A Book For The Young by Sarah French

S >> Sarah French >> A Book For The Young

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

A BOOK FOR THE YOUNG.

DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION,
TO THE HON. MRS. MANNERS SUTTON.

By A LADY.

1856.

Saint John, N.B.,
Printed By J. & A. McMillan, Phoenix House,
78, Prince Wm. Street.

TO THE HON. MRS. MANNERS SUTTON.

MADAM,--

With every feeling of deference and respect, do I beg to offer my
grateful acknowledgments for your kindness in according me the honor
of your influential name, in offering my Little Book to the public;
and I can only regret my humble efforts are not more worthy your
patronage.

I have the honour to be, Madam,

Your obliged and obedient servant,

SARAH FRENCH.

PREFACE.

COURTEOUS READER,

In offering a second effort from her pen, the Writer begs, most
humbly, to deprecate all criticism; for much of which, there will,
doubtless, be found ample room.

This little book has been written in the hope that notwithstanding its
many imperfections, it will not be altogether useless to those for
whom it is especially intended,--the Young; and should the Authoress
fail in effecting all the good she desires, she trusts, she may take
refuge under the negative merit, of not having written one word that
_can_ do _harm_.

If it be objected to, that the Poetry is not original; it is, she
would beg to say, not only good, but far better than that which, had
it depended on her own efforts, could have been in its place. It will
be seen that the Book was intended to have been brought out for
Christmas and New Year's Days: this desirable end could not be
accomplished, but as recommended to do, she has inserted the "Address
to the Young."

CONTENTS

An Address to the Young,
The Dying Horse,
Coquetry,
Lines on seeing in a list of new Music "The Waterloo Waltz,"
The Boy of Egremont,
Lines written on the Prospect of Death,
An Embarkation Scene,
The Execution of Montrose,
A Ghost Story,
Lord Byron,
Self Reliance,
Idle Words,
The Maniac of Victory,
God doeth all things well,
How old art thou,
Time,
The Young Man's Prayer,

AN ADDRESS TO THE YOUNG.

A heartfelt greeting to you, my young friends; a merry Christmas and a
happy New Year to you all. Of all the three hundred and sixty-five
days none are fraught with the same interest--there is not one on
which all mankind expect so great an amount of enjoyment, as those we
now celebrate: for all now try not only to be happy themselves, but to
make others so too. All consider themselves called on to endeavour to
add to the aggregate of human happiness. Those who have been
estranged, now forget their differences and hold out the hand of
amity; even the wretched criminal and incarcerated are not forgotten.

Yes, to both the Christian and the worlding, it is equally the season
for rejoicing. Oh yes! view them in any of their bearings, joyful are
the days that mark the anniversary of the Redeemer's Nativity, and the
commencement of the New Year. Fast as the last twelve months have sped
their circling course, yet they have, brought changes to many. Numbers
of those we so gaily greeted at their beginning, now sleep in the
silent dust, and the places they filled know them no more! And we are
spared, the monuments of God's mercy; and how have we improved that
mercy, I would ask? or how do we purpose doing it? Have such of us as
have enjoyed great and perhaps increased blessings, been taught by
them to feel more gratitude to the Giver of all good. If the sun of
prosperity has shone more brightly, has our desire to do good been in
any way proportionate. Has God in his infinite wisdom seen fit to send
us trials,--have they done their work, have they brought us nearer to
Him, have they told us this is not our abiding place, have they shown
us the instability of earthly happiness? Have you reflected for one
moment, amidst your late rejoicings, of the hundreds whose hearths
have been desolated by cruel but necessary war, and then with a full
and grateful heart humbly thanked the God who has not only spared you
these heavy inflictions, but preserved all near and dear to you.

Oh ye young and happy! have you looked around you and thought of all
this, and then knelt in thankfulness for the blessings spared you?
Remembering _all this_, have ye on bended knees prayed, and fervently,
that this day may be the epoch on which to date your resolves to be
and to do better. Oh, may the present period be eventful, greatly
eventful, for time and eternity.

Let us pause awhile ere we commence another year, and take a
retrospective glance at the past. Can we bear to do so, or will day
after day, and hour after hour, rise up in judgment against us? Can we
bear to bring them into debtor and creditor account,--what offsets can
we make against those devoted to sin and frivolity?

