The most spacious of Mrs. Truman's chambers was prepared for the ladies' dressing-room, on the evening of the party; and there were no spare corners, although several of the neighbours offered their houses for the use of those who dared not tempt the chance of crumpled robes and disarranged coiffures; the probable consequence of a ride eight or ten miles in gala dress. Every stage of the toilet was in progress, from the chrysalis of the dressing-gown to the full-winged butterfly, the sylph, who, with a dainty adjustment of her diaphanous drapery, and a last, lingering look at the flattering mirror, declared herself "ready."

Ida and Carry were bent upon dressing alike; no easy matter to do, consistently with their perceptions of colours and fitness. No one hue became both; no they proscribed the prismatic tints and appeared in virgin white. Carry was beautiful as a dream of Fairy Land. The plump, white arms were bare to the shoulder, and without other ornament than their own fairness, except a chain of gold, attached to a locket, containing her parents' hair. This she never left off. Snowy gloves hid hands, softer still; the exquisitely-fitted corsage, and the waist it enclasped, were the admiration, and, if truth must be told, the envy of the bevy of talkative damsels; but few remarked upon these after a sight of her face. Her hair would curl, do what she would; the rebellious bandeaux refused to be plastered upon the blue-veined temples, but rippled and glittered, like nothing but a stream, golden in the sunset. The most artful soupÇon of rouge was a palpable counterfeit compared with her living bloom; pearls lay between the ruby lips; and a spirit, more priceless than gold or rubies, or pearls beamed from the liquid eyes. Ida looked forward with delight to Arthur's exultant smile, when he should behold her; and Carry, alike forgetful of self, was lost in gratified contemplation of the elegant figure of her friend. With not a tithe of the beauty of half the girls present, her tout ensemble was striking and attractive. The haughtiness which held the crowd at a distance, gave a high-bred tone to her bearing, and one sentence, uttered in her clear voice, and a smile dispelled all unfavourable impressions.

Arthur and Charley were at the foot of the stairs.

"What a Babel!" said Ida, as they entered the thronged rooms.

"And what a waste of breath!" replied Charley. "There is neither sociability, or rational enjoyment, to be had in these very large assemblies."

"I rather like the excitement of the crowd;" said Ida, "it affects me strangely, but agreeably; with the same sensation the waves may feel in their sports,—a tumultuous glee at being a part of the restless whole,—never still, and always bounding onward."

"How do you account for it? Is it magnetism—animal electricity?"

"Perhaps so. If, as some contend, we are electrical machines, the revolving currents of the subtle fluid must operate powerfully upon the system of each, in a crowd like this. But to leave speculative ground—perilous to me, inasmuch as I do not know what I am talking about—"

"And I understand the science less," interrupted he. "You remember the Scotchman's definition of metaphysics—what were you going to ask?"

"Why you dislike these scenes? I fancied you would be in your element."

"Excuse me for saying that I suspect you class me among amphibious creatures—a sui generis—equally at home in the air, earth, and water, and not over-well qualified for any of these states of existence."

Ida would have disclaimed; but he had come too near the mark; the eyes that asked a reply were penetrating as laughing; she was thankful that the bridal party released her from their regards.

"The bride is pretty," he observed, when the confusion was a little over.

"Tame praise for such beauty," said Ida.

"What then? superb—magnificent? and if I wish to describe the Alps or Niagara, can you help me to a word?"

"You do not affect the florid style now in vogue?"

"No. It is the vice of American language and literature. We 'pile on the agony,' until the idea is smothered; plain words lose their meaning, become too weak to go alone, and have to be bolstered up by sonorous adjectives."

Ida smiled, and turned her head to look for Ellen Morris. Charley remarked the movement, and imitated it.

"Ha! can it be!" he exclaimed.

"What!" she questioned.

"I cannot be mistaken! it is he! What wind has blown him hither? An old—I thought, a transatlantic friend; the gentleman with the moustache, conversing with one of the bridesmaids."

"Ellen Morris! I see him; but he deserves more than the doubtful designation of the 'gentleman with the moustache.' Who, and what is he?"

"An artist and poet, just returned from Italy, and the hero of divers adventures, which, as you love the romantic, I may relate to you in my poor way some day. His cognomen is Lynn Holmes."

"He looks the poet; how handsome!"

"'Tame praise for such beauty,'" quoted Charley, with mock gravity.

