THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Jaral anlj Iclidious 
 
 ESSAYS, POEMS, 
 
 ANECDOTES, 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZA CORF 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO.; 
 
 LIVERPOOL: D. MARPLES. 
 
 MANCHESTER: EDWARD YOUNG, J. GRUNDY. BARNSLEY : RAY AND SMITH. 
 
 SHEFFIELD : J. \V. KING, W. BAKRACLOUOH. 
 
 AND OTHER HOOKSELLERS.
 
 
 TO 
 
 MY ELDEST BEOTHER, JAMES CORF, 
 
 THIS, 
 
 €\^ first Mmi M mir focmis, €m\}h fe,, 
 
 THAT I HAVE EVER PRESENTED TO THE PUBLIC, 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED, 
 
 AS A TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR THE MANY BENEFITS 
 
 THAT I FORMERLY RECEIVED AT HIS HANDS, 
 
 IN TIMES OF SICKNESS AND SORROW. 
 
 8G6'?5<1
 
 \xtktt. 
 
 Since the announcement of my intended publica- 
 tion, the liberal patronage of my native town and 
 others, and the generous encouragement of kind 
 familiar friends, for which I present ray grateful 
 acknowledgments, have established my resolve to 
 continue in the course that I have, not without 
 reflection, adopted. Yet still, when I reflect upon 
 my temerity, in having presented myself to the 
 public, to solicit a share of their confidence and 
 patronage, I am inclined to blush at the apparent 
 boldness of the action; but my spirit tells me 
 I have talents, and that I should use them, 
 and my success renders me more and more deter- 
 mined not to shrink from the performance of my 
 duty. 
 
 This being the first task of the kind that I have 
 undertaken, — never until the present period having
 
 VI. 
 
 written with a view to publication, — I feel it 
 absolutely necessary to offer some explanation of 
 my motives for thus obtruding my works upon 
 the notice of the world of literature. I cannot 
 use the hackneyed phrase of being urgently solicited 
 by partial friends, and friendly advisers ; for except 
 two brothers who have often proved themselves my 
 friends, and whom on this occasion I thought 
 proper to surprise rather than consult, I have not 
 another relative who would not rather be jealous 
 of, than anxious for, the due appreciation of any 
 merit I may possess. Unavoidably residing for 
 many years at a distance from all who do or ever 
 have felt an interest in my welfare, I lost, in this 
 most difficult position, the encouragement that 
 others generally receive. Wholly unassisted, there- 
 fore, by any judicious friend or adviser, I cast 
 myself and my written treasures on the troubled 
 sea of fame, alike careless and uncertain whether 
 we shall sink or swim. 13ut Hope, who holds 
 her children up, invites me to the conllict. 
 
 Descended from the high nobles of the land,
 
 Vll. 
 
 nurtured aud brought up in the enjoyment of every 
 luxury aud indulgence, surrounded by the appa- 
 nances of wealth and station, but much too early 
 cast an Orphan in the world to be too prosperous, 
 and high minded enough to rely on my own spirit 
 and on God alone for aid and succour in a 
 chequered life of sorrows^ joys, and sufferings, 
 feeling ever fully conscious of the wisdom of the 
 Almighty, and well resigned to his decrees, I lay 
 for many years a sufferer, from the bodily affliction 
 of an acute inflammation of the sheath of the 
 spinal cord, occasioned by concussion in a sudden 
 shock and fall, on being abruptly told of the death 
 of a beloved brother. 
 
 Reduced by this and other unforeseen misfor 
 tunes to means almost too scanty to insure perfect 
 respectability and comfort ; contracted in my power 
 to render tangible benefit to others ; I feel desirous 
 of enlarging my scale of benevolence, and, at the 
 same time, the necessity of laying up something 
 for old age, before I pass the prime of life, and 
 lose the vigour of mind to exert myself.
 
 VIU. 
 
 The privatiou uf not having, as formerly, the 
 power to aid my fellow creatures, has been the 
 most deeply felt of all since my reverse of fortune ; 
 and a frequently weak and painful state of health 
 deprives me of the power to discharge more active 
 duties, were T to undertake any other mode of 
 using the talents with which the Almighty may 
 have endowed me. I prefer, therefore, the agreeable 
 mental exercise of writing my reflections, opinions, 
 instructions, and knowledge of the human heart and 
 mind; hoping that others may derive benefit from 
 my experience, and the openness, sobriety, and 
 truth of my reflections and opinions. 
 
 I have resolved to offer to the public favour 
 both my early and recent Poems and Essays, 
 taxing my present wits to render them such as 
 will afford my patrons a sufficient amount of these, 
 and relations of simple facts, not fiction, either 
 myself an actor in them, or the incidents and 
 scenes portrayed having come under my own know- 
 ledge and observation. I feel that T ought not to 
 utter anything in the shape of a plaudit on my
 
 IX. 
 
 own endeavours ; though wholly unassisted by any 
 one, they may surely with propriety claim origi- 
 nality; and for their substance, they aim at infusing 
 into the young and opening mind ideas that may 
 serve to cultivate and improve the manners of the 
 rising generation ; promoting virtue, piety, and 
 knowledge, by recommending whatever may benefit, 
 be useful, wholesome, or ornamental to society. 
 
 It has been my care and study to render my 
 writings such as shall not deserve to be refused 
 admittance into any house, but everywhere obtain 
 a welcome among the humane and good. As for 
 myself, solitude has so many charms for my heart 
 and soul, that, though I love society, I care little 
 whose door may be closed against me while I 
 linger here, aspiring only that the gates of heaven 
 may open to receive me on my transit hence, to 
 enjoy a better, everlasting home, where neither 
 jealousy nor criticism can exist. 
 
 Though the subjects that I discuss are generally 
 of more serious import, I have, in order to render 
 my works agreeable to the general reader, intro-
 
 X. 
 
 (luced several pieces wliich are merely calculated 
 to afford a little innocent amusement, hoping that 
 those who are invited to peruse my writings for 
 the sake of diversion only, may imperceptibly 
 imbibe a portion of the religious and moral senti- 
 ments which I have endeavoured to spread and 
 scatter throughout, with a desire to fasten and 
 disseminate them in every heart that reads. I have 
 religiously adhered to the truth, presenting to the 
 public only facts, and my own real opinions upon 
 the subjects on which I write ; anything left to 
 conjecture is clearly stated, and the words of any 
 other author are used only as a quotation. There- 
 fore, I claim originality ; though, as we all do learn 
 from books as well as from human nature, ideas 
 must in some degree partake of similai'ity, even 
 when writteii in a language so copious as the 
 English. 
 
 In presenting to my readers the shocking fact 
 of the Atheist's fearful death, I relate an event 
 that came under my own knowledge in my native 
 town of Liverpool, suppressing only the name and
 
 XI. 
 
 street ; and, though only mentioned in the papers 
 of the week that the profligate died an Atheist, 
 for the reasons assigned in the narrative, the 
 occurrence made a deep impression on tlie hearts 
 of many, and some of the less vicious of his jovial 
 companions took warniug, and repented hefore it 
 was too late. 
 
 The placarded Fop, I fear, will do me little 
 credit, as it exhibits a mischievous feeling, that 
 always takes possession of me when I see a man, 
 whom God has endowed with talents and capa- 
 bilities to render himself respected and admired, 
 distort those talents, and aim at notoriety by pro- 
 curing for himself the names of fop and fool : 
 nature having otherwise clothed him, he should 
 disdain the misfitting habiliments he so fantasti- 
 cally puts on, or must patiently endure the frolic, 
 tricks, and scorn that others more rationally attired 
 may choose to treat him with ; he becomes fair 
 game for all who wish to sport. The Presentiment, 
 or Prophetic Dream, preluded the most serious 
 illness of my life; and the short poem it contains
 
 xu. 
 
 was not exactly composed by me, for I dreamt it, 
 and immediately on my awaking wrote it out. 
 sui"prised at having wrought it without the aid of 
 my judgment to direct my muse, for all but the 
 imagination must have been buried in the deep 
 sleep that had possession of my frame. 
 
 The " Professional Letter to a Professional Gen- 
 tleman on a Professional Subject," was written to 
 an Attorney of my acquaintance in Liverpool, at the 
 time specified : his conduct is faithfully described in 
 it, and the strictest truth observed. The words of 
 the Uncle in the dialogue are such as the Nephew 
 stated them to be, and those of the Nephew such as 
 I thought he ought to have uttered in reply. Dis- 
 daining anything anonymous, I should have signed 
 my name to my letter, but he to whom it was 
 addressed was so well acquainted with my hand- 
 writing that this was unnecessary ; and the friends 
 who knew that I wrote it, among whom were the 
 lady's parents, advised and requested me not; so I 
 complied. I might now considerably improve its 
 style, for I wrote it when very young; but having
 
 XIU. 
 
 promised to my friends and the public pure facts, 
 not fiction, I transmit it to them exactly as it sallied 
 forth in the hour of its birth, and then received the 
 eulogies of partial friends, some of those long since 
 entombed in the cold damp lap of mother earth, to 
 rise no more, and smile upon me with the same 
 benignant and kind feelings. 
 
 The narrative of the Gipsy's Stolen Bride is 
 so far mixed with fiction as to give connexion to 
 the incidents, and a moral tone and feeling to the 
 piece ; and for the sake of relatives, who yet may 
 live, and wish not to be recognised, fictitious names 
 are introduced, with little deviation as to time and 
 place. The tale relates an interesting fact, to warn 
 the youthful and romantic. The poem which follows 
 the narrative, relates incidents only slightly touched 
 upon in the prose piece. 
 
 It would be impossible to notice every narrative, 
 without extending my Preface to an unreasonable 
 length; I leave them, therefore, to speak for them- 
 selves ; and in conclusion have only to say, that 
 I have neither loitered nor slumbered in my con
 
 XIV. 
 
 staut desire to assist iu purifying tlie hearts autl 
 minds of my young readers ; and if 1 should only 
 add one pious or moral sentiment to the stock of 
 each individual, 1 shall reap a sufficient harvest 
 for my labour, and feel well pleased with having 
 gained so laudable an end. 
 
 Relying on the lenity and justice of the public, 
 I remain. 
 
 Their humble Servant, 
 
 ELIZA CORF. 
 
 30, Norton Street, Liverpool.
 
 Contents. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 Page 
 Essay I. — On the Nature and difference between Genius and 
 
 Talent, &c 1 
 
 "Wisdom and Wit play at Bandy, and make a Contract . . 13 
 
 Lines, ■written during illness 26 
 
 The Spirit's Whisper 31 
 
 Essay II. — On the great value of a religious education . . .33 
 Anecdote. Ignorance is very convenient sometimes ... 66 
 
 The mind awoke to Thought 6~ 
 
 The cheerings of Eeligion '"'^ 
 
 When to reflect ''0 
 
 Essay on Pretenders to Scepticism and Atheism .... 73 
 
 The Atheist 92 
 
 To the Birds at Halewood. A fragment ^8 
 
 The Boasting of the Bible ; or, the Atheist's Death . . . itO 
 
 There is a Heaven ^^^ 
 
 The Attributes of the Saviour. A fragment Ill 
 
 Essay on Self-Knowledge ; its uses and appUcatiou . . . 115 
 
 A Recipe to make a good Wife 1'^^ 
 
 Epithalamic Acrostic. Presented to a young friend on her Wedding 
 
 Day ^^* 
 
 Journey from Cork to Killarney, &c 160 
 
 Sportive Stanzas on Killarney and its Echoes .... 17!' 
 
 The Bm-ning of the Steam-boat Ceylon 181 
 
 Lines addressed to Miss P , on her departure from Liverpool 
 
 to her native land, Ireland 1^0
 
 XVI. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Gips^^'s Stolen BriJe. NaiTative 191 
 
 Poem 201) 
 
 Jjines, written after dreaming that a young lady Lad swerved from 
 
 propriety and integrity. Narrative . 227 
 
 Poem 230 
 
 Professional Letter to a Professional Gentleman, on a Professional 
 
 Subject 239 
 
 Excursion to the Ivillarney Tuiniel, Ac 247 
 
 The Placarded Fop 256 
 
 Excm'sion from Killamey to Glengariff, &e 203 
 
 Rhyming Preface to several Poems, written in tin.' Albu)ii of a 
 
 Young Friend 276 
 
 To the Ploughman, returning to his Cottage 279 
 
 Lines by George Eccles Ni.\on, Esq. ...... 281 
 
 Keply to the Stanzas by George Eccles Nixon, Esq. . . . 283 
 
 The Presentiment 286
 
 (tssau I. 
 
 A short Essay -written at the request of a Lady, on the nature and 
 difference between Genius and Talent, and the visible marks that 
 distinguish the possessors: with a few observations on Learning, 
 and the pleasure and profit to be derived from combining this 
 valuable acquisition with the brightest gifts that God bestows on 
 the human mind — all-powerful Genius and Talent. 
 
 In writing a few observations on the most valuable 
 properties with which the munificent Creator has 
 endowed the human mind, Genius and Talent, I will 
 first descant upon Genius ; for, being in its nature more 
 elevated, more immediately descended from above, it 
 shines the brightest, and comprises all those wonderful 
 powers of mind which may justly be called gifts from 
 God. 
 
 A mind possessing genius, invents such things as 
 none have seen before, except j)erchance in fragments, 
 which Genius taking up, therewith constructs a whole, 
 that looks so, even if it be not quite original. 
 
 True Genius is constantly employed putting forth 
 
 in arts and science, rich, full-wrought, original designs, 
 
 constnictions that astonisli other minds by their sur- 
 
 1
 
 prising magnitude and chai'acter, and tlioiights which 
 baffle and dismay meaner minds, that try to moinit 
 as high upon the tree of kuov^lcdge, but get entangled 
 in its branches. Genius lives on theories and specula- 
 tions; peeps into the future, and prepares examples 
 for it. Its imagination is supplied with materials for 
 constnicting new fabrics, of every description. The 
 mere man of genius aims at eccentricity ; despises 
 forms and ceremony ; and seldom gives his mind to 
 minor things : therefore he cannot always reduce his 
 theories to practice. Misled, perhaps, by vanity, he 
 makes his theories known, and these he leaves for Talent 
 to take up and achieve. Genius j)ossesses an indo- 
 mitable loftiness of sjiirit, that prevents it taking the 
 works of any other as a foundation for its own stnictures ; 
 wliile if otherwise directed, by superior talent, its designs 
 would be more methodic and correct. 
 
 When Genius and Talent are combined, and simulta- 
 neously put forth then- powers, we see a mind endowed 
 witli such stupendous strength, energy, and fire, that 
 soul is given to everything it frames, which speaks 
 aloud the praises of the framer, and proclaims a being 
 greatly favoured by the omniscient Maker. The man 
 of talent has the tact to see at once the magnitude 
 of what lie undertakes, and at a glance surveys tlie 
 whole minutia; of tlio tiling he wishes to accomplisli. 
 Instead of always projecting new things, he is content 
 to copy, and acquire perfection or skdl in arts and 
 sciences that otliers have founded or discovered. Taking
 
 the best masters for examples, he will not allow himself 
 to he out-done, hut aims for, and will climh, the highest 
 point that ever has been gained before. He generally 
 gi-asps at such a point as some one perhaps will say 
 can never he excelled. If he has real talent, he sm-- 
 passes it, by almost imperceptible, gi'adual improvement 
 in each cm've and line, until he far exceeds the work 
 he copies ; in the whole producing quite a master- 
 piece of its kind In painting, he is much imlike the 
 genius, methodically painting inch by inch, a picture of 
 minute perfections, each measured part of equal value, 
 beauty, and proportions, unique throughout the whole; 
 while lofty minded Genius, spurning at the thought of 
 labour so profuse, being inspired, makes some parts 
 most sublime, yet leaves the minor points defective. 
 The man of talent gains by his productions, never 
 ceasing to improve them till he has made them worthy 
 of the purchase ; while Genius, still projecting on, gives 
 others time to reap the benefit of his first inventions ; 
 he wants the application that a man of talent gains 
 wliile studying to excel, and thus he has not patience 
 to improve what his sublimity projects ; stUl aiming 
 on at something new and more astonishing, instead of 
 endeavouring to combine his genius with talents that 
 would perfect his designs, and hand them to posterity 
 entirely his own. But where exists tliis valuable com- 
 bination? It is seldom if ever found. 
 
 Genius and Talent, where they are well eombined, 
 A wonder-work from the Almighty hand we find.
 
 Even where tins wonderful and agi-eeable combina- 
 tion, to those who know how to appreciate it, is found, 
 it is generally surrounded by some minor defects of 
 character; in some cases palpable, in others supposed, 
 in a few instances deej)ly to be regi'etted flagi'aut faults, 
 which lay the character open to the deti-actions of evil- 
 minded and jealous people, and render the possessors of 
 talent and genius most unpopidai*. Even when possessed 
 of eveiy moral virtue, they too frequently become the 
 objects of dislike, scorn, envy, jealousy, and disrespect. 
 Unhappily for the progi'ess of talent in general, the 
 human mind so disdains to be smi)assed, that the being 
 endowed with original ideas, inventive mechanical powers, 
 poetic genius, or profound reasoning faculties, becomes a 
 prey to the wounded vanity or j'iquc of the narrow-minded 
 or self-admiring, who think that they j^roclaim their own 
 merit by detracting from the merit of others. Tlierefore, 
 we too often find it tlie case tliat jioetry and poverty 
 accompany one another, the jioet seldom being fully 
 invested with tlie approbation and respect of the world 
 until death has robbed him of the power to claim 
 precedence of his inferiors in intellectual worth — the 
 more ignorant valuing people too much for external 
 advantages, and cac'li endeavouring to step before the 
 other in tliis ambitious, jostling scene of strife. 
 
 Wlien universal approbation is excited, the sensation 
 is generally produced by some oH'ort of genius and talent 
 combined, such as Martin's Fall of Nineveh. Genius 
 alone, worked u]) to enthusiasm, could project a painting
 
 of such surpassing magnitude and character, wherein 
 each porti'ait and portion proclaims itself exactly what 
 the artist intended it to he ; but it was talent combined 
 with genius that gave to each figure the expression, 
 countenance, dress, and carnage, which at once delineated 
 the character and tone of each one represented; and, 
 independently of tliis exalted combiuation of genius and 
 talent, it was only the most mathematical exactitude and 
 perseverence that could give a decided character to so 
 many minute, distinct, yet crowded parts, as those pour- 
 trayed in the back ground, the covered wall, and the 
 battle scene. 
 
 But of what order of genius sliall we call that which 
 could project a design so magnificent as that of the 
 Temptation ? Was it not the highest that could possibly 
 belong to man, combined with talent, perseverence, 
 truth, religion, learning, aud artistic skill? — all these, 
 in full force and activity, being necessary to bring the 
 paintuag to such a scale of perfection as it exliibits : 
 only imlimited talent and high intellectual cultivation 
 could have made it so perfect in its beauty, so chaste, 
 refined, and elegantly graceful in the attitude and expres- 
 sion of each creature's lineaments — every portion of the 
 piece so profoundly expressive of paradisiacal bliss and 
 smootlily-flowing ease — yet, in the tout ensemble, so 
 bewitchingly awe-striking to the astonished beholder, 
 spell-bound at a glance. Say who, possessed of any 
 soul, could contemplate the figures therein represented, 
 though tout denude, and conceive a thought unclothed 
 
 -1-
 
 with purity? Tlie inind must be gross indeed tliat 
 could tliink impurely while surveying them. i3ut even 
 more than all that I have imputed to the artist was 
 necessary to produce such sublimity as that which we 
 see in the Expulsion. May it not properly be called 
 Insjiiration, combined with the before-mentioned attri- 
 butes, that could execute a painting which transfixes 
 every feeling-minded beholder with awe and wonder? 
 What but genius, talent, inspiration from God, and 
 inward conviction of His mighty power, could have 
 taught the painter to delineate it with such speaking 
 touches of his pencil? What less could have taught him 
 to pourtray the change produced by the fall so efiec- 
 tively, and yet retain througliout the whole so perfect a 
 resemblance ? I'or, at the same time that we see eveiy 
 feature, muscle, nerve, and limb unstrung and distorted 
 with the fearful emotions tliat agonised their frames, 
 we perceive a true likeness to the beautiful partners 
 languishing in love and soft rejDose, and, on the woman's 
 part, seductive tenderness, in the ha])iiy garden of Eden. 
 In the Expulsion, we see the ruillcd mane and 
 inflamed eye of the now rebellious lion, that, in the 
 Temptation, looked up to the happy pair with love and 
 gentleness. In it we see the scorpion fire of discord 
 darted upon Eve, by tlie self-same Adam, wlio, in the 
 other picture, looked, tliougli fearfully, with undiminislied 
 love, and eager, though reluctant yielding, on the 
 gloriously beautiful enslaver that reclined at ids 
 feet. We see the same woman's face bedewed with
 
 drops of sorrow and contrition ; the lovely form that lay 
 recumbent, tranquilly confiding in her influence on her 
 partner, now kneeling in dismay and teiTor at his feet, 
 imploring pardon and shrinking from his wrath ; yet 
 still, tlu'oughout the whole, no featui'e changed, but 
 pourtrayed imder the influence of different feelings — 
 tlie soul's light only taken from them in their fall from 
 virtue. The hand of Genius alone might throw the bolt 
 upon the riven tree ; but more was needful to depict the 
 fiery exultation of the Archfiend's face, and his satauic 
 glee amid the war of elements, when he beheld his 
 triumph consummated in the fall of man, and saw that 
 fallen one bent down with sorrow, his hair erect, as 
 Genius raised it to depict his terror at the fearful 
 storm engendered by his sin. 
 
 Having said so much on these two exquisite paint- 
 ings, I will now turn the attention of my readers to 
 another, which I saw exhibited in the CoUegiate Insti- 
 tution, in Livei-jiool — The Bohemian Gipsies : according 
 to my ideas, a decided freak of Genius alone, for Talent 
 deigns not to slight anything, however small or insig- 
 nificant. In this picture, the grouping, outlines, atti- 
 tudes, and expression of the figures proclaim at a glance 
 the baud of Genius; but Genius is a slattern, and so this 
 artist daubs his coloui-s on, v/ithout regard to neatness ; 
 yet, Taste assisted him in their selection, and he contrasts 
 them well. Had the genius that projected the design 
 been coupled with talent, aided by perseverence, the 
 touch would not have been sucli as to offend the eye.
 
 and so many would not have expressed suii)rise that 
 I should allow my eye to dwell on it so long, surrounded 
 by so many paintings more worthy, as they tliought, of 
 admiration: but I could see so manv beauties in the 
 piece, I could not help admiring them, and wishing for 
 equal talent and perseverence to assist the genius that 
 designed it. I could comment on many other paintings, 
 but might 1)6 deemed too digressive, and therefore retimi 
 to the chief points of the subject. Genius and Talent. 
 
 With regard to its sustenance, I may say that hope 
 and anticijtation form a portion of the sweets that 
 Genius feeds upon. Genius, led on by hope, eflects 
 gigantic wonders, either in art or science ; for hope sub- 
 limes its efforts, holds a liglit for it to work by, and 
 pictm'es forth some fai--off rich reward, which it illmiii- 
 nates, but whicli Genius does not always reach, often 
 stumbling in the way on new materials for constructing 
 new inventions, and, eager to collect them, forgets to 
 stretch out the hand to grasp a due rewai'd for former 
 efforts. Reward is always sought by Genius for its 
 exploits, and the more imaginative its excursions, the 
 I'icher harvest it expects to reap ; but woe for its improvi- 
 dence and want of stricter guard — it is too oft, by 
 meaner minds, tricked out of it. 
 
 Both genius and talent are widely distinct from 
 mere learning ; for this may be acquired by mere capa- 
 city, if the capacity is clothed with application. Tiiere 
 is a certain mechanism iu the brain, wbicli enables 
 man to learn by dint of repetition, without tlu^ trouble
 
 almost of thinking. Genius and talent may both be 
 wanting, where learning is acquired : but where this 
 want is evident, the ideas never flow smoothly. Such 
 men are generally pedantic ; such women scornful, self 
 admii-ing, undervaluing the minds of others, and treating 
 them with scorn because they are not book-read, though 
 perhaps their knowledge far exceeds their own in use- 
 fulness. These men and women frequently quote, but 
 seldom utter that which is their own; their display of 
 learning is more abstruse than brilliant. That dis- 
 play of learning is most brilliant which is directed by 
 genius, but is most useful when guided and improved by 
 talent and virtue. When Genius takes up virtue and 
 talent, industriously diflusing them through each thought, 
 w^ord, deed, and pursuit, steadily persevering in the 
 whole, if tempted to add learning to the stock, what a 
 delightfid character is thereby foi-med ! This world 
 abounds in such, though then- modesty conceals them 
 often from our view. It is only by emulating to become 
 such, using God's gifts of mind to the utmost extent 
 that he has bestowed them, and liberally appreciating 
 the same in others, that we can know and feel the 
 solid pleasm-e and happiness to be derived from this 
 inestimable combination. While blending the valuable 
 gifts of genius and talent with the equally valuable 
 acquisition of learning, the mind naturally feels disposed 
 to suppress every inclination which has not virtue for 
 its foundation ; and thus the possessors procui'e for 
 themselves, and those who come under their influence,
 
 10 
 
 all the liap})iness that tliis life can hestow, — particulurly 
 if" surrounded by the appendages of fortune, witli a 
 disposition to use them for the benefit of others as 
 well as themselves; combined with talent and virtue, 
 that reflect before they act, consequently dissect all 
 sides of a question, while reflecting ujion not only the 
 pro and eon, but its present and future tendency, 
 commenting mentally upon the whole, sifting the good 
 from the bad, discarding the latter, atom by atom, till 
 perfection is as nearly as possible attained. What a 
 fund to draw upon ! for, if well used, it wUl prociu-e 
 peace, fame, and plenty; it wUl lessen cai-e, heighten 
 joy, subdue sorrow, remove temptation, and elevate the 
 mind as high, and higher, than the fortune, even as 
 high as heaven ; because, deriving all from God, the soid 
 of necessity demands that the heart and mind should 
 worship God, exalted love being absolutely necessaiy 
 to the sustenance of an exalted mind, and heavenly 
 things the most suitable food for such a mind. 
 
 Genius must have something to love. Its feelings are 
 too ardent not to love everything that pleases either its 
 lieart or eye ; and wh(>n it clasps the hand in friondshii), 
 eveiy pledge that hand bestows is treasured while it lasts, 
 far more tlian its intrinsic worth deserves. Genius would 
 dishonoiu- itself, were it negligent of tlie romance of 
 feeling; yet tlie friendsliip formed by Talent is more 
 durable, because Talent takes in the whole cliarac- 
 ter, and reflects before it decides on inlimacy ; but 
 Genius only sees tlie brilliant points, believing ihv
 
 II 
 
 minor ones to bear a close resemblance, and when the 
 error is disclosed, flies off from friendship in disg-ust, 
 too often then its ardent feelings ening on the side of 
 hatred. The man of talent and profound reasoning 
 faculties believes too little, requiring ocular demonstra- 
 tion to maintain his confidence ; and much too often 
 repudiates his fellow men for poor human nature's 
 frailties. Genius, on the contrary, believes too much, 
 feels, sees, thinks, and speaks too much, entering too 
 feelingly and wannly into the thoughts, feelings, and 
 interests of others, even when not called upon by 
 christian duty. 
 
 When either men or women are endowed with, or 
 by emulation and persevering rectitude of purpose 
 obtain, and use well, the valuable gifts and acquisi- 
 tions on which I have so largely dilated, combined 
 with moral feeling, vutue, and Religion — the brightest 
 gem among them all, they untii'ingly perform their 
 duty, to their neighbours and to God, without regarding 
 either the world's ingratitude or its detractions. 
 
 And who, endowed with reason's guide, wUl ventui'e 
 wholly to disdain possession of the peace arising fi'om 
 a state of mind so blessed? It needs not genius or 
 talent for the heart to feel disposed to worship God, 
 nor rank and fortune ; the lowly mind and lowly heart, 
 if bending with a humble, contrite spirit, are offerings 
 most acceptable to Him. It needs not that a man 
 should be j^ossessed of gifts that subUmate the mind, 
 to place him in the path of virtue. Thougli a man
 
 1-J 
 
 be poor, he need not walk astray because the tempter 
 beckons him. In any mood or language we may ask 
 of our Creator, the petition will be defined, distinctly 
 heard, and answered if He deems fit, though inaudible 
 to the heart that utters it in thought. It needs not 
 learning to ask God for succour, or a shield to keep 
 temptation off, and steel the heart against its inroads. 
 Religion has a language of its own, peculiarly distinct 
 from that of genius, talent, learning, or terrestrial 
 elocution ; and though these never can pre-eminently 
 dwell in unity together without inviting Piety to take 
 a seat in their abode, religion can exist without a 
 spark of any of them. Ah then, wliat cause for thank- 
 fulness, in those who have none of these endowments, 
 to think that they can gain the everlasting good, without 
 assistance from them ; the pleasures of this world iUone 
 abiding in them ; eternal rest and peace attainable as 
 well by humbler means, dependent only on the grace 
 of God, his love, acceptance, and pardon.
 
 Miskm anD Hit 
 
 PLAY AT BANDY, AND MAKE A CONTRACT. 
 
 A wise young man once heard to say, 
 ' Your wit is but a fool,' 
 A wit retorted, ' Well, sir, pray 
 Were you ne'er made his tool ? ' 
 
 WISDOM. 
 
 When Wit assails, I always try 
 To walk aside, and pass him by. 
 I never pause to prate and rave, 
 But wander to the church and grave, 
 And ponder how my soul to save. 
 
 WIT. 
 
 No doubt your wisdom, so serene. 
 Is freshened when the sod is green. 
 And while the grass is springing up, 
 You catch the dew, to fill your cup 
 With the ambrosial crystal clear 
 That demigods so miicli revere;
 
 14 
 
 And when you qiiatf, no doubt, the stream 
 
 Has i)Ower to make your wisdom beam 
 
 As brightly, as the glittering tear 
 
 Called forth by penitential fear ; 
 
 Or softly, as the grassy blade 
 
 That shines so clear when sun-arrayed. 
 
 But I would rather see the joy 
 
 That trembles in young Love's briglit eye, 
 
 And nectar taste from downy lip, 
 
 Beading that eye the while I sip, 
 
 And adding to its smile a grace 
 
 That wanders o'er the loving face, 
 
 Revealing that I dwell within ; 
 
 Oh ! tell me not such love is sin. 
 
 Or that a mortal should not taste 
 
 A thing so exquisitely chaste. 
 
 WISDOM. 
 
 Far better taste of holy love, 
 Born in the heart that soars above, 
 Enwreathed with Howcrs that never fade, 
 To dress the faithful only made ; 
 And sip the cup that cannot cloy. 
 The cup of bliss without alloy. 
 Presented by the Hebes three, 
 Pure Faith, and Hope, and Ciiarity, 
 Nor wander througli the grove and mead 
 That only carnal senses feed, 
 And leave the heart a void indeed.
 
 15 
 
 Go wander near the church and tomb. 
 When there, reflect, and read thy doom ; 
 Rechne upon the gi'ave, and try 
 Into its hidden depths to pry : 
 There you may see the once smooth lip 
 Bedewed with slime for worms to sip ; 
 The bosom once that rivalled snow, 
 A nest where reptQes come and go. 
 These, crawling o'er the once red cheek, 
 Deflower it with a blackened streak. 
 Look underneath this loathsome sight 
 Desiioiled of waving tresses bright, 
 The enfranchised mind, or bright or dull. 
 Has cast aside the bony skull ; 
 The rounded limbs, some time ago 
 That tripped with thee on heel and toe. 
 Now clothed with foetid flesh and must. 
 Fast breaking to return to dust, 
 To mingle with her sire's, who shares 
 The fate that 's destined for liis heirs. 
 Tliis pompous Lord, stretched out beside 
 The mendicant he spurned in pride ; 
 His daughter once the lovely maid, 
 That won your heart — now disaiTayed ; 
 Gaze on her well — where can you see 
 A spot, an atom loved by thee ? 
 Start not, but fix thy look again I 
 Tremblest not thou, to think that when
 
 Hi 
 
 Thy spirit shall cast oflf its clay, 
 Thou Malt like her lie in decay ; — 
 Like her endure the pang, before 
 Thy rebel life shall be no more ; 
 Like her expend the lingering sigh 
 That mortals heave before they die, — 
 The last fond, tender look impai-t. 
 That shadows the expiring heart ! 
 Then take thy warning from the scene, 
 Or better thou hadst never been ; 
 Fly off' with speed, and soar above, 
 Kesolved to fix on better love ; 
 And wliile thy soul is on the wing, 
 Imbibe the faith that blunts death's sting ; 
 Tlicn, looking down upon the gi-ave, 
 Eegai'd it as a thing to brave — 
 Move on, it leads to victory's plain, 
 Redemption and high heaven to gain. 
 
 WIT. 
 
 Talk not to me of holy love ; 
 
 My name is Wit, I soar above 
 
 The cant that binds my spirit down. 
 
 Wit is a gentleman — no clown ; 
 
 He dances on the Poet's tongue. 
 
 Sits on the nose of every wag. 
 
 Is equal with the lordly throng 
 
 'J'h.at mount tlic woolsack, lumt tlic stag.
 
 17 
 
 And when the literati meet, 
 
 Keceives and gives an equal treat. 
 
 He teaches beauty how to tell 
 
 A repartee, and do it well. 
 
 And then he sits on ruby lip. 
 
 To catch the words that lightly trip ; 
 
 He tln-ows them in the sparkling wine 
 
 That teaches love in eyes to shine ; 
 
 He fills the goblet, holds it high, 
 
 The words then disappear, they fly. 
 
 But when the stream has gained its height, 
 
 The polished words retui-n to light. 
 
 While Wit sits smiling on the scene 
 
 Unfaded, like an evergreen. 
 
 And when assardted by a snarl. 
 
 Who aims each verdant branch to gnarl ; 
 
 A sweet revenge he takes, for then 
 
 He shines much brighter than such men, 
 
 And gains such honour and applause, 
 
 Princes and Kings take up his cause. 
 
 But he loves change, and roaming fi-ee, 
 
 Wanders throughout the laud and sea, 
 
 Fixed only in one choice, to be 
 
 A wit unto eternity, 
 
 Roaming along on every beam 
 
 That sunshine, stars, or heaven can gleam. 
 
 WISDOM. 
 
 A life SO fulsome and unchaste 
 
 Is nothing but a life of waste ; 
 
 -2-
 
 18 
 
 Roam further still, if thou wouldst roaui. 
 And make the works of God thy home ; 
 With reason dwell, and reason guide, 
 To quell the workings of his pride; 
 Dance on the lip of holy love, 
 And kindly lead its hopes above. 
 In doing so, your heart may stray 
 With holy love and hoj^e away, 
 And should Ambition cross thy path. 
 Trip up the traitor's heels, and laugh ; 
 And wliile he tumbles down, bewai'e 
 To chasse, and escape the snai'e. 
 Let go your shafts on vanity, 
 And teach the mincing jade to flee. 
 When timid Wortli cries. Stretch thy hand, 
 And give thy power, that she may stand ; 
 And when Oppression knocks her down, 
 Cudgel the wretch, and make liim own 
 That had he lodged thee but one night, 
 He could not thus have felt thy might. 
 Tiieu take down self-esteem, and try 
 To check its pulse from beating Jiigh ; 
 If too great the portion given. 
 Conscience makes the balance even : 
 Then take them both, and mbt them well. 
 One voice the other voice will quell. 
 Give veneration fullest scope. 
 And you may kiss mid toy with ilnjie.
 
 in 
 
 And take her to your heart, the while 
 That she rewards you with her smile. 
 Your wit suhlime, the stars admire 
 The sun, and emulate its fire, 
 Comets and moon, till you desire 
 To spread yourself like heavenly fire, 
 Through every joyous heaven-born tiling. 
 Then may your spirit upward wing 
 To purity its essence, there 
 Descend again. And we will share 
 Our home, our essence, and not fear 
 In unity to dwell down here. 
 But should this grace no favour find, 
 Nor meet the tenor of yovu- mind, 
 Far better that yoiu- heavenly king 
 Should take you up to heaven, to sing 
 Eternal hallelujahs there. 
 Than you should so waste life down here. 
 
