me with her smiles—her perfect patience and tranquil hope. It was to her a privilege to be united to a clergyman, and to find her earthly joy combined with usefulness and good. In our walks, I have painted the future which was never to be—the bliss we were never to experience. I have spoken of the parsonage, and its little lawn and many flowers—pictured myself at work—visiting the poor—comforting the sick—herself my dear attendant at the cottage doors, with hosts of little ones about her, whom she might call her children, and for whom she might exercise more than a mother's care. She could not listen to such promises, and not grow happier in her inexperience than reality could ever render her; and yet sighs, sighs, ominous sighs, would from the first escape her. Still for a twelvemonth our nook of earth was Paradise, and sorrow, the universal lot, was banished from our door. The tales which I had been accustomed to hear of the world's deceit and falsehood seemed groundless and cruel—the inventions of envious disappointed minds—whose ambition had betrayed them into hopes, too preposterous for fulfilment Happiness was on earth—did I not find her in my daily walk?—for such as were not loth to greet her with a lowly and contented spirit. I had no present care. The days were prosperous. I obtained a scholarship in my college at the end of the first year, which was worth to me at least fifty pounds per annum. This, not requiring, I saved up. I worked hard during the day—withdrew myself from all intercourse with men, and every evening was rewarded with the smiles of her for whose dear sake all labour was so easy. Oh, the tranquillity and ineffable bliss of those distant bygone days! Bygone, did I say? No—they exist still. Poverty—misery—persecution—such things pass away, and are in truth a dream. The troubles of yesterday vanish with the sun that set upon them—but those hours, deeply impressed upon the soul, have left their mark indelible; the intense, unspeakable joy that filled them, lingers yet, and brightens up one spot that stands alone, distinct in life. Cast when I will one single glance there, and I behold the stationary sun shine. I do so now. None feel so vigorous and well as they who are on the eve of some prostrating sickness. Dreaming of security, and as I looked about, perceiving from no side the probability or show of evil, I was in truth entangled in a maze of peril. My summer's day was at an end. The cloud had gathered—was overhead, and ready to burst and overwhelm me. For one twelvemonth, as I have said, I felt the perfect enjoyment of life, and was blest. At the end of that period I received a letter from my uncle. It was full of tenderness and affection. The first few lines were taken up with enquiries—and immediately afterwards there came a proposition. It was to this effect. "My mother wished to retire from business; it was still a lucrative one, and she offered it to me. She undertook to leave in the firm a capital sufficiently large to carry it on, and receiving a moderate interest only for this sum, she would relinquish all other profit in favour of her son." I read the letter, and had faith in its sincerity. As I read it, a devil whispered delusively into my ear, and the sounds were music there, until my ruin was completed. I knew the business to be affluent and thriving. The income derived from it enabled my mother to live luxuriously. Half the sum would afford every wished-for comfort to my Anna, and much less would enable us at once to marry. Here was the rock on which I went to pieces—here was the giddy light that blinded me to all considerations—here was the sophistry that made all other reasoning dull and valueless. I did not stop to enquire what movement of feeling could operate so generously upon my uncle. If an unfavourable suggestion forced itself upon me, it was expelled at once; and persuasion of the purity of his motives was too easy, where my wish was father to the thought. If I remained at college, years might elapse before our union. Now, immediately, if I accepted this unlooked-for offer—she was mine, and a home, such as in other circumstances I could never hope to give her, was ready for her reception! I could think of nothing else, but I beheld in the unexpected good—the outstretched hand of Providence. Full of my delight, I communicated the intelligence to Anna; but very different was its effect on her. She read the letter, and looked at me as if she wished to read the most hidden of my secret wishes.
"'What have you thought of doing, then?' she asked.
"'Accepting the proposal, Anna,' I replied, 'with your consent.'
"'Never with that,' she answered almost solemnly. 'My lips shall never bid you turn from the course which you have chosen, and to which you have been called. You do not require wealth—you have said so many times—and I am sure it is not necessary for your happiness.'
"'I think not of myself, dear Anna,' I replied. 'I have more than enough for my own wants. It is for your sake that I would accept their offer, and become richer than we can ever be if I refuse it. Our marriage now depends upon a hundred things—is distant at the best, and may never be. The moment that I consent to this arrangement, you are mine for ever.'
"'Warton,' she said, more seriously than ever, 'I am yours. You have my heart, and I have engaged to give you, when you ask it, this poor hand. In any condition of life—I am yours. But I tell you that I never can deliberately ask you to resign the hopes which we have cherished—with, as we have believed, the approbation and the blessing of our God. Your line of duty is, as I conceive it—marked. Whilst you proceed, steadily and with a simple mind—come what may, your pillow will never be moistened with tears of remorse. If affliction and trial come—they will come as the chastening of your Father, who will give you strength to bear the load you have not cast upon yourself. But once diverge from the straight and narrow path, and who can see the end of difficulty and danger? You are unused to business, you know nothing of its forms, its ways—you are not fit for it. Your habits—your temperament are opposed to it, and you cannot enter the field as you should—to prosper. Think not of me. I wish—my happiness, and joy, and pride will be to see you a respected minister of God. I am not impatient. If we do right, our reward will come at last. Let years intervene, and my love for you will burn as steadily as now. Do not be tempted—and do not let us think that good can result—if, for my sake, you are unfaithful—there!' She pointed upwards as she spoke, and for a moment the sinfulness of my wishes blazed before me—startled, and silenced me. I resolved to decline my uncle's offer; yet a week elapsed, and the letter was not written. But another came from him. It was one of tender reproach for my long silence, and it requested an immediate answer to the munificent proposal of my mother. If I refused it, a stranger would be called upon to enjoy my rights, and the opportunity for realizing a handsome fortune would never occur again. Such were its exciting terms, and once more, perplexed by desire and doubt, I appealed to the purer judgment of my Anna.
"She wept when she came to the close of the epistle, and had not a word to say.
"'I distress you, Anna,' said I, 'by my indecision. Dry your tears, my beloved; I will hesitate no longer.'
"'I know not what to do,' she faltered; 'if you should act upon my advice, and afterwards repent, you would never forgive me. Yet, I believe from my very soul that you should flee from this temptation. But do as you will—as seems wisest and best—and trust not to a weak woman. Do what reason and principle direct, and happen what will—I will be satisfied. One thing occurs to me. Can you trust your uncle?"
I hesitated.
"'I ask,' she continued, 'because you have often spoken of him as if you could not confidently. May he not have—I judge of him only from your report—some motive for his present conduct which we cannot penetrate? It is an unkind world, and the innocent and guileless are not safe from the schemes and contrivances of the wicked. I speak at random, but I am filled with alarm for you. You are safe now—but one step may be your ruin.'
"'You are right, Anna,' I replied; 'it is too great a venture, I cannot trust this man. I will not leave the path of duty. I will refuse his offer this very night.'
"And I did so. In her presence I wrote an answer to his letter, and declined respectfully the brilliant prospect which he had placed before me. The letter was dispatched—Anna was at peace, and my own mind was satisfied.
"It was, however, not my fate to pass safely through this fiery ordeal. Nothing but my destruction, final and entire, would satisfy my greedy
