%Vb PAUL LANDER. 



After nearly twenty yc^rs of unbroken peace and prosperity, 

 Luke's sun became dimmed, and misfortunes first darkened around 

 him. Many causes, acting together, produced the melancholy 

 change in his affairs j " Sorrows come not singly, but in bat- 

 talions j" — disappointment followed disappointment, but the vil- 

 lany of a friend consummated his ruin. — Luke had yielded to his 

 earnest solicitation to become bound with him for a considerable 

 amount. His friend left the country, and the whole responsibility 

 devolved on the unfortunate Luke Lander. These troubles, 

 together with the singular conduct of his eldest son, Paul, his own 

 declining age, and the hundred fears which a first trouble engenders, 

 completely paralysed his energies. He would sit for hours, his 

 eye fixed, and his thoughts abstracted, unconscious of the presence 

 of his wife or sons ; while the heavy sigh, the sudden starting tear, 

 and the convulsive throb, told the deep agony of his soul. Poor 

 Luke — in his old age, God seemed about to forsake him ; he would 

 weep, but he could not pray — there was in his heart a rebellion 

 against prayer. His sinking wife would stand and gaze at him 

 with unutterable woe, and as she gently laid her hand upon his 

 shoulder, he would start, like one awaking from out of a troubled 

 dream, gaze hurriedly on her for a moment — when she would softly 

 whisper, "Luke, Luke, your wife is with you yet." His breath 

 would flutter round his heart — she would take his hand and mingle 

 her tears with his, and as they had joyed, so they now sorrowed 

 and wept together. His younger son would talk to him — blame 

 him for despairing — would speak to him of hope, and that he was 

 strong, and would labour to maintain them both -, and as the boy 

 talked, his eye would glisten, and his hand close with energy, and 

 his look grow bright. Paul spoke not, but the tear came, and he 

 went out to weep. 



Amid all these afflicting scenes and distressing anticipations, the 

 student was ever at his books — night and day ; the morning sun 

 and the evening star beamed upon his pale, haggard cheek, the eye 

 still bent over the pages upon which he worked -, leaf after leaf 

 was thrown aside, marked with strange mysterious figures. Still 

 and ever the youth wrote on. A fortnight previous to the bond 

 becoming payable, to which Luke's name was attached, full of fear 

 and misery the wretched man had arisen from his sleepless bed j 

 the outer door was unbolted, unlocked, scarcely on the latch j 

 surprised and full of fears, he walked quickly to his son's room ; 

 Edward was sleeping. The student was gone > his papers, too, 

 were no longer strewed over the room ; not a leaf was visible — 

 trembling with fear, Luke awoke the sleeping youth — his brother 

 was at the table, silent and writing, when he fell asleep j of his 

 departure he was perfectly ignorant. All day, and he returned 

 not — the night drew on j his wretched father and brother had 

 sought him in his old secluded spots — later, and later, and still he 

 came not j the beams of that iDright star, that the night before 

 seemed to smile upon his labours, now glanced far into the dark 

 room with unbroken ray. The copse woods, the wide fields. 



