THERE are persons so constituted that they judge of every object they behold by the colouring which their own eyes are able to throw over it: in their own light they see light; in their own joy they find happiness; in their own love they believe themselves beloved. A large endowment of self-esteem is necessary for this pleasant kind of delusion; hence it is more frequently found in men than in women. Henry Linden was particularly favoured with the enjoyment of this gift. In the bestowment of his affections, it would have been scarcely possible for his choice to have fallen where he did not find, or believe himself beloved in return. In the instance to which allusion has already been made he entertained not the shadow of a doubt, nor, indeed, had he much reason for doubting. In fact, the circumstances under which the young party had been thrown together, the social meetings, the sunny VOL. X.-NO. CXII. weather, the freedom and idleness of unoccupied time, and especially the sympathy which always arises out of other attachments-all these circumstances combined to soften a heart not naturally prone to receive tender impressions, nor indeed so far subdued by them, even now, as to lose either her own habitual self-possession, or that faithful, steady, but still quiet interest in her family, for which Helen Clifton was so remarkable. Besides this, Helen was studious-she might almost have been called learned. B for him now. This earnest and incessant pleading of his with a father who had never known how to refuse anything to his children, added to the universally acknowledged stability and general excellence of the character with whom his own was to be and prudence for which Helen Clifton was so generally commended-these considerations, but chiefly, it must be owned, the incessant appeals made to him by his son, The very books she read, and delighted in, Philip said were enough to frighten all men from her presence. Helen did not find it so, however, for in her face and form there was attraction enough to counterbalance all the repulsion of her learning, and her books. She was gentle, too, well-associated-the almost premature wisdom dressed, and womanly in all her habits; and if she could read in many languages, she could also arrange flowers, and even paint them too, with something more than the usual amount of feminine skill. Per-induced Mr. Linden at last to consent haps, also, there might have been found deep buried in the secrets of her heart, a mine of warmer feelings than was wont to be exhibited in the accustomed tenor of her life. However this might be, almost any other lover than Henry Linden would have discovered in this, the lady of his choice, a certain absence of that ardour of attachment towards himself which is necessary for even a moderate amount of happiness in married life. Congeniality there certainly was not in this connection; but people said the two were all the better suited, for that very reason: Helen was a shade too calm and stately; her lover too impetuous and flippant. Each would correct the faults of the other, was frequently said by their friends, aud make a charming whole. That the young gentleman had chosen wisely for himself admitted not of a doubt; while on the other hand, there were some, and indeed not a few, who thought the young lady fortunate in having secured the affections of so captivating a gentleman as Henry Linden. Such was the gossip of the circle within which they moved; and the parties most interested in these remarks were not disposed to question their truth, or their right application to themselves. Impatience on the part of one, and the habit of silent acquiescence with circumstances on the other, were now hastening on this attachment to its natural conclusion. Henry Linden was about as much prepared for pursuing his legal profession as he ever would be; but he was a young man of very respectable fortune, independently of this, and he assured his friends, with the utmost confidence, that he should study with tenfold assiduity, and consequently with far greater prospect of success, after being made happy by the fulfilment of his wishes, than was possible that his marriage with Miss Clifton should take place much earlier than, under ordinary circumstances, would have been expected. Still there were certain preliminaries to settle, certain arrangements to be made, which could not be done with that lightning speed which the young gentleman rather prided himself upon as marking the progress of all the transactions in which he was personally concerned. There was, at all events, a residence to select and prepare, and this of itself, with the indulgence of a taste at all times fastidious, and often whimsical, was not likely to be the work of a moment. So this marriage, which at one time was spoken of as on the point of taking place, came to be delayed from time to time, often in consequence of some trivial occurrence relating to the mere furniture of the house. Yet so it was-the same ardour which at first had hastened on the consummation of the great event, was thrown into the smaller affairs of taste; and thus it came to be divided into so many minor channels, that the great river at the fountain head appeared to be considerably reduced in velocity, if not also in depth and volume. Frittered away" is perhaps the best description which can be applied to the great interests, and even the master passions of persons of flippant and impulsive character. All great things with them are generally frittered away, even their own originally strong emotions. Running hither and thither, ever in pursuit of something new, it is impossible that they should for any length of time carry about with them the weight of the old. They must scatter something as they go, and thus even their affections often suffer loss, and they incur the charge of fickleness from no other cause, than that the greater impulse or aim of their lives has been frittered away in the