 WIT. 
 
 I waste my life ! Have I no joy ? 
 Find any soul would me destroy. 
 Unless I put on satire's sting. 
 
 wisnoM. 
 A senseless, imbecoming thing. 
 That herds with envy, malice, pride ; 
 Gets on the wing of fame astride. 
 Unseen, to blot its page so fair. 
 When envied name is entered tliore.
 
 •20 
 
 WIT. 
 
 But, well directed, may it uot 
 Check folly, when the stiiig 's forgot '? 
 Or rouse the poet's latent fire 
 Sublimer efforts to inspire, 
 Make the aspirants after fame 
 Prefer good deeds to honored name. 
 Put down the vulgar ? May it not ? 
 
 WISDOM. 
 
 It only makes the temper hot, 
 But, well directed, I should say 
 It teaches fallen men to pray 
 With eloquent and fervent power ; 
 It teaches to employ each hour. 
 One moment not to fling away, 
 To answer for on Judgment day. 
 Presiding over every sense. 
 It teaches nature to dispense 
 With every sensual ajipetite, 
 And crave alone for what is riglit — 
 Propounding every text that 's given 
 To help the sinner up to heaven. 
 
 WIT. 
 
 'T is well for you, that are so wise 
 To wander always near the skies ; 
 But I 'm a much more humhlr intiii, 
 'V\w woild I take as it began,
 
 21 
 
 Enjoy the good and leave the vile, 
 
 With love and lore my houi-s beguile, 
 
 Jocus and Momus help along, 
 
 Give fieiy lines to bacchante song ; 
 
 And, if I gain an eminence, 
 
 I scruple not to leap from thence. 
 
 Nor try to check my downwai'd fall. 
 
 My resting-place, or great or small. 
 
 Mingling with high or lowly throng, 
 
 I trip to each inviting tongue. 
 
 And spread my snares for those who laugh. 
 
 You like the substance, I the chaff — 
 
 On wing of gossamer I fly. 
 
 WISDOM. 
 
 On chariot I reach the sky, 
 
 And, firmly seated, never swerve, 
 
 A constant equipoise presei-ve ; 
 
 For Wisdom bows not to the wind — 
 
 To firmest rectitude inclined, 
 
 He rides triumphant into heaven. 
 
 And there controls the senses seven. 
 
 WIT. 
 
 On poet's fire I enter there. 
 
 And Faith and Hope my seat prepare, 
 
 I rest but for awhile in heaven. 
 
 Scared when the clouds are thimder-riven, 
 
 Convey the bolt to poet's pen, 
 
 And he becomes sublimer then,
 
 09 
 
 Awakened by the fiery ball. 
 Poor Wit is shattered in the fall. 
 Ideal wonders upward wing, 
 The poet grasps them all, to fling 
 And scatter them upon his page. 
 Wit holds up satii'e — critics sage 
 Snatch it, the poet to enrage, 
 And one and all in war engage ; 
 And speculators, when they 're rife 
 For quaiTelling, ujion the strife 
 I urge along for veiy life ; 
 Or, soft reclining in the head 
 Of theorist, I make my bed. 
 Here, resting from a toUsome life, 
 I rally for some new born strife. 
 And sliuu while here T take my rest 
 The snarling critic, poet's pest. 
 
 WISDOM. 
 
 Wisdom shuns war, courts peace divine, 
 Thy essence mingle then with mine ; 
 Our force unite, to waiader o'er 
 The world, and eveiy glen explore, 
 Diffusing Imowledge as we go. 
 To guide the heart and lessen woe ; 
 Making barren earth a heaven. 
 Constant peace and plenty given, 
 Seasoned with wit, and wisdom's rules, 
 To reign abroad and in the schools.
 
 23 
 
 Dispersing both, to wander free 
 To every brancli, on every tree ; 
 That they may grow aud fai- expand, 
 To cover every point of land ; 
 That every virtue God hath made 
 May floiu'ish underneath their shade, 
 Kich aromatic sweets inhale, 
 And ne'er in wit or wisdom fail. 
 
 WIT. 
 
 Such mastery does wisdom gain, 
 I plead for my poor wit in vain ; 
 And, yielding to thy better sense. 
 Would yoke myself with thee from hence 
 Then teach me how to link with thee, 
 And clench the chain for ever ; 
 One mind, one soul, one heart to he, 
 And snap asunder never. 
 
 WISDOM. 
 
 Wisdom, descending from above, 
 
 Now rests upon thy soid ; 
 
 And T with Wit am linked in love, 
 
 And thus we make a whole. 
 
 Our essence may, where'er we roam, 
 
 Like rain descend upon 
 
 The people crowding to our home, 
 
 To put our mantle on,
 
 24 
 
 And wear it till tlie change takes place ; 
 Wisdom and wit theii- souls to gi'aoe. 
 And there to rest, until they rise 
 Triumphant on the wing, 
 To settle in the upper skies 
 And hallelujahs shig. 
 
 WIT. 
 
 Oh ! happy I, to choose a fate 
 
 So full of life, yet so sedate ; 
 
 To mingle wisdom with my soul, 
 
 Has made my nature clean and wliole ; 
 
 Together we may tread the earth. 
 
 Taste nought hut joys of heavenly hirth, 
 
 Together make the world more wise, 
 
 Teach every soul to reach the skies. 
 
 Thus mingling our own life with theirs, 
 
 Make sejjarate the wheat and tai'es. 
 
 Live on for ever, to create 
 
 Desii'es, that sanctify the state 
 
 Of eveiy heart that hleeds for love, 
 
 And pleads for blessings from above. 
 
 Resolved to plead, till soul shall rise 
 
 And gain a mansion in the skies. 
 
 Wit shall lend wings, and lix the day ; 
 
 And wisdom teach to find the way 
 
 To never ending bliss and light, 
 
 And trim the lamp for death's dark niglit.
 
 25 
 
 Illume the valley, light the shade 
 Death's dark and shadowy form has made, 
 And when this earth shall pass away. 
 Sink down the last, on the last day. 
 
 WISDOH. 
 
 Last down, but yet the first to rise, 
 And take our station in the skies ; 
 The first to rise, and take our stand, 
 To wander forth, in that bright land 
 Where the regenerate and just 
 Dwell, when no longer chained to dust. 
 And there we '11 stretch oiu- ready hands. 
 To help as God points and commands ; 
 Each soul redeemed from death and sin, 
 Eternal realms to dwell within. 
 Then every rank and station won. 
 Immortal live as we begun, 
 There roam ourselves among them all, 
 Rejoicing both in rise and fall, 
 Dispensing favours to them all.
 
 fiius, 
 
 WUITTEN DUKINIi ILLNESS. 
 
 PEniiiT not that my reason flee, 
 
 Lest I forget to serve 
 The God who gave my all to me, 
 
 And from His precepts swerve. 
 
 It flickers, and my temples bui'n — 
 
 A fire consumes witliin ; 
 Tlien cooliiag, calls for its return. 
 
 To shield my soul from sin. 
 
 My heart responds, and cries aloud. 
 To stay this Jieaven-born j^ower ; 
 
 While rushing thoughts tlie spirit elouc 
 Till heaven sends down a shower 
 
 Of tears, to wash and cool the fires 
 
 That latently pervade, 
 And cleanse away all foul desires, 
 
 i thus invoke its aid —
 
 27 
 
 Ah ! reason, wliither woiildst thou fly ? 
 
 Tm-n thou thy footsteps hither ; 
 This gloomy world, without thine eye, 
 
 Would nothing cheer, but wither. 
 
 Fly not from me, thou guiding power. 
 But keep my mind from straying; 
 
 My actions every day and hour 
 Thy constant care repaying. 
 
 Teach me to govern my desu-es 
 
 By holy law and rule ; 
 Quell thou within the latent fires ; 
 
 Pour streamlets on to cool — 
 
 The streamlets flowing from the sea 
 Where reason stems the tide — 
 
 Faith, Hope, and Love, the sisters three, 
 IndweUing side by side. 
 
 I know no charm to lull the soul. 
 That can with faith compare, 
 
 It makes the broken spirit whole. 
 Inviting hope to share 
 
 The placid tone that dwells within, 
 And warbles forth due praise 
 
 For new born joys, removed from sin, 
 And peaceful, happy days.
 
 28 
 
 Hope takes her seat within the lieart, 
 
 Inviting faith and love, 
 To take her up, and never part, 
 
 Wherever they may rove. 
 
 For Charity they both comply, 
 And wander through the earth ; 
 
 And joined with Hoi^e, they tliere outvie 
 All else of heavenly birth. 
 
 The whole on earth create a heaven, 
 
 Kemote from strife and sin ; 
 Then pray that grace to all be given, 
 
 These gi'aces three to win. 
 
 And oh ! thou reason's guide, propel 
 
 Them all to every heart; 
 That sinners may escape the hell. 
 
 With Satan set apart. 
 
 A gulf between wliich none can i)ass. 
 
 Or dare to sail upon. 
 Though husband, daughter, sons, alas ! 
 
 May shi'iek, inviting on. 
 
 To give them one cold drop, to cool 
 Tlie parched and aching tongue ; 
 " Vengeance; is mine," says God, " thou fool. 
 And heaven can do no wrong.
 
 29 
 
 "Eternity, that fearful space, 
 Is thiue to bm-n and crave ; 
 Hadst thou embraced pui-e faith and grace. 
 Thy hell had been the grave, — 
 
 " A passage to the realms above, 
 Where angels dwell with me 
 In fervent holiness and love, 
 Blessed with the graces tlu-ee. 
 
 " But all entreating can't prevail. 
 Thy sentence to revoke. 
 Seraphs and angels sing aU hail, 
 And Satan owns my yoke. 
 
 " He owns a Master and a God. 
 Obeys when I command. 
 His spirit trembles at my rod, 
 He feels my mighty hand. 
 
 " He seals the doom that I decree, 
 For sinners past reclaim ; 
 And when the righteous call on me. 
 He trembles at my name. 
 
 " Each faithless sinner tumbled down. 
 He gains one serpent more. 
 To make him feel and fear my frown. 
 And sting liim to the core.
 
 30 
 
 ' And when I thunder in the skies, 
 
 He trembles at my voice, 
 The lightning flashing through his eyes, 
 He sees the heavens rejoice." 
 
 The scorpion stings that fill Ms soul, 
 And rend Ms brain till mad. 
 
 Proclaim that I command the whole ; 
 He sMieks while Jieaven is glad. 
 
 Oh then preserve my reason's guide. 
 
 And never let it swerve, 
 That T may, through whate'er betide, 
 
 God and my neighbour serve. 
 
 And, sinners, hasten at the call, 
 
 That Jesus speaks to you ; 
 By him alone you stand or fall, 
 
 Then liold him up to view. 
 
 And, taking up liis cross, walk on, 
 
 Ascend the holy hUl, 
 'Hie lioly emblems feed upon, 
 
 His mandate to I'nlfil. 
 
 I'll ere, taking Jesus for your spouse. 
 
 Never again to roam, 
 Remaining liis till trump arouse, 
 
 To take you to your home.
 
 %\t spirit's Mlihpx, 
 
 A spirit whispers iu my ear, 
 
 It tells me I shall die, 
 No shadow it imparts of fear, 
 
 It calls not forth one sigh. 
 
 For what has earth to chain us here, — 
 
 Its joys so prone to cloy, 
 Its choicest homes are cold and drear, 
 
 Or yield some base alloy. 
 
 Its gaudy trappings biightly shine, 
 Yet, 'neath the surface scan, 
 
 Unhallowed dross and sin combine 
 Whate'er belongs to man. 
 
 The fleeting hours pass swiftly on, 
 
 Not one can we recall ; 
 Well or ill spent, when they are gone, 
 
 By them we stand or fall.
 
 32 
 
 And all the treasures earth can give 
 
 Have no intrinsic worth ; 
 Nor teaching how to die nor live, 
 
 Their seed brings nothing forth. 
 
 The spirit whispers, Leave them all, 
 
 Nor i^ause to think it j)ain, 
 A glorious rise the Christian's fall 
 
 To mother earth again. 
 
 The soul wmgs up aloft, to where 
 True joys ne'er fade or cloy ; 
 
 And every day that passes there 
 Has peace without alloy. 
 
 Then leave them all, the spirit cries. 
 
 Nor wish to linger here ; 
 Heaven opens when the Christian die!<- 
 
 He nothing has to fear. 
 
 He meets a God, and Saviour too, 
 To bend before their tlu'ouo ; 
 
 Salvation opens to his view — 
 He claims it for his own. 
 
 I''aitliful and good, all enter in 
 The home that God prepares, 
 
 For Jesus cleansed their souls iVom sin, 
 And made them heaven's heirs.
 
 (BSSM XL 
 
 On the great value of a Keligious Education, applied to its own use 
 in times of sickness and soitow ; the necessity of encouraging 
 a spiiit of contentment in adverse circumstances ; and constant 
 employment, next to Religion, the best mode of subduing sorrow, 
 and exchanging it for a spirit of resignation. 
 
 So many eminently gifted Clergymen have expatiated 
 on tlie necessity and value of a Religious life, that, 
 wanting their gi-eat learning, I almost feel myself incom 
 petent for the task I have undertaken. Yet having in 
 my own person endiu'ed an incalculable amount of 
 sickness, bodily affliction, and sorrow — having been for 
 many years a suiferer both mentally and physically — 
 an essay springing from such a school of adversity and 
 experience may have a salutary effect on the minds 
 of those who read it. If only one in eveiy ten of my 
 youthful readers imbibes a single sentiment of piety 
 from the perusal ; if only one in every ten imbibes one 
 rule by which to sustain their fortitude in the hoiu- 
 of sickness and trial ; if only one in every ten imbibes 
 a wish to emulate a spirit of cheerful resignation to
 
 34 
 
 the will of God, feeliug that such cheerfulness descends 
 from God, and illustrates a firm reliance on his love 
 and mercy, affording a certain portion of unmixed hap- 
 piness under every circumstance ; I shall indeed be 
 well paid for having toiled to win such hai-vest. And 
 oh ! should any thought I utter lose a portion of its 
 weight or import by beuig mingled with a feeling that 
 paitakes of self, forgive it for our frailty's sake, remem- 
 bering that God alone is perfectly possessed of power 
 to cast oif self, and tliiuk alone of others' benefit. In 
 writing this, I may at least be excused if I indulge 
 a hope that it will add an atom to my own heart's purity, 
 and render me more fit to tutor others. 
 
 In every day, in every hour of our lives, whether 
 secluded in the domestic cu'cle, walking abroad in the 
 streets, or admitted into the family cu-cle of others, we 
 may perceive innumerable circumstances to mark the 
 difference between a confident reliance on the justice 
 and mercy of God, a faithful belief in a sustaining 
 providence, a fearless pursuit of duty, unchecked by 
 groundless a^jprehensions of evil, firmly believing that 
 the aU-sustaining hand of God protects his children ; 
 contrasted with the ceaseless mm'mui'ings of a discon- 
 tented spirit, coupled witli irritability, unsettled pursuit, 
 inchstinct fears, vindictive contentions, and an uncha- 
 ritable want of neighbourly love. He or she must be 
 a poor observer indeed, that cannot perceive the dis- 
 comfoits and miseries ai'ising fi'om tlie latter ill-chosen
 
 85 
 
 state of things, aud the liappiness, or at least peaceful 
 couteutment, springiug from the better choice and 
 steady pursuit of the former. 
 
 After having keenly observed the great difference 
 between these two conditions of life, with a steady deter- 
 mination to maintain a sort of neutral position, until 
 the mind has fully taken in an estimate of the advan- 
 tages or disadvantages resulting from each, it is an easy 
 matter then to choose the good. But yet how difficult 
 to maintain the position chosen, unless endowed with 
 a vast amount of vigilance and pei'severence, — vigilance 
 to escape the contact of sinful example, and persevering 
 fortitude and dignity to remove from its baneful influ- 
 ence, before it can have time to subdue the mind by its 
 debasing qualities. 
 
 Example carries with it a force so superior to that 
 of precept, that it is almost a folly for any one to pre- 
 sent the latter without mingling the former witli it, 
 to strengthen and fix the colour of the precept, if it 
 be worth presenting. Happy, indeed, are those who 
 can stand by and view the world, and not drink deeply 
 of its follies. Not to diink at all is more than human 
 nature can accomplish. Even assisted by the gi-ace of 
 God, we fall far short of perfection, while tainted by 
 the temptations of our passage through this life. But 
 long before we can arrive at anything approaching this 
 perfection, our parents have much to do in personally 
 devoting themselves to, or otherwise providing efficient
 
 36 
 
 persons to, educate us religioush', and m such a manner 
 that we may feel the value of that education, and 
 proj)erly apply it in seasons of sickness and trial. 
 
 Oh what a blessing it is to possess such pai'ents, 
 who teach lis to know, and, to the utmost that our 
 frail perception will permit, to appreciate, the grandeur 
 and majesty of God, combined with his mercy, truth, 
 and justice ; who teach us the necessity of resignation 
 to his will. Happy, indeed, are those who possess 
 parents, who feel it their duty to provide insti'uctors 
 for their childi-en that fulfil then- duty both by teaching 
 and example ; and deeply to be deplored the fate of 
 those wlio are early rendered fatherless, thus deprived 
 of an indulgent parent and protector, such as mine. 
 
 Little child that I was when my father died, yet I 
 retained a perfect recoUection of his simplest words 
 and actions, during our last few interviews. I never 
 stood in his presence three whole minutes in my 
 life, that he did not open his arms for me to fly 
 into. This fond father I did love with such a deep, 
 devoted fervour, (aiising from his doating fondness for 
 mo in particular, thougli his sixteenth child,) that it 
 has never ceased to sway my iniiul during tlie long 
 period thiit T have travelled in the world, alone and 
 fatherless. So deeply rooted was this love within my 
 heart ami mind, tliat it has been a guiding star to 
 me through life, to lift my spirit up to heaven, beUcving 
 liim to have ascended there before me. His love and 
 approbation were the best loved luxuries of my child-
 
 37 
 
 hood, and for uothiug have I ever yearned more ardently 
 than to become a partaker of the same beatitude in 
 eternity. To doubt his presence near the throne of God, 
 when moi'tals are appointed to be there in immortality, 
 would be to doubt God's mercy and his justice ; there- 
 fore, in longing to be stationed near my earthly father, I 
 do crave a seat near God. Assuredly I think and feel 
 and know that he is near to God, and God with him. 
 Ah, fathers, think what bliss and comfort would be 
 infused into yoiu" own hearts, if you could feel assured 
 and say of eveiy child you have. My child feels and 
 thinks the same of me. And ask yourselves, Is this not 
 worth a sti'uggle to obtaiu ? Would not life's last 
 moment, when the Almighty recalls you to your native 
 dust, be soothed into peace and pleasantness, even 
 though accompanied by the pang of death in all its 
 bitterest anguish ? If you could feel that your benignity, 
 and virtue, and your noble deeds, had so endeared you 
 to your children, that they felt prouder of you than of 
 bu-th, distinctions, or descent, however coupled with 
 greatness — prouder of you than wealth, rank, fame, or 
 honour, and anxious only to attain yoiu: own rank in 
 eternity. What a plaudit for a father! Can any other 
 earthly plaudit equal it ? 
 
 Well, then, reflect on the advantages that must 
 descend upon yourselves, if you become the objects of 
 such love. Thus, in the respect and filial obedience of 
 your children,— the peace and tranquillity of your home, 
 the consequent domestic joy and comfort, the smiluig 
 
 1
 
 88 
 
 cbeerfiUness of happy faces that will then surround 
 you, — fathers, let me then implore, advise, and influence 
 you so to act, that such reviving, stimulating, glorious 
 blessings may descend on you, and prepare the way 
 of you and yom's for brighter, better, and more per- 
 manent felicity, enduring to the end of time. Eternity, 
 that fearfully immeasurable word, is too profound foi- 
 me to dare expound it. Oh for a pen that could sur- 
 round itself with a spirit so insinuating, so influentiid, 
 that it should enter imperceived into your hearts, -plaj 
 havoc with them, and cut up eacli tibre not disposed 
 to clasp your chilch-en with parental love of such an 
 earnest, gentle force, that though not more than a hair's 
 diameter, the band should be too strong to snap 
 asunder by any evil force applied to it. Yoiu" love, 
 thus pressed around them, would tcacli them all to feel 
 as I do, while reflecting on my father's love and 
 virtuous actions ; though he has been so long trans- 
 ferred into eternity's immeasurable sjjace, this love and 
 recollection cannot fall away from me. 
 
 In every momentous decision of my life, I have ever 
 prayed to God that he woidd permit my fatlior's spirit 
 to come down to guide his child; and when a tranquil 
 feeling came upon my heart, I thought my prayer was 
 answered, and rejoiced to think it possible that he was 
 nigh. This thought has ever made me act witli more con- 
 sistency and honour, reflecting tliat if God had granted 
 my desire, liis spirit would be wounded by a failure in 
 his child. All instances wherein I have neglected to
 
 39 
 
 obey this rule of action have given me cause to mourn 
 the deviation, for I did lose by it my guiding star, 
 and wandered from my way. To cast an eye to heaven, 
 and, deeply probing with my soul's eye through its 
 azure covering, suppose it possible that I behold my 
 father's eye affectionately stooping o'er my head, impul- 
 sively implants within my mind a spirit to do well — 
 I coidd not act unworthily, and think he saw the deed. 
 I love to wander in imagination o'er ethereal space, 
 and people it with spnits that reveal to me some new 
 idea of the realms above; and then I single out one 
 fixed and brilliant spangle of the firmament, believing 
 it can possibly contain my father's eye, which beams 
 upon me with angelic lustre, emitting a most brilliant 
 light, to guide me in the valley here below, and keep 
 my footsteps from unholy paths, directing me to travel 
 only where pure pilgrims to the shrine of virtue can 
 be seen. In such fancy flights of the imagination, 
 sometimes my best resolves are made, and cooler reason 
 seldom finds them inefiicient to promote my happiness, 
 which ever flows from conduct regulated by what I 
 think woidd have turned my father's eye expressing 
 proud approval on his child. Happy would it be for 
 all, if fathers always could convey such feelings to their 
 children; I could not do a wi-ong, and think the while 
 upon my father — the thought that it would gi-ieve his 
 spirit would prevent the deed. 
 
 Therefore, if the supposition that the eye of a 
 deceased father might look down from heaven upon
 
 40 
 
 his child, residing on this inferior planet, could have 
 such a guiding influence upon my actions, soothing 
 petulance, restraining frowardness, inciting me to nobler 
 deeds than my own frail natui-e prompted, and infusing 
 a desire to see his smile of approbation as the first 
 step to self approval; how much more keenly should 
 we feel the eye of God bent down upon us, taught as we 
 are, or ought to be, by all we see, and feel, and hear, and 
 know, and read in God's own word, the Scriptures, that 
 all our actions are minutely and accurately, both iu 
 thought and deed, spread open to his view. How much 
 more should we di-ead the flash of anger from God's eye. 
 How much more anxiously and strenuously should we 
 endeavour to win tlie smile of approbation from Him, the 
 strengthening, consoluig, and encouraging radiance of 
 whose smile will be infused into the hearts of all who 
 feel conscious that they act according to the laws con- 
 veyed to us in his most holy word, at the same time 
 that they feel unworthy of the daily blessings showered 
 upon them by His sustaining and munificent hand. 
 Adore ye Him, and Jesus for the whole. 
 
 How necessary, then, for fathers to reflect upon, and 
 evenly perform, tlioir duty to their children — inculcating 
 pure love of God, a knowledge of ourselves, and deep 
 reflection previous to action. We should always reflect 
 before we act, and constantly keep up a clear conscious- 
 ness of all our liiddcn motives, and tlie alterations 
 that continually take place in our minds; not judging 
 from externals onlv. but tlic iutornul evidences that nnist
 
 41 
 
 present themselves, and naturally take deep root dming 
 our intercourse with the world. We should never decide 
 upon anything without strictly trying our thoughts, 
 opinions, and motives by the laws of truth ; never judg- 
 ing another, deciduig for oui'selves, making choice of 
 good or evn, or in any way acting, without duly con- 
 sidering and asking ourselves, Shall I act in conformity 
 to the laws of God and man, by performing what my 
 own judgment has decided is correct ? By heedlessness, 
 and a want of the reflection that I suggest as proper, 
 we incur the want of self-knowledge and self-conscious- 
 ness, forgetting that to these wants may be imputed 
 nearly all our ti-ansgressions, as well as our sufferings 
 and distresses. How necessary, then, to reflect upon 
 ourselves, om- facilities, and our appointments; atten- 
 tively scrutinising the process of our ideas, compai-ing 
 them with what we are taught by experience, reason, 
 holy writ, and every thing in nature that proclaims 
 aloud a God, to punish and reward, according to his 
 promises, om* crimes or om- obedience, our failure or 
 our victory. The goblet of joy and the chalice of soitow 
 are alike presented by the Almighty hand to each and 
 every individual that is born upon the earth; but, by 
 heedlessness and want of reflection, ah ! too many drink 
 too deeply of the latter, while they only occasionally 
 sip the former, imrefi-eshed by its reviving influence. 
 Because, having too hastily exercised the will that God 
 has given to all his creatures, by unreflectingly choos- 
 ing evU, instead of good, they are compelled to 
 
 -4-
 
 43 
 
 eudure the cousequent evils invisible and attendant ou 
 theii' choice — invisible, because the designs and ordina- 
 tions of the Almighty are wisely hidden from us, and 
 we cannot escape tlie results that follow from our good 
 or evil choice. How necessaiy, then, to reflect seriously 
 before we make our choice, lest, by our carelessness, we 
 should become entangled in the snares of sin, when 
 reflection, perhaps, would have ojjened to oiu- view the 
 higher road to virtue. 
 
 By thus reflecting, we take reason for oiu* guide, — 
 the brightest gift that our Creator has bestowed on 
 us. When he fashioned us, and assigned our pro- 
 perties and instincts, having finished the lineaments 
 of our body, he placed therein a mind, to guide and 
 elevate it, with certain valuable precepts, such as chaS' 
 tity, temperance, love, holy fear, charity, truth, and the 
 pursuance of that which is good and benevolent to oui- 
 fellow-creatures. Add to this, a firm determination to 
 be just. By these rules we may be able to bridle our 
 passions, and observe the precepts of God. Ho having 
 endowed us with a mind by which we possess the 
 powers of reason, this inestimable blessing should 
 become the guide of all our actions; and if we cul- 
 tivate it to tiie acquisition of wisdom, it teaches us 
 to detest vice and love vu-tue, corrects our passions, 
 encourages our hopes, teaches us to suffer, and supports 
 us in our suflbrings. When pleasure's path presents 
 itself to view, this wisdom teaches us to subdue our 
 desires, and abslnin frnni its nllurements. Unless the
 
 43 
 
 path is lighted up by virtue, human frailty will ever 
 make us all desire to tread the path of joy; but it is 
 reason by which the mind is taught to shun, deny, 
 and overcome itself in objects of delight and pleasure. 
 Setting aside all vanities, it will not for a little enjoy- 
 ment forget its accustomed love of that which is good 
 and holy, but, like a skilful husbandman, prune and 
 cut away all superfluous branches, to kill the heat of 
 corrupt and baneful humours, leaving only that which 
 is pure and unadulterated by coiTupt and poisonous 
 atmospheres, and may in some way be profitable both 
 to soul and body. Some may ask, why so many wicked 
 actions are continually perpetrated, if reason can so 
 entirely rule our passions. It can : but frailty and 
 allurements interfere. 
 
 It would be ridiculous to suppose that reason has such 
 a perfect dominion over us as entirely to neutralise 
 the counteracting evil of our natnre. Reason's influ- 
 ence or precepts cannot prevent the appetite from feeling 
 desire. It can only correct it, by gaining such a sway 
 that it shaU suffer the loss or abstinence from the things 
 desired with fortitude and patience. To take an exam- 
 ple: Eeason seldom hinders us from desiring the pos- 
 session of riches, comforts, luxuries, and freedom from 
 the toils of life ; but it can work so faithfully as to 
 prevent us trying to obtain these things by any mean 
 or unlawful process. Reason cannot prevent the feel- 
 ing of anger, but it can regulate our actions while 
 under its influence, so far as to prevent us committing
 
 44 
 
 any act of violence or impiety, and teach us only to 
 be angry with much cause. Reason prevents us not 
 from desiring sinful pleasure, but it teaches us not to 
 yield to the desire. By the power of reason we learn 
 abstinence from every flagi-ant vice. Reason, therefore, 
 does not entirely eradicate all vicious inclinations; it 
 only teaches us to constrahi and bridle them. By reason 
 we are taught to despise money, except for oui- neces- 
 sities. By reason we are told to cai-e but little for 
 honoiu-s, dignities, and gi-andeur, which we must neces- 
 sarily enjoy but for a while down here, and then we 
 leave them all beliiud. Yet all men so generally aim 
 at them, that it is only by reason's gift we can resist 
 the things that are unworthy of a perfect and immortal 
 soul. Hence comes it, that having once overcome 
 the things that flesh delights in, we fi-aU mortals can 
 feel able to despise the vanity of being as zealous for 
 the fortune, distinctions, and benefits of this uncertain 
 life as for those which are more firm and durable, tluis 
 fixing our eyes on tilings eternal. 
 
 Most certain it is, that objects present to our view 
 more easily affect the understanding than objects more 
 remote. We naturally allow more credit to the evidence 
 of our senses, though deceitful, than to the reflections 
 of om* mind. Nothing is more easy tlian to allow our- 
 selves to be captivated l>y tilings which are presented 
 before our eyes ; whereas it requires great argument 
 and reasoning to enable us to comprehend things that 
 aie future and invisible. And yet the eye of the soul
 
 45 
 
 is as acute and quick as the eyes of the body ; but some 
 people dazzle it by the intemperance of their imagi- 
 nation, and others by the stupidity of then- understand- 
 ings. The last is the gi-eater fault of the two, for such 
 evidence is given throughout this world of our Creator's 
 love and power, that we must indeed stupify our minds 
 if we can view it all, and not feel prone to love and 
 worship in return for His beneficence. If we can view 
 ourselves, and believe that we are formed by one who 
 is capable of anything that is not good and merciful, 
 the wonderful mechanism both of mind and body, and 
 the adaptedness of every part for the enjoyment of 
 life — if we live in purity — may and should serve to 
 convince us of His great love, and teach us the more 
 ai-dently to love our gi-eat Creator. In imbibing this 
 pure and holy love, the mind is irradiated and made 
 healthful, with the pm-est atmosphere of light, trans- 
 parency, and beauty. What though a darker cloud 
 may sometimes intervene, diminisliing the brightness 
 of its azure tints, it is soon swept away by the balmy 
 influence of devotion. That cloud no longer dims the 
 glory of its lustre, or makes less the beauty of the 
 picture, but leaves it lovelier than before, dilating into 
 magnitude, while the heart delights to dweU on His 
 perfections, and invoke His aid. The next love to 
 imbibe is that which God enjoins us to om- neighbour. 
 To love our neighbour as ourselves, is imposed on us 
 by God, to soften the rigidity of our temper, to assuage 
 the violence of our desu-e for battle and contentious
 
 46 
 
 argument, to teach us mercy and benevolence — the 
 sweetest sweeteners of the bitter draught of life. It 
 inspires us with the most refined sentiments and exalted 
 views ; thus giving elevation of mind, it annihilates 
 every vice, improves and strengthens every virtue, and 
 renders those who practise it in all its branches more 
 worthy to be called the children of God. 
 
 Much, indeed the entire, happiness of human life 
 depends upon whether we seek our felicity in the career 
 of wisdom and virtue, or on the road to levity and sin ; 
 on whether we dedicate ourselves to God and Jesus 
 Chi-ist, or whether wo allow our passions to control us, 
 and become the servants of sin, in despite of the brighter 
 path presented to our view. If we only use the evidenoe 
 cf our senses, we may at once discover how much more 
 of happiness belongs to those wlio have faith and con- 
 fidence in God, and walk in his ways. What cheer- 
 fulness it imparts to tlie features, words, and actions, 
 even while transacting the ordinary atlairs, of life ! 
 There should be little difficulty in making our choice, 
 so clearly sliewn as we are, on all sides, that we must 
 j)erceive and feel it, that sin or fraud degi-ade, enfeeble, 
 and enslave, that they must soon or late plunge us into 
 misery ; wliile, on the contrary, if we attain wisdom 
 and virtue, the true end of oiu- being, we become calm, 
 contented, happy, and resigned. When evils come upon 
 us unexpectedly, it is then we feel the value of wisdom 
 and virtue, tlic traest somxes of religion. When life 
 declines, how refreshing to the soul is a retrospective
 
 47 
 
 view of every good and pious action in ourselves ; how 
 prominent and beautiful are those days wherein we 
 feel that we obtained a victory over the allurements 
 of pleasure, or any temptation of the world. When with 
 a willing heart we offered a sacrifice to God and virtue ; 
 when fi-om pure and generous neighbour-love we pro- 
 moted human happiness, or drove away by timely suc- 
 cour human misery; how bright these days will shine 
 among the rest ! How much more solid sustenance 
 will they produce in time of harvest ! And when the 
 reaper comes, how happy if none of them are deemed 
 fit only to be trodden down ; how happy if none of 
 them degTade and accuse us before the Judge of the 
 world! And when our sun is almost set, and the infii'- 
 mities of age come on, if we preserve a cordial interest 
 in the affau-s and wellbeing of our fellow -creatm-es, 
 omitting nothing that can prove our anxiety persua- 
 sively to rectify their morals ; if we continue easy and 
 agreeable in our spiiits, genial and serene in our 
 wisdom, imp)arting our knowledge to others, not as a 
 task, but as a pleasing pastime, avoiding everything 
 that is morose or sullen in our virtue, accompanying all 
 our actions by cheerfulness, vivacity, and truth, feeling 
 neither anxious for, nor ashamed of, life, nor yet afraid 
 to die, but willing to be gone when God holds out his 
 hand, how much good may we do, how much vice and 
 misery may we prevent, by our experience, instruction, 
 and example — nay, even by our presence alone. 
 
 How eagerly then the young will flock around us, and
 
 48 
 
 eveu those of riper years, that they may learii some useful 
 lesson, and perhaps, by our instruction, learn the way to 
 live, and, better still, as little fear to die. Oh ! may my 
 own Life's taper thus emit a cheering radiance, and leave 
 some shining traces of its influence behind, on young 
 minds who have loved me formerly, in times of cheerful 
 intercourse and amity. They may, perhaps, peruse my 
 writings; then let them, smiling sweetly on them, take 
 their precepts up, to shew how well they look in action, 
 and think benignly of me, when my taper's light is 
 out — extinguished by the hand of death. 
 
 But, when old age comes on, how carefully we all 
 should guard against its frailties and infirmities. In doing 
 this we have to shun all apathy of feeling, selfishness, dis- 
 trust, austerity, censoriousness, a churlish and unsocial 
 disposition, impatience or despondency, and peevish mur- 
 murings as touching God's decrees or mankind's want of 
 gi'atitude. We have to slum capricious eludings of 
 our servants and attendants, while performing, jx'rliajjs, 
 some tedious duty which our feebleness imposes. 
 
 And let us graciously receive a stranger's or a friend's 
 attentions, requiting them with gi-atitude and love, care- 
 fully avoiding mistrust or jealousy, the path of all most 
 difficult to shun, and most obnoxious to the spirit which 
 should make us render religion and Christianity ros2)ect- 
 able, and endear us, by our calm and amiable deport- 
 ment, to the wise and good — to every one, indeed, that 
 is not jealous of the kindly feeling towards us, or debased 
 by sin But, woe to ns, it is too frequently tlio case
 
 49 
 
 that we confound old age with infancy, and are as 
 imprudent at sixty as at sixteen. For what can be more 
 imprudent than to look upon the fickle fortunes of this 
 life as the greatest good to be obtained, instead of fixing 
 the mind incessantly on that which is to come hereafter, 
 learning alike to feel calm under our allotment both of 
 pains and pleasures, resolving, by degrees, to sufier 
 patiently all things that the Almighty deems fit to 
 impose upon vis, appealing to our reason to regulate 
 our passions and pursuits, and disposing us to suffer 
 all things cheerfully. 
 
