"Selfishness, security, and sensuality," said the Doctor, "are predicted by our Saviour, as the character of the last times. In alluding to the antediluvian world, and the cause of its destruction, eating, drinking, and marrying could not be named in the gospel as things censurable in themselves, they being necessary to the very existence of that world which the abuse of them was tending to destroy. Our Saviour does not describe criminality by the excess, but by the spirit of the act. He speaks of eating, not gluttony; of drinking, not intoxication; of marriage, not licentious intercourse. This seems a plain intimation, that carrying on the transactions of the world in the spirit of the world, and that habitual deadness to the concerns of eternity, in beings so alive to the pleasures or the interests of the present moment, do not indicate a state of safety, even where gross acts of vice may be rare."

Mr. Stanley said it was his opinion that it is not by a few, or even by many, instances of excessive wickedness, that the moral state of a country is to be judged, but by a general averseness and indifference to _real_ religion. "A few examples of glaring impiety," said he, "may furnish more subject for declamation, but are not near so deadly a symptom. It is no new remark, that more men are undone by an excessive indulgence in things permitted, than by the commission of avowed sins."

"How happy," said Sir John, "are those who by their faith and piety are delivered from these difficulties!"

"My dear Belfield," replied Mr. Stanley, "where are those privileged beings? It is one sad proof of human infirmity, that the best men have continually these things to struggle with. What makes the difference is, that those whom we call good men struggle on to the end, while the others, not seeing the danger, do not struggle at all."

"Christians," said Dr. Barlow, "who would strictly keep within the bounds prescribed by their religion, should imitate the ancient Romans, who carefully watched that their G.o.d Terminus, who defined their limits, should never recede; the first step of his retreat, they said, would be the destruction of their security."

"But, Doctor," said Sir John, "pray what remedy do you recommend against this natural, I had almost said this invincible, propensity to over-value the world? I do not mean a propensity merely to over-rate its pleasures and its honors, but a disposition to yield to its dominion over the mind, to indulge a too earnest desire of standing well with it, to cherish a too anxious regard for its good opinion?"

"The knowledge of the disease," replied the worthy Doctor, "should precede the application of the remedy. Human applause is, by a worldly man, reckoned not only among the luxuries of life, but among articles of the first necessity. An undue desire to obtain it has certainly its foundation in vanity; and it is one of our grand errors to reckon vanity a trivial fault. An over-estimation of character, and an anxious wish to conciliate all suffrages, is an infirmity from which even worthy men are not exempt; nay, it is a weakness from which, if they are not governed by a strict religious principle, worthy men are in most danger.

Reputation being in itself so very desirable a good, those who actually possess it, and in some sense deserve to possess it, are apt to make it their standard, and to rest in it as their supreme aim and end."

"You have," said Sir John, "exposed the latent principle; it remains that you suggest its cure."

"I believe," said Dr. Barlow, "that the most effectual remedy would be, to excite in the mind frequent thoughts of our divine Redeemer, and of _his_ estimate of that world on which we so fondly set our affections, and whose approbation we are too apt to make the chief object of our ambition."

"I allow it to have been necessary," replied Sir John, "that Christ, in the great end which he had to accomplish, should have been poor, and neglected, and contemned, and that he should have trampled on the great things of this world, human applause among the rest; but I do not conceive that this obligation extends to his followers, nor that we are called upon to partake the poverty which he preferred, or to renounce the wealth and grandeur which he set at naught, or to imitate him in making himself of no reputation."

"It is true," said the Doctor, "we are not called to resemble him in his external circ.u.mstances. It is not our bounden duty to be necessarily exposed to the same contempt; nor are we obliged to embrace the same ignominy. Yet it seems a natural consequence of our Christian profession, that the things which he despised, we should not venerate; the vanities he trampled on, we should not admire; the world which he censured, we ought not to idolize; the ease which he renounced, we should not rate too highly; the fame which he set at naught, we ought not anxiously to covet. Surely, the followers of him who was 'despised and rejected of men' should not seek their highest gratification from the flattery and applause of men. The truth is, in all discourses on this subject, we are compelled continually to revert to the observation, that Christianity is a religion of the _heart_. And though we are not called upon to partake the poverty and meanness of his situation, yet the precept is clear and direct, respecting the temper by which we should be governed: 'Let the same _mind_ be in you which was also in Christ Jesus.' If, therefore, we happen to possess that wealth and grandeur which he disdained, we should _possess them as though we possessed them not_. We have a fair and liberal permission to use them as his gift, and to his glory, but not to erect them into the supreme objects of our attachment. In the same manner, in every other point, it is still the spirit of the act, the temper of the mind, to which we are to look. For instance, I do not think that I am obliged to show my faith by sacrificing my son, nor my obedience by selling all that I have, to give to the poor; but I think I am bound by the spirit of these two powerful commands, to practice a cheerful acquiescence in the whole will of G.o.d, in suffering and renouncing as well as in doing, when I know what is really his will."

