ernment. He thought he was rapidly verging
towards perfection. But "a change came o'er the spirit of his dream"
at last, and an unwonted melancholy grew upon him, until it settled
like a pall over his heart. An apathy in regard to what had so
lately interested him, stole over him, and indeed a cold glance fell
upon almost every pursuit he had once prized. Plunged in deep gloom,
he one evening sought his grandfather's dwelling, hoping, by a
conversation with the cheerful old man, to regain a more healthy
state of mind; to his great satisfaction, Alfred found him alone
reading.

"Well, my boy, I am glad you have come in!" was the salutation, with
a most cordial smile, for Mr. Monmouth had silently remarked the
late alteration in his somewhat reckless grandson. He also detected
the present gloom upon his fine countenance, and the earnest hope of
dispelling it, added an affectionate heartiness to his manner.
Alfred made several common-place remarks, then, with his usual
impatience, he flung aside all preamble, and said,

"I am gloomy, grandfather, even more so than I have ever been, and I
cannot explain it. The last serious conversation I had with you,
produced a strong effect upon me, and for a long time after I was
unusually cheerful and vigorous in mind. I seemed to have imbibed
something of your spirit--I delighted in the hope of regenerating
myself, through the aid of Heaven; it seemed as if angels hushed my
restless spirit to repose, and I tried in humility to draw near my
God. Yet I feared for myself, and I withdrew from temptation, from
all society which was uncongenial to my state of mind. I was
_content_ for a long time, but now the sadness of apathy overwhelms
me."

"Endeavour, without murmuring, to bear this state of mind, and it
will soon pass off," remarked Mr. Monmouth. "We must not always fly
from temptation in every form, my boy, but we must arm ourselves
against its attacks, otherwise our usefulness will be greatly
lessened. If those who are endeavouring to make themselves better,
do so by shunning society, they are rather examples of selfishness
than benevolent goodness,--the selfishness is unconscious, and such
a course may be followed from a sense of duty. But the glance which
discovered this to be duty was not wide enough; it took in only the
claims of self, yet I would not convey the idea, that we have any
one's evils to take care of but our own. We need society, and,
however humble we may be, so