The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser. — Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1855-08-21 00:00:00

SUPPLEMENT TO THE LIVERPOOL STANDARD AUGIasT 21, - 1855. _ With 014 Co into -the pulpit-some of our ancient liturgies, t o il feon of Faith, and.an okl Vaudois catechism, P th ro o v! th a t ty, principles he !aught were the same eontam.d in these antne.nt Protestant docu kents. 1. 1 e often read, too, the sermons of the . pastor -ger, v c h, ch Bitt-Y Years ago." had been preached in country t a j i l i 8 life presents much that is worthy of ( 1 °11 , 41 the boun.dless confidence of his faith, tow the sympathy which he felt and acted Ilavearmtshothroe iluieBpsoted task, and u p g o h o ly r anti the wavering. He seems to devoted himself to his self gained success by his earnest that and sincerity. So highly was he esteemed, ai on ," Was te rme d the model of the Home Mis -144,147 of our times, and n o l ess t h an fi ve different 4 4t ' l4 of him have been compiled. The p h re . - frietkillarrative is taken from the one written by . i h s h l lost, and all the letters of Neff, wine ntir e ' art 01 the biography, are said to be given fence e, not zar rat ' i It will be found a singularly interesting only as a record of Christian expe "'lit also for its many and varied incidents. THE CONTRAST. eutiio t4 lciat e re 1,-488tie ve ry young Scotsman there is an ii -I• .tapB, a ( p l2( lbition to be distinguished, or, fors a k iae ° ll tent of home, which prompts 15 - 7°rttiii e ; e t ile country he loves, and to seek a foreign land. Like my corn imbibed this desire to go abroad, ed as T inany of them, this inclination re the grew up, and while I saw others _,e to into advocates and physicians, 'iter ed. 'e to try my fortune abroad remained un ?rep, As my parents had several other chil -4y rtion did not di scourage this inclination. , Lu er, it is t rue, did not seem to relish it ' 4 oti g ,,uut ity father w as not r i c h , and he justly ittegi:,:t one of hi s f am il y m i g h t be spared 4tp, analne ntage to th e rest. Thus, sanctioned by I e neoUraged by all my friends, it was 441 4 ° ' v ed that should push my fortune in I I; ye • POo r sad that my father was not rich—and 44j ° W all seldom has much influence at the m' 4 4 o tee. .117 ear followed year without an tweiniet Aiemg obtained, and when I entered th e . 11 Year. my friends began to hint ate, the b ei that At thi lig many eligible situations . at Pr ez : ' 0 0111,1 1 ,s Crisis my father received notice %l b -11 , 4 \v h ,;e sent out as a cadet, and that my k(T•il' i a% to m ttantly required, as the last India ti; about a fortnight. For years co46—eu one 'e for a washcadsip. I had now Ttlld b ut s alas ! I far from being thenillell4 to e rceived how dear were my home ' and ke, now that I was about to lose ppt ahn o t Itv , er e 8 wished to be allowed to re nand " aB . But the die was cast ; I had tliat has i 4 . t ° the plough, and to look_ back L A h a ," ain. a Nz e 041, ; So suddenly was I called up Ae "ere two days to remain at home, and Passed tlt e al in such a continual bustle, that fVt a Pat' Illost appeared eared to me a dream. Still O • R as N l ea / ' left each house, and said fare e. 1 , — , at es— a pang which everyone . must 0,4 k e , 4 ', ll g a friend he is never again to vio k fel t ; tn,ose were for ever to be as dead, 11,44 -s I f I were losing them all at one A N 40 1) , a e , Is la 011" the evening before I sailed, but Sod s ' it Was e thing which yet remained to be t iltk a hOl q h tO bid a last farewell to Mary. Oh, Y l ttl la 'o; heart burst within me when I 1 71 $ , ..qieh h was to see her no more, that the nt,,lthira,ad illumined my life was for ever to 1414141 f ront my eyes ! Oh, how I loved 41 d ev er was there a livelier creature in ) and never was there a better. Her blue eyes beamed with the tenderness of an in nocent heart ; when she looked at me, I saw she was all my own ; for who could look at that countenance and believe that it harboured deceit. I felt that she was dearer to me than the whole world ; and yet I was about to leave her for ever. What a strange, inconsistent being is a man ! To think of taking her along with me was vain. At that time a voyage to India was nearly as formidable as a voyage to the Pole, and, besides, Mary's delicate frame would have wasted and withered away beneath a tropical sun. Mary resided at her father's house, which was situated a short distance from town. Thither I accordingly repaired, and soon found her sitting in the old-fashioned parlour where I usually met her. There stood her harp, over which I had often hung enraptured, drinking in love and sweet music, till I was almost intoxicated with delight ; it was now mute,—to me it would be silent for ever : there lay a landscape I had asked her to paint, but which I was never to see corn pleted. Alas ! thought I, in this very spot others will listen while she sings, and gaze at her as she works, perhaps, at this little picture, while I, poor I; forgotten by all, am burning away my life beneath the influence of a tropical sun. At this moment, casting my eyes upon a large mirror, could not help smiling at my woe-begone visage; so rallying a little,sl awaited the arrival of Mary. It was only that forenoon that poor .Mary had been told of my intended departure, and she now entered the room with a cast-down, dejected air. She approached me with something between a tear and a smile ; but when our eyes Met, when I said that I had come to bid her farewell, the big tear started to her beautiful eyes, and throwing herself into my arms, she wept aloud in an agony of grief. I am now an• old man, and many a sorrow have I felt ; but these two hours were the bitterest I ever knew, and yet, strange as it may seem, there is a sort of pleasure in Melancholy. Sad as I was, my heart was filled with a soothing sweetness, like that which fills the soul when we