CHAPTER XX.

The pleasant reflections excited by the interesting conversation of the evening were cruelly interrupted by my faithful Edwards. "Sir," said he, when he came to attend me, "do you know that all the talk of the Hall to-night at supper was, that Miss Stanley is going to be married to young Lord Staunton. He is a cousin of Mrs. Carlton's, and Mr. Stanley's coachman brought home the news from thence yesterday. I could not get at the very truth, because Mrs. Comfit was out of the way, but all the servants agree, that though he is a lord, and rich and handsome, he is not half good enough for her. Indeed, sir, they say he is no better than he should be."

I was thunderstruck at this intelligence. It was a trial I had not suspected. "Does he visit here, then, Edwards," said I, "for I have neither seen nor heard of him?" "No sir," said he, "but Miss meets him at Mr. Carlton's." This shocked me beyond expression. Lucilla meet a man at another house? Lucilla carry on a clandestine engagement? Can Mrs.

Carlton be capable of conniving at it? Yet if it were not clandestine, why should he not visit at the Grove?

These tormenting reflections kept me awake the whole night. To acquit Lucilla, Edward's story made difficult; to condemn her my heart found impossible. One moment I blamed my own foolish timidity, which had kept me back from making any proposal, and the next, I was glad that the delay would enable me to sift the truth, and to probe her character. "If I do not find consistency here," said I, "I shall renounce all confidence in human virtue."

I arose early, and went to indulge my meditations in the garden. I saw Mr. Stanley sitting under the favorite oak. I was instantly tempted to go and open my heart to him, but seeing a book in his hand, I feared to interrupt him, and was turning into another walk till I had acquired more composure. He called after me, and invited me to sit down.

How violent were my fluctuations! How inconsistent were my feelings? How much at variance was my reason with my heart! The man on earth with whom I wished to confer invited me to a conference. With a mind under the dominion of a pa.s.sion which I was eager to declare, yet agitated with an uncertainty which I had as much reason to fear might be painfully as pleasantly removed, I stood doubtful whether to seize or to decline the occasion which thus presented itself to me. A moment's reflection however convinced me that the opportunity was too inviting to be neglected. My impatience for an eclairciss.e.m.e.nt on Lord Staunton's subject was too powerful to be any longer resisted.

At length with a most unfeigned diffidence, and a hesitation which I feared would render my words unintelligible, I ventured to express my tender admiration of Miss Stanley, and implored permission to address her.

My application did not seem to surprise him. He only gravely said, "We will talk of this some future day." This cold and laconic reply instantly sunk my spirits. I was shocked and visibly confused. "It is too late," said I to myself; "happy Lord Staunton!" He saw my distress, and taking my hand, with the utmost kindness of voice and manner said, "My dear young friend, content yourself for the present with the a.s.surance of my entire esteem and affection. This is a very early declaration. You are scarcely acquainted with Lucilla; you do not yet know," added he smiling, "half her faults."

"Only tell me, my dear sir," said I, a little re-a.s.sured and grasping his hand, "that when you know all mine, you will not reject me. Only tell me that you feel no repugnance; that you have no other views; that Miss Stanley has no other"--here I stopped, my voice failed; the excess of my emotion prevented me from finishing my sentence. He encouragingly said, "I know not that Lucilla has any attachment. For myself, I have no views hostile to your wishes. You have a double interest in my heart.

You are endeared to me by your personal merit, and by my tender friendship for your beloved father. But be not impetuous. Form no sudden resolution. Try to a.s.sure yourself of my daughter's affection before you ask it of her. Remain here another month as my welcome guest, as the son of my friend. Take that month to examine your own heart, and to endeavor to obtain an interest in hers; we will then resume the subject."

"But, my dear sir," said I, "is not Lord Staunton--" "Set your heart at rest," said he. "Though we are both a little aristocratic in our political principles, yet when the compet.i.tion is for the happiness of life, and the interests of virtue, both Lucilla and her father think with Dumont, that

"A lord Opposed against a man, is but a man."

