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.

“Well, my boy, I am glad you have come in!” was the salutation, with a most cordial smile, for Mr. Monmouth had silently remarked the late alteration in his somewhat reckless grandson.  He also detected the present gloom upon his fine countenance, and the earnest hope of dispelling it, added an affectionate heartiness to his manner.  Alfred made several common-place remarks, then, with his usual impatience, he flung aside all preamble, and said,

“I am gloomy, grandfather, even more so than I have ever been, and I cannot explain it.  The last serious conversation I had with you, produced a strong effect upon me, and for a long time after I was unusually cheerful and vigorous in mind.  I seemed to have imbibed something of your spirit—­I delighted in the hope of regenerating myself, through the aid of Heaven; it seemed as if angels hushed my restless spirit to repose, and I tried in humility to draw near my God.  Yet I feared for myself, and I withdrew from temptation, from all society which was uncongenial to my state of mind.  I was content for a long time, but now the sadness of apathy overwhelms me.”

“Endeavour, without murmuring, to bear this state of mind, and it will soon pass off,” remarked Mr. Monmouth.  “We must not always fly from temptation in every form, my boy, but we must arm ourselves against its attacks, otherwise our usefulness will be greatly lessened.  If those who are endeavouring to make themselves better, do so by shunning society, they are rather examples of selfishness than benevolent goodness,—­the selfishness is unconscious, and such a course may be followed from a sense of duty.  But the glance which discovered this to be duty was not wide enough; it took in only the claims of self, yet I would not convey the idea, that we have any one’s evils to take care of but our own.  We need society, and, however humble we may be, society needs us.  We need to be refreshed by the strength of good beings, and we must also contribute our slight share to those whom Providence wills that we may benefit.  The life of heaven may thus circulate freely, and increase in power among many hearts.  Go forward, Alfred, unmindful of your feelings, and pray only to trust in Providence, and to gain a deep desire for usefulness.”