University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Jane received the intelligence of her destination
without the slightest emotion. The world
was “all before her,” and she cared not whither
led her “mournful way.”

Happily for her, the humble friend mentioned
in the beginning of her history, Mary Hull, returned
on that day, after having performed the last
act of filial duty. Jane poured all her sorrows
into Mary's bosom, and felt already a degree of
relief that she had not believed her condition admitted.

Such is the elastic nature of childhood; its
moral, like its physical constitution, is subject
to the most sudden changes.

Mary having assuaged the wounds of her youthful
friend with the balm of tender sympathy and
just consolation, undertook the painful, but necessary,
task of exposing to Jane, the evils before
her, that she might fortify her against them; that,
as she said, being “fore-warned, she might be
fore-armed.”

She did not soften the trials of dependance upon
a sordid and harsh nature. She told her what
demands she would have on her integrity, her patience,
and her humility.

“But, my child,” said she, “do not be down-hearted.
There has One `taken you up who will
not leave you, nor forsake you.' `The fires may
be about you, but they will not kindle on you.'
Make the Bible your counsellor; you will always
find some good word there, that will be a bright
light to you in the darkest night: and do not forget
the daily sacrifice of prayer; for, as the
priests under the old covenant were nourished by
a part of that which they offered, so, when the sacrifice
of praise is sent upward by the broken and
contrite heart, there is a strength cometh back
upon our own souls: blessed be his name, it is
what the world cannot give.”

Mary's advice fell upon a good and honest heart,
and we shall see that it brought forth much fruit.

The evening was spent in packing Jane's wardrobe,
which had been well stocked by her profuse
and indulgent parents. Mary had been told,
too, that the creditors of Mr. Elton would not
touch the wearing apparel of his wife. This was,
therefore, carefully packed and prepared for removal;
and Mary, who with her stock of heavenly
wisdom had some worldly prudence, hinted to
Jane, that she had better keep her things out of
the sight of her craving cousins.

Jane took up her mother's Bible, and asked
Mary, with a trembling voice, if she thought she
might be permitted to take that.

“Certainly,” replied Mary, “no one will dispute
your right to it; it is not like worldly goods,
we will not touch the spoils, though we were
tempted by more than the `goodly Babylonish
garment, the two hundred shekels of silver, and
the wedge of gold' that made Achan to sin.”

In obedience to the strictest dictates of honesty,
Mary forbore from permitting her zeal for Jane's
interests to violate the letter of the law. She was
so scrupulous, that she would not use a family
trunk, but took a large cedar chest of her own to
pack the clothes in.

While they were busily occupied with these
preparations, Jane received a note from her aunt,
saying, that she advised her to secure some small
articles which would never be missed: some of
“the spoons, table-linen, her mother's ivory work-box,”
&c. &c. The note concluded—“As I have
undertaken the charge of you for the present, it is
but right you should take my advice. There is
no doubt my brother's creditors have cheated him
a hundred fold the amount of these things, for,
poor man! with all his faults, he was so generous,
any body could take him in; besides, though these
things might help to pay the expense I must be at
in keeping you, they will be a mere nothing divided
among so many creditors—the dust on the
balance.”

“Poor woman!” said Mary, to whom Jane had
handed the note, “I am afraid she will load the
balance with so much of this vile dust, that when
she is weighed her scale will be “found wanting.”

No, Jane, let us keep clean hands, and then we
shall have light hearts.”

The next morning arrived, and Mary arose before
the dawn, in order to remove Jane early, and
save her the pain of witnessing the preparations
for the vendue. Jane understood her kind friend's
design, and silently acquiesced in it, for she had
too much good sense to expose herself to any unnecessary
suffering. But when every thing was in
readiness, and the moment of departure arrived,
she shrunk back from Mary's offered arm, and
sinking into a chair, yielded involuntarily to the
torrent of her feelings. She looked around upon
the room and its furniture as if they were her
friends.

It has been said by one, who well understands
the mysteries of feeling, that objects which are
silent every where else, have a voice in the home
of our childhood. Jane looked for the last time
at the bed, where she had often sported about her
mother, and rejoiced in her tender caresses—at
the curtains, stamped with illustrations of the
Jewish history, which had often employed and
wearied her ingenuity in comprehending their similitudes—at
the footstool on which she had sat
beside her mother; and the old family clock,

Her eye turned to the glass, which now sent
back her wo-begone image, and she thought of the

time, but a little while past, when elated with gratified
vanity, or joyful anticipation, she had there
surveyed her form arrayed in finery—now, the
rainbow tints had faded into the dark cloud.

She rose, and walked to the open window, about
which she had trained a beautiful honey-suckle.
The sun had just risen, and the dew-drops on its
leaves sparkled in his rays.

“Oh, Mary!” said she, “even my honey-suckle
seems to weep for me.”

A robin had built its nest on the vine; and often
as she sat watching her sleeping mother, she had
been cheered with its sprightly note, and maternal
care of its young. She looked to the nest—the
birds had flown;—“They too,” she exclaimed,
“have deserted this house of sorrow.”

“No, Jane;” replied Mary, “they have been
provided with another home, and He who careth
for them, will care much more for you.”

Mary might have quoted (but she was not addicted
to any profane works,) the beautiful language
of a native poet—

“We shall not,” she said, “be at your aunt's
in time for breakfast; here, tie on your hat, you
will need all your strength and courage, and you
must not waste any on flowers and birds.”

Jane obeyed the wise admonition of her friend;

and with faltering steps, and without allowing herself
time to look again at any thing, hastily passed
through the little court yard in front of their
house.

