writing; and the incident is more interesting because they are part of the hymn which his wife repeated in her last hours, thirty-three years before :— "Vital spark of heavenly flame, Hark! "It would almost seem that a vision of the angelmessenger had been afforded, and that the sound of his distant footsteps had fallen upon his ear; for, with the unfinished line, the pen thus abruptly stops." The dying nobleman referred to left the following epistle for a friend : "DEAR SIR-Before you receive this, my final state will be determined by the Judge of all the earth. In a few days at most, perhaps in a few hours, the inscrutable sentence will be passed. It is impossible for me to express the present disposition of my soul-the vast uncertainty I am struggling with! No words can paint the force and vivacity of my apprehensions. Every doubt wears the face of horror, and would perfectly overcome me, but for some faint beams of hope which dart across the tremendous gloom! What tongue can utter the anguish of a soul suspended between the extremes of infinite joy and eternal misery. I am throwing my last stake for eternity, and tremble and shudder for the important issue. It is not giving up my breath at which I shrink. It is not being for ever insensible. It is a terrible hereafter-that something beyond the grave at which I recoil. Those great realities which in the hours of mirth and vanity I treated as phantoms-as the idle dreams of superstitious people these start forth and dare me now in their most terrible demonstrations. My awakened conscience feels something of that eternal vengeance I have often defied. Oh! to what heights of madness is it possible for human nature to reach! What extravagance to jest at death! to laugh at damnation! to sport with eternal change, and recreate a jovial fancy with the scenes of eternal misery! Oh! my friend, with what horror do I recall the hours of vanity we have wasted together! But I have a splendid passage to the grave! I die in state, and languish under a gilded canopy. I am expiring on soft and downy pillows, and am respectfully attended by my servants and physicians. My dependents sigh; my sisters weep; my father bends beneath a load of years and grief; my lovely wife, pale and silent, conceals her inward anguish; my friend, who was as my own soul, suppresses his sighs, and leaves me to hide his secret grief. But oh which of these will answer my summons at the high tribunal? Which of them will bail me from the arrest of death? Who will descend into the dark prison of the grave for me? While some flattering panegyric is pronounced at my interment, I may be hearing my just condemnation at a supreme tribunal; where an unerring verdict may sentence me to everlasting infamy! Adieu, my dear friend, till we meet in the world of spirits." CHAPTER XXVII. CONCLUSION. WE have now considered the elements of success in the life of one of the best and most highly prospered sons of New England. We have seen, too, that successful men in other pursuits possess these elements in common with Mr Lawrence. The reader need not suppose, however, that one of these qualities alone will work out a remarkable destiny for him. Indeed, it is doubtful if one of these characteristics ever existed alone. Where one of them is found, others exist in conjunction with it. We consider that the highest success is dependent upon the harmonious blending of all these virtues; and this we would impress upon the reader's mind. It will be seen, also, that the author embraces something more than mere worldly acquisition in the term success. There are those who regard triumph in one's calling, and the rapid accumulation of money, as the climax of success. No matter what noble qualities the person has left undeveloped, nor what moral convictions have been violated and stifled, it is enough if a mere worldly object has been attained. But we have more exalted ideas of success than this. If a man lays up a fortune in a series of busy years, while he has dwarfed his soul, and ignored every moral and religious obligation in the effort, he has been successful only in part. If he has a million sterling and no character, he is not worth much. If he has completely triumphed in his pursuit, and the race has cost him the crown of virtue, his life, in its most important relations, is a failure. While Girard and Astor were examples of perseverance, economy, and some other qualities, they lacked those higher moral acquisitions which were the crown-jewels of Lawrence. We can feel that there was a sad omission in all their purposes and struggles. A writer relates the following fact, and we quote it as an illustration of this point: "I have heard of two brothers, whose father died leaving them a hundred pounds apiece. 'I will take this money, and make myself a rich man,' said Henry, the younger brother. I will take this money and make myself a good man,' said George the elder. "Henry, who knew little beyond the multiplication table, abandoned all thoughts of going to school, and began by peddling goods in a small way over the country. He was shrewd and quick to learn what he gave his attention to; and he gave all his attention to making money. He succeeded. In one year his hundred pounds had become two hundred. In five years it had grown to be four thousand; and at the age of fifty he was worth a quarter of a million. "George remembered the words of the wise man: With all thy gettings, get understanding.' He spent two-thirds of his money in going to school and acquiring a taste for solid knowledge. He then spent the remainder of his patrimony in purchasing a few acres of land in the neighbourhood of a thriving city. He resolved on being a farmer. "After a lapse of thirty-five years, the two brothers met. It was at George's house. A bright, vigorous, alert man, was George, though upwards of fifty-five years old. Henry, though several years younger, was very infirm. He had kept in his counting-room long after the doctors had warned him to give up business, and now he found himself stricken in health beyond repair. But that was not the worst. He was out of his element when not making money. George took him into the library, and shewed him a fine collection of books. Poor Henry had never cultivated a taste for reading. He looked upon the books with no more interest than he would have looked on so many bricks. George took him into his garden, but Henry began to cough, and said he was afraid of the east wind. When George pointed out to him a beautiful elm-tree, he only cried, 'Pshaw!' George took him into his green-house, and talked with enthusiasm of some rare flowers, the beauty of which seemed to give the farmer great pleasure. Henry shrugged his shoulders and yawned, saying, 'Ah! I do not care for these things.' George asked him if he was fond of paintings and engravings. 'No, no! don't trouble yourself,' said Henry. 'I can't tell one daub from another.' 'Well, you shall hear my daughter Edith play the piano; she is no ordinary performer, I assure you.' 'Now don't, brother-don't, if you love me,' said Henry beseechingly: 'I never could endure music.' 'But what can I do to amuse you? Will you take a ride?' I am afraid of a horse; but if you will drive me carefully down to your village bank, I will stop and have a chat with the president.' Poor Henry! money was the one thing uppermost in his mind. To it he had sacrificed every other good thing. When, a few days afterward, he parted from his farmer brother, he laid his hand on his shoulder, and said: 'George, you can just support yourself comfortably, and I have got enough to buy up the whole of your town, bank and all—and yet your life has been a success, and mine a dead failure." " |