hould she be
unworthy of it, as may happen, you are a dolt for your pains--to put the
motive of action at no higher level.

And O sister women, daughters of England, fair to look upon, tender-
hearted, ministering! think, that although no man that ever lived, but
one, is perfectly worthy of a pure woman's love, many an erring brother
may be recalled from his down-treading steps to hell, to higher, nobler
duties by your influence; as many a soul is damned, both here and
hereafter through your default!

Bear with me yet a little longer. I shall soon be done. It is a relief
to me thus to unbosom myself. Like Aenone--"while I speak of it, a
little while, my heart may wander from its deeper woe."

Min taught me to pray; and I _have_ prayed; but, the most fervent spirit
that ever breathed out its conscience to its Maker could never hope to
undo the past.

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" It was
all very well for him who had faced Azrael, and looked upon himself as a
dying man, to speak thus!

Beautiful as is the sentiment contained in the words, are they _true_?

I know that a brave man, one who does not credit an eternity and has not
the slightest thought on the subject of future salvation or future
punishment, can, when quitting the only world of his knowledge, look
upon his approaching end with a courage and an apathetic calm which
resemble the smiling fortitude wherewith the ancient gladiators uttered
their parting salutations to Nero--when, in expectation, they waited for
the fatal thumb to be turned down, in token of their doom.

I can well believe that an earnest Christian, likewise, regards his
instant dissolution, with equanimity and, even joy--through
contemplation of the everlasting happiness in which he devoutly trusts.

Still, how do both, the irreligious man and the hopeful believer, bear
the loss of those dear to them--they themselves being left behind,
forsaken, to grieve over their vacant chairs, their despoiled folds?--
Has not Death his sting for them; the grave, its awful triumph?--

I do not always speak like this, however; nor are my thoughts ever
bitter and despairing.

"Fret not thyself," says the Psalmist, "lest thou be moved to do evil;"
and, I try not to fret when I remember the message my darling left for
me with Miss Pimpernell--who watched by her dying bed and told me what
she had said, in her very own dear, dear words. It is then that I haunt
the ol