It was, when applied to the face and form before them. He was not above the medium height; symmetrically proportioned, hair purplish in its blackness, the arched nostril, and short upper lip indicative of spirit end gentle birth, and the rich, warm complexion had caught its flush from Italian suns. Its rapid fluctuations, plainly visible through the transparent olive of his cheek, spoke too, of passions kindled by that burning clime. But his eyes! Ida's were darker, as she gazed into their midnight—large and dreamy and melancholy! a world of unwritten poetry; but when did poet have, or artist paint such!

"What is the conclusion of the whole matter?" asked Charley, patiently.

"That you should speak to your friend;" letting go his arm. "I shall not mind your leaving me alone."

He replaced her hand. "Content yourself. Miss Morris will not thank me, if I intrude at present. There is time enough. Pity he has chosen a starving profession."

"And why 'pity,' if in so doing he has followed the beckoning of genius! He has hearkened to, and obeyed the teachings of his higher nature. Can they mislead?"

"When we mistake their meaning. Genius steers wildly astray if the compass-box of judgment is wanting. My remark was a general one"—seeing her grave look. "Holmes is one of the gifted of the earth; and when I lamented his choice of a profession, I did not censure him, but the public. He ought to have a nabob's fortune to perfect his schemes; and he will not make a living. Men squander thousands for the intellectual gratification of a horse-race; an exhibition in which, I allow, the brute is generally the nobler animal;—and knowingly brand him 'a verdant 'un,' who expends a quarter of that sum in works of art. Will you dance? I hear a violin."

"I think not. It is too warm."

"To say nothing of the crowd. In dancing, as in most things, I prefer standing upon my own footing—not upon other people's toes."

Nevertheless, there were those present who could not withstand the allurement of a "hop," under any circumstances; and by snug packing on the part of the soberly-inclined, while numbers sought the freer air of the passages and piazzas, room was made for a set. Ellen Morris joined it, and Mr. Holmes had time to look about him. His start of delight as he recognised Charley, and the heartiness of their greetings, showed their mutual attachment; and imagining that they would have much to say after a lengthy separation, Ida would have fallen in the rear, had not Charley forestalled her by a prompt presentation of his friend. They exchanged, indeed, one or two brief questions and replies; but these over, she was the centre of attraction. The panting, heated dancers tripped by, commiserating, if they noticed the "hum-drum" group at the window; never thinking that, demure as they appeared, there was more enjoyment in that secluded recess, than in the entire mass of revellers besides. There are harmonies in conversation, the arrangement of which is wofully disregarded. Accident had collected a rare trio. The artist talked as he would have painted; descrying beauties everywhere, and bringing them together with a masterly hand; only tolerating deformity, as it displayed them to more advantage, and shedding over all the mellow glow of his fervid imagination; startling by paradoxes, to enchant by the grace and beauty of their reconciliation. And Charley, with a cooler brain and wary eye, was ready to temper, not damp his enthusiasm;—not to dam the rushing flood, but lead it aside into a smoother channel. Ida thought of the compass-box, and charmed as she was by the eloquence of this modern Raphael, acknowledged the justice of the simile. For herself, appreciative and suggestive, she fanned the flame. Her sympathetic glance and smile, the quick catching at a thought, half unuttered; the finish and polish his crude ideas received from her lighter hand, could not but please and flatter. How grating was the interruption!—

"Mr. Dana! not dancing!"

"No, Mr. Truman, but exceedingly well entertained."

"Hav'nt a doubt of it! hav'nt a doubt! but there's a young lady—a stranger—who wants a partner for the set that is forming, and as your brother is engaged—to dance, I mean—with Miss Somebody—I forget who—I thought as an old friend, I would make so free as to call upon you, ah—ah—she being a stranger, you understand, ah—ah—"

"Certainly sir, of course, where is she?" said Charley, swallowing his chagrin, in his willingness to oblige the embarrassed host. "Charles Dana, having gone to see his partner, desires the prayers of the congregation," he said aside to his companions, before plunging into the throng.

"'O, rare Ben Jonson!'" said Mr. Holmes, as they disappeared.

"And most incomprehensible of anomalies!" responded Ida.

"The dross is upon the surface—refined gold beneath. Have you known him long?"

"But a fortnight."

"You have not mastered the alphabet yet. Bright and dancing as is that eye, I have seen it shed tears in abundance and softness, like a woman's. His tongue knows other language than that of flippant trifling."

