"A year ago I was myself intensely miserable, because I thought I

had made a mistake in entering the ministry: its uniform duties

wearied me to death. I burnt for the more active life of the world-

-for the more exciting toils of a literary career--for the destiny

of an artist, author, orator; anything rather than that of a priest:

yes, the heart of a politician, of a soldier, of a votary of glory,

a lover of renown, a luster after power, beat under my curate's

surplice. I considered; my life was so wretched, it must be

changed, or I must die. After a season of darkness and struggling,

light broke and relief fell: my cramped existence all at once

spread out to a plain without bounds--my powers heard a call from

heaven to rise, gather their full strength, spread their wings, and

mount beyond ken. God had an errand for me; to bear which afar, to

deliver it well, skill and strength, courage and eloquence, the best

qualifications of soldier, statesman, and orator, were all needed:

for these all centre in the good missionary.

"A missionary I resolved to be. From that moment my state of mind

changed; the fetters dissolved and dropped from every faculty,

leaving nothing of bondage but its galling soreness--which time only

can heal. My father, indeed, imposed the determination, but since

his death, I have not a legitimate obstacle to contend with; some

affairs settled, a successor for Morton provided, an entanglement or

two of the feelings broken through or cut asunder--a last conflict

with human weakness, in which I know I shall overcome, because I

have vowed that I WILL overcome--and I leave Europe for the East."

He said this, in his peculiar, subdued, yet emphatic voice; looking,

when he had ceased speaking, not at me, but at the setting sun, at

which I looked too. Both he and I had our backs towards the path

leading up the field to the wicket. We had heard no step on that

grass-grown track; the water running in the vale was the one lulling

sound of the hour and scene; we might well then start when a gay

voice, sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed "Good evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Your dog

is quicker to recognise his friends than you are, sir; he pricked

his ears and wagged his tail when I was at the bottom of the field,

and you have your back towards me now."

It was true. Though Mr. Rivers had started at the first of those

musical accents, as if a thunderbolt had split a cloud over his

head, he stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in the same

attitude in which the speaker had surprised him--his arm resting on

the gate, his face directed towards the west. He turned at last,

with measured deliberation. A vision, as it seemed to me, had risen

at his side. There appeared, within three feet of him, a form clad

in pure white--a youthful, graceful form: full, yet fine in

contour; and when, after bending to caress Carlo, it lifted up its

head, and threw back a long veil, there bloomed under his glance a

face of perfect beauty. Perfect beauty is a strong expression; but

I do not retrace or qualify it: as sweet features as ever the

temperate clime of Albion moulded; as pure hues of rose and lily as

ever her humid gales and vapoury skies generated and screened,

justified, in this instance, the term. No charm was wanting, no

defect was perceptible; the young girl had regular and delicate

lineaments; eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovely

pictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyelash

which encircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilled

brow which gives such clearness; the white smooth forehead, which

adds such repose to the livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek

oval, fresh, and smooth; the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy,

sweetly formed; the even and gleaming teeth without flaw; the small

dimpled chin; the ornament of rich, plenteous tresses--all

advantages, in short, which, combined, realise the ideal of beauty,

were fully hers. I wondered, as I looked at this fair creature: I

admired her with my whole heart. Nature had surely formed her in a

partial mood; and, forgetting her usual stinted step-mother dole of

gifts, had endowed this, her darling, with a grand-dame's bounty.




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