at the sight of the mantle, as he felt it impossible to disen- 
tangle himself from the strange mixture of secret forebodings which 
seemed invisiblytohang thereon. Hs walked repeatedly up and down 
liis chamber, rubbed his forehead with his hand, and at length 
seated himBelf fatigued upon the bed, his head leaning upon his up- 
raised arm, his gaze fixed upon the portmanteau over against him. 
He did not directly fall asleep; meanwhile slumber approached him, 
in that sweet, perplexing, half-annulling of conHnoysness which, 
while it gives no power to dreams, yet envelopes the senses with 
the flocking clouds of night. In this twilight of the soul he thought 
he saw a beautiful slender form, daizling wliite, with long, (air hair, 
and overhanpng green veil, glide out of the casket and array itself 
in die folding mantle ; the charming figure waved to and fro, as a 
flower agitated by the wind ; at the same Ijme he inhaled a strong 
odour of tuberoses. Whilst he was wondering, he discovered that 
what be had previously taken for a deUcate nuuden was a chalice- 
flower, n^th a long stem, exactly resembling a tuberosei only of 
larger dimensions. He felt at the moment an inward sensation, aa 
if falling from a height i lie looked around with astonished gaze, 
and, still somewhat confused with the weariness of his first slumber, 
was terrified at the inexplicable illueion. Scarcely had he risen and 
collected himself than be sought to unravel the strange vision._ 

When, at mid-day, be went to the dining-ball, he met two ladies 
on the staircase ; one of whom was aged, of dark countenance and 
expressive features, and who, accompanied by a youthful beauty, ad- 
vanced with short and hasty steps before him. The long, blonde 
hair of the delicate creature, whom he took for the daughter of the 
elder, covered, after the fiishion of the time, half way down the 
hack ; and then again, in all its fulness and beauty, was gathered 
np and fastened on the top : the tittle straw hat, with green veil, 
which was placed rather aside and in front of the countenance, con- 
cealed scarcely anything of the luxuriance behind. The Colonel, 
who followed the ladies, bad in this manner full opportunity to 
admire the handsome figure and head-tire of the younger. While 



THK KBVOLtlTlONISTS. 7 

the latter stopped, and turned to adjust the dress of her com- 
panion, there met his gaxe the soft features of the most delicately 
marked profile that he had ever beheld: he also paused involuntarily 
awaiting their further prt^ress. Both seemed, howerer, to have 
a similar intention ; at least, it was evident that it was not 
without some emharrassment that they hesitated in their fiuther 
descent. To avoid the appearance of rudeness, the Count waa 
obliged to go forward; he did so, and proffering a saluta^in, 
hurried by them ; he accompanied the hasty movement only by a 
furtive glance at the Mr, genUe, hlushing mtdden, whose downcast 
look and attitude bespoke the CKpression of tranquil sorrow. Amid 
a strange mixture of sympathy and, what seemed to him like recol- 
lection, he paced the dinner-chamber, unconscious how the latter 
feeling had possessed him, as he reflected that it was the perfume 
of tuberoses which the ladies accidentally carried, that had here re- 
called to him the little adventure of his journey. For a moment 
he thought that, perchance, he had now met with the owners of bis 
burdensome treasure : he resolved to make fiuther inquiries ; and, 
in the first place, to give his skilfiil servant, Paul, the needfiil in- 
stmctions for that purpose. Subsequently, howei'er, many weightier 
matters inten-ened ; especially a more intimate acqmuntance with 
a Frenchman of distinction, who had sacriflced name and station 
for the young story of a new era, and had declared himself as a 
champion of liberty. The interesting disclosures which the quondam 
duke and peer of the realm was enabled to make, drew him off from 
all else that went on around him ; so that it was only as it were by 
mere acadent that the matter again occurred to him. 

Once aroused, however, and more aflTccted by what had occurred 
than waa his wont, he could scarcely awwt the morrow, which 
should afford him some means and opportunity for a decisive 
step ; besides, it was really possible that the unknown ladies, 
whose accidental meeting now seemed to him so significant, 
might be the travellers in the cabriolet! What if they had hitherto 
followed him, and, ^m timidity or other considerations, shunned 
to make themselves known to a stranger ! If all had not de- 
ceived him, the earnest, sharp eyes of the elder had been acmtinii- 
ingly filled upon him when all three stood on the sburcase, and 
still rested on hiin when be, on'enlering the hall, as if accidentally. 



8 TBE RBVOLUTIOKtlTS. 

looked backward. Unaccountable \ he now thought, that thia had 
not at once occurred to him, and that he had uot at the aame 
moment used the occasion to obtain some information. But who 
were the two, and wliat the cause of their timid ahyness i He had 
dark conjectures, which yet he eKpreHsed all the less distinctly, aa 
hia interest for the fur, gentle maiden, aBsmaed ever a more de- 
fined form ; and he felt, with each paBsing hour of the night, a 
more lively impatience to seek after her. It might have been 
about three o'clock in the morning, when the lock of a door in an 
adjoining room was gently turned. The Colonel went tarvtad a 
step; this somewhat increaKd the noise. " Who is there?" he 
cried with full-toned voice. The door opened as aikndy as if 
touched by a zephyr's whisper. 

" Hush I" Bwd some one in a strange under-tone; " hush ! we 
are both alone, and it is for me to break silence. At last I must 
apeak." 

The Comit looked astiiniahed and annoyed at the little, pale, 
haggard num, who rudely pressed towards him, sod with aaaix of 
the most remarkable coolneaa approached him more closely. A Uttle 
high and proud, sa was natural to bis character, he thereupon replied, 
Blopping the other's way, " Who are you, sir i and what would 
you of me at this inconvenient hour, in so secret a manneri" 

" The first question," retcnted the other, " is, between us, of no 
importance J as to the second you will be in no doubt, when I 
announce myself as the owner of the small trifles upon which, on 
your journey, you had the goodness to beatow some attention." 

" You the owner 1" asked the Colonel, astonished. 

" As 1 have had the honour to t^ you," was the decinve answer. 

The former, to whom it only now occurred that he had not acted 
with due circumspectioa, in offiring the articles without further 
conditionB, remarked, with a slight trace of sctmi upon his Ups, tiiat 
he mi^t be pardoned should he hesitate to accede to a demand so 
proposed. " Unquestionably, sir," he added, " you will be candid 
enough to see that there is still some other |m)of required to induce 
me to return what, as the property of a stranger, 1 am not autho- 
liied to pass li^tlj from my hand." 

Tbe stranger stood with his arms folded, in a negligent attitod^ 
and looking about him with an air of indiflerence, esdaimed. 



THB KBVOLirrioMirrs. 

ahrngging lua shoulders, " Bah I how many uselesg ( 

about nich trifles. From your haste to be rid of the things, I had 

not expected this punctihousnesa." 

" It needs not oSend you," replied Count Medjerski, " if, through 
fOUT interposition, 1 first recc^nised my own thoughtteisness." 

"Ah!" cried the stranger, quickly msing his head; yet, as 
bethinking himself, adding with jovial irony, "yes, truly, my way 
of making visits has something striking in it ; meanwhile, iiow* 
ever this may be, here 1 am. After all, you cannot but trust me 
as well as any other person who may ask you for a httle black cheat 
with yellow metal plate, and a lady's mantle, both of which you 
have exhibited at aU the stations, enough to authoriee numberless 
similar apj^cations. I was curious as to your proof of the validity 
of the claim." 

The Colonel, irritated at the light scorn that made him feel big 
want of deliberation, did not reflect a moment, but fixing his eyea 
sharply and firmly on his unwelcome visitor, rejoined, " The proof, 
sir, lies in the passesBion of the key belonging to the chest ; so 
soon as this is opened before me, 1 am quite ready to surrender ray 
rights." 

" Hem 1" rephed the stranger thoughtfully. " And if the key 
should be lost, and theownerunable to comply with your demand?" 

"Well, then indeed," hastily interrupted the other, "the chest 
must be forcibly opened, and the claim to its contents he justified 
by the owner first describing them, his statement being verified 
by the inspection." 

Here the stranger, in visible emotion, retreated a step, and stretch* 
ing himself up in bnght towards the youth, irith the strangest ex- 
pression of pride and embarrassment, inquired, " Howl could yoa 
make that demand !" 

" And why not !" was the confident answer. 

" Why not i" replied the former vehemently, " And if, throu);^ 
an unnecessary curiosity, you should drag some precious secret into 
Ught, heap insult and reproach upon more than one impolluled 
head, and for the sake of an untimely conscientiousness should ex- 
pose your own conscience to far bitterer struggles; Young man," 
he added, with increasing warmth, " young man, human rights, like 
everything upon ewtb, have their Janus-face j the Divine Word 



10 ran KtVOLtTTtAMlATB; 

alone it nngte. It telU us, * Love thy ndghbour aa thyfidf* Con 
you love without confiding I And what enthlea you, after this com- 
miind, to harbour greater suspicion againBt me than egainst your- 
■elf ? In times Uke the present, an action, an event, the conduct of 
a man, often looks quite otherwise than as he ia inwardly disposed. 
My nocturnal surpriae may astoniah you ; but why explain it in the 
mott invidious manner .'" 

" Not that, air," said the Count, interrupting him ; " hut I abide 
by the sense of your own words. In a time fike the preaent, one 
thould neither he deterred nor yet deceived by outward appearances. 
It may be that, through overhaatineaa, I have, in other ways, placed 
persona in a pained perplexity, who hare more reason to clium my 
circumapection than you hare. I must, therefore, reqwre that you 
will allow die condition just proposed toholdgood. YouwiIlnOt,by 
itoM, expose your secret, if such exists, to any farther itidiscretion ; 
for I pledge my honour to observe the deepest silence, as to what 
may be the contents of the little chest." 