Has every blessing and every mercy been taken as a matter of course,
and every pleasure been enjoyed with a thankless forgetfulness of the
hand from which it flowed? If such has been the case, let it be so no
longer; but awake and rouse ye from your lethargic slumber, be true to
yourselves, and remember that you are responsible beings, and will
have to account for all the time and talents misspent and misapplied.
Reflect seriously on the true end of existence and no longer fritter
it away in vanity and folly. Think of all the good you might have
done, not only by individual exertion, but by the influence of your
example. Then reverse the picture and ask if much evil may not
actually have occurred through these omissions in you.

To many of you too, life now presents a very different aspect to what
it did in the commencement of the year. A most important day has
dawned, and momentous duties devolved on you. The ties that bound you
to the homes of your youth have been severed, and new ones formed, aye
stronger ones than even to the mother that bare you. Yes, there is one
who is now _dearer_ than the parent who cherished, or the sister who
grew up with you, and shared your father's hearth. Oh! could I now but
impress upon your minds, how much, how _very much_ of your happiness
depends on the way you begin. If I could but make you sensible how
greatly doing so might soften the trials of after life. Trials? I hear
each of you exclaim in joyous doubt, What trials? I am united to the
object of my dearest affections; friends all smile on, and approve my
choice; plenty crowns our board: have I not made a league with sorrow
that it should not come near our dwelling? I hope not; for it might
lead you to forget the things that belong to your peace. I should
tremble for you, could I fancy a life-long period without a trouble.
You are mortal and could not bear it, with safety to your eternal
well-being. This life being probationary, God has wisely ordained it a
chequered one. Happy, thoroughly happy as you may be now, you are not
invulnerable to the shafts of sorrow;--think how very many are the
inlets through which trial may enter, and pray that whenever and
however assailed, you may as a Christian, sanctify whatever befalls
you to your future good.

But while prepared to meet those ills "the flesh is heir to" as
becomes a Christian, it is well to remember that you may greatly
diminish many of the troubles of life, by forbearance and
self-command, for certain it is, that more than one half of mankind
make a great deal of what they suffer, and which they might avoid.
Yes, much of what they endure are actually self inflictions.

There is a general, and alas! too true an outcry, that trouble is the
lot of all, and that "man is born to trouble as the sparks fly
upward;" but let me ask, Is there not a vast amount made by ourselves?
and do we not often take it up in anticipation, too often indulge and
give way to it, when by cheerful resignation, we might, if not wholly
avert, yet greatly nullify its power to mar our peace. Mind, I now
speak of self-created and minor troubles; not those coming immediately
from God. Are we not guilty of ingratitude in acting thus; in throwing
away, or as it were thrusting from us the blessings he has sent--merely
by indulging in, or giving way to these minor trials. It may be said
of these sort of troubles, as of difficulties, "Stare them in the
face, and you conquer them; yield to, and they overcome you, and form
unnecessary suffering."

If we could only consider a little when things annoy us, and reflect
how much worse they might be, and how differently they would affect us
even under less favourable circumstances than those in which we are
placed; but instead of making the best of every thing, we only dwell
on the annoyance, regardless of many extenuations that may attend it.

As one of the means to happiness, I would beg of you, my fair young
Brides, not to fix too high a standard by which to measure either the
perfections of your beloved partners or your own hopes of being happy.
Bear in mind that those to whom you are united are subject to the same
infirmities as yourself. Look well to what are your requirements as
wives, and then prayerfully and steadily act up to them, and if your
hopes are not built too high, you may, by acting rightly and
rationally, find a well spring of peace and enjoyment that _must_
increase. Think what very proud feelings will be yours, to find you
are appreciated and esteemed for the good qualities of the heart and
endowments of the mind, and to hear after months of trial, the _wife_
pronounced _dearer_ than the _bride_.

Look around at the many who have entered the pale of matrimony before
you, equally buoyant with hope; with the same loving hearts and the
same bright prospects as you had,--and yet the stern realities of life
have sobered down that romance of feeling with which they started; yet
they are perhaps more happy, though it is a quiet happiness, founded
on esteem. Oh, you know not the extent to which the conduct I have
urged you to pursue, may affect your well-being, and that of him to
whom you are united.

And now with the same greeting I commenced with, will I take my
leave--a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all, and may each
succeeding return find you progressing in all that can give you peace
and happiness, not only here but hereafter!

THE DYING HORSE.

