"Look to thy God." I flamed at Him with will intense,
And soon a sea of light and love arose
And bathed my soul, and filled the empty space
With overflowing glory. All was heaven;
And all the joy, the splendor, I had known
In space, to this was but the prelude harsh
Of brazen instruments, before the song
Of some incarnate seraph, breathes and rolls
A flood of fulness o'er a tranced world.
Enough to say, whate'er we wish of scene,
Society, occupation, pleasure—
Whenever wished, is ours; and this is Heaven;
This is the prize of earthly self-denial.
Freedom, the boundless freedom of the pure—
This the reward of holy self-restraint.
A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[6]
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
We must now turn once more to Sir Philip Hastings as he sat in his lonely room in prison. Books had been allowed him, paper, pen, and ink, and all that could aid to pass the time; but Sir Philip had matter for study in his own mind, and the books had remained unopened for several days. Hour after hour, since his interview with Secretary Vernon, and day after day he had paced that room to and fro, till the sound of his incessant footfall was a burthen to those below. His hair had grown very white, the wrinkles on his brow had deepened and become many, and his head was bowed as if age had pressed it down. As he walked, his eye beneath his shaggy eyebrow was generally bent upon the floor, but when any accidental circumstance caused him to raise it—a distant sound from without, or some thought passing through his own mind—there was that curious gleam in it which I have mentioned when describing him in boyhood, but now heightened and rendered somewhat more wild and mysterious. At those moments the expression of his eyes amounted almost to fierceness, and yet there was something grand, and fixed, and calm about the brow which seemed to contradict the impatient, irritable look.
At the moment I now speak of there was an open letter on the table, written in his daughter's hand, and after having walked up and down for more than one hour, he sat down as if to answer it. We must look over his shoulder and see what he writes, as it may in some degree tend to show the state of his mind, although it was never sent.
"My Child" (it was so he addressed the dear girl who had once been the joy of his heart): "The news which has been communicated to you by Marlow has been communicated also to me, but has given small relief. The world is a prison, and it is not very satisfactory to leave one dungeon to go into a larger.
"Nevertheless, I am desirous of returning to my own house. Your mother is very ill, with nobody to attend upon her but yourself—at least no kindred. This situation does not please me. Can I be satisfied that she will be well and properly cared for? Will a daughter who has betrayed her father show more piety towards a mother? Who is there that man can trust?"