" If a word of honour it here of any avail," exdaimed the stran- 
ger, angrily, " I nui demand for mine aa much regard aa you for 
yours. But, distrust againat distniat ! I have no wiah to enter into 
stipulations, and am^ resolved, at any cost, to get posBeaaion Of my 
property, and stake my fife upon the game. 'Hierefore, air," he 
continued, after a momentary silence, " I give you four-and-twenty 
hours for reflection. To-morrow night, about his hour, I shall 
inquire your resolution ; and, ahould you remain in your present 
mind, to determine immediately on the weapons, among which you 
may then derade." 

It seemed, at thia moment, aa if a third 'person said something. 
At least the Count thought he heard 'another voice besides 
that of the one who stood before him. He flierefore looked 
around, and meanwhile the other left the room. The door 
apTHig ailently into the lock. Nothing afterwards betrayed 
the nearness of a living bring. The inrident was most mysterious. 
The Cobnel's sensibilities were iTvidly excited, yet he saw no 
way out of the labyrinth. Perhaps, at first, be had been too 
acrupulous as to the delivery of the strange articles; but after the 
tumthediscussionhad taken, he could not be a hair's breadth more 
Yielding. IV necessity for thus scting was evident, 'Wiai thia he 



TBK BBVOLVTIONISTS. 11 

had been M^ to content -himself; but the danger of lying under 
a misinterpretation troubled him with the moet pmnfiil nnceittinty, 
whether he should not avtnd the unequal contest with a probably 
much-oppree«ed man, and adopt a middle course to eolve the mis- 
understanding. Innumerable were the conflicting thoughts that 
strove within him. Vexed at having met with so embairaaeing an 
adventure, which had, heeidee, a Toniantic and ridicnlouB aspect, he 
wished rather to think no more of itj and throwing himself on the 
bed, fell asleep till the bright morning. 

The cheerful flame on the hearth, at which the house'iervant wai 
busy laying on wood, awoke him in an agreeable manner. He 
looked up enhvened, and a« everything now seemed to him more 
natural and intelligible than daring the night, his blood flowed more 
tranquilly, and the warm glow of the room banishing thence all evil 
spirits, be saw in the somewhat ghostly visit only a piece of cunning 
knavery — in him who practised it an adventurer — in the duel an in- 
timidation. Thus determined, he laughed out boldly, as hethoi^ht, 
at the high words, and the ill-concealed disquiet with which they were 
uttered. The more be contemplated the dimmuUve man in the 
ctdoured hues which the day<light reflected, the more he discovered 
in him what was improbable and fictitioue. It was, therefore, widi 
no particular interest that he inquired of the youth at the fire-place, 
who might be the occupeoit of the adjoining room. 

The lad looked at him, and, with an air as if doubting the ques- 
tion, repeated, " Who occupies the atyoming room 1" 

Whneupon the Colonel nodding asaent, the other, shaking his 
head, assured him that for four days it had stood empty. 

" Ihou art mistaken," waa the reply ; " only last night I heard s 
noiee in it !" 

The youth, laughing, persisted in his assurance, and proposed, in 
order to be quite clear on the matter, that the butler — who just then 
was pasung' — shoidd unlock the door, and let the gentleman be con- 
vinced by his own eyesight. 

Count Medjerski, willing to be satisfied, called to the butler, who 
thereupon came in. The door bung opened, showed a room quite 
empty, and which, for a long time, had to all appearance remahwd 
unoccupied. 

" IncosnprebeiuilAe !" uid the Count, on entering; "I could 
k3 ^^ 



12 TH* BEVOJ,UTrONI8T8. 

faars sworn" — and be cast a scrutinising glance around irithout 
Baying anything further. 

The familiar odour of tuberoeee, whicli like sometfaing super- 
neural floated towards him, benildered his thoughts. He turned 
away so perplexed, that on the butler triumphantly raying, " You 
Me now, sir!" he made no answer; and left the two laughing 
between themselves at his error. 

" Intolerable 1" said he, throwing himself into an elbow-chair by 
the fire-side ; " What mean these fixilerieB and mummeriee i To 
me they are Ul applied. Nothing is so distaatefiil to me as euch 
Btage-triclcB I" 

Meanwhile, it appeared as if fiite would try his patience with 
mora such tests I fbrnow, justas londdiacontent and secret longings 
divided his mind, a repeated knocking at tlie door aroused him to a 
disquiet for which he could scarcely excuse himself. Yet he re- 
muned silent, as Paul was not present ; and the concourse in tarems, 
as everywhere, so also here, was iDHUpportable. But ^is kind of 
denial would not do. Withoift further inquiry there entered a man, 
having on his headaround basket with apples and other winter fruits, 
and making with both his vacant hands a variety of strange and un- 
intelligible ngns, after the manner of deaf and dumb persons. 

The Couitt, who fdt within the strife of sympathy and aversion, 
did not oppose his entrance. He allowed him to approach nearer, 
looked at and handled his wares, which he intimated might be placed 
on an empty dish standing by ; after which, the otheir pocketing 
the pqment, signified with the wild vehemence of impotency, by 
look, signs, and gesture, what he could not utter. Anxious for his 
riddance, the Colonel warned him away with his hand, and having 
turned his back upon him, the luifortunate, with repeated obeisances, 
took hi« leave. 

" Must not the fresh, smiling fruit, by their alluring glances, 
invite him to life's enjoyment, who, nevertheless, is excluded from 
it i" thought Count Medjerski, as he looked sorrowfuDy after the 

He seated himself again in his arm-chur, and played with the 

apples on the plate. As his fingers glided to and fro, he percdred 

that he held a biUrt in his band, which had been sticking between 

- the fruit. " What is this t" he exdaimed, holding the neatly folded 



TBI! REVOLUTIOHltTS. IS 

nMe eloficr to hii eye. ItwaadirectedtohimMif— "AnewComedy!" 
He smiled jestingly, uncertain wliether he should break tlie seaL 
CuiioMty, and perhaps another motire, more hidden and dongeroui 
than that, induced him tn tear off the envebpe, and amid quick 
heart-throbhiogB, he read tiie f rflowing : — 

" An eitraordinarj- f»te demmda eitraordinKry meienres. VUaV hare 
of DOthipig Hat bappeoB in the accnatomed manner. Let emiy Toicc be 
silenced but that of Lumuiitf. Tbisctumot decdrejoa; and even tfaougb 
it ahould, yet comoleyoarBe^ with this, that to be ao deluded is,ui hononr 
that ootiretglu tlie Talae of temporal thingi, there, where we are estimated 
according to the me»eare that we msts to others. Xjateo to tt>e pniyer a{ 
an unTortunate, whom yoor obstinacy, sir, threatens to deprive of her last 
protector. Ddiver the articlee in question this evening in the twilight, to 
the dumb man, who will wait st yoor door mitil yon admit Mm. I add 
DOtbing fiuilieT. If there be taita and confidence in your aonli they wiH 
both prevail ; if not, what would bthU the HSBorance that you will oolf 
deliver to the rightfnl oifner what belongs to her !" 

The Colonel gaied at the Une hand-writing. It was tliat of a Udy, 
ivritten haatily, yet very distinctly. "Suppose she were soi" 
thought he. The heautiiiil form, the downcast eye, the troubled 
meiiil All spoke the recollection to his heart. "And if not," 
he exclaimed, resolutely, "thy apparition, heavenly buDg, has 
once made intercession, whether for thyself or some other ! 
Yes!" he repeated, "I set all other considerations aaide; even 
that of a jealous feeling of honour. Thou aayest, however, un- 
known being, those warm emotionaof the heart will «tjil glow, when 
the dream of life expires ! And what thou Hayest" — 

Here a noise, outside, in the passage, startled him. He hid the 
paper in his bosom, and hastily locked mantle and chest in a cup- 
board, putting the key in his pocket, as the young republican Duke, 
inquiring after him tvith a loud voice, entered the room. He held 
in his hand letters and papers, both of which he threw on the table, 
And himself into the next chur. 

" Truly," he exclaimed, " that sets the crown on the mad tricks ! 
They are actually putting the weapons into the people's hands. 
Will you believe it i The Count of Provence has fled— the King is 
making secret preparations to follow him — and the re'iel prieata are 
paving hie way. In all circumsbmces and afTairs these persons find, 
under some pretext, the way and means of evasion. No one, in this 
way 01 that, is sure of meeting them. Nay, it is possible," he addtd 

' K3 " ^ 



14 THa BK VOLUTION UTS. 

hesitatiiigly, half langhing, half arrested by the fancy, " it is poBsl- 
ble that you, my dear County with all your outward shew of repubfi- 
can enthusiasm, may he a tt^*!"^ priest, and be lecretly i»niuiuncing 
oyer me the anathema." 

"You are jesting," replied the Count, "with too much bitteme« 
over an order that is equally adveiHc to your purposea, and opposed 
to your conTictions. You ought rather to honour the fimmess 
which makes every sacrifice to conscience." 

" Every stLcrifice }" cried the other repeatedly, indignantly start- 
ing from his seat. " Oh, you little know to what these men are 
forcing us. It matters naught to you that family bonds are rent 
asunder, and the &ther-land spUt into manifold dissenuons i ycpu 
have neither family nor fother-land. Everywhere is your home, if 
only you find room for crafty inatigatjons. Me!" he exclaimed, 
striking bis breast with the same vehemence as Ik spoke the words ; 
"me it is, that their perilous influence robs of life's repose, 
llierefore, if only I scent the presence of one of your boxes, my 
blood foams over with eServesdng flame." 

" I hope it is not my presence," eaid Medjeraki, " that so discon- 
certs your humouri" 

" No, Colonel," refdied the Dnke; "hut if all has not dectived 
me, I have to-day met a very auapicious object quite in the neigh- 
bourhood of your chamber, and truly in a ringolar guise." 

" Explun yourself more distinctly," responded the other, drily. 

" We will not allow it to be disagreeable," smiled the youBft 
Frenchman, at the same time drawing nearer to the table, and tak- 
ing one of the apples, as he remarked gaily, while eating it, " one 
cannot now-a-days vouch for anything. Heaven only knows mth 
whom, in such a house aa that in which we now are, we may not be 
dwelling, under the same roof. Indeed, it is possible that even the 
Count of Provence might be haunting abont here in some diagiuse." 

