i 
 
 n 
 
 rr 
 
 iff 
 
 I 
 n 
 
 5 
 
 n 
 n 
 n 
 uf 
 
 n 
 n 
 n 
 
 s 
 if 
 i 
 u 
 
 .0 
 
 I 
 n 
 
 fi 
 s 
 fi 
 u 
 n 
 n 
 u 
 
 fi 
 n 
 
 i 
 
 5 
 
 5 
 
 1 
 
 u 
 n 
 n 
 
 fi 
 E 
 
 n 
 1 
 i 
 fi 
 fi 
 fi 
 a 
 fi 
 
 5 
 
 fi 
 
 Si 
 fi 
 
 fi 
 
 n 
 
 fi 
 
 ADELAIDE. 
 
 OR THE 
 
 RAINY EVENING, 
 
 MORAL TALE. 
 
 BOSTON, 
 
 j] PUBLISHED AT THE CHRISTIAN REGISTER OFFICE . J] 
 
 "fi 1827. [j] 
 
 H i 
 
ADELAIDE, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 BOSTON, 
 
 PUBLISHED AT THE CHRISTIAN" REGISTER OFFICE. 
 
 1827. 
 
ADELA IDE, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 RAINY EVENING. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Come, clear mother, said Julia, as 
 she drew her chair up to the neat 
 little work-table after the evening 
 meal — the rain is pattering against 
 the windows, and I think you will 
 have no visiters this evening. Will 
 you be so kind as to relate to my 
 brother and me the history of your 
 friend Adelaide? You know I loved 
 her dearly, and I shall never forget 
 how happy 1 used to be when she 
 
1 
 
 spent her holydays with us. Then, 
 you know, she would walk with us in 
 the fields. And Charles, do you 
 remember when the thunder-storm 
 came up, and we were close by the 
 old hut where dame Jenkins used 
 to live ? And how we were fright- 
 ened when the lightning flashed in so 
 through the broken windows — and 
 began to cry ? But she smiled so 
 sweetly, and told us, God would take 
 care of us. And said she, you have 
 been taught to love Him, and to pray 
 to Him, can you not now ask Him to 
 " deliver you from evil ?" 
 
 O yes, sister, I think 1 shall never 
 forget how we kneeled down beside 
 -her, and she prayed to God to pre- 
 serve us from danger. It seemed to 
 me then, mama, that God was verv 
 
 ^B^> St * •■• ->* 
 
5 
 
 near to us, and would not sillier the 
 lightning to harm us. 
 
 I wish you, my dear children, al- 
 ways to feel that God is very near 
 you ; and then you will have few 
 fears, but the fear of displeasing Hmi. 
 
 You well know my dear Julia, that 
 I love to talk of our friend Adelaide, 
 and am always happy to gratify you. 
 But you must first get the little sock 
 you were knitting for your brother — 
 for I would always have your hands 
 usefully employed, as well as your 
 mind. 
 
 Adelaide used to tell me so, said Julia, 
 and I am sure I never saw her idle, 
 she used to say too, that good people 
 were always happy. But I have 
 seen her look very sad, and the tears 
 steal down her cheeks — but if any one 
 
saw her, she would brush tliem away, 
 and smile as cheerfully as ever, 
 r Good people often meet with trials 
 in this world, replied her mother, but 
 ^ think she is quite happy notwith- 
 standing. 
 
 .it - . . 1 o 
 
 She had a sweet, intelligent face 
 when a child ; and was the favourite 
 of the whole village. At school she 
 never failed to gain the love of her 
 instructer ; and though she always 
 bore away the prize from her class, 
 no one envied her. The younger 
 ones came to her for assistance, and 
 the injured ones for sympathy and re- 
 dress; and she seldom failed to put all 
 upon good terms, and to secure their 
 love for herself. In all their amuse- 
 ments, whatever Adelaide thought 
 prettiest, they were sure to adopt. 
 
7 
 
 There was one little girl in the vil- 
 lage, of nearly her own age, for whom 
 she felt a decided partality. Adelaide 
 was then about eleven years, and 
 Emma a few months younger. They 
 were seldom separated. Wherever 
 one came, the other was sure to fol- 
 low — and Adelaide would often have 
 gladly yielded her station at the head 
 of her class to save the feelings of her 
 little friend, who, though equally dil- 
 igent, could not always, like her, mas- 
 ter her lessons. 
 