Heaven! what enormous strength does death possess!
How muscular the giant's arm must be
To grasp that strong boned horse, and, spite of all
His furious efforts, fix him to the earth!
Yet, hold, he rises!--no--the struggle's vain;
His strength avails him not. Beneath the gripe
Of the remorseless monster, stretched at length
He lies with neck extended; head hard pressed
Upon the very turf where late he fed.
His writhing fibres speak his inward pain!
His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire!
Oh! how he glares! and hark! methinks I hear
His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins.
Amazement! Horror! What a desperate plunge,
See! where his ironed hoof has dashed a sod
With the velocity of lightning. Ah!--
He rises,--triumphs;--yes, the victory's his!
No--the wrestler Death again has thrown him
And--oh! with what a murdering dreadful fall!
Soft!--he is quiet. Yet whence came that groan,
Was't from his chest, or from the throat of death
Exulting in his conquest! I know not,
But if 'twas his, it surely was his last;
For see, he scarcely stirs! Soft! Does he breathe?
Ah no! he breathes no more. 'Tis very strange!

How still he's now! how fiery hot--how cold
How terrible! How lifeless! all within
A few brief moments!--My reason staggers!
Philosophy, thy poor enlightened dotard,
Who canst for every thing assign a cause,
Here take thy stand beside me, and explain
This hidden mystery. Bring with thee
The head strong Atheist; who laughs at heaven
And impiously ascribes events to chance,
To help to solve this wonderful enigma!
First, tell me, ye proud haughty reasoners,
Where the vast strength this creature late possessed
Has fled to? how the bright sparkling fire,
Which flashed but now from those dim rayless eyes
Has been extinguished? Oh--he's dead you say.
I know it well:--but how, and by what means?
Was it the arm of chance that struck him down,
In height of vigor, and in pride of strength,
To stiffen in the blast? Come, come, tell me:
Nay shake not thus the head's that are enriched
With eighty years of wisdom, gleaned from books,
From nights of study, and the magazines
Of knowledge, which your predecessors left.
What! not a word!--I ask you, once again,
How comes it that the wond'rous essence,
Which gave such vigour to these strong nerved limbs
Has leaped from its enclosure, and compelled
This noble workmanship of nature, thus
To sink Into a cold inactive clod?
Nay sneak not off thus cowardly--poor fools
Ye are as destitute of information
As is the lifeless subject of my thoughts!

The _subject of my thoughts_? Yes--there he lies
As free from life, as if he ne'er had lived.
Where are his friends and where his old acquaintance
Who borrowed from his strength, when in the yoke,
With weary pace the steep ascent they climbed?
Where are the gay companions of his prime,
Who with him ambled o'er the flowery turf,
And proudly snorting, passed the way worn hack,
With haughty brow; and, on his ragged coat
Looked with contemptuous scorn? Oh yonder see,
Carelessly basking in the mid-day sun
They lie, and heed him not;--little thinking
While there they triumph in the blaze of noon.
How soon the dread annihilating hour
Will come, and death seal up their eyes,
Like his, forever. Now moralizer
Retire! yet first proclaim this sacred truth;
_Chance_ rules not over Death; but, when a fly
Falls to the earth, 'tis _Heaven_ that gives the blow.

--BLACKETT.

COQUETRY.

It was in one of the most picturesque parts of South Wales, on the
banks of the lovely Towy, that two ladies sat working at an open
casement, which led into a veranda, covered with clematis and
honey-suckle. The elder of the two might be about fifty, perhaps not
so much, for her features bore traces of suffering and sadness, which
plainly told, that sorrow had planted far deeper wrinkles there than
time alone could have done. The younger, an interesting girl of
nineteen, bore a strong resemblance to her mother; they were both
dressed in deep mourning. The room which they occupied, though plainly
and simply furnished, had yet an air of taste and elegance.