" You take him to be a very strange fellow," said the Colonel, as 
a dark conjecture flashed upon him, and he felt almost terrified at 
the undefined thought. This might in some d^ree have been 
itflected on his countenance ; for the Doke, fixing Us eyes upon 
him, said — 

" And you take it very seriously. But come," he added care- 
lessly; "it is time to go to the dinner-table. Theybave been some 



time assembUng in the diniog-faall, and my purpose in coining was 
to fetch you." 

Here be packed together tbe papers which he had previoumly 
thrown down, and which, in the first excitement of the recdved in- 
teUigence, be bad brought with him. As he was arran^ng thum, 
be put BBide one not belonging to the rest. On this he cast only an 
accidental glance, which sufficed, however, to chase the blood iBto 
his cheeks, and then to leave them pale and colourleaH. Hastily 
catching at the object of so overpowering an impression, he 
stammered — 

" How do you come by this handwriting i Since when ? I pray 
you, whence ? And in what way did you get posseaaion of a letter 
addreaied to you by that hand ?" 

The Count, who, without any dread of a possible betrayal, bad 
Iwd ou the table, as of no importance, the empty cover of the lately 
received note, now also changed colour, IKsagreeably perplexed 
by the idea that be might now be involuntarily entangled, either in 
the secret play of a strange intrigue, or in the fate of persons wholly 
unknown, he answered, not without a visible effort to collect 
himself^^ 

" 1 really regret, sir, that I am unable to give you any informa- 
tion. No one can be more ignorant in the matter than I am, to 
whom neither recollection nor conjectures afford any probable 
trace of the author." 

" Knougbl" said th£ other) internipUoghim; " you wish to be 
indebted to me for the answer. The entire web of a diabolical 
artifice lies stretched out before me ! But be you assured I will 
tear it asunder. The traitress who has confided in your protection, 
is in&llibly here. The wafer is still wet, that sealed the delicate 
note." With these words, he paauonately crushed the fateful paper, 
and then with tremulous vmce continued : "You have contrived mo 
for your game ! outwitted, scorned — " here his vcrice failed bim j 
" yet, sir," he exclaimed angrily, " you shall render me an account 
upon the spot, hei« in this room, this very m^nent! I care for 
nothing more. Only with my life shall you dispute with me tha 
possession of the only property on which I lay any value. Well 
jiow," he continued, quite out of himself; " do not long bethink 
younelf. There we iHitols, which, it is to be hoped, are well loaded. 



14 THE XIVOLUTIOMISTB. 

A EDrtuno-kunter," said he. laughing with bitter nge, " mi^ not 
go upon adveDtutcG without such precautions." 

" Hold!" cried Count Me^enki, with a cahnnesa that seemed to 
mock tlte other's vehement paeuon ; " 1 have sUawsd you to finish. 
I could afford to do 80, M7 name, aamfperaon, is subject to no miii- 
interpretatiou. You are involved in a ningniar error ; and still tame 
ungular ia it, that I am not in the least able to convince you of the 
contrary. Now 1 should not perhaps wish it," he smiled with con- 
tUained mildneei, " even were it in my power. Aa to all ebe, I 
am ready to satisfy your demand 1 only I must beg a few faoura' 
delay, as I have first to adjust a previous a&ir which still detains 
me at this place." 

" How, sir i" exclaimed the Duke impetuously ; " if you have 
kindled the fiame on both sides, and hope to extinguish one fire by 
neans of the other ; But be upon your guard ! I shall watch yon. 
Jbid if I am obliged to unite against you widi my tutterest foe, I 
will bunt you from your prey." 

" We do not understand one another," said the Colonel, coolly} 
" wherefore more words f May I beg J" he contiiniedT opening the 
door ; " WE were going to the dioing-hall. I, for my part, feel very 
hungry." 

The Duke stamped with hie foot. " At vibat hour shall t again 
meet you here i" he asked, with flaming eyes. 

" Early to-morrow morning, at seven o'clock," waa the answer. 
Both now greeted each other <nth a mute salutation. Medjerski 
locked the door, and descended the stajrcase; the other ruihad 
angrily into his Toom. 

Amid the thousand bewildering thoughts that, during the m«d' 
time, sped through the Count's mind, the question arose whether by 
that seductive tiu«ad, he might not become entangled in the subda 
{dans of the royalist paity ; and even unconsciously serve as the 
instrument of their plana. \Vho was the mysterious little man } 
Distinguidied, repulsive, thoughtful, bold, all bespoke a person of 
Ugh birth. Perl^ps he was one of the retinue of the Count of 
Provence; periiaps some one high in confidence. Butshel she! 
xAa was she? His gloomy look, as these contemplatianE sank 
widun him, lay fixed on one spot. In restless agitation he had 
aereial times thrust his hand into bia bouaa, and there feeling to 



TBI BEVOLimONlSTB. If 

letter, had preBeed it closer to his breast. It might be that a rusQe 
of the paper struck upon his nwghbour'B ear, for a voice behind bim 
said lo him softly, " Bum quickly what you Blready should long sincB 
have destroyed." He looked round astonished. An elderly lady 
who had sat on the same side of the table, and hod just left ber seat, 
was passing his chair. Deneadi her large bonnet, his met an eye> 
whose piercing and commanding eipregBion he seemed to recogDise. 
" Was she not the companicm of the beautifiil miuden on the aburs I 
and again" — He became quite confiised. Hia nocturnal viutant— 
he could have sworn it was the same countenance. 

" You seem to know the lady V inquired a gentleman oppoate. 

" Slightly," he rephed, in embanaasment. 
. " Perhaps an old, scolding aunt," langhed the other jokingly j 
" who, as she passed, whispered you a reproof." 

" You are upon the right track," said the Colonel KtfBleafily, who 
felt Vncomfortable at the strange interference. 

'* Now," said the other, who was tbe host, and a jovial man, 
pleasant to everybody ; " the good lady meant no evil. She is from 
the country, and often travels hither on her way to her rela- 
tions beyond the Rhine." 

" So her ^pearance is not strange to you V asked several at the 
table, whose attention her whiaper on passing had attracted. 

" So httle," returned tbe host, " that I know by sight all tfae 
membeTB of her fiunily, and the reference to the Colonel waa well , 
undershmd by me." 

"nie latter, as entirely convinced of tbe contrary of what was now 
said, as of his own existence, startled at first; yet it was not long 
before the idea occurred to him that the clever inn-keeper, in 
tbe confidence of the incomprehensible secret, wished, in a iddlfu 
manner, to anticipate the inquiry to which he well knew the very, 
^pearance of the lady, and still more her bmiliar approach to the 
chair, would excite the attention of the curious. He was the more 
confinued in his conjectures, as the talkative man avoided hia 
glance, ndiilst he spoke at great length concemmg the name, rank, 
and relations of the singular lady. Hereupon, for a while, all made 
themselves merry with the lady. Her several peculiarities, as her 
sprightly manner, her bonnet and mantle pushed behind as she sat 
at table, her way of holding her fiu, her hasty and frequent resort 



II tmm RXVOLCTioKncs. 

lo a Uigk anoff box, her Udtamity vfaila eating, iwirt to the com- 
manding ezpieuion of her conntenance, wne the tohjwt of mnch 

Modjeraki laughed not. Hie breist wu, in many ways, stomul^ 
agitated. He could Korcdj await tiie opportunity of apeaking 
al^B with the host, who had so unexpectedly contributed to hii 
right undentanding of the matter. At length die table waa cleared, 
the guests were (cattered, and the host went to his business. Tlie 
Colonel availed himsdf of the genet^ maivement ; he left the hall 
with the purpose of obtuning further light in the right directitNi. 
To his vexation, he saw himself followed at every step by the man 
who was deaf and dumb. He seemed detennioed, at his aasigned 
post, to execute conacientioiialy the conuniasioa he had recraved. 
By the alarming vivadty of his features, and the confused hurry 
of lUB finger-language, he exppeaeed hit impatience and ex- 
pectation. The Colonel waa so distmhed by his demeaADur, 
that, pottly to be rid of him, partly to obtun hberty for fur- 
ther measures ; and, with die intention of sending eome hasty 
Unss to reproach tlie ttrangars for hit concerted meeting with 
the mpterioua night-walker, gave him a beckon, and ran with him 
np the atajrs. It being ahvidy doeky in the ude pasaages, the 
lamps not yet kindled. Pan! absent, and both hntler and wuter 
boEy below, the Count had some trouble in the darkness b^ire he 
could fit the door-lock with the key. 'Whilst he was still clattering 
at the door, he heard short, hasty steps approaching, and a vmce ot- 
•nziaua emotion whispered — 

" For God's sake I into the very next room I It was he t I 
recognised him. He is following us. I am undone I" 

Medjeraki had hia hand upon the latch of the door, which, at tiie 
same instant opened, as the fugitiveB fallowed by their pursner, 
rushed with them into his chamber, where, in the absence of lights, 
they were standing together, all unknown to each other, paralysed 
iy an involiintary terror, speechless, and in nncertainty, and on^ re- 
called to a fearful conacknisnna, by the hallow, half-brutiah efibrta 
of the dumb man's atammer. 

It was not long before a voice from the midat which betrayed the 
Duke'a presence, exclaimed, " Ah, Natalie I so it was reeen'ed for 
me to find you again i" 



THR RKTOL'CnONim. IS 

" Id v^," she nammertd, •nrcely waBbenag fasr senoes, " ihoiiU 
I endeavour to deceive you as to my perBon. Yet," coUectbg h*r- 
adt, she added in k firmer tone, " what right have f ou to this i 
Yes, nr, I am ahe, I am that Natalie, who in better d^ waa your 
betrothed ; and who now, as an irapaisable gulf of convictioas and 
principlea divides us, is flying with a relation fn»n her fathef>laMl 
to bury herself and her recollectiona in a distant cloister." 

