Seymore indulged himself with a few days of perfect, unalloyed happiness. The tumultuous feeling of joy subsided, the dark shade that had begun to gather over his mind vanished, and a sober certainty of bliss—bliss too great, he feared, for mortal, appeased his too keen sensibility to his own imperfections.

The character of Edith was formed to produce this effect. There was nothing exaggerated in it. Her solitary life, without mother or sister, had taught her great self-reliance; while her genuine humility had preserved her from that obstinacy of opinion that a want of knowledge of the world sometimes creates. The grave and solid studies she had entered into with her father had strengthened her mind, as it were, with the "bark and steel" of literature; while the native tenderness of her heart had prevented her from becoming that odious creature, a female pedant. Her greatest charm was the exquisite feminineness of her character: this perhaps, without religion, would have degenerated into weakness, or, without an enlightened reason, into superstition.

How entirely is the divine spirit of Christianity adapted to woman's nature! loving as she does, and trembling for the objects of her love; doomed

If ever woman enjoyed all worldly advantages, if ever she was flattered, made an idol, and worshipped, it was in Europe previous to the French Revolution. Yet the letters and memoirs of the women of that time, light and frivolous as they are, reveal a depth of sadness, a desolation of spirit, a weariness of life,—destitute as many of them are of all aspiration after an immortal hope,—that tells us how indispensable to woman's nature are the hopes and consolations of religion. Love was at that time the object of woman's existence,—a love that, with our standard of morals, leaves a stain as well as a wound; but, with their peculiar notions, it robbed them neither of the adulation of society, nor of their own self-respect. But, with all this, together with their influence in the affairs of state, we read their memoirs not only with a shame that burns on the cheek, but with feelings of the deepest commiseration.

How few, even of the happiest among women, are blest with that love that can fill and satisfy a woman's heart! How many, disappointed and weeping o'er "idols of clay," stretch out the arms of their souls for something they can lean on in safety! How many, solitary at heart in the midst of gayety, turn away to look into themselves for something more satisfying! How many broken and contrite spirits feel that he alone who knows what is in the heart of man, can teach them to bear a wounded spirit!

How full of sympathy for woman is the New Testament! He knew the heart of woman who said, "She is forgiven; for she has loved much."

It must have been a woman who first thought of prayer. Madame de Stael says that a mother with a sick child must have invented prayer; and she is right: a woman would first pray, not for herself, but for the object of her tenderness.

It had been an object much at heart with Mr. Grafton to save a little property for his daughter. He had succeeded in purchasing the small house, and a few acres about it, which was kept in perfect order and good cultivation under the excellent management of Paul.

Edith's unprotected state, being without near relatives, made him desirous that she should have an independent home among his attached but humble parishioners. He knew that she was scarcely less beloved by them than himself. But he looked forward to his place being filled by a stranger; and he was mainly anxious that her comfort should not depend on the bounty, or even the gratitude, of the most disinterested of his flock.

He was able to accomplish his wish, and leave her a small patrimony, abundantly equal to the wants of their frugal establishment; and Edith thanked God, with tears of gratitude, that she was not obliged to separate herself from the graves of both her parents.

The summer and winter that followed her father's death were passed in tranquillity by Edith, watched over and guarded with the most faithful care by her two sable friends. No pastor had yet been chosen in her father's place; and an unacknowledged but cherished hope arose in her mind, that Seymore might one day stand in that sacred place, hallowed in her affections, and now regarded with trembling hope.

Seymore indulged himself with as many short visits to Edith as his circumstances would allow, always struggling as he was with almost insurmountable obstacles, and straining every nerve to attain that goal of his hopes, a position in society that would allow him to claim his bride. The joy that her presence imparted to his whole being, the change that came over him the moment his weary eye caught sight of the steeple that rose above the dear spot of all his dreams, the sunshine that she diffused in the dark places of his mind, prevented Edith from being sensible of the change, the painful change, that a constant struggle with the coarse realities of his position had made in his noble nature. She had often, indeed, said, with Jenny Deans, "It is no matter which has the siller, if the other wants it." But Seymore's nature was proud as well as tender.

He possessed, as we have before seen, the temperament of the poet—that pure, rare, and passionate nature so little able to contend with the actual difficulties of life—to whom every-day regular labor is a burden hard to bear. We have seen that his deep religious impressions had made him consecrate all his fine powers to the service of God; and the tenderness of his conscience made him fear that the sacrifice was imperfect. The conflict was ever in his soul. He was unable to satisfy his own aspirations after a spirituality and purity, which is the slow growth of a life of exertion. Despondency so intimately allied to the poetic temperament produced a morbid sensibility, a sort of monomania in his mind, having the effect of those singular mirages seen from the sea-shore, where the most trivial and familiar objects are magnified to temples and altars, and hung, as it were, in the clouds.

