“This is precisely what oppresses me—to see their physical condition so materially altered, while the diseases of the mind remain unchanged. I may be, Lucy, like ‘the Charming Woman,’ talking of things which I do not understand, but still it is no _heresy_ for me to express my thoughts, at least to yourself, dear coz. It seems to me, could we but raise the veil which shrouds the human heart, and witness there its temptations, its hopes, its fears, its anguish; its struggles to free itself from the incubus of passion which weighs it to earth; its ardent longings for the soothing dews of Heaven to cleanse and heal its poisoned wounds; yes, could we but look into the heart of the veriest wretch that breathes, and trace throughout the searing hand of sin, and then into the depths of our own bosom, it might be that the only difference we should find between that blackened, noisome thing, and our own boasted purity would prove but the absence of temptation! And yet, when we see around us all the exertions which are made for the relief of the poor and distressed, the imperfection of the work seems not so much a lack of _will_, as a lack of knowledge of its cause. Had there been but one-fourth the time devoted to man’s spiritual, that has been to his physical being—to the habits, dispositions and sagacity of the inferior animals—or even to the investigation of unorganized matter—how different would have been the result.” “Ellen,” said her cousin, “can you believe that _every heart_ craves the pure aliment of Heaven! Are there not some, who, place before them what inducements you might, would still prefer the grosser joys of earth?” “Lucy,” answered she, while from her deep blue eyes beamed Heaven’s own purity—“look at those beautiful islands, like so many emeralds embedded in the deep. Those cultivated fields, rich with the burden of a coming harvest. Should the dews of Heaven cease to refresh them what would they present? One barren, scorching waste, from which the eye would turn with pain. Our body, too, deprive it of its proper sustenance, how soon would it sicken and die! And thus, if the soul be immortal (and surely it must be so, since it is a breath of Deity!) then must it ever crave the food of immortality, though the poor trembling wretch, led blindfold by his passions, may not know for _what_ he so longingly sighs, nor why his earthly pleasures, as soon as tasted, become a nauseous drug. But see, uncle is waiting for us.”