This explanation, which also senribly affected Ute Colonel,' ia 
entirely occiqtied the attention of tlie Duke, that the words; " Notr 
quickty deliver the truulc to the domb man, and then away with 
this," were whispered by the maiden in Medjer^'s ear, and he 
was able to assist in fulfilling the purpose. Already the fatefiil 
(heat was in the destined hands, when Paul entered with two lighfet 
so suddenly that the other, in his wild hmry, lat'faU his eotnuied 
treasure to the ground. At the same momesit the fid sprang open, 
and showed, with the portrait of the queen, lettera and parcel* th«b 
betrayedinwhoseinterestatheownearswerecommiauoned. NataKs** 
companion hesitated not a momeoL Stripping off the mask, tbo 
Colonel's nocturnal visitant, holding in one hand a small crucifiiZt 
which, he carried on a rosary at his breaat, in the other holding k 
}»stol towards the Duke, advanced to the picture, whilst his kind- 
ling eyes, etUl more than hia menacing voice, exclaimed — 

" Back 1 back 1 in the name of heaven and earth !" 

The Duke was visibly astonished ; yet the other knew how quite 
to psralyze him, as with countenance fast set upon him, he 
added— 

" Apostate &om the church, as from your antHnled king ; sooner 
or later-, an offended consdence will avenge the 'wanton outrage. 
Horrible youth ! my arm is, through higher power, fiunished mth 
weapons. Wilt thou, however, betray me and this hercnc maiden, who, 
devoting herself to the service of her mistress, as well as to heaven's, 
has hitherto been the stay of a persecuted priest, wilt thou, I say, be- 
tray us i Come on '. 1 will purchase every step with blood." 

Natalie, in the meanwhile, had grasped the Duke's hand. She 
said only, " Fare thee well !" with an expression of voice, with a 
look and gesture so beseeching, as almost seemed to sound, "Come 
with me I" He looked at her quite disanned, struck both hands 
over his &ce, and neither saw nor hindered that she with the 



80 THZ BEVOLDTtONISTB. 

eedeaiastic on her arm gmtt; ftole from the room, and soon after 
l«ft the house. 

As now the two v/ere left done, they sank overpowered, into 
one another's arms. A few horty words were aU that elucidated 
what atill remained myaterious. Was it the eight of the beautiful 
muden I waa it the influence of a noble, jnons diapontioa, that, 
true to its &ith, at no moment wavered ? Suffice it that the 
Count's republican ardour so gradually cooled in Strasburg, that, 
after a few days, he proceeded on his journey homeward. The host, 
it seined, had informed him as to several particulars ; he was well 
instructed, and in the confidence of the ecclesiastic, who had re- 
courae to him, owing to that nuscfaance with the broken cabriolet uid 
the runaway horse, in order to regain the lost property. How both 
acted in concert la evident 

At a later peiiod, would the reader know, Natalie had not taken 
the vul, but the Duke forsook the rebd-paity, and took the oath 
under Cond^s banners. AfMr a time, on die hand of liis youth's 
tove, he returned to lYance, where, in the year 1814, be i^ain 
sought Medjerski at tht head of the Russian Tegmenta. Who the 
ecclenastic was remained unknown. 




CBiii5dJ.Godglc 



0alnit. 



loa aeveral years Eifter the peace of 1763, there lived 
at BerUn the widow of a bookseller, of the name of 
Ftmrobert, in a high, narrow, dark-looking house, 
situate at the end of " The Brothers' Street," ad- 
joinuig St. Peter's Church Yard. The aged lady continued the 
bnuness of her deceased husband with good success, by the ud 
of a skilful and hooeat assistant. Herr Edenne, like his princi- 
pal, was of the French settlement, and, besides the bonds of 
nationality, was personally his relative ; and beinf; a poor, but 
useful member of the family in which he had been truned and 
hrought up, he was, at last, as intermediate between confidant 
and servant, appointed head manager of the business. 

During the agitations of the war-time, every species of com- 
merce had suffered manifold shocks : but especially had the field 
been narrowed for intellectual productions. The spread of 
FVench literature, which occasioned such early success to the ac- 
tive, sliarp-nitted foreigner, must, under the hostile influences of 
the time,bave experienced tlie moat discouraging checks; so that 
specidation was at a stand, and only diligence and carefulness 
availed to eictricatethebusinesBfromits heavy and still iucrcasing 
burdens. Here it was that the sprightly, joyous Fonrobert, ever 
more disposed to a lash forwardness than to a timid forlKarance, 
especially needed the cahnness of bis companion. Gentle and 



eren-tempered in EtU things, the latter took no uaelesB Btep, made 
no ambitious morement, did not reach far forward, though, un- 
permfed, he by smaU degrees provided for the future ; and tiaxe, 
by such measures, retrieved his temporarily embarrassed vocation. 
At a Mer period, Madame Fonrobert had every reason to be 
thankful for such a procedure : she saw herself, after the sad- 
den death of her only son, and that which quickly followed, of 
her husband, supported by a friend, to whom she owed not only 
the assistance of the moment, but the comfort of a station which 
exactly corresponded to her modest and peaceful spirit. The mute 
sorrow of her gentle soul desired nothing more from life than 
quietnesa, and an unanxious resignation to the course of outward 
events. In her first terror she would have fled altogether from the 
cares of the domestic circle, for she had not the power actively to 
contend with them ; she therefore blessed the hand Of the faithfiil 
Etienne, who had so earily conducted her out of those days of 
darkest anguish to the old habits of her former life. Though all 
within her was as if dead and palsied, yet, without everything re- 
mained in place; and, from henceforth, that which one day brought 
might also be expected from the morrow. Gradually her smrow 
subsided into the depths of her soul, and nothing thereof remained 
for the rest of her life but the need, from long hatnt, of an un- 
changeable tranquiUity. Nowhere could more order and regularity 
be seen than prevailed in her house. She seldom left the little back 
room which immediately adjoined the shop, Herr Etienne spent 
the greatest part of the day in a amall latticed apartment between 
the two, for the double purpose of being to botii places — aa cir- 
cumstances might require — immediately at hand. Here he 
managed his correspondence, made his calculations, gai'e and 
received commissions, and was in all these occupations scarcel}' 
ever disturbed by the intruskm of her to whom he had devoted a 
whole life. Ml of labour and exertion. Exactly as during the life- 
time of her husband, did Madame Fonrobert now remain free from 
■11 partidpation in the affairs of boainess — as fonnetly, she onfy 
conversed with her kinsman at meal-times, and shewed herself fully 
content wlien, now and then, from the nearness of the aoliiarj- 
being, his dry, hectic cough convinced her that she was still con- 
nected, throu^ benevolence and gratitude, with the livmg woiid. 



At six o'clock, in the harvest and winter ieasone, tlie shop wait 
closed ; in the longer days thiH liappened an hour later. Ab Boon 
as the cloBing doors had creaked iato the comerB, the bolts been 
driven, and the iron bars had rattled, the old servant maid arose 
from her comfortable seat on the chimney hearth, in order to pre~ 
pare the light supper for her mistress. When she had served it, 
and ])laced a sett ag^nst the little table, Madame Fonrobert, 
taking a small hand-bell, gently rang it, which was the accustomed 
signal to the already wiuting company. Immediately the door 
opened, when, almost unperceived, the quiet man entered, and 
having made his greeting, noiselessly took bis seat; then laying 
aside his manuscripts and ]winting toils, he tasked himself to get 
up an enltveniug conversation, irtiich reminded both of better 
days, and especiaUy of a journey into France, in which Madame 
Fonrobert had accompanied her husband. This bright^ epoch of 
her existence recurred to her as with the early dawn of youth, and 
gave to its recalling images a surpassing warmth and liveliness. 
InTohmtarily, the generally inactive fancy of the dull, sickly 
lady, was tfaos enlivened; and though shs was far removed from 
encouraging the wish for similar enjoyn)ente, yet she loved what- 
ever might lead back her tboi%hl« to the lighter materials of a 
harmless gaiety. The repeated requests to continue the conversa- 
tion — which always began with the words, " You know. Monsieur 
Etienne" — wereby himcarefuUyregarded. He always knew what she 
wished to be told, and was only silent when, having wiped her fork, 
she laid it aside as a signs] that the meal'time was over : then he 
left lue seat, helped the good Anna to remove the cloth, opened for 
her the door, v/iach she .gently drew alter her, filled the drink-cup 
of the Uttle Bologneae dog, that was frisking and sniffing by his 
side, potured out for himself a glasa of fresh water, which he held 
in one hand, whilst with the other he took down from the chimney- 
piece a lit^ oblong chest, by which movement he could seldom 
prevent the dominoes which it contained from clattering, and 
Madame Fonrobert's exclamation, " Aha ! our play !" which some- 
what displeased him, as he really only contemplated devoting the 
Utile pastime to some useful purpose, but did not wish to be mind- 
ful of the thing itaelf. As, however, the same misluck befell him 
every evening, it cbuk, at last, to belong to the established order of 

1.2 



things, and wsm not to be omitted. For one short hour, then, the quiet 
play lasted, only interrupted by the ehort, hueky cough of poor 
Etienne. After nine o'clock there was seldom a light Been in the 
widow's chamber. 

Contrary to all custom, one rough and Btormy evening in au- 
tumn, the domino game of the two friendly combatants had been 
prolonged, through various little stratagems and calculations of the 
complaisant kinsman, beyond the appointed hour. Madame Fon- 
robert was in her best humour : she amused herself in watching 
for the feilure of her wary opponent, and laughed almost audibly 
whenever she had the good fortune to catch him. While she vras 
considering her play, she was suddenly terrified by the growling irf 
the little dog, which, &om lying behind her on the soJa cushioa, 
sprang up, and as, from the approach of something stnmge, began, 
first in a low tone, then more briskly, to bark. She looked about afiet 
him in astonishment, and endeavoured to quiet hun. But quick as 
Hghtning the little beast flew by her, into a side-chamber that stood 
open, and where the windows looked toward the street. Formerly 
the deceased Fonrobert had occupied this room ; it was now empty, 
yet the affectionate spouse loved to have it opened and lighted of 
an evening. In the strangest emotion she followed the dog, which 
kept springing from chair and table on to the window-board, and 
barking out etiU more vehemently agcdnst the panes. Amidst the 
noise hereby occasioned, there was plainly distingmshable the 
moaning voice of a human being crying for help. At the same 
moment the bouse-beQ was rung with such violence, that Madame 
Fonrobert, bo accustomed to quietness, trembled in every limb, 
and sinking on a chair, could imagine nothing else than that, in 
the midst of peace, the enemy was breaking into the unguarded 
capital. The same terror again agitated her, as agtun it rang, and 
more vehemently. Herr Etienne had already a light, and the 
house-key in his hand, when his relative, with ^sturbed mien, 
stammered out, " Where are you going ? to the robbers and incen- 
diaries, who are storming the house ? For God's sake stay her&~- 
slay here, Etienne !" 