"He is a universal favorite. I am surprised he has never married."

Mr. Holmes was silent. He even looked pained; and Ida, conscious that she had unwittingly touched a sore spot, took up the strain Mr. Truman had broken. She was in the Coliseum of Rome; when among the moving sea of faces precipitated upon the retina, yet nothing to the brain, unless, perhaps, making more vivid its conceptions of the multitude, who once lined the crumbling walls of the amphitheatre—one arrested her attention. The subject was thrilling; the speaker's description graphic and earnest;—it was unkind, and ungrateful, and disrespectful—but laugh she must, and did, when in Charley's partner she beheld Celestia Pratt! Her first emotion was extreme amusement; her next, indignant compassion for him thrust into public notice as the cavalier of a tawdry fright; for the thickest of satin robes, and a load of jewelry, that gave plausibility to the tale of Hannibal's spoils at CannÆ, betrayed, instead of cloaking vulgarity. He was playing the agreeable, however, with, his wonted sang-froid, varied, as she judged from his gestures, by gratuitous hints as to the figure and step. In trying to efface the remembrance of her rudeness from Mr. Holmes' mind, and watching the oddly matched pair, she passed the time until the set was finished. Arthur approached, and the gleam of his white teeth upset her acquired gravity.

"Caught," said he, as Mr. Holmes walked away, "just as I was. I secured a partner directly I saw her; and Mr. Truman, hearing from her that I was an acquaintance, put at me two minutes later."

"He said you were engaged—to dance."

"Here he is! Charley, I thought you declined dancing."

"So I did. I consented to please Mr. Truman."

"Had you ever seen your partner before?"

"No. I know what you are at, Art., but I cannot laugh with you. I am sorry for her."

"You shame us, Mr. Dana," said Ida, frankly. "I will make amends for my uncharitableness, by fighting my way, single-handed, to the farthest end of the room, to speak to her, if you say so."

"And I, not to be outdone, will dance with her," said Arthur, with a martyr-air.

"I absolve you," said his brother. "She is a queer fish, I own," in his light tone. "Have you spoken to Holmes?"

"Yes. He says he has partly resolved to winter in Richmond. He is a groomsman; but the party disband to-morrow; only Miss Morris attending the young couple to their home up the country. I have invited Lynn to spend some time with us, before he settles to business."

"Will he come?"

"Probably."

A succession of introductions and beaux engaged Ida until supper. She forgot her purpose of speaking with Celestia, and would not have remembered her again that evening, had she not been made aware of her proximity at table by something between a grunt and exclamation, forced through a mouthful of cake.

"Lor! if that ain't Idy Ross!"

She had a saucer of ice-cream in one hand, and a slice of fruitcake in her left; so she stuck out a red elbow in lieu of either; which unique salutation Ida pretended not to see.

"How are you, Celestia? When did you come into the neighbourhood?"

"I jest got down yesterday. You see," in a stage whisper, "I heard of this party better'n a fortnight ago, and ma and I set our hearts 'pon my coming; so I had this dress made (it cost four dollars a yard!) and happened, you know, to pay a visit to Cousin Lucindy Martin's, jest in the nick of time, and Mrs. Truman, found out, you know, that I was there, and sent me a 'bid.' Didn't I manage it nice?"

"You appear to be having a pleasant time."

"O, splendid! I've danced every set. Thar's a heap of polite beaux—ain't there?"

"Miss Ross, what shall I have the pleasure of helping you to?" asked Mr. Euston, Ida's escort.

She named an article, and Celestia twitched her arm—"Who's that?"

"Mr. Euston," said Ida, distinctly.

"Is he your beau?"

"No."

"Then you'd as lief as not interduce me, hadn't you? He's the loveliest thing I ever saw."

Ida flushed with disgust and vexation; the insufferable conceit of the girl, her bizarre appearance, and harsh tones drew the notice of many to them; and her horror of ridicule was strong upon her.