We touch with a reverend spirit and trembling hand the mysterious influences of hidden causes, uniting with unhappy external circumstances, to involve those who seem formed to bless and to be blessed in a self-tormenting melancholy. I know not that, under any circumstances, Seymore's would have been a happy spirit. Under the present, his love for Edith seemed the only light that could save him from total shipwreck.

The two lovers wrote to each other as often as the state of communication between different parts of the country would allow, before post-roads had been established, and when letters were often entrusted to wandering Indians, and the postage paid with a little tobacco, or a handful of meal.

We may judge of the nature of Seymore's letters by one of Edith's, which appears to be an answer to one of his:

October, 1692.

How can I be so little solitary, when I am more alone than ever? I awake from dreams of you to feel your presence still with me; and my first emotion is gratitude to God for having given me this happiness. Forgive me, beloved father! that I can be so content without you! The bonds of nature are weakened, when an absorbing emotion fills the heart. The time may come when nature will be avenged. Ah, it cannot be wrong to love as I do. God has opened this fountain in the desert of life, as a solace for all its evils. Ah, how can those who love be sufficiently grateful to God? Every hour should be an act of adoration and praise.

You will tell me, my friend, that this all-absorbing love should be given to God. I cannot separate God from his works. This beautiful nature—the ocean, in all its majesty, the quiet stars, as they seem to look down upon us, the beauty spread every where around me—remind me always of God. I cannot represent to myself God in his personal form: I feel him every where, and I love him especially for having made us capable of love.

That religion should be a different thing from this pervading love and reverence, I cannot yet understand. Faith is the gift of God; such faith as you, my dear friend, wish me to possess; but it seems to me, like all the other precious gifts of the soul, to be obtained by earnest prayer and infinite strivings. When the young man mentioned in the gospel came to our Saviour, he demanded of him no profession of mysterious faith, but only a proof of disinterested love.

Religion is not a distinct thing from the every-day life, as—pardon me, my dear friend—I think you would make it. It is like the air we breathe, requisite for a life of goodness, but not less nor more perceptible to our well-being than the air is to our existence. It should not make itself felt in storms and tempests, in hot and cold fits, but in a calm and equal power, sustaining, purifying, and nourishing our souls.

You believe the direct influence of the Spirit of God upon every individual mind is necessary, to make him a religious being. I cannot but think that the indirect influence, the beautiful and ever-renewed miracle of nature, the observation of God's providence in the care of his creatures, and the study of the adaptation of Christianity to our particular dispositions—not merely by a process of reasoning, but aided by the religious sentiment which seems to me innate and natural to every human being—is more powerful.

And now that I have finished my sermon, let me scold you for wronging yourself, as you too often do. Truth is not to be set aside, in looking at our own characters. We should do the same justice to ourselves that we do to others. There is a secret dishonesty in depreciating ourselves. Could I esteem and honor you as I do, were you what you call yourself? I honor you for all the noble exertions you have made,—for the ardor of your love of truth and duty. Ah, call me not a partial and blinded judge: your true honor and your most precious happiness are too dear to me to allow me to be a false or partial friend. I would give you a little, a very little vanity; not enough to make you a sumptuous robe, but just enough to keep you from the cold.

You say you look upon this delusion of witchcraft, that is spreading through the country, with fearful and trembling interest, and that you believe God may permit his will to be made known by such instruments as these. God forbid that I should limit his power! but I fear these poor children are wicked or diseased, and that Satan has nothing to do with it.

The old woman at the cliff is now very ill: I trust God will take her from the world before she is seized for a witch. There are many ready to believe that she has ridden through the air on a broomstick, or gone to sea in an egg-shell. But you do not love me to jest on this subject. Forgive me! I will not jest again.

And this balmy Indian summer,—it seems as if it would last forever. But I am so happy now, I can hardly believe there is sorrow in the world, or winter in the year. Winter has no terror now: the long evenings and nights bring me dreams of you, and I awake with the consciousness that you are mine. * * *

Perhaps the reader may think the letter just read a very singular love-letter. But it must be remembered that religion was the all-absorbing sentiment of the Puritans, and that Seymore's enthusiastic temperament made it the subject that most interested him in his letters to Edith.

Edith's mind was too well balanced and too happily constituted to allow her to partake of his extravagance; but she gave him that dearest proof of love, that of softening all his defects, and even exalting them into the most precious virtues.