of the city were of their race. The original parents, marked by the vengeance of Heaven for punishment, were permitted to live to see the ninth generation of their offspring. Then, with the same daring impiety that marked their whole career, they said to each other, "We have now seen the ninth generation of our offspring; we are great, rich, and potent, and we have not yet seen the vengeance threatened to our ninth generation; unless it be that now, by the course of nature, and reason of our great age, we cannot think to live long; and, therefore, as we have lived according to our hearts' delight, and have enjoyed all the pleasures of nature, let us once before our deaths invite and call together all our people, our children, grand-children, their children's children, and make for them a great and splendid feast, to be merry with them for our last farewell." This they accordingly put in execution; but during the feast, the long-threatened judgment fell upon them; for there happened a terrible earthquake; and the ground opening, swallowed them all up alive, not one soul of them escaping, by reason of their drunkenness; and the spot was immediately deluged with water, which forms the pool called Llinsavathan. The author concludes by stating :—"For confirmation of this story, we have no history; but this is the general tradition of the whole country, and is common to almost every child here: therefore, as long as it is consistent with the justice of Heaven, and not contrary to reason, nor contradicted by any more prevailing argument, I must look upon it of as much authority as any history." are apt to wonder why things are so, and almost to imagine that God is either not at all concerned in them, or else that he seems to act inconsistently with his justice. But how much soever the weak-sighted children of mortality may err in judgment, it cannot for a moment make void his assertion, that, unnoticed by him, not a sparrow falleth to the ground. He whose ways are not as ours, permits nothing to take place from which good may not be extracted. Troubles may come in as a flood, and "overflowings of ungodliness" may make afraid; but be it remembered, that God knoweth how to deliver his people from persecution. It is, nevertheless, certain, that man cannot fathom the mysterious workings of the divine counsels; neither, indeed, is it expedient that he should. It is for God to act; and our duty, arising from our dependence upon him, demands a passive submission to his will, which for the present may seem grievous, but must in the end be attended with most blessed consequences, when sorrow shall be turned into joy, stormy conflicts into everlasting repose, and "light afflictions, which are but for a moment, work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." With these remarks I proceed to my narrative : In the most retired part of a beautiful village on the banks of the river Boyne, Patrick O'Connor cultivated his paternal fields: alike a stranger to the hardships of poverty or the temptations of wealth— inheriting from his fathers a small estate, which the luxuriant hand of nature had amply adorned and fertilized-united to one, who in youth had been the desire of his eyes; his days passed in peace and security, without a wish for more extended enjoyment. Home was to him the seat of all earthly bliss; his noblest occupation was the tillage of his farm, and his pleasures were extracted from the society of his family. But a higher gratification than all these was derived from that intercourse which, from day to day, he held with his heavenly Creator, to whose superintending providence he justly attributed all the comforts he enjoyed. The completion of the promise he knew was founded upon obedience to the precept, "In all thy ways acknowledge me, and I will direct thy paths." To the performance of these duties he had been, from his earliest infancy, accustomed; and as he advanced in years, the occurrences of every day gave him stronger proofs that they were paths of pleasantness and peace. It was therefore natural, that such esteemed privileges should be made known, for the comfort of those who were dearest to him in this world. It is at all times the greatest pleasure a true Christian can experience, to discover to the beloved few which bind him to earth, the treasures he himself has found: and what is dearer than wife and children? Patrick O'Connor, indeed, had no other ties he was the only child of honoured parents, who had long become tenants of the sod, but who had left behind them a bright example, to follow which was their son's constant care; to the end that, when the time should arrive which would summon him to meet them again in the land of peace, the sweet remembrance of a father's love, and holy faith, might be incentives to his offspring to tread in his footsteps also. It had pleased God to bless him with two children, a son and a daughter; the former of whom, at the commencement of our history, had just attained his twentieth year. Arthur O'Connor appeared to inherit all the virtues of his parent. A natural frankness of disposition, and kindness of heart, were visible in his walk and conversation; but an impetuous, and, at times, almost ungovernable temper, manifested itself, to the no small anxiety of his father; who feared lest the high-flighted spirit