" Some one is calling for help," he replied softly, bowed, and in 
an instant was out at the door. 

" Now it is all over with us I" exclaimed Madame Fonrobert, aa 



Aniu ruahed into the room to inquire the cause of the unwonted 
tumult. "The Ruawans and Uungaiiana are here again I they 
will fdunder all the houses 1 aad whoever opposes them is doomed 

" The Hungarians I" screamed Anna, as if demented, whilst she 
covered her head with her upraised apron. With hurried steps the 
book-keeper now approached them; he thrust his head in at the 
door, beheld the two frantic women, and in perplexity asked, in a 
low and uncertain tone, " Dare I, madam ;— A helpless creature 
hega for your protection." 

" What can J do I" replied Madame Fonrohert, starting back in 
terror. 

" Protect grace and innocency," was the modest answer. 

" Force their persecutors here to ue ; who will then escape from 
their revenge i" ezclaimed the kdy, 

"Anguish and want are the persecuton," replied Etietine: 
" these will reniain without, if we allow the persecuted to come in." 

With these words he entered the room, ilraggiog after him, al- 
most by moin-fivce, a sobbing, trembling young maiden. 

" What !" exclaimed Madame Fonrobert, quite angry, " is it a 
child that has made all this alarm .' and are you bringing the im- 
petuous httle creature into our quiet house ? " 

. She said this and more, softly and hastily in her mother-tongue, 
partly because she was accustomed to use this to her relative, and 
partly not to be understood by the unwelcome guest However 
immediately ahei the first words the little maiden raised her head 
with an astonished air, and fixing upon her her fine dark eyes, full 
of intelligent expresNon, replied quickly and pasuonately in the 
same language — ' 

" Ah ! do not fear, madam ; I do not \nsb to be burdensome to 
any one here. I only ask for a glass of water to moisten the tongna 
of a dying woman." 

She could scarcely pass the last words over her quivering lips i 
whilst, at the same time, the beseeching and vehement motion of her 
uplifted hands showed how ardently she desired the accomphshment 
of that little wish. Herr Btieune hasted to do as she desired, whilst 
Madtune Fonrobert, moat deeply agitated by the strange expreauoD 
of the beautiful child, repeated wit^ evtty token of sympathy— 



" A dying woman 1 For God'e sake where, then f pray tell, my 
poor midden. Who is dying, and where V 

Unable to repress her tears, she replied by pointing with upnused 
arm toward the street ; and Etienne, drawing on his coat, ran with 
her to the door. 

" Go with them, Anna," siud her mistress ; " see what happens, 
and bring me word." 

A mnrmuiing and bustle in the street, occasioned by the concourse 
of a multitade, drew, at the same time, Madame Fonrobert to the 
trindow. She opened it, and heard from several voices — 

" Death on the spot ! The thunder-clap must have struck her !" 

" No one can know that, certainly," interposed a young man, who 
with difficulty had made his way through the crowd, and who added 
with officious confidence, " Only into the nearest house with the 
unfortunate ! There must he means employed for her preservation." 

Starting, and vainly contending with the aversion to such a 
strange and horrible sight, Madame Fonrobert beheld im- 
mediately the stiff corpse of a lifeless female drawn over her 
threshold, and into the very room where she was, as bung the 
nearest to the house-door. Tixt faithfol Btienne hastened towards 
the painful object, and sei:iing with mute and pacifying gesture 
both the hands of his benefactress, he seemed to invoke, in the 
name of Providence, forgiveness for the misfortune which in so un- 
foreseen a manner had be^en her. He gently urged her away 
from the place where she waa'standing, and tried to turn her took 
from that strange and startling countenance, But the terrified 
lady once aroused from the peaceful course of her gentler feelings, 
was riveted in fevered stupefaction on the object which infused into 
her soul the deadliest anguish. Meanwhile, could anything recon- 
cile her to the involuntary cause of so great disturbance of the 
household, it was the still, resigned features of the sofUy steeping 
woman, whom no medical skill, no art of surgeon could awaken. 
Quite sunk from the weUtness of age, there lay on a hand-barrow, in 
the middle of the room, surrounded by idlers and strangers, a small, 
slender female form, with a foreign physiognomy, now as uncon- 
scious as painless. Her glazed eye no longer regarded the stiff and 
motionless child, that seemed to ask herself and the men around 
her what liad happeiked. A momentary silence, which even the 



rudest did not venture to interru|it, held iq restraint all ques- 
tions and surmises. Here, however, the unfortunate one could not 
remain. But who ^vas she ? and on whom was the burden and 
expense of the interment to fall ? Was she a poor person of the 
town, or a nameless stranger of whom no one could ipve any ac- 
count i All this passed with lightning-Bpeed through the minds of 
the bystanders. 

Most men think aloud, and, as the natural contemplations 
occurred to each one, there ran through the little apartment 
correspDnding- expresBions to the ear of Madame Fonrobert, 
who, undedded and anxious, watched the entire procedure. 
As now, in the meantime, an otficer of police entered, and made 
preparations for removing the dead body to the Town-hall, where 
it should remain exposed till some relative, or at least acquidnt- 
ance, might recognise it, and tell the name and station of the de- 
ceased; aa he fixed the space of two days for this purpose, and 
declared that in case of entire desertion, it would, as belonging to 
the class of the common poor, be buried as such, the magnani- 
mous lady stepped forward with the assurance that " she would not 
Bufier that any who as God's poor had passed her threshold, 
in order, in her peaceful little house, quietly to fall asleep, should 
thence be torn away to the rude gaze of starers, and at last, without 
kindness or sympathy, be put under the earth. Here shall the de- 
]iarted one remain undisturbed. Public notice can be given of the 
event. If any demand her who have a nearer claim, then indeed 
every stranger will be exempted from fiirther obligation ; but 
as the matter now stands, let that person be and remiun her last 
protectress, to whose care Heaven has commended her." 

Madame Fonrobert spoke this warmly and rapidly. She was in 
unwonted excitement i her self-denial had given her new courage. 
She was qnite absorbed in the strange afiiur, and heeded nothing else. 
The pohce-officer bowed respectfully towards herj Herr Etienne 
occasionally kissed her hand with great emotion. The stranger 
child beheld all with an air of astonishment. Her striking ap- 
pearance next excited the observation of those present. Clad in a 
short petticoat of variegated red silk, thickly quilted and in rich 
foldsi she was leaning against the staves of the hand-barrow. Her 
black mantelet, drawn about her neck, hung loosely over oo^ one 



■boulder, thus diBplayJn^ a full-flowered bosom-dreBH, with ehort 
■leeves down to the elbows, and fringed with kce. Her wonderfully 
beautiful tbickblackbair, glittered with «everal bair-pius, with which 
it was fastened together ; and this was surmounted by a raised circular 
gaiue cap, hucH as was wont to be worn at that Ume by children 
of ditrtinction. From tim miiture of affluence and poverty gleiuaed 
B languid, half-opened eye, full of gloomy quiet and mute abstrac- 
tion. The fine, delicate features were almost motionless, yet be- 
tn^^ by their expression that sorrow which is too ^gnified to 
vent it«df loudly, Short and slender, the singular little figure 
mode it doubtful in other respects whether one should call her 
beautiful and attractive, or only strange and extraordinary. It 
was, besides, manifest that the poor maiden understood as good as 
nothing of wh^ was spoken around her ; this was dearly shewn 
when the police-ofilcer, after a short, private conversation with 
Madame Fonrobert, stepped up to her and asked her whether the 
w<»nan that had so suddenly died was her mother. The little girl 
looked embarrassed at Btienne, who complaisantly repe^d to her 
the question in French ; to which she replied — 

" No, sir ; but I ne^'BT knew any other." 

" Who art thou, then, and where is thy home i" he continued. 

The child remained mute for some time, while from her fixed 
staring eyes ran two big tears, without the muscles of her comite- 
nance betraying any visible emotion. " Must I answer that i" she 
thefi said, firmly and stedfastjy. "This one would once have 
answered for me," she added, soMy, and with outstretched hand 
pointing towards the dead, "Now — " She stopped; her Ups 
quii'ered, yet she did not weep. 

" Confide in me," said the kind Etienne, while at the same time 
he led her backward a few steps, and urged her to ut down by his 
>ude. " Tell me all, my dear child," he whispered to her secretly, 
" I will then speak for thee ; and to those who have a right to in- 
quire more closely after the circumstances of thy life I will com- 
municate what is necessary for them to know, not more — on that 
you may rely." 

The child looked full at him. " I have nothing to conceal," she 
replied, proudly and drify ; " it only troubles me to think on the 
past, and therefore I do »o unwillingly." 



Etienne, astonished at the cool and thoughtful ansvver, contem- 
plated her more closely; and almost iincertain, aa iteeemed, whether 
HO much eameatness could well abide io the child-Ulce little crea- 
tui«, he asked her, " How old ait thou, young maiden i I do not 
comprehend thee." 

" I am going into my eleventh year," she replied, without regard- 
ing the flattering import of the question. 

