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

Till five minutes to twelve all was quiet as the grave, and then
commenced the slamming of the doors and knockings, and thumpings, as
if done with the instrument the paviours use to beat down the stones
they pave with. This continued some minutes, and then the door
gradually opened, and a female, tall and thin, entered, dressed in an
old fashioned yellow brocade, with a sweeping train. Over her head was
thrown an immense gauze veil; her features were sharp and she was very
pale. She paused as she entered, and advancing half way from the door
to the bed she again made a full stop, upon which papa rose up and sat
on the bed, when she threw out her arms, exclaiming:

"Impious and daring mortal; why presumest thou to intrude here, where
none like thee are permitted to come? Of all those who have attempted
it. None have ever been left to tell the tale!"

"Indeed!" said my father advancing towards her. "I trust you will make
me an exception, however."

"Hold!" said she "nor dare come nigh to one, whose nature is so
different to thine own."

"Aye!" said my father "who then and what art thou?"

"Not flesh and blood as thou art; again I ask, rash mortal, why are
_thou_ here?"

"I remained this night, madam, in the hopes of meeting you, that I
might inform you that having purchased this property, I purpose
residing on it, at least six months of the year, consequently, I must
request you and your friends, supernatural or human, to quit the place
altogether."

"Many before," said she, "have tried, but vainly, to retain possession
and to attempt it would be fatal."

"Enough," said my father drawing a pistol from a belt under his coat,
"if you are really of a spiritual nature, my weapon will be harmless,
if you are not, the consequences be upon your own head." As he spoke
he pointed the pistol at her heart. With a courage worthy a better
cause, she darted by him and tried one or two of the wainscot panels
as if seeking a private spring, which Davy who, was fully awake by
this time perceiving, sprang up, and caught hold of her, grasping her
tightly; she wrestled with him with the strength of a lioness, and but
for papa's help, she must have escaped; he now fired the pistol at the
wainscot, to show her it really contained a slug, which he thought she
might doubt, and taking the fellow instrument from his pocket, told
her it was loaded like the other and that, unless she that moment
really and truly confessed who and what she was, and by whom employed,
her hours were numbered.

Trembling and almost gasping for breath, she fell on her knees and
implored mercy.

"It can be shown," said my father "only on one condition, a full
confession of every thing connected with your being here."

"But," faltered she, "if I do shall I be given up to _them_ and they
will surely kill me if I am."

"Tell the truth," said my father, "and if, as I judge from your last
words; you are the tool of others, you shall be protected, and if
deserving, or even repentant, shall be cared for: but stay," said he,
pouring out a glass of wine, "you are greatly agitated, take this and
then sit down. Now, if you will tell the truth, you may dismiss your
fears, and by making the only reparation in your power, a full
disclosure, you may also make a friend of me."

"Indeed Sir I will, for I feel sure you will keep your word."

"You see before you one, who till the last few years, knew not the
ways of sin. I was carefully and tenderly brought up some miles from
here; but forming an acquaintance with a young man, I married him
against the wishes of my parents. I soon found out he was a smuggler,
for he brought me to these parts, where I have been compelled to act
the character you saw this evening, to prevent any body buying the
place, it being so near the sea and having a passage under ground it
just suited for the purpose. The gang consists of six men who are all
but one gone out with a boat to fetch a cargo; the moon sets about
half past three, when they will bring it in. Had you been here last
night they were all in the cave."

"Would you like to return to the paths of duty and virtue?" asked my
father.

"Oh yes Sir, but how can I, who will now look on me, how can I leave
one, who though so wicked and I fear hardened in wickedness is still
very dear to me?"

"Only purpose to do rightly," said my father, and God will surely open
a way for you. All you have to do, is to pray to and trust in him."

"Oh Sir that is what my poor old father would say, that is just how he
used to talk to me;" and she fell to crying bitterly.

"Is he still living?"

"He is Sir, for a letter I wrote begging his forgiveness, was returned
to a neighbouring post-office, only the other day."

