"You must often," says Dr. Chalmers, "have been sensible, in the course of your history, how big, and how important the consequences were, that emanated from one event, which in itself was insignificant--how on the slightest accidents the greatest interests were suspended--how, moving apparently at random, you met with people, or with occasions, that gave rise, perhaps, to far the most memorable passages in your life--how the very street in which you chanced to move, brought you into contact with invitations and appointments, or proposals of some sort, which brought results of magnitude along with them; insomuch that the colour and direction of your whole futurity have turned on what, apart from this mighty bearing, would have been the veriest trifle in the world. A word--a thought--an unforeseen emotion--an event of paltriest dimensions in itself--may be the germ of an influence wide as a continent, and lasting as a thousand years--may, in fact, change the current and complexion of a person's social history and character, and lead to consequences which shall be durable as eternity." Many years ago, I was unexpectedly called to London, on a matter of great emergency. My travelling companion, for part of the way, was a lady, attired in deep mourning. I endeavoured to draw her into conversation, by referring to the beautiful scenery, and other common-place topics, but I could not succeed. At length, on seeing her drop a tear, which she endeavoured to conceal, I said, "This world is rightly denominated a valley of weeping." "Yes, Sir, it is," replied the stranger. "I hope you will excuse my weakness. I have sustained the greatest loss that can ever befall a woman. I am a widow. I had one of the best of husbands; but cruel fate tore him from me, even without permitting me to see him, till his corpse was rudely exposed before me." She then told me that her husband left her early one morning to go out shooting, but, on passing through a hedge, it is supposed, the trigger of his gun got entangled in the briars, as he was found, an hour after the report had been heard, lying on his face, with his gun by his side, and his dogs crouching before and behind him, as though their master was asleep. "Since that fatal hour, Sir, I have not had one pleasant feeling in my desolate heart; and now I have left a spot on which nature has lavished her beauties, to seek a tranquil death in some distant shade." "But, Madam, do you never expect to see another happy day?" "No, Sir, never! No, never! I have tried every expedient in my power, but they have all failed. I have been to Bath, to Cheltenham, to Brighton, and have travelled on the Continent. I have read the most popular novels of the English and the French schools; but all is useless--mine is a hopeless case." "No, Madam, it may not be hopeless. I can direct you to a source of consolation which you have not yet thought of."