 A few days before the vacation, an 
 examination of the school took place, 
 and Adelaide received the two first 
 prizes from the hand of her instructer. 
 With joy, she thought of her father's 
 kind smile, and her mother's affection- 
 ate kiss. Her little friend's eyes too, 
 sparkled with pleasure, as she said, 
 
8 
 
 you will let me read those pretty 
 books with you, Adelaide ? 
 
 The next morning when they had 
 finished their lessons, Adelaide folded 
 one of the books very neatly in a 
 Avrapper, and placed a little note in it. 
 What are you going to do with that 
 said Emma ? 1 intend to send it to 
 the friend I love best, said she smiling. 
 The tears started to Emma's eyes; 
 for she was sure she loved no one so 
 well as Adelaide, and she wished for 
 an equal share of her love. But 
 thought she, I am not so oood as Ad- 
 elaide, and why should she love me as 
 well. When Emma returned home, 
 her mother observed she looked less 
 happy than usual; but she forbore 
 to question her as to the cause — for 
 she wished her always to come vol- 
 untarily, and acquaint her with all 
 
9 
 
 that gave her pleasure or pain. — 
 While Emma was engaged in her 
 evening lesson, her brother brought in 
 a little packet and gave to his mother. 
 'Tis for Emma, said she. Emma look- 
 ed up. Oh ! she does love me best, 
 now I am sure she loves me best 
 That is just like Adelaide. She is 
 always doing something to surprise 
 and delight us. But what is the book % 
 ";The Gift of a Friend." And she is a 
 friend to every body — and I will try 
 and be like her, mother. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 Adelaide's mother who had long- 
 been feeble was now confined to her 
 room ; and Adelaide left the school 
 to assist her sister in the duties of the 
 family, and to watch beside the couch 
 of her mother. And here it was, she 
 has often told me, that she first re- 
 ceived those strong impressions of 
 piety, which have been her solace in 
 many severe trials. While her sister 
 was preparing the family breakfast, 
 Adelaide would assist her mother to 
 rise ; and so assiduous and observant 
 was she, that she understood even 
 her look ; and never gave her the 
 
11 
 
 jpain of repeating a single wish. Then 
 she would bring in her breakfast so 
 ■cheerfully, and say, do dear mother, 
 try and eat a little of this — for sister 
 has taken so much pains to make it 
 , and to suit your taste. And 
 when she saw her mother smile, and 
 make an effort to relish it — her eyes 
 would glisten with pleasure, and she 
 would say," 1 hope, dear mother, you 
 will be better soon." But her mother 
 felt that it was a vain hope — and she 
 would often speak with her children 
 on the subject of her death. If it 
 should please God, my dear children, 
 to restore me to health, I doubt not 
 you would feel very grateful to Him ; 
 and if He should see fit to relieve me 
 from my present suffering state, and 
 take me to a world where there is 
 neither sickness nor sorrow — ought 
 
12 
 
 you not cheerfully to acquiesce ? — 
 When I think how Jesus, the son of 
 God, came into the world, and suffer- 
 ed, and freely offered up his life for 
 sinners, — I can look down into the 
 grave without shuddering. And did 
 1 not know that your dear father, and 
 you, my dear children, would be deep 
 ly affected by my death, I should 
 even long to leave this world, and join 
 the redeemed in heaven. 
 
 O, dear mother, said Adelaide, 
 bursting into tears, — how could we 
 live without you ? Since you were 
 confined to this room, I cannot bear 
 to stay out of it. Everything looks 
 so sad in our little rooms, that I do 
 not feel happy as 1 used to, only when 
 I am doing something for you — and 1 
 fear I can never do enough to repay 
 you for all the kind care you have 
 
13 
 
 taken for me. You have ever been a 
 <rood and dutiful child, Adelaide — and 
 while your father, and brothers, and 
 sister are spared, you cannot feel very 
 lonely — and God has promised to be 
 the father and protector of the or- 
 phan. 
 
 Get your Bible, rny child, and read 
 some of those sweet promises which 
 have so often comforted me, and 
 which 1 hope you will impress deeply 
 on your yet tender mind. 
 
 She gave the book to her mother, 
 who pointed out to her many passa- 
 ges; and Adelaide read till she be- 
 came quite composed. 
 
 2 
 
Then her mother would shew her 
 in the New Testament, how the Sa- 
 viour had encouraged little children 
 to come to him ; and how ready our 
 Heavenly Father is to hear the pray 
 ers of the least of his children. 
 