of his son should one day spurn the contracted limits of his village hills, and go in quest of enjoyment, where he knew it was not to be found; namely, beyond the threshold of his cottage home, and apart from the quiet of the domestic circle. The gentle Catherine, who partook of the mild innocent deportment of her mother, was three summers younger than Arthur; fair as the morning, and open as the day. She dwelt in the bosom of her beloved family, unknowing and unknown; a happy stranger to the deceitful snares of the world. She believed every one as artless as herself; and deemed every wish and thought as disinterested and pure as if it took its rise from her own spotless bosom. Such were the dispositions, and, if we include a venerable man grown old in the service of his Master, the number of those who constituted the household of Patrick O'Connor by them the labours of the day were actively and cheerfully fulfilled-the morning and evening devotions never forgotten. Love, obedience, a desire to bear one another's burdens, and to fulfil the law of Christian charity, were the principal features and leading designs of every word and action. As a master-a father-a Christian-Patrick knew his own responsibility, being well acquainted with the blessedness of the man who has brought up his family in piety and godly sincerity. He was moreover convinced, (not indeed by experience, for in such a case he never had or wished for it, but from the word of God,) that the world, with all its boasted pleasure, could not give him any thing like the peace he enjoyed. And who would not envy such a family as this; for what can riches and honour give like unto it? "Blessed are they that fear the Lord, and walk in his ways,-for thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands; O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be! Thy wife shall be as the fruitful vine upon the walls of thine house, thy children like the olive branches round about thy table: Lo! thus shall the man be blessed that feareth the Lord." But notwithstanding the comparative excellence of his character, Patrick O'Connor had yet to learn one important lesson. Hitherto he had asked for blessings, and they had been bestowed upon him from a bounteous hand; but he had never received any lessons in the school of adversity. Like Job of old, he was an upright man; like him, he had been prosperous, but not like him had he seen affliction. That it was not far from him, was a truth, from its improbability, perhaps too lightly considered. At times, indeed, the strange conduct of his son would awaken his fears, but they were allayed almost as soon as excited; and the naturally kind disposition of Arthur forbade a fond father to attribute his impetuosity to any thing save the fervour of youth, which would pass away with that season. But it pleased Him "who doeth all things well," that such fair prospects should be clouded, and that his servant should learn to trust him even more than he had done; and to evince, even in the midst of fiery tribulation, that spirit of resignation, whose language is, "It is God, let him do what seemeth him good." The vicinity of O'Connor's estate consisted chiefly of fields and parcels of ground, cultivated by persons of like habits and circumstances with himself; but proceeding a mile or two westward, the traveller observes a wide tract of waste land, covered with long grass, with here and there a cluster of oak, chestnut, or ash, all which seemed to indicate that it had once constituted a park or lawn; and even now in its neglected state, it wore a romantic, and, in some parts, a wildly beautiful appearance. At one end of this common (for so it might now be justly called,) stood a large uncomfortable looking mansion, built of red brick, in the style of ancient architecture; it had formerly been the residence of the principal landowner or squire of the neighbourhood; but it had long passed away from its original possessors, and, at the time our narrative commences, was uninhabited, and had been so for years. The ravages of time were visible upon its broken casements, mouldering battlements, and grass-grown gardens, in which every kind of weed rose in wild and noxious luxuriance. The neighbouring peasantry, always accustomed to look upon an old dilapidated mansion with feelings of superstitious fear, increased in the present instance by divers strange reports of "fearful forms and horrid groans," avoided the spot as much as possible; in short, it seemed quite probable that time, without molestation, would be suffered to complete the work of destruction he had begun. But these conjectures were at length proved to be unfounded; for, to the no small surprise of the good neighbours that any creditable person should trust himself within the walls of "the House," as it was called, it was announced that it would shortly possess occupants. This report was confirmed by the appearance of workmen and servants; and when the necessary repairs and preparations had been effected, of the possessor himself, an old gentleman; whose family consisted of himself and an only son, between twenty and thirty years of age. Various rumours were instantly afloat concerning the mysterious strangers; and among the poorer community, none of the most charitable prevailed. These, indeed, might be somewhat