Papa then insisted on her taking some more refreshment, and looking at
his watch perceived it was nearly one o'clock: much was to be done,
ere the smugglers returned. The woman informed him that only one then
remained who ought to have been on the watch, to light a beacon
prepared in case of any danger, but that there was so little fear of
any thing of the kind, that he had freely indulged in spirits, of
which there were plenty in the cave and was now fast asleep, in a
state of intoxication, consequently, could be secured without any
difficulty. She accompanied papa and Davy to the bed, but on reaching
it started back with horror, and would have fallen, had not the latter
caught her; for the wretched being that lay before them, was her
husband who had returned wounded and from the state of exhaustion he
was in, it appeared dangerously so. She was alarmed, and both papa and
Davy were so too, least the man they expected to find had escaped, and
given the alarm; but it was not the case; for at a little distance,
they found him lying on the ground, so completely under the influence
of drink, that he was easily secured. Papa now concluded it better to
light the beacon, particularly when he learnt that doing so would
deter the smugglers from running their cargo, till another signal was
given. The poor creature entreated that something might be done for
her husband, and papa much moved by her distress, told her a surgeon
should be sent for, but that he did not consider it safe for either
Davy Evans or himself to remain alone. She then pointed to a door
which contained the arms and ammunition of the gang, in case of being
discovered. He secured the key of this, and then despatched Davy to
the village, who soon roused Griffy Davis to whom he triumphantly
announced the capture of the ghost, and speedily returned with several
of the villagers, whom he assured should be well rewarded from the
spoils of the smugglers. The latter soon after seeing the light
announcing danger sent a secret emissary, who finding all was
discovered, returned to the others, who immediately left the country;
and although a strict search has been made, no tidings have yet been
heard of them, and it is supposed they have flown to foreign parts.

It was ludicrous to see and hear Mrs. Davis, she thought papa an
extraordinary man before, but now, she knew not how to express her
admiration of his courage and discernment even I, fell in for a share
of her praises. "Who could," she said "have thought it!" indeed, every
one seemed surprised, and wondered they never suspected the truth, as
papa did, but I must leave all their surmises and curious remarks till
we meet, only telling you, Jenkins the wounded man lived long enough
to testify sincere repentance and poor Mary his wife, was restored to
her parents through the intercession of papa who thinks she will
now-become a respectable character. The man who was taken, was
doubtless more guilty than could be proved, however he was found
sufficiently so, to be sent to hard labour for three months in the
neighbouring Penitentiary. He proved to be the identical Jamie Reece,
who was said to have been spirited away by the ghost, but who, in
fact, joined the gang which had just lost one of their number.

An immense quantity of contraband goods were found secreted.

I must now conclude this voluminous epistle and trust we shall soon
meet, when I have a great deal more to say. And next summer you will I
hope be able to come spend a month here.

I remain, my dear Charles,

Yours sincerely,

FRED. GRAYSON.

LORD BYRON.