 If reason and the inferior powers work at variance, 
 let all restrain and subject those inferior powers unto the 
 laws of reason, if they would wish for victory. With 
 reason for our guide, we may be safely directed neither 
 to yield nor sink luider the chequered vicissitudes of life 
 and the tempestuous storms of vanity, alike allotted both 
 to young and old, and to think lightly of the fickle and 
 contrary winds of fame — to smile upon oppression, 
 tyi'anny, and strife, peacefully and steadily resistuig 
 them, keeping the spirit soimd, firm, and unbroken, 
 until safely anchored in the haven of salvation. For as 
 the toj) of a high rock stands firm, unshaken and sublime 
 in its own loftiness, resisting the waves that roughly 
 dash against its fi'ont without having power to damage 
 or deface it ; even so do the rocks of religion and reason, 
 firmly grafted in our minds, beat back the boisterous 
 waves of sin and folly that dash against the body, not 
 permitting them to break in and pierce the divine, celes- 
 
 5
 
 50 
 
 tial power and influence of the soul. SuiTounded always 
 by the barrier of Keligion, who or what shall make a 
 breach, or enter in to desecrate and spoil it? 
 
 Having said thus much upon religion, it will be 
 necessary now to turn my pen, and pourtray its immea 
 surable value if applied to its own use in times of 
 sickness, trial, and afHiction, when hastily struck down 
 or rendered feeble by disease, while groaning under 
 pains inflicted by tlie hand of God for some wise end, 
 to be achieved for our own or the general good. How 
 consoling it is, if we can feel that we have lived in 
 such a way that, should it please the Lord to take us 
 hence, we need not fear to see his face, but confidently 
 hope to see it beam with smiles upon us — such smfles ! 
 so glorious, that we cannot conceive of anytliing created, 
 on the earth or in the firmament, nor sun, nor moon, 
 nor stars, nor anything containing but the millionth part 
 of lusti-e so transcendent; and yet, our nature changed 
 for heaven, Ave may not be so dazzled by the sight but 
 it shall give us liappiuess, not earthly but celestial. 
 
 Having passed from this into another sphere, our 
 natm-e changes into perfect, everlasting good, or ever- 
 lasting evfl; and if, in sickness, we can feel that God 
 looks down and smiles upon our cheerful resignation, 
 how many pangs are lessened by tliis sweet impression ? 
 It helps us to prepai'e for what may next befall, assures 
 us we shall find a remedy, or smoothly pass into another 
 world, resigning this, perchance, with fond regret, yet 
 strong reliance on tlic wisdom that demands our exit.
 
 51 
 
 But shoxild it be Ms high behest that we should 
 live even in a state of suffering, how cheering is 
 religion's influence ! It checks imjmtience, dries our 
 tears, suppresses munoiurings and strife, bedews our 
 pillow with the tear of penitence for eveiy little tres- 
 pass or omission to do good, expends our sighs in 
 prayers for the amendment of our lives; and God 
 receives the offering, if we faithfully believe in the 
 atonement that he gave for them. And when we 
 feel a disposition to repine, if we call religion to om* 
 aid, it teaches us to estimate our blessings, placing 
 them in contrast with our sufferings and misfortunes. 
 
 How seldom do we find our evils make the 
 greater number. I found this exercise a wonderful 
 help to me in sickness, to take my pen, compute 
 my blessings, place them in an-ay before my pains, 
 son-ows, or misfortunes; and then, comparing all 
 with the lot of those mortals whom 1 knew to be 
 less favoured than myself, I always found that I had 
 much cause for thankfulness. My blessings far the 
 greater number, even when my frame was racked with 
 anguish, my heart dissolved with sorrow for the 
 death of fondly-cherished friends, my anger roused 
 with unjust treatment, or my fortune rendered poor 
 by loss. StiU the whole was not so bad as the lot 
 of others I could see abroad; and I did feel that I 
 ought to bow in thanklulness to God for what I had 
 of good, and murmur not because it was mixed with 
 evil. Then, having once determined to bear my lot
 
 52 
 
 with imtience and contentment, the anguish of my 
 sufferings abated, my resokition and constancy was 
 confirmed — for those only are overcome with pain 
 whom wisdom has not armed with patience, or taught 
 to flee to God alone for succour. 
 
 The wise man preconsiders the distresses that may 
 naturally befall him, preparing himself for their arrival, 
 and feels neither surprised nor dismayed, having 
 expected them ; wliilo he who thoughtlessly prepares 
 not for the future often becomes the victim of his 
 own neglect, and sinks beneath the pressure of calamity, 
 without the power to renovate his hopes or subdue 
 his sorrows. How necessary then to take Religion 
 for our solace, and best foundation for contentment, 
 regarding neither persecution, ridicule, the disappoint- 
 ments of this lickle and uneven world of worms, 
 and nature's revolutions, nor yet the apparent (to 
 our weak vision,) or supposed uuevenness of the 
 Almighty's dispensations. How vain it is to persecute 
 Religion, for when it is felt in its full purity, the 
 more oi^pression it receives, the more it prospers, 
 spreads, and sinks into the heart still deeper and deeper. 
 Genuine, unaffected religion is seldom fully estabhshed 
 till it has undergone the fiery ordeal of affliction 
 and trial. It is only after coming from the fur- 
 nace that it attains its highest attributes — unshaken 
 constancy, and high resolve to practise it and hold 
 it unto death. 
 
 Hat wjiilc tlijit silent, slow, iin('on(iuerable tyrant
 
 53 
 
 softly creeps aud steals upon us unawares, and takes 
 sure aim before he throws his dart, how eagerly 
 should we prepare for his approach, that we may 
 smile upon him when he comes, and steal the poison 
 from his dart, converting it to manna by the meek 
 placidity of our retiring. I know not anything that 
 renders death's sti'ong barb so pointless, as the con- 
 ciousness of having lived as free fi'oni sin as human 
 fraUty will permit — as full of faith as a righteous 
 belief can make us. 
 
 But, if ordained by God to linger on in lengthened 
 sickness, then reflection, and employments that require 
 contrivance, best remove despondency and discontent. 
 I have invariably found that, even under cii'cumstances 
 of exti'eme suffering and trial, I could alleviate my pains, 
 and call up a spirit of love and resignation to the will of 
 God, either by gi-adually leading, or even forcing, my 
 mind to deep reflection, dwelhng closely and particularly 
 on tlie divine power and justice of the creator, pre- 
 server, and father of my life — regarding the infliction of 
 his hand as a dispensation arising from his infinite 
 wisdom, that thought fit to use me for the accomplish- 
 ment of some good design, in which I was required 
 as an instrument to carry it to a conclusion, and for 
 the suffering of which infliction he would in some 
 other way give compensation at his own good time, 
 this compensation perhaps imperceptible to weak, 
 human vision, but yet most certainly awarded. 
 
 .Already, before we enter into life, our destinies are 
 
 -5-
 
 54 
 
 ajjpoiated, the term of our sojourn ou earth marked 
 out ; and this term we canuot pass, nor can we alter 
 the length of any stage of our existence, or know 
 what we may or may not achieve, until each time 
 arrives in which we are permitted to choose our good 
 or evil course, and act according to our choice. But 
 much of our conduct, independently of external influ- 
 ences, and all our earthly happiness and prosperity, 
 depend ui)on our disposition for good and evil, and 
 the manner in which we apply the various benefits 
 or evils allotted to our share. 
 
 How happy those who have fought the good fight 
 which shall force a passage into better life, and, step by 
 step, advance them to felicity eternal; and how consol- 
 ing, when subdued by sickness or sorrow, if we can look 
 back upon our almost finished career, and feel conscious 
 that we have been properly thankful for the many 
 instances of grace, goodness, and parental tenderness 
 displayed by our heavenly father, while conducting us 
 from our earliest infancy to the time being. From how 
 many dangers and distresses docs ho deliver us, from 
 liow many sins and iniquities does he preserve us, if we 
 only appeal fervently to him for aid, while endeavour- 
 ing to adhere to his precepts. The mere circumstance 
 of doing tliis augments our felicity, and conveys a calm 
 to our souls even endless, steady, cheerful, and confiding; 
 for knowing and feeling that God is nigh, and present 
 for the help of those who call upon his name with all 
 the soul's sincerity, affords suflScient consolation in tlte
 
 55 
 
 liours of trial, bitterest woe, deprivation, or siekuess, 
 infusing a contented spirit of so firm a character, that 
 nought can rake it up or shake its roots asunder; and 
 any branch that shoots fi'om out this solid trunk must 
 carry in its centre a sap containing virtuous essence ; for 
 evil cannot spring li-om good, though good can often 
 overcome an evil. 
 
 Those who feel a spuit of contentment never miu*- 
 nmr at inevitable evils, but cheerfully and patiently 
 resign themselves to the endurance, assured that they 
 are guided by undeviating wisdom. AflSictions are, 
 and always must be, inevitable, in such a world as 
 this, where all is subject to inconstancy and change, 
 to desolation and to death. The powers of man- 
 kind are so limited, so liable to error, misconcep- 
 tion, and mistake, dependent on so many external 
 cii'cumstauces — then pursuits, inclinations, passions, 
 interests, and schemes so frequently cross and oppose 
 each other — their necessities, fates, and fortunes are so 
 intimately blended and connected, that nothing can 
 befall a single individual without the event in some 
 degree affecting others, either more or less, and becoming 
 a sort of inevitable necessity to which one or another 
 must submit. Afflictions are likewise a means of spiritual 
 discipline and improvement; and this alone should give 
 them a value in our eyes for the sake of their purifying 
 influence. Again, they frequently act as a friendly 
 monitor, and rouse us from the dangerous slumber 
 of false security and indolence — dangerous to our soul's
 
 56 
 
 eternal welfare — consequently an apathetic state of mind 
 is much to be di'eadecl, lest it should act for our condem- 
 nation hereafter. Affliction instructs and strengthens 
 our understanding, teaching us to form a just estimate of 
 things in general, moderating our confidence in, and 
 dependence on, what is eartldy and visible. It elevates, 
 refines, and pmifies our sentiments, gives a better dkec- 
 tion to our feelings and inchnations, and renders us more 
 attentive to our sujierior destination and appointment : 
 forbidding us to look on earth for our felicities, it bids 
 us look for more valuable and permanent possessions, 
 more refined and intellectual delights, more spiiitual 
 perfection; and, more than this, it disciplines us in 
 obedience to the will of God, teaches us self-control, 
 and lenity to those who want this governing power. It 
 plants upon om* hearts forbearance, fortitude, and 
 patience. Yes, and more than all tliis, afflictions ai-e 
 the road to completion — to the utmost hmits of jierfec- 
 tion that mortals can achieve ; they helj) to cleanse 
 our sins and hidden faults; they challenge and provoke 
 us to resplendent and heroic vii'tues, and to extraordi- 
 nary deeds of christian heroism ; they bless and sanctify 
 our gi-eat achievements. Therefore, it is good to be 
 afllicted ; and all tlie eminently wise and good have trod 
 affliction's thorny path. God's own elect have trod the 
 same; and all wlio have explored its tortuous windings, 
 if tlioy love the hand tbat guides them tln'ough, 
 acknowledge il to be the safest, most du-ect, and 
 crrtiiin mad to jiorfect pxcellenoe — a road which is
 
 57 
 
 marked by the footsteps of Jesus, our Captaiu, our Fore- 
 runner, our Guide, Companion, Fellow-suiferer, Sympa- 
 thising Friend, Protector, Saviour, Prince, and Kuler, 
 who travelled by this road until he entered into sovereign 
 glory. Shame, then, on us, if we complain that we are 
 doomed to travel in tliis honourable path, replete with 
 everything to recommend it, and to give us confidence 
 and courage on our way, affiance in our God, and obedi- 
 ence to his will, without a wish to escape his power, 
 or shrink from the benevolence, fraternal love, and con- 
 scientious dealings enjoined by his commands. 
 
 To our heavenly Prince and Euler we are beholden 
 for not needing to fear death as the termination of 
 our existence, but are permitted to look upon it as 
 the passage into a better life. What a sublime aspect 
 does this reflection give to death; in the eyes of his 
 votaries, Jesus is to them a messenger of peace, who 
 calls them from labour to rest, from the conflicts 
 and perplexities of this embittered world, to the enjoy- 
 ment of victory over sin and death. He calls them 
 from a toilsome and dangerous pilgrimage to their 
 native soil. 
 
 If death were the total extinction and annihila 
 tion of our being, the instant of its ai'rival would 
 be to us a scene of terror and dismay, for I think 
 it would be impossible to hud any one living that 
 does not prefer existence to non-existence, that does 
 not pant after everlasting life, and would wish to con- 
 tinue here if debarred tbe hope of an hereafter. T5ut this
 
 58 
 
 lamentable state of things none need dread, for both 
 reason and scrii^tui'e authentically certify us of the 
 contrai7 ; but more especially the divine and soul- 
 sustaining doctrine of Christianity, that proclaims to 
 us the immortality, the life eternal, of our souls. 
 This doctrine deprives death of its sting, and the 
 grave of its hon-ors ; converts our fearful anticipa- 
 tions into joyful hopes, and our boldest hopes into 
 confident expectations. 
 
 How happy then to be a Christian. The near 
 approach of death to the unreforined man, to the 
 drunkard, to the obstinate sirmer, \vhom no divine or 
 social law controls, to the slave of sensual jjassions, 
 to the man who prefers his money to his God, and 
 loves bis neighbour only for the sake of any earthly 
 advantages he may derive from liim, must be terrible 
 indeed. What tormenting expectations must peqjlex 
 his soul, what fearful anticipations of the drear abode 
 to which his reason may perhaps tell liim he will 
 be consigned. Death calls the unrepentant sinner to 
 a tribunal so unerring in its truth mid justice, that 
 he has not even the shadow of an appeal against its 
 judgment. How will he then sustain himself? Oh, it is 
 terrible to tliink of Death takes him from every luxury 
 that soothed his faulty, sinful life, and gave a /est 
 to his corrupt enjoyments; fi'om all that constitutes 
 his false, mistaken happiness ; from all whom he thinks 
 well-tried friends, the aiders and abettors of his ever- 
 lasting condemnation ; from all the sensual joys that
 
 59 
 
 formed his life of pleasure, and iixfused the poisou 
 that creeps through his veins, and slowly, step by step, 
 sells him to Satan. From him Death ravishes by 
 one fell stroke all that he ever valued and loved, 
 admu-ed, or wished to emulate, all that ever soothed, 
 comforted, rejoiced, or deUghted him, all wherein 
 he sought his happiness, only to find the specious, 
 delusive, and trepanning snares, that such men call 
 delicious. Why? Because theii- vitiated palate and 
 percejjtion find not out the poison in their sweet- 
 ness, nor, while their madness lasts, observe that they 
 but beckon to perdition, and convey them to a trial 
 that menaces with condign punishment. Oh, how much 
 more happy the Christian ; how happy that he is not 
 of this wretched class. How deeply grateful should 
 he feel to God, for having kept him from the appal- 
 ling course of sin ; or for having reclaimed him from 
 its ways, conducting him to paths of wisdom, peace, 
 and virtue, and yet, amidst temptations, teaching him 
 to shun the evil way, and keep from love of things 
 that perish, for being always happy, and becoming 
 every day more perfect, if he keeps firm his faith. 
 The Christian need neither be rich, gi'eat, nor power- 
 fid — neither learned, famous, nor popular, nor yet 
 fare sumptuously every day — he needs neither earthly 
 treasm'es, nor honours, except for the benefit of his 
 brethren and those he loves. No, his happiness 
 arises from the following sources : — peace within, and 
 outward strife alone while i-eproving sin, (for sinners
 
 60 
 
 strive against the good.) The Christian possesses a 
 tranquil mind — a heart that loves God and man — 
 that loves wisdom, virtue, temperance, and a practical 
 promotion of the moral interests of all mankind. 
 He has a soul that exults in all that is beautiful, 
 sublime, and good, wherever and with whomsoever it 
 may be found ; and forms a just estimate of the things 
 of this world — a spirit that can soar above this 
 present and visible scene, commune with God, and 
 take a mind's-eye view of the immeasurable realms 
 above, to feel their incalculable wonders, and adore 
 their origin ; and thougli enveloped in mystery, he feels 
 no desire to possess more knowledge than God per- 
 mits to mortals, but after this life, according to His 
 promises to tliose who act the Christian part, confi- 
 dently expects a better life. 
 
 These various sources form the Christian's happi- 
 ness, and this he can enjoy in every station, in every 
 rank, in every abode, from the palace to the dun- 
 geon — in abasement as well as in elevation — in the 
 cottage as easily as in tlio palace: in any and all 
 of these, the Christian feai'S not death, but wends 
 his way in as much peaceful content as human nature 
 can attain. The Christian alone is capable of feeling 
 it to the full extent ; and no duty is more urgently 
 imposed upon us than the necessity of maintaining 
 this spirit of contentment, under all circumstances, 
 whether adverse or genial to our own wishes. 
 
 And now I come to the liist jinvtion of my essay —
 
 61 
 
 constant employment, next to religion, the best mode 
 of subduing sorrow, and exchanging it for a spirit of 
 resignation. 
 
 In recommending constant employment as the best 
 mode, next to religion, to subdue soitow, and exchange 
 its tone and character for a feeling much more pleasing 
 in the eye of God, and more in accordance with the 
 bright example given by our Saviour while sojourning 
 on earth, whereon he said, " Not my will but thine be 
 be done," I do not mean to recommend mere bodily 
 exertion, though that is always advisable, even among 
 the most wealthy, in a sufficient degi-ee to promote 
 health. I mean a constant exercise of the moral and 
 intellectual faculties, distinct from mere mechanical 
 pursuits, which can be executed without the mind being 
 occupied in close observance and direction of them. 
 Let the mind be exercised in planning schemes for the 
 benefit of our fellow-creatures, and, when opportimity 
 arrives, the body exercised in forwarding and completing 
 them, desiring nothing in reward but our own con- 
 sciousness of obeying the Almighty; and thus doing 
 well, regardless of the praise of man, unchecked by the 
 want of gratitude or the unworthiness of mankind. If 
 they refuse our benefits, the blame is not our own, if we 
 esteem them as our brethi-en, and labour to give honour 
 due unto the spring from which the whole creation rose. 
 To subdue the love of dwelling upon sorrow, so natural 
 to the reflective, melancholy, and affectionate spirit, I 
 would recommend that tlie mind should be employed 
 
 6
 
 62 
 
 with works that require coutrivance, or a theory to try 
 experiments and work upon, that needs a close inspection 
 and attention to prevent entanglement, making use of 
 cool reason and judgment, to direct the whole. 
 
 Sorrow naturally yields to reason, consequently, the 
 reasoning mind displays the largest stock of fortitude; 
 in every cii-cumstance that calls forth sorrow, the heart 
 is much relieved if we reason upon all we do, and ask 
 ourselves if it be right, if it will benefit oui'selves or 
 fellow- workers in this scene of changeful circumstance. 
 
 I ever found this a most beneficial exercise, when I 
 was stretched, throughout a period of seven long years of 
 suffering, ujion a reclining couch, debarred the use of 
 my limbs, or the privilege to turn on either side, the 
 inflammation of the spinal sheath requiring artificial 
 operations and inflictions to prevent the inflammation's 
 progress to the brain. Tliis was so horrible to my 
 apprehension, that I implored unceasingly of God, for 
 freedom from such a dreadful increase of afiiiction; I 
 felt that wliile my reason held full sway, I could witli 
 fortitude endure all minor evils. And during these 
 seven years, and many, many more, T had much cause 
 for firmness, fortitude, and coui-age. Sometimes I felt 
 the chastening rod a scourge, and dared to doubt the 
 mercy of the hand that wielded it; sometimes I thought 
 my lot might have been better cast — that loss of parents, 
 fortune, friends, health, of home, uiid, in ai'ter years 
 of change and vicissitude, loss of nearly all the comforts 
 and api)liances of wealth tliat sliielded and surrounded
 
 63 
 
 my early youth, was far too much to try me with; 
 and yet, amidst it all, I thought more feelingly of my 
 retrenched, restricted means, to aid and comfort my 
 felloAV-beings, jmiticularly those whom I personally loved 
 or had formerly assisted, than of any other portion 
 of my grievances. Yet nothing helped me better to 
 preserve my equanimity of mind, than to employ each 
 faculty the Lord had given me, — to please, instruct, or 
 aid ; and I had many kind, indulgent friends to gratify, 
 some of whom are now numbered with the dead, some 
 gone abroad — dispersed all over the world — and others 
 still remaining, who I hope will read these pages, and 
 rejoice with me, to think that joresent times resemble 
 less the former in their severity, and pardon this 
 digression that reminds them of them. At the same 
 time, let them think of the many social, happy, im- 
 proving, and even meny hom-s we spent together, during 
 the j)eriod that I lay a helpless sufierer — by the blessing 
 of God the body only rendered useless, the mind 
 unalienable — and I did find uudeviating solace from 
 the useful and agi-eeable exercise of its resources. 
 
 To work without an aim is worse than leaving things 
 undone, or sinking into apathy. But if the aim be 
 hurtful to oiu- kind, it is worse than aj)athetic, cold 
 indifference to their feelings. Either state of mind 
 is so pernicious to the soul's best interests, and to its 
 restoration fi'om the depths of soitow, that every one 
 should sedulously avoid encouraging or allowing them 
 to gain an influence over their actions or reflections
 
 64 
 
 We should place as many barriers as possible to stop 
 theii' progress, if for a moment they have crept in to 
 rob us of our inward consciousness of rectitude, and 
 thus destroy our peace of mind, till we have overcome 
 the effect of having sipped such poison, by retrieving 
 oui- lost ground, and walking fimily lest the foot should 
 slip again. This may be done by a quiet, firm, deter- 
 mined spii'it of search and research into truth and 
 religion, (that is, all religions that are Christian,) delight 
 in intellectual endowments and pursuits, often perform- 
 ing acts of benevolence. All this wiU have a tendency 
 to lull the heart's repinings, and subdue its melancholy, 
 to chasten sorrow, lessen its anguish, and make it a 
 source of imj)rovement rather than deterioration, to ex- 
 change it for a spirit of quiet acquiescence in the Divine 
 wisdom and power, and a cheerful resignation of ourselves 
 into the hands of the Almighty. "Wiiat a ricli world of 
 love and happiness would now surround us, if all would 
 take up the creed, and practise it, — to do no evil, fear 
 no evil, and trust in God for mercy and protection. 
 I preach not what I do not practise, for this has ever 
 been a part of my own creed, and I liuve found in it 
 a stock to draw upon for Jiappiness through every day 
 and hour that I have held it firm within my heai't; 
 it enables me to walk alone, unaided, and respected 
 by the good; myself myself 's protector, with the help 
 of God alone, to shield from any evil that cb-aws near 
 to me. I ask no otlier aid but that which I derive 
 from his unening guidance.
 
 65 
 
 I know not of anytliing lialf so detrimejital to domes- 
 tic peace and comfort, half so powerful in sustaining 
 rather than suhduing sorrow, sickness, or remorse, as 
 vain repinings and regi'ets for that which is past and 
 gone beyond the power of recall, or useless recrimina- 
 tions to those who influenced or aided in the past, 
 and would perhaps have shunned recuiTence of the 
 evil, had not the bad spirit that exists within been 
 goaded into action by contumely. Those who listen 
 not to reason, remonstrance, or persuasion, cannot be 
 compelled, without a battle detrimental to the souls 
 of both the acting parties, and shoidd be left to God. 
 His grace alone, when he deems fit, can soften them. 
 How much more laudable it is to exercise the mind, by 
 reflecting calmly on the past, its failui-es and successes, 
 drawing thence strict rules and resolutions for our future 
 guidance, such as may give success to every laudable 
 intent, and strengthen us for its achievement. For even 
 in this world of sin, the good alone can prosper always. 
 Though sin may reign triumphant for awhile, and the 
 world's distinctions and appliances of fortune fall upon 
 the wicked like a shower, it is only for awhile. They soon 
 or late must topple from the cliff, on which they seem to 
 stand immovable, and dash into the boisterous waves 
 below, where they in vain may sti-uggle, till they owoi they 
 have a Master, and obey him. What blessings descend 
 on those who do obey this Divine Master, and resign 
 themselves unto bis will. Whatever befalls, they have 
 him to look to. Assuredly they shall liave succour 
 
 -fi-
 
 if they deserve it, unless the thing they ask would he 
 detrimental to themselves and others, or obstruct some 
 great design in which tliey are requii-ed as instruments. 
 It is only then impossible to grant their wish; and if they 
 murmur not at his decree, comport themselves as he dic- 
 tates, employ their faculties as he designed when he 
 endowed them, whether in weal or woe, health or 
 sickness, everything will bless them, and their soitow 
 will be changed for a spirit of resignation and con- 
 tentment. 
 
 ^lUtlJflt^ 
 
 IGNORANCE TS VERY CONVENIENT SOMETIMES. 
 
 I REMONSTRATED, one day, with one of my mother's ser- 
 vants, on the impropriety of lier having pleaded as an 
 excuse for disobeying orders, that she was ignorant of 
 the mode in wliich something ought to have been done 
 that slie had neglected, having discovered that she was 
 fully competent to undertake the business. She quickly 
 replied, "Forgive me, dear Miss, but you don't know bow 
 convenient it is to be ignorant sometimes, it saves a 
 poor servant's legs such a deal."
 
 il],e piiiij alMlic to ilmtgbt. 
 
 What thoughts awake within my mind ! 
 
 They take me into heaven, 
 And there, with ecstacy I find, 
 
 Eternal rest is given. 
 
 The angels that suiTOund God's throne, 
 
 Eepose within his arms ; 
 He shields from all the evils known, 
 
 They have no vain alarms. 
 
 No feeling that can dwell on earth, 
 Approaches then their heart ; 
 
 And every bliss of heavenly birth 
 Roams fi-ee through every part. 
 
 My mind's eye sees the beaming smile, 
 
 That mantles on each lip ; 
 My spirit there, I taste awhile 
 
 The cup of joy they sip.
 
 (58 
 
 My fancy hears the songs they sing, 
 My voice ascends with theh'S ; 
 
 And while my spmt 's on the wing, 
 It bears to heaven my prayers. 
 
 But reason cries. Thy prayer offends, 
 
 God will not lend an ear, 
 Unless the broken spirit sends 
 
 Kepentant sinnei''s tear. 
 
 Repentance cries, Then take the tear 
 
 For sins of omission slied, 
 Till thou shalt reigu again down here. 
 
 Judging the quick and the dead. 
 
 But conscience cries, Tliy sins are more. 
 
 All earth is filled with sin ; 
 And more than makes ten-fold tlio score. 
 
 Is writ heaven's books within. 
 
 Faith cries, Down at thy feet I fall. 
 And bend the grateful knee ; 
 
 For Jesu's blood has cleansed tlioui all, 
 And made my spirit free. 
 
 T'he Saviour cries, Forgive, forgive. 
 My blood washed out the stain, 
 
 That all wlio die in faitli may live 
 l''or ever free from pain
 
 €\t Ckcrinp .of llcliijioii. 
 
 Come, seek the cheerings Religion imparts, 
 
 Its promises always make glad ; 
 It dwells not in heads, nor on lips, hut in hearts, 
 
 And takes away all that is sad. 
 
 It flows from a source so supremely good. 
 
 Its blessings can never decline; 
 From Calvary's hour, when he shed his pure blood, 
 
 The true heart has knelt at its shrine. 
 
 It springs from a soiu'ce so fruitful and pure, 
 
 Its essence can never decay; 
 It needs but the gi-ace of God to secure. 
 
 And firm faith its laws to obey. 
 
 Its laws are so cheerful, open, and fi-ee, 
 
 The heart must be callous indeed, 
 That, listening not, refuses to see 
 
 Its love contains all that we need,
 
 ro 
 
 To yield us comfort. In sorrow, it lays 
 The lieart on the bosom of God ; 
 
 That, losing its anguish while there it prays, 
 Submissively bends to his rod. 
 
 Thus feeling the cheerings imparted by love, 
 The heart sinks to peace and repose ; 
 
 Then winging its flight to the regions above, 
 [ts sorrows fall down as it goes. 
 
 Mlrcn to Reflect. 
 
 T i.ovK not, when I would reflect, 
 
 To join the motley crowd ; 
 But i-ange the meadows spring bedecked. 
 
 Where songsters sing aloud, 
 
 And tune their pipes with lays of love. 
 To Him who formed each throat. 
 
 And tenderly leans from above 
 To catcli each lieaveuly note.
 
 7i 
 
 I love not, when I would reflect, 
 To stroll the promenade gay, 
 
 But gather wild buds, dew bespecked, 
 And watch the dawn of day. 
 
 Breathing sighs of love to the power 
 That clad the grove and mead, 
 
 Gave life to every beast and flower, 
 Supplying all they need. 
 
 I love not, when I would reflect, 
 
 To tread the gay saloon. 
 But wander forth where none suspect. 
 
 In day's glorious noon. 
 
 Tliere behold the glittering sun, 
 
 Beaming like eye of God, 
 Gilding all that his hand hath done, 
 
 Creating at his nod. 
 
 The calm retreat, the evening shade, 
 
 StUl better please my soul, 
 And seem by God's sweet bounty made, 
 
 To hold within the whole 
 
 Combination sweet of heavenly signs. 
 That shadow forth a sphere, 
 
 Resplendent with the vast designs 
 Tliat shine upon us here.
 
 72 
 
 Not as the mind's eye gives to view, 
 
 Within the hidden deep, 
 The voice of faith can pierce the blue. 
 
 And there sweet converse keep 
 
 With saints and angels that surround 
 The Lord upon his throne, 
 
 And, like the nightingale, resound 
 Its worship-notes alone. 
 
 Regardless of all human praise. 
 
 My soul aspires to none ; 
 But tunes its solitary lays 
 
 Alone, and but to one. 
 
 Alike the soiu-ce of life divine. 
 
 And every human fear, 
 Father of all the lights that shine, 
 
 And every human tear.
 
 ON TRETENDEBS TO ATHEISM AND SCEPTICISM. 
 
 I SAY, in the title of this Essay, pretenders, because I 
 believe in the utter impossibility of such a being as an 
 Atheist to exist, regardiug an Atheist as one who 
 presumes to deny the existence of God as the only 
 Supreme Being — who presumes to deny the existence 
 of Satan as one governed by and ordained by God 
 to punish man's iugi-atitude and want of faith — a tyrant 
 unto whose keepuig and torments the Almighty will 
 resign in-eclaimable sinners, when, at the Last Day, 
 he disclaims and casts them from him as unworthy of 
 the atonement offered for then sins — a being who pre- 
 sumes to deny the immortality of the soul, the life 
 . hereafter, the never-dyiug bliss of those who follow God's 
 commands, and the never-dyiug misery of those who 
 worship God's and human nature's enemy, the Devil — 
 a being who presumes to deny or doubt that God created 
 us and all things living, vainly speculating on the 
 possibility of our having created ourselves, or been the 
 production of blind chance, unaided by an Omniscient 
 Creator and governor of the whole. 
 
 Witli all the varied evidences of the trutli of (jod's
 
 74 
 
 creation daily presented before cm- eyes, does there 
 exist — can such a thing exist — as a sceptic at heart? 
 Can there exist anything approaching to the character 
 of an atheist at heart? Can any human being, pos- 
 sessing sight, hearing, touch, sensation, and the reason- 
 ing powers to think, to prove, to compare, to combine, 
 to reflect, to calculate, add to which the power of 
 speech to communicate the various speculations rising 
 out of his thoughts, proofs, comparisons, combinations, 
 reflections, and calculations, doubt the existence of 
 a one all-powerful, ever-present, everlasting, ever-govern- 
 ing, ever-guiding, ever-upholding, ever-maintaining, and 
 Almighty Ruler and Creator of the whole universe ? No, 
 no ! a being endowed with reason cannot live so destitute 
 of truth as to refuse beUef in God ; though he may wish 
 there were not one to punish his ofiences, yet iuwardly 
 he believes and fears. Even the savage, unassisted by 
 instruction, pictures to himself a God, from what he 
 hears and sees and feels in his own nature ; and, though 
 his ideas are somewhat fanciful and strange, imputing 
 quahties ungodlike, fierce, and sometimes earthly, yet 
 this serves to shew that every animal endowed even 
 with uncidtivated reason feels the necessity of having 
 sometlung superior to himself, in some or all of its attri- 
 butes, to love and worship. Therefore, how diflicult it 
 must be for any man, having possessed the means of 
 cultivating his reasoning faculties, and even partially 
 used those means, ever to feel at heart, or allow himself 
 in any degi'ce to imbibe, ti spirit of atlieism, or oven
 
 scepticism. Many there are who profess themselves such 
 imbelievers and doubters. But why? Is it not as a 
 cover for their licentious conduct? How otherwise 
 could they excuse it, acting as they do in utter disregard 
 of the commands and ordinances of God ? They tliink, 
 by professing to disbelieve in His existence or His power 
 to punish, they will escape the odium and the world's 
 upbraidings, which their evil ways must naturally bring 
 upon them. But obtain the power of scanning these 
 beings in solitude, or when not surrounded by the licen- 
 tious revellers who defy alike the laws of God and man, 
 careful only to avoid those deeds that the external 
 process of the law takes hold of to punish ignominiously ! 
 Though slaves to lust, to gaming, to licentious, baccha- 
 nalian riot, to unrestrained, destructive libertinism, and 
 all the animal enjoyments that decry the example of 
 a Saviour and offend against God ; when unsupported by 
 the stimulants that lu'ge them on to ruin, who so way- 
 ward, fickle, sul)dued, and miserable as the men who dare 
 even to doubt, much less deny, the existence of a God? 
 I would not have a heart to doubt our God's existence, 
 and believe that, when my soul forsakes its earthly 
 tenement, this fi-ail, imcertain case or body, that I should 
 be annihilated, and not enjoy a future state, for all the 
 earthly palaces, possessions, joys, and honours that tliis 
 world could give. AH those who read and ran must 
 see and feel there is a God; and that there is a God 
 both heaven and earth, and all that is concealed within, 
 and every thing around us, proclaim aloud.
 
 76 
 
 And, since there is a God, a first., eternal, and all- 
 powerful cause of all things, a creator of the whole 
 universe, and everything contained therein, that is not 
 identified as the permitted work of his superior ani- 
 mal, man ; then is there, too, a providence, sustain- 
 ing, regulating, and controlling all things ; and most 
 assuredly is this same providence leading onwai-d pro- 
 gressively to greater perfection and happiness. My 
 conception of a consummately munificent, merciful, and 
 perfect spirit allows me not to doubt of this. Ai"e we 
 not all in the hands of this perfect spii'it? Can any- 
 thing that happens be concealed fi-om Ilim? Can any 
 rational person doubt that he will be most accurately 
 acquainted witli all tlie powers and properties, with 
 all tlie several 02)erations, desu'cs, associations, and 
 endeavours, of every animate or inanimate creation of 
 his own? Does he not exactly know the various wants, 
 and all the pecuhar circumstances, belonging to each 
 and every one of his subjects? Can anything exist, can 
 an)i;hing continue, can anything decay, can anything 
 revive, expire, be happy or miserable, joyfi.il or 
 melancholy, hojieful or desjionding, meny or dull, 
 foolish or sublime, peevisli or witty, fretful or nuig- 
 naiiimous, without his will, or without the power 
 surrendered to us by His divine permission? Are 
 not all powers, all energies dependent upon him, the 
 eternal, ine.\haustible fountain of i)ower and energy? 
 Are not all spirits dependent on the one Supreme 
 Sovereign and most infinitely perfect spirit over all'.*
 
 Does he not evince an exhaustless regard for the work 
 of his own hands in all his dispensations, for the supply 
 of their necessities, and the gratification of all their 
 reasonable wants? Is he ever known to abandon his 
 creatm-es, to hazard, or to themselves, and to be 
 indifferent alike both to their happiness and miseiy? 
 Does he not rather, when they abandon themselves 
 to the wiles of Satan, then employ his instruments, 
 in the shape of anxious friends and faithful ministers 
 of truth, to offer every kindness and good counsel, to 
 lead them back to virtue, and sustain them in the path. 
 
