THE BROKEN HYACINTH. CHAPTER I. EARLY HISTORY. MANY months had passed since I endured a loss, the bitterness of which neither time nor reflection had power to mitigate. I had endeavoured to flee from the recollection of it, to seek a diversion of my thoughts in employment, in change of place, in amusements. My friends had indulged me in every fancy which occurred to my afflicted mind, without effect; at length a pious young friend advised me no longer to shrink from the rod with which my heavenly Father had thought proper to chastise me; but thoroughly to inspect my own conduct, to take a view of my life, and see what there was therein which required amendment; "for God," said she, "doth not afflict willingly the children of men, as we are well assured by this circumstance, that when there was no sin on earth there was no sorrow; the sufferings which our Lord himself bore were in consequence of our sins. He was wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities;—" thus,” said she, "sin and suffering are, and ever must be, inseparable-hence the cry of the unhappy should ever be, Lord deliver us from sin, let sin no more have dominion over us." I was led by the advice of this my friend to endeavour to submit myself to my afflictions, and with this intent I not only took a review of my past life, but requested my friend to put it down on paper, knowing that she was much better able to express my feelings as I described them, than I myself could do at that time, or for many years afterward. In consequence of this, there remained to me such a memorial of early life as few persons are possessed of. This memorial lay by me many years, and was often the subject of private meditation; and it is not till within a few weeks, when deprived by death of the only friend then remaining, whose name is mentioned in my history, that I have come to the resolution of making it public, for the benefit, I trust, of other young people who may have felt any inclination to commit the same faults as those which, by their consequences, inflicted such bitter sufferings on my early life. I have no recollection whatever of my father, nor, indeed a very clear one of my mother; neither of the place of my birth, which was somewhere in the neighbourhood of London. My early life, from the death of my parents till I had entered my twelfth year, was spent in the house, and under the control of my guardian and his family, consisting of himself, his wife, and two daughters, the one a widow, and the other a single woman. My guardian had made a handsome independence in trade, and, though a well-meaning man, had few ideas besides those connected with traffic; and I cannot better describe the female parts of the family than by saying, that they were persons of that ordinary sort with whom we meet every day; not having a single idea independent of their own little world, which consisted of the few neighbours who lived around them, in the smart village in which their habitation stood, about fifteen miles from town. My uncle and aunt were absolutely ignorant of human nature, and in consequence entertained the opinion of many inexperienced persons, that children might be modelled to any thing according to their teachers' pleasure; and they thought that all was well with them so long as they could be compelled to observe certain forms, and adhere to certain rules of conduct which affected the exterior only, and left the heart wholly unchanged. I know not better how to explain the sort of duties which were required of us, than by transcribing a page from an old spelling-book of the last century, in which the character of a good girl is described with great accuracy, according to the prevailing opinion of the best judges in those times. "Miss Polly always rises from her bed the moment the maid taps at the door; she gets up immediately, and lays her pillow and coverlet quite straight; she then dresses herself with the greatest care, not a spot or stain is to be seen on her slip, though she has worn it a year and a half, nor a rumple in her apron. When she is dressed, she sits down to her sewing, and I warrant you she has done the best part of a seam before the family are ready for breakfast. When she hears the breakfast bell, she is in haste to come down, and she does not forget to remind Master John, her brother, to use his pocket comb behind the parlour door before he appears in the presence of his parents." And now I must proceed to describe the sweet companion of these my early days, of whom I have not yet spoken; although the image of this ever-lovely and beloved one is woven in unfading colours, in the web which memory hath wrought as the record of my early days. This lovely companion was no other than my sister, my twin sister, my own beloved Sophia; one hour gave birth to each, one cradle supplied a common restingplace for both-we were nursed on the same knees, we inhaled the same nourishment, and we were as two stems united in one root. Ah! lovely Sophia, sweet and pure spirit, why wast thou taken and thy worst half left? but it was to be, and it was for good. At the first glance we were twins in appearance as well as by nature; the complexions, the hair, the height, the general turn of feature, and colour of the eyes, were the same, but the accurate discerner might speedily observe the difference; the impress of the renewed nature was, I have no doubt, marked from very early life on the brow of my Sophia, while it was wanting on mine. The Almighty commonly works by means, yet he retains to himself the privilege of doing his own will and effecting his own work without human help, and not unseldom, in so doing, confounds the experience of proud and self-sufficient man. Such, indeed, was the case in his dealings with my little sister, who, though wholly unacquainted with the language of the professor, evidenced, from an early period in life, the spirit of the redeemed-that meek and humble, gentle and thankful spirit, which no education can impart, no instruction can inspire. |