I cannot induce myself to bring these remarks to a close without making a brief quotation from he most intimate friend at this period. They apply not so much to her particular friendships as to her general acquaintances; and may serve to show how far she was from limiting her anxieties and regard to a select and favorite few of her own age and sentiments.

The act of forgiveness was as complete as it was delicate. She allowed no subsequent event to revive any thing which had been submitted to explanation, and on which she had expressed satisfaction. She could not always act up to the letter of the maxim, "Forgive and forget" but she did more, she conformed to its spirit. She strove not to remember; and she never suffered what might remain on her memory to influence her temper, or to become matter of allusion, in any present misunderstanding.

Where character was at all concerned, it was a rule with Martha not to listen to rumor and report. She knew that Rumor had a hundred tongues, and that at least fifty of them were false. Character with her was a sacred thing, and she could not allow herself to alter the good opinion she had formed of any one, without the strongest and best established reasons. She knew that many actions could not be judged of rightly without knowing more than she could possibly know of attending circumstances; and that envy and malignity were ever too ready to give a coloring to such actions, till what was innocent appeared to be inconsistent, and what was merely inconsistent to be sinful. She shrunk from the whisperer, the tale-bearer, the slanderer, and the flatterer, as from beings unfit for friendship, and most injurious to social happiness and religious confidence. The hint, the insinuation, the proffered secret against the character of another, which contribute so much to begin or cement the friendships of half the world, were never well received by her; and those who offered them were pitied for a meanness and degradation, of which they were too little conscious.

As she would not credit report, so she would not assist its circulation, even when too truly founded. She could find no pleasure in feeding on the defects of others; they were always seen with pain. If she might, she would close her eyes upon them; and happy was she if she could draw a veil over them from the eyes of others. It was a rule with her, that if she could say no good of an individual, she would not unnecessarily speak evil. She also admired the rule of Bishop Beveridge, which is as delicate as it is generous "never to praise any one in his presence, nor to blame any one in his absence." That she might the more fully act upon these and similar maxims, she generally sought to converse rather of things than of persons-an excellent precaution, though less needed, perhaps, in her case than that of most other persons. No one offended less in word than she. I believe she never designedly uttered one sentence for which any human being was the worse. A considerable proof of this assertion is, that throughout a very extensive and entirely confidential correspondence, continued for many years, and treating of many persons and vicissitudes, there is not to be found one Dassionate, resentful, or uncharitable observation.

manner of administering reproof when necessary. "She would often observe to me, 'Some say that love is blind; but I think real love opens the eyes. If I love a person, I desire others to love her too. I am therefore apt to watch closely the conduct of my friend; and when I discover the appearance of any thing wrong, I wish it to be seen and avoided: for I consider that others, who know less of my friend's good qualities than I do, may not be disposed to put so favorable a construction on the opposite ones.'

"When sometimes noticing the improprieties of professing characters, she would feel most keenly on the subject, and would devise a number of little expedients by which they might be led to see their error, without putting them to needless pain and embarrassment. 'Many,' she would remark, 'do not know what they occasion the world to say of them and of religion. If we could let them know what others are so ready to say of them, I am sure they would alter their conduct. But wisdom and tenderness inust be exercised, especially by young persons towards older ones, or we shall lose the end at which we were aiming, and dishonor Him whom we meant to serve. One thing we can always do— we can pray for them.'

"This act she was never backward to perform. I have often witnessed the fervor of her prayers for those who did not in all things adorn the doctrine of the gospel. Whenever she heard an individual spoken against, however unknown to her, she was ever prepared to offer some supposition in favor of the accused; either 'the party accusing might be misinformed,' or 'there might be many things in extenuation,' or 'at least, it should be mentioned to the individual, that an opportunity might be given for explanation.'

"Sometimes she would take this duty upon herself, if others would not. Her concern was in this case to convince the parties that she had a sincere interest in their welfare, and a deep sense of their excellences. Perhaps,' she would say, 'I am too scrupulous;' or 'I am not sufficiently acquainted with the motives which actuate you;' or 'I have been misinformed;' or 'I am really too young to be capable of forming a right judgment. But I was afraid that others might think the worse of you for it; and I should be grieved to hear any one speak of you with disrespect.' She had often the joy of seeing that her efforts were not in vain; and even where the admonition was despised, I scarcely know an instance in which they were displeased with the admonisher."

In the pursuit of this simple but too unusual line of conduct, it is not to be told what good she effected, what evil she prevented; what fires of anger and ill-will she extinguished, which might otherwise have preyed on the comfort and harmony of many a household; what jealousies, and envyings, and heart-burnings, and strifes, she contributed to destroy in the very birth, which otherwise might have lived to roam over the fair enclosures of civilized society, seeking whom they might devour.