 After these conversations with her 
 mother, she always seemed more 
 cheerful and happy ; and would often 
 retire to her chamber, and kneeling 
 beside her bed, with her little hands 
 lifted to heaven, would pray God t( 
 
15 
 
 forgive her sins; to restore her dear 
 mother to health ; and to be her guide 
 and protector through all her life. 
 
 The youth of the village had been 
 for some weeks preparing for a dra- 
 matic exhibition, for their amusement; 
 and Adelaide's sister was to personate 
 the character of " Sylvia" in the 
 "search after happiness." When she 
 saw her mother daily declining, she 
 was desirous of relinquishing her part 
 in the exhibition. But Mrs Marlow 
 would not consent. For she was one 
 who never forgot the feelings of youth, 
 and always manifested a lively inter- 
 est in all their pursuits. Dr Marlow's 
 profession led him much from home. 
 But he arranged his business, intend- 
 ing on the evening of the exhibition 
 to take upon himself the duty of 
 nurse, that his daughters might enjoy 
 
16 
 
 the evening, free from all solicitude 
 on account of their mother. 
 
 While Adelaide was crowning; her 
 sister with a wreath of evergreen, de- 
 lighted to see her look so much like a 
 nymph of the wood — her father re 
 ceived an urgent call which required 
 his immediate attention. — I will first 
 go, said he, and see of Mrs Eldridge 
 will let Mary or Susan, come and sit 
 with Mrs Mario w. 
 
 No, no, dear father, said Adelaide, 
 I will stay myself. I have no part, you 
 know ; and it is not necessary 1 should 
 go. But, you used to be delighted 
 with such scenes, Adelaide, and I fear 
 you will be very dull when your sister 
 is gone. O, no, I shall not be dull, and 
 1 shall feel much happier than I should 
 to go and neglect my duty And be- 
 sides, Mary and Susan will both wish 
 
J 7 
 
 to go, and I should be sorry to spoil 
 their enjoyment. 
 
 Well, my child, I am happy to see 
 you so willing to forego a selfish grati- 
 fication, to perform your duty, — so 
 saying, he gave her an affectionate 
 
 kiss, and left her. 
 
 When she had arranged all things 
 comfortably for the evening, she se- 
 lected several books from her little 
 " Library of Gifts," as she used to call 
 it, and was asking her mother which 
 she should read,— when she heard a 
 gentle tap at the door. She opened 
 it, when her friend Emma clasped her 
 neck, and almost smothered her with 
 kisses. 
 
 Why E mma ! said she, how came 
 
 you here? 1 thought you would be at 
 
 the exhibition. 
 
 So I should, if you were there.— 
 2* 
 
18 
 
 But your sister told me, you were noi 
 going ; and I thought I should not en- 
 joy it much without you — so I begged 
 mother to let me come, and spend the 
 night with you. — The two little friends 
 were now very happy — and Mrs Mar- 
 low exerted herself as much as she 
 was able, to amuse them, by relating; 
 many interesting circumstances of her 
 own childhood. The evening passed 
 rapidly away; and Adelaide often 
 said, — how much happier I feel, than 
 I should to have left you, dear moth- 
 er. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 Not many days after this, Adelaide 
 was taken violently ill. Her mother 
 would not suffer her to be removed to 
 another apartment, and a little bed 
 was prepared beside her own. Then 
 she was so patient and kind ; so thank- 
 ful for all that was done for her — and 
 so fearful too of distressing her moth- 
 er, that in the most excruciating dis- 
 tress, she made an effort to suppress 
 every groan. Her disorder seemed 
 beyond the power of medicine, or the 
 kind attention of friends ; and she be- 
 came gradually weaker. 
 
 One morning her father came into 
 
20 
 
 the room, and was surprised to see her 
 altered countenance. He spoke in a. 
 low voice to her mother ; and then 
 assembled the family. 
 
 He made a short prayer, in which 
 he fervently commended his little one 
 to God. When he ceased, she fixed 
 her eye upon him, and motioned him 
 to her. Do you think, dear father, 
 said she, I am going to die ? I think, 
 my child, you are very sick ; and if it 
 pleases God to take you to himself, I 
 hope you are not unwilling ? No, dear 
 father, Jesus has said " suffer little, 
 children to come unto me." 
 
 Her sister bent over her — smooth- 
 ed her pillow — and a tear fell on Ade- 
 laide's cheek. She looked up with a 
 faint smile ; and then closing her eyes 
 sunk into a gentle slumber. When 
 she awoke she seemed much refresh- 
 
21 
 
 ed. Her father thought the disorder 
 had reached the crisis, and his hopes 
 revived. 
 
