"But, you can live all that down, my boy," said the vicar.--"The world is not half so censorious as you think now, in your awakening; and, remember, Frank, what Shakspeare says, `There is no time so miserable, but a man may be true!'" "Besides," I went on,--"I want change of scene. All these old places would recall the past. I could never be happy here again." "Well, well, my boy!" he answered sadly. "But, we shall be sorry to lose you, Frank, all the same, although it may be for your good." I had thought of America already, and told him that I intended going there. Not from any wide-seated admiration of the Great Republic and its citizens; but, from its being a place within easy reach--where I might separate myself entirely from all that would recall home thoughts and home associations:--so I then believed. "I shall go there," I said, bitterly.--"At all events, I shall be unknown; and, can bury myself and my misery--a fitting end to a bad life!" "My boy, my boy!"--said the vicar, with emotion.--"It grieves me to the heart to hear you speak so. Know, that repentance brings us always once more beneath the shelter of divine love! You will think of this by-and- by, Frank:--you may carve out a new life for yourself in the new world, and return to us successful. Be comforted, my boy! Do not forget David's spirit-stirring words of promise,--`They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy; and he that now goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed, shall doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him!'" CHAPTER EIGHT. "GOOD-BYE!" So, upon the verge of sorrow Stood we blindly hand in hand, Whispering of a happy morrow In the undiscovered land! The world is not half so bad a place as some discontented people make out. Our fellow-mortals are not _always_ striving after their own interests, to the neglect of their duty towards their neighbour:--the mass of humanity not entirely selfish at heart--no, nor yet the larger portion of it, by a good way! Of course, there are some ill-natured people. Blisters, are these; moral cataplasms imposed on us, probably, to produce that very feeling we admire, acting as they do by contrast--one of the most vivifying principles of mental action. But, when we come to calculate their percentage, how very few they are in comparison with the better-disposed numbers of God's creatures that live and breathe, and sicken and die in our midst, and whose kindly ministrations on behalf of their suffering brethren and sisters around them, remain generally unknown, until they are far beyond any praise that the world can give.