HESTER EDEN.

WANTING the key of revelation, and utterly at fault without it, philosophy has argued, whether man has any innate knowledge of right and wrong: or whether, indeed, there be any right or wrong, apart from the expediency or inexpediency, proved by experience to pertain to certain actions and propensities. If philosophy had no ground for these conclusions, it had, at least, some excuse for its doubts, in the confusion of opinion respecting good and evil, which has been found wherever the light of revelation shines not. There is scarcely a crime so base and abominable, but has been somewhere held a grace, if not a virtue, in the character; and men have been deified and adored in one place, for actions for which in another they might be hanged. The revelation of the law of God, wherever it is acknowledged, puts an end to this discrepancy. Professedly it is adopted as the test of morality; and legislation recognises it as the standard of right and wrong: not in the spirit indeed, but in the letter. If men still continue to commit outward and gross crimes, they do it, admitting them to be such; or they endeavour to pass them under other and fictitious

names.

But is there no confusion between right and wrong?-no discrepancy of opinion in Christian societies respecting the character of certain actions,

habits, and feelings? Is there nothing that is a sin in one place, a harmless folly in another, and in a third, a fashionable accomplishment-the pride of one bosom, the shame of another? Have we but one name for a thing, whatever dress it wears; and that the name which God has given it? Is there nothing which the partition-wall of our houses divides into vice on one side, and virtue on the other? Nay, closer than this, is there in the same chamber nothing that one will blush to have, and another would blush to be without? Nay, closer still than this, is there no feeling, no disposition we have felt ashamed in one company to be detected in, and ashamed in another to be supposed to want? If there be any such thing, it is a remnant of heathen darkness, which the light of truth divine has failed to dissipate: not for want of pureness in its beams, but because we have not examined our opinions by its lamp, or minded its testimony of what man misnames. How much of this confusion between right and wrong has our Saviour unravelled and exposed in his sermon on the mount? How vainly, for the most part, unravelled and exposed what man desires not to know? To those, who do desire to know the wrong that they may shun it, the right that they may seek it, I will tell what gave rise to these observations.

In my course of Listening, now for many years, my attention has been taken with something of which I found it very difficult to trace the name. Its characters still more baffled and defeated my inquiries, while the place of its abode, and the modes of its appearing, have been so incongruous and contradictory, I could not determine to what or to whom this indefinite something most properly belongs. I might have taken it for a misfortune, but that I

I

observed its dwelling was with the prosperous. might have taken it for disease, but that I found it with the young and healthful. I might have taken it for a sin, but that I heard it avow itself boldly, where I believed that sin was dreaded. It seems it has no English name; and meaning no riddle, I should have called it by its foreign one at once, but that I have found the feeling existing where it would disclaim its more fashionable appellation. By name, however, or by feature, or by what means soever, I have endeavoured to detect this thing, that in its genuine character I may present it to my readers, and bid them judge whether it be a friend or foe, a Christian virtue, or an unsuspected vice.

I have a young friend, but just become a woman, who is perpetually complaining of Ennui. She is complaining in wet weather, hot weather, and cold weather. She finds it wearisome in the country with too little company, and in the city with too much. She goes out, because she finds it tedious at home; and comes home dissatisfied, because she was tired with being out. She finds some people wearisome, because they talk so much; and others, because they are too silent. I never put a book into her hand, though she thinks herself fond of reading, but after getting half through the first chapter, she fluttered the leaves, looked at the binding, and declared it quite tedious. I never asked her to read the most exquisite passage of poetry, or the most exalted expression of feeling, but she stopt three or four words short of the end, to express something of a similar opinion. I have heard her many times express a distaste for life, and almost a desire to be rid of it; from a feeling, which, though she gave it not the name, I could perceive by her description of it, to be this same Ennui. Where could I better

choose to study it? to trace its characters, to detect its origin, and, if it might be, to expose its consequences? Was it disease? Was it misfortune? Was it sin? Was it any thing, or but a modish expression, used from habit, and without a meaning? I determined to know. I had ample opportunities, and 1 resolved to search the secret to the bottom. I tell what I discovered, in hope that those who are conscious of the feeling, whether accustomed to use the word or not, will make the like search within themselves, to find whether it originates in a source as evil.

Misfortune? Hester Eden never knew one. Sorrow never chilled her bosom. Death never widowed her affections. She had never parted from a thing she loved, nor foregone a blessing she enjoyed. Injustice had not robbed, unkindness had not wounded, falsehood had not wronged her. She was not old enough in life to know its difficulties, or feel the blightings of its disappointments. All her portion of it yet, had been domestic affection, the indulgence of genteel life, and the advantages of polite education, unearned, and unembittered. Disease! Hester Eden was a finely-formed, lively, healthy girl. Pain had never racked her limbs, nor sickness dimmed her eyes, nor watchfulness chased her slumbers. Was it any thing? Could that be nothing, which often made existence a weariness to herself; and herself, not seldom, a weariness to those about her; with every thing a bountiful Providence could give her to enjoy; and with powers to please, to enliven, and to bless? There is but one thing else—we shall

see.

I observed Hester at home, where she had no society but her own family. It was large and affectionate; but Hester had no particular object of interest in it. Her brothers and sisters were younger

than herself-they could teach her nothing; they could do nothing to amuse her; she could not gain any thing by their society; and, therefore, without exactly wanting affection, she found little interest in being among them. She had parents, the kindest and the best; but their attention was occupied in their business, or their family, or the pursuits that became them: this did not interest her: it was not her business; and with them, too, she was wearied. Hester had horses; and so long as she was riding, she was all life and spirits, and enjoyment; but unfortunately, she could not ride on for ever; and back, at the dismounting, came the ennui. Hester had a garden and so long as there were flowers to train, and sun to shine upon them, she was active, and amused; but it sometimes rained, or flowers were no more; and back again came the ennui. Hester could draw. I saw her sometimes set about it; begin half-a-dozen things, loiter over them an hour or two, and put them unfinished in the fire. I asked, why? She only drew to amuse herself, because she did not know what else to do; they were of no use to her, she never meant to finish them. She was wearied at the sight of them. Hester had books-that is to say, there were books to be had. If it was a fashionable book, that she might talk about in company, or an exciting story that might stimulate her passions, or even a scientific work, that she was ashamed not to have read, Hester got through it. But though she fancied she liked reading, it was clear, that for its own sake, she did not like reading, or care for knowledge. She never liked a book, unless she had a secondary motive for doing so, more immediately connected with herself. For the rest, she lolled on her chair, turned over the leaves, and the subject might comprise the interest