 It is impossible that God should ever act with- 
 out a design to benefit his childi-en, either in this life 
 or hereafter ; and equally impossible that he should 
 ever fail in executing his pmi^oses; though evU too, 
 too oft befalls us, from oiu' wUful perversion of his 
 benefits, and the influence that our soul's enemy 
 too often obtains over us. It is impossible for an 
 all-bountiful will to do anything but good — and even 
 out of evO, by his intei-posing hand, good sometimes 
 springs, unsought and rmintended by ourselves; and 
 yet an Atheist tells us there is not a God. 
 
 I would ask this unbelieving man, Where is the ever- 
 lasting, inexhaustible foimtain of all reason and all light ; 
 whence light and Hfe stream forth upon this luiiverse, 
 upon all worlds, upon all creatures, also upon liim, 
 though unworthy of the light and life bestowed upon 
 him ? Where is the all-en cfrcling, aU-exciting, con- 
 stantly active, and primordial energy, from which all
 
 78 
 
 energies derive their origin, and by which they ai'e 
 all supported and preserved? Where is the principle, 
 the origin of all the wonders that strike upon our vision 
 in our daily walks? Where the cause of all that we 
 perceive, and hear, and know ? Take all that we 
 behold around us, do wc see anything but effects that 
 originate in other effects — one constantly following 
 another — one always existing for the sake of another, 
 and all mutually depending one upon the other? 
 
 Docs not this conduct us at once to a first, a 
 self-existent, and eternal Cause, which depends upon 
 nothing, which is self-subsistent, has for ever been, 
 and will for ever be? Where is the first link of the 
 immense chain of events and tilings wliich we behold, 
 and where the Almighty hand by which it maiiitains 
 its equipoise, and is supplied with changes and 
 upheld? Must not that first cause bo consummately 
 wise, consummately intelligent, consummately ]jenovo- 
 lent, consummately accurate, and consummately power- 
 ful, to design and execute that wonderful chain? 
 Do we not perceive on all sides clear, unquestion- 
 able, and infallible evidence of wisdom and intelli- 
 gence, kindness, accuracy, jiower, design, and merci- 
 ful indulgence in the designs that tend to our suji- 
 port? Do we not everywhere behold order, calcula- 
 tion, hannony, and mercy in the ends designed, and 
 the means provided for attaining these ends? Do we 
 not everywhere behold the beautiful or sublime in 
 the works of nature under his creative hand? Who
 
 79 
 
 assigned to the sun, the moou, the stars, their vaii- 
 ous operations and positions in the firmament ? 
 Who assigned to the coimtless host of worlds that 
 suiTound us, then* place, possessions, principles, and 
 coui-se? Who stationed all in that relative position 
 as regards each other, in which they can move, and 
 have their being, in the most complex, diversified, 
 and opposite dkections, and yet can move and act 
 entii'ely free and unimpeded, by any imtoward jos- 
 tling or sudden contact with each other? Who has so 
 magnificently adorned the heavens with those bright 
 worlds, unknown to us, unreachable, and only dimly 
 seen by powerful telescopes ? Who but God, who guides 
 them in their course, and governs all! 
 
 Who has so magnificently adorned this earth, the 
 place of our abode, and distributed among the sinful 
 worms that cover it so much of light and life, of gladness 
 and of sunshine, to warm the multitude and variety 
 of plants, insects, and animals that we perceive upon 
 it, whose structure, instincts, mode of life and occu- 
 pations, whose relations and connexions, attest and 
 prove the most admu-able ingenuity, wisdom, and 
 power? Are not these propagated and preserved with 
 the most uudeviating constancy? do they not main- 
 tain their station and natm-e from age to age, with 
 the same uudeviating order, and adherence to the 
 laws by whicli they have been from the beginning 
 of time ordained to live and move ? Can any human 
 beings do such violence to tlicir own feelings, reason.
 
 bU 
 
 instincts, observation, and experience, as to impute 
 all this to the effect of bazai-d, or the operation 
 of a blind, uuintellectual agent? If such beings do 
 exist, why then shame on the reason that can so 
 besot itself with unbelief and folly. 
 
 Oh yes, it is folly not to believe that there is 
 a first, a sovereign mind, the father of all spirits, 
 from whom I, and all that lives, and moves, and 
 thinks, and is conscious of thinking and of being, 
 proceed. All natm-e tells us that there is a God; 
 that our being, feeling, and thinking cannot be the 
 work of chance; nor yet the effect of the visible 
 objects that suiTOund us; nor yet of the dull mass 
 of eartli with wliich we are so intimately connected; 
 for in our being, feeling, and thinking, the most 
 perfect order, harmony, design, and unparalleled 
 mimificouce preside, and hold eternal intercourse. A 
 firm belief in this first, eternal, infinite cause of all 
 things, in this sovereign, all-perfect spirit, is a real, 
 urgent necessity of our understanding and affections ; 
 and the more clearly and confidingly the mind may think 
 and lean on this necessity, the more quiet and calm the 
 heart will feel. Tlie more attentively we hearken to the 
 voice of nature, which speaks so powerfully in behalf of 
 the Deity, both internally and externally — the more 
 distinctly shall we comprehend that voice, and the 
 more consoling, precious, and certain will he its sooth- 
 ing influence upon our lienrts and minds. 
 
 All rational j)ersons must bo sensible tiiat that
 
 which thinks within them, — that is theii- understand- 
 ing, — is of a nohler origin — of a more comprehen- 
 sive and comprehending character — of a superior 
 nature and structure, infinitely superior to the fi-ail 
 bodies with which it is clothed, and to the eai'th wliich 
 bears and feeds those bodies. That it must be the crea- 
 tion of an eternal, a celestial father — a first-exist- 
 ent, all-powerful, and all-perfect mind — by whom it 
 is, and lives, and moves, and thinks, and feels, 
 and with whom it is intimately connected throughout 
 every moment of its existence — yes, and wholly depend- 
 ent on this first, eternal, infinite dkector and ruler, 
 which heaven and earth proclaim aloud. Can Atheists 
 look upon leaf, plant, tree, a bird, an insect, a worm, 
 or beast — examine theii' proportions, functions, uses, 
 and relation to each other — observe the complicated 
 fibres, perfectly proportioned, fitted, and adapted to 
 their several uses, in such a way that man can 
 never imitate, with all his powers of reason and 
 constructiveness, and yet believe there is no God, 
 or sceptically think that God has not all power to 
 order and to do his own good will, and strike down 
 those who disobey, and do it not? Vain, stubborn, 
 unsupported reasoners. All that is, lives, moves, 
 and tliinks, acquaints the heart that is open to receive 
 the tnith that there is a God, as just as he is 
 merciful ! Yet let the Atheist dread the atoning day 
 of vengeance. Beholds he not a God within the 
 splendours of the sun and stars ? Feels he not
 
 82 
 
 God in the liglit and heat that flow down upon 
 him, and all that lives npon the earth ? Is he so 
 callous-hearted as not to feel that he hears the voice 
 of God in the refreshing whisi:)ers of tlie breeze ; 
 tremhlos he not to hear its fearful agitations in the 
 whirlwind or the thunder-storm, or in the boisterous 
 roaring of the ocean ? Trills it not sweetly on the 
 ear that loves to list to nature's music in the mur- 
 murs of the trees — the warblings of the birds that 
 cai'ol forth their praise upon those ti'ees — or music of 
 the running brook, that whistles o'er the pebbly beds, 
 which dance to hear it lightly swim along their 
 own smooth surface? I feel a God in all the soft 
 impressions made on me by outward objects — as in 
 the glad feeling wliich sometimes approaches ecstasy — 
 or the emotion that pervades my heart, when I may 
 think that I discover truth — and in the love I feel 
 for that which may seem good, and what is beauti- 
 ful. 1 feel there is a God, whenever I do show my love 
 unto my neiglibour; wlienever I aspire to better tilings, 
 or anticipate the prospect of a bright futurity, then 
 does the all-powerful influence of a God pervade my 
 heart and bless me. Yes, eveiy faculty, movement, 
 demonstration of life, and every thought calls out to 
 me there is a God, an original cause, and father of 
 all jjower, all motion, life and thouglit, who is, and 
 was, and will be, from everlasting to everlasting, God. 
 Happy is it for those who can elevate their minds 
 so liigh as, in perspective, to behold his face in heaven,
 
 83 
 
 and feel that he does smile, while they do meditate on 
 him, and ask themselves, What were the world without 
 a God? A wild, inexplicahle, perplexing, and chaotic 
 puzzle. What were existence, not upheld hy God? A 
 gloomy, joyless, and contentious scene of strife. And 
 what were this world's grandeur, unsupported hy a God ? 
 A dwindling into insignificance, a falling-ofT of all that 
 we have heen, a chilling blast, congealing all our enjoy- 
 ments, an unfruitful, aimless beginning, and a dis- 
 appointed end. Were we the sport of chance, our 
 calculations would be null and void, each thing that 
 happened would create alarm, if any feature of its 
 face pourtrayed destruction. What cordd we gain 
 from chance — on what could we rely? Could anything 
 be confidently expected — could any piinciples be formed 
 wliieh would conduct us safely in our calculations, 
 thoughts, and actions? No: the idea of a God's exist- 
 ence is so absolutely necessary to our veiy nature, that, 
 did we cast it from us, we should have reason to envy 
 the beasts of the field, that are so much below us, and 
 cannot think. 
 
 The faculty of thinking, the ability to scrutinise 
 events, to trace causes and effects, and scan the deep 
 designs contained within the glorious systems that sur- 
 round us in the heavens, would be a torment to us ; and 
 our longings after something that would lead us unto 
 truth, guide om* understandings, and jiervade our 
 hearts with love, would render life itself a burden to 
 us — unsu2iported by a God. How necessary, then, to
 
 84 
 
 think, to hope, and to believe there is a God, a perfect 
 God, rejoicing in his perfect attributes, the father, the 
 fond father of us all, tho pai-ent of the universal 
 family, in heaven and earth. Small as we may appear, 
 in com2:)arison with the vast creation, we are yet as much 
 his creatures as suns and worlds arc so ; and more, 
 though sinners, we are his loved and valued ofFs2)ring, 
 ransomed by his dearest gift, his only Son ; as certainly 
 are we his offspring as tlie most exalted spirits that 
 dwell on high. In the view of him, the Eternal, tho 
 Infinite, all are alike his own, both great and small, the 
 works of his own hands, the expression of his power, 
 of bis gi'eatness and glory ; each endowed with its own 
 peculiar perfections, adapted to its use ; each esteemed by 
 him as worthy of the ransom, if it be accepted faithfully 
 and believed. 
 
 Can anything that chance affords give compensation 
 for the loss of such a God? What meek serenity and 
 satisfaction reign within those who feel that nothing can 
 supply the place of God ; they intimately know and feel 
 on whom their belief is fixed determinedly, from whom 
 they derive then* origin, by whom theii" several wants 
 are bounteously supplied, in whom their hearts may 
 gloi-y and rejoice, on wliom they may rely when sorrow 
 is theii- portion, and in adoring whom they change sorrow 
 for supreme felicity. Oh ! wliat a pitiable thing for any 
 man to be denied these privileges for liis unbelief Can 
 sucli a thing exist as sceptical delusion, tluil can doubt 
 that we arc every momnnt of our lives depciulenf on the
 
 85 
 
 Creator for our continuaxice, just as much as at the instant 
 when we stalled into life ? Have we obtained sufficient 
 knowledge of om'selves, of our stnicture, to perceive how 
 we do think, liow we subsist, or why we are ; or do we 
 any better understand the inconceivable mysteries that 
 have peopled the heavens and eai'th, on whose expanse 
 and siu-face the feeble eyesight smveys but little, the 
 heart and mind comprehend but few? To God alone 
 all things present themselves as they really fu'e — to liim 
 alone the visible and invisible, the intellectual and cor- 
 poreal world, ai'e perfectly submissive. When he speaks, 
 it is done ; when he commands, it stands fast. He does 
 his win with all the hosts of heaven and all the dwellers 
 on the earth ; and none can stop his hand, or dare say 
 unto him, What doest thou? So sm'ely as God possesses 
 consummate wisdom, power, goodness, mercy, skill, and 
 truth, so surely is he God ; so sm-ely ai'e all things con- 
 trolled by his power, all things designed by his wisdom ; 
 as certainly do all our joys proceed fi-om his judgment, 
 goodness, and mercy; his skUl poising all things in 
 an equal balance; and undoubtedly ai'e all bis revela- 
 tions truths, that unbelievers try in vain to refute. 
 Can we then, so certainly dependent as we are, ever 
 become independent and subsist of ourselves ? The 
 som-ce that feeds the stream must ever feed it, or the 
 stream's channel will become diy. Can feeble infants 
 dispense with a mother? Must not oiu- Creator con- 
 stantly uphold our life, or we return to our former 
 nullity? These words of scripture arc as beautiful as 
 
 8
 
 8b 
 
 they are true, " All creatures wait upon thee ; if 
 thou take away their breath, they die, and return 
 to their dust; if thou quickenest them, they revive; 
 thou openest thy hand, and fillest all things living with 
 good." 
 
 What are we to luiderstand from the imdeviating 
 order that reigns throughout all nature, at all times? 
 What do we not learn from the undeviating and 
 perfectly harmonising movements of the heavenly 
 bodies — never disturbing or internipting each other, 
 though so different in their several magnitudes and 
 gravity, and so multitudinous — the inexhaustible, invisi- 
 ble, mysterious, and constantly fructifying energies of 
 nature — the proportionate, ceaseless, infallible succes- 
 sion — the ceaseless, judicious, and all-bountiful relations 
 between all kinds, and all classes, that constitute the 
 animal and the vegetable kingdoms? Look again at 
 the admirable equilibrium maintained between life and 
 death, destruction and generation, means and end. If 
 the production of all this cannot be the work of hazai'd, 
 so neither can its continuance and preservation be owing 
 to sucli an absurd origin. Surh order, to continue, must 
 depend on the controlling and sustaining agency of a 
 consununately intellectual, all-embracing, all-active, 
 beneficent, and celestial mind ; aud this mind is to be 
 found alone in the eternal, perfect God, that made us, 
 and is father of us all. 
 
 Then let us all bow down in lunnble prostration of 
 soul, and adore the mighty God — the eternal Sovereign
 
 87 
 
 and Creator ; all nature speaks aloud to tell us of his 
 power. 
 
 But how much more intimately and explicitly has he 
 revealed himself to us by sending down his only Son, 
 to teach, guide, console, and lead us in the road to 
 heaven; while here he gives us life, and love, and all 
 things that sustain our life, assigning unto each a place 
 in his vast empire, and to the numbered days we have 
 to live designs according to his pleasm'e. He knows our 
 needful wants — supplies them all — grants every wish 
 that does not militate against the weal of others, or 
 insult his majjesty and justice : — yes, grants them all, 
 with wisdom and parental tenderness. Shall man then 
 dare to question his authority, and tremble not to think 
 he knows his thoughts, hears every sigh, looks down 
 upon and judges every action ; not even the smallest 
 wish the heart can feel escapes his notice ; an act that 
 is concealed from every living soul, a hidden secret in 
 the heart, is clear as the noon-day light to Him ; around 
 him and before him all is light ; and though oiu* deeds 
 be done in darkness like the tomb, to Him they show 
 like the splendour of the sun. 
 
 Then let his name be glorified throughout all space, 
 for he is everywhere ; he works within the heavens and 
 the earth, within the bosom of the ocean, and in the 
 dejjths of burning mountains, when they erupt their fires. 
 He works in eveiy faculty, in eveiy mind, and heart; 
 from him, and through him, everything comes, and to 
 him, everything is due. Then let us glorify his name.
 
 88 
 
 Nothing is exempt from God's providence and control ; 
 the small, tlio gi'eat, the part, the whole, all are 
 present to him, inseparably combined, all perfect in 
 its kind, equally dependent on his will and wisdom to 
 live or jierish — all imperceptibly progi-essing to the 
 liighest possible perfection and happiness. And yet, can 
 scepticism and atheists be found? 
 
 Can any al heist behold the flowers that spring spon- 
 taneously, in field or dyke, and doubt they owe then* 
 little honours to the forming hand of God, and spring at 
 his command ? Who feeds the feathered songstei"s, notes 
 the single sparrow's fall, preserves the little worm that 
 crawls upon the ground? Who transfixed the sun, and 
 gave it power to nurture every seed ordained to feed frail 
 natui'e's child, the child of man, the son of clay, redeemed 
 by his beloved, and loved by Him as well as the most 
 exalted messenger of heaven? And why? Because he is 
 a loving father, and we are his children, under his inspec- 
 tion and control — the lowest as well beloved as the 
 liighest link in the chain of rational beings. Can any- 
 thing befall us, unknown, unordered, or unwilled by him? 
 He brings one low, exalts another high in place, enriches 
 one and makes another poor; he wounds, he heals, he 
 strikes, he raises up ; he conducts us to the grave, and calls 
 us out again. Our hairs are numbered, and our destinies 
 are no less fixed by him than the destinies of worlds and 
 systems. 
 
 To man alone has choice been given in the good and 
 evU ])lacod before liim ; uiid on his choice depends
 
 89 
 
 his destiny : that is, the good or evil results that follow 
 from his choice. And all believers know and feel that 
 whatever God commands is right and fit, and is, in 
 every case, the best; and though so vast the plans and 
 sublime the ends of God's administration, most assuredly 
 will the first be executed and the last attained. Earthly 
 rulers sometimes neglect the government of their coun- 
 tries and people, and, with the best intentions, make 
 great mistakes, sometimes defective in their understand- 
 ing or sagacity, or in their power, benevolence, humanity, 
 or judgment. Sometimes deceived by impulse, yielding 
 to blmd passion, or decoyed by cunning, artfid men, 
 they sink beneath a burden much too heavy for their 
 limited, xmequal powers. But who, believing in a God, 
 will dare to say that God can ever en- in judgment, 
 design, or execution, however nature's forces may appear 
 to thwart each other, however the desires, endeavours, 
 inclinations, views, and schemes of men may cross and 
 counteract each other, producing discord? Unlike to 
 man's, God's counsels ever stand; his will is love and 
 law; all must promote his views, and ultimately every 
 dissonance dissolve in harmony. 
 
 Were I to write down every argument that whispers 
 or proclaims a God, this Essay would be lengthened into 
 volumes ; so I will conclude with an appeal to unbeliev 
 ing, doubting men, and pray to God to pardon them. 
 Oh ! unbelieving, doubting men, have ye no aching void 
 within your hearts, that makes you pine and gi-oan for 
 something of a gentle, soft, and soothing nature, to fill 
 
 -H-
 
 90 
 
 up the space? — a something that your minds can rest 
 upon, with confident anticipation of relief and ulti- 
 mate cure? Can you elude or dash away aiBiction's 
 cup, or drink less deeply than an unseen hand compels? 
 No, no ! nor can you stop the hand that strikes you 
 dowTi in sickness, soitow, anguish, or despair, hy any- 
 thing but heartfelt sighs and prayers to God, who 
 portions out the amount of woe designed to bring you 
 to himself 
 
 Nor can you stop the tyi-ant hand of death, if bid to 
 mow the flowers that flourish at yom* fireside, and 
 take all earthly props away. You cannot limit God's all- 
 powerfiU sway, if he decrees to mow down rank and 
 foiiune, fi-iends, home, and every earthly blessing you 
 possess ; then seek for heavenly blessings — seek both 
 the soul's and body's health, and make them both 
 subservient to the accomplishment of eveiy other hea- 
 venly joy : the one will cleanse you from all fleslily lusts, 
 fill up your heart's deep void, and spread before you an 
 inviting couch on which you may rcchne, confiding in 
 God's love, and mercy, and protection: the otlicr will 
 invigorate yoixr mental energies ; and in proportion as 
 the case is cleansed and kept in order, you will have a 
 clearer view of its internal construction, and know that 
 all its movements are ordained by God. Then worshij) 
 God, cast down your hazard, and believe, and know, and 
 feel the garaeful chance is liazardous indeed, that specu- 
 lates in doubts, denials, and defiances to God — that 
 dares to ipiestion his biatitude, the soul's immortal
 
 91 
 
 essence, and the visions held before om- view of everlast- 
 ing peace and hajipiness, for those who die in faith, and 
 in the arms of God. 
 
 Oh Thou who dost give promise to the sons of men 
 that all heaven's angels shall rejoice when sinners do 
 repent, pour down the blessings of repentance on the 
 soul offeveiy man that dares to doubt, deny, or scoff thy 
 majesty, thy dignity, and truth; smite thou his heart, 
 and draw the tear drop from his eye ; and when repent- 
 ance' tear is shed, then as a loving father clasp him to 
 thine heart, and say, I pardon all thy sins. Oh thou who 
 dost the spaiTow feed, shaU not the sons of men more 
 certainly be fed by thee ? Give Thou the doubting sin- 
 ner food that will destroy his relish for the things that 
 cloy with their uncertainty of taste ; and make him eager 
 to obtain the genuine, sweet, contenting, certain flavoui" 
 flowing from, mixed up with love, peace, joy, serenity, 
 and truth. These viands give, Lord, to all repentant 
 atheists, and make them feel the joy of having overcome 
 the gi'oss, consuming, vague absurdities that robbed them 
 of the joys of life, and shut out every blissful feeling that 
 invited anticipation of a future, bright eternity. Oh 
 God, have mercy on their souls, and when they die, 
 forgive, receive, and save them from the burning gulph, 
 of which they must have tasted here, before they could in 
 enmity deny thee !
 
 %\t 
 
 Jitl]nst. 
 
 I 'vE been told that Atheists believe there 's no God, 
 None! who made the high heavens, the stars, sun, 
 and moon, 
 Who so powerfully rules with a merciful rod ? 
 Was 't not God that said, Let there be light, aud 
 't was done ? 
 
 Let them look on the varied and blue summer sky ; 
 
 Say, could art jiroduce shades of such beauteous hue? 
 Who dares on the firmament, star -lit, cast his eye. 
 
 And deny the Sujireme the acknowledgment due ? 
 
 Who created all creatures that dwell on the earth ? 
 Can they doubt that those creatures ne'er fashioned 
 themselves ? 
 Who each product of nature in season brings forth? 
 Wlio surrounded the ocean with rooks and deep 
 shelves ?
 
 93 
 
 Oh, can any one look on that ocean, and think 
 'T was called forth by one earthly, or rose without 
 aid? 
 
 Can a reasoner stand on the precipice' brink. 
 And believe such declivity not by God made ? 
 
 Can he- dive for the treasures contained in the deep, 
 And believe they created themselves withovit aid ? 
 
 Could the mariner float on its surface and sleep. 
 Were his sailing bark not by the hand of God 
 stayed ? 
 
 Can he look on the mountain-like billows and foam. 
 And not dread the gi'eat power wliich has caused 
 them to rise ? 
 
 Can philosopher, pilot, or artisan roam. 
 
 Finding aught self-created beneath earth or skies ? 
 
 Could the monsters that ghde through the fathomless 
 deep. 
 
 And excite in the bravest a transient fear, 
 Have received from a mortal the instinct to keep 
 
 The straight line in pursuit of the prey that is near ? 
 
 Would a mortal display so much love to his kind, 
 By collecting in season each bright finny race ? 
 
 Uniastructed by God, could the fishermen find 
 The extensive broad shoals they so anxiously chase?
 
 94 
 
 Though, oft, cruel ferocity marks the pursuit, 
 God created such creatures for mankind to use ; 
 
 Thus distinguishing man above fish, fowl, or brute, 
 WUl man dare to reject whom such love doth diffuse? 
 
 Let him ratlier give praise for the bounty bestowed 
 Upon sinners so little deserving of care : 
 
 For no breath but our heavenly Father's endowed 
 Us with minds to partake of the bounties we share. 
 
 Oh, can any one look on the j^lants wliich surround 
 The green ivy-clad mansion I dwell in just now, 
 And believe that, self- springing, they rose from the 
 gi-ound ? 
 Say, how could they, unless the great God taught 
 them how? 
 
 An Atheist would tell us that man strewed the seed, 
 But, 'pray, whither procured he the seed that was 
 sown ? 
 Who will dare to believe in his impious creed, 
 That has gathered tlie seed when the flowers have 
 flown. 
 
 Can they look on the flowers that spontaneously rise, 
 And believe them unhid by their jNlaker to grow ? 
 
 11 unnurtured by Sol's brightest beam from the skies, 
 Could aught be produced by the sends the winds 
 sow?
 
 95 
 
 Who that takes a sm-vey of the gay feathered tribes, 
 Aud makes notes of their various plumage and song, 
 
 The contrivance perceives not, that he thus describes, 
 Can alone to Omniscient judgment belong? 
 
 Ye sweet little warblers, can atheists believe 
 
 That a creature but earthly has tuned yom- young 
 throats ? 
 
 Can they look on, and listen, and think you receive 
 From any but God your bright plumage and notes? 
 
 Loud to him be the praise you put forth in your song, 
 May each thi-Ul fi-om youi- pipings ascend to his 
 throne. 
 Oh, could any jom raptm-ous warblings prolong 
 
 But yom- Maker, to whom your sweet language is 
 known ? 
 
 Could the beautiful trees ye do flutter among 
 Bud and blossom in season, unaided by One, 
 
 Who has taught us frail mortals to list to yom- song, 
 And to own that his works are exceeded by none ? 
 
 Could the frolicsome lambkins, that sport round about, 
 Have been yeaned by their dams without aid from 
 above ? 
 Who can think on theii- use, and their fleece, and still 
 doubt 
 Them a gift sent from God to mankind by his love ?
 
 !)(i 
 
 Look again on the smallest of all the gay tribes 
 That so frolic and float on their zei)liyr-li]ve wing, 
 
 Say, can any philosopher, while he describes 
 The diminutive insects that flutter and sting, 
 
 Bring forth aught which can prove they were formed 
 without aid? 
 Need God's creatures with reasoning senses be told. 
 That the liand which created their own souls hath 
 made 
 Their most wonderful forms, too minute to behold 
 
 By a vision less perfect than his that surveys 
 
 Every creature, in darkness, in daylight, or shade ; 
 
 His eye piercing with power, like the sun's brightest 
 rays. 
 The most hidden retreat of each heart he has made. 
 
 Though our mental endowments gi-oat wonders attain, 
 Place our Maker's productions beside works of art, 
 
 E'en the brightest achievements of arts that remain, 
 Cannot rouse up the feelings his wonders impai't. 
 
 Can the moimtains, the landscapes, the forests infuse 
 No deep feeling, that dwells on mysterious power? 
 
 Can they tliink that a mortal with tlircnitcniug endues 
 The loud tlumder, the lightning, the hail, and the 
 shower?
 
 97 
 
 Animation created by God must infuse, 
 In the mind of reflection, religion and awe. 
 
 Thus while nature so pleads, there is nought can excuse 
 The bold man that i:)resuiiies to dispute natiu'e's law. 
 
 Omnipresence, omniscience, omnipotence 
 
 Must the being possess that gave life unto aU. 
 
 Can the atheist j)rove, or on any pretence 
 
 Call, himself self-created ? or shun the dread call 
 
 Of his all-powerful Maker, when called on to die. 
 To retm-n to the ashes from which he was made ? 
 
 When eternity's brink shall burst on his dim eye, 
 AVho so much as the atheist will be dismayed ? 
 
 He wHI then surely shiink fi-om eternity's blink, 
 And appeal to the great Omnipresent for aid ; 
 
 He wUl then siu-ely ciy, " For me Jesus did die ; 
 
 Thou gi'eat God, I acknowledge by thee I was made. 
 
 " Oh forgive the bold sinner, that dared to dispute 
 
 That all heavenly and earthly was formed by thy hand; 
 All I see, both above and below, doth refute 
 
 The vague, absurd system we atheists have planned. 
 
 " Oh teach mortals to shun the bold falsehoods I sped. 
 
 And remind them that Jesus proclaimeth aloud. 
 
 When he reigns on the earth, and shall judge quick 
 
 and dead, 
 
 The despised imbeUever is cast fi'om the crowd 
 
 y
 
 98 
 
 ' Of the blest who have, faithful in spirit, served God, 
 By contrition and faith, unto Jesus made known ; 
 
 Who liave wept at his shrine, who have bowed to his rod, 
 He will freely receive, and acknowledge his own." 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 f0 t^^ '§\xh at |alctoo0i). 
 
 Ye little birds, that chirp and sing. 
 And flutter on throughout the day. 
 
 Raise high your notes to God your king. 
 And bless and praise him while ye may. 
 
 Come hither, warblers, list my lay, 
 And join with me to God in praise; 
 
 And while ye hop fi'om spray to spray, 
 Give tlianks to him for happy days. 
 
 Aye, warble still those mellow notes. 
 The shining sun invites you forth ; 
 
 And may each cadence from your throats 
 Proclaim to all your Maker's worth.
 
 OR, THE ATHEIST'S DEATH. 
 
 There are few circmnstances so calculated to rouse 
 sleepers in religion as the terrible judgments that God 
 inflicts, when he is boldly and licentiously defied. The 
 following narrative of a fact, that occurred witliin my 
 own knowledge, may serve to warn the sinner, (who 
 contemjDlates seceding fi-om the precepts taught him in 
 his early youth, to take the Deist for his guide,) not to 
 fall into the snare, lest he should go beyond his first 
 design, and plunge into a deeper chasm than he can 
 find means to escape from. 
 
 It is now between nineteen and twenty yeai'S since 
 a gi'eat sensation was excited, in the good old seaport 
 town of Liverpool, by a very shocking occun-ence 
 attendant on the death of a profligate character, who 
 scrupled not to boast himself an Atheist, believing it 
 the best excuse for his licentiousness, to proclaim his 
 disbelief in the God whose name he constantly invoked 
 in blasphemy and drunken riot.
 
 100 
 
 I will first iiresont my readers with a naiTative of liis 
 early life, and then relate the circumstances of his awful, 
 unexpected, unprei)ared for death. For lus family's 
 sake, I suppress his real name, and call him Frederick 
 Thomason, his christian name being like it; horn not 
 many hundred miles from Liverpool, and the child of 
 honest, respectable parents. His form was fail* to look 
 upon as youtliful bloom could make it ; full of life, good 
 promise of conscientious rectitude, kind affections, happy 
 jovial spirits, intelligence, and common sense ; and very 
 proud his parents were that they had such a son. His 
 father claimed the sea for his career of action ; and the 
 boy, preferring his father's calling to any other, chose the 
 same. His father, being much respected as the mate of 
 a ship, had it in his power advantageously to place 
 the young Frederick, wlio, being now a clever, well- 
 educated boy, soon acquired such a knowledge of navi- 
 gation as prociu'ed for him all the advantages of his 
 profession; and, long before he was out of his appren- 
 ticesliip, he had attained his father's rank, and made liis 
 parents proud to own him. 
 
 His mother was a pious woman, wlio loved to read 
 the Bible to him, and, in all his early lessons, taught 
 liim how to worship God. In all respects the boy was 
 fortunate ; and, when he grew to manhood, he was even 
 still more fortunate, in the lovely, amiable, pious wife ho 
 chose and won ; and he was worthy of her at the time 
 they linked their fates together, but slie did not deserve 
 tluit lie should ever cliange so fearfully. His manly
 
 101 
 
 beauty, frank and open manners, cheerful spirit, spar- 
 kling intelligence, courageous bearing, sobriety, and 
 honom-able dealings, won his Mary's love. She gave 
 him her affections unrestrictedly, and seemed the very 
 partner formed for him; most sincerely they appeared 
 to love each other. Several years rolled on, and they 
 continued childless; at length a son was born — both 
 parents hailed it as a blessing, and the father gloried in 
 the idea of a little sailor. 
 
 Frederick Thomasou had now attained the age of 
 twenty-six, and, in vu-tue of his capabilities as a seaman, 
 was promoted to the rank of Captain. After he became 
 commander of a ship, and, by his prospei'ous ventiires, 
 gained sufficient money to become three-j)arts owner of 
 the same, his character was from thence considerably 
 changed; his manners became more pompous, his temper 
 quite tyrannical, compared with what it had been ; even 
 the wife he loved too often felt the difference. She little 
 thought what next woidd come to shake her happiness, 
 but still went on trusting, hoping, and believing him a 
 perfect creature. Sometimes she was wont to check him, 
 when he offended her ears with an oath — a bad habit 
 which, he told her, he had acquired by being obliged to 
 use it to his men. Thus Satan ever furnishes excuses to 
 those whom he intends to vanquish. In vain the good 
 wife pleaded that his early instruction should have 
 taught him better, and that his old mother, dead and 
 gone, would have wept to hear him use such words. 
 And she, poor Mary, wc[>t in secret, with a fearful sense 
 
 -9-
 
 102 
 
 of what might be the next step in his change of life ; for 
 she beheld, in duU presentiment, that the scene was fast 
 becoming clouded. 
 
 About this period they had resided for two yeai's in 
 the vicinity of my home ; then- house was not fai- distant 
 jfrom my own back door, and, when I sometimes went 
 to visit the poor people in the cottages hard by, whom 
 myself and family assisted, Mrs. Tliomason would open 
 her door and invite me to rest awhile. T thus became 
 acquainted with her, and, in a short time, with her 
 misgivings, as she called them, of her husband's conduct. 
 About a year after they came to live in om- neighbour- 
 hood, a little girl was born; the boy was tliree years old, 
 and, even at this early age, the wicked father taught 
 the child to swear. 
 
 The next step in liis career of sin was inebriety. 
 This vice became habitual ; yet Mary stiU loved on, 
 anxiously and tenderly watching for a moment to reclaim 
 the blaspheming drunkard. But no such moment caine. 
 Each time that he returned from sea, tlie pious lessons 
 tliat tlic mother had bestowed upon licr chiklren during 
 his short voyage wore almost rendered null and void, 
 by the vile precepts, and worse example, of the father. 
 Even the rosy little cherub girl was taken on his knee 
 and taught to swear. 
 
 I several times was present when a better feeling 
 seemed to work within him. His wife would talk 
 to him affectionately of former happy days ; and I, 
 though very young to do so, would reason with him 
 on the folly of his ways. His promises of bettor con-
 
 103 
 
 duct then once more raised up her hopes of refonnation ; 
 but the morrow seldom came without a disappointment 
 of those hopes, and she pined again in secret to think 
 the man she loved so tenderly was not to be reclaimed. 
 Her kind old mother watched the progi-ess of her 
 daughter's misery, and was hastened to her grave while 
 contemplating its quick advances to a dreadful con- 
 summation. 
 
 Her aged eyes, not destined to behold it, were closed 
 in death before her daughter's husband chose for his 
 companions those who knew no other joy than riot, 
 no other love than that of bacchanalian revelries, obsce- 
 nities, and gross debasing di'unkenness ; and to whose 
 examples he became a slave. The man he copied most, 
 and loved to follow best, declared there was no God, 
 to punish their misdeeds ; no hell, but when theii- cash 
 was low, the bottle unattainable. The captain's deeds 
 and sayings were always applauded; for he was rich, 
 and his money helped them all to sin the more. What 
 cared they for his family's imjioverishment ? His poor 
 afHicted wife for two long years endured his profhgate 
 debauchery and tyrant humour with unrepining forti- 
 tude, and only tried by every winning art to soothe him 
 into reason, pleading hard that he would not destroy 
 his soul, but, for the sake of their former happiness, 
 return to former ways. 
 