listen to some old melody we love—there is surely some mysterious connexion between music and melancholy, for the nature of their effects on the feelings is the same. It was long before I could think of leaving her. Often I tried to say " fare well," but as the sound trembled on my tongue, an entreating look from Mary again drove away the half-formed words, and so I sat still, while we talked of the pleasant hours which absence was so soon to render sacred. But at last I had to depart• —and, as the wretch on the scaffold, through very desperation, flings off the fatal hand kerchief, so, straining my Mary to my beating heart, I kissed her with a deep, a last kiss, and then rushed to the door. The interview was over ; I saw her no more. About an hour after, I re ceived a small packet ; it contained a lock of dark brown hair, with these words—" Keep it for the sake of Mary." Poor Mary ! she had been weep ing when she wrote it, for the paper was still wet with her tears: _ _ When I returned home, I found my parents sitting with the rest of the family, all anxiously awaiting fol. me. I felt that I had been unkind in spending so much of the night away from my own family. What little time I had should surely have been devoted to' my poor father and mother. Others I might see again, but, long before I re turned, their heads would be laid beneath the green turf. I dare say all our reflections were sad enough. My father tried to rally our spirits, .and smilingly talked of the time when I should return to be the support and joy. Of his old age. put the attempt was vain ; it was but a mockery of cheerfulness, and we were sadder than before. At length we had to separate. I bade them all an affectionate good night, and promised to see them in the morning. But that promise was meant to spare us the pain of parting. When all was quiet, I silently quitted my chamber, and glided along the passage. As I passed my parents' room, I perceived that there was still a light in it. I was tempted to look through the keyhole. I saw my mother on her knees, and, doubtless, she was praying for me. Oh ! how I longed to fly to her arms, to indulge in the satis faction of at least bidding her adieu ! But, restraining my feelings, I took a last look, and then went on. I could not leave the house with out visiting our little parlour—that room where we had all spent so many a happy hour. Never, never on earth was that happy circle to be again re-united. As I looked round, the tears sprung to my eyes, and overcome by my feelings, I laid my head on the table: and wept. But the clock struck two—it was the hour of my departure, and dashing away the tears, I quickly stole out of the house. When I gained the outside, I took a last, long look—the light was still burning in my room ; in my heart I . invoked a blessing on her, and on them all—and thus, sorrowfully, and in silence, I quitted my once happy home. After sojourning nearly forty years in the East, I found I had amassed a fortune exceeding even the sanguine expectationsof youth. Still, I hesi tated whether to return to - Britain. I had been so long in India-that it now appeared to me, my home, and friends had grown up around me from whom I felt unwilling to part.. I felt that, in re turning to Scotland, I was going, as it were, to a strange land. My parents, and brothers,. And sisters, were dead; and after so long an absence, the friends of my youth would, in all probability, have forgotten me. But, in spite of all this, I.felt a something within me which prompted_ me to revisit the scenes of my youth ; and though nearly sixty, I confess I had a desire to- see once more my first, my only love—my dear Mary. To say I loved her would be nonsense : love will seldom survive a separation of forty years ; but I still thought of her with tenderness, and in revisiting my native country, she was the only one whom I felt happy at the thought of seeing—the only one who, I expected, would be happy again to see me. Like me, she was still unmarried. At length, I returned to Scotland. The feelings of youth had long been calmed by age, and I reached my native place without those agitatirig, but delightful emotions, which many will imagine the sight of home was so calculated to - produce. I thought, with a melancholy smile, of the grief I had felt when I left it. Ay, all are gone, said I ; in my father's house I am a soli tary stranger ; for what end was I to toil away my life in a foreign land, that I might return to my friends—rich I am, but where are the friends with whom I was to have spent the evening of my days ? Alas ! they are gone, and my life has been passed in vain. In the same spirit did I wander along the streets of my native town. I felt myself an iso lated, lonely being. Everyone seemed happy except myself; everyone had his pursuits, every one had his companions and friends. I alone had none ; a new 'generation had sprung up, and those whom I had formerly known as young-men were now strangely metamorphosed into grave looking gentlemen, with grown-up families, and many of them with grand-children. Such as they were, however, I was glad to meet with them, though I often could not help wondering that they looked so old. The town itself, too, seemed no longer the same I had left behind me. Magnificent buildings had succeeded to old fashioned habitations, and the fields over which I used to shoot were now loaded with dwellings like palaces. It was a proof of the prosperity of the place, and yet I was half angry at the alteration. ering 10 5 4 — ) re ek e the s' e , e r f re o yo R l ' jee , l) l ) 4, l nod a the) t /rv bo e iteo", riller 9 ,e t 5 t O te St co l 10111° ,110 f 5 h II 0. , ;eele14,11:01°! e V ty 1 , 4 ir .; a w. iveo trt; teve st l ; o 6 l ler ~,e { { 0 0 0 but ec s g e r l ;i t y P el c o CelCe the ) , s teu b orit' so t ,b c iti e4 z . eel)/ L C ePS O e t ti co' P I . 'o ll ' e ( 1- ( re r e , e" me t) ofof 00 5 0 0 1 :e s°l tso•