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Charity was the companion of her humility, and they reciprocally strengthened each other. This was indeed the paramount excellence of her character, and it subdued all things to itself. It had cast out fear and enabled her "to lay aside all malice, and all pride and hypocrisy and envy, and all tion in the world in simplicity, and without offence. It never allowed her to wait, in her social intercourse, for the recurrence of the cold, half-forgotten rule of conduct; it spontaneously suggested all that was forgiving, candid, and compassionate. The incomparable sketch of this grace in its excellence, nature, and importance by the hand of the apostle Paul, was with her a most favorite portion of Scripture. It was, in fact, a study to her. If her charity was she studied it, that the feeble grace might be confirmed; if she was ever subject to the world's ridicule for what it might consider the tameness of her spirit, she had recourse to it and was justified; and, at all times, her admiration of it would dispose her to dwell on this lovely picture with insatiable pleasure. Indeed she dwelt upon it till she was greatly changed into the same image. She suffered long and was kind; she envied not; she vaunted not herself, and was not puffed up. She did not behave herself unseemly; sought not her own; was not easily provoked; thought no evil; rejoiced not in iniquity, but rejoiced in the truth. She bore all things; believed all things; hoped all things; endured all things. She had faith, hope, and charity but the greatest of these three was CHARITY.

Good arose to her not simply from those acts of mental discipline; she ultimately found herself surrounded by friends, who reflected upon her something of her own kindly feeling. She was amiable, and therefore beloved; she was discreet, and therefore trusted; she was modest, and therefore praised; she was pious, and therefore esteemed. Indeed she had a remarkable power to excite and engage attachment; and was as remarkably successful in the use of it. There seemed to be nothing about her to awaken the fears of the jealous, or to agitate the bile of the malignant. The rough and the gentle, the sensitive and the reflective, all thought well of her, and spoke as they thought; and those who intimately knew her had but one sentiment-it was the uniform, abiding, progressive sentiment of sincere affection.

It is of importance to remark, that the conduct in social life described throughout this chapter was dictated rather by the heart than the head. Martha owed nothing in her friendships to artful policy, wordy professions, or violent protestations; yet she did not neglect the voice of sober judgment or the maxims of tried prudence. On the contrary, she always deferred to them; she was in the habit of consulting the Proverbs of Solomon on her relative deportment; and she constantly spoke of them as unfolding invaluable principles of moral conduct, mixed with such rich and sagacious views of human nature as to make them an indispensable manual to those who would "cleanse their way" through a polluted and polluting world.

But it was the qualities of the heart which attracted the hearts of others towards her; and so far as I can venture on distinguishing them, it was eminently effected by her humility and love.

Humility was not merely admitted to be a cardinal virtue in her creed; it was a disposition she diligently sought to cultivate; and it was the influence of this grace that produced so much of gentleness, candor and forbearance. She always strove to think of others as better than herself; of herself as the least of all saints, and the most ungrateful of offenders. She could not be severe on the frailties of another, for she was frail. She could not declaim against the mote in her brother's eye, for a beam was in her own. She could not refuse to forgive her debtor his fifty pence, for she had been

It is easy to imagine how well these admirabl dispositions are adapted to work the effects which are here ascribed to them; how powerful they are in exciting esteem, conciliating affection, and creating influence-the influence of genuine goodness. Without these, the most acute sagacity will fail to weave the ties of a disinterested and imperishable friendship; and with them, and with little else, we shall find in our utmost need, if not many friends, at least some one friend, whose heart has answered to our heart, and who shall be as "a brother born for adversity, and a friend who loveth at all times."

CHAPTER XIII.

TRIALS. 1812-13.

WHERE is the one point in human existence on which any child of Adam can place his finger and say, Then I was happy? When the stream of life is gliding most pleasantly along, there will still be found some under-current crossing its progress; and which, if not seen foaming on the surface, is too surely felt troubling its inward tranquillity.

The period on which we are pausing might be considered a most happy one in the life of Martha. She was esteemed by her connections, beloved by her friends, the delight of her relations; she dwelt among those she loved, and made them the happier by her presence; she was pursuing with success her own improvement, and promoting to her uttermost the good of others; she was free from what are usually denominated worldly cares, and living in blessed sympathy with things unseen and eternal: what then could now arise to give her uneasiness and vexation?

Apart from those sources of painful reflection which were previously open to her, she suffered much during this period from an unexpected termi nation of her earliest and most intimate friendship.

The intercourse was closed at the request of her parents; and that request originated in a conviction that the two young friends were not exactly suited to each other.

In acting on such a conviction, it is scarcely necessary to say that blame is not to be imputed to any one of the parties. It is readily understood that two young persons may be of excellent character and principles, and yet not be so adapted to each other as to produce their common benefit and felicity. There may be a difference of age, or of temper, or of habit, or of taste; there may be too much susceptibility or too little; they may both run into one extreme, and so increase their mutual hazard, or they may run each to opposite extremes, and so chafe each other's disposition. Any of these variations, trifling as they seem, may be so exercised as to render an intimacy injurious which would otherwise be most advantageous; and it must be admitted that, though parents may sometimes err in forming a judgment of these, they are, generally speaking, best qualified to make a candid and kind opinion; and that they are discharging some of the highest trusts to their offspring in interposing a mild authority, on the suggestions of their best and calmest discretion.