 Many times every day, did the lit- 
 tle children tap at the door, and in- 
 quire how she did ; and Emma would 
 watch by her couch for hours, and per- 
 form every little office of kindness in 
 her power, fn a few days she began 
 rapidly to recover. And when she 
 was able to be carried to the window, 
 and saw that the snow had disappear- 
 ed, and the little lambs were skipping 
 in the meadows, her heart swelled 
 with joyful emotions. Everything, 
 said she, dear mother, seems to smile 
 upon me, and look happy. 1 hope I 
 am not less thank fid. 
 
 God has indeed, my child, been very 
 gracious in sparing your life — and I 
 hope you will show your gratitude, by 
 
22 
 
 endeavouring always to do your dttty, 
 Strive to imitate the example of our 
 Saviour in all your conduct, and you 
 must be good and happy. 
 
 As the season advanced Mrs Mar- 
 low rapidly declined. Dr Mario w 
 wrote to his two sons who ivere es- 
 tablished in business at some distance, 
 to return home. They arrived only a 
 few days before her death. — I shall 
 pass over this scene and continue the 
 story of Adelaide — only remarking^ 
 that they deeply felt and mourned 
 their loss. But they knew it was 
 God who had ordered the event, and 
 could cheerfully say, " It is the Lord; 
 let Him do what seemeth Him good." 
 
 Not long after the death of her 
 mother, Adelaide went to reside with 
 an Aunt, who, having no children, pro- 
 posed to Dr Marlow to adopt Ade- 
 
23 
 
 laide for her own. The idea was at 
 first very painful to her father and 
 sister ; but as she was a pious and ju- 
 dicious woman, and had it in her pow- 
 er to do better for Adelaide than he 
 could, he consented. 
 
 The separation was at first very 
 bitter to the two little friends ; but 
 they mutually promised to write often. 
 And whatever interested or gave 
 pleasure to one, was immediately com- 
 municated to the other. 
 
 Adelaide's Aunt placed her in one 
 of the best schools in the vicinity, and 
 she made rapid progress in whatever 
 she undertook. The vacations she 
 passed among her friends, and by her 
 affability and good nature, endeared 
 herself more and more to all her ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 The first visit she made me, was 
 
24 
 
 when you, my dear girl, were an in- 
 fant ; and she gave you the name of 
 Julia, in memory of her mother. 
 
 Her sister, and one of her brothers, 
 have since followed their mother 
 down to the silent grave. And can 
 you now wonder, my Julia, good and 
 affectionate as she is, that she should 
 sometimes shed a few tears to their 
 memory? Or, believing as she does ; 
 that God does all things well, that she 
 should generally appear so cheerful 
 and happy ? 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 When Adelaide had finished her 
 education at school, she still continued 
 to improve her mind by reading and 
 study. About two years since, a par- 
 ticular friend of her's, who had re- 
 moved to a distant part of the coun- 
 try, sent her a pressing invitation to 
 come and pass a few months with her. 
 As an inducement she proposed to 
 her to open a school, for the instruc- 
 tion of youth, whose advantages had 
 hitherto been very limited. As Ade- 
 laide always felt most happy, when 
 she was most useful, she strongly 
 3 
 
26 
 
 urged her Aunt's permission, and 
 finally obtained her consent. 
 
 Her friend made all the necessary 
 arrangements for the school ; and be- 
 fore her arrival prepossessed all the 
 village in her favor. 
 
 Many young ladies who had been 
 educated as Miss Marlow was, would 
 have been disgusted with the awk- 
 ward and rustick manners of most of 
 her pupils; but it served only to in- 
 crease her exertions. She soon gain- 
 ed their affections ; and each was anx- 
 ious to deserve the love of so kind an 
 instructer. 
 