less. But while this process is going on with the young gentleman whose happiness awaits him, there are many things to be done-many changes have to be brought about in the Clifton family-many partings, many farewells have to take the place of that pleasant intercourse which has already sown the seeds of more intimate association. Amongst other events, Seymour Clifton is obliged to tear himself away. So long as he could remain near Grace Linden, there was a strange fascination in taking his brother Philip's place by her side, and in feeling that he supplied that place even though it was only in the capacity of a brother. Grace herself was naturally dependent and confiding, and her heart was now so full of happiness, that she wanted friends about her to whom she could pour forth its joy, if she could not speak directly of the cause of that deep and innocent enjoyment; for with her it was innocent, because she believed as implicitly as she believed in her own existence, that he on whom she had bestowed her affections was worthy of the treasure committed to his trust. No shadow of doubt on this point had ever crossed her mind. She had seen him at his best, she had never heard him spoken of but by his nearest and his warmest friends; and besides, and above all else, was he not dedicated to the church? Seymour Clifton saw and understood this perfect and unlimited confidence. He understood, too, on whom it was bestowed, for his brother Robert had told him by letter of his transactions with Philip. It was necessary, Robert thought, that the brother nearest to himself in age should know almost as much about the affairs of the family as he knew himself. Thus Seymour had been made acquainted with the character and habits of his brother Philip; and thus, with this knowledge in his heart, he had to walk beside the affianced bride of that same brother, to look upon her, tender, frail, and sensitive as one of the first flowers of spring, to watch her happy, nay, even proud and strong in the secret confidence she was reposing in that one foundation of her every earthly hope--he had to see and feel all this, walking every day beside her like a shadow, surrounded by the light of her great happiness; and he had to look into his heart of hearts, and see there a love for that delicate and gentle being so intense that it threatened at times to overthrow his reason, his rectitude-all that he had ever held by as most sacred, most honourable, and most true. Yes, he knew-he felt within himself that his love was worth accepting-that if he in his own character was not all that Grace Linden could admire or love, that his affection had no flaw in it. At times he felt almost proud of the magnitude, power, and value of this affection; but then it was neither known, understood, nor appreciated: he could not even make it known-by the most delicate and even silent indications-without falsehood to his brother and dishonour to himself. Again and again he told himself that if Philip was more worthy, he should be satisfied. Often and often, in the depth of the midnight hours, he had to wrestle with the strong temptation which beset him to disclose the whole truth, and to do this in the name of a righteous God. Often and often the idea presented itself, that this act was one of holy duty laid especially upon him; and but for one kind friend who happened at this season of trial to be near, there is no saying to what height or depth of selfdelusion his enthusiasm, blended with his love, might have led him, still believing he was right-still fondly dreaming that duty, stern duty, rather than inclination, was his guide. Ah! those were memorable nights and days to Seymour Clifton. Earthly existence, with all its strange vicissitudes, would have perhaps no greater trial to inflict upon him. And yet all around him looked so calm, and everything so beautiful! but none like that one countenance ever beaming even upon him; for the gentle Grace had now so much of favour in her sweet looks and manners, that she could afford to speak and smile as he thought no one ever spoke and smiled before. Yes, all the fond, tender thoughts that flowed spontaneously through her soul now formed themselves into a certain shape, and found a certain kind of utterance even for him; for was he not the brother of her betrothed? Never, on any occasion whatever, did she make direct allusion to her own attachment, but it so coloured all the world to her, so it inspired her very being with new life, so softened, harmonised, and elevated that which was pure, and soft, and high before, that a sort of atmosphere breathed out, as were, from all her gentle looks and kind expressions, and tender, thoughtful ways towards her lover's family, and towards Seymour amongst the rest, that a nature less enthusiastic in its tender sympathies than his might well have been beguiled into the indulgence, sometimes, of a momentary hope, that he was not in himself altogether an object of indifference. If," Seymour thought at such times"if it should be so? if, at the terrible risk of my own honour, I could really obtain this prize, and by the same act ensure both her happiness and mine?-Ensure hers! Is not that enough to justify any risk? and would not the act be in itself a righteous act, implicating only what the world calls honour, not what the moral sense acknowledges to be right?" Ah! it was a fearful temptation to make trial of that "if"-to test its potency, and see how far it would carry him on towards the end of all his wishes. "It is so dreadful," Seymour said sometimes to his aunt, the only human being to whom he ever trusted himself to speak on this subject-" so dreadful to see any one going smiling on to her own destruction in this perfect unconsciousness." 