"Miss Ida," said Charles Dana, across the table. "Will you eat a philopoena with me?" As he tossed the almond, she marked his expression, and the scene in the painting-room, Josephine's derision, and the rude mirth of her supporters, her hurricane of rage and the commanding look that said to it "Be still," all rushed over her like a whirlwind, and departed suddenly. Mr. Euston was bowing with the desired delicacy; Celestia, serenely expectant, and with the mien of one who confers a favour upon both parties, she complied with the fair lady's request. Mr. Euston was handsome and gallant; he immediately dipped into his stock of pretty sayings, and presented one of the most elegant. The recipient fluttered and prinked, and baited another hook; and Ida stole a look at Charley. Her not recognizing him before was no marvel; she could hardly persuade herself that her conviction of a minute before was not an illusion; so impervious was the Momus mask. He was frequently near, and with her, in the course of the evening: but no sign betokened a suspicion of her perplexity. He was gayer than his wont; when sheer fatigue drove the votaries of pleasure from the festive hall, his spirits were at their meridian. He had passed most of the day on horseback; had talked and danced and stood for six hours; yet he sent off carriage after carriage with a lively adieu; and seeing his own party seated in theirs, vaulted into the saddle, as for a morning gallop. He cheered the weary travellers so long as he could extort replies from the lagging tongues, and serenaded them the rest of the way with snatches of melody fantastic as his mood.

"Why have you and Charley preserved such a mysterious silence respecting our former meeting?" inquired Ida, when she and Carry were laid down to sleep.

"He charged me not to name him, if I heard the matter alluded to; and, since we have been at home, enjoined secrecy more strictly, saying the incident was better forgotten than remembered," said Carry, dozingly.

This was Thursday. On Saturday the young artist made one in their midst. In his school-days he was a welcome guest at Poplar-grove, spending a portion of his vacation with his friend Charley, and the lapse of years had not rusted the hinges of the hospitable doors, or those of the master's heart. He was received and cherished as of old.

Mrs. Dana looked into the girls' room before retiring. Ida was brushing her hair; Carry watching and talking to her. "Yes," said she, complacently, appealing to her sister for confirmation. "I flatter myself our party could not be more select or composed of choicer materials. Four beaux—including father—handsomest of all; and but two belles—three—pardon me, Mrs. Dana. It may be a century ere we are again so blessed; and we must go somewhere, or do something to exhibit ourselves. Ida may have Charley and father, if she will leave the Italian and his lamping eyes to me."

"And Arthur—why is he neglected the division of spoils?" asked Mrs. Dana.

"I make him over to you. Brother John commended you to his care."

"Mammy applied to me for numberless passes, to-night. There is a big meeting at Rocky Mount. The servants will attend en masse, to-morrow; why not follow their example?" said Mrs. Dana, with playful irony.

"We will!" exclaimed Carry, clapping her hands. "I'll ask father this minute."

"But, my dear sister—"

"Don't say a word, Jenny; Ida would like to go, I am sure."

"When I understand the character of the entertainment; I shall be qualified to express my wishes."

"Why," answered Carry, tying the cord of the wrapper she had cast around her. "They preach a little, and sing and shout; and in intermission, we have grand fun."

"Fun! at church!"

"That is not the word precisely; but everybody meets everybody else, and we have an hour for talking and eating. How happens it, that you are a novice? you are country-born."

"I was never at a big meeting, notwithstanding."

"An additional reason, why we should be on the spot to-morrow. I will be back directly."

In five minutes she returned, blushing and laughing.

"Would you believe it? When I knocked at father's door, Arthur opened it. I slunk back in the dark, and asked for 'Marster.' 'Doctor,' said he, 'Martha wants to see you,' and sauntered off. Didn't father stare, and I laugh, when I ran in! The stupid creature! to be fooled so easily!"

"The meeting!" said Ida.

"All's well! Father was afraid we might be tired, if we stayed to both sermons; but I assured him that was impossible. I hope it will be a fine day!"

She was gratified; but the weather was not brighter than the faces gathered upon the piazza, at a shockingly unfashionable hour. It was six miles to Rocky Mount; and as Charley observed, "seats in the dress circle would be at a premium, two hours before services begun."

"'Marster' does not accompany us," said Arthur, significantly, as he handed Carry into the carriage. She was too much confused to reply; but Ida and Mrs. Dana laughed outright.

"Papa and myself, having no vagrant propensities, will go to our own church," answered the latter. "And if you have waited upon the young ladies, I will thank you to put me into the gig, Dr. Dana."