A man of rank and of capacious soul,
Who riches had, and fame beyond desire,
An heir to flattery, to titles born,
And reputation and luxurious life;
Yet not content with his ancestral name,
Or to be known, because his fathers were,
He, on this height hereditary, stood,
And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart
To take another step. Above him, seemed
Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat
Of canonized bards; and thitherward,
By nature taught, and native melody,
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye.
No cost was spared--what books he wished, he read;
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see
He saw. And first in rambling school-boy days
Britannia's mountain walks and heath girt lakes,
And story telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
And maids as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul,
With grandeur filled, and melody, and love.
Then travel came and took him where he wished;
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp,
And mused alone on ancient mountain brows,
And mused on battle fields, where valor fought
In other days: and mused on men, grey
With years: and drank from old and fabulous wells,
And plucked the vine that first-born prophets plucked;
And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave
Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste,
The heavens and earth of every country; saw
Where'er the old inspiring genii dwelt,
Aught that could expand, refine the soul,
Thither he went, and meditated there.
He touched his harp and nations heard, entranced,
As some vast river of unfailing source.
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed
And ope'd new fountains in the human heart
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, _his_ fresh as morning rose,
And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath their arguments seemed struggling, while
He from above descending, stopped to touch
The loftiest thought, and proudly stooped as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will, with all her glorious Majesty;
He laid his hand upon "the ocean's wave,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend,
And wove his garland of the light'ning's wing,
In sportive twist;--the light'ning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching up the storm in vengeance, seemed
Then turned: and with the grasshopper, who song
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed,
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were,
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms,
His brothers; younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed. All passions of all men,
The wild, the same, the gentle, the severe;
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane,
All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity:
All that was hated, and all that was dear,
All that was hoped, all that was feared by man,
He tossed about as tempest withered leaves.
Then smiling looked upon the wreck he made.
With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness,
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself,
But back into his soul retired, alone.
Dark sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet,
So ocean from the plains, his waves had late
To desolation swept, retired in pride,
Exulting in the glory of his might,
And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought,
As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
To which the stars did reverence as it passed,
So he, through learning and through fancy took
His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top
Of fame's dread mountain sat. Not soiled and worn
As if he from the earth had labored up,
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair
He looked, which down from higher regions came,
And perched it there to see what lay beneath.
The nations gazed and wondered much and praised;
Critics before him fell in humble plight,
Confounded fell and made debasing signs
To catch his eye; and stretched, and swelled themselves
To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words
Of admiration vast: and many, too
Many, that aimed to imitate his flight,
With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made,
And gave abundant sport to after days.

Great man! the nations gazed and wondered much,
And praised and many called his evil good.
Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness;
And kings to do him honor took delight:
Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame,
Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full;
He died!--he died of what? of wretchedness!
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump
Of fame; drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts
That millions might have quenched, then died
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.
His goddess, nature, woo'd, embrac'd, enjoy'd;
Fell from his arms abhorred!

SELF-RELIANCE.

"Well, my dear Miss Willoughby, how is your mother this morning," said
a venerable looking clergyman as he pressed the hand of a fair young
girl, apparently, not more than eighteen. Her face was pale with
watching, and her eyes were red with weeping, and though she seemed in
deep distress, there was a subdued and resigned manner about her, as
she replied:

"Not any better, sir, I fear; she has had a very bad night, her cough
has been so very troublesome." Saying this, she opened a door which
led to an inner apartment, into which Mr. Montgomery entered, and
approached the bed, followed by the afflicted daughter, who now tried
to assume a composure of manner, very foreign to her feelings, as
faintly smiling, she exclaimed, "Here, dear mamma, is our kind friend
again." The poor sufferer looked anxiously at him. Her attenuated
frame and sharpened features told the sad tale, that consumption had
done its work, and the hand of death was upon her.

"Well, my dear madam," said the good pastor, "I will not ask if you
are better; I will only hope the same spirit of resignation to the
Divine Will fills your mind as when I left you, yesterday. Remember in
_whom_ you trust, and for _whom_. There are never-failing promises
recorded there," pointing to a Bible that lay on the bed, "and thrice
happy are they who can rely on them in affliction's hour. I have read
them to you, and your own eye, you tell me, has often rested on them;
you have only, therefore, to 'commit your way unto the Lord, and he
shall bring it to pass.'"

"Oh, yes," replied the suffering woman, in a feeble tone, "I know it
all; I know He is able and willing to take care of my hapless
children. I _can_ and _do_ trust them to Him; feeling sure He will
more than supply the place of the only parent left them; but, oh, my
dear sir, convinced, as I am, of all this, it is, nevertheless, hard
to leave them; may He forgive my weakness; but human nature is such,
that--" here she paused from exhaustion.

