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 forearmed.”

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

“But, my child,” cried she, “do not be downhearted.
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 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. I should be the last, child, to advise to any thing
unlawful.”

“Poor woman!” said Mary, to whom Jane had handed
the note, and then checking the expression of her disgust at
what to her upright mind seemed plain dishonesty—she
merely added, “we'll keep on the sure side, Jane; clean hands
make 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 woebegone
image, and she thought of the time, but a little while
past, when elated with that “promised pleasure near,” she
had there surveyed her form arrayed in her prettiest dress,—
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 gone from our home.”

“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 courtyard
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 manner
that indicated the struggle of her self-respect with her
timidity.

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 took 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, while 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 power and reputation of its outlay. 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, for 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 colors 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. We fear that in those times of excitement,
during which many pass from indifference to holiness, and
many are converted from sin to righteousness, there are also
many who, like Mrs. Wilson, 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 Mary, “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.