Mr. Holmes accepted a seat with the ladies; Charley and Arthur were on horseback. It is doubtful if one of the merry riders realised, for an instant, the sacredness of the day, or that they were bound to a place of worship. It did not occur, even to Dr. Carleton, that their glee, innocent and proper upon ordinary occasions, now verged upon sinful levity. He saw in it, the buoyancy of youth under the influence of agreeable company, and a cloudless day. They would be subdued by the exercises of the sanctuary; and he drove along, his large heart full of love and praise to Him who had showered these gem-sparkles into his chalice of life; the young people beguiling the length of their journey, by a running fire of badinage, puns and serio-comic discussions; embarked, to all intents and purposes, upon a party of pleasure.

"Behold Rocky Mount!" said Arthur, pointing to a rising ground, tufted by a clump of oaks.

"Where is the church?" inquired Ida. "I can distinguish people and horses, but no house."

"After we get there, I will lend you my pocket microscope," responded Charley. The brown walls of a small building, in the centre of the grove, were visible, as the road wound around the hill; but its dimensions were as great a puzzle as its absence would have been. Carry came to her aid.

"They preach out of doors, my dear."

"Out of doors!" this was a charming novelty.

"'The groves were God's first temples,'" she repeated softly, and Lynn continued the noble lines—

Charley smiled dubiously, but held his peace. The crowd thickened with their advance. Horses were tethered in solid ranks to the trees; children straying frightfully near to their heels; wagons and carriages almost piled upon each other; and men, white and black, stood about everywhere. The driver reined up, twenty yards from the arbor erected under the trees.

"Drive up nearer, Tom!" said Carry.

"He cannot," replied Arthur, letting down the steps. "Look!"

There was a quadruple row of vehicles on three sides of the arbor, the fourth being, at considerable pains, left open for passage. Several young men dashed to the side of the carriage, with as much empressment as at a ball, and thus numerously attended, the girls picked their way through the throng and dust. No gentlemen were, as yet, in their seats, and our party secured a vacant bench midway to the pulpit.

"Don't sit next to the aisle," whispered Arthur.

"Why not?" questioned Ida, removing to the other extremity of the plank.

"Oh! it is more comfortable here. We will be with you again presently."

"That is not all the reason," remarked Carry, when he was gone. "This railing protects us from the press on this side; and our young gentleman will not permit any one to occupy the stand without, but themselves."

"Will they not sit down?"

"No, indeed! there will not be room. Then the aisles will be filled with all sorts of people, and our dresses be liable to damage from boots and tobacco juice."

"Tobacco juice!" was she in a barbarous country! As Carry predicted, their three attendants worked their way, between the wheels and the people, to where they sat. Charley crawled under the rail, and planted himself behind them.

"I can keep my position until some pretty girl dislodges me," said he. "The denizens of these parts have not forgotten how to stare."

He might well say so. A battery of eyes was levelled upon them, wherever they looked. The tasteful dress and elegant appearance of the ladies, and their attractive suite, were subjects of special importance to the community at large. Although eclipsed in show by some present, theirs was a new constellation, and they must support observation as they could. They stood fire bravely; Ida was most unaccustomed to it, and she found so much to interest and divert her, that she became unconscious of the annoyance after a little.

"Are those seats reserved for distinguished strangers? have not we a right to them?" designating a tier in front of the speaker's stand.

"They are the anxious benches," returned Charley.

"Nonsense!"

"So I think. The brethren dissent from us. I am not quizzing. That is the name."

"The mourners—the convicted occupy them," said Carry.

"Are they here?" inquired Ida, credulously. It was preposterous to conceive such a possibility in this frivolous loud-talking assembly.

"Not now;" answered Charley. "But when they crowd on the steam, you will witness scores."

"Fie! Charley? it is wicked to speak so!"

"I am just as pious as if I did not, Carry. I'll wager my horse—and head too—that by to-night, Miss Ida will agree with me, that these religious frolics are more hurtful to the cause they are intended to advance, than fifty such harmless affairs, as we attended on Thursday night."

"I am not solemnised yet;" said Ida.

"You are as solemn as you are going to be. You may be excited, or frightened into something like gravity. Two, three, four preachers! That's what I call a waste of the raw material. What a flutter of ribbons and fans! The congregation reminds me of a clover field, with the butterflies hovering over its gaily-colored, bobbing heads. Handsome ladies by dozens! This county is famed for its beauty, and but one tolerable-looking man in its length and breadth!"

"Why, there is Mr. Euston—what fault have you to find in him?"