" And who art thou i may I further ask i" wud Etienne, urgently. 
" Who were thy parents, and how earnest thou hither V 

She sighed, and then said plaintively — " I was bom on the battle- 
field of Minden, where my father fell under the Duke de Brogho, 
and where my mother, in desptdr, had followed to look after his 
corpse. A market-woman brought me up, and has informed me 
that I am a Colonel's daughter, and that my mother was a German 
lady." yf'ith these words she felt in her pocket, which was skil- 
fully hid beneath the folds of her dress, and drew forth a small 
packet, from which she carefully unfolded a fine handkerchief, and 
shelved to Etienne a name inscribed with a Count's coronet. After 
this she opened the little packet, and took out a bracelet, with the 
miniature of a fine, manly countenance ; which hawng contemplated 
awhile, she handed with two descriptive papers to the good-natured 
man who had declared himself as her protector. Etienne glanced 
over the papers. One was the poor orphan's certificate of b^tism, 
and cont^ned the names of two famihes that seemed to forbid the 
notion of so young a creature living in want and misery. The 
second paper threw light upon the other. The unfortunate spouse 
of the handsome foreigner was, on his account, removed from he 
family ; a secret marriage rendered th^ union equivocal before the 
world, and she was exiled from her native land. In the deepest 
anguish of soul, she wrote this to the author of her affliction, whom 
amid reproach and sorrow she had followed for some little distance, 
when the news of diat disastrous batUe overtook her. Concealing 
the letter in her bosom, she hastened to the battle-field. This and 
what follows was added in worse handwriting on the margin of 
tiie paper — probably the compassionate market-woman had under- 
taken this task.. She had noted that the unfortunate lady had ex- 
pired by the aide of her husband, aftsr ginng birth to the child ; 



that she had confided the latter to her, and that never should little 
Valerie be forsaken by her. 

" Canst thou read ?" asked Etienne, folding the papers together. 

" Yei," was the short rq)ly. 

" And thou knowest— ?" he continued, hesitatingly. She nod- 
ded aasent. " Forget it," wd he, beseechingly, " It nought arails 
thee to rem^n in this condition wherein thou hast been nurtured." 
Valerie answered nothing, " But yet do tell me one thing," he 
said, already on the point of reverting to other matters — " Wert 
thou always in Germany f or how is it that I see thee here ?" 

"The good old woman," repUed the child, smilingly, "begged 
for me in France and other parts, where she ought never to have 
led me. Now she wished to make trial <rf the great Frederic. The 
family of my mother belongs to his \'as8als ; btU death has destroyed 
this plan also." 

"Forget tins too," Etienne ag^n besought her; "forget alii" 
She answered nothing. He led her back to Madame Fonrobert, to 
iriiom he made known the substance of his conversation with 
Valerie, and induced the compassionate lady to receive her into the 
house, which put a atop to the police inquiries ; and afl^ the inter- 
ment of the French mendicant, as the deceased woman was called, 
the ocnuTcDce soon ciune to be forgotten. 



Chaptkr II. 

The feverish excitement irfiich, that evening, had set the even- 
tempered Madame Fonrobert into an almost passionate conditioD, 
left a languor which preyed in a distresBing manner upon her 
spirit, 'lliat readiness with which she had joined her first act 
of benevolence to a second, and so added one self-conquest to 
another, belonged obviously to a strange energy, which, with the 
incident that produced it, also passed away. The following 
morning, therefore, brought her a troop of disturbing contempla- 
tions, of which one half sufficed to poison the Ufe of the qiuet- 
loving woman. She was ashamed indeed to make known her 



VALBRIB. 11. 

feeHogs : it Heemed to her mean and m^enerous to betray untimebf 
regrets over an act of benevolence; yet, scarcely inisb«s8 of her 
inward anguish, she poured forth a flood i^ bitter tears mthout 
revealing the ground of her sorrow. So long as the c«refiil Etienne 
wax occupied vidx the preparations for the fimeral, and for the 
reception of the new gueet, he could pass over her discordant 
humour ; but, with the return of the quiet betonging to his ordinaicy 
way of life, it was impoBsible for him to look silently on such 
a change. He ventured therefore, one lonely evening-hour, when 
Valerie was sleeping in Anna's little chamber — he ventured the 
timid question, " Oh, madam, has any bad news arrived, or baa 
any loss been auatuned, to cause you sorrow V She silently shook 
her head. " It is doubtless very bold," he continued, " that I 
should wish to intrude myself into your confidence, but impute it 
somewh^ to the fear that, through some failure, I may have 
deserved ycnu displeasure ; and at least deem me worthy of the 
favour of some explanation." 

'' It is not that, my dear Etienne," replied Madame Fonrobeit, 
with weak and tremulous voice, " it is not tliat ; but, as you speak 
of it, and we am now without burdensome affairs — which, alas ! will 
henceforth seldom be the case— I wiD venture to tell you. 1 htun 
feared that we have been too hasty. Yes, I fear that we have 
imposed upon ourselves a family-cross that will griei'ously oppress 
ns ; and which, Herr Etienne, will crush me to death." 

'While she spoke, he several times changed colour; aai as, at 
last, tears atifled her voice, he waa obhged hastily to take two or 
three pinches froin his box, to refrain himself from weeping with 
her. " How then," he at length said, " does madam dunk that 
little Valerie can wish to be Imrdensome to her i" 

" Burdensome I" she exclaimed. " Ah I that is not the ques- 
tion ; tint she trill and must be by her mere presence. But if 
that were all — " She ceased. Perhaps she herself knew not fiur* 
ther what lay darkly within her mind. Yet suddenly there rose 
involuntarily to her lips, " See you, Herr Etienne, I have the 
feeling that this child brii^^a unh^piness to us. 1 become so 
anxious when near her, that I know not bow to express it. In her 
large eyes Uiere is Bometiiing presaging sorroiv. Only once contem> 
pUte her mere doeely } bera ia surely no child's look. She. was 



13 VA1.ERIB. 

bom ia an evil hour, upon a bloody bed, amongat the dying. 
Think only, how many aoula must there have fluttered about In 
unrest, and been by angela and devils snatched away ; and, in the 
midst of the confuaion, hera wound its way into the light." 

The perplexed book-keeper rose from hia chur, in inexpiessible 
emharra^Bment, and paced up and down, twisting and rubbing hia 
hands. The strange words had excited in him a feeUng of aversion 
and iadignalioa towards the innocent object of his inmost com- 
passion ; and yet the more this feeling overpowered him the more 
he was ashamed of it, and strove agunst it, which occasioned 
him infinite suffering. " Besides," Madame Fonrobert coDtinued, 
" the little unfortunate ia, in her singular position, more matured 
than other children at her age. It is only her form that is im- 
developed; and by what a hand has she been cultivated i What , 
principles may she not have imbibed from vulgar associations I 
Ttiink only what she could learn from such a creature, with what 
else become acqu^nted than with what ia immodest and untractable. 
HeiT Etienne ! Herr Etienne 1 believe me, this good old house has 
lost its peace." 

" TTien we will get rid of the stranger," he exclaimed, over- 
powered with disquiet and anxiety, yet shocked at the hasty word 
which consigned to bo unh^py a fate one who was quite forl(»n. 

" That we cannot without injuring ourselvea," she observed 
thoughtfiilly. " What would the world judge of such an unjust 
procedure '. And hew we should lower the poor nwden ii 
opimon of others !" Etienne felt more calm. " f 
his old friend, " the matter no longer concetna others. We 
have been too precipitate, and must now awidt the end." 

This we really meant you, and was a disguised reproach which 
the too sen^tive Etienne took very pleasantly, but was much vexed 
therewith in secret, Therefore he kept «lence, whilst he once more 
thought over the matter. Many opponng conwderations now hastily 
occurred to him, which he seemed not before to have sufficiently 
regarded. What if he really through a single evening should have 
ent^ed on the house, which awed to his management its prospenty 
and peace, a lasting disadvantage, and on his benefactress anxiety 
and vexation. " I will take the entire burden on myself," said he 
resolutely. " Valerie shall find in me a father, a teai^r, and a pro- 



tectorj she shall have the BMe room kbore on the third floor, 
wbich I have so tong occupied ; the tittle chamber beude the shop 
will do for me. The homelcHS wanderer does m)t need waiting 
upon; she has been early schooled by want. By day she ehaU 
work with me in the counting-bouse, and only during the short 
meal-time need Madame Fonrobert be near her." He immediately 
made the latter acquainted with his plan, released her from all 
obligation, and declared himself as ready as he was hound to take 
it all upon himself. But, to hie great astonishment, this did not at 
all satisfy her. The deadening impression which had fallen upon 
her had deprived her dull im^nation of all its quickening power. 

" "What will all that avsul 1" she replied. " What has been, has 
been ; the child will never again he absent from my thoughts," 

At the same time she was not unwiUing that Valerie should 
occupy the httle upper room, while Etienne should have pos- 
session of Herr Fonroherl's, from which since the terror of thid 
evening, the delusive breath of earlier recollections had passed 
away. A waiting-girl, who now and then attended upon Anna, 
agreed to have her sleeping-room next to Valerie's chamber. And 
thus the stranger child was accommodated with the least poasible 
disturbance to the customs of the household. For this she thanked 
her benefactor from her heart. A stranger to everything, she had 
no longing for the world; besides, her disturbed frame needed rest. 
She slept much, and even when awake dreamt of that with which 
her deceased nurse had filled her childish mind. At table she 
appeared reserved and distant towards Madame Fonrobert, who to 
her was almost punfully kind and solicitous ; and who, the more she 
felt discommoded by the approach of her little guest, the mora 
redoubled her attentions towards her. They renuuned, however, 
unknown to each other ; their intercourse was only kept alive by 
that which had first originated it, namely, their language. 