 In vain she pleaded for himself, or even for his 
 son, whom he took delight in teaching to drink and 
 swear, to say there was no God, no devil, heaven, or 
 hell ; and yet he taught tlic child to bid his mother
 
 104 
 
 go there. To save her son, the anxious, tender mother 
 always interposed, but only got herself abused. The 
 once, the still beloved, in spite of aU his crimes, — the 
 once kind, loving husband, without her having any real 
 fault of wliich he could with truth accuse her, — gave 
 her blows when she attempted to preserve her child from 
 harm ; and tlien he went to meet the gi'oss companions 
 that had drawn his steps aside from vu'tue, and to put 
 into his mouth " the enemy that steals away men's 
 brains." 
 
 I often saw her anguish after he was gone, and knelt 
 with her in supplication to the God of mercy, that he 
 would change her husband's spirit, and debar him of the 
 power to make lier son his follower in the path of wicked- 
 ness. Oh dreadfully too soon the prayer was answered, 
 with a shock that makes my blood turn cold to think 
 upon. 
 
 Her Bible was her only solace, as it had been her 
 mother's constant comfort. I frequently saw her snatch 
 a moment to peruse, and leai'n by heart, some passage 
 that conveyed a thought to comfort her in her distress. 
 1 called on her often, she appeared so grateful for my 
 visits, and said that I soothed her sorrow; I therefore 
 gratified her when I could, believing that it came within 
 the code of charity proposed to us by God in scriptiire. 
 
 Matters went on without a hope of better times until 
 the boy was nearly seven years old, the little girl was 
 not quite four. The father came home each day devoid 
 of reason with the fury of his temper, with unabated
 
 105 
 
 inebriety, and atheistical pretensions of unbelief. I often 
 went to soothe the angTiish of the now despauing woman, 
 hoping to hear better news; she still was fond and self- 
 sacrificing, and still clung to him, resolved to watch 
 her opportunity to win him back to virtue; she shai'ed 
 his misery, though not his sin, despite of all that she 
 endured from his depravity. 
 
 Jn all things that concerned her own comfort she 
 was most economical, fearing her children might be 
 reduced to want by his love of drink. Yet all he wanted 
 she provided with much care, and tried most anxiously 
 to win him from the evU converse that con-upted his 
 good morals. In vain she wept, imploring him to kneel 
 to God in prayer, for his assistance to forsake liis loose 
 companions, and the poisonous bottle that poui-ed its 
 subtle venom on his drunken soul, and made his reason 
 totter in its cell. "There is no God, thou snivelling 
 fool," he always cried; and then he cursed her, till she 
 brought him port, the wine he always chose. Port, port, 
 still port, which di-ew him nearer inch by inch into the 
 port where Satan's myi'iads gnash their teeth in ever- 
 lasting binning agony ; still he drank on, disclaiming 
 God, and sinking deeper into sin, neither wife, misfor- 
 tune, God, nor man reclaiming him. 
 
 One day he came home to dine a little earlier than 
 his usual time; his wife had a piece of roasting beef 
 before the fire. As chUcben and servant were abroad, 
 she sat beside it, with her Bible on the table, wliich she 
 read while she attended to the roast. The moment that
 
 106 
 
 her husband came and saw the book, he cursed and 
 swore most furiously, declaring he woiild bm-n it. In 
 vain she cried for mercy on it, telling him that God 
 might strike him down if he dared to do so foul a 
 deed. " There is no God to do it," cried the dreadful 
 man, and instantly he seized the Bible, dashed the beef 
 upon the hearth, and thmstiug the hook into the back 
 part of the book, hung it on end before the fire ; 
 then he snatched the ladle, filled it with fat and gi'avy, 
 and poured it all upon the sacred volume; then tilled 
 again, in bold defiance. That moment he dropped down a 
 corpse ; but he exclaimed in fearful accents, while he fell, 
 " Oh Ood, have mercy on my soul," and then expired. ' T 
 was thus the Atheist died ! 
 
 Oh what a hideous gulf he must have seen, just at 
 the moment that his spirit lied its tenement of clay. 
 The hon-or spread upon liis stiffened, blackened, and dis- 
 torted face, writhed out of all human expression, and 
 most Mghtful to behold, proclaimed his tei-ror when he 
 died. Ah, what a rush of agonising tortures must the 
 WTetch have felt, when he perceived the hand of death 
 had struck him, in the very midst of his blaspheming 
 riot. He surely must have felt remorse for his past 
 misdeeds. The consciousness that he liad put the 
 Atheist on, to cover those misdeeds' malignity from 
 his fellow men ; the consciousness that lie had lived as 
 though there was not any God to punish him; then in 
 one agonising rush of thoiiglits at liis own judgment-
 
 107 
 
 seat deep buried in his heart, he must liave stood there 
 self-condemned. At once his doubts dissolved. 
 
 What must have been the hon-or of that anguished 
 moment, v/hen in a tone of heartfelt terror he exclaimed, 
 " Oh God, have mercy on my soul," and instantly sank 
 down to rise no more. Were it not worse than hea- 
 thenish to believe that any but a just, all-powei-ful God 
 could make him utter this, or strike him down, while 
 standing, in deiiance of all law and rule, to roast a thing 
 so sacred as the Bible — God's own word, and revela- 
 tions of a Saviour. 
 
 His vicious, fallen nature, gloated o'er the mischief 
 he designed to do ; in full health's prime, the body stood 
 erect, in wicked purpose resolved to do a deed of horror. 
 Oh that a body, which was once so fair to look upon, 
 should ever hold a soul so destitute of Ckristian feeling, 
 a heart so unattuned to Clu'istiau love, a mind so reck- 
 less, so replete with vicious sentiments, with humours 
 so destructive to the peace of others and his own repose. 
 His poor wife standing jietrified with hoiTor, vainly 
 holding out her hands to save that book, her only 
 heavenly treasure, presented by a fond and tender 
 mother, long since gone into the tomb, thus saved the 
 anguish of beholding her loved child's hopes anni- 
 hilated — for still, while he had life, she fondly hoped 
 to save him from destruction — by persuasion, and the 
 grace of God pom'ed on him for her ceaseless, faithful 
 advocacy at the throne of mercy, that the King of kings
 
 lOs 
 
 would save her husband from destruction. Oh ! what a 
 wreck her heart's warm yearnings here sustained. 
 
 She sent for me the moment that her reason, wliich 
 this great calamity that fell upon her house had nearly 
 overthrown, permitted her to think of any one hut 
 doctors, who in vain exerted theu* poor skill to resusci- 
 tate the victim of his own depravity, and the Almighty's 
 wrath for his defiance. I hastened to obey her call, and 
 in some minutes, perhaps not more than twenty, after 
 he had fallen down, I saw him where he lay, a blackened, 
 swollen, and disfigured corpse. Tlie scalding fat pom-ed 
 down the arm that had been raised to desecrate and 
 smear the sacred volume; the spasm-pang, with death- 
 grip, clenched the ladle in his hand. It could not be 
 removed, remaining as an emblem of the crime for wliich 
 he died — struck down, without a moment's warning, by 
 the power of that unseen Almighty hand that he had 
 dared to brave, defy, scorn, doubt, and even to deny. 
 
 I saw the Bible there, suspended still uj^on the hook 
 before the fire. The poor bereaved widow's deep dis 
 traction not permitting her to take it doM'n ; the feehng 
 that it condemned her lost husband's soid to everlasting 
 torments and burning agony dried u^) the soui'ce of 
 tears; they could not flow; she looked the picture of 
 petrified despair and woe. A kind and pitying spectator 
 took the Bible from the hook, and laid it in a cupboard 
 near, leaving it open, tliat the leaves might dry^ I 
 lielped her afterwards to cleanse the book sufficiently 
 that it might be preserved, to warn lior son of wbut lie
 
 109 
 
 might expect, if ever he became an atheist, or in any 
 way defied the Lord. 
 
 Alternately I looked upon the Bible and the corpse. 
 When I surveyed the horrors of the latter, I instinctively 
 knelt down, and prayed that I might never see the like 
 again; and then I shut my eyes in vain, to take away 
 the homd picture, but it had struck upon my eyeballs 
 with such a forceful feeling that it left the impression 
 on then- orbs, and I could see as plainly with them shut 
 as when they stood quite open, gazing on the dead man's 
 ugliness. The feeling haunted me for many a day that 
 1 had seen a real atheist, a tiling that, girl as I then 
 was, my reason told me never had been known. 
 
 I write 'the dead man's ugliness.' Oh, he was so 
 deformed and black ; the face drawn out of shape, quite 
 hideous to behold. The di'eadful curses he was uttering, 
 when the death-pang seized his ii-ame, appeared to me 
 to spread themselves in print upon his face ; each 
 misshaped feature looked like nothing but a curse, so 
 bloated, black, and bursting; the eyes stood goggling 
 out, projecting so that the lids could not be closed upon 
 them, to shut out the dread expression that exhibited 
 how sin could gleam in fixed and terrible lustre after 
 the soul was sold to Satan. Even from tlie orbs so 
 lovely while reflecting the Creatoi''s image and the moral 
 impulses lodged within the happy Christian's mind, 
 foul sin had given the power to Satan to send forth 
 a bi-utal and ferocious gleam, which pierced the beholder 
 with horror. His body was swollen with the stag- 
 
 10
 
 110 
 
 nant current, so suddenly stopped iu its circiUation 
 through his frame, congealing neai* the hai'dened. heart 
 that nothing could dissolve. 
 
 I left this scene of woe, after having in some degree 
 persuaded the imhappy widow to resume her reason for 
 her childi'en's sakes, and have the corpse laid out in 
 decency hefore they and the servant could return. She 
 did so ; and, as I and all her neighbouring friends 
 advised, hushed the tale as nuich as possible. But it had 
 spread like wildfire in the suiTounding neighbourhood, 
 and as I, sick and faint, walked home, I })ut a stop to 
 many, going to enquire the tale out at the afflicted 
 mourner's house. The voice of each that met and spoke 
 to me seemed like the sound of a sejndchre, a sound of 
 thrilling hoiTor, so hollow, cold, and tremulous, so grave 
 and feai'ful, as each with an inquiring look of solemn 
 import accosted me with. Have you heard? — Oh, is it 
 not a dreadful tale, this sudden death of the Atheist ? — 
 Did the wretch really roast the Bible? — How shocking 
 thus to be cut off while glorying in his foul iniquity ! 
 — The tale cannot be true? I told them I could 
 pledge myself it was : I liad seen the corpse. Oh then 
 what anxious faces met my view ! and I could only 
 save the poor widow's heart the pang of seeing them, 
 by briefly answering their enquuies myself I per- 
 suaded them to be as silent as they could, on her 
 account, till she could leave the town — a thing that 
 all her friends advised. 
 
 As soon as she could settle her affairs she did, and
 
 Ill 
 
 I received her grateful kind adieus in two months after 
 the event above related, when she left the town to 
 dwell with distant relatives in another. I never since 
 have seen the atheist's widow, but I never can forget the 
 roasting of the Bible, and the awful death that followed 
 as a just condemnation of the deed. Who shall escape 
 the vengeance of the Lord if he be mocked '? Let not 
 any man deny God, lest God deny him. Where then 
 shall he iind a resting place for his soul ? Where, and 
 to what hoiTors, shall he be doomed throughout eternity! 
 that fearfully immeasurable space Eternity ! 
 
 %\)m is a f)tMi 
 
 Oh, yes ! there 's a heaven; 
 Its bliss will be given 
 To the souls that believe 
 There 's a God to receive 
 Holy saints that aspire 
 To join in heaven's choir. 
 Oh, yes ! there 's a heaven. 
 A seat will be given, 
 And within its expanse, 
 To the soul freed from trance,
 
 112 
 
 That hath led holy life, 
 
 Undefiled by guilt's stiife ; 
 
 Exempt not from the sin 
 
 That weak mortal 's born in. 
 
 Escape not by crying 
 
 Eor heaven, but by trying 
 
 Renewed gi'ace to win, 
 
 A new heart, free from sin, 
 
 And a faith ftil belief 
 
 In the sinner's relief, 
 
 In the life Jesus gave, 
 
 Sinners' souls to save. 
 
 This ransom was given 
 
 To take them to heaven. 
 
 He resigned his own blood 
 
 For the faitliful and good, 
 
 To reclaim and make fit 
 
 At liis footstool to sit 
 
 In the regions above 
 
 With the gi-eat God of love, 
 
 The regenerate soul, 
 
 By his pure faith made whole. 
 
 Oh, yes, there 's a heaven 
 
 To all will be given, 
 
 "Who have conquered the snares 
 
 Which bold Satan prepares 
 
 Wliilc on cartli we do dwell, 
 
 Thougli invited to hell
 
 113 
 
 By bis legions, who try 
 Our weak soiJs to destroy. 
 We may find out the way 
 To the regions of day, 
 If each stej) that we tread 
 Is within, or is led 
 By, Religion's bright train, 
 Where our God is the main 
 And the only support 
 Which a Christian can court, 
 While he hastes to retrieve 
 Each false step, and believe 
 In the law and the word 
 Which God's writings afford. 
 By believing in these, 
 We gain joys that ne'er cease, 
 And eternally dwell 
 Where no mortal can tell 
 How much joy is given. 
 Oh, yes ! there 's a heaven, 
 To the faithful is given ! 
 And the faitliful will find 
 More bliss than the mind 
 Of mankind can conceive. 
 Then let all men beheve, 
 And with gladness receive 
 The assurance given, 
 That there is a heaven, 
 -in-
 
 114 
 
 A retreat from all woe ; 
 And the freed soul may go 
 Soaring gladly above, 
 As on wings of the dove, 
 To the joys free from leaven 
 In tliis i^romised heaven. 
 So sure to be given : 
 Oh yes ! tliere 's a heaven. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 f I]^ Itttribtttes 0f lire Salji0ttr, 
 
 He gave his precious life to save, 
 
 And shades the teiTors of the grave ; 
 
 He washes blackest sins quite wliite. 
 
 And watches over death's dark night ; 
 
 He lays all sins on his own back, 
 
 And breaks the pangs of conscience' rack ; 
 
 He keeps the heart in equipoise. 
 
 And every carnal thought destroys ; 
 
 He teaches neighbours brother-love, 
 
 And lifts the lingering soul above ; 
 
 He meets the spirit in its flight. 
 
 And gives its day — removes its night; 
 
 Ffe intercedes for men to rise, 
 
 And hails them wlien they reacli the skies.
 
 Q^ssag ilj. 
 
 ON SKLF-KNOWLEDGE, ITS USES AND APPLICATION. 
 
 The means of governing our own temper, and the methods by which 
 we may acquire the power of influencing and controlling the tem- 
 pers of others, combined with Woman's power throughout the 
 whole. 
 
 Self-knowledge is one of the most valuable acquisitions 
 that mortals can attain; and, in attaining it, we must 
 climb prouder heiglits than ever ambition trod or enter- 
 prise achieved. It is an acquisition over which the 
 wheel of fortune has no control, being wholly dependent 
 on the efforts of the human heart and mind, with which 
 alone we have to straggle, seeking the divine assistance. 
 The obstacles which we must not only overleap, but 
 crush and bury, are the frailties of human nature, and 
 its fond yieldings to the subtle and external influences 
 that surround it. And what so frail and unstable, so 
 tortuous, versatile, and inflexible, yet so variable, as the 
 human heart and mind.
 
 lie 
 
 I draw this gi-eat distinction between the heart and 
 mind, making the heart the seat of all our feelings, 
 desires, and sentiments — the mind the spirit that over- 
 looks and governs them; for nothing can descend into 
 the heart that has not previously visited the mind. Yet 
 the mind, tlirough the organ of speech, is capable of 
 expressing feelings with which the heart has no com- 
 munion, reserving to itself the power of exhibiting the 
 heart as judgment or imagination may dictate, and, 
 unfortunately for us, the judgment only too often com- 
 l^els the will to act in opposition to the heart's best 
 feelings and dictates. Thus, while the imagination 
 wanders forth in speculations for the future, interested 
 motives, combined with conventional customs, make it 
 ever play tlie tyrant with the heart, to check its generous 
 impulses, to shadow over its genuine sentiments, to 
 blunt its better feelings, and conceal them from tlie 
 vulgar and licentious eye, lest they should be derided. 
 
 But, lest this shoidd be deemed a sliglit digression 
 from the subject, I will at once jiroceed to ask. What is 
 Self-knowledge ? As I understand it, it is a thorough dis- 
 section, examination, calculation, and ai)pi"eciation of 
 all the thoughts, feelings, inclinations, motives, and 
 passions by which we ourselves are incited to action ; a 
 candid survey and mental acknowledgment of our own 
 imperfections — not simply admitting that we have faults 
 in common with all minkind, but candidly allowing that 
 we have such faults as are peculiarly and individually 
 our own.
 
 117 
 
 Without endeavoui-ing to palliate or conceal our 
 faults from ourselves, we should resolutely try to examine 
 and dissect them internally, treating them with more 
 severity than even an enemy would externally exhibit 
 towards them. But the dissection and examination of 
 GUI' own imperfections is rendered extremely difficult, by 
 the natm'al love of self implanted in the heart of all 
 mankind, making us all disposed to be much more 
 lenient to ourselves than to others; except in instances 
 where deep affection marks the difierence or contrast, 
 then, sometimes, the error leans the other way, and 
 imperfections are augmented by encom'agement, when 
 a little just severity and discipline would at once subdue 
 tliem. 
 
 The next question that I shall ask is. How and when 
 should the acquisition of self-knowledge commence? 
 The first part of the business belongs to om' mother, 
 in our infancy; consequently, she should be a woman 
 of mUd, enduring temjier, strong reasoning faculties, and 
 fine moral attributes, both practically and theoretically; 
 or she should provide herself with one, for the tuition 
 of her children, who may be properly so denominated. 
 Under such superintendence the children will be taught, 
 from books and conversation, the various feelings, 
 motives, and inclinations wliich may, with propriety, 
 be called moral and religious. During the period of its 
 tuition, the temper of the child should be particularly 
 attended to, and every cai-e taken to discover, disarm, 
 and suppress the first indications of anger, malice,
 
 118 
 
 revenge, or any other bad passion that may appear to 
 influence its little petulances. These must be mildly cor- 
 rected, by appealing to the reason of the child ; and 
 punishment must never be inflicted untU reasoning and 
 persuasion have failed. 
 
 In finishing the education, care should be taken to 
 give solid, rather than superficial acquirements; for, by 
 too great solicitude to attain excellence in artificial 
 accomplishments, vanity is too frequently engendered; 
 and this foolish vice is alone sufficient to poison the 
 enjoyments of its possessor's life, by drawing down 
 frequent disappointment. 
 
 When school days are no longer a pleasure or a 
 pain, the ue.vt step that we take is too frequently a 
 plunge into the vortex of gaiety, dissipation, worldly 
 pleasures, and all the allurements that captivate the 
 senses and beguile the reason. How necessary, then, 
 to be most cautious in our choice of recreations and 
 society. The maintenance of the religion and morality 
 imbibed in our earlier years now depends much upon 
 the society into which we are thrown, and the use 
 we make of the examples there set befors us. Here 
 we have a most extensive field for self improve- 
 ment, and self formation of mind and principles of 
 action, as far as we are permitted by the Almighty 
 to act according to the will wlii(;li ho has given us. In 
 an intimate commerce with the world, both good and 
 evil arc constantly before us, ai'e aUke presented for our 
 choice. I do believe that, by God's mercy, the good
 
 119 
 
 considerably predominates, (excej)t among the lowest 
 bands of untaught mortals, who breathe alone the 
 atmosphere of vice.) The good predominating, it is 
 easy then to attach it to ourselves, unless our nature 
 leans to evil so conspicuously as to attract its votaries, 
 who may try to draw us into fellowship. 
 
 But how are we to make the actions of others a 
 foundation for self formation? By carefully examining 
 those actions, their good or evil tendency and pro- 
 perties ; by ascertaining the results which follow from 
 them ; by impartially comparing them with our own, and 
 reflecting upon the probable motives which might induce 
 those actions. Oiu" own self love will naturally impute 
 a fairer and more elevated motive to ourselves than to 
 others. But let us question that self love, by asking, 
 What would be my feelings on the occasion of an evil 
 motive being assigned to my proceedings? What cause 
 have I to believe that another man or woman is less 
 likely to be actuated by a sense of honour, humanity, 
 or neighbourly love than myself? Unless the tenor of 
 the action palpably discloses it, we should never susj^ect 
 evil incautiously, and only admit its existence in another, 
 when the evidence is clear and indisputable. 
 
 In all intimate acquaintance, we may ascertain the 
 results that proceed fi'om conspicuous actions; and as 
 a sUent observer has a better view of the game than 
 the actors therein, we may, by silent observation and 
 free exercise of thought, frame our minds so as pretty 
 generally to form a coiTect estimate of then- motives.
 
 120 
 
 and in general a liberal and just one, 2'i'ovided we are 
 in amity with the actors, or at least not at vaiiance 
 with them. 
 
 But it is of infinitely gi'eater importance, for tlie 
 correct regulation of our heart and mind, that we 
 should carefully examine the incentives to our own 
 actions, and the laws hy which they are governed. 
 This cannot better be done than by framing a short 
 concise chapter of laws for self examination and rule, 
 in the shape of a few questions, to ask ourselves each 
 night on retiring, before we kneel down to our ordinary 
 devotions. Let us suppose them such as the following : 
 
 .1st. Did I commence tlie duties of the day by implor- 
 ing Divine aid, to prompt my knowledge and control 
 my actions, feeling that the aid of God alone could 
 be efficient? 
 
 2nd. Have my actions throughout the day been 
 in conformity with the strict laws of honour, truth, 
 religion, and morality? 
 
 3rd. Have I augmented the petty vexations of the 
 day by petulance, sullenness, contradiction, or an inflexi- 
 bOity of humour? 
 
 4th. Have I resigned my own wishes to gi'atify 
 those of any other person? 
 
 0th. Have I judged tlie motives of others as liberally 
 as I wish mine to be judged ? 
 
 0th. In any flash of wit or satire, have I disregarded 
 the feelings of a fellow worm, or prided myself on my 
 wit or personal endowments? If so, how mean to be
 
 121 
 
 proud of that which a greater than m^-self bestowed 
 on me. 
 
 7th. Have I placed my blessings in review before my 
 troubles and vexations, and, comparing them with the 
 lot of other less favoured individuals, blessed God for 
 having dealt so leniently with me? 
 
 8th. Have I demanded from another anything 
 which in similar cu'cumstances I would not willingly 
 have granted to them, and yet presume to call myself 
 not selfish ? 
 
 9th. Did I lose my temper, on being refused that 
 which I would not willingly have granted, and yet 
 presume to call myself not unjust? 
 
 10th. Shall I lie down at peace with the whole 
 world? — Let not the sun set on a feeling of enmity, 
 for he who refuses to forgive breaks the bridge over 
 which he must himself pass ; we all have need to be 
 forgiven. 
 
 Let every man and woman ask themselves such 
 questions as these on retiring; at the same time, by 
 reflecting on the pleasures of internal peace, inciting 
 themselves to a feeling of dehght when they can con- 
 scientiously answer aiBi-matively to the good, and nega- 
 tively to the evil, feelings ; inciting themselves, on the 
 contrary, to a feeling of remorse, and reflecting on the 
 dreadfid consequences of continual sin. They may rest 
 assm'ed that this practice will have a most salutary 
 influence on then- conduct and morals, and teach them 
 to acquu'e self-knowledge. 
 
 11
 
 122 
 
 Ha\'iug said so muc-h ou the acquisition of self- 
 knowledge, I have now to expatiate on its uses ; and 
 I feel no scruple in asserting, that we do by its j^er- 
 vadiug influence, even when only partially acquired, 
 enjoy many essential benefits, which must have a ten- 
 dency to promote our own happiness, and that of others, 
 in an eminent degree. 
 
 Its first use is as a stepping-stone to Religion ; for 
 by endeavouring to attain self-knowledge, we bring into 
 use tlie study of the finest work of the Creator. Conse- 
 quently, we must he led to contemplate and admire the 
 infinite goodness, mercy, wisdom, science, ingenuity, 
 and judgment of God, as displayed in the construction 
 of sucli a complicated work of wonder, and magnitude, 
 and overpowering sublimity, as tlic human frame, com- 
 bined with the mental powers co-operating with tlie 
 physical. 
 
 It would take a dozen essays to dilate upon the con- 
 struction of the human mind ; I will, therefore, content 
 myself with speaking of its powers in connexion with 
 the uses of self-knowledge. Next to religion, its second 
 use is Truth, which is the most difficult thing in nature 
 to arrive at. The construction of the attributes whicli 
 form the human mind is so versatile, possessing such 
 an infinitude of shapes and variations, that eacli mind 
 seems endowed with a diflerent sense of mental vision. 
 Though numbers may agree in some points, how rarely, 
 if ever, do we see a general simUitudc of mind in any 
 two pei'sons; each one judging nnd colouring objects,
 
 12a 
 
 things, events, results, and theories, according to his 
 own sense of mental vision, without reference to that 
 of any other. Couseqviently, when we seek for ti'uth, 
 we find it only in unimpeachable facts, that admit of 
 ocular demonstration. Yet I assert, that self-knowledge 
 teaches truth. It teaches us that we may err in speak- 
 ing even the conviction of our own minds ; that, appear- 
 ances being deceitful, the mind may he deluded by 
 them. This serves to shew us tliat in simple matters 
 of opinion, one mind is as likely to be correct as another, 
 if we take into consideration that circumstances alter 
 cases. 
 
 What folly, then, to take offence at anything like 
 a contradictory opinion. What right have we to demand 
 from others that they should relinquish their opuiions, 
 when we maintain our own? Ought we not in justice 
 to allow others to enjoy the same privilege ? Self- 
 knowledge teaches us this justice, for it makes us 
 know our own imperfectness, and pleads for lenity to 
 others. 
 
 Honour comes next; a theme so hackneyed, that I 
 will say but little more than that it belongs to truth, and, 
 like the parasitic verdant ivy, twines its orient leaves and 
 tendrils round about om* every vu'tue ; and any totter- 
 ing souls, that want its prop, become so foul, decayed, 
 impin-e, and struck with mental palsy, that they should 
 never dare to breathe the atmosphere of vhtue. A being 
 wholly destitute of honour, seems to me more poisonous 
 than the Upas, destroying with his pestilential breath
 
 124 
 
 each virtue, that makes effort to take root witlihi his 
 sphere of action, alike its birth-jjlace and its burial- 
 gi'ound. 
 
 Mercy comes next. Self-knowledge teaches this 
 ennobhug virtue, and much we need its benelits our- 
 selves. In delineating mercy, I cannot do better than 
 quote froin Sliakspeare, who, in his Merchant of Venice, 
 causes Shylock to be thus addressed : 
 
 " The quality of mercy is not strained, 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
 Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: 
 It blcsseth liini that gives, and him that takes. 
 'T is mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown. 
 His sceptre shews the force of temporal power, 
 The attribute of awe and majesty, 
 WTierein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. 
 But mercy is above this sceptred sway; 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. 
 It is an attribute of God himself. 
 And earthly power doth then shew likest God's, 
 When mercy seasons justice." 
 
 And now to shew that the merciful must needs be 
 just. True mercy forms a just estimate of others' 
 weaknesses, bending over them witli a lenient eye. 
 And by this very lenity the mental vision is improved, 
 and rendered powerful to detect all eiTor, reproving 
 which with a gentle force, the depraved heart alone can 
 feel aggrieved at its enactment. True self-knowledge, 
 by teaching us to form a just estimate of our own 
 motives of action, jilants, at the same time, a rectitude
 
 125 
 
 of judgment and of justice towai-ds our neighbom-. 
 Who that knows himself, his natural tendency to evil, 
 and all the varied struggles encountered to attain a 
 better feeling, and the non-solidity and instability of 
 that feeling when attained, can look upon the deeds of 
 another, and not make allowance for the sullying influence 
 of the shoals and quicksands over which he must have 
 passed, in his career to the position in which he may 
 then stand. Himself, man knows not, unless the know- 
 ledge teaches liim to be lenient, just, and ti'ue to others. 
 
 Self-knowledge teaches next Humility. This deli- 
 cate and gi'aceful quality is seldom seen amongst the 
 haunts of men, and therefore, it is not easy to expound it. 
 But as it is seen in woman, it is of such delicate 
 and fragile textirre, that if it gaze but once admiringly 
 upon its own perfection, that instant it is gone ; and 
 any one who ventures to believe she hath it, proves by 
 that single thought she hath it not. Humility is a 
 flower of such a soothing, chaste, and pleasant odoiu", so 
 sensitive and so refined, that it in Eden only ever 
 bloomed, and there it died. Since then it has but seldom 
 blossomed in a mortal soil.* Though we may often 
 feel most deeply humbled, this feeling rather springs 
 
 • Humility ! the sweetest, loveliest flower 
 That bloomed in Paradise, and the first that died, 
 Has rarely blossomed since on mortal soil. 
 It is so frail, so delicate a tiling, 
 'T is gone if it but gaze upon itself, 
 And she who ventures to esteem it hers, 
 Proves by that single thought she has it not. 
 
 Caroline Fn/. 
 
 -u-
 
 1^6 
 
 from pride, than from a tender consciousness of non- 
 desert, and wounds om* seK-esteem without destroying it. 
 The very sense that we are humble makes us proud, 
 ambitious, and competitors with those who are esteemed 
 superior to us. Yet we may be so humble as to feel that 
 any deed we do may be sui-passed by others, and feel 
 no wish to rob them of their merit, or to make it less 
 by emulating to outdo them. And if we learn to know 
 ourselves, and all our frailties, it will teach us to subdue 
 our expectations of successful self-achievement. 
 
 If Self-knowledge teaches Religion, Justice, Mercy, 
 Lenity, and Truth, it also teaches Charity. And not 
 alone the cliarity that vaunts itself by ostentatious dis- 
 tribution of the rich metallic balsam, but that which 
 doth array itself in soft and tender feeling for the woes 
 of others, and stretches out the ready hand to soothe and 
 Ileal them. A cup of water, given with pityuig eye and 
 softly tender tone, to one who has no earthly friend, is 
 more refr'eshing than the dew of heaven, unless descend- 
 ing on a heart prepared to melt beneath that dew's 
 impression. 
 
 The charity that springs from knowledge of our- 
 selves, climbs not ambition's dangerous hill, but creeps 
 into a hiding place, where it may see tlie passers-by, 
 itself unseen ; and thus concealed, discovering all tlicir 
 various wants, it stretches out the helping hand, without 
 requU-ing them to ask for aid, and burn their hearts to 
 save tlie suffering frame. 
 
 True Cliarity deceives not ; it is as open as the day,
 
 12', 
 
 and candidly reveals its thoughts, unless they militate 
 against the fame of those who have it not; and even 
 then, reluctant to expose them, though it would scorn to 
 lie, it keeps a silent tongue, except where it is needful to 
 reveal, in order to warn friends fi-om evil contact, or to 
 vindicate one's self; it is then a charity to tell the tale, 
 since it may save hoth parties fi'om a fall. 
 
 The noble-minded donor never wounds the hand he 
 fiUs, and scorns to gall the spirit of the poor receiver. A 
 gift may be so graciously bestowed, that the recipient shall 
 feel the one conferring the favour. There is a delicacy 
 in the art of giving that makes the poor dependents feel 
 they have no want wliich is not well supplied, since they 
 have got a real friend. Oh, it is cruel to depress the 
 souls of those who ask for aid, and let them measure out 
 their wants in speech, which you can understand without 
 requu-ing such an effort. And if their wants require not 
 money's aid, how easy to award yoiu- time, yoiu" pity, 
 sympathy, good counsel, or generous influence with 
 others to amend their state, and do it all without a 
 murmur at mankind's ingi-atitude. Oui- God commands 
 us to beguile the sorrows of our feUows, and do it to his 
 glory. So let us all obey, and seek no other recompense 
 than his approval, conveyed by feeling that we have 
 conferred much happiness on others, to the expansion 
 of our own. 
 
 Since we cannot relieve oiu- fellow-creatures without 
 infusing happiness into ourselves, even selfishness should 
 teach us charity: for, when not commencing at home,
 
 128 
 
 it takes a turu, and, travelliug homeward, enters tliere, 
 if but to rest awhile. Therefore, for self, for home, for 
 others, for the love of man, and, more than all, the 
 love of God, let us he charitable. 
 
 We now come to the application of self-knowledge. 
 Its application is to disseminate throughout our conduct 
 the many virtues it will teach us; for precept is of little 
 worth, luiless accompanied by practice. It is only by 
 the force of practice that a precept ever becomes deeply 
 rooted. By practice we alone can shew what we have 
 learned, and know the value of that learning; and every 
 one tliat feels and sees must know that, if we practise 
 virtue, the results that follow are natm-ally good; and, 
 if we practise vice, that tlie results are evil. How neces- 
 sary, then, to shun the path of vice, and travel on the 
 road to virtue. 
 
 The application of self-knowledge draws a line 
 between the two, carefully noting tlie signs and tokens 
 of each, and taking its own patli on tlie side of virtue, 
 plodding on with even pace, unseen for aught that 
 renders it conspicuous, till jostled to the other side by 
 human frailty. It is seen with pleasure by the loitering 
 fools that travel in the path of sin, and none stretch out 
 the heli)ing hand to save it from the trip. But, happily 
 for its own self, recovering, it feels the chilling atmo- 
 sphere of vice so imcongenial to its nature, that it 
 redoubles all its efforts to regain tlie jiatli it lost; and, 
 treading it with a firmer, more determined stej), is then
 
 1:29 
 
 less prone to swerve. Inviting others to walk with 
 them, all those who really have acquii'ed self-knowledge, 
 and practise it in tiiith, apply it for the benefit of all 
 who come in contact with them, and give such bright 
 examples, that none but the malignant and envious will 
 dare to blame, though few may emulate their viitues. 
 
 The next point to be discussed is the government of 
 the temper, an accomplisliment much more difficult to 
 attain than self-knowledge, one equally valuable, and 
 more necessary to the promotion of happiness. A person 
 who has only a very moderate stock of self-knowledge 
 may possess a clear judgment, and veiy acute penetration, 
 in discovering a knowledge of others. By using these 
 qualities cleverly, they may avail themselves of many 
 opportunities to render those discoveries (eveiy one of 
 which may vary in its tone and character,) beneficial, 
 both to themselves and others. If possessed, likewise, 
 of self-government, what an unbounded influence they 
 may obtain over others. What an expanse to wander 
 over, if we trace the variations comprised in the mixture 
 of mental and animal properties combined which form 
 what is called temper. How indelibly do these number- 
 less variations mark the Omniscience and Omnipotence 
 of the Great Creator of all mankind ! 
 
 In such a multiplicity of forms does temper shew 
 itself, that it is almost impossible to find two persons 
 tempered alike; consequently, how necessaiy it is for 
 aU persons, in theii- dealings with others, to adopt the
 
 l.SO 
 
 spirit of " bear and forbear." Those parties particularly 
 who dwell together should live in peace; but is it so? 
 Too oft, indeed, it is the contrary. 
 
 Though every temper differs, yet agreeable contrasts 
 may be found that can dwell together in unity, by each 
 party cviltivating a spirit of forbearance, to use whenever 
 the contrast is glaringly and contradictorily exhibited. 
 It is only by the cultivation of this valuable talent, called 
 forbearance, and a due appreciation of, and regard for, 
 the feelings of others, with mild and gentle reasoning in 
 all points wherein we differ or desire to dictate, that we 
 can hope to gain this power of influencing and con- 
 trolling the tempers of others, or prove successful in the 
 government of onr own and our reasoning faculties. 
 How necessary, then, for those who unite for life, before 
 tliey tie the indissolulile band, to study the temper, 
 views, and inclinations of each other, and ascertain 
 whether the contrast of the chosen one will brighten or 
 sully their own, or, combining peacefully, render the 
 two an agreeable whole. 
 
 How much of misery and strife would be spared the 
 married life, if this point were made the chief considera- 
 tion before making the selection. What a stimulant, if 
 it were, both to man and woman, to cultivate the gi-aces 
 of a social, cheerful, niul contented temper. What a 
 fearful amount of misery arises from the neglect of this 
 study. How much more common it is for men to calcu- 
 late how nuu'li money may be gained by their selection 
 of a wife. How much more frequently do they allow
 
 LSI 
 
 themselves to be entrapped by the exteixial gi-aces of 
 the woman, rather than by a just estimate of the culture 
 of her mind, too often vainly thinking that they can 
 mould her to their own, forgetting that she is just as 
 likely to moidd them. 
 