Frequently when the afternoon les- 
 sons were finished, she would stroll 
 with them into the adjoining wood or 
 fields — and nothing escaped her no- 
 tice, by which she could lead their 
 youthful minds to dwell on the wis- 
 dom and goodness of the Creator. — 
 The meanest flower or insect, and 
 even the little pebbles became inter- 
 esting to them. They would return 
 laden with evergreens and flowers to 
 o-arnish the white-washed walls of 
 their neat little school-room; and 
 
28 
 
 each had an opportunity of displaying 
 her taste and ingenuity in its decora- 
 tions. At one end of the room was a 
 recess which Miss Marlow appropria- 
 ted to her own use ; and she who had 
 the honor of adorning that, was as 
 much gratified by the distinction, as 
 if it had been the throne of an Em- 
 press. One day this privilege was to 
 be shared by two of the Misses, when 
 a little dispute, so common in schools, 
 arose between them. They had gath- 
 ered a profusion of white and blue 
 flowers, and one insisted that the flow- 
 ers should all be white, for, said she, 
 how often Miss Marlow has told us, 
 that white is the emblem of innocence 
 and purity; and I am sure she will 
 prefer them. But, said her compan- 
 ion, blue is the color of the sky — and 
 
29 
 
 s he is always admiring the beauty of 
 the sky — I say they shall be blue. 
 
 I admire nothing so much as good 
 nature, and an obliging disposition, 
 <aid Miss Marlow, who had listened 
 lo their dispute unobserved by them. 
 They blushed, and one immediately 
 proposed that one half of the flow- 
 ers should be blue, and the other 
 white. 
 
 While she was earnestly endeavor- 
 ing to improve their minds and man- 
 ners, she was still more desirous to 
 
 impress their hearts with feelings of 
 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 piety and religion, she zealously en- 
 gaged in the sabbath school which 
 was then for the first time introduced 
 in the village. You would have been 
 delighted to have seen with what in- 
 terest the children listened to her 
 with smiles and tears upon the same 
 face. 
 
 The proposed term of her residence 
 with her friend passed rapidly away, 
 and her Aunt and other friends urged 
 her to return. This however she was 
 unwilling to do, till she had obtained 
 a suitable person to take charge of 
 the little school, which she had so 
 successfully begun. In this she soon 
 succeeded. On the last day of her 
 connexion with the school, she gave 
 each a token of her love, with a few 
 words of affectionate advice, and re- 
 quested them before separation to 
 
31 
 
 read as usual, a chapter ir> the Bible. 
 It was the sixth chapter of Ephesians. 
 One of the Misses who had contended 
 about the flowers was to read first; 
 her voice trembled, and when she 
 had finished the first verse, " Children 
 obey your parents in the Lord ; for 
 this is right." — she sat down and burst 
 into tears. Another, and another made 
 the same attempt ; but their voices 
 failed and they all sobbed aloud. — 
 Miss Marlow then read the chapter 
 in a firm and affectionate tone ; and 
 shaking each by the hand, bade them 
 farewell. 
 
 Since her return her Aunt has plac- 
 ed a small fortune at her disposal ; 
 and she spends much of her time 
 among the poor and ignorant — sup- 
 plying their wants — encouraging their 
 industry — instructing their children; 
 
32 
 
 and often making the widovrs, and 
 the orphan's heart to rejoice. 
 
 So, my dear girl, if you would be 
 beloved and happy, like her ; you 
 must endeavor to be useful. 
 
 But, Mama, has she no faults'? 
 
 Yes, there are none without some 
 failings ; but as 1 thought you would 
 have no desire to imitate her faults, I 
 did not think it necessary to mention 
 them. But she is continually striving 
 to overcome them ; and 1 think I ne- 
 ver saw a person more sensible than 
 she is, of her own foibles. 
 
 But I have made my story too long 
 lor you, my boy, I see you are very 
 sleepy. 
 
 No mother, 1 am not very sleep), 
 said Charles, rubbing his eyes — and 
 when we have another rainy evening. 
 I should like to hear something more 
 
33 
 
 about Emma — I think I like her a- 
 bout as well as Adelaide, though you 
 have not said so much about her. — 
 Well, we wall see. But I forgot to 
 tell you, that Adelaide and Emma 
 are both early risers. And 1 hope 
 tfou will be ready to bid me good 
 morning at an early hour. 
 
 But we will have our evening hymn 
 before you go. 
 
 " Now condescend, almighty King, 
 To bless this little throng ; 
 And kindly listen while we sing 
 Our pleasant evening song. 
 
 We come to own the Power Divine, 
 That watches o'er our days ; 
 For this our feeble voices join 
 In hymns of cheerful praise. 
 
 Before the sacred footstool see 
 We bend in humble prayer, 
 A happy little family, 
 To ask thy tender care. 
 
34 
 
 May we in safety sleep to-night, 
 From every danger free ; 
 Because the darkness and the light 
 Are both alike to Thee. 
 
 And when the rising sun displays 
 His cheerful beams abroad, 
 Then shall our morning hymn of praise 
 Declare thy goodness. Lord." 
 
■1