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,
to ilfeon of Faith, and.an okl Vaudois catechism,
Pthroov! that 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, vch,ch
Bitt-Y Years ago." had been preached in country
tajil 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
upgoholyr anti the wavering. He seems to
devoted himself to his self-
gained success by his earnest-
that and sincerity. So highly was he esteemed,
aion," Was termed the model of the Home Mis-
-144,147 of our times, and no less than five different
44t 'l4 of him have been compiled. The phre.-
frietkillarrative is taken from the one written by . ihs
hllost, and all the letters of Neff, wine
ntire'art 01 the biography, are said to be given
fence e, not zarrat'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.

eutiiot4lciat e
re 1,-488tie very young Scotsman there is an
ii-I•.tapB, a
(pl2(lbition to be distinguished, or,
forsakiae°lltent of home, which prompts
15-7°rttiiie ;e tile country he loves, and to seek
a foreign land. Like my corn-
imbibed this desire to go abroad,
ed as Tinany of them, this inclination re-
the grew up, and while I saw others
_,e
to into advocates and physicians,
'itered.'e to try my fortune abroad remained un-
?rep, As my parents had several other chil-
-4y rtion did not discourage this inclination.
,Luer, it is true, did not seem
to relish it
'4otig,,uut ity father was not rich, and he justly
ittegi:,:t one of his family might be spared
4tp,
analne ntage to the rest. Thus, sanctioned by
I eneoUraged by all my friends, it was
4414 °'ved that should push my fortune in
I I;
ye
•
POor sad that my father was not rich—and
44j° Wall seldom has much influence at the
m'44o tee.
.117
ear followed year without an
tweiniet Aiemg obtained, and when I entered
the. 11 Year. my friends began to hint
ate, the
bei
that At thi lig many eligible situations
.at
Prez: '00111,11,s Crisis my father received notice
%lb-11,4 \vh,;e sent out as a cadet, and that my
k(T•il'ia% to mttantly required, as the last India
ti; about a fortnight. For years
co46—eu one 'e for a
washcadsip. I had now
Ttlld buts
alas ! I far from being
thenillell4 to erceived how dear were my home
' and ke, now that I was about to lose
ppt ahno t
Itv
,ere 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 ha," ain.
aNze 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
fVta Pat' Illost appeared eared to me a dream. Still
O • R as
Nl ea / '
left each house, and said fare-
e. 1 ,—,ates— a pang which everyone
.must
0,4 ke,4',llg a friend he is never again to
viok felt; tn,ose were for ever to be as dead,
11,44 -s If I were losing them all at one
A N 401),
ae ,Isla 011" the evening before I sailed, but
Sods' it Was e thing which yet remained to be
tiltkahOlq h tO bid a last farewell to Mary. Oh,
Ylttlla'o; heart burst within me when I
171$,..qieh h was to see her no more, that the
nt,,lthira,ad illumined my life was for ever to
1414141 front my eyes ! Oh, how I loved
41d ever 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.