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“It was not genuine virtue, you referred to, then,–it was only its resemblance.”

“It was what passes for virtue. But to come at the main point, grandfather;–where is happiness to be found, if we are to be warring with ourselves during a lifetime, checking every natural spring in the soul?”

“Stop there, Alfred! We only quench the streams, which prevent the spirit’s purest wells of noble and happy feelings from gushing forth in freedom. We must wage a warfare, it is true; why conceal it? But it does not last for ever, and intervals of gladness come to refresh us, which the worn and blunted spirit of the man of pleasure in vain pants for. An exquisite joy, innocent as that of childhood, pervades the bosom of truth’s soldier in his hours of peace and rest, and he lifts an eye of rapture to heaven–to God.”

Alfred dwelt earnestly upon the noble countenance of the speaker, and his bosom filled with unwonted emotion, as the heavenly sweetness of the old man’s smile penetrated into his inward soul. Goodness stood before him in its wonderful power, and he bowed down his soul in worship. How insignificant then seemed his individual yearnings after present enjoyment, instead of that celestial love which can fill a human soul with so strong a power from on high. He reflected upon that venerable being’s life–so strong and upright; he dwelt upon his large and noble heart, which could clasp the world in its embrace. He remembered months of acute suffering, both physical and mental, which had been endured with the stillness of a martyr’s inward strength; and then, too, he recalled times when that aged heart was more truly and deeply joyful than his own young spirit had even been. Both relapsed into the eloquent silence of absorbing thought. It was evident from the softened and meditative cast of Alfred’s features, that his bitterness had given way to the true tenderness of feeling it so often quelled; he revolved in his mind all that had been advanced by his grandfather, and he dwelt upon every point with candour and serious reflection. A strong impression was made upon him, but he was entirely silent in regard to it,–he waited to try his strength, before he spoke of the better resolutions that were formed, not without effort, in his mind. He felt a conviction that a change from selfishness to angelic charity might be accomplished, if he were but willing to co-operate with his Maker,–the conception of universal love slowly dawned upon his soul, now turned heavenward for light,–his duties as a responsible being came before him, and a sigh of reproach was given to the past. Then golden visions of delight thronged up to his gaze, and it was with a severe pang he thought of losing his, hold upon the dear domains of idle fancy,–he had so revelled for hours and hours, in intoxicating dreams, which shut out the world and stern duty. He felt his weakness, but he resolutely turned from dwelling upon it. The evening air was refreshing after the warm sunset, but old Mr. Monmouth would not trust himself to bear it. Alfred went into the house with him, and made a brief call, then left, and wended his way a short distance to his own home, which was a very elegant mansion, surrounded by every mark of luxury and taste. He immediately sought his chamber, and took up a neglected Bible which his mother had given him when a child,–he turned over its leaves, and his eyes fell upon the one hundred and nineteenth psalm, “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light upon my path. I have sworn, and I will perform it, that I will keep thy righteous judgments.” He read on, and the exceeding beauty and touching power of the Holy Word had never so deeply affected him,–he wept, and all that was harsh in his nature melted,–he prayed, and the angels of God approached, filling his uplifted soul with heavenly strength. Sweet was the thrill of thanksgiving, that arose from that hitherto restless spirit–quiet and blest the peace that hushed him to deep, invigorating slumber. Persons of an enthusiastic temperament are apt to fall into extremes; such was the case with Alfred Monmouth. He so feared that he would fall back into his former states of feeling, that he guarded himself like an anchorite. For three months he abstained from going into company, and even reasonable enjoyment he deprived himself of. He threw aside all books but scientific and religious ones; even poetry he shut his ears against, lest it might beguile him again to his dreamy, but selfish musings. No doubt this severe discipline was very useful to him at the time, in strengthening him against the besetting faults of his character; but it could not last long, without originating other errors. During this time he had been, perhaps, as happy as ever in his life; his mind had been fixed upon an object, and a wealth of new thoughts had crowded upon him–he rejoiced with a kind of proud humility in his capability for self-government. He thought he was rapidly verging towards perfection. But “a change came o’er the spirit of his dream” at last, and an unwonted melancholy grew upon him, until it settled like a pall over his heart. An apathy in regard to what had so lately interested him, stole over him, and indeed a cold glance fell upon almost every pursuit he had once prized. Plunged in deep gloom, he one evening sought his grandfather’s dwelling, hoping, by a conversation with the cheerful old man, to regain a more healthy state of mind; to his great satisfaction, Alfred found him alone reading.