We half pray for some great misfortune, some

agonizing illness, that it may bring to us our

We say,

soother and our nurse. "In affliction or in sickness it could not thus desert us." We are mistaken. We are shelterless-the roof has been taken from our heads-we are exposed to any and every storm. Then comes a sharp and dread sentiment of loneliness and insecurity. We are left-weak children-in the dark. are bereft more irrevocably than by death; for will even the Hereafter, that unites the happy dead that die lovingly, restore the love that has perished, ere life be dim?

We

What shall we do? We have accustomed ourselves to love and to be loved. Can we turn to new ties, and seek in another that which is extinct in one? How often is such a resource in vain! Have we not given to this-the treacherous and the false friend- the best years of our life the youth of our hearts-the flower of our affections? Did we not yield up the harvest? how little is there left for another to glean! This makes the crime of the moral in

.

fidelity. The one who takes away from us his or her love, takes from us also the love of all else. We have no longer, perhaps, the youth and the attractions to engage affection. Once we might have chosen out of the worldnow the time is past. Who shall love us in our sear and yellow leaf, as in that time, when we had most the qualities that win love? It was a beautiful sentiment of one whom her lord proposed to put away-"Give me, then, back," said she, "that which I brought to you." And the man answered, in his vulgar coarseness of soul, "Your fortune shall return to you." "I thought not of fortune," said the lady; "give me back my real wealth-give me back my beauty and my youth-give me back the virginity of soul-give me back the cheerful mind, and the heart that had never been disappointed."

Yes it is of these that the unfaithful rob us, when they dismiss us back upon the world, and tell us with a bitter mockery to form new ties. In proportion to the time that we have been faithful-in proportion to the feel

ings we have sacrificed-in proportion to the wealth of soul-of affection, of devotion, that we have consumed, are we shut out from the possibility of atonement elsewhere. But this is not all the other occupations of the world are suddenly made stale and barren to us! the daily avocations of life-the common pleasures-the social diversions so tame in themselves, had had their charm when we could share, and talk over, them with another. It was sympathy which made them sweet-the sympathy withdrawn they are nothing to us-worse than nothing. The talk has become the tinkling cymbal, and society the gallery of pictures. Ambition, toil, the great aims of life--even these cease abruptly to excite. What, in the first place, made labour grateful and ambition dear? Was it not the hope that their rewards would be reflected upon another self? And now there is no other self. And, in the second place, (and this is a newer consideration,) does it not require a certain calmness and freedom of mind for great efforts? Persuaded of the possession of what most we value,

1

we can look abroad with cheerfulness and hope; -the consciousness of a treasure inexhaustible by external failures, makes us speculative and bold. Now, all things are coloured by our despondency; our self-esteem-that necessary incentive to glory-is humbled and abased. Our pride has received a jarring and bitter shock. We no longer feel that we are equal to stern exertion. We wonder at what we have dared before. And therefore it is, that when Othello believes himself betrayed, the occupations of his whole life suddenly become burthensome and abhorred.

"Farewell," he saith,

"Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content!"

And then, as the necessary but unconscious link in the chain of thought, he continues at

once

"Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, That make ambition virtue! oh, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,

The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner; and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
Farewell!-Othello's occupation's gone.”

But there is another and a more permanent result from this bitter treason. Our trustfulness in human nature is diminished. We are no longer the credulous enthusiasts of Good. The pillars of the moral world seem shaken. We believe, we hope, no more from the faith of others. If the one whom we so worshipped, and so served-who knew us in our best years-to whom we have offered countless, daily offerings -whom we put in our heart of hearts-against whom if a world hinted, we had braved a world -if this one has deserted us, who then shall be faithful?

At length, we begin to reconcile ourselves to the worst; gradually we gather the moss of our feelings from this heart which has become to us as stone. Our pride hardens down into indifference. Ceasing to be loved, we cease to love. Seasons may roll away, all other feelings ebb