Mrs. Fortescue was the widow of an officer, who died of cholera in the
East Indies, leaving her with one daughter, and no other means of
support than a small annuity and her pension. An old servant of her
own had married a corporal in the same regiment, who having purchased
his discharge, now followed the trade of a carpenter, to which he had
been brought up, previous to enlisting, and was settled in his native
place, and the faithful Hannah, hearing of the Captain's death wrote
to Mrs. Fortescue, telling her, not only of the beauty of the spot,
but the cheapness of living in that part of the world, concluding by
saying, a house was then vacant, and could be had on very reasonable
terms. Mrs. Fortescue immediately wrote and engaged it. Though a
common looking building, yet by putting a veranda round, and making a
few alterations inside, it soon, with a little painting and papering,
was transformed into a pretty cottage. The work required was an
advantage to Mrs. Fortescue, inasmuch as it occupied her mind and thus
prevented her dwelling on her recent affliction, in other respects
too, she felt that a kind providence had directed her steps to the
little village in which we find her--and the good she found to do, was
the greatest balm her wounded spirit could receive: for though her
means were so limited, still, a wide field of usefulness lay before
her.

Mrs. Fortescue had a strong mind, and though her trial was hard, very
hard to bear, she remembered from whom it came, and not a murmur
escaped her. Devotedly attached to her husband, she deeply lamented
her loss, still she sorrowed not as one without hope: she had the
consolation of knowing few were better prepared for the change; and
she strove to take comfort in reflecting how greatly her grief would
have been augmented, were not such the case. But she felt that her
shield had been taken from her; and knowing how precarious was her own
health, she saw how desolate would be her child, should it please God
to remove her also, but a true Christian cannot mourn long; and as the
tears of agony would force themselves down her cheek, and her feelings
almost overpower her, she flew to her bible and in its gracious
promises to the afflicted, found that support and consolation, the
mere worldling can neither judge of, nor taste. Some delay, though no
actual doubt, as to ultimately obtaining her pension, had caused
inconvenience, as all their ready money had been absorbed in the
alterations of their house, though they had observed the utmost
economy, and demands were made which they had not at the time funds to
meet. Ethelind was miserable, but Mrs. Fortescue bore against all,
trusting something would turn up,--and so it did; for while discussing
the matter, a letter came, with an enclosure, from an old school
fellow, begging them to procure her board and lodging in the village
for a few months, intimating how much she would like it, if they could
accommodate her themselves. The terms for the first quarter were
highly remunerative and they gladly acceded to Miss Trevor's
proposition, and the few requisite preparations being made, we will,
if our reader pleases, go back to the evening when mother and daughter
sat awaiting the arrival of their new inmate.

Mrs. Fortescue had never seen Beatrice Trevor, but Ethelind was loud
in her praises. They sat in anxious expectation much beyond the usual
time for the arrival of the stage, and were just giving her up for the
night, when the rumbling of wheels was heard, and a post chaise drove
up, out of which sprang a young lady who in another moment was clasped
in Ethelind's arms, and introduced to her mother, who welcomed her
most kindly.

"Oh what a little Paradise!" said Beatrice, looking round her, "how
happy you must be here. Do Ethelind let me have one peep outside ere
daylight is gone;" so saying, she darted through the French casement,
on to the lawn, which sloped down to the water's edge. "Well I
declare, this is a perfect Elysium, I am so glad I made up my mind to
come here, instead of going with the Fultons to Cheltenham."

"I am indeed rejoiced that you are so pleased with our retreat, my
dear Miss Trevor, it is indeed a lovely spot."

"No Miss Trevor, if you please, my dear madam: it must be plain
Beatrice, and you must regard me as you do Ethelind, and be a mother
to me; for I know I greatly need a monitress; for you will find me, I
fear a sad giddy mad-cap."

Mrs. Fortescue smiling benignly promised acquiescence, and taking her
hand, which she grasped affectionately; led her into the next room,
where tea was waiting. After which, Ethelind took her up stairs, and
showed her the little bedroom prepared for her. They remained here
some time, chatting over their old school days, till summoned to
prayers. On taking leave for the night, Mrs. Fortescue begged if at
all heavy in the morning, that Beatrice would not hurry up. But she
arose early, much refreshed and delighted with all she saw. Ethelind
soon joined her, and offered to help her unpack, and arrange her
things, while the only servant they had, prepared the breakfast.

Soon as the morning meal was over, and little necessary arrangements
made, Ethelind proposed a ramble, which was gladly acceded to on the
part of Beatrice. They passed through an orchard into a lane, and as
they crossed a rustic bridge, the village church came in view. It was
a small gothic structure, standing in the burial ground, and as they
approached it, Beatrice was struck with admiration at the beds of
flowers, then blooming in full perfection on the graves; this is a
very beautiful, and, by no means, uncommon sight in South Wales; but
she had never seen it before. "Well, I declare, this is lovely;
really, Ethelind, to render the charm of romance complete, you ought
to have a very interesting young curate, with pale features and dark
hair and eyes."