So saying, he quitted me; but with a benignity in his countenance and manner that infused not only consolation but joy into my heart. My spirits were at once elated. To be allowed to think of Lucilla! To be permitted to attach myself to her! To be sure her heart was not engaged!

To be invited to remain a month longer under the same roof with her; to see her; to hear her; to talk to her; all this was a happiness so great that I did not allow myself to repine because it was not all I had wished to obtain.

I met Mrs. Stanley soon after. I perceived by her illuminated countenance, that my proposal had been already communicated to her. I ventured to take her hand, and with the most respectful earnestness intreated her friendship; her good offices. "I dare not trust myself with you just now," said she with an affectionate smile; "Mr. Stanley will think I abet rebellion, if through my encouragement you should violate your engagements with him. But," added she, kindly pressing my hand; "you need not be much afraid of _me_. Mr. Stanley's sentiments on this point, as on all others, are exactly my own. We have but one heart and one mind, and that heart and mind are not unfavorable to your wishes." With a tear in her eyes and affection in her looks, she tore herself away, evidently afraid of giving way to her feelings.

I did not think myself bound by any point of honor to conceal the state of my heart from Sir John Belfield, who with his lady joined me soon after in the garden. I was astonished to find that my pa.s.sion for Miss Stanley was no secret to either of them. Their penetration had left me nothing to disclose. Sir John however looked serious, and affected an air of mystery which a little alarmed me. "I own," said he, "there is some danger of your success." I eagerly inquired what he thought I had to fear? "You have every thing to fear," replied he, in a tone of grave irony, "which a man not four-and-twenty, of an honorable family, with a clear estate of four thousand a year, a person that all the ladies admire, a mind which all the men esteem, and a temper which endears you to men, women, and children, can fear from a little country girl, whose heart is as free as a bird, and who, if I may judge by her smiles and blushes whenever you are talking to her, would have no mortal objection to sing in the same cage with you."

"It will be a sad dull novel, however," said Lady Belfield: "all is likely to go on so smoothly that we shall flag for want of incident. No difficulties, nor adventures to heighten the interest. No cruel step-dame, no tyrant father, no capricious mistress, no moated castle, no intriguing confidante, no treacherous spy, no formidable rival, not so much as a duel or even a challenge, I fear, to give variety to the monotonous scene."

I mentioned Edwards's report respecting Lord Staunton, and owned how much it had disturbed me. "That he admires her," said Lady Belfield, "is notorious. That his addresses have not been encouraged, I have also heard, but not from the family. As to Lucilla, she is the last girl that would ever insinuate even to me, to whom she is so unreserved, that she had rejected so great an offer. I have heard her express herself with an indignation, foreign to her general mildness, against women who are guilty of this fashionable, this dishonorable indelicacy."

"Well, but Charles," said Sir John "you must positively a.s.sume a little dejection, to diversify the business. It will give interest to your countenance and pathos to your manner, and tenderness to your accent.

And you must forget all attentions, and neglect all civilities. And you must appear absent, and _distrait_ and _reveur_; especially while your fate hangs in some suspense. And you must read Petrarch, and repeat Tibullus, and write sonnets. And when you are spoken to, you must not listen. And you must wander in the grove by moonshine, and talk to the Oreads, and the Dryads, and the Naiads; oh no, unfortunately, I am afraid there are no Naiads within hearing. You must make the woods vocal with the name of Lucilla; luckily 'tis such a poetical name that Echo won't be ashamed to repeat it. I have gone through it all, Charles, and know every highway and byway in the map of love. I will, however, be serious for one moment, and tell you for your comfort, that though at your age I was full as much in for it as you are now, yet after ten years' union, Lady Belfield has enabled me to declare

"How much the wife is dearer than the bride."

A tear glistened in her soft eyes, at this tender compliment.

Just at that moment, Lucilla happened to cross the lawn at a distance.

At sight of her, I could not, as I pointed to her, forbear exclaiming in the words of Sir John's favorite poet,

There doth beauty dwell, There most conspicuous, e'en in outward shape, Where dawns the high expression of a MIND.

"This is very fine," said Sir John, sarcastically; "I admire all you young enthusiastic philosophers, with your intellectual refinement. You pretend to be captivated only with _mind_. I observe, however, that previous to your raptures, you always take care to get this mind lodged in a fair and youthful form. This mental beauty is always prudently enshrined in some elegant corporeal frame, before it is worshiped. I should be glad to see some of these intellectual adorers in love with the mind of an old or ugly woman. I never heard any of you fall into ecstasies in descanting on the mind of your grandmother." After some further irony, they left me to indulge my meditations, in the nature of which a single hour had made so pleasant a revolution.