 Woman receives from nature an unbounded influence 
 over man, which, with a little joenetration, enables her 
 to perceive the various points in which she has him at 
 advantage; and a very little skill will enable her to 
 use those advantages so well, that she may turn his will 
 according to her own pleasure, without his having power 
 to check the cmTcnt, so that, with only a veiy little art, 
 most innocently practised, he shall not perceive that he 
 is led, but tliink himself the leader. Yet this can only 
 be accomplished by a woman of sound temper and good 
 humour; wherever these are found, domestic comfort is 
 most likely to exist. 
 
 A thoroughly ill-tempered woman is the greatest 
 curse that can be placed at the head of a house ; for, if 
 its mistress is ill-tempered, she has it in her power to 
 destroy the comfort of every inmate. Domestic comfort 
 is composed of innumerable insignificant trifles, which, 
 taken individually, are almost unworthy of notice, but, 
 when amalgamated into one gi-eat whole, comprise all 
 the ingredients that constitute our earthly happiness, 
 independent of the means and appliances by which the 
 bouse is sustained. 
 
 How necessary, then, to clioose a wise, a merciful, 
 and a liberal regidator for the liousehold. How great
 
 133 
 
 tlic power reposed in woman, when ska is placed at the 
 bead of an establishment — the comfort of every indi- 
 vidual in the hoase dependent on her humoiu*, as much, 
 uav more, tbau on that of her husband. 
 
 Woman's smiles alone can conciliate, when man feels 
 disposed to frown ; and sometimes it is even better than 
 words, however humble the words she uses may be, 
 for the spuit of man is naturally so proud and com- 
 bative, that meek submission even in a woman excites 
 his contempt. A woman may use such a dignified 
 tone, while complying for peace's sake, as will greatly 
 enhance the value of her concession, and cause any 
 feeling-minded man to love her better, for yielding up 
 her own proud spirit to accommodate his mightier one. 
 Man in general is so nobly profuse, when he really is 
 generous, that he will yield ten times for one concession 
 nobly offered; he treasures each compliance as a debt, 
 to be repaid with interest ; therefore a woman gains by 
 yielding, if the man demands nought tliat requii-es licr 
 to forget the laws of God. 
 
 In every lawful point, all prudent wives obey their 
 husbands, and none but foolish or licentious husbands 
 fear their wives. A woman's best mode of honouring 
 her husband, and governing her household, is to set a 
 good example in all she does ; to reward or punish 
 with impartial justice; and to avoid, by every jirudent 
 means, any communication of her little vexations to 
 liim. To do this would be to rob him of the smiles, good 
 hinuoiir, diiUiance, and cheerlul converse, that should
 
 133 
 
 reward his day of toilsotae duties; for every one Las 
 duties to peribiiii, however liigh his station, and his 
 wife should render his evenings at home the most 
 joyous part of his existence, and light up a smile of 
 approbation on his face, calcinated to augment the 
 happiness of both. The man over whom this prudent 
 woman exercises her sway, will award to her a higher 
 meed of praise even than she deserves. 
 
 But let any woman strenuously aim at excellence, 
 and she is sm'e to advance many steps beyond medi- 
 ocrity; and any generous man, who watches her advance- 
 ment, feels her power too strong not to love and cherish 
 her the better for it. 
 
 All persons, in all circumstances, gain by cultivating 
 equanimity of temper, and considerably lessen the 
 calamities of life (which usually fall to the lot of every 
 one, in a greater or less degree,) by cultivating this 
 virtue. 
 
 Notwithstanding the many complaints uttered against 
 the aiBictions of life and its petty vexations, and the 
 unjust observation that God could have made us per- 
 fectly happy, and more equally divided the benefits and 
 sorrows of life, had he loved the happiness of his crea- 
 tures better; it is certain that misery more ii'equently 
 arises from ill temper than from ill fortune. In vain 
 does providence bestow upon us beauty, health, and all 
 the external blessings that wealth can pm-chase, if care 
 has not been taken by ourselves to subdue the asperities 
 of the temper. By temper we feel and form om- esti- 
 
 12
 
 i;n 
 
 mate of everything that occurs to us. Every i^ettj 
 vexation is felt either deei^ly or otherwise, according to 
 the vab.ie which a good or bad temper gives to it. A 
 bad temper embitters every sweet, and mingles worm- 
 wood with our choicest morsels; it darkens the domestic 
 home, weighs down the heart, converts om- blesshigs 
 into woes, and renders that which ouglit to be a para- 
 dise a jDlace of torment. 
 
 The government of the temper, then, on which the 
 happiness of Iiuinan life so much depends, can never 
 be too frequently made a subject of attention, study, 
 and strenuous endeavour; nor can it be too forcibly 
 recommended, especially to young ladies who hope 
 to become wives, and perhaps mothers. If they should 
 not possess self-government, how can they be expected 
 to train their children for the maintenance of a peaceful 
 life, or hope that their own pernicious example will not 
 be fohowed, rather than the precepts that their better 
 reason teaches them at times to endeavour to inculcate. 
 Experience must convince them that they are much 
 more frequently copied than listened to, while preaching 
 that which they seldom practise. 
 
 Is it likely that children will try to check their dispo- 
 sition to be insolent, when they hear their mamma 
 contending with her husband about trifles, replying vex- 
 atiously, — perchance with little reason and much petu- 
 lance, — to all that he advances, and unscrupulously 
 exercising ill-timed and improper severity in their pre- 
 sence. The man may have the spu-it of a donkey, yet.
 
 135 
 
 being tied to him for life, it is better always to recline 
 on bis smooth side. When he is rageful, she may 
 sometimes thus effect her purpose. Let her preserve a 
 studied silence while he raves, and watch her oppor- 
 tunity to catch his eye when he is most extravagant, 
 and fix it with a smUe of such an archly cunning sort, 
 that, seeing it, he fain must laugh for sympathy. Then 
 if she speaks, let her remonstrance be as firm as mild, 
 and he may probably regard it. 
 
 I once was present at a matiimonial racket, where 
 the husband was a furious man, and most despotic 
 father ; but he loved his wife, and with much reason, 
 for she could tame him in his lion mood with one 
 endearing smile. 
 
 On the occasion of which I write, he thought proper 
 to accuse liis eldest daughter of a spirit of levity, which 
 gi-eatiy disj^leased him. He appealed to me. In vain 
 did I explain to him that her conduct had been other- 
 wise than he supposed ; he thought I wished to screen 
 her ; and she, being really wi-ongfully accused, met the 
 accusation with the sj^irit of her father. 
 
 Some remonstrance from a younger daughter lashed 
 him into fury. The lady of the house maintained a 
 silent tongue, but not a silent eye; for some time she 
 vainly endeavoured to catch the eye of either child or 
 husband, — until the mad man (for he was mad with 
 rage,) rose, to dash upon the gi-ound, and break, what 
 stood before him on the supper table. A plain white 
 china butter cooler was demolished first; his eye was
 
 130 
 
 then dii'ected to a splendid china plate belonging to the 
 supper service. The lady of the house then rose, with 
 three plain white ones in her hand. — "Break these, my 
 love," said she, presenting one as he stretched out his 
 hand to seize the gorgeous gilded prey, " you '11 spoil the 
 set if you break that, and I must have it matched ; 
 and then you know — " She smiled so sweetly on him, 
 while she gently tapped the money in his waistcoat- 
 pocket, that he returned her smile most lovingly, 
 and with a fervent " Pardon me, my love, I would not 
 willingly destroy what you may wish to keep ; I almost 
 forgot your presence," he sat down, sUeut and ashamed, 
 but fondly clasped her hand in his. 
 
 Her time now came to speak, and she did do it well ; 
 not once did she upbraid him with improper conduct, 
 but simply stated all the truth, and that she kuew 
 her daughter was correct. Then she hinted that the 
 amende honourable was due to her; on which he kindly 
 sought his daughter's pardon for having accused her 
 wrongfully ; and in the end proposed to gild the matter 
 over with what she had long desired, a new gold watch, 
 presented as a token of reconciliation. I was very 
 young when this occurred, but it taught me how much 
 a man may lose by ill-timed and unreasonable auger, 
 and how much may be saved and gained by reason and 
 good temper. 
 
 I have often observed, when present at a matrimo- 
 nial tete a tele, that the contending ])arties carefidly 
 avoided looking on each other; an act of folly in both,
 
 l.Ti 
 
 for by so doing they trampled on the olive branch, instead 
 of holding out the hand to take it. A husband, when 
 disposed to scold his wife, should look upon her; she 
 should look du-ectly in his eyes ; and I will stake my 
 life upon the chance, that reading hers disarms his 
 anger. Supposing that she loves her husband, — which 
 every honest woman does, since none can take one that 
 she does not love and not act criminally, — I recommend 
 an observance of the eye, because 't is through the eye 
 the heart peeps out. When angry people utter things tire 
 heart disclaims, the eye reveals its struggles, so let 
 them read each other's eyes, and end the quarrel. All 
 my life I have loved to study human nature, in its 
 varied characters, keenlj' observing each new study 
 that presents itself witliin my sphere of action ; 
 and I feel pleased to find that, on a general review, 
 the virtuous and good preponderates ; and when cynics, 
 misanthropes, and cavillers declaim against human 
 nature, its debasement, crime, depravity, and love of 
 worldly pleasures, they forget, when calculating the 
 amount of crimes, to note the vast amount of per- 
 sons, the increasing population ; they forget that evil 
 deeds are always brought to light, and blazoned forth 
 to warn the multitude, while good ones often hide 
 themselves beneath the wings of modesty, and holy 
 law ; for scripture tells us, not to let the left hand know 
 the worldngs of the right. Do none comply with this 
 command ? Aye thousands, and tens of thousands, in 
 oiu- own dear British Isles. The human mind is 
 
 -12-
 
 138 
 
 2>rone to love the marvellous, and the very chx-umstance 
 that evil deeds are looked upon as marvellous and wonder- 
 should teach us to believe that the good preponderates. 
 
 The most uncultivated have sometimes the temper 
 to do good, and keep the peace ; the mode and manner 
 are not fastidious or refined, but still they do much good. 
 I could enumerate and pourtray many instances that 
 have come under my own observation, of unbounded 
 gratitude, and self-sacrificing, deep, devoted love, in 
 those who knew not how to read or write : yet they 
 could think and feel and see, and their nature being 
 naturally kind, with much capacity to leam, it taught 
 them to copy actions that were worthy. All persons 
 who cannot read are not quite ignorant ; illiterate they 
 are, but the Almighty endows them sometimes with 
 natural ability to such a high degi-ee, that they imbibe 
 knowledge from all they see and liear, and would have 
 excelled in many things, had then- good fortune given 
 them opportunity and instructors. I once resided in the 
 lodgings of a poor old country woman, who could not 
 even read her alpliabet, yet her priuci])les and sentiments 
 would have done lionour to the most enlightened mind. 
 Her temper in afiliction, too, was tliat of pious resigna- 
 tion ; and by conversing with her freely, I learned many 
 moral lessons, which might not otherwise have ever 
 fallen to my lot. 
 
 I have often been told by the faslidious, thai i am 
 too easUy won to converse with persons below me in
 
 181) 
 
 station; but I never yet talked to a mechanic or arti 
 ficer, man or woman, especially if on their trade, that 
 I did not add an item to my stock of knowledge, and 
 felt no cause to disapprove my freedom. The most 
 uncouth in their manner, or the lowest orders, are not the 
 most contentious ; we often hear then- quaiTels, because 
 they disregard appearances, carrying their brawls abroad, 
 thereby distressing their more refined or peacefid neigh- 
 bours; yet let them vomit forth then- spleen in bois- 
 terous words, they will forgive the sooner. 
 
 The most distressing quarrel that I ever heard was 
 caiTied on by tlu-ee enlightened ladies, in the dulcet 
 tones of politesse, that seiwants might not hear them; 
 and they became the most uiveterate, unforgiving foes, 
 nor scrupled anything to injure or defame each other. 
 I sat in perfect silence while they quarrelled, and learned 
 the characters of the three by doing so, admhing most 
 the one who spoke with gi-eatest vehemence, for she was 
 generous and just in all she said, and yet was the ill-used 
 person. I had previously believed this one to be ill tem- 
 pered, from the representation, or rather misrepresenta- 
 tion, of the other two; but I changed my opinion during 
 the quarrel. One of the others proved herself malignant, 
 unjust, and spiteful ; the third was vindictive, prejudiced, 
 and supercilious, a quality of all others most destructive 
 to a peaceful feeling. The dictionaiian has misformed the 
 word ; he should have made it super-sUly-ass, for man 
 or woman that displays it must possess an ass-like spirit.
 
 liO 
 
 111 tempered men, if vaiu, will often call their want 
 of temper energy, their turbulence enthusiasm ; and we 
 all do know that ladies claim the privilege to call it 
 nervousness. 
 
 Many persons apply the term ill tempered unto those 
 who, being independent of them, choose not to succumb 
 to their ill humours and unreasonable exactions. To 
 illustrate this, I will relate a little anecdote. 
 
 I once took lodgings in the country, from an old 
 woman of a most ungovernable temjier. Her servants 
 often proved too much for her, therefore she generally 
 di'opped her spleen upon a modest, meek, and unoflend- 
 ing girl, her stepdaughter. Passing her one day, on 
 going to my own apartment, she stepped forward to 
 salute and chat with me, yet holding in her hand a pan 
 of cold pease soup which she intended to warm, desiring 
 me in the most obsequious accents to accept a bowl. 
 I said, to please her, I would take a little at my lunch, 
 requesting her to put it down, and I would wait for 
 her. Still she held it in her hand while we talked, during 
 which period her servant disobeyed her orders, and 
 she commanded her step-daughter to follow lier, and 
 make her do <as she desired. " Oh no, I dare not," 
 exclaimed the girl, " I shall get myself insulted." " I '11 
 I dare n't you, madam," said the woman, in a tone of 
 fury, " go, I say ! " "J can 't, I dare n't," said Eleanor. 
 On this, the woman hastily stepped forwai'd, pan in 
 hand, and aimed a blow at the young girl, liaising 
 the pan to strike her head, the handle being tubular,
 
 Ul 
 
 it swivelled round, and tossed upon her head, just like 
 a cap, — the pease soup, poiuing down her person, 
 deluged her from crown to foot. Oh, what a spectacle 
 it made of her! I felt grieved for the poor gkl, yet, 
 laughing immoderately at her calamity, hastily stepped 
 forward to wipe it from her eyes, when the old woman 
 
 exclaimed, " Do n't help her. Miss . A vile, ill 
 
 tempered, wicked giii, to put me in a passion, and spoil 
 my soup." " More wicked you, ma'am," answered I, 
 " to give way to that passion, and waste good food, 
 suiTOunded as we are by those who nearly starve." " Do 
 you encom-age her to be insolent?" said she. "Well, 
 well ; I took you for a sweet tempered lady tUl to-day, 
 but now I know you are not." 
 
 I left her in possession of this charitable opinion, and 
 tried to soothe the daughter. After the row subsided, 
 the old dame came to me, requesting that, as I had great 
 influence with her daughter, I would use it to induce 
 her to beg pardon for offending her. I candidly told 
 her that I would not; and at the same time declared, 
 that she could only restore herself to my good graces 
 by asking pardon of her step-daughter, whom she had 
 decidedly ill used. This roused her up to fuiy; she 
 again proclaimed me most Ul tempered, and left me to 
 myself. 
 
 Her next door neighbour soon came in, to chat awhile 
 with her. I heard her tell the visiter that her step- 
 daughter was most insolent, and that Miss C, a cankered, 
 vile, lU tempered thing, encouraged her. " I found her
 
 U2 
 
 out lo-day," said she. " And did you uever iind iier 
 out before to-day, and she has lived six months in your 
 house?" said her neighbour. " She must be very clever 
 not to shew it long before now. I guess you could not 
 do as much yourself." I felt myself avenged by this 
 reply, so let the slanderer alone, except when, passing 
 to the garden for my usual airing, she asked me, Was 
 I any better? And I told her that I should be so, only 
 she had set me a longing for pease soup. 
 
 I could relate many instances, to shew how common 
 it is for such ungovernable persons to call all those 
 ill tempered who will not tamely submit to their capri- 
 cious humour, and comply with then- unreasonable 
 demands. And it is only by acting very decidedly 
 that an iniluence can be gained over such people. Let 
 them know that their humour does not distress you, 
 and steadily maintain your own course, independent 
 of their opinion, and they will soon perceive the iise- 
 lessness of attacking you, and perhaps endeavour to 
 copy your examj^le. What an influence is tlien obtained. 
 
 We all know that example is mucli more readily 
 received than precept, especially in matters ruled by 
 temper or impulse. How necessaiy, then, to cultivate 
 such a temper as will have a tendency to refine, rather 
 than degi-ade, the scenes in which we take a part, and 
 poison and embitter them by turbulence, repining, 
 and unreasonable humours. 
 
 To what purpose do we powerless mortals murmur? 
 If it be at the dispensations of the Almighty, how
 
 143 
 
 vain and Mvolous it is, knowing that they ai-e, and 
 ever must be, inevitable. Let us rather peacefully 
 and minutely examine into their nature, consequences, 
 and influence. Depend upon it, we shall then discover 
 some bright spots in their an-angement and necessity, 
 that will convince us of the wisdom, and at the same 
 time of the mercy, of the munificent Dispenser of all 
 benefits. 
 
 Least of all, on any disappointment arising from the 
 evil humours of others, should we feel disposed to 
 entei'tain a spirit of revenge towards them ; for this 
 base passion is the foulest suUier that can taint the 
 human mind. Vengeance belongs not unto man, but 
 unto God. 
 
 The noblest, and the only, vengeance we can take 
 of those who injure us is to despise the deed, but to pardon 
 the aggressors, declining further notice of them, and, 
 walking another way, leaving them in the hands of God. 
 But if the man that injures you possess a son more 
 worthy than himself, acknowledge his acquaintance, and 
 pour upon him such a shower of high-souled charity 
 and love, that he who hath begot hini, having human 
 feelings, must kneel down to bless you, and feel himself 
 unworthy to have known you. Then you refuse his 
 gratitude, till he repents his former worthlessness, that 
 robbed him of yom* notice. 
 
 Thus acting, you will prove a noble, philosophic 
 lover of yoiir enemy. Tt is unjust, dishonourable, mean 
 to disown or brand with infamy a race or family because
 
 144 
 
 one member of it has abused you ; and be who inflicts on 
 innocence tbe punishment that he should make the 
 guilty feel, deserves to sutler that pimishment himself 
 There is no rancoiu half so mean and cowardly as 
 that which wreaks its vengeance on the unoffending 
 head. The coward that uplifts the hand to innocence 
 becomes imjust, dishonoured, mean, dishonest, and 
 destitute of every claim to hold communion with 
 the feeling-minded ; for he acts not either by the 
 laws of God, humanity, common sense, or custom. 
 Yet let me jiause — I greatly fear that common custom 
 is too lenient to this debasing sin, degi-ading to om*- 
 selves and those on whom it is practised. Ecflection, 
 and a strict observance of the results which follow, 
 ought to teach us that we put it in the power of all, on 
 whom this imjust wrath descends, to cite us as an enemy 
 devoid of justice, truth, or charity; and when we feel 
 in want of sympatliy, relief, or succour, what a cha- 
 racter on which to rest our cluini, and what a cord to 
 tighten our afflictions if we feel that we deserve it. 
 
 Oh let me, wliile I shew you this degrading view of 
 human nature, rob you of the spleen that loves to vent 
 itself upon the timid, trembling innocent; that robs 
 yourself of happiness, by consciousness of doing wrong, 
 when brought to reason on the subject by that innocent's 
 defence. The steady, meek, determined spirit with 
 which innocence defends itself can even make tlic tyrant 
 quaU beneath its eye of power, and own a conqueror. 
 Then let the spirit tlint is galled and humbled by
 
 145 
 
 another's want of temper or misconduct vent itself in 
 prayer to God for succour and restraint, and a milder 
 spirit will ensue, that will disdain to lash the innocent. 
 Let us all determine to correct ourselves with the same 
 severity with which we reprove and censiu'e others, and 
 excuse others with the same indulgence that we show to 
 ourselves ; we shall then feel little temptation to oppress 
 and chide the unoffending ; for those who combat with 
 themselves will be much happier than those who combat 
 with others. 
 
 Far be it from me to propose to any one, or man or 
 woman, a tame submission to injustice, insult, injury, 
 or imposition ; but anger may be firmly and not violently 
 expressed, and proper pimishments awarded to the 
 guilty ; and let forgiveness always come in at the con- 
 clusion of the contest, simply afterwai-ds avoiding 
 dealings with the aggressors. But if by circumstances 
 compelled to come in contact with them, then prove 
 that you do really forgive, by serving them, and you 
 wUl feel the happier for it. Kemember that our daily 
 prayer contains, " forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive 
 them that trespass against us;" therefore let us act by 
 its dictates, and faithfully believe in and emulate the 
 source from which it sprung ; we require no other guide 
 for our conduct. 
 
 We now come to the powerful influence of woman, 
 or woman's power throughout the whole. Nature has 
 endowed woman with such powerful influence over man, 
 that T may say tlie entire happiness or miseiy of liis 
 
 1:3
 
 146 
 
 life depends upon whether his choice of female society 
 be among the modest, virtuoiis, good, intelligent, and 
 wise, or among those whose sinful habits dishonom- 
 and degi'ade our sex. Few men forsake good morals, 
 or prolong their dereliction from the paths of honourable 
 rectitude, who allow themselves to be governed by the 
 counsels of a wise and vutuous woman. 
 
 Woman, when once imbued with fixed and honoui-- 
 able principles, is so stedfast in her faith, so tmchange- 
 able in her love of all that is divine and good, that 
 any man who trusts to her may rely on her endeavoui's to 
 persuade him into high souled purpose, and to act the 
 better part. Wliat foUy, then, to seek the vicious of oiu- 
 sex, thereby imbibing from this baneful influence a mis- 
 trustful feeling towards the sex in general. 
 
 I have often discovered that those men who judge 
 unfavourably of women have either been deceived and 
 disappointed in their early afiections, or have associated 
 only with the degraded and lowest orders of women. 
 How much of the relish of human life they lose by this 
 vile association. They forget how much they are depend- 
 ent upon woman's love, as they approach manhood, and 
 from manhood tiU they sink into the gi-ave. Every exter- 
 nal earthly comfort man enjoys — even though he pi-ovides 
 the means — is enhanced under the guidance and adorn- 
 ing mind and hand of woman. She alone can sliow 
 them to advantage, and sccm-e their durability and 
 tendency to promote his happiness.
 
 147 
 
 In infancy, who so loves the son as his fond mother ? 
 Who so trembles at his tottering footsteps? Who so 
 tries to lead htm into the path of honour, rectitude, and 
 fame? Who so anxious that the world should love and 
 praise him ? Who so devotedly endeavoms to render 
 his life easy, free from cares, happy and prosperous as 
 the lot of mortals can be? Can any love sm-pass a 
 tender mother's love, or any watchful care surpass a 
 mother's, in the hours of sickness, sorrow, or decline? 
 In transgression, can any lenity surpass a mother's ? If 
 adversity comes on, who shares it with more willing 
 fortitude, and in prosperity who more joyful, or more 
 devoted to his interest in whatever may befall him, 
 either for his weal or woe, in infancy or manhood? 
 
 When manhood comes, and he looks on the little 
 world around him, filled with bright anticij)ations of the 
 future, building castles for the queen of beauty and per- 
 fection that his fond imagination pictm'es to adorn them, 
 while he arid his queen of beauty thus glide on the stream 
 of life in bliss unchangeable, and free from sordid care or 
 struggles for pre-eminence — a thing their own by right — 
 what light is half so brUliant as the light that shines in 
 woman's eye? whose smile so soothing as the smile of 
 probation on a vii-tuous woman's lip? or what so soft and 
 tender as the pressure of that lip, if vh'tuous affection 
 actuates that pressure? Can any man, endowed witti 
 natural feelings, frown upon an influence so replete with 
 ecstasy, and so congenial to his nature, or fail to profit
 
 148 
 
 by its power to soften and refine liis impulses and pas- 
 sions, and take up the spirit of a better man, while 
 virtuous and confiding woman sways his soul':' 
 
 When manhood's strength and beauty fall into decay, 
 how helpless, sad, and frail, unless propped up by 
 woman's helping hand, and tender, kind, solicitude to 
 sooth the anguish of the tottering old frame. How 
 much more suitable her gentle, kind sujiport, than that 
 of powerful, vigorous man, to drag along impatiently tlie 
 feeble laggard, whose uneven steps are felt a bane upon 
 his own elastic movements. A woman suits her pace to 
 liis, and adds the tear of pity to her care of his decliue, 
 imparting thus a feeling of reliance that upholds the 
 spu-it of her feeble partner, and leads him to forgetful- 
 uess of i^aiu and soitow, or an unrejiining fortitude and 
 resignation. 
 
 And what so fit to shake the pillow on the bed of 
 death as gentle woman's hand? Fi-om her we heai* no 
 loud anathema against a life of sui ; if man has en-ed, 
 she tries to soothe the accusing sj)irit,* while tlie record- 
 ing angel \vi-ites down his transgi-essions at the chan- 
 cery of heaven. And as she lets the tear of pity fall, 
 she gently leads him on to jjenitence and prayer — 
 mingling her drops with his repentant sigh. ]\Ian feels 
 asliamed to weep, but sighs when he repents, and tender 
 
 • " The accusing spirit flew up to heaven's chancery with the oath, 
 and the recording angel, on writing it down, dropped a tear upon the 
 word, tlint lilotted it out for ever."— Sto-nc.
 
 149 
 
 woman, catching up the sigh, kneels down in prayer, 
 and wafts it into heaven. 
 
 Then what is man without dear woman's influential 
 power, to soften his asperities, and moderate his evil 
 passions? To have a vu'tuous woman always tendent 
 near his footsteps, is to keep a living copy of religious 
 statutes always in his view, to warn him not to swerve 
 from its bright paths of pleasantness. It is not in the 
 nature of any woman of just and holy principles to 
 think, to feel, to care, to live for self alone. No sepa- 
 rating self from her soul's anxieties, she wanders over 
 fields of love and usefulness to others. If she is married 
 to a virtuous man, then indeed all is joint interest with 
 her partner, for everything belonging to her she divides 
 with him. With him she shares all satisfactions, smooths 
 down every trouble of his life, lifts up her fortitude to 
 give a share to liim; her heart is always open to his 
 view, her tongue communicates all her feelings, obsei'- 
 vations, and opinions; unshrinkingly, to him her faults 
 are all disclosed, confiding iu his lenity and love. To him 
 displaying freely all she knows, and all that she can do, 
 she asks no other plaudit than his loved, approving smile. 
 Then she alleviates all his toils, soothes every sorrow, 
 lessens every care, strives to remove whatever displeases 
 him. While he, beholding all she feels and does, seeks 
 to remove each stone of stumbling from her path; 
 each cause that can create uneasiness, displeasure, or a 
 sense of fear; and participates freely in her hopes and 
 
 -13-
 
 150 
 
 joys. lu no sense can either of a virtuous conjugal pair 
 ever be contented or discontented, pleased or displeased, 
 without the other being consequently more or less 
 affected likewise. 
 
 If man, deriding woman's power, should disown and 
 shiink fi'om it, disclaiming its refining influence upon 
 his rugged, sterner natm-e, he but jilays the robber to 
 himself, purloining half his joys. If he be wedded to 
 science or a profession, and debarred the time for dalli- 
 ance, what so fit to aid him as the powers of woman's 
 mind, if that be cultivated ? It is only in the abstruse 
 intricacies of science that women are sm-passed by men. 
 Their mathematical process is more adapted to his pro- 
 founder brain ; tlierein we yield the palm to man, and 
 own him our su^Jerior, but not in anything that renders 
 life agreeable. 
 
 Women are by nature more reflective than men — 
 their sedentary and domestic employments, occupying 
 only the bands, leave the mind free to wander in the 
 varied images of thought ; and while men are studiously 
 poriug over books to cull the thoughts of others, and 
 hiboriously sej^arating tlie chaif from the solid suste- 
 nance, woman, by reflection, educates herself, and intui- 
 tively, or by inspu-ation, coupled with comparison and 
 calculation, arrives at more evidences of truth in an 
 hour, than man, the poor ])lodding drone, can come at in 
 a day. Then let him seek her aid to brighten, shorten. 
 and improve his studies, and slie will lead him on to
 
 151 
 
 higher aims, especially if his reward is to possess her 
 when his projects are achieved. 
 
 Nature has given so much nobility of soul unto man- 
 kind, that neither man nor woman pixts forth his or her 
 highest powers, save when tempted by a noble object; 
 for the consciousness of seeking little depresses vigour. 
 An asj)iring spnit must be allui'ed by a prize worthy of 
 its native grandeur, in order that it may be induced to 
 put forth the energy required for the attainment of 
 sufficient excellence, whether the aim be religion, virtue, 
 science, or philosoiihy. And for rewards, what noble 
 ones are held out to view. Religion has a Saviour ; for 
 vutue there is man's and woman's love ; for science, 
 monuments and gold; and for philosophy, its uni'estricted 
 wanderings through the varied fields of nature, to explore 
 its latent treasures, and proclaim them to the world. 
 
 Oh ! what a glorious world were this, if all man's 
 better feelings were on foot, resolved to war with, chase 
 down, and desti'oy each gross antagonist contained withm 
 himself. Let each resolve to check the vice arising in 
 himself. No man will then have cause to stigmatise his 
 brother-worm. It is man's duty to pei'suade, exhort, com- 
 municate his struggles with liimself, and put us in the way 
 to gain the height that he has trod, but not to kick and 
 cuff us if we lag beliind. Thus only should he deal with 
 self, until he has beat out his tendency to evil, root and 
 branch, and left the solid trunk to stand before the eyes 
 of men full worthy of their gazo and admnation. His
 
 U)2 
 
 example should lead them to emulate his fame — not he 
 imperatively charge them to it. His call should be as 
 dulcet as the pipe of nightingale, to enthral and lead 
 the sold to heaven. Coercion rouses up the stubborn 
 souls of men and vk^omen too. They disregard denuncia- 
 tion and rebuke, but yield to soft persuasion's tone; 
 therefore, it should be used by all. While reasoning on 
 the folly of a sinful coui'se, our preachers should take 
 up this tone, and mingle it with every plu'ase they utter, 
 to allure us out of sin Thus theii" allurements would 
 be stronger than the wUes of Satan, to direct oiu' course 
 the other way. 
 
 Oh, let me then persuade some few to know them- 
 selves, to aim at tliis gi-eat thing, self-knowledge, which 
 I have herein set down as teaching mercy, honour, truth, 
 religion, faith, and charity — a lenient and unmagnifying 
 telescope, to scan a brother's mote and bring to view 
 his hidden imperfections; not to chide, but to soften 
 down their virulence, and to suasively allure all to 
 aim at perfect virtue. 
 
 It is in vain for eitlier man or woman to hope to 
 stand upon the jiinnacle of ambition, unless they hoj^e, 
 expect, attempt, and compass lofty things. Herbert 
 tells us, that the man will shoot higher who points 
 to the moon, than he who threatens trees. Though not 
 having license to expect perfection, we should always 
 aim at it, in all we undertake. Tlic i)oet says well, wlio 
 says that 
 
 " Tligh endeavours arc au inward light, 
 To make the patli before us always bright."
 
 153 
 
 Then let us aim at this high effort, an enduiing 
 knowledge of ourselves, the highest attribute the human 
 mind can gain. Let us learn by it self-government, a 
 deity, to nile the temper, airesting it in all its multi- 
 phcity of forms ; and this will teach us to forbear with 
 others, who are less reformed than we ; to pity their 
 infii-mities, and heal them ; to con-ect their en-ors, not to 
 punish them, unless beyond all rule ; to soothe the droop- 
 ing mind, to strengthen feebleness, to conquer stubborn 
 disregai-d, by neighbom- love and fair examj^le ; to try to 
 crash and bmy human natm-e's frailties in ourselves, and 
 to help our sisters, brothers, friends, and neighbours to 
 the same effect. Let us distinguish between the heart 
 and mind, not imputing to the heart an error that springs 
 from the mind's delusion, but gently sifting both, and 
 leniently judging all. Let us reflect well before we act, 
 strictly trying all our thoughts both by the laws of God 
 and man, to ascertain their trath, before we choose our 
 course of action, in all things that concern oiu'selves and 
 others; and when we have adjusted this, let us show such 
 decided purpose, that obstacles shall fall away before a 
 spirit so resolved. 
 
 In all things that require mathematical certainty, 
 woman may yield to man's profouuder mind, and he should 
 yield to her superior excellence in things of taste and 
 feeling, chastity and truth. She can compete with him 
 in eloquence, in ingenuity, in social elegance, in graceful 
 ease. If gi'eat things rale her mind, she does them weU ; if 
 little, gracefully ; in this she far surpasses man. When lie
 
 154 
 
 attempts the little, then liis gi'ace depaits; he stumbles 
 over his pride. No high-souled woman is content with 
 moderate excellence ; but men ai'e often di'ones, or tram- 
 melled with the one pursuit in which they would be 
 perfect, while women study all the arts that render life 
 agreeable, excelling in them all. Man's courage is in 
 battle ; hcr's in fortitude. He prides himself in honours 
 and distinctions; she in love, fidelity, and usefulness. 
 He likes to see the culprit tremble; she to save him. 
 He looks on human frailty with compassion, or as oft 
 disdain ; while she lets fall the tear of pity, or reclaims 
 by soft entreaty and a bright example. IMau loves to 
 exercise his own bold will, and govern all beneath him 
 or within his power; while wonaan asks permission of 
 the man she loves, content to govern him alone, without 
 his knowing that he has a fetter on. Woman feels proud 
 of man's authority; while he disdains to own that her 
 sweet influence leads him on to higher aims. 
 
 Thus men and women differ, each possessing excel- 
 lence the other aims not to attain. But woman ever 
 shines the brightest; and that home only that doth 
 contain a virtuous one, or more, can boast of any share 
 of human happiness. 
 
 Tlie natural docility of woman makes her easily 
 restrained, if she has received a moral and religious educa- 
 tion. In this quality, more than in any other, has tied 
 ordained her fit to be the companion of man, who, being 
 more inflexible in his nature, requu-es her mUder attri- 
 butes to blend and mingle with his own to make a perfect
 
 155 
 
 creature. By this blending she maintains her power 
 throughout the whole. And I conclude mine Essay as 
 I began, believing woman to be the brightest, most 
 influential, most perfect, and most beautiful creatm-e 
 that the hand of God has formed.
 
 I Hedpc to make h 6doii Mliff. 
 
 Take religion and good morals for your foundation ; 
 diffuse them thirougli eveiy action and sentiment, unit- 
 ing them to an unmitigated j^erseverance in the per- 
 formance of duty. Take a pound of sincerity, and an 
 equal quantity of prudence — mix them all up with 
 cheerfulness, good humour, and about a dozen gi-ains 
 of wit, free from satu-e ; let the wit be native, which is 
 fifty degi-ees better than that which is borrowed. Those 
 ladies who prepare and taste the above ingredients may 
 tmly be said to partake of solid enjoyments. To the 
 preceding you must add at least one quart of the milk of 
 human kindness, and a whole pound of love ; one ounce 
 of gossip, free fi"om scandal, and five scrujiles of French 
 in2)pery ; add thereto a sufficient quantity of proper 
 spirit, to punish or deter slanderers fi-om evil speaking. 
 
 "\^liipptng the whole together with a branch of moral 
 courage and fortitude, add good sense, elegant inanners, 
 and an agreeable, but not pedantic portion of literature ; 
 sweeten with affection to your taste, and when tlie whole 
 is united, add thereto such a portion of beauty as will 
 render the lady pleasing and agreeable to look upon, but
 
 not sufficient to excite a spirit of vanity, or a love of 
 admiration. Adorned with such a combination of native 
 and acquired virtues, slie is then endowed with all that 
 heaven and earth can give to make her a desu-able and 
 good wife. And blessed is the man that obtains her; 
 for in winning such a treasure, he is twice blessed — 
 blessed both spiritually and temporally. 
 