"It is, my dear madam, meant that we should do so; and trial would
lose the object for which it is sent, did we not feel its bitterness;
but you must try, and rejoice that you are allowed to manifest both
faith and hope, under so severe and trying a dispensation. Let me
entreat you to remember the many instances recorded in scripture,
where answer has been given from on high to the prayers of those who
can faithfully cling to them." But while the worthy man strove to lead
the sufferer beyond this sublunary sphere, his heart bled for the poor
children she was leaving. The first blow she received, was the sudden
news of her husband's death in the Crimea, which came to her ears so
abruptly, that her nerves received a shock, from which she did not
rally for months. This was followed by a letter, informing her that
some property which had been left to her a few months previous to
Captain Willoughby's departure, had been claimed by a distant branch
of the family, as heir at law, the testamentary document being found
invalid. These circumstances, joined to delicate health, following
each other so quickly, proved too much for feeble nature, and she sunk
under them.

Her excellent daughter, whose fragile form seemed little calculated to
breast the storms of adversity that now threatened her, was unwearied
in attention to her dying parent. She saw there were heavy trials
before her, and knew they could not be averted, though she could not
tell how she was to meet them; but there was a trusting feeling in her
young heart, that must ever be inseparable from a trust in God's
over-ruling providence; and as she sat through the long nights,
watching by her mother's bed, a thousand vague shadows of the future
flitted before her, and many schemes offered themselves to her mind;
she tried to drive them off, for it seemed to her sinful. She durst
not _think_, but she could _pray_; and she did so; and oh! the
eloquence of that simple trusting prayer, that her God would protect
and bless her and the two young beings, whose sole dependance she was
soon to be. How widely changed was her position in a few short months!
The petted, and almost idolized child of doting parents, whose every
wish had been anticipated, must now soon exert herself to support her
orphan brother and sister.

Mrs. Willoughby, as is often the case with those suffering from
pulmonary affection, went off very suddenly; and now was every
threatened evil likely to burst on poor Helen's devoted head; but
though weak in the flesh, she was strong in faith. Relying, as she had
been early led to do, on her God, she seemed to rise with fresh energy
under accumulated trials. She soothed and kissed the weeping children
by turns, but their grief was so violent, they refused to be
comforted.

The night her mother was consigned to the grave, was indeed a trying
one to Helen. The good clergyman, who had gone back to the house after
the funeral, now knelt in prayer with the bereaved ones, and
commending them to the care of their Heavenly Father, took leave,
promising to be with them early next day.

"Farewell, my child," said he, to Helen, "fear not for the future, for
it is a merciful and loving God who lays his rod upon you; and though
the clouds of darkness loom heavily around you, with Him nothing is
impossible; and He could, in one moment, disperse them, if it were
better for you. May you be purified by the affliction He sends. Good
night, once more, and remember that not a sparrow falls to the ground
unheeded by Him who made it."

How was it that this feeble child of affliction, went to bed that
night in some degree composed? For every earthly hope seemed blighted.
Her parents, one by one were re-called; her little patrimony taken
away; and she and the little ones left almost friendless. Was it to
make her the better feel where she could and must place her sole
dependance? Doubtless it was. Oh! ye happy sons and daughters of
prosperity, do you read this description, which many an afflicted one
is now realizing, with apathy? Do ye regard it as an over-wrought
scene of trial? Believe me it is no such thing. While you are
surrounded by every earthly comfort, I will say by every earthly
luxury; lolling, perhaps, on your sofas, or in your easy chairs, your
cup filled to overflowing with every blessing, hundreds of your fellow
creatures, young as you, are suffering privations, you hardly like to
_think_ of, but which they, alas! have _to bear_.