Valerie long desired to learn German ; she had a fine and agree- 
able manner of expressing herself; the lighter tones of thought 
gUded BO smoothly over her Lps, and found in tha harmonious plar 
of her features an accompaniment that seemed to render both in- 
separable. Etienne at all times avoided imposing any strange and 
disturbing notioos on the munlelligible child ; he therefore let her 
take her own way, and be as she was, quiet as to herself, buried in 



her own feelings, spariiif in theb exprMsion. What course her 
cdncatioii took it would hnre been difficult to estiniBte ; outivardly, 
«fae appeared nncbanged ; thus she lived for jears. She iiad no 
play-inal«8, nor wiihed for any ; nor could she attain any 
taste for female occupations. Proper hours of study eluded her; 
yet she knetr the most of what is usually taught to f^rls domestically 
educated. The habit of sitting the greatest part of the day by the 
side of Etienne, turning over the stores tA the book-shop, and 
reading histarical and poetical wivks of a religiouB and moral ten- 
dency, raised her above the mechanical condition of a common 
elementary development. And if, in the confusion of accidental 
impresMons, her notions and judgments lay sometimes disordered, 
they yet struck out upon B path in which it was very difficult to 
accompany her. Least conld the modest Etienne here follow her, 
who could only proceed step by step, when he wonld nnderttand 
any direction, and whose sensitive mind was sickened by the 
slightest ebulTitioD of filling ; and therefore he olUn sought Madsme 
Fonrobert's forgiveness for the haste with which he had recom- 
mended the stranger to her generodty. It is true that bis attach- 
ment daily increased for the lovely and highly-bom nuuden, in 
whom, much as he had contemplated her, he had not been able to 
discover any fault which could reproach turn for this inclination ; 
and yet the moT« his satisfaction arose from Valerie's sodety, the 
more ashamed he felt on that account, and the more carefully he 
measured and regulated his behaviour towards her. Indeed, he held 
liimself aloof just in proportion as he reahzed the neameis of her 
presence. Madame Fotirobert, on her part, f^lad that matters went 
so fa\-ourafaly fiH' the pettce of her household, disturbed no one in 
ought that kept odier condderatitms away from her. All tiiese 
circumstances, combined together, caused the soul of Valerie, in the 
midst of the busy capital, to be as lonesome in the benevolent 
family, as had she been oU a desolate island, where only the echo of 
her otvB voics from wild and uncultured nature had struck upon 
her ear. She might hsra been about the age of fifteen, when 
Ktienne surprised her one day at a side hook-case, containing only 
German authon ; Vdetie, a small vohune in her hand, was reading 
nitbom obserring fcim, half aloud, mth aH the signs of excited 



VALSKIE. 15 

■ttention, nungled with terror and utonisfaiiieiit, the foUowing 



And toni, uid worn UBndec i 
Hii muilf head ■ akall beoonie, 
Aukcdikoll! Ah, frigbtfi^ doom ! 
Hie body, once so fall and fair, 
A ahrivdl'd ikd^on Kec then — " 
Etienne interrupted her. "Do you nnderatand what you are 
reading i" said he. " Knee Wbea have you teamed German, Made- 
in»ri§elle Valerie !" 

She let fall her hand which held the hook, and contemplating 
with dreamy look the images trhich then paaaed hefore her, she 
said, " Oh, a long time, Herr Etienne ; the oM servant always 
Bpeaka it to me, and lets me read in her aong-boi^ ; it is qiute 
femiliar to me in the hearing, but I expresa myself awkwardly in 
the strange language." 
" And this fiightftil poem," continued he. " Who gave it you J" 
" I took it myself," she drily replied, adding inunediately, " I 
believe it was written for me. It makes my htdr stand on end ; 
my skin is cold as ice, but my heart, Herr Etienne, my heart never 
beat so warmly as at this moment." 

His own heart felt strangely at these words. He perceived Bonw- 
thing inexplicable as his half-sunk eye met hers with its dark, 
quivering beam. He started back, as if he had suddenly seen a 
strange and unknown form stand before him, and endeavoured, 
under a forced smile, to conceal the aversion which only more 
strongly influenced him, as she now with paasionale inspiration 
again took up the book, and repeated with elevated tone ; — 
"Ah, >ee : ih, see 1 I riddenly — ," 
" Lay aside that wild stuff. Mademoiselle," said the agitated 
Etienne, beaeeclungly ; " you will only bewilder your imagination 
with it." 
" No," replied Valerie ; " ! can explain it to myself, only 
' Loud nailingi from the upper air, 

And mointnga from beneiith ; 

Leonora's heart widi trembling Cnr 

Shook betwixt life and death.' 



J 



Say now," asked the agitated maiden ; " is not that the hiBtory of 
my mother ?" And then, ehe continued : " Was not thus the hour 
of my birth i — 

* And now, unid the ehodowe pale, 

BEneatb the pale moon glance, 
The spectres chut a feufnl wail, 

And whirl tbtii honid duice.' " 

" I conjure you," Edenne interrupted her, " throw the book 
into the lire. It ie madness tliat you are reading. Oh, the imjMV- 
dent one," he sighed, " to impress on your weak brain such 
horrible images of the past '." 

" Do not blame the old woman," said V^erie ; " ohe has given 
me here a kind home. And were this only a chamber of death, it is 
B spot upon the earth," she added, with deep melancholy, " where 
I feel at peace." 

She had, in the meanwhile, concealed the book, without Etienne 
venturing to hinder her ; he only shook his head, and gazed after 
her as she went up stairs with it to her own chamber. He was 
obliged to confess that, since her coming into the house, she had 
not before bo unreservedly disclosed her inward mind ; but had ever 
avoided revealing it to a stranger's eye. But now astonished, and 
ravished by an overwhekning power, the true voice of a wounded 
and diseased soul had broken forth. Those hard, wild tones were 
they that had ever struck dumbly vritiiin her ; at length she had 
found words for their utterance. The vmce of the mother wluspered 
them to her in the proper language. 

Etienne involuntarily shuddered at this coincidence of strange 
occurrences. For the first time, he could not to-day feel right in 
his simple occupation. With a disturbed mind he took his place 
later at the dinner-table, opposite Madame Fonrobert. He almost 
felt thankful that Valerie did not make her customary appearance. 
She had excused herself from illness, but he could easily guess the 
true reason, which made him thoughtful and taciturn. 

Madame Fonrobert observed the change in him. She probably 
ascribed it to Valerie's absence, for what fluttered convulnvely on 
her lips, and was betrayed by an inward smile, seldom came out 
openly, as she generally kept her thoughts to herself. Therefore 
she only slightly hinted that her table companioii had not become 



more sprightly, and seemed to be pre-occiqned by one exclusive 

" It will be agreeable to her," ebe added, " when she can learn 
tu commiinkate her thoughts." 

At these words be looked at her ivHb aatonishinent j not under- 
standing her meaning. 

" 1 would," she continued, "that you told me plainly what planw 
you are projecting. Beaidea, it were better at once to take the firEt 
step, and so spare me the trouble of further inquiries," 

" Good (iod ! ' exclftiraed Etienne, seised wilfa anxieos fore- 
boding; " what plans could I form, which in the least could 
cuncem my personal interest f And how have I deserved, 
madwn, that you should think me guilty of a secret iiK^tion !" 

" Gently, my fiiend, gently," she softly replied ; " the zeal which 
you show for your justification could aknont make me mistrustful 
of your int^rity. But I will not diitquiet you. The simple ques- 
tion now is, whether you tiiink of occupying, in a short time, the 
middle story, which since the deceased Herr Fonrobert'a time has 
remained shut up." 

" I make a change in your house ?" asked the afirighted Etienne, 
who did not comprehend what she intended. 

" I thought," she replied, " if you should marty," 

The words died i^n his ear; he thought himself dreaming, 
when she added — 

"See! Valerie is grown fully to the ageof fifteen; afiermy death 
you are my heir. What will you that you delay the period when 
you may be happy 1 What I see in the fixture, I can also endure 
at the present. AaA then, at least, I shall have the consolation of 
knowing that matters will he hereafter as I have directed, and that 
nothing new will subvert the ancient order." 

" Is it possible!" stammered the bookkeeper, in a petpleiity 
which half arose from astonishment, half from inexpressible embar- 
rassment ; " is it possible that you deem me guiltj', at my i^, of 
BO great a folly I Ay, Heaven forbid me from harbouring wishes 
for which I should only blush ! How ungenerous, willingly to 
consign the blooming young maiden to a sickly, consumptive 
husband, whose infirm health more weds him to death than to 
life. Noj nO] Madame Footobert, no more of this, 1 beg," he added 
M3 _ 



IS 

quickly, aa if he could not with suffident haate (iLjiniss an imagi- 
nation to whose impreauon he could pay no regard. 

Madame Fonrobert was silent awhile, without showing any signs 
of Burprise at his answer. After a long pause, during which Etieone 
endeavoured to collect himBelf, she said calmly — 

" Very good, my dear Etienne ; but what then will, in the end, 
become of Valerie ? She haa appeared to me for some time past 
more melancholy and reserved than before; she is too lonely here 
witii us." 

" Indeed!" responded Etienne, heutatingly. 

" It will then be well," she continued, " for me to accept the 
offer of my brother-in-law the surgeon, who, with bis only daughter 
is coming to Berlin from Cleves, and who wishes to lodge with me. 
I would Bt once have agreed to this, but I wished first to know your 

" I am not at all worth considering in any of your arrangements," 
said he, hastily interrupting her, that he might not again be dis- 
quieted with the proposal. 

" My niece, Philline, is about the same age as Valerie," observed 
Madame Fonrobcrt; " they Will teach each otiier what they mutually 
require to leam. Much can be regulated in our foster-child, through 
intercourse with persons of her own age ; beudes," added she, "the 
new guests will be welcome to you, my friend, as age is ever 
taciturn, and Valerie is a dreamer." 

He could not but grant this; and as he was glad to see her busied 
with another object, he obtained leave to write immediately to the 
surgeon, and to make the necessary preparations for his arrival. 
The many particulars which the precise lady prescribed for this pur- 
pose, and for the sectuity of her own repose, gave her active 
assistant abundant occupation. He thereby lost sight of the lonely 
young dreamer, who kept apart in her own little chamber. To his 
joy, however, he next morning found in its place in the bookcase, 
the dangerous poem, which he had so unwillingly seen in the hands 
of the exdted maiden ; he immediately took it away, and locked it 
up. Valerie smiled, when afterwards she observed this, but forbore 
from any remark. 