 Let every man study to render himself worthy of 
 such a wife, and there will be no difficulty in obtaining 
 one. She will naturally spring up under the benign 
 influence of Ms own government ; and if he be such a 
 woman's counterpart, and wedded to her, his daughters 
 will become like treasm'es for the rising generation of 
 men, and the world have less cause to repine that the 
 matrimonial cup contains more of the bitter than the 
 sweet, and two frequently edges the tongue more than 
 the teeth with its acids. It is necessary that both 
 the man and the woman should strive to cast into the 
 cup such ingredients as will render the combination 
 agi-eeable to the taste of both; then may they di-iuk 
 freely, but not a sufficient quantity to cloy the appetite, 
 or give it a desire for change. 
 
 14
 
 d^litlalaniit Jicrostit. 
 
 PRESENTED TO A YOUNG FRIEND ON HER WEDDING DAT. 
 
 To thee, witli whom in youthful golden days 
 O'er many a gay pai-terre I wandered, 
 
 Eager to capture pleasure's fitful rays ; 
 Led on by hopes o'er which we vainly pondered ; 
 r would addi-ess a joyous man-iage lay. 
 Zealous to add some pleasure to the day ; 
 And wishful to adorn the hapjiy bride. 
 
 Accept the simple token I provide. 
 Never may day less happy meet thy view ; 
 Never forget thy promise to be true. 
 
 To Edward, loving partner of thy life ; 
 Yield joyfidly the duties of a wife. 
 Remember always to preside with care 
 O'er houseliold happiness, and luisband's fare ; 
 Remember the first quaiTcl to avoid ; 
 
 Nor ever wander but when side by side. 
 Oh may strile never to your dwelling come ; 
 Regard liis house your dearest eartlily lioiiie.
 
 159 
 
 Turn I to God, and humbly ask in prayer, 
 O'er life's rough hill that you may be his care ; 
 Never may'st thou forget the j^ower divine. 
 
 Fear not, though some aflBictions may be thine, 
 Religion teaches, all proceeds from God : 
 Oh meekly bow, and humbly kiss the rod. 
 May aU the bliss on mortals e'er bestowed 
 
 Edward, with his and thine, be all endowed : 
 Loved faithfully, since manhood marked his life. 
 It woivld be sin to wish thee not his ^vife. 
 Zeal for a fiiend, whom I regard as brother. 
 Anxious makes me to give thee to no other. 
 
 Confide each worldly care to his kind zeal. 
 Over each other's faults cast secret seal ; 
 Religion guide each bliss you seek, and then 
 Forget not that Eliza says. Amen.
 
 lonntcir tmw Coiii to liillarueg. 
 
 A journey from Cork to Killarney, thence to the Gap of Dimloe.— St. 
 ratrick's last conversation with the Inst Snake that he hanished 
 from Ireland. — A White Squall on the Lower Lalie of Killarney. 
 
 Travelling for a short time with a party of ladies, they, 
 like myself, were desirous of surveying some of the 
 beautiful, romantic, and interesting scenes of Ireland, 
 which is, indeed, most truly called the Green Isle of 
 beauty, for nowliere does verdure display itself in more 
 varied, chaste, and brilliant shades than in the foliage 
 that shrouds and adorns tlie bases and glens of the 
 mountains and valleys of this favom-ed isle, so much 
 indcl)ted to providential culture for its luxuriance and 
 lertility, without the aid of man, exhibiting such splen- 
 dours of cultivation as art could not achieve. 
 
 Thus accompanied, though in an infirm state of 
 health, I gladly consented to traverse the lovely scenes 
 of Killarney. We travelled fi-om Cork to Killarney in a 
 long open jaunting car, wliicli licld as many as ten on 
 each side, and was peopled with English and Irish tra- 
 vellers of various descriptions. Among the Irish were 
 five or six young gentlemen, who were as lively speci- 
 mens of animated natural history as ever played tricks
 
 Ifil 
 
 upon travellers; and many were the ti'icks played off" 
 upon those whom we passed, while we sui'veyed laud- 
 scapes and scenery that struck me as most sublime, 
 the mountains were so numerous, so stupendous in 
 height and size, aud their- varied hues so changeful, as 
 the light or shade passed over or lingered on them. The 
 mists that floated over them were painted with the varied 
 hues of pm-^ile, blue, and every tint of green and yellow, 
 seeming thus to partake the colour of all fi'om which 
 they rose, or upon which they descended. The moun- 
 tains were fantastic in their forms. Some, tliickly stud- 
 ded at the base with verdant woods, were indebted to the 
 hand of nature for this adorning beauty ; others were 
 deep purple masses of rock, towering height upon height, 
 as though inclined to reach mid heaven; and in the 
 distance were, pile upon jwle that reached the clouds 
 and mingled with them. 
 
 The whole country became more and more sublime 
 as we travelled onwai-d, rendering it quite impossible 
 for a feeling, contemplative, or religious mind to view 
 the wonders of the scenes around without adoring the 
 hand that caused them to rise. 
 
 Never shall I forget the feelings that took possession 
 of me on first beholding the sublimities of Killarney. 
 They struck me speecUess for awhile, then I began to 
 exclaim, miich to the amusement of our meny fellow- 
 travellers, who were familiar with these scenes. These 
 saucy wags put more than one alphabet into their 
 manufacturing mill, to create new names for the niins 
 
 -11-
 
 102 
 
 and castles that we rajjidly passed on the way; this I 
 told them, and they laughed heartily, when I asked 
 them if they replied to my questions as men of honour 
 and gentlemen, men of business, or blai-ney }nen ; 
 as tliey all wished to be thought men of honour and 
 gentlemen, they invariably in conclusion gave me the 
 real name. Their pleasantries were so inoffensively 
 offered, that they onlyadded to the life of tlie scene. 
 
 Thus we went on, and at last arrived at the com- 
 fortable and respectable abode of Mrs. O'Connor, Main 
 Street, Killai-ney, a lady deservedly celebrated for her 
 amiable manners, and for the kind usage and good 
 entertainment she gives to her lodgers. 
 
 There, after remaining some time viewing the scenes 
 around, we took advantage of one of the fine mornings 
 which, after a few threatening showers, became such 
 as to give glory and sunsliine to tlio lovely landscapes 
 dispersed all over Killarney. 
 
 The Gap of JJunloc was decided on for our day's 
 excursion, and we hu-ed a car to convoy us to the 
 entrance, beyond which we could not go in a wheeled 
 conveyance, the remainder of the road being nairow, 
 intricate, and only trod by pedestrians. At the com- 
 mencement ol' our journey, we rode through scenes of the 
 most vai-ied and enchanting character, througli glens, 
 valleys, and mountain passes, beautified witli innume- 
 rable cascades, lakes, and waterfalls, all combining to 
 give magic touches to scenes of tlie most romantic gran- 
 fleur and sublimity, festooned and decorated witli tlie
 
 163 
 
 graceful alpine fir, mingled with sin-uce, larch, and 
 Scotch firs, the juniper and the smooth-leaved olives 
 and laurel, interspersed at frequent intervals with the 
 fruitful arhuttis, which grows in great abundance among 
 the rocky scenes of Killarney, contrasting its varied 
 colours with solid rocks of the deepest purple; others 
 were of the most verdant gi-een ; and here and there, 
 when the sun shone on a lofty range, a glittering yellow 
 intermingled or peeped through the openings in the 
 woods that have spontaneously risen on then- ridges, 
 combining every shade of foliage that can please the 
 eye or vary the scene. 
 
 But to describe all, I must write a volume, and yet 
 fail in calling up its beauties to the mind's eye ; there- 
 fore, I will proceed on om- journey to the Gap of Dunloe. 
 We had arrived at the entrance, through which we had 
 to walk, first huing a guide to conduct us safely through 
 the intricacies of Dunloe ; this we traversed to the first re- 
 markable point — the turnpike, as it is called. Not a toll 
 bar, but two huge overhanging rocks, which appeared to 
 threaten the destruction of all who should pass under them. 
 We here entered the valley of the dark lake, whose 
 waters were clear and pure, yet looked as black as 
 ink, from the black rocks and stones around it; the 
 scene here was more barren and sublime than beautiful. 
 The guide who led us on, after passing the enchanted 
 spot in the gap with lighter footsteps, telling me to 
 look at the rock in a hollow glen of the mountain, to 
 which he directed my attention in fearful and subdued
 
 164 
 
 accents ; as though lie thought that the petrified inliabi- 
 taut of the glen could awake, and coil its wily folds around 
 us, to stop our daring intrusion on its precincts, with a 
 veiy grave face gave me the following legend of St. 
 Patrick, and the last snake that he banished. As he gave 
 it in dialogue, I will do the same, repeating his words 
 verbatim. 
 
 " St. Patrick jist taking a walk for his own pleasure, 
 and coming into the midst of the gap, halted on perceiv- 
 ing a wontherful big snake coming along in a veiy care- 
 less manner, niver thinking of or heeding of St. Patrick 
 at all at all, untel accosted by liim in this away : — 
 
 St. Patrick. — Och siu-e and is it here that I find you 
 Mr. Snake, having the great assurance to come mto the 
 Gap of Dunloe ? Och but it is I that will make you 
 get out of this, for divil a snake of ye shall dwell in all 
 Ireland. 
 
 Snake. — No but you wont, says the snake, says he, 
 make me get out of this, and plase your honour's worship. 
 
 St. Patiick. — But I wUl, says he, so be off wid ye. 
 
 Snake. — Be aisey now, St. Patrick, and jist let me 
 have this bit of a gap to myself. 
 
 St. Patrick. — Divil a taste; did n't I banish ye all, 
 and 1 niver expicted to find ye liore. 
 
 Snake. — I bet ye a pottle of porter at ye did n't 
 banish me, St. Pati-ick (thinking to make liim di-onk, ye 
 see). No but ye did n't, and there 's for ye, your worship. 
 
 St. Patrick. — I '11 bet ye a pottle of porter that J 'U 
 banish ye now, says he, says St. Patrick.
 
 U)0 
 
 Snake. — Done, says Mr. Snake. 
 
 St. Patrick. — Well then, says St. Patrick, says he, 
 we will jist step into this box, says he, and drink it 
 together; but ye shall step in first, says he, too purlite 
 to take advantage of his saintship's prehiminence to get 
 in first. 
 
 Whereupon the snake began to git in, and soon 
 cried out that the box was too small to hold his body; 
 but St. Patrick says, Thiy, says he. No I can't, says the 
 snake. Thry again, says St. Patrick. An he did thry, 
 and got further an further, thiyin agin and agin, till he 
 got all but his tail in the box. Then St. Patrick give 
 the lid a thondering clap down, which, coming on the 
 tail, squooz it so that Mr. Snake was glad to draw it 
 in, and St. Patrick having him quite secure kept him 
 there ; although the snake promised he should have all 
 the porter to himself if he 'd jist let him out for a bit. 
 But St. Patrick says, says he, Sui-e hav'nt I got it and 
 you in the box? And sure enough he had him in the 
 box, and there he lift him, in the gap, and the snake 
 and the box turned to stone." 
 
 Thus he shewed to a demonstration, as he thought, 
 that the last lingering snake which struggled to maintain 
 its gi-ound in the Emerald Isle remains to this day, safely 
 lodged in the stony moniunent of its foUy, for thrusting 
 itself in, wlxile the still more wily St. Patrick stood 
 there, to annUiilate it and to petrify its coiled-up folds, 
 and render them a fixture in the stony box, to the nature 
 of which he transformed it, leaving them both in the
 
 IfiO 
 
 celebrated Gap of Dunloe, to perpetuate its fame and 
 bis own. 
 
 And indeed tbe buge tbick slab of stone looked so 
 like a large box, so cbiselled into sbapc, so like a tbing 
 of wbicb tbe lid could be raised, tbougb tbe band of 
 nature alone bad toucbcd it, tbat I was not surprised 
 at tbe credulity of tbe man, or bis expectation tbat 
 otbers sbould be as credulous as bimself, wben be 
 exclaimed, " Ocb sure, and if ye could go to tbe other ^ 
 side, ye would jist see tbe stone benges and all." To go 
 to the other side be knew was impossible, even at the 
 risk of life. 
 
 We continued oiu' journey through the Gap, which 
 bangs its giant blocks of granite over bead in such a 
 tlu'eatening form, tbat it seems almost presumptuous 
 for any one to creep beneath, and hope for anything but 
 destiniction fi'om the dropping of tbeii* ponderous weight 
 upon them. 
 
 Many were the little mishaps tliat we encountered 
 while crossing tlic bog that divides tbe Gap from the 
 iijipcr Lake of Killarncy. Tbe accustomed path was 
 so trodden that wo could easily perceive it, and though 
 lame, yet, willi thc' lu'lp of my crutch and two guides, I 
 managed to escape its traps and snares better than my 
 companions, who were always too timid and cautious 
 to venture on the path tbat I did, wliich generally 
 seemed reckless to tlicm. Thus tlicy often fell into 
 snares tbat T escaped, hy allowing myself to be carried 
 by those who could leap ; and truly an Irish mountain
 
 167 
 
 jnan understands how to use his athletic frame to per- 
 fection ; hai'dy both from habit and necessity, he leaps 
 from bog sod to rock, and fi'om rock to bog sod, without 
 a seeming effort, and can-ies a weight along with him 
 that would foimder any other man. To this gi-eat 
 strength of muscle, and the native chivahic politeness 
 of the untaught Irish peasant, I was much indebted, in 
 one dangerous portion of the path I chose. 
 
 Bending over the side of the mountain on which I 
 stood, to take a survey, I saw at the foot the path 
 into which we must enter and travel before we came 
 to the end of oiu- journey, and which we had to 
 gain by a sei-peutine road, winding over the ridges of 
 Mc Gillycuddy's Reeks and down the sides of the 
 bkie hills. I thought it would cut a mile or two oflF my 
 way if I went down the side of the mountain on which 
 I stood, called by the guide who stood neai- me the gay 
 Can-ymene; but I found it more soiTowful than gay. 
 
 I instantly proposed to the fi-iend who had accom- 
 panied me, and had left her sisters to proceed with a 
 guide tlu'ough a more rocky way, to go down the side of 
 the mountain with me, but she declined ; most fortimately 
 both for me and herself, her timidity prefen-ed the long 
 winding path to the dangerous one. Therefore I set off 
 alone ; deceived by the height on which I stood, I took 
 the rocks for little more than stepping stones, not 
 dreammg that when I got near the ilistant ones they 
 would prove taller than myself. For about tliiity feet 
 they were near enough to step upon, and I passed fi*om
 
 IfiS 
 
 ouo to another very comfortably; but 1 had only got 
 thus far when I discovered the folly of my course, alike 
 unable to retrace my steps or advance without peril. 
 A huge bog stood before me, and an inaccessible 
 height above me ; danger stared me in the face ; and my 
 friend went winding on above me, I could see her all 
 the while in the windings of the glens. 
 
 A few moments previous to my descent, I had 
 reproved a young guide for following me, saying we had 
 two ah-eady attached to our party, and would pay no 
 more. So why do you follow me, said I ? " Och sure, 
 mam, to see a lame lady thravel a road that never was 
 trod by man or woman before ; and sure I 'd like to thravel 
 it myself." On we went, and presently came to a long 
 flat, where between huge elevated sods little pits of water 
 intervened. I planted my better leg firmly on one of the 
 sods, and, standing there, tried the soundness of the inter- 
 vening small space with my crutch, which on veiy 
 little pressure i)lunged up to the hilt. 
 
 On seeing tliis the young guide exclaimed, "Och, sure, 
 mam, and I tliink it is help you'll be afthcr wanting by 
 and bye." No sooner had he said tlie words than it 
 was help indeed that I wanted, for suddenly the sod, 
 which I had chosen as likely to prove my best friend, tilted 
 I'rom under my heels, and down I came into the bog, 
 wedged between two aspiring sods, the one su])porting 
 my upturned lieels and the other my depressed liead. 
 
 I felt at once that my case was not hopeless, and, per- 
 ceiving in an instant my ludicrous position, burst into 
 anuncontrollaljli lit (il'laughter. 'J'he guide, w lien lie saw
 
 1 (•)!» 
 
 me vanish, bounded like a stag from sod t« sod till lie 
 reached me, and, standing for a moment incredulous at 
 my laughter, said, "Sure ye 're not hiu-t, wid the smile on 
 yer face a that a way?" No, no, said I, hut I am rather 
 comically lodged. He helped me out of the hollow, and 
 oh for an Hogarth to paint the young hero, when, after 
 he had placed the lady in a standing position, he slid up 
 to her eai', and in a modest half whisper said, " Sure, 
 mam, the bog wather from out of your coats would not 
 be amiss, it would make yer ladyship lighter by odds." I 
 thanked him, and accepted his assistance ; whereupon he 
 seized the hind part of my garments, wringing and twist- 
 ing them in true washenvoman style, until the bog stream 
 entu-ely exuded ; and then he fluttered and spread them 
 out to dry, which was easUy efiected by the heat of the 
 sun, which broiled me severely, as, with the guide's help, 
 I struggled out of the various mishaps I had to contend 
 with, in my passage fi.-om the top of the mountain ; but 
 after I gained a companion in the strife, my task became 
 more easy. 
 
 Often, when I had no rock to chug to, I was glad 
 of the youth's kindly offer of his arm, or neck, to 
 grasp, whUe he looked out for a likely sod to lift me upon. 
 When I was safely lodged upon one, he would ti-avel 
 on a little, stretching his long legs to try the strength 
 of each sod, by pressing his foot upon it; then he 
 retm-ned for me, and whenever the space from one 
 sod to another was too great for me to stride, he gal- 
 lantly shortened the cUstance by planting his own leg 
 
 15
 
 170 
 
 in the watei-, and presenting his dry knee for me to 
 step uj)on. 
 
 Who but an Irishman would have had the ingenuity 
 thus to shorten the space, wlio but a warm-heaited 
 Irishman, the gallantry so to sacrifice self for the com- 
 fort of a stranger ? And who but an Irishman untaught 
 by schools, having no lettered advantages, woidd have 
 spontaneously adopted the reiincd spirit of couitesy and 
 respect that this poor guide exhibited to me, with only 
 native culture to assist liis judgment? O Erin, thy 
 sons and daughters would have been too perfect, if 
 fortune and religion had smiled on them as nature has 
 done. 
 
 My gallant guide and I were obhged to separate 
 sometimes, there not being standing room for us both 
 on the same ridge or sod ; and in other places my cratch 
 sank so deep, that I was obliged to leave it for him to 
 bring. At last we arrived safely in the common foot- 
 path; and here his anxious countenance subsided into 
 a smile of triumph, and he uttered a gentle HmTa. 
 
 Mj friend, who had wandered the sei-pentine road, 
 soon joined me here, and looked dismayed, as I held 
 up my overall-boots rent from tlic soles. Fortunately, 
 1 had shoes underneatli, none the worse for my bog 
 exploits. 
 
 We now traversed the Ganymene valley to a cottage, 
 as they presumptuously misnamed a desolate cabin, 
 wliere we took slielter fi-om tlie rain, wliich suddenly 
 began to descend in torrents. The cabin was a
 
 171 
 
 most wi'etched abode. It had neither chimuey nor 
 window, only holes to admit the light, unnecessarily 
 accompanied by the wind and rain ; a hole in the 
 roof as an outlet for the smoke; a poor shake-down 
 of heather, in one comer, for the children to lie 
 upon, and in anotlier a place for the pig. The upper 
 story consisted of a shelf, about a yard broad, propped 
 up with brandies, the notches of which formed stairs to 
 ascend by. On this shelf there was a shake-down of 
 heather, for the parents to He upon. No sign of coverlet, 
 or anything to keep them warm, but the rags they wore 
 in the day. Du't, rags, and this wretched accommoda- 
 tion, prevail among the peasantry of Ireland, for we 
 saw hundreds of houses in the same hopeless condition. 
 And yet, in the midst of aU, we often saw sparkling 
 eyes, cheerful countenances, and iniddy cheeks. The 
 children, black as dut could make them, were often 
 fat and chubby, living upon potatoes and water, and 
 scantily clothed with the aid of chance pennies given by 
 strangers. 
 
 When the rain subsided, we left the cabin, and pro- 
 ceeded to Lord Brandon's cottage, a place of entertain- 
 ment for travellers who visit the Gap of Dunloe, and 
 return to KiUarney through the Lakes. 
 
 The road from Garrymene to the cottage, which is 
 on the borders of the upper lake, is one of great diffi- 
 culty, winding in all du-ections over rocks and bogs, 
 where stepping-stones have been placed, and where some 
 have providentially fallen, as if to assist strangei-s. Here I
 
 172 
 
 sliould have fouud it impossible to i)roceed, had not 
 another guide stepped up, and joined my own in _ drag- 
 ging me over. Sometimes I lost my crutch, at others 
 a shoe, and I had to stand on one leg till it was 
 recovered ; nevertheless I accomplished the feat. We 
 rested at his lordsliip's cottage, the weather, so sudden in 
 its changes, for some time rendering it impossible for 
 us to proceed. 
 
 Again we had sunshine, and proceeded to the boat, iu 
 which sat the master himself, bugle in hand, to awake 
 the mountain echoes for us. No ti'aveller, who under- 
 stands the business, thinks of sailing on the Lakes of 
 Killarney unattended by a bugleman. Fortunately for 
 us, the weather-wise master, apin-ehending a storm, dis- 
 obeyed orders, and brought us a four-oared instead of a 
 two-oared boat, for the two-oared one could not have out- 
 lived the storm. 
 
 But, not to anticipate, I proceed. The sail down the 
 upper lake was most delightful, and not a little amusing. 
 The bugle was answered from every side, as it appeared, 
 by other men similarly employed, tlie echoes reverberat- 
 ing fi-om rock to rock, taking up each note to convey it to 
 a distance immeasurable. The master of the boat ex- 
 plained all the wonders that we saw, giving them their 
 legcjidaiy names; but, while he was talking to us, the 
 young man or boy, as he called him at the helm, care- 
 lessly ran us upon a rock. Up started the master in a 
 rage, stretching out his hand for an oai" to strike him with. 
 This I quickly seized, and held with both hands, smilingly
 
 173 
 
 telling him that he was not the Irishman I took Mm for, 
 if he could not get us oiT a rock like that in safety, and no 
 injury to the boat either. This suspended the riot, which 
 must have inevitably overtiu-ned the boat. Glancing a 
 fiery look at me as I finnly held the oar, and of vengeance 
 at the boy, he, without a word, plied his strength and skill 
 to get us off; and when we plunged like a duck into the 
 deep water again, he spoke and said to me, Lady, you 
 have done what uo mortal man or woman ever did be- 
 fore — arrest the blow that I was determined to strike; 
 but it is well, for it has made ovu- safety. 
 
 On we went ; we saUed through the upper lake and 
 the long range, as it is called, of five miles in extent, 
 which comprises a number of small lakes, that divide 
 the upper Irom the lower lake. Throughout this 
 sail, the romantic diversity, in size and form, of 
 innumerable small islands and rocks, the widely- 
 extended woods planted by nature at the base of 
 the mountains, and the numerous small water-falls and 
 cascades, render the scene most enchanting to look 
 upon — words are inadequate to describe its beauties. 
 
 Our boatmau resumed his pleasantry, and humour- 
 ously invited us to partake of the cold collation prepared 
 for us by dame Nature among the rocks, one being called 
 the round of beef, others the leg of mutton, the sand- 
 wiches, the fowls and chickens. All these rocks bear a 
 striking resemblance to the articles named. The hen 
 and chicken rocks are wonderfully like a huge hen, with 
 spread wings, collecting her brood beneath them; and 
 
 -15-
 
 174 
 
 one rock, which they call a man-of-war, is exactly like 
 the hull of a large ship, with a holly tree gi'owing out 
 at the head, where no vestige of soil can be seen in 
 the solid rock. This the boatman called Captain Holly, 
 the commander of the ship. 
 
 We landed for a while at Dynah's Island, but did not 
 enter the cottage, where strangers go to eat steaks of the 
 salmon, taken alive out of the lake before it. But we 
 went into a beautiful glen, and to the wicker bridge that 
 is erected for strangers to have a view of the middle lake 
 and the celebrated Turk mountain, which is divided from 
 the mountain by a deep ravine, in a hollow of which 
 the old eagle's nest is built. Tliere is little danger of 
 this kingly bird ever being disturbed in his lofty abode, 
 for the mountain in which he resides is quite peri)endi- 
 cular; and, the base being washed by the waters of the 
 lake, it is impossible to reach it. 
 
 After leaving Dynah's Island, the weather became 
 so stormy that we declined visiting the nc-ct points of 
 attraction, which are Glenna Cottage, and another beauti- 
 ful cottage of the Lady Kcnmarc's, on the same island, 
 which afford much to admire, and which strangers gene- 
 rally visit. 
 
 During our sail from Dynah's Isle, past Glenna, our 
 boatman amused us witli the various legends of the 
 small islands and rocks tliat we passed. One, of 
 O'Donogliue, tlie island huntsman and fisherman, was 
 veiy amusing ; and our Lntelligont boat master vciy 
 l)olitc]y told tlio cider lady of our party that, if she
 
 175 
 
 would only wear a cock-and-pinched hat, and carry a 
 fishing basket on her back, she would exactly resemble 
 O'Donoghue, whose ghost still plays the hunter on the 
 island, and gives jiower to the wild deer that he designs 
 for his own sport to escape the toils of every other hunts- 
 man, reserving certain walks for himself that no other 
 can track ; and, sine, he would have nothing to say to us. 
 I told him that I would shake hands with this gi-eat 
 man; if he would only tell me when and where he walked 
 out, I would meet him. Sine and so you might, said 
 he; for you carry a four-leaved shamrock about you, 
 and can accomplish all that you undertake. He appeared 
 able to accomplish difficulties, and, I suppose, thought 
 of my an-esting his blow, when he paid me the shamrock 
 comphment. It is a general superstition and adage, that 
 those who find a four-leaved shamrock can do anything 
 they please to undertake. I often searched among sham- 
 rock, and only found one with a fourth leaf, detached 
 from the other tkree, but on the same stem. 
 
 We had much reason to feel pleased that we did not 
 laud at Glenna; for, had we delayed much longer, it 
 would liave been impossible to cross the lower lake in 
 such a storm. From some hidden cause beneath, the 
 water of this lake is always more troubled than that of 
 the others; but, in a storm, it is quite tenific to behold, 
 bubbling among the dangerous rocks. 
 
 We had not long passed the Cottage Island when 
 our boat began to toss and heave tremendously, some- 
 times elevated mountains high, and anon sunk between
 
 176 
 
 two uplifted waves that appeared ready to overwhelm it, 
 when agaiu we were suddenly raised above them. 
 
 The friends who accompanied me buried theii- faces in 
 then* cloaks, wldle the gi'andeur of the stiife around me 
 so absorbed every sensation of fear, tliat, in the admii'a- 
 tion, awe, and adoration which I felt, I could only ex- 
 claim, "Oh, look ! How grand, how sublime ! Do look!" 
 
 Presently the countenance of the master at the helm 
 l)ecame much troubled, and at last he exclaimed in fear- 
 ful accents, hoiTor depicted on his face, " Row, boys, row 
 for yonr lives, within an inch of that rock, and through 
 the Grip. Through the Grip," he shrieked. "The white 
 squall, the white squall." 
 
 I immediately directed my regards to where he looked 
 in such fearful alarm, and there I saw. the white squall 
 riding majestically on the waves, in the direction that 
 our boat should pass. It appeared like an immense 
 volume or mountain of wliite mist, if possible more than 
 snowy white, it was so brilliant and dazzling in its white- 
 ness, its towering height, and its lightning velocity, as it 
 l)urst along, rolling round, and round, in cloud-like 
 volumes, till it readied tlie whirlpool. Here it took 
 another form, as, mingling with the whirlpool at the base 
 til at dashed its foaming spray in all directions, it 
 divided itself into lofty pillars, ma.jestically rising at the 
 summit, till tliey mingled with the mountain mists of 
 various hues, defacing their own pure wliiteness by 
 mingling with these and the dark clouds above. 
 Never shall T forget the magnificence of this scene.
 
 17^ 
 
 T could not help standing up to look at it, and 
 exclaiming, " How grand, how subUme ! " but the 
 boatman said, " Brave lady, sit down ; you add to our 
 danger by impeding my view." I instantly obeyed, 
 rapt in adoration of the Almighty power who thus pro- 
 claimed his energy. 
 
 Our boat was compelled to pass at some distance 
 from the whirlpool, just as the white squall mingled with 
 its waters, and the earthquake shock that it received 
 made me look down, expecting to see us floating on the 
 water, or engulphed in its foam, with the splinters 
 around us. But, much to my wonder and admuation, 
 it lived, and, as the boatman said, swam hke a fairy 
 through the dangerous Devil's Grip, as it is called, and 
 within an inch of the rock, to have dashed against which 
 must have riven the boat in pieces on its projecting 
 spikes. No boat had ever lived before, he said, that 
 entered the Grip in a storm ; but swiftness and skill in 
 braving this great danger saved us from a worse. 
 
 Dming the whole of these wonderful movements in 
 nature, I gi'catly displeased the ladies that accompanied 
 me, by exclaiming — "Oh, do look here, how sublime — do 
 look there, how grand!" Sometimes I felt so lost in 
 wonder, admiration, and worship, that I was speechless; 
 then again it gave me relief to exclaim, " How noble, how 
 sublime !" Only one of them could I induce sometimes 
 to look up, and view the fearful majesty of the storm. I 
 displeased them all ; I wondering at theii- want of trust 
 in God's providence and mercy, they at what they
 
 17H 
 
 were pleased to term my presumptuous daiiug and 
 defiance of God, to admire and stare in the face a thing 
 so awful — presumptuously not feaiing it. I certainly 
 felt no fear, unless wonder, awe, and admiration can be 
 called such. Great was my danger, gi-eat was my trust 
 in Providence, and great was my resolute determination 
 to resign myself submissively, if my numbered days were 
 designed by the Almighty to end here ; but he provi- 
 dentially held us up, and we landed safely on Boss 
 Island, thence walking to our temporary home a mile 
 distant. 
 
 We were drenched with rain and waves, and, sinking 
 witli fatigue, were glad to retire, gi'ateful for our preser- 
 vation ; and I for one would willingly encounter an 
 equal danger, to see the power of my Creator so magni- 
 ficently displayed in any other form or place.
 
 Sportibc Stanzas, 
 
 ON KILLAKNEY AND ITS ECHOES. 
 
 In thy vales, Killamey, I wander alone ; 
 
 No need of a guide to direct 
 To thy native wild scenes so powerfully tlu-own, 
 
 Round the lakes' blue deeps that reflect. 
 
 If we touch but a cord, or let fall a stone, 
 
 An echo replies to the sound ; 
 And in eveiy iuch of landscape is shewn 
 
 The finger of God on the gi-ound. 
 
 Oh, Killamey ! thy mountams exceed the sublime, 
 
 Transcending all beauty thy vales, 
 And defying the ravage of old father Time 
 
 The grandem* that through thee prevails. 
 
 I could chaunt of thy lakes, squalls, echoes, and groves, 
 
 Resounding thy praise far and wide. 
 Till every heart's pulse, that wild sceneiy loves, 
 
 Should vibrate on ^laugerton's side.
 
 180 
 
 Thy deer hunt so echoes through woodland and vale, 
 
 Inviting all Britain to sport ; 
 Gully, mountain, and glen might cai'iy the tale, 
 
 Conveying thy message to court. 
 
 Oh, Killarney ! thy echoes reply so clear. 
 
 No distance too great to convey 
 The tale thou design'st for the listening ear, 
 
 Or tradition ol" olden day. 
 
 Thy legends sui-jjass all the tales ever told. 
 
 Bringing miracles forth like a root, 
 And, adding a cliann to the scenes we behold, 
 
 Ai-e received without check or disi)ute. 
 
 I would traverse once more thy rich teeming vales, 
 
 Replete with so many bright chai-ms ; 
 But fickle dame Nature to change so prevails. 
 
 My latent desire she disai-ms. 
 
 Never more shall I see thee, to float on tljy lakes, 
 When, aroused by the bugleman's horn, 
 
 From each ravine and cranny an echo awakes. 
 Over scenes that thy mountains adorn. 
 
 Farewell, then, Killarney ! poor tribute I pay. 
 
 Thy beauties so far transcend praise ; 
 A poetess only contributes a lay. 
 
 Expressing not half she essays.
 
 §uttting of tljc (loIoii, 
 
 ON THE OHIO RIVER, 
 
 On board of ■which the Authoress had a friend, who was saved, but lost 
 his all iu preserving the young lady mentioned in the piece. 
 
 'T WAS just such a sweet zephyred eve as this, 
 When trees gently bend, and leaves softly kiss, 
 And every sigh that is heard in the breeze 
 Breathes a sweet lay to the clother of trees, 
 And evc'iy heart clasped in Sorrow's embrace 
 Finds a soothing charm its soitows to chase, 
 Inhaling relief from the eve's warm glow, 
 And opening its valves, that sorrow may flow 
 Away from its soui'ce to a stream more gay. 
 Concealed in some glen where turtle-doves play ; 
 Where the balmy fi-agrance of myrtle gi'ove 
 Embalms both the tear and the tale of love ; 
 Where the lily wide opes its pearly cup, 
 That the wandering bee may sweetly sup, 
 And every creature is hushed and still 
 But the murmuring brook and the rippling rill, 
 Wliei'e honey dew falls on the dappled leaves. 
 And the breast of the skylark gently heaves 
 
 10
 
 182 
 
 As it trills with a sweeter note its lay, 
 
 And warbles the dirge of departing day, 
 
 Soaring aloft in sweet cadence divine, 
 
 To pierce the ether, where stars brightly shine ; 
 
 Or sinking anon, with a quivering shake, 
 
 That in woods and glens sweet echoes awake. 
 
 And startle the nymphs that softly recline, 
 
 And listen to music that seems divine. 
 
 On just such an evening the nightingale sang. 
 
 The groves and the forests with melody rang, 
 
 And eveiy listening ear hoped on 
 
 For a note more heavenly than the one gone. 
 
 The wild glens re-echoed, the groves stood mute, 
 
 And volumes of tones 't were vain to compute 
 
 Piang far and near, when a tempest drew nigh. 
 
 Of startling effect, both on car and eye ; 
 
 And the harrowing scene, i-evealed to light. 
 
 Gave to the struck heait a sickening blight. 
 
 'T was just such a night, and the revel ran high 
 In steam boat that rode on the river hard by. 
 Pale Cynthia rose, clouds shrouded her light 
 As though she were startled by some foul sprite. 
 The revel went on, and each heart was gay, 
 Nor did any suspect tin' lurl<iug prey. 
 The dance and the song went merrily round; 
 Each effort pleased best tliat was the last sounii. 
 Tlic hours move swiftly when spirits are gay, 
 And none are to fear or mistrust a prey.
 
 183 
 
 More social, more pleased, or happy were none, 
 Than the few assembled on board the Ceylon, 
 For every heart beat responsive to joy. 
 And little they dreamed of the coming alloy. 
 
 The evening declined, the party retired. 
 Fraught with the feehngs the revel inspired. 
 The mother I'ietii-ed to love and repose, 
 And hushed on her bosom her infant's woes ; 
 Lover, sister, husband, father, and wife 
 Sank in sweet sleep, full of pleasure and life ; 
 And httle they recked of the hon-id fear 
 That creepingly, creepingly, came more near. 
 Till sensations of heat beyond compare 
 Caused one of the crew to think fire was there. 
 He roused up bis mates, and they searched below - 
 The wild rushing ruin confirmed their woe. 
 Fii'e ! fire ! madly shrieked the unhappy crew — 
 The heart-rending notes like wild-fire flew — 
 And all there reposing on Morpheus' breast 
 In deadly alarm sprung forth from then rest, 
 And paused in their berth with listening ear, 
 For a shadow of hope, to check their fear ; 
 But the vessel reeked in wild flames below. 
 And none the hid source of the burning know. 
 It gains on the ceiling, the floor, and the deck, 
 No time or efibi-t its fuiy can check. 
 In vain they ply pumps, and struggle and rave. 
 The rain extends to the river's wave.
 