"He is the honorable exception. Whom did you think I meant?" smiling mischievously at Carry's unguarded query. "Art. here, is passable. Modesty prevents my saying more, as we are daily mistaken for each other. The music strikes up;—rather quavering; they are not in the 'spirit' yet. They never get to the 'understanding.' I must decamp. Those fair ones are too bashful to look this way, while I am here."

He was on the outside of the rail, sedate and deacon-like, in a minute. Unsuited as his remarks were to the time and place, they were less objectionable than the whispers of the ladies who dispossessed him;—critiques upon Susan's beaux and Joseph's sweethearts; upon faces, dress and deportment; a quantity of reprobation, and very sparse praises.

The preacher was an unremarkable man, who delivered, in a sing-song tone, an unremarkable discourse; opposing no impediment to the sociability of the aforementioned damsels, except that they lowered their shrill staccato to a piano. The gentlemen whispered behind their hats, notched switches, and whittled sticks. The hearers from Poplar-grove, albeit they were gay, youthful, and non-professors, were the most decorous auditors in their part of the congregation. Another minister arose; a man not yet in his thirtieth year, his form stooped, as beneath the weight of sixty winters. The crowd stilled instantly. He leaned, as for support, upon the primitive desk; his attenuated hands clasped, his eyes moving slowly in their cavernous recesses, over the vast assemblage. "And what come ye out into the wilderness for to see?" he said, in a voice of preternatural sweetness and strength. "Aye! ye are come as to a holiday pageant, bedecked in tinsel and costly raiment. I see before me the pride of beauty and youth; the middle-aged, in the strength of manliness and honor, the hoary hairs and decrepid limbs of age;—all trampling—hustling each other in your haste—in one beaten road—the way to death and judgment! Oh! fools and blind! slow-worms, battening upon the damps and filth of this vile earth! hugging your muck rakes while the glorious One proffers you the crown of Life!" The bent figure straightened; the thin hands were endowed with a language of power, as they pointed, and shook, and glanced through the air. His clarion tones thrilled upon every ear, their alarms and threatenings and denunciations; in crashing peals, the awful names of the Most High, and His condemnations of the wicked, descended among the throng; and those fearful eyes were fiery and wrathful. At the climax he stopped;—with arms still upraised, and the words of woe and doom yet upon his lips, he sank upon the arm of a brother beside him, and was led to his seat, ghastly as a corpse, and nearly as helpless.

A female voice began a hymn.

The hills, for miles around, reverberated the bursting chorus,

The ministers came down from the stand, and distributed themselves among the people; bowed heads and shaking forms marking their path;—a woman from the most remote quarter of the throng, rushed up to the mourner's seats, and flung herself upon her knees with a piercing cry;—another and another;—some weeping aloud; some in tearless distress;—numbers knelt where they had sat;—and louder and louder, like the final trump, and the shout of the resurrection morn, arose the surge of song;—

Carry trembled and shrank; and Ida's firmer nerves were quivering. A lull in the storm, and a man knelt in the aisle, to implore "mercy and pardon for a dying sinner, who would not try to avert the wrath to come."

Sonorous accents went on with his weeping petition;—praying for "the hardened, thoughtless transgressors—those who had neither part nor lot in this matter; who stood afar off, despising and reckless." Again rolled out a chorus; speaking now of joyful assurance.

Ida's eyes brimmed, and Carry sobbed with over-wrought feeling. Arthur bent over the railing and spoke to the latter. He looked troubled,—but for her: Lynn stood against one of the pillars which supported the roof; arms crossed, and a redder mantling of his dark cheek; Charley was cool and grave, taking in the scene in all its parts, with no sympathy with any of the phases of emotion. The tumult increased; shouted thankgivings, and wails of despair; singing and praying and exhorting, clashing in wild confusion.

"You had best not stay here," said Arthur to Carry, whose struggles for composure he could not bear to see.

"Suffer me to pass, Dr. Dana;" and a venerable minister stooped towards the weeping girl. "My daughter, why do you remain here, so far from those who can do you good? You are distressed on account of sin; are you ashamed to have it known? Do you not desire the prayer of Christians? I will not affirm that you cannot be saved anywhere; 'the arm of the Lord is not shortened,' but I do warn you, that if you hang back in pride or stubbornness, you will be lost; and these only can detain you after what you have heard. Arise, and join that company of weeping mourners, it may not be too late."

Carry shook her head.