influenced, if not exaggerated, by the chagrin caused by the loss of the park, which had furnished so abundantly fodder for their cattle; but which was now altered and improved, and surrounded by an enclosure. Be this as it may, it was certain that Mr. Halloran and his son were very mysterious personages; no one knew whence they came, or for what purpose they had fixed upon this house above all other places for their abode. That they were rich, was beyond a doubt, from the manner in which they lived; but how they had acquired those riches, or what was their object in dwelling so obscurely as they did, were questions which the sagacity of the wisest of the village Platos could not discover. Time, however, rolled on : the important intelligence was obtained by means of the occasional intercourse between the villagers and the servants of the house. 2D. SERIES, NO. 23.-VOL. II. It appeared that Mr. Halloran, a quiet, inoffensive old gentleman, had come from a remote part of Ireland to this unfrequented place, with a view, if it were possible, to correct the conduct and manners of his son; who, since the death of his mother, by whom he was much beloved and im. prudently indulged, had launched out into a course of vice and dissipation, to the great distress of his father, who was a man of integrity and principle. It was moreover said, that the old man was not treated with that respect by his son, to which he as a father was entitled; and it was thought that the only thing which prevented Maurice Halloran from renouncing his parents' authority, and escaping from his control altogether, was the want of means to support his own extravagant pursuits: for though Mr. Halloran was undoubtedly rich, he had the good sense no longer to encourage the follies of his son by assisting him with pecuniary resources; and he hoped that, by retiring to a place where temptation could not so strongly assail, a change for the better might be effected. The past conduct of Maurice was amply discussed, insomuch that every one around, happy strangers, perhaps, to the flagrancy of vice so common in more fashionable communities, was led to look upon him as a monster of wickedness, and to shun him as a person utterly unworthy and dangerous. Among the rest, Patrick O'Connor was not backward in expressing his sentiments; and his son received a severe reproof for having coupled Maurice Halloran with the words "nice young man," as he accidentally saw him riding on the road contiguous to the field in which he was working. O'Connor conceived, that by the arrival of the strangers at the house, a stumblingblock had been cast in the way of many, and he knew his own son to be by no means strong in resisting temptation; he therefore made it a matter of watchfulness and prayer, that nothing might occur to cause an hitherto innocent heart to err from the right path. There was, however, in Patrick's heart, a certain presentiment of evil, when the occasional temper of his son shewed itself, that he would one day become a cause of grief, and "rock of offence" to him. Against this he could only hope and pray; and in the latter duty he never was deficient. But how inscrutable are the ways of Providence ! A man must have much experience in life, and often bitter experience too, ere he can see all that happens for good. Prayer may be unceasingly made, but it may not always be answered, or at least in the manner for 167.-VOL. XIV. 3 x which the suppliant looks. Nay, circumstances may occur, which are in direct opposition to our requests and wishes; it therefore requires time, it requires patience, to wait for the day when all things, whether adverse or prosperous, shall work for good; and in God's own time, such will undoubtedly be the case. O'Connor was not as yet fully acquainted with these feelings; his days had passed in peace, his cup of blessing was full, his pathway smooth and flowery; it was, therefore, the more strange and afflicting to him, when he perceived that all his care and prayers had no avail to prevent a growing intimacy between his son and Maurice Halloran, which, through casual meetings from time to time, at last settled into a friendship enthusiastically sincere on the part of Arthur, and certainly professedly so as regarded the other. Flagrant as Halloran's conduct undoubtedly was, magnified as it had been, Patrick could not but anticipate the most woeful consequences from such a connexion. He considered friendships between persons of unequal situations, at all times dangerous; but in this case, knowing, as he did, what report said of young Maurice, it seemed doubly dangerous. He resolved, therefore, seriously to speak with his son on the subject; with a hope of convincing him what a fatal step he had taken, and to advise him, as a father, to retract ere it became too late. "Arthur," he said, one evening, when his son had just quitted his friend, "I like not that Halloran, much less can I approve of your intimacy with him. Believe me, my son, not from any real regard, but to further some project of his own, does he thus associate himself with you. Have you not heard his arts long ere you knew him? Have you not heard how he caused a widowed mother's heart to break, by robbing her of her only support and comfort, her daughter? Know you not what sums of his father's money the gaming-house has acquired? Have you not seen how he lives without the fear of God, or dread of his commandments? Oh Arthur, if you value your own, your parents' happiness, be not led astray by one so practised in the arts of deceiving?" 