Helen rose early, refreshed by a long sleep, brought on by many nights
of broken rest. She kissed the tears off her sleeping brother and
sister's cheeks, and having recommended herself and them to God,
proceeded to commence the arduous duties that now devolved on her.
When Mr. Montgomery came, he found her doing that which he was about
to suggest, viz., preparing for an immediate sale of the furniture, by
taking an inventory, while the faithful servant was busily employed
cleaning the house, for which a tenant was luckily found. The two
young ones were doing their best to aid their sister. Mr. Montgomery
wished them sent to the vicarage, but Helen would not hear of it till
the day of, or after the sale. Well has it been said, that God tempers
the wind to the shorn lamb; and so did she find it; for on applying,
through Mr. Montgomery, to a neighbouring auctioneer, he,
gratuitously, attended, and did all in his power to dispose of the
things to advantage. Mr. Willoughby had taken the house on coming into
possession of the property and furnished it throughout, so that being
in good order, most of the furniture fetched a fair price. The day
after Mrs. Willoughby died Mr. Montgomery had written to a sister of
his, who lived twenty miles off, to enquire for a small house, should
there be such in her neighbourhood. She sent word there was a cottage
in the suburbs, which she thought would just suit, and, therefore, had
taken it for one year certain, it being a very moderate rent. Although
greater part of the things sold, had obtained a fair price, there were
several useful articles that would have gone for little, and but for
the good clergyman, have been completely sacrificed, these he bought
in; among them was a large carpet and the piano; he thought they
might, if the money were needed, be privately and more advantageously
disposed of. The funeral expenses were, comparatively, small; for
although Helen desired to pay every respect to her mother's memory,
Mr. Montgomery convinced her it was an imperative duty on her, to
avoid unnecessary expenditure, as she knew not what calls might yet be
made on her resources. It next became a consideration how the things
reserved from the sale, could be got, with the least expense, to their
new place of residence; but Nancy who was present said there was a
distant relative of hers, a farmer, who volunteered to take them in
his large waggon, which he said, by starting at midnight, could be
accomplished in one day, and as it was anything but a busy time, he
could do it with little loss; added to which, he expressed himself
right glad to be able to serve a young lady, who, with her mother, had
been so uncommonly kind to his only parent, during a long illness.
When did a good action ever lose its reward? Helen thankfully accepted
Mr. Montgomery's kind offer of taking the young ones to stay with him
till she was settled in their new abode, but Henry would not hear of
it; he insisted on remaining with his sister and doing all he could to
help her. So that not liking to leave Fanny alone, it was agreed they
both should accompany her. She was not sorry for this, as she thought
the bustle and novelty would divert their minds from their sorrow; for
herself, so much was required of her, both to think and to do, that
she had no time to dwell on the desolation of her position.

I must not here forget to state, that, though only eighteen, Helen had
experienced other troubles than those which now bowed her down; and
they were such as the youthful mind ever feels most keenly. She had,
with the sanction of her parents, been engaged to Edward Cranston; he
was himself considered unexceptionable, and the match was thought a
very eligible one; he was five years Helen's senior, and had just
entered the practice of the law, with every prospect of being called
to the bar. He was first attracted by her beauty and afterwards won by
her amiable and pleasing manner. Idolized by his own family, where she
first met him, and unremitting in his attention to herself, she soon
felt attached, and, confidingly, plighted her troth, and all seemed
the _couleur de rose_. His stay was some time prolonged, but he had,
at length, to leave; it was a hard struggle to him to part from her;
and he did not do so without many promises of fidelity. To see him
leave her, was the first trial she knew. The pang was severe; but his
devotion was such, that she doubted not his faith, and most
indignantly would she have repudiated the idea that his love for her
could lessen; but his disposition was naturally volatile, and once
away from her, and within the blandishments of other beauty, he could
not resist its power. He became enslaved by the fascinations of
another, and poor Helen was almost forgotten. Painfully did the
conviction force itself upon her, as his letters became first, less
frequent, and then less affectionate. Love is generally quicksighted;
but Helen's own heart was so pure, and so devoted, that it was hard to
believe she was no longer beloved. Hers was, indeed, a delicate
position. She noticed the alteration in Edward Cranston's style of
writing, and fancied it proceeded from any cause but diminution of
regard for her; that, she thought, could not be possible; but soon,
alas! did she learn, the (to her) sad truth, that her affianced lover
was devoted to another, a most beautiful girl, residing in the same
town, and it was said, they were engaged, and too true were the
reports, which the following letter confirmed.

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