66 "It would be more dreadful to my feelings," said his aunt, in her own calm and gentle way, to be the person who should reveal the truth." "Unquestionably," replied Seymour; "but the painfulness of a duty does not render it less a duty." "There are many delicate questions connected with duty-many nice distinctions in the way of doing it." "I know that well; I have thought often enough on the subject not to see all its difficulties." "There is especially this point always to be considered-a duty may have to be done, but are we the persons to do it?" "Those who feel it must surely be the right persons to act upon it." "Those who feel it are sometimes the very last who should venture to meddle. It is quite possible to feel too much to know how to do the duty in the best manner. It is quite possible to feel too much to be able to distinguish between our own wishes, and that which is simply right. In this case, it is surely better to be still." "But it seems to me that nobody understands this case as I do-nobody knows the amount of misery that must fall upon one who neither deserves, nor could possibly sustain it: no one longs to rescue her as I do." "And is there not something to be considered on the other hand? Have you not a brother?" "To be sure I have; and I would not injure my brother for the world—not really injure him, you know." 66 Only just push him off from the pedestal of hope and happiness on which he is now standing? Oh! Seymour, your own heart is deceiving you." "I do not think it is, for I know perfectly the nature of the act which I am contemplating. I know what the world would say and think of it-I know what even my best friends would think. I know what even she herself would be liable to think. I know how odious I should appear in the eyes of every human being-perhaps in hers. And yet, if it be a duty' "If it be a duty, your brother Robert must do it." "Do you think so?" thing, to save him: at least I feel sometimes as if I would. At other times, I confess there is a strong sense of justice warring in my heart against him, and I think, why should Philip enjoy so many advantages, and be treated with so much indulgence, only to abuse the blessings so lavishly showered upon him?" "Oh! Seymour; those are dangerous questions, only to be answered by each man's individual soul to its Maker. To return to that which we may better understand, I should say that Philip is constitutionally more liable to temptation than you or Robert; he has neither the intellectual resources of the one, nor the strength of character of the other. Besides which, he very young; and if I might venture to say so, has been placed entirely out of his element in the course of life which has been selected for him." "You think so, then, as well as others?" "I do indeed." "There has been the curse of his existence, and of mine!" "Hush! Seymour, do not speak in that way. Whatever false steps we poor, halfblind, benighted creatures take, desiring praying to do right, and asking God to direct us to what is right-whatever false steps we take in this way, and whatever sad consequences may ensue, He who knows all our weakness, folly, and shortsightedness, is able and willing to convert these consequences into blessings to us, however calamitous they may appear to be when judged of according to worldly wisdom." "Do you think, then, that a blessing can ever come out of my wretched way of living?" "I do." I wish I could think so." "Yes, and who knows but the blessing may be greater, and richer, than if you had followed the bent of your own inclinations? ?" "Then you attach no importance to the use of common sense, and human wisdom, in these matters?" "Pray don't think I said that, or meant such a thing to be understood. I believe devoutly that common sense is given us to use for common purposes-indeed for all purposes; and that he who will not use this glorious gift, even in the holiest duties to which a responsible being can be called, is not only as foolish, but as guilty, as the man who wilfully shuts his eyes, and declares he cannot read his Bible." "I am afraid some people are very guilty, then, as well as very foolish." "My dear Seymour, do not let us judge individuals, or their actions. I am afraid the whole world-the social world, as we find it, and converse with it-is made up of a tangled web of mistakes from which a power Divine alone can extricate any struggling soul. People have been making mistakes ever since the world began. Eve herself had a command that was simple, clear, and intelligible enough; she knew perfectly well from whence it came, and yet by a grievous and fatal mistake, she persuaded herself that the voice of the tempter had more real wisdom in it than the voice of the Most High. And now, Seymour, to return to the subject on which we first began to speak, I consider that you are yourself, at this very moment, in the most imminent danger of making a fearful and calamitous mistake. Would it not be well to look more at the peril in which you are now standing, and less at the mistakes of others?" "Yes; but if those mistakes should have been, however remotely, the means of bringing me into that peril?" "You are only standing in the same position as the whole human race. All have been brought into peril by the mistakes of their parents, up even to that remote period to which allusion has been made. The great question with you is, how you can best profit by what you see and feel in your own person of the mistakes of those who have gone before you. You cannot prevent these mistakes having been made. It is often equally impossible to avert these consequences as regards this life; but there is one thing we can always do-we can always make the best of the circumstances in which we find ourselves. You, Seymour, may possibly do more than that; for when you come to have children of your own, you may bring them up more wisely, from the very fact of seeing where, and how, your own parents have erred. Thus, you see, you will be a whole generation in advance of what you might have been, had no such mistakes been made. Had you never felt the disadvantages of which you complain, you might have been |