Supposing this measure to be as wise and salutary as it was meant to be, it did not affect Martha the less severely. It was her first friendship; and it was formed at a time when her susceptible heart knew no disappointment, was checked by no control; it had been cemented by a thousand mutual acts of love, of piety, and of confidence. No later friendship had power to weaken her interest in this original one; it stood out in her view as chief of them all. It was now also regarded with particular tenderness, as her friend was exposed to great relative afflictions. The idea of relinquishing her at all was opposed to her earliest and strongest attachments; but the thought of appearing to give her up when she most needed the proofs of sympathy and fidelity deeply wounded her generosity.

The difficulty of this service was not at all diminished by any perception of its propriety. For the present, Martha could not view the subject through the same medium as her parents; and the most, therefore, she could do was to obey a command the reason for which she could not rightly appreciate. This was a great trial to her submission, and she sustained it worthily, but not without very sore affliction. Throughout her correspondence nothing of the kind seems to have given her equal distress; while her distress is unmixed with one word of complaint.

The keen edge of our sufferings is often given by our own hand. Martha thought she could not bring others to perceive how valuable this friendship was to her, and therefore she scarcely tried. Had she fully communicated the amount of her feelings on the subject, her parents, in balancing one thing against another, might have reconsidered their decision; or had her attachment not been, as it undoubtedly was, excessive, she might have felt there was some weight in their conclusion: but as it was, she had to drink her cup in all its bitterness, while none but herself knew that it was so bitter. She afterwards reviewed the subject in truer and calmer lights, and employed the errors of her experience for the right conduct of others.

The spirit is frequently willing when the flesh is weak. Martha's mind readily submitted to the yoke of parental authority, but her physical powers were not so adequate to the effort. Those powers had been much shaken before, and this event once more unsettled them. It not only affected her by the real loss of an endeared friendship, but by its imaginary influence in strengthening her mind to

endure other and secret sorrows. It was by this friendship alone that she could seek relief under those anxieties of the heart which, in defiance of her, would occasionally oppress her spirits; and in earlier days it had been eminently useful. She had insensibly weaned herself from making any allusions to the subject with her friend, on which she had forbidden herself to think; and probably had the opportunity for free intercourse been continued, it would not again have been so employed. But, such is the waywardness of human nature, immediately the opportunity appeared to be lost, it was imagined to be indispensable; the foolish heart, which with liberty to speak would have had nothing to tell, seemed ready to burst for utterance the moment utterance was denied.

for a few

About this time I was going to Cweeks; and finding Martha more indisposed than usual, which we all ascribed to exertion rather than anxiety, I determined to separate her from her engagements by taking her with me. We again, therefore, started as fellow-travellers to a place which, I considered, was interesting to her only by pleasing associations.

When we are sincerely desirous of administering to the comfort of a friend, how little are we able! what we present as balm may work as poison! I was now unconsciously conveying my sister to a spot which, in any circumstances, must have awakened painful recollections, and which, in existing circumstances, was likely to nourish them in a dangerous degree: recollections which, had I known of their being, I should have sought to wither and eradicate.

However, we journeyed on, refreshed in our progress; and seeking, by a good word or a good book, to cast some profitable seed by the way. Martha was evidently out of spirits, but I considered they would improve daily. They however sensibly diminished as we approached towards our destination. She lost her pleasure in conversation; if it was continued, it was with a constraint the more visible to me as I had seldom observed it. When she was not actually directing her looks to me, the light of cheerfulness forsook her features, and they settled down into dejection. I was induced to think something pressed on her mind, and yet I could not imagine what; nor could I bring myself to put the question lest, she should be embarrassed in refusing a reply. My thoughts took the complexion of hers, and I became somewhat moody and silent.

When the clouds of heaven are predisposed to weep, the mere firing of a gun, or ringing of a bell, will supply the occasion. I happened to break one of our intervals of pensiveness, by making some remark on the uncertainty of human hopes. Martha made no answer; and on turning my eye upon her, I saw the big and heavy tears falling from her lids. As they were thus detected, she lost her motive for suppressing them, and they flowed long and freely.

A tear is sometimes the very best introduction we can have to a delicate subject. Martha found her tears had prepared me to hear of something of which I was ignorant, and she therefore hastened to unbosom herself of her secret. Every thing it was needful to know, in order to form a correct judgment, she told in brief and modest words; and then alluded to the anxieties and conflicts which had arisen from it, and the pain she had felt in not finding resolution to name it before.

"And why," I exclaimed, "did you not name this before?"

"Because I feared I should lose your good opinion-I feared you would despise me." "Despise you!" I replied hastily; "no-I despise him who-"