When the daughters of Laban left the house of their father, either from a latent superstition, or from a family cupidity, Rachel stole the household gods of Laban and secreted them; and with an art worthy of the daughter of Laban, she prevented her father from reclaiming them; thus paving the way for the introduction of idolatry into the household of Jacob.  He had already introduced polygamy by his marriage with her, and, to secure her, and thereby gratify her rivalry of her sister, he had multiplied his wives, and brought upon himself still heavier sorrows and trials.  It was the beauty of Rachel which first captivated the eye, and then enthralled the heart of Jacob; and the wisest of men, thus ensnared, are still led into sin and folly.  All the influences of Rachel upon his heart and life seem to have been unhappy; and the narrative shows that the strongest passion, gratified in defiance of prudence and previously imposed obligation, can only lead to disappointment and vexation.  The two sisters both proved the love of the wife, in leaving all at the command of the husband; and the God in whom Jacob still trusted, guarded him against all the designs of Laban, averted the wrath of his brother, and guided him to the land of Isaac.  He had passed Jordan with his staff and his scrip—­he went out an outcast, and a fugitive; he returned with the train of a chief, the retinue of an Eastern prince; and his heart swelled with thanksgiving as he recounted the mercy and remembered the faithfulness of Jehovah.  His father was still living—­the nurse of Rebekah, who so long since had left the family of Bethuel, came to close her eyes in the tents of the grand-daughter of her former master; but the mother who had led her son into sin, who had taught him to practise that deceit which had recoiled upon himself, is not mentioned.  She, doubtless, was laid by the side of Abraham and of Sarah, in the cave of Machpelah.  She had anticipated a short absence, a transient separation from her son.  She purposed to send for him to return to his father, that he might yet be heir of the estate; but when Jacob did return in wealth and honour—­yet bearing that bitter burden of care and sorrow, from which no honour, no wealth are exempt,—­she who would have assuredly exulted in the one, and sympathized with the other, was not in the tent of Isaac.  She came not forth to welcome her son, to embrace her relatives and daughters or caress their children.  Her place in the tent and at the board was vacant—­her voice was hushed—­her heart cold.  The places that had known her, knew her no more.  And thus it often is.  Before man attains wealth or honour, those who had most rejoiced to witness it have passed away; while still, fair as is the outward lot, there are internal sorrows, imbittering every pleasant draught, and casting a shadow over all the brightness of human existence.  Thus it is that the most prosperous are often followed by a cloud, reflecting glory and radiance upon such as are without, but covering with gloom and darkness those who fall within its shadow.