A MORALITY
What is guilt？ A stain upon the soul. And it is a point ofvast interest whether the soul may contract such stains inall their depth and flagrancy from deeds which may havebeen plotted and resolved upon， but which physically havenever had existence. Must the fleshly hand and visibleframe of man set its seal to the evil designs of the soul， inorder to give them their entire validity against the sinner？
Or， while none but crimes perpetrated are cognizablebefore an earthly tribunal， will guilty thoughts—of whichguilty deeds are no more than shadows， —will these drawdown the full weight of a condemning sentence in thesupreme court of eternity？ In the solitude of a midnightchamber or in a desert afar from men or in a church whilethe body is kneeling the soul may pollute itself even withthose crimes which we are accustomed to deem altogethercarnal. If this be true， it is a fearful truth.
Let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary example. Avenerable gentleman—one Mr. Smith—who had long beenregarded as a pattern of moral excellence was warminghis aged blood with a glass or two of generous wine. Hischildren being gone forth about their worldly businessand his grandchildren at school， he sat alone in a deepluxurious arm-chair with his feet beneath a richly-carvedmahogany table. Some old people have a dread of solitude，and when better company may not be had rejoice even tohear the quiet breathing of a babe asleep upon the carpet.
But Mr. Smith， whose silver hair was the bright symbolof a life unstained except by such spots as are inseparablefrom human nature—he had no need of a babe to protecthim by its purity， nor of a grown person to stand betweenhim and his own soul. Nevertheless， either manhoodmust converse with age， or womanhood must soothehim with gentle cares， or infancy must sport around hischair， or his thoughts will stray into the misty region ofthe past and the old man be chill and sad. Wine will notalways cheer him. Such might have been the case with Mr.
Smith， when， through the brilliant medium of his glass ofold Madeira， he beheld three figures entering the room.
These were Fancy， who had assumed the garb and aspectof an itinerant showman， with a box of pictures on herback； and Memory， in the likeness of a clerk， with a penbehind her ear， an inkhorn at her buttonhole and a hugemanuscript volume beneath her arm； and lastly， behindthe other two， a person shrouded in a dusky mantlewhich concealed both face and form. But Mr. Smith had ashrewd idea that it was Conscience.
How kind of Fancy， Memory and Conscience to visit theold gentleman just as he was beginning to imagine thatthe wine had neither so bright a sparkle nor so excellenta flavor as when himself and the liquor were less aged！
Through the dim length of the apartment， where crimsoncurtains muffled the glare of sunshine and created a richobscurity， the three guests drew near the silver-haired oldman. Memory， with a finger between the leaves of her hugevolume， placed herself at his right hand. Conscience， withher face still hidden in the dusky mantle， took her stationon the left， so as to be next his heart； while Fancy setdown her picture-box upon the table with the magnifyingglassconvenient to his eye. We can sketch merely theoutlines of two or three out of the many pictures which atthe pulling of a string successively peopled the box withthe semblances of living scenes.
One was a moonlight picture， in the background a lowlydwelling， and in front， partly shadowed by a tree， yetbesprinkled with flakes of radiance， two youthful figures，male and female. The young man stood with folded arms，a haughty smile upon his lip and a gleam of triumph inhis eye as he glanced downward at the kneeling girl. Shewas almost prostrate at his feet， evidently sinking under aweight of shame and anguish which hardly allowed her tolift her clasped hands in supplication. Her eyes she couldnot lift. But neither her agony， nor the lovely features onwhich it was depicted， nor the slender grace of the formwhich it convulsed， appeared to soften the obduracy ofthe young man. He was the personification of triumphantscorn.
Now， strange to say， as old Mr. Smith peeped throughthe magnifying-glass， which made the objects start outfrom the canvas with magical deception， he began torecognize the farmhouse， the tree and both the figures ofthe picture. The young man in times long past had oftenmet his gaze within the looking-glass； the girl was thevery image of his first love—his cottage-love， his MarthaBurroughs. Mr. Smith was scandalized. “Oh， vile andslanderous picture！” he exclaims. “When have I triumphedover ruined innocence？ Was not Martha wedded in herteens to David Tomkins， who won her girlish love and longenjoyed her affection as a wife？ And ever since his deathshe has lived a reputable widow！”
Meantime， Memory was turning over the leaves of hervolume， rustling them to and fro with uncertain fingers，until among the earlier pages she found one which hadreference to this picture. She reads it close to the oldgentleman’s ear： it is a record merely of sinful thoughtwhich never was embodied in an act， but， while Memory isreading， Conscience unveils her face and strikes a daggerto the heart of Mr. Smith. Though not a death-blow， thetorture was extreme.
The exhibition proceeded. One after another Fancydisplayed her pictures， all of which appeared to have beenpainted by some malicious artist on purpose to vex Mr.
Smith. Not a shadow of proof could have been adducedin any earthly court that he was guilty of the slightest ofthose sins which were thus made to stare him in the face.
In one scene there was a table set out， with several bottlesand glasses half filled with wine， which threw back thedull ray of an expiring lamp. There had been mirth andrevelry until the hand of the clock stood just at midnight，when Murder stepped between the boon-companions.
