Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1877-01-17
VOL. 72.-3666. NO. IA.

out Oh tDe bnOp ana INTO tne carriage Whlle
she was capable Of locomotion.
They rode home in perfect silence, and
the next day Willard Gray left Gleneden
without bidding adieu 10 Isabel Brandon,
and returned TO the seminary TO finish his
education. Now that the scales had fallen
from his eyes, he could not but wonder at
the infatuation that had blinded him so long
to her true character. lie could not help
feeling amazed that in all her vivacious de
scriptions of balls and card parties, theatri-
calls, operas, and champagne and oyster sup
pers TO which he had been an amused list
ner, he had failed to discover her keen relish
for such designations, her utter worldliness
of mind, and unfitness to become the sharer
of such destiny as he had chosen. He saw
il all now with cleared vision, and it
helped him TO bear his disappointment. lie
pursued his studies now with whole-souled
devotion to the cause he had espoused, gradu-
ated with distinguished honor, aud was soon
after called to the pastorate of large and
influential congregation.
Remembering now and always the self
sacrificing and philanthropic spirit of sweet
Mary CRANKY, and his early prediction for
her before his introduction to her bewitch-
ing cousin, he went back to Gleneden, and
persuaded her to become his wife. Her de-
voton to the cause of religion, and spirit OF
love and sympathy for all around her, emf
nently fitted her to become ministers wife,
and they were both very happy and success
tul in the work to which they felt as if the
Master had called them.
Isabel Brandon, meantime, had married
Richard Burney, and commenced her career
of fashionable dissipation. She soon out
grew her country relations, and treated even
Mary CRANKY, with whom she had been
brought up, with cool superciiousness
that effectually distanced her, and for awhile
she rode upon the topmost wave of popular
favor. Her wit, beauty and vivacity made
her general favorite of the gentlemen and
envy of the ladies' of her acquaintance
She had asplendid mansion, and her dress,
equipage, and upholsterie were of the most
stylish description. Her silks, velvets, and
laces were of the richest her iewelry was
the costliest in town; and for awhile her
head was completely turned by the constant
adulation she received.
But the years rolled on, and changes caine
even to her. Her husbands father died,
worth far less than had been supposed, and
then came the shock of learning that her
husbands debts would more than swallow
up his share of the estate. Then the sure
knowledge of his vicious habits, which she
had before suspected, burst upon her, to de-
destroy the last remnant of their mutual
regard.
Bitter recrimnations and family quarrels
soon made the more humble home to which
they had been obliged to retire hell, from
which the indoent, unprincipled husband
was glad to escape with what he could scrape
together of his shattered fortune, leaving
poor Isabel, but a wreck of her former self,
with an infant child, the only one she ever
had, to loneliness, want, and shame. With
every earthly hope blighted, and her pride
deeply mortified, she resolved to leave the
scene of her earthly grandeur, and to go to
some smaller town, where she hoped to find
some means of obtaining a livelihood. She
carried this plan into execution.
But all this time the vicious habit tn
which she had become so early addicted had
been secretly growing upon her, and creep
ing slowly towards the public gaze so that
long before the downfall of her glorious
fabric of earthly grandeur, it had begun to
be whispered all through the circle in which
they moved that both Richard Burney and
his wife took more wine than was good for
them, and that flushed faces and red noses
hinted at something stronger; and at last,
| through the servants, that their young mis-
tress had strange fainting fits, for which
they We're forbidden to call the doctor, and
when she was not at home to callers.
After the crash came, it was said publicly
that they drank and quarreled, and were OH
the high road to ruin. And it was all too
true. Isabel had rare musical gifts, and for
a little while after her removal she did very
well as teacher of music in private families.
But her evil habit was fast getting the mas
terry. 1t led to the loss of her pupils. And
| ha md ah
was ready to sacrifice everything for whiskey
or rum. AT last, after taking refuge with a
poor Irish washerwoman, once a servant i'll
her household, when stupefied with liquor,
she fell, with her poor baby in her arms,
into an open fire, and was horribly burned.
And it was in that humble hovel, upon II
bed of straw, with her dead babe lying beside
her, and dying by inches, that Willard cray
and his noble and beloved wife, in their
round of missionary work among the poor,
found her at last. She knew them at once,
though they had been parted for years, and
turned her face away to hide her shame and
despair. But they never would have known
her, she was so changed, had she not felt
herself impelled to turn back and make her
self known to them. And both shed bitter,
sympathetic tears over the poor wreck OF
fallen humanity, that was once so fair aud
beautiful, and prayed most fervently that
she might live to repent, reform, aud live
henceforth better aud happier life. But
Isabel Burney knew that she was dying, and
turning to Willard GRAY, she said, in low
fitful tones, interrupted by spasms of agony
, you know how | wronged you once
Willard but, oh, you do not know how
fearfully that wrong has been avenged
4, have seen from afar that you and Mary lead
| llassaJ onJ bopnv livas whila nina ha.
been a curse and failure. You know nov
| how much reason you had TO thank Coo
t when | resolved to cast off one loved fo
r the sake OF wealth and pride and earthly
! grandeur. But can now see Gods hand
l even in that. lie had work for you to do
Willard Gray. and would not let me dra!
{ you down, rs | might have done, to ruin an,
to shame. And oh, beseech you now, vii
lard Gray, in the light OF eternity, TO do tina
!, work well Oh, cease not, while life lasts
2 TO warn the young, the old, the tempted, tn
t careless and unwary, to avoid the rocks upol
o which my life-barQue has been wrecked
o Oh, teach them that wealth and luxur
> alone can never create happiness, and tina
Y love can transfigure and gid the humbles
o home Implore them to avoid the wine Gu
'. and every other that can intoxicate, and
a sign and keep every pledge that can bin
II aud keep them in safe paths IN TINS liz
Y and prepare them for that which is TO CONT
o For oh, if they do not they may, like me, b
g. led TO ruin shame, temporal, spiritual, an
a. God grant it may not be-eternal y
2, These were poor lsabel's last words.
al few more struggles, and all for this life wa
ID over and her sinful, yet, as we trust, pen
at tent soul, had gone up to God, Tender an
e. pitiful were the tears shed by the poor wasl
erwoman, and Willard aud Mary Gray, 1
X. they performed the last sad office for pot
Or Isabel and her dead babe, and day or tw
n after laid her in her last resting-place G
- earth, Nor could they return again to the
r- liie-work without feeling more than ever b
fore the worth of one human soul, and Il
,u solemnity and importance of the mission
which they felt as il God had called theI
in And oh, may we all feel this as we pursl
sh our life-work, and conscientiously exert VIII
influence we possess for the benefit OF {
lis around rs !-GOdey's for January.
sr
ou ECCENTRIC Father Moody used to be Il
delight and guide of York, Me-, the old st
he port town which disputes with st. Augl
Il g.. a.