 184 
 
 It boils, it hisses, the spaiiding wood 
 In splinters leaps off into the deep tiood ; 
 And every loud crack that the vessel gives 
 Throws a startling shock to each soul that lives. 
 It hoUs, it hisses, in furious foam ; 
 Each half-clad wretch bids farewell to home. 
 And utters a heai'tfelt prayer to God 
 To wield with a merciful hand his rod. 
 The vessel bm-ns with the river's blue wave. 
 Its fierce flaming timbers in vain they lave. 
 Save ! oh save ! what a fearful crash was there ! 
 The mast is fallen — they cry in despauM 
 AU essay to drown the ship's raging flame, 
 And then- reckless heed of fortune proclaim. 
 The boats were uutackled, to save dear life, ' 
 Urged by father, son, mother, friend, and wife ; 
 And every young man in the steamer flew, 
 In breathless haste, to assist the crew ; 
 And a transient hope, tliat clung to each breast, 
 Soon discovered an anchor on which to rest. 
 
 'Mid clash of the elements, the shriek and howl, 
 
 A young seaman descried a water fowl. 
 
 Announcing near land the hovering quaU. 
 
 One joyous shout; but whence that fearful wail? 
 
 A father rushes fortli, with transport wild. 
 
 And cries. Save ! save ! oh, save my drowning child ! 
 
 A boUing wave, resolved its prey to claim, 
 
 Too gi-eat its force, too levelhng its aim,
 
 185 
 
 Had seized the trembling form of one fair maid 
 
 In vain she tried its horrors to evade ; 
 
 It overwhelmed her tender form, too weak, 
 
 And, as she sank, she heard her father's shriek. 
 
 That shi-iek was heard by one who, standing by, 
 
 Tried hastily some treasured deeds to tie, 
 
 In order that the now-engulphing deep 
 
 Might not eutii'e his future fortunes sweep, 
 
 But in the ready boats take off a few 
 
 Loose treasures with the passengers and crew. 
 
 He heard the shriek, and, true to nature's call, 
 
 To save dear woman's life forsaking all, 
 
 He fearless plunged into the boiling deep, 
 
 And caught her form before the waves could sweep 
 
 Her soul into eternity's dread space. 
 
 He, panting, swam, and won the dangerous race; 
 
 The steamer sank, o'ei-whelmed with flame and flood, 
 
 While he bore up the prize, the waves withstood. 
 
 Clasped tenderly the maid in fond alarm. 
 
 Secure in safety every living charm. 
 
 And gained the boat, that lingering stood to save 
 
 The bold, the beautiful, the fond, the brave ; 
 
 Who, while he rushed into the whelming wave, 
 
 Eesolved to win her back, or meet his grave; 
 
 Clasped firmly in a resolute embrace. 
 
 They mount together on the resting place. 
 
 But none had the thought or kindness to save 
 The youth's effects from the swallowing wave ; 
 
 -16-
 
 186 
 
 And the brave bold man, that had rushed for lii'c, 
 To sui)port a fair form in the waters' sti-ife, 
 And left all his worldly treasures, to save 
 Her fragile charms from a watery grave, 
 Stood by her side, his looks beaming delight, 
 Nor cast one thought on liis penniless plight ; 
 But fondly gazing on her ho had saved, 
 Felt he could dare to do more than he braved. 
 Well pleased he led to her father's embrace, 
 The soft trembling form, and love beaming face ; 
 The father received, iu gi-atitude clasped, — 
 The hand of her bold preserver he gi'asj)ed ; 
 And swore that he had Itut to ask a meed, 
 Tlie half that he had shoidd be his in need. 
 
 False hearted and feeble the promise made — 
 If you need to swear it shall be well paid ! 
 Ere I finish my tale, I wot we shall see 
 That the father forgot the promised fee ; 
 And fearfully swerved from the honest jiride 
 That should ever in gratefid hearts reside. 
 The boats speed on, while bewildered they stand, 
 Who can tell their joy as they leap on land ! 
 Rescued from death, they make lieaven's azure ring 
 With joyous shouts to God, their friend and king ; 
 And joining voice and hands, witli one glad peal, 
 Shake from their liearts the overflow they feel ; 
 Then sighing, with the spent exhausting shout. 
 Mixed tears of joy and sori'ow trickled out ;
 
 187 
 
 For life, though treasiu'ed, without means to live, 
 
 Has lost one half the joys that life can give; 
 
 Though wrecked theii- fortunes, still they clasp with life 
 
 A father, mother, sisters, brothers, wife, 
 
 And faithful friends, long tried in word and deed ; 
 
 Self-sacrificing, one brave fiiend in need 
 
 Stood there, bereaved of all the wealth he had. 
 
 But the frail shu-t in which his limbs were clad, 
 
 His spuit, soaring far too high to weep. 
 
 Though all his wealth was swallowed by the deep. 
 
 Stood lost in thankfulness that all were saved. 
 
 While blessings on their future life he craved : 
 
 All safe, where once but savage foot had trod, 
 
 They bend the knee in heartfelt prayer to God. 
 
 Kising with hope and spirit more resolved. 
 Their future prospects one and all revolved ; 
 They journey on, the wealthy find a fiiend, — 
 Show that you 've money, many will attend ; 
 The mercenary ever seek then- gain 
 By toiling for the prodigal and vain : 
 But none were here to tempt to this foul sin, 
 'Mong those who nothing have, they nothing win : 
 And he, self-dooming, that had wi-ecked his all. 
 Had not one friend on whom to make a call ; 
 The wretch that caused the youth his all to stake, 
 Did not one offer of assistance make. 
 Though landed on his own, his native sti'and. 
 And wallowing in houses, gold, and land.
 
 188 
 
 Devoid of feeling, though his chUd was saved, 
 All thought of honour to her saviour waved. 
 Refused his dross till he applied to fiiends : 
 Nor for his swallowed treasures made amends, 
 Nor offered him a sheltering home, tUl he 
 Received the forward lunds to set him free. 
 No ! he discovered that the man was poor, 
 And reckless drove him from his lofty door ; 
 Depending all on genius and mind, 
 And the fan- fame his authorship could find. 
 Made him unfit to wed the heu-ess proud ; 
 The father bade him jostle with the crowd ; 
 And left the youth to wander as he could. 
 And take relief fi-om passengers that woidd ; 
 Nor clothing, food, nor money would he give 
 From out his wealth, to help the youth to live. 
 
 Unfeeling wretch ! so dead to every tie. 
 That teaches man to dread and scona a lie ; 
 So buried in his love of glittei-ing gains, 
 That every fresh amount binds fast his chains, 
 And steels his soul against another's woe, 
 If it require or wish hun to forego 
 A single ounce of what he treasui'es most ; 
 For whicli he wanders like a starving ghost. 
 Reckless alike of all that others need. 
 And lost to aU the tender ties that plead 
 A pm'er feeling for another's woe, 
 Such"as the miser's heart can never know.
 
 189 
 
 Oh for the power to change the stony heart, 
 A i)ower the stings of conscience to impart, 
 To make the monster miser prone to steal 
 A little from his hoards for others' weal ; 
 To make him feel that every coin he gains 
 Shall clench a link to fasten him in chains; 
 To teach his heai't, disposed to slide from woe, 
 That notliing earthly can to heaven go : 
 To make the hoary headed miser feel, 
 That Satan one day shall his hoards reveal ; 
 And when he goes, Ms hidden God to find. 
 When near his feast, I suddenly would bind 
 A troop of stinging scorj)ions on his eyes — 
 When he surveyed his only treasured prize ; 
 And he should feel their fiery darts, till he 
 Could see them one by one for ever flee ; 
 Nor stretch a hand to save them from the palms 
 Of those who gave them to the poor in alms. 
 I 'd tie him to a triple-headed stake ; 
 Each head should be a vice-consuming snake, 
 To plant a sting in every sin that gi'ew. 
 And make the venom fester, and renew. 
 Whene'er it dared to stand to view revealed, 
 I 'd have the sting re-venomed and unhealed ; 
 I would have the heart-himaing stake to prove 
 A cleanser from sui, and a rod of love ; 
 And the bands that girt the wretch to its arm 
 Hot cords the recreant's heart to alarm, 
 To toss and heave it with soitow and fear, 
 Until he shed repentant sinner's tear ;
 
 190 
 
 With humble heart stepped forth to kiss the rod, 
 And felt forgiven by au offended God. 
 Then would I take the serpent stake away, 
 And bid him rise to never ending day ; 
 By influence divine thus healed and whole, 
 Regenerate alike in heart and soul. 
 
 Sinc5 
 
 ADDBESSED TO MISS P . ON HliR DEPARTHKE TROM LIVERI'OOI,, 
 
 TO HER NATIVE LAND, IRKLAND. 
 
 Since I must now for ever yield 
 
 The pleasing hope to see thee more, 
 
 May angels' wings surround and shield. 
 
 And guide thee safe to Erin's shore. 
 
 I know thou canst not love my home. 
 
 It has no cherished charms for thee, "'*- 
 
 But when thy thoughts in absence roam, 
 
 In kindness sometimes think of me. 
 
 Dear though I love my native land. 
 
 And proudly think upon its fame. 
 
 Its soulless pomp cannot command 
 
 From Erin's l»righter sons the same. 
 
 Go, get thee home ; tliat dear loved sound 
 
 Hath bright and heaven-born charms for thee ; 
 
 But yet, when dearer friends surround. 
 
 Think of tliy friend, Eliza C .
 
 il]c 6xp\)'s ^UUw grille. 
 
 Tt is now some twenty years or more since a 
 meiTy, licentious, and wily troop of gipsies encamped 
 in one of the broad, flat, shady lanes that so frequently 
 occiu' in a country that borders one side of the river 
 Mersey; generally forming a broad line of separation 
 between two or more extensive farms, and the planta- 
 tions and residences of wealthy gentlemen. This 
 encampment were of a superior class to the generality 
 of wandering vagi'ants, and the tents were constructed in 
 a style that did credit to the taste of the gang. Some 
 of those, occupied by the upper class, (for even among 
 these tribes there are upper and lower grades,) were 
 cai-peted, and even tastefully and elegantly furnished, 
 exhibiting to no small extent both taste and refinement. 
 
 Many of the men wei-e artisans, and craftsmen, of no 
 mean order. The women, without exception, one and 
 all, were beautiful, or at least pretty; and their style 
 of dress gave a witching wilduess to their appearance, 
 truly original and interesting. All had tinged then- 
 skins deeply with the juice of the walnut, but their 
 coloui- was rosy, briUiant, soft, and natm-al. Eyes of
 
 192 
 
 every hue were to be found among tliem ; and haii' of 
 every colour that gives beauty to the face ; this they all 
 platted in very small plats, from the crown to the neck 
 and forehead, which, descending in full Iriigth over 
 theii' shoulders and bust, hung down on some far 
 below the waist ; one broad loop was threaded together, 
 and twisted up at each side of the forehead, fastened 
 with a small knot or bow of ribbon to the longer plats 
 at the side, which were allowed to hang over the bosom. 
 This adornment, sun-ounding the finely chiselled and 
 ruddy features, and the pearly whiteness of their teeth, 
 contrasted with the rich ruby of their lips, the nut 
 brown skin, and sparkling intelligence of countenance, 
 gave an irresistible charm to them all. 
 
 Their dress was equally romantic and singular; they 
 wore the little muscle-shell bonnets, wliich shape was 
 then in fashion among ladies, made of straw, and 
 trimmed with ribbon or flowers, or both, according to 
 the taste of the wearer. But the gipsy style of putting 
 it on was more fanciful and gay; placed on one side 
 with an impudent sort of leer, like the liat of a cox- 
 comb or ignoramus, this only gave shantiness to their 
 style. Each wore a small round mantle, with a little 
 hood, which was gracefully thrown over the left shoulder ; 
 beneath this was concealed the pack of cards, always 
 carried when abroad, to tell fortunes with ; the right 
 arm sustained a small basket of pedlcry ; the gown was 
 of cotton, muslin, or printed stuff; the superiors wore 
 silk; and a quilted red, black, purple, or yellow petticoat
 
 103 
 
 completed the di-ess, — the gown being looped up at 
 each side to show it. The men wore short jackets of 
 the sailor kind, except that at the back there was a sort 
 of long frill hanging down, such as is called a jacket 
 when pendent on a ladies riding habit ; they wore the 
 pantaloons called tight slacks, grey, black, or brown, 
 according to the taste of the wearer; the waistcoats 
 were purple, scarlet, or yellow plush, in all their shades ; 
 with frills round their necks low enough to expose their 
 throat, and descend to the waist ; ruffles at the wrists ; 
 round slouched hats put on one side, the lowered side 
 flapping over the shoulder, and the other side turned 
 up to show their cluster curls. Such was their- holiday, 
 visiting, or gala dress ; they all had besides what they 
 called their w^orking rigg. 
 
 Among this meriy troop of vagabonds, as a matter 
 of course, the most talented, licentious, and jovial was 
 chosen for king or ruler. Unfortunately, he possessed 
 withal a degree of manly beauty most charming to 
 behold ; and a suavity of manners that few could resist, 
 when he prefen-ed a petition, either for a donation or 
 pei-mission to ply his magic arts to look into futurity, 
 or rather to turn the brams of young maidens hunting 
 for sweethearts, or excite the various flery passions of 
 swains who were courting and struggling for fortune, 
 love, or renown. This wily seducer was tall, well 
 formed, athletic, and graceful. He was remarkably 
 handsome, had a large style of Grecian features, deep 
 brown but biilliant complexion, full black eyes, curling 
 
 17
 
 194 
 
 black hair, which he allowed to fall in graceful ringlets 
 over a lace frill of snowy whiteness, put on so as to show 
 his pillar-like throat. His dress, too, in other respects, 
 was neat and trim, yet identifying the gipsy character, 
 and like that of the other men of the tribe, only of 
 superior materials ; and he wore a silver star on the left 
 breast. His manners were winning in the extreme, 
 added to a native eloquence of speech, and a bold, 
 commanding address, that made him the idol of his 
 tribe, many of whom were very handsome ; indeed, all 
 had some pretensions, but none were to be compared 
 with him; and he was alike the favourite of both men 
 and women. A native iwlitician, he knew how to win 
 the heart of each, and make that heart subservient to 
 bis own ambition. Such was the ruler of the tribe. 
 
 A short time before the occm-rences took place which 
 I am about to relate, and a I'vav days after the first pai't 
 of the shockmg catastrophe had been enacted, I saw 
 this encampment such as I have described it ; but going 
 on the last day of their sojourn in the country, they 
 were in one part preparing to unfurl their tents for 
 removal. I saw them to gi'cat advantage in their gala 
 di'ess, partaking their last summer feast in the open 
 air, and conversed with several on their mode of life. 
 They were eloquent in praise of it. One witching 
 sunny beauty, with bright blue eyes, ilaxen hair, olive 
 skin, yet ruddy lip and cheek, wearing a scarlet mantle 
 and petticoat, with a deep blue gown, and a wreatli of 
 flowers ou her hat, exclaimed very pathetically against
 
 I9r) 
 
 the wickedness of people, who, taking advantage of their 
 presence, committed nuisance and robbeiy, unjustly 
 laying the blame upon them. 
 
 I was much struck with the varied beauty of the 
 women, and the graceful deportment of the men, quite 
 as striking as their features and general beauty. The 
 king was pointed out to me. I thought bim splendidly 
 handsome, but felt as though the eye of a basilisk was 
 on me while he gazed, for to my mind he looked like 
 a handsome and accomplished villain. He spoke to me 
 most coiurteously, inviting to the feast; his voice was 
 clear, sweet, and deeply thrilling, but it made my blood 
 run cold. Little did I think he had committed murder 
 but five nights before. One of the women said to me, 
 "Young lady, you turn pale, come this way, you need not 
 fear the men, they will never hann you, for they hann 
 no one. I stayed too short a time to know much of their 
 habits in general, except fi'om the report of others, on 
 whom I could depend ; and some of the following inci- 
 dents were communicated to me, some years after, by a 
 friend of the wretched, broken-hearted father, and a 
 spectator of the last catastrophe related in the poem 
 wliich accompanies this narrative; the others I knew. 
 
 There was among the residences of the suiTounding 
 gentry, one which contained a lovely young girl, as rich 
 in beauty and romance, as she was in fortune. She was 
 an only child, and the only treasure of a fond, indulgent, 
 widowed father, who anticipated every wish, and only 
 asked for filial love and confidence in return. Happy
 
 1<)G 
 
 would it have been for this simple minded girl, if tlie 
 latter had been freely given by her to this fond parent ; 
 but no, she did not give it, and was destined to be 
 punished for her want of filial duty. 
 
 Tliis lovely gnl was seen one day, by the Chief of 
 the gipsy tribe, encamped in the neighbourhood, while 
 taking a solitary walk to meet her father; he was 
 struck with the soft and delicate beauty of her face and 
 form, her graceful carriage, and the timid yet admuing 
 glance that she cast upon him as he passed. He turned 
 and followed till she joined her father, then went ano- 
 ther way, but kept them in his eye till they reached 
 their home ; this satisfied him for the present. 
 
 This was the day on which I saw her first ; and as I 
 saw her then, I will describe her. She wore the little 
 gipsy or muscle-shell straw hat ; her hair streamed down 
 in graceful and long ringlets, the style being what was 
 called an opera crop; its colour was a bright and glit- 
 termg chesnut. Her pencilled eyebrow was quite dark ; 
 so were her eyelashes; and underneatli, such speaking 
 eyes, the deepest shade of the brown hazlc. Their 
 penetrating, tender look and vivid lustre was softened 
 by the long and up-turned lash. Her cheeks were rosy ; 
 her mouth was like a little opening rosebud; and the 
 teeth were seen as white as snow. Her skin Avas clear 
 as alabaster, marbled with the pale blue veins meauder- 
 ing beneath ; and when she smiled, it was most witching 
 to behold her. Her figure was tall and elegant; her 
 movements graceful, rather light and modish, like her
 
 197 
 
 dress, which was an embroidered satin ; and her shawl 
 was tastefully disposed. We moved, and said, Good 
 morning — what a lovely day; a custom then in country 
 lanes, even with strangers. I thought, What a lovely 
 gii-1! 
 
 So thought the gipsy, too. The next day he was at 
 her father's house, to tell the servant maids their for- 
 tunes. Young Miss was told that he was there, and she 
 encouraged them. Her maid persuaded her to go, and 
 shew the lines in her own hand. She did : the gipsy 
 trembled while he held it. They were a handsome pair ; 
 and both drank deeply of love while they conversed 
 together. Most heartily she laughed, when he told her 
 that the lader of a little kuigdom loved her ; and he said 
 that her hfe would flow in one uninterrupted stream of 
 joy, if she would link her fate with the next handsome 
 man that oflfered; hut, if she dared to refuse, her evil 
 star would gain the ascendancy, and many woes would 
 follow which she might escape, if she would take the 
 next that offered. He was in humble life at present, 
 but born of wealthy parents, who had died while he was 
 yet a child; and fortune had so frowned that he was 
 rather poor, but yet a Commander; and he was honest, 
 good, and handsome. As handsome as yourself? said 
 she. Quite so, my lady. Then I am siu'e to take him, 
 said the thoughtless girl. These giddy words, so lightly 
 spoken, sealed her doom. He swore within himself that 
 he would Uve but to subdue her scruples, if her pride 
 should interfere to make hci- shun bim. But, \mfor- 
 
 -17-
 
 198 
 
 tunately for her peace, romance had got the better oi' 
 her judgment, and almost before she knew who was the 
 handsome lover, she bad resolved to give herself, and the 
 independence that an uncle had bequeathed to lier; and, 
 by wedding him, restore him to bis father's rank — for- 
 getting that, in doing so, she lost her own, by making 
 him her head. 
 
 That night denied her any sleep — she thouglit of this 
 first oifer so unceasingly — and, wearied, thought with 
 vain conjectures of who, and how, and when he would 
 appear, to claim his almost willing bride, before his face 
 was known. Then she wondered if he really could be 
 quite as handsome as the gipsy man. She almost wished 
 that he was in disguise, and would turn out to be this 
 i-uler ; for she hai'dly dared to own, even to herself, that 
 he lodged in her heart, and so made no effort to dispos- 
 sess it of its improper inmate. Having led a secluded 
 life, her father being her chief lover, and introduced only 
 to his old friends, she never had been asked in marriage, 
 though lovely, and attractive for lier virtues as mucli as 
 her beauty. 
 
 Parents often err in keejiing girls too much secluded, 
 instead of allowing them to mingle with the world, and 
 teaching them to use their eyes, and always to reflect 
 on what they see; persuading tlicm to look on men 
 with quite as much composure as on women, yet to keep 
 them at a distance, making this the only difference 
 between them, except what native modesty suggests. 
 The girl, thus tutored, will maintain a steady eye when
 
 199 
 
 men regard her, will look them in the face when she is 
 speaking to them, and rather feel ashamed to blush, 
 than not to blush when in then- presence. Thus, having 
 reason always at her elbow to subdue the senses, or 
 conceal them from the vicious eye, no man then, who 
 is not a confirmed libertine and profligate, will dare 
 approach her with a view to taint either her mind oi- 
 person. She may walk abroad alone, the men she meets 
 will cleai- a passage for her, and admire her the more 
 that she commands it by her steady grace, without 
 authority, and, smiling on them all, accepts it as her due. 
 But such was not the tutelage of young Claiinda 
 Malville; motherless fi-om infancy, her kind, fond, 
 widowed father rather fed than restrained her fondness 
 for romances, by teaching her to love his own poetical 
 ideas, and every thing in nature that was gentle, fond, 
 and tender; without an effort to invigorate her mind 
 with firmness, patience, fortitude, and justice. Not a 
 touch of anything that could give sternness to her tone 
 or features did he for a moment try to instil ; he never 
 taught her to command — not even gently; in this alone 
 he proved her enemy, for she could not defend herself 
 fi'om evil when he wandered from her side, and she had 
 nothing to shield her from each ti'ifling ill. Poor man, 
 he little anticipated the consequences of his tender folly, 
 or thought his child would ever stain his aged eyes 
 with the bruiy drops of killing sorrow, that so frequently 
 bcdimmed liis vision, on account of her folly, dis- 
 obedience, and base ingratitude.
 
 200 
 
 Such as I liave described them were the parent and 
 cliild, when the gipsies encamped in their neighbour- 
 hood, and, by then- general good conduct, clever artisan- 
 ship, and comely persons, gained much admiration and 
 employment among the surrounding fai-mers and gentry ; 
 who often came to see their tents and chat among them, 
 and sometimes to contribute and pnrtake their galas, on 
 the eve of any saint's day that they thought propitious. 
 But Mr. IMalville never went amongst them; from the 
 first he took a great dislike to them ; and had his power 
 been such, he would have had them all removed. He 
 might have had a foresight of the injmy that they would 
 do him, from the tremulous anxiety that he evinced to 
 shun them, and to keep his daughter fi'om the scene 
 of action. 
 
 Matters went on as usual, except that eveiy day the 
 young Clarinda felt a feverish anxiety to see the hand- 
 some gipsy, and succeeded to elude her father's eye, who, 
 notiiing suspecting, thought it sufficient to forbid her 
 going near them, lest she might receive some insult. 
 This she tliought uncharitable of ])cr fatlior, they being 
 all so kind and gentle. Her father should have known, 
 or remembered, that human nature always craves for- 
 bidden fi-uit ; and much better would it have been, when 
 he perceived her cliildish desire to see more of them, 
 and know something of the gipsy habits, if he had 
 taken her to their encampment, explained theu* mode 
 of life, as other fatlicrs did, pointed out the specious 
 apjicaranccs tliat cheat and deceive, and explained tliat
 
 201 
 
 a bright exterior can conceal iniquities from those 
 unread in the deceits of human natm'e, or too young 
 and inexperienced to know the world. But he neglected 
 or disdained to do so, and thus he lost his child. 
 
 Claiinda saw the handsome gipsy every day, and 
 her maid at last, being bribed by him, persuaded her to 
 go one gala night and join the gipsy feast, held at the 
 illumined camp, to celebrate the chief's birthday. She 
 went and saw him, — the king or raler of the tribe ; at 
 once lier eyes were opened, and she saw the man she 
 was to choose, thus escaping the fancied ills of life, to 
 rush on real misery. Her heai't was lost, and she went on. 
 She danced with him, and loved the fond and tender pres- 
 sm-e of his hand. At last he gi-ew so bold as to declare 
 his love. He wooed and won her promise to become 
 his bride, and to conceal the scheme until lie could 
 conveniently steal her from her father's home. He 
 kissed her cheek, her brow, her lips, his hand fondly 
 pressing hers. 
 
 That veiy night, the self-same hand let fly the shaft 
 that scattered hfe, and sank his soul into perdition; 
 while his lips were breathing blasphemy. Oh could she 
 but have seen him, five hours after she retu-ed, her heart 
 would then have spumed its tenant, and ejected it for 
 ever. She would not then have been induced to poison 
 her life, destroy her fame, and rob her fond, kind father 
 of his peace for ever, in this vain world, where it is so 
 much wanted, by eloping with the handsome villain. 
 
 Poor man, he little thought she saw the beautiful
 
 202 
 
 enslaver of her heart beneatli liis roof each night, when 
 he had gone to rest — that he had wooed, and won her 
 promise to elope with him — that his loved child would 
 marry such a man — that he, each night, imprinted 
 kisses on the lips and brow that he had fondly pressed 
 in kind parental feeling, when he retired, believing 
 that his child loved him the dearest. But, alas, her 
 heart was changed, or so divided, that she had not one 
 half to give to filial love. This he could have borne, 
 rejoicmg in her love and happiness, had the object been 
 a worthy one ; but he was not. What tongue could tell, 
 what pen could write, the woe he felt, when he dis- 
 covered her elopement. Had she but half confided in 
 her father, as he did in her, she would have told him 
 when the bold gipsy first addi'essed her, and he might 
 have saved her from such utter ruin. She would 
 then have been spared the pain of seeing the shadowy 
 form, into wliicli her father's once robust, athletic 
 frame, had dwindJed; the woe worn look of utter, 
 helpless wretchedness, that liad spread itself over a face 
 that once was chiselled into manly beauty, and animated 
 witli all the lively, brilliant touches that lioj^e, enjoy- 
 ment, and internal peace can cause to sparkle in the 
 eyes, rest on the smiling lips, and spread themselves 
 upon the open brow, alas, now wrinkled by the furrow- 
 ing hand of woe before its time. The once firm tread, 
 that tried to imitate her own elastic youthful spring, 
 when they enjoyed the open aii* together, now sunk into
 
 208 
 
 a feeble totter, proclaiming that the body shared the 
 mind's unhealthy state, and quailed beneath the burden 
 of its inward strife. And there was such a deep-toned 
 pensiveness and melancholy cadence in his voice, 
 whenever he addressed himself in speech, that nothing 
 but a stony heart could heai' it and not feel its depth 
 acutely. 
 
 He wandered all alone, avoiding eveiy creatm-e that 
 had life ; he even shunned the grove, lest he should hear 
 the nightingale, or spring the warbling lark which they 
 had heard together. Her paiTot and canaiy bird were 
 banished from her neat boudoir, in which he always 
 breakfasted in former happy times. The birds were 
 cherished more than ever, though he did not see them, 
 such were his orders. He walked into the little room 
 where they had breakfasted each day, then in an 
 instant gently crept away, the tear drop in his eye ; he 
 could not bear to sit there, when its living light was 
 gone; such was the fond and tender father. Yet she 
 could leave him there, a wi-eck upon the rocks of shame 
 and woe ; and in the whirl of youthful, giddy passion, 
 forget that one, well tried, and not the impassioned 
 lover of an horn*, might break his heart, if she forsook 
 him for a man unworthy of her. 
 
 Yes, reckless of her rank and fortune, and the great 
 disparity between herself and her lover ; forgetting, too, 
 obedience, filial love, and duty, she left her home, to sink 
 into the arms of him, whose life was one of degradation ;
 
 204 
 
 though wild, romantic, free, and joyous. But was it 
 holy, pure, and free from fear, or li'om the scorpion 
 stings of conscience? No. 
 
 Her life had hitherto been pure and happy, blessed 
 witli loving, kind, indulgent friends, with a fatlier that 
 too fondly loved licr, endowed with beauty, fortune, and 
 a settled home enriched with eveiy comfort, where she 
 ruled and wandered free as any bu"d that carolled in the 
 grove, or picked the ci-umbs she scattered tenderly 
 abroad, to give them food. Her nature was most gentle, 
 fond, and true, full of sentimental feeling, piety, and 
 hope — a pattern of kind charity. The benefits that she 
 bestowed were graciously awarded, and endeared her to 
 the poor. 
 
 The servants loved her too, except the maid that took 
 a bribe to lead her to the gipsy camp. She envied her, 
 because she owned such beauty, rank, and fortune ; and, 
 as envy always shelters malice, and the slightest thing 
 provokes it to creep from its hidhig-place, to sting all 
 those who see its errors and reprove them, the yoiuig 
 should therefore talvC up caution sooner than they do, 
 and reprove less severely; for malice canies out a sting 
 which, though it may be insignificant, can always do 
 some haam, and should not be i)rovoked; the absence 
 of all good feeling, in the envious and malicious, is in 
 itself a mischief, which spreads whenever it may be 
 called into action. Such an envious creature was the 
 waiting-maid ; and slie gave ear to a scheme to take her 
 young lady from lier Ijappy liome, the lady much too
 
 205 
 
 willing to dwell with one who, with an angel's form, pos- 
 sessed in the extreme each attribute that led to the 
 Archangel's fall — ambition, pride, and rivalry. 
 
 The villain loved the beauteous girl most aixlently; 
 never had such a pure flame possessed his breast. He 
 truly felt tliat he could leave the world and all his tribe, 
 to dwell with her in some lone deU secure, where 
 rumours of the world had never been, and could not 
 with ease approach. They found this dell, and, except 
 for short excursions, dwelt in it in peace and love two 
 years. But he forgot to change his name. 
 
 A jealous rival, left among the tribe that he forsook 
 when he obtained his bride, owed him a grudge, and, 
 after having discovered his retreat, betrayed him to the 
 hands of justice. He had, two years before, and five 
 nights previous to the one on which he stole his 
 beauteous bride, and on the very night that he declared 
 his love and won her promise to be his, and not five 
 hours after he had pressed her lips in ecstacy and love, 
 attacked some travellers on the high road, one of whom 
 resisted bravely, and defended his small property till, 
 in a sudden rage, the gipsy murdered him — the most 
 reckless, though not the first deed of the kind with which 
 his life was stained. This was seen by many of his 
 tribe. The other travellers escaped with only loss of 
 money ; and all his fellows were too faithful to their chief 
 and tutor in iniquity to be tempted by the rewards 
 offered for detection. 
 
 But this man did, for revenge and jealousy, what his 
 
 18
 
 206 
 
 thief like honour would uot let lum do. What tongue can 
 tell or pen describe one-half the misery and shame the 
 poor wife's wounded spirit felt, when she thus beheld the 
 man whose beauty, suavity, and manly graces had so 
 captivated and enslaved her young, romantic heart, that 
 she believed him nothing less than augel ? What must 
 have been the feelings of tliat anguished hour, when ho 
 was torn fi'om her arms and home, shackled as a felon, 
 and branded with the degrading, fearful name of mur- 
 derer? Those fond eyes, that formerly had only beamed 
 forth love, beheld him taken from her, to meet the felon's 
 doom which he had so often provoked and yet escaped. 
 In vain she shrieked, implored, protested he was inno- 
 cent; that she could prove it; he was in her father's 
 house five hours before. Alas ! he left her father's house, 
 and printed kisses on her rosy lips, five hours before 
 he did the deed — some fifteen miles or more beyond 
 her house — and she tvas in this murderers embrace, a 
 loving tvife, before the iveek was out. 
 
 How cautious, then, young maids should be, lest 
 specious villainy deceive their inexperienced minds, and 
 cheat them out of purity and virtue. Far better tell 
 their parents all they tliink and feel, and all the little 
 incidents that happen in their walks. And parents 
 should be cautious never to reprove, but reason with 
 them, on the accidents that may trausi)irc, not quite 
 according to the strictest rule; for, if reproved as thougli 
 the fault were all tlicir own, they may conceal the next 
 thing that occurs, and thus deprive them of the ]»ower
 
 207 
 
 to shield their children from the hidden dangers that 
 assail. This did Clariuda, when her father had reproved 
 her young desire to see more of the gipsies : hence she 
 concealed the whole that henceforth occun-ed, and broke 
 her father's heart, by leaving him, to dwell with one so 
 infamous. 
 
 But, when the dreadful event above-related tran- 
 spired, she wrote to this neglected father, to entreat 
 him to receive his fallen child, and said she now dis- 
 dained the gipsy's name. She might ; but did her heart 
 disdain the man ? No : she believed him innocent, and 
 loved him still the more that he was persecuted and 
 belied. 
 
 Her father hastened to his child's reUef, removed her 
 to her former home, forgave the lovely, cherished peni- 
 tent, and tried, by fond, indulgent care, to soothe her 
 sorrows. In vain he tried to save her fi-om the hoiTors 
 of her husband's trial. She persisted, and would go to 
 hear it. There she saw him, chained and handcuffed, 
 and her strength then nearly failed her. Slie listened to 
 the trial; alternately flushed and pallid, her cheek 
 bespoke the tumult that internally pervaded her. The 
 evidence convicted him. She heard the verdict. I did, 
 too ; and never, oh never, shall I forget the fearful shrieks, 
 the peal on peal, that crushed my brain, and rang around, 
 enough to make the court walls totter, when she, in 
 breathless eagerness, enlarged her ear, and bent it to 
 receive the verdict, — tvhich was, guilty of the murder. 
 Oh ! her shrieks rang through the court, the heart, the
 
 208 
 
 brain of every pitying listener. The killing sentence 
 was pronoixnced amid the buzz of those who deeply 
 sympathised, and sprang to help the stricken-hearted 
 wife. The last cord that sustained her reason and her 
 life had snapped asunder, and she fell down to the 
 ground quite senseless, yet alive, and only so. I will 
 not any more anticijiate, but leave the poem to relate 
 the last catastrophe, and conclude by advising young 
 people always to rely upon their parents for advice and 
 instruction, confidently revealing every thought and 
 hope to them, and carefully avoiding eveiy path in 
 which they cannot invite theii- pai-euts to join them; and 
 recommending parents to remember that they once were 
 young themselves, and thoughtless, so sliould lend a 
 patient, lenient ear to then- children's little hopes and 
 wishes, and gratify them as far as innocence permits.
 
 il]^ (§xp\);s .stolen |ribe. 
 
 A gay gipsy tribe 
 Once offered a bribe 
 
 To her maid, a lady to bring 
 To the lumined tents, 
 To see theii' events, 
 
 And to dance with the gipsy king. 
 
 The lady complied. 
 To the camp she hied, 
 
 Well prepared was the gala scene ; 
 The tents were so gay, 
 'T was the chiefs birthday. 
 
 And the lady played gipsy queen. 
 
 She danced with the chief; 
 
 To make the tale brief, — 
 The story at once I '11 unfold ; 
 
 Ere she could depart, 
 
 She had lost her heart. 
 It was stole by the gipsy bold. 
 -18-
 
 210 
 
 He had seen her before, 
 
 When he went to explore, 
 Her father's hinds and residence ; 
 
 From the moment he saw — 
 
 Disdaining all law — 
 He resolved to steal her from thence. 
 
 Her soft ruby lip, 
 
 He felt tempted to sip, 
 But he feared — so he pressed her arm 
 
 The tender embrace 
 
 She felt no disgi-ace, 
 Nor fled, as she ought, in