After sei-eral weeks, the surgeon arrived with his daughter. He 
was an eamett, learned man, quite devoted to his studies, of Bturing 



VALBRIfi, \5 

industiy, and antiriiig investigation. An soon as he had unpacked 
and arranged his booke, his chemical and surgical apparatus, evety 
thing stood in its place ; he found his own occupation in a spacious 
room in the midst of embryos in spirits, skulls, skeletons, and 
other scientific indispensables, so that his presence in the house 
was but little nottced. 

It was othenrise with PhiUine. Sprightly as a roe, communica- 
tive, sportful, and ever ready to sacrifice herself and friends for a 
joke; now she pursued her pranks with the old tedious Anna, now 
with her aunt's Bolognese dt^ ; with her aunt herself, and the pale, 
coughing, house-spectre, as she was wont to call Etienne, while she 
spared Valerie, whose coldness afirighted her, and towards whom, 
therefore, she felt more reluctance than confidence. Their mutual 
I remained a long time sufhclently restrained. Weari- 
, at last, induced PhiUine to seek her young companion 
in her own litfle chamber. She found her sitting idly in a comer, 
and repeating in a loud voice some verses, which her visitor did not 
at all understand. The thought to play a comedy arose inimediat«ly 
from this incident in the mind of tiie sportive PhiUine. She com- 
municated her notion to the other, but as they were entirely without 
the necessary means and diaracters, they contented themselves with 
learning scenes from trage^es (for Valerie liked only the tragical), 
and reciting them with much pathos before the deaf and silent 
walls. The scanty pleasure, enlivened neither by the sympathy nor 
admiration of beholding friends, could be of no long entertainment 
for the social, sprightly PhiUine ; she was at all times restless and 
ill at ease in Valerie's little room, and it was only not to disturb her 
father that she had hitherto resorted thither to unfold her dramatic 
talent. 

Fully content with her accomplishments in the art, she resolved 
to give both her &ther and the other members of the household an 
astonishing proof of it. Valerie was not to be wanting. During 
the hours when the surgeon took his circuit in tiie city, the 
daughter desired to make all preparations for the little festival in her 
apartment, and for this purpose invit«d Valerie to accompany her 
there, which the latter had with singular anxiety avoided ; nor could 
she to-day subdue ber reluctance. Alternately changing red and 
pale, she sUmimcred out excusts, not one (rf which was compre- | 



30 VALBSIt. 

Iwaded by tha other, who ahnoet forcibly drew the tiemUing 
mtiden after her. But acarcdy had they iqiproached the door, 
whkh wan etcmding opMi, and which led to the 8ui^eoii*e room, 
and Hcwcdy had Valerie cast a single glance tberMn, than, with 
distorted cgunteaance, she uttered a t^nfic cry, uid rutibed 
breathleeH from the spot. Philline, first frightened, then angry, 
foUflwed her, scolding and blaming, and overwbehned her with 
euch bitter reptoaches, that the former in excited vebemency revealed 
the reMon of her conduct, which she had rather have kept secret, 
saying, with bewildered look — 

" Do nith me what you will, but never can I pass the skeletotu 
which grin at me from your father's gUs* cue." 

HiiUlite burst out into loud laughter. Fajniliar with the objects 
of so great tenvr, she was as deficient in the notion of it,, as in 
sympathy with the emotion, and she knew not the sad drcum- 
stMtces of Valerie's birth in the field of carnagei 

" Is it possible," she exclaimed, " that you are so littk abov« 
^ prejudioea of the lower classes bh to be overcome in this 
nianner by the impreiieion of what you ate not accustomed to !" 

" Do oot mock me," replied Vateie, deathly pale, and tremblit^ 
as an aepen leaf ; " I cannot help it. Once before, I stood at the 
same spot, as your &ther was coming out. I had sot time fully to 
recoiled myself. Uuick as thought my eye had strayed towards 
those bonid forms. I carried about with me the senaation of them 
for days together.'' 

At thi« Fhilhne sgaio openly laughed in her &ce. She under- 
stood her so l^tle, that she sported in the most heartless manoer 
with the moat ^tiable of all weaknesses, as she termed the pom 
maiden's unconquerable aversion, and exposed her to the like blame 
from all wlio had any regard to her tale of the laughable incadent. 
£tienne'B tender soul suffered much from the sVokes of the 
inexhaustible raillery which befell the object of hia protection, yet 
he ventured jiot to defend her as his sympathy desired, from fear 
thati the fine texture of her mind might in another way be 
discomposed by unpleasant emotioiis. Especially since his last 
ctrnversatian with Madame Fourobert, had his demeanour to- 
wards the young giil been far more circumspect than bef«e. 
Silt also but Mldom now cwne into the shiqi to look for f 



VALERIE. 21 

book. 'When on one occasion Etienne Temarked ihis to her, 
referring at the same time to that poem which had once so much 
inflamed her, she seemed vexed, and answered him shortly— "that 
she did not want the volmne any more." 

Tim, and siniilar answera, had quite turned Etienne from his 
former custom of being her defender on all occasions. He now, 
therefore, took no part against Philline's attacks, which induced her 
father to interpose, He felt deeply interested in the extraordinary 
yonng creature, through a. straage impresaion which she had mode 
upon Iiim. He said he thought he saw something like a shadow 
upon her brow, as if by accident a dark body were sportively 
hovering over her ; a phenomenon he had often obsen'ed in persons 
strangely organized, or who were destined by Providence to violent 
events. With this opinion regarding her, he declared the jestings of 
his daughter to be ungenerous, indeed, ei'en silly, inasmuch as the 
peculiar seat of innate aversions can as little be ascerbuned as that 
of many secret diseases ; and, therefore, such manifestations 
are rightly no more to be laughed at than are the contortions of 
spasm. 

This medical judgment, for from restraining PhilUne, only stimu* 
lated her spirit of contradiction ; and whether it was to revenge 
herself for the spoiling of her comedy, or by a bold joke, in defiance 
of opposite counsel, to bring (he laugh upon her own aide, she 
resolved, at all hazards, to cure Valerie of her imaginary fears. 
One Sunday e>'ening, when tlie old servant slept out at her daugli- 
ter's, who dwelt outside the gate, Philline contrived during supper, 
with the help of her own miud, to remove one of the skeletons from 
her father's closet, and conceal it under Valerie's bed-clothes. Full 
of the expected result, her merriment rose above all restraint ; 
even Valerie was infected by it, who therefore later than usual 
retired to her own chamber. 

Madame Fonrobert detained her friend Etienne awhile longer. 
She was agreeably excited by the fai'ourable alteration which she 
thought she saw in her foster-child, and communicated to her good 
kinsman her observations thereupon. 

*' Philline works very well upon Valerie, Herr Etienne," said she, 
with an ar of self-aatigfaction ; "very well. Did you see, to-day, 
hcnv unconatnunedly she fell in with the other's wit, and returned ^ 



ill I think we may coDgntulale ouradTes upon mj resolution of 
mviting here tfaeee pleuant people." 

She lo<dted Bmilingly over to Etienne, who, sikot, aad listening 
with the greatest attention to an obBcure noise, was standing aside 
with his &ce toward the door, 

" You do not undenrtand me well i" she abruptly asked ; at the 
same moment, howerer, stxrtiiig up from the aod, and SNzing his 
hands with the words — 

" God I my God 1 what is the matter i You are pale as death I" 

"Nothing — nothing!" whiapered Etienne; "it is surely nothing; 
but I thought I heard some one screaming in anguish." 

He had scarcely said this, when Pliilline rushed wildly into the 
room, with staring look, shrieking rdiemently — 

" She has lost her senses 1 Help, Heaven ! she is caressijig the 
Aceleton, and speaking words (rf madness to it I" 

More was not necessary to drive Etiemie to Valerie's chunber. 
Already bdbre lie entered, he heard her in quke an altered tone, 
more scream than speak. She was repeating in a breath, the hor- 
rible haDad, and at the place. 



she fell mto such a wild ecstacy, that Etienne burst open the door, 
thinking she would not survive the next moment, He found the 
unfortunate one erect in bed, and embracing the skeleton in her 
anus with a joy as if she had now found the happiness of her life. 
'ITie surgeon, who was present, and who ascertuned the particulars 
from Philline's painful ccaifession, found that, after ttie ill-planned 
joke, she had stood before die door to observe Valerie ; and aeaog 
her, when undreBsed,quietlyapproachherbed, and express no terror 
nor reluctance, she foreboded some misfortune. Full of anxiety she 
then entered, and found her pitiably deprived of her senses, softly 
whispering aad playing with die object of her former horror. The 
surgeon immediately gave up hope ; and Etienne soon perceived 
that she had imagined herself to be her mother, who had again 
found the long-lamented object of her love. Madame Fonrobert's 
forebodings were now fully realized. The peace of her house had 
departed. She herself did not long survive the last blow. He 



surgeon also in a short time left the dwelling, in order to rescue 
his daughter from entire nun; for, since that evening, health and 
cheerfulness had hoth forsaken her. Her father was often heard to 
repeat, that he had never thought that the bones of a dead warrior, 
which he had once brought from the battle-Held of Minden, could 
have prevailed over the reason of two maidens. 

Etienne was I'i^'idly penetrated with these words. Involun- 
tarilf, unanswerable questions pressed his spirit, yet he avoided 
the ivish vainly to inquire after the hidden cause of such myste- 
rious connections. He bore his lot quietly and patiently. For 
long years he remained the possessor of the httle house, the lonely 
supporter of the unhappy Valerie. Her gloomy lamp was every 
evening seen glimmering from the bow-window. The passer-by 
sent up to heaven a short prayer for her salvation. She herself sang 
and toyed with her phantom, till once the moon shone in at the 
open ivindow, and lightened upon the cotKn, in which her bones by 
the side of those that had been disturbed, found rest and peace. 



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