"And so we have," said Ethelind, "and had he sat for his picture, you
could not have drawn a more correct likeness; but I regret to say, Mr.
Barclay's stay is not likely to be permanent, as one of Lord Eardly's
sons is to have the living, soon as the family returns from the
Continent, which we are all sorry for; as short as the time is, that
Mr. Barclay has been among us, he is generally liked, and from his
manner, we think the curacy, little as it is, an object to him; though
even now, he does a great deal of good, and you would hardly believe
all he has accomplished. I wish he were here, for I am sure you would
like him."

"I think," said Beatrice, "it is well he is not, for I might fall in
love with him, and then--"

"And then, what?" asked Ethelind.

"Why it must end in disappointment to both; for if he is poor and I am
poor, it would be little use our coming together; but were I rich, as
I expected to have been, then I might have set my cap at your young
curate, and rewarded his merit."

"Oh!" said Ethelind, "he deserves to be rich, he would make such good
use of wealth, for even now, he is very charitable."

"Charitable!" re-echoed Beatrice, "a curate, on perhaps less than a
hundred a year, must have a deal to be charitable with. Absurd: I
grant you he may have the heart, but certainly not the means."

"I know not," said Ethelind, "but I hear continually of the good he
does, and his kindness to the poor, and doubt if the Honourable
Frederic Eardly will do as much."

"Out upon these proud scions of nobility, I have not common patience
with the younger members of the aristocracy, taking holy orders solely
for the sake of aggrandizing the elder branches of the family; they
are rarely actuated by pious motives."

"We had only one service a-day till Mr. Barclay came, and now he
officiates morning and evening, besides managing to do duty, in the
afternoon, for a sick clergyman, who lives five miles off, and has a
large family, two of whom our worthy curate educates,--"

"No more," Ethelind, or my heart will be irrecoverably gone; but what
large house is that I see among the trees?"

"That is Eardly House."

"And do the family ever reside there?"

"They have not, since we have been in this part of the world, but when
in England, I am told, they spend part of every summer here."

"And if they come, they will spoil both our pleasure and our privacy;
say what you will, great people are a nuisance in a small village."

"To those who are situated like us, I grant it is unpleasant, but they
may do a great deal of good to their poor tenants. But, hark, it is
striking two,--our dinner hour,--mamma will wonder what is become of
us; there is a short cut through the Park, which we will take, it will
save, at least, a quarter of a mile." So through the Park they went,
and as they left it, to cross the road, a gentleman suddenly turned
the corner, and Mr. Barclay stood full before them.

"Why, Mr. Barclay," exclaimed Ethelind, "where, in the name of wonder,
did you come from? did you rise from the lake, or drop from the
clouds? I thought you were many miles away."

"And so I expected to be," said he, shaking hands with her, and bowing
to Beatrice, "but circumstances wholly unexpected, compelled me to
return."

"And are you going to remain?"

"For some months, I believe."

"I am really glad to hear it, and so, I am sure, will mamma be; but in
the agreeable surprise your unlooked for return gave, I forgot to
introduce Miss Trevor." The conversation now took a general turn, and
Mr. Barclay accompanied them to their door, where he only staid to
shake hands with Mrs. Fortescue, and then took his leave, promising to
return in the evening.

As may naturally be supposed, many weeks followed of delightful
intercourse; Mr. Barclay, when ever it did not interfere with his
duties, was the constant attendant of Ethelind, and Beatrice; he spent
every evening at Mrs. Fortescue's cottage, affording much speculation
to the village gossips, as to which of the two young ladies would
ultimately become the curate's choice. With their aid he carried out
his much cherished object of establishing a Sunday School, and
everything was going on quietly, till, at length, an unusual bustle
was observed in the village; artizans of every description were sent
from London, and the news was soon spread, that after the necessary
repairs and preparations were completed, the family might be expected.

This was anything but welcome intelligence to Ethelind and Beatrice,
who feared all their enjoyment would be disturbed. When Mr. Barclay
came in the evening, he confirmed the report and little else was
talked of.

"It is really provoking," said Ethelind "I am quite of Beatrice's
opinion, and think great folks anything but desirable in such a small
place, at least, to people circumstanced as we are."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8