66 "Indeed, Father," replied Arthur, report belies Maurice; he has a good heart; and surely you will not stand in the way of my advancement in life; his parent is aged; and when he dies, I shall reap the benefit of his son's regard. He has pro mised to do great things for me." "Good heart! promised!" echoed the old man; "Alas! my son, under the cloak of good-heartedness how many are the sins concealed; and he who would ruin a daughter, and break a mother's heart, will never lack promises when they can serve to promote his interests?" Arthur was again proceeding to vindicate his friend, by the plea, that report was false concerning him, but his father interrupted— “Enough, Arthur,” he said, “I clearly see how blinded you are both to his faults and your own interest; but the serpent has coiled around your heart, and what father should I be, did I not strain every nerve to save you? Hear me, son; if my argu ments fail to convince you, it is my command that you break off this connexion. You were ever wont to regard my commands with obedience, see you do so now, or He paused; probably moved by the marks of contrition he saw in the countenance of Arthur. His faithful partner joined her entreaties with those of her husband. And the gentle Catherine, with tearful eyes, besought her beloved brother to discard his new and dangerous companion. To this, succeeded the evening devotion: long and fervent were the prayers offered up by the old man in behalf of his family, but more especially he entreated the God of goodness to watch over his wayward son, and to keep him mercifully from falling into the snares so thickly spread in his path. (To be concluded in our next.) POETRY. THE GOAL ATTAINED. (ON THE DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE.) By Rev. J. Young. ONCE more the harp, the harp of wo, Whence deepest notes of grief ascend; The Church, bereft of one most dear; Of worth and zeal so often prov'd. But hark! what lofty, different sounds, The valiant silver-headed chief Whom here he did not, could not know. See, pressing through the flaming hosts, To hail CLARKE welcome to the skies. Brighter than those his fellows wearA child-like meekness too surrounds His limbs, which marks of greatness bear. "Tis COKE's high spirit stands confess'dBehold, the friends in Jesus meet! Each spirit presses to his breast The friend he loves, with warmest greet: Saints hover round-and new delight, As spirits only could sustain, Appear to crown the rapt'rous sight, While CLARKE and COKE together reign. IMPRISONMENT FOR DEBT. By Mrs. Sigourney of Hartland, America. Why do ye tear Yon lingering tenant from his humble home?- There are who deem The smallest portion of their drossy gold -Revenge may draw upon these prison griefs -Up,-cleanse yourselves From this dark vestige of a barbarous age,-Sons of the Gospel's everlasting light!Nor let a brother of your sun-blest clime, Rear'd in your very gates, participant Of freedom and salvation's birthright, find Less favour than the heathen. It would seem That Man, who for the fleeting breath he draws Is still a debtor, and hath nought to pay,He who to cancel countless sins expects Unbounded clemency,-'twould seem that he Might to his fellow-man be pitiful, And shew that mercy which himself implores. "THERE IS JOY IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ANGELS OF GOD OVER ONE SINNER THAT REPENTETH."-Luke xx. 10. OH! sweet the notes his lips employ, They know-and only know, when cease Have rais'd 'gainst God the puny hand Of creatures fallen and accursed, Seared by a spirit-blighting brandLighted in hell-by Satan given, The pledge of hate to God and Heaven. O sweet-most sweet, when-whispering there, In solitude, the voice of prayer!When issues forth the plaintive sigh, On new-born faith to God on highFrom him who then in such an hour, First, feels the Spirit's cheering powerThat blessed Spirit who doth give Life, light, and peace,-the blissful boon, That bids the dying sinner live, And wakes in Paradise the time Which angels sing-seraphs that shine With ceaseless radiance all divine: Who, fired with love celestial, fling Their blazing coronets before The throne of Heav'n's eternal King; Ardent to worship and adore ; To tell of man redeem'd-and laud With joyous songs, contrition's tear; On golden harps to wake the chord, In holiest strains, when first appear The gushing, pearly drops of dew, Falling fast down the pallid cheek, When tears of penitence subdue The stricken spirit, and bespeak The mind by sanient grief oppress'd, And panting for that blessed balm, Which yields the wounded conscience rest From guilt's remorse, and sin's alarm ; The voice of love that whispers peace, That peace which flows from sin forgiven, Bidding the soul's fierce tumults cease, Lighting the spirit on to Heaven. AUTUMN. By W. C. Bryant. W. Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours The rain is falling where they be, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again! The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer's glow; But on the hills the golden rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen! |