"Then kneel where you are, and I will pray for you."

She dried her tears. "Why should I kneel, Mr. Manly? I do not experience any sorrow for sin."

"My child!"

"My tears are not those of penitence; I do not weep for my sinfulness; I can neither think nor feel in this confusion."

The good man was fairly stumbled by this avowal.

"Have you no interest in this subject?"

"Not more than usual, sir. My agitation proceeded from animal excitement."

"I am fearful it is the same in a majority of instances, Mr. Manly;" said Arthur, respectfully.

"You my perceive your error one day, my son; let me entreat you to consider this matter as binding up your eternal welfare; and caution you not to lay a feather in the way of those who may be seeking their salvation."

Arthur bowed silently; and the minister passed on.

Dr. Carleton retired early that evening with a headache. Mrs. Dana was getting the children to sleep; the young people had the parlor to themselves. Charley was at the piano, fingering over sacred airs; psalm tunes, sung by the Covenanters, in their craggy temples, or murmuring to an impromptu accompaniment, a chant or doxology. All at once he struck the chords boldly, and added the full powers of the instrument to his voice, in the fine old melody of Brattle Street. Lynn ceased his walk through the room, and united his rich bass at the second line; Arthur, a tenor; Carry and Ida were happy to be permitted to listen—

"There!" said Charley, "there is more religion in that hymn than in all the fustian we have heard to-day; sermons, prayers and exhortations. Humbug in worldly concerns is despicable; in the church, it is unbearable."

"Consider, Charley, that hundred of pious people believe in the practices you condemn. Some of the best Christians I know were converted at these noisy revivals," said Carry.

"It would be miraculous if there were not a grain or two of wheat in this pile of chaff. I never attend one that I am not the worse for it. It is a regular annealing furnace; when the heat subsides you can neither soften or bend the heart again—the iron is steel. What does Miss Ida say?"

"That sin is no more hateful, or religion more alluring, for this Sabbath's lessons; still, I acquiesce in Carry's belief, that although mistaken in their zeal, these seeming fanatics are sincere."

"You applaud enthusiasm upon other subjects, why not in religion?" asked Lynn, "if any thing, it is everything. If I could believe that, when the stormy sea of life is passed, heaven—an eternal noon-tide of love and blessedness would be mine—a lifetime would be too short, mortal language too feeble to express my transport. There is a void in the soul which nought but this can satisfy. Life is fresh to us now; but from the time of Solomon to the present, the worlding has nauseated at the polluted spring, saying, 'For all his days are sorrow, and his travail grief; yea, his heart taketh not rest in the night.' I envy—not carp at the joys of those whose faith, piercing through the fogs of this lower earth, reads the sure promise—'It is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.'"

"You do homage to the beauty of the Faith, by whomsoever professed. I note its practical effects; judge of its genuineness by its workings. For example, the Old Harry awoke mightily within me, in intermission, to see Dick Rogers preaching to Carry, threatening her with perdition—she, who never in her life, committed a tenth of the sin he is guilty of every day. He has been drunk three times in the last month; he is a walking demijohn; his hypocrisy a shame to his grey hairs. And James Mather—he would sell his soul for a fourpence, and call it clear gain. Sooner than lose a crop, he forces his negroes to work on Sunday—can't trust the God of harvest, even upon His own day. The poor hands are driven on week-days as no decent man would do a mule;—he let his widowed sister go to the poor-house, and offered to lend John five thousand dollars, the next week at eight per cent. I have known him since I was a shaver, and never had a word from him upon the 'one thing needful,' except at church. And he was in the altar, this morning, shouting as though the Lord were deaf!"

"Charley! Charley!"

"Facts are obstinate things, Carry. Next to being hypocritical ourselves, is winking at it in others. The church keeps these men in her bosom; she must not complain, if she shares in the odium they merit. They are emphatically sounding brass."

"Let them grow together until the harvest," said Arthur. "It is a convincing proof of the truth of Religion, that there are careful counterfeits."

