My last find a tage; a little room eed cable, a clock, a cupboard, es and dis of tea-tcead and c of dra too large to be filled y le and generous friends , by a modest stock of suchings as are necessary.
It is evening. I tle orpting alone on ty sc te or cip, and a fetle. t accent of trict. At present, ty in understanding eacractable, as ; but oto learn, and evince a disposition t pleases me. I must not forget t ttle peasants are of fleslest genealogy; and t tive excellence, refinement, intelligence, kind feeling, are as likely to exist in ts as in t-born. My duty o develop t office. Muc I do not expect in t it less, if I regulate my mind, and exert my poo day.
as I very gleeful, settled, content, during ternoon? Not to deceive myself, I must reply—No: I felt desolate to a degree. I felt—yes, idiot t I am—I felt degraded. I doubted I aken a step ence. I ty, t let me not e and despise myself too muco be is a great step gained; I srive to overcome to- morrorust, I s tter of tially; and in a fe is possible, tter in my scitute gratification for disgust.
Meantime, let me ask myself one question—ter?—to o temptation; listened to passion; made no painful effort—no struggle;—but to ; to er’s mistress; delirious ime—for o beauty, youto any one else so possess t is ter, I ask, to be a slave in a fool’s paradise at Marseilles—fevered ing terest tears of remorse and s—or to be a village-scress, free and , in a breezy mountain nook in t of England?
Yes; I feel no I . God directed me to a correct che guidance!
my eventide musings to t, I rose, to my door, and looked at t of t-day, and at t fields before my cottage, strains—
“the dew was balm.”
myself o find myself ere long er: for o see; for te grief and fatal fury—consequences of my departure—oo far to leave imate restoration t t, I turned my face aside from ton—I say lonely, for in t bend of it visible to me t save trees, and, quite at tremity, ter lived. I my tone frame of my door; but soon a slig iny garden from t made me look up. A dog—old Carlo, Mr. Rivers’ pointer, as I sa—. Jo upon it , to displeasure, fixed on me. I asked o come in.
“No, I cannot stay; I you a little parcel my sisters left for you. I t contains a colour-box, pencils, and paper.”
I approaco take it: a it erity, as I came near: traces of tears less very visible upon it.
“ day’s work ed?” he asked.
“Orary, I time I s on h my scholars very well.”
“But perions—your cottage—your furniture—ed your expectations? truty enoug—” I interrupted—
“My cottage is clean and ure sufficient and commodious. All I see despondent. I am not absolutely suc as to regret t, a sofa, and silver plate; besides, five , a beggar, a vagrant; noy of my friends; ty of my lot. I do not repine.”
“But you feel solitude an oppression? ttle y.”
“I ime yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity, muco groient under one of loneliness.”
“Very you express: at any rate, your good sense ell you t it is too soon yet to yield to ting fears of Lot’s kno I counsel you to resist firmly every temptation career steadily, for some mont least.”
“It is o do,” I ans. Joinued—
“It is o control tion and turn t of nature; but t it may be done, I knoe; and enance t get—er a pat folloarve from inanition, nor stand still in despair: o seek anot for trong as t longed to taste—and pero for turous foot a road as direct and broad as tune us, if roug.
“A year ago I ensely miserable, because I t I ake in entering try: its uniform duties o deat for tive life of ting toils of a literary career—for tiny of an artist, autor; anyt of a priest: yes, t of a politician, of a soldier, of a votary of glory, a lover of renoer after po under my curate’s surplice. I considered; my life c must be c die. After a season of darkness and struggling, ligence all at once spread out to a plain bounds—my porengt beyond ken. God o bear rengt qualifications of soldier, statesman, and orator, re in the good missionary.
“A missionary I resolved to be. From t moment my state of mind cters dissolved and dropped from every faculty, leaving not its galling soreness—ion, but since a legitimate obstacle to contend tled, a successor for Morton provided, an entanglement or t asunder—a last conflict I .”
empic voice; looking, me, but at tting sun, at oo t. e ep on t grass-grorack; ter running in t art w as a silver bell, exclaimed—
“Good evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Your dog is quicker to recognise ail tom of towards me now.”
It rue. tarted at t of ts, as if a t a cloud over ood yet, at tence, in ttitude in e, ed to. urned at last, ion. A vision, as it seemed to me, of e—a yout fine in contour; and o caress Carlo, it lifted up its beauty. Perfect beauty is a strong expression; but I do not retrace or qualify it: as s features as ever temperate clime of Albion moulded; as pure ed and screened, justified, in tance, term. No cing, no defect ible; te lineaments; eyes sures, large, and dark, and full; t a fascination; te smooto ties of tint and ray; too, ruddy, ly formed; teet fla of riceous tresses—all advantages, in s, ure: I admired . Nature ial mood; and, forgetting inted step-mots, y.
did St. Jourally asked myself t question as I sao urally, I sougo tenance. a uft of daisies w.
“A lovely evening, but late for you to be out alone,” .
“Oioned toy miles distant) “ternoon. Papa told me you tress on my bonnet after tea, and ran up to see ing to me.
“It is,” said St. John.
“Do you ton?” s and naive simplicity of tone and manner, pleasing, if child-like.
“I s to do so.”
“Did you find your sctentive as you expected?”
“Quite.”
“Do you like your house?”
“Very much.”
“ nicely?”
“Very nicely, indeed.”
“And made a good ctendant for you in Alice ood?”
“You eac, is Miss Oliver, t seems, in ts of fortune, as ure! ion of ts presided over h, I wonder?)
“I so teacimes,” s you noay at S-. nigill t are stationed ts; and t agreeable men in t all our young knife-grinders and scissor mercs to shame.”
It seemed to me t Mr. St. Joruded, and . ainly looked a good deal compressed, and t of ern and square, as tion. ed oo, from turned it on er well became eyes.
As ood, mute and grave, so caressing Carlo. “Poor Carlo loves me,” said s stern and distant to be silent.”
As sted tive grace before ere master, I sao t master’s face. I saless emotion. Flusiful for a man as s , ic constriction, e ttainment of liberty. But , I te rider eed. to tle advances made him.
“Papa says you never come to see us noinued Miss Oliver, looking up. “You are quite a stranger at Vale very urn him?”
“It is not a seasonable o intrude on Mr. Oliver,” ans. John.
“Not a seasonable I declare it is. It is just t s company: wo occupy us by a reply of her own.
“I forgot!” siful curled less! Do excuse me. It you o be indisposed for joining in my cter. Diana and Mary you, and Moor up, and you are so lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and see papa.”
“Not to-nig to-night.”
Mr. St. Jo like an automaton: it cost o refuse.
“ell, if you are so obstinate, I stay any longer: to fall. Good evening!”
S touc. “Good evening!” ed, in a voice lo in a moment returned.
“Are you ion: his face was blanched as her gown.
“Quite te. S one o gaze after ripped fairy-like dorode firmly across, never turned at all.
tacle of anot my ts from exclusive meditation on my oed.