# Original Stories from Real Life/Chapter 15

CHAP. XV.
Prayer.—A Moon-light Scene.—Reſignation.
THE harper would frequently ſit under a large elm, a few paces from the houſe, and play some of the moſt plaintive Welſh tunes. While the people were eating their ſupper, Mrs. Maſon deſired him to play her ſome favourite airs; and ſhe and the children walked round the tree under which he ſat, on the stump of another.
The moon roſe in cloudleſs majeſty, and a number of ſtars twinkled near her. The ſoftened landſcape inſpired tranquillity, while the ſtrain of ruſtic melody gave a pleaſing melancholy to the whole, and made the tear ſtart, whoſe ſource could ſcarcely be traced. The pleaſure the ſsight of harmleſss mirth gave riſe to in Mrs. Maſon's boſom rouſed every tender feeling, and ſet in motion her ſpirits. She laughed with the poor whom ſhe had made happy, and ​wept when ſhe recollected her own ſorrows; the illuſions of youth—the gay expectations that had formerly clipped the wings of time. She turned to the girls—I have been very unfortunate, my young friends; but my griefs are now of a placid kind. Heavy misfortunes have obſcured the ſun I gazed at when firſt I entered life; early attachments have been broken; the death of friends I loved has ſo clouded my days; that neither the beams of proſperity, nor even thoſe of benevolence, can diſſipate the gloom; but I am not loſt in a thick fog. My ſtate of mind rather reſembles the scene before you, it is quiet; I am weaned from the world, but not diſguſted; for I can ſtill do good, and in futurity a ſun will riſe to cheer my heart. Beyond the night of death, I hail the dawn of an eternal day! I mention my ſtate of mind to you, that I may tell you what ſupports me.
The feſtivity within, and the placidity without, led my thoughts naturally to the ſource from whence my comfort ſprings—to the Great Beſtower of every bleſſing.
​Prayer, my children, is the deareſt privilege of man, and the ſupport of a feeling heart. Mine has too often been wounded by ingratitude; my fellow-creatures, whom I have fondly loved, have neglected me—I have heard their laſt ſigh, and thrown my eyes round an empty world; but then more particularly feeling the preſence of my Creator, I poured out my ſoul before Him, and was no longer alone! I now daily contemplate His wonderful goodneſs; and, though at an awful diſtance, try to imitate Him. This view of things is a ſpur to activity, and a conſolation in diſappointment.
There is in fact a conſtant intercourſe kept up with the Creator, when we learn to conſider Him as the fountain of truth, which our underſtanding naturally thirſts after. But His Goodneſs brings Him ſtill more on a level with our bounded capacities, for we trace it in every work of mercy, and feel, in ſorrow particularly, His fatherly care. Every bleſſing is doubled when we ſuppose it comes from Him, and ​afflictions almoſt loſe their name when we believe they are ſent to correct, not cruſh us. Whilſt we are alive to gratitude and admiration, we muſt adore God.
The human ſoul is ſo framed, that goodneſs and truth must fill it with ineffable pleaſure, and the nearer it approaches to perfection, the more earneſtly will it purſue thoſe virtues, diſcerning more clearly their beauty.
The Supreme Being dwells in the univerſe. He is as eſſentially preſent to the wicked as to the good; but the latter delight in His preſence, and try to pleaſe Him, whilſt the former ſhrink from a Judge, who is of too pure a nature to behold iniquity. The wicked wiſh for the rocks to cover them, mountains, or the angry ſea, which we the other day ſurveyed, to hide them from the preſence of that Being, in whoſe preſence only they could find joy. You feel emotions that incite you to do good; and painful ones diſturb you, when you have reſiſted the faithful internal monitor. The wiſer, and the better you ​grow, the more viſible, if I may uſe the expreſſion, will God become: for wiſdom conſiſts in ſearching Him out, and goodneſs in endeavouring to copy His attributes.
To attain any thing great, a model muſt be held up to exerciſe our underſtanding, and engage our affections. A view of the diſintereſted goodneſs of God is therefore calculated to touch us more than can be conceived by a depraved mind. When the love of God is ſhed abroad in our hearts, true courage will animate our conduct; for nothing can hurt thoſe who truſt in Him. If the deſire of acting right is ever preſent with us, if admiration of goodneſs fills our ſouls, we may be said to pray conſtantly. And if we try to do juſtice to all our fellow-creatures, and even to the brute creation; and aſſiſt them as far as we can, we prove whoſe ſervants we are, and whoſe laws we tranſcribe in our lives.
Never be very anxious, when you pray, what words to use; regulate your thoughts; and recollect that virtue calms the paſſions, gives clearneſs to the underſtanding, and ​opens it to pleaſures that the thoughtleſs and vicious have not a glimpſe of. You muſt, believe me, be acquainted with God to find peace, to riſe ſuperior to worldly temptations. Habitual devotion is of the utmoſt conſequence to our happineſs, as what ofteneſt occupies the thoughts will influence our actions. But observe what I ſay—that devotion is mockery and ſelfiſhneſs, which does not improve our moral character.
Men, of old, prayed to the devil, ſacrificed their children to him; and committed every kind of barbarity and impurity. But we who ſerve a long-ſuffering God ſhould pity the weakneſs of our fellow-creatures; we muſt not beg for mercy and not ſhew it; we muſt not acknowledge that we have offended, without trying to avoid doing ſo in future. We are to deal with our fellow-creatures as we expect to be dealt with. This is practical prayer!—Thoſe who practiſe it feel frequently ſublime pleaſures, and lively hopes animate them in this vale of tears; that ſeem a foretaſte of the felicity ​they will enjoy, when the underſtanding is more enlightened, and the affections properly regulated. To-morrow I will take you to viſit the ſchool-miſtreſs of the village, and relate her ſtory, to enforce what I have been ſaying.
Now you may go and dance one or two dances; and I will join you after I have taken a walk, which I wiſh to enjoy alone.