"I do not impeach the 'truth of Religion.' You need not speak so reproachfully, Arthur. I believe in the Christianity of the Scriptures. What I assail, is intermittent piety; springs, whose channels are dusty, save at particular seasons;—camp-meetings and the like; men, who furbish up their religion, along with their go-to-meeting boots, and wear it no longer. Their brethren despise them as I do; but their mouths are shut, lest they 'bring disgrace upon their profession.' It can have no fouler disgrace than their lives afford. I speak what others conceal; when one of these whited sepulchres lifts his Bible to break my head, for a graceless reprobate, I pelt him with pebbles from the clear brook. Look at old Thistleton! a mongrel,—porcupine and bull-dog;—pricking and snarling from morning 'till night. A Christian is a gentleman; he is a surly growler. Half of the church hate, the other half dread him; yet he sits on Sabbaths, in the high places of the synagogues, leads prayer-meetings, and weeps over sinners—sanctified 'brother Thistleton.' He thunders the law at me; and I knock him down with a stout stick, St. John cuts ready to my hand;—'If a man say, I love God, and hate his brother, he is a liar!' I hush up Rogers, with—'No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom;' and Mather, with, 'You cannot serve God and Mammon.' They say I am a scoffer;—I don't care. Now"—continued this contrary being, passing into a tone of reverent feeling;—"There is my kind guardian. I don't believe he ever shouted, or made a public address in his life. He lives his religion; a child can perceive that the Bible is a 'lamp to his feet;' a pillar of cloud in prosperity; a sun in adversity. I saw it when a boy, and it did me more good than the preached sermons I have listened to since. He called me into his study the night before I left home, and gave me a copy of 'the book.' 'Charley, my son,' said he, 'you are venturing upon untried seas; here is the Chart, to which I have trusted for twenty years; and have never been led by it, upon a quicksand. Look to it, my boy!' I have read it, more, because he asked it, than for its intrinsic value; that is my failing, not his. I have waded through sloughs of theories and objections; but hold to it still. Especially, when I am here, and kneel in my old place at the family altar; hear the solemn tones, that quieted my boyish gayety; when I witness his irreproachable, useful life, I say, 'His chart is true; would I were guided by it!' No—no—Art.! I may be careless and sinful;—I am no skeptic."

"A skeptic" exclaimed Lynn. "There never was one! Voltaire was a fiend incarnate; a devil, who 'believed and trembled,' in spite of his hardihood; Paine, a brute, who, inconvenienced by a soul, which would not sink as low as his passions commanded, tried to show that he had none, as the easiest method of disembarrassing himself. That one of God's creatures, who can look up to the glories of a night like this, or see the sun rise to-morrow morning, and peep, in his insect voice, a denial of Him who made the world, is demon or beast;—often both. 'Call no man happy 'till he dies.' Atheists have gone to the stake for their opinions; but physical courage or the heat of fanaticism, not the belief, sustained them. We have yet to hear of the infidel, who died in his bed,

"It is a mystery that one can die tranquilly," said Carry.

"I have stood by many peaceful death-beds," returned Arthur. "I never wish so ardently for an interest in the Redemption, as when I watch the departure of a saint. One verse is in my mind for days afterwards. I repeat it aloud as I ride alone; and it lingers in my last waking thought at night:

"And why do you not encourage these feelings?" asked Charley, bluntly. "I call that conviction; a different thing from the burly of this morning. You want to be a Christian;—so do I sometimes; but you are a more hopeful subject."

"I am by no means certain of that. You would never abide with the half-decided, so long as I have done. You are one of the 'violent,' who would take the kingdom of Heaven by force."

"How strange!" said Charley, thoughtfully.

"What is strange?" inquired his brother.

"Here are five of us, as well-assured of the verity of Christianity, and God's revealed Word, as of our own existence; the ladies, practising every Christian virtue; Lynn, prepared to break a lance with infidelity in any shape; you, like Agrippa, almost persuaded; and I, stripping off the borrowed plumage of those who have a name to live;—yet we will be content to close our eyes in sleep, uncertain of re-opening them in life;—unfit for Death and Eternity!"

He turned again to the piano; Arthur quitted the room; Lynn gazed out of the window, with working features; Carry shaded her eyes with her hand; Ida felt a cold awe creeping over her. 'Death and Eternity!' had she heard the words before? how out of place in the bright warm life they were leading! Here were true friendships, tried and strengthened by years; young love, joying in his flowery course; refined and congenial spirits; the luxuries of wealth and taste;—how unwelcome the hand that lifted the drapery which enveloped the skeleton! 'Death and Eternity!' The spell was upon the scented air; the moon threw shadows upon the grass, as of newly heaped graves; and the vibrating cords spoke but of the one awful theme!

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