The morning was clear and bright; and stimulated
by the pure air, and nerved by the counsels
Mary suggested as they walked along, Jane entered
her new home with a composed, timid manner.

Perhaps her timidity appealing to Mrs. Wilson's
love of authority, produced a softer feeling than
she had before shown to Jane; or perhaps, (for
scarcely any nature is quite hardened,) the forlornness
of the child awakened a transient sentiment
of compassion,—she gave her her hand, and
told her she was welcome. The children stared
at her, as if they had never seen her before, but
Jane's down-cast eye, a little clouded by the gathering
tears, saved her from feeling the gaze of
their vulgar curiosity.

Jane, in entering the family of Mrs. Wilson, was
introduced to as new a scene as if she had been
transported to a foreign country.

Mrs. Wilson's character might have been originally
cast in the same mould with Mr. Elton's, but
circumstances had given it a different modification.
She had married early in life a man, who, not
having energy enough for the exercise of authority,
was weak and vain, tenacious of the semblance,
and easily cozened by the shadow, when his wife
retained the substance. Mrs. Wilson, without
having the pride of her nature at all subdued, became
artful and trickish; she was sordid and ostentatious,

a careful fellow-worker with her husband
in the acquisition of their property, she secured
to herself all the praise in the expending it.
Whenever a contribution was levied for an Education
or Tract Society, for Foreign Missions,
the Cherokees, or Osages,—Mrs. Wilson accompanied
her donation, which on the whole was quite
handsome, with a remark, that what she did give,
she gave with a willing heart; that, women could
not command much money, but it was the duty of
wives to submit themselves to their husbands.
After Mrs. Wilson became sole mistress of her
estate, the simple and credulous, who remembered
her professions, wondered her gifts were not enlarged
with her liberty. But Mrs. Wilson would
say, that the widow was the prey of the wicked,
and that her duty to her children prevented her
indulging her generous feelings towards those pious
objects which lay nearest her heart.

Mrs. Wilson had fancied herself one of the subjects
of an awakening at an early period of her life;
had passed through the ordeal of a church-examination
with great credit, having depicted in glowing
colours the opposition of her natural heart to
the decrees, and her subsequent joy in the doctrine
of election. She thus assumed the form of godliness,
without feeling its power. Are there not
many such: some who, in those times of excitement,
during which many pass from indifference to
holiness, and many are converted from sin to
righteousness, delude themselves and others with
vain forms of words, and professions of faith?

Mrs. Wilson was often heard to denounce those
who insisted on the necessity of good works, as
Pharisees;—she was thankful, she said, that she
should not presume to appear before her Judge
with any of the `filthy rags of her own righteousness;'—it
would be easy getting to heaven if the
work in any way depended on ourselves;—any
body could `deal justly, love mercy, and walk
humbly.' How easy it is, we leave to those to
determine, who have sought to adjust their lives
by this divine rule.

Mrs. Wilson rejected the name of the Pharisee,
but the proud, oppressive, bitter spirit of the Jewish
bigot was manifest in the complacency with which
she regarded her own faith, and the illiberality she
cherished towards every person, of every denomination,
who did not believe what she believed,
and act according to her rule of right.
As might be expected, her family was regulated
according to `the letter,' but the `spirit that
giveth life' was not there. Religion was the ostensible
object of every domestic arrangement;
but you might look in vain for the peace and good
will which a voice from heaven proclaimed to be
the objects of the mission of our Lord.

Mrs. Wilson's children produced such fruits as
might be expected from her culture. The timid
among them had recourse to constant evasion, and
to the meanest artifices to hide the violation of
laws which they hated; and the bolder were engaged
in a continual conflict with the mother,
in which rebellion often trampled on authority.

Jane had been gently led in the bands of love.
She had been taught even more by the example
than the precepts of her mother.

She had seen her mother bear with meekness
the asperity and unreasonableness of her father's
temper, and often turn away his wrath with a soft
answer.

The law of imitation is deeply impressed on our
nature. Jane had insensibly fallen into her mother's
ways, and had, thus early, acquired a habit
of self-command. Mrs. Elton, though, alas, negligent
of some of her duties, watched over the
expanding character of her child, with Christian
fidelity. “There she had garnered up her heart.”
She knew that amiable dispositions were not to
be trusted, and she sought to fortify her child's
mind with Christian principles. She sowed the
seed, and looked with undoubting faith for the
promised blessing.

“I must soon sleep,” she would say to Marry,
“but the seed is already springing up. I am sure
it will not lack the dews of Heaven; and you,
Mary, may live to see, though I shall not, `first
the blade, then the ear, and after that the full corn
in the ear.”'

Mary had seconded Mrs. Elton's efforts. She
looked upon herself as an humble instrument; but
she was a most efficient one. She had a rare and
remarkable knack at applying rules, so that her
life might be called a commentary on the precepts
of the Gospel. Mary's practical religion had,
sometimes, conveyed a reproach (the only reproach

a Christian may indulge in) to Mrs. Wilson,
who revenged herself by remarking, that
“Mary was indulging in that soul-destroying doctrine
of the Methodists—perfection;” and then
she would add, (jogging her foot, a motion that,
with her, always indicated a mental parallel, the
result of which was, `I am holier than thou,') there
is no error so fatal, as resting in the duties of the
second table.” Mrs. Wilson had not learned, that
the duties of the second table cannot be done, if
the others are left undone; the branches must be
sustained by the trunk; for he, from whose wisdom
there is no appeal, has said, “If ye love me;
ye will keep my commandments.”

Happily for our little friend, Mary was not to
be removed far from her; an agreeable situation
was, unexpectedly, offered to her grateful acceptance.