CHAPTER XXI.

The conversation of two men bred at the same school or college, when they happen to meet afterward, is commonly uninteresting, not to say tiresome, to a third person, as involving local circ.u.mstances in which he has no concern. But this was not always the case since the meeting of my two friends. Something was generally to be gained by their communications even on these unpromising topics.

At breakfast Mr. Stanley said, "Sir John, you will see here at dinner to-morrow our old college acquaintance, Ned Tyrrel. Though he does not commonly live at the family house in this neighborhood, but at a little place he has in Buckinghamshire, he comes among us periodically to receive his rents. He always invites himself, for his society is not the most engaging."

"I heard," replied Sir John, "that he became a notorious profligate after he left Cambridge, though I have lost sight of him ever since we parted there. But I was glad to learn lately that he is become quite a reformed man."

"He is so far reformed," replied Mr. Stanley, "that he is no longer grossly licentious. But in laying down the vices of youth, he has taken up successively those which he thought better suited to the successive stages of his progress. As he withdrew himself from his loose habits and connections, ambition became his governing pa.s.sion; he courted public favor, thirsted for place and distinction, and labored by certain obliquities, and some little sacrifices of principle, to obtain promotion. Finding it did not answer, and all his hopes failing, he now rails at ambition, wonders men will wound their consciences and renounce their peace for vain applause and 'the bubble reputation.' His sole delight at present, I hear, is in ama.s.sing money and reading controversial divinity. Avarice has supplanted ambition, just as ambition expelled profligacy.

"In the interval in which he was pa.s.sing from one of these stages to the other, in a very uneasy state of mind he dropped in by accident where a famous irregular preacher was disseminating his Antinomian doctrines.

Caught by his vehement but coa.r.s.e eloquence, and captivated by an alluring doctrine which promised much while it required little, he adopted the soothing but fallacious tenet. It is true, I hear he is become a more respectable man in his conduct, but I doubt, though I have not lately seen him, if his present state may not be rather worse than his former ones.

"In the two previous stages, he was disturbed and dissatisfied. Here he has taken up his rest. Out of this stronghold, it is not probable that any subsequent vice will ever drive him, or true religion draw him. He sometimes attends public worship, but as he thinks no part of it but the sermon of much value, it is only when he likes the preacher. He has little notion of the respect due to established inst.i.tutions, and does not heartily like any precomposed form of prayer, not even our incomparable Liturgy. He reads such religious books only as tend to establish his own opinions, and talks and disputes loudly on certain doctrinal points. But an acc.u.mulating Christian, and a Christian who, for the purpose of acc.u.mulation, is said to be uncharitable, and even somewhat oppressive, is a paradox which I can not solve, and an anomaly which I can not comprehend. Covetousness is, as I said, a more creditable vice than Ned's former ones, but for that very reason more dangerous."

"From this sober vice," said I, "proceeded the blackest crime ever perpetrated by human wickedness; for it does not appear that Judas, in his direful treason, was instigated by malice. It is observable, that when our Saviour names this sin, it is with an emphatical warning, as knowing its mischief to be greater because its scandal was less. Not contented with a single caution, he doubles his exhortation. '_Take heed and beware_ of covetousness.'"

After some remarks of Sir John, which I do not recollect, Mr. Stanley said, "I did not intend making a philippic against covetousness, a sin to which I believe no one here is addicted. Let us not, however, plume ourselves in not being guilty of a vice to which, as we have no natural bias so in not committing it, we resist no temptation. What I meant to insist on was, that exchanging a turbulent for a quiet sin, or a scandalous for an orderly one, is not reformation; or, if you will allow me the strong word, is not conversion."

Mr. Tyrrel, according to his appointment, came to dinner, and brought with him his nephew, Mr. Edward Tyrrel, whom he had lately entered at the university, with a design to prepare him for holy orders. He was a well-disposed young man, but his previous education was said to have been very much neglected, and was rather deficient in the necessary learning. Mr. Stanley had heard that Tyrrel had two reasons for breeding him to the church. In the first place, he fancied it was the cheapest profession, and in the next he had labored to infuse into him some particular opinions of his own, which he wished to disseminate through his nephew. Sir George Aston having accidentally called, he was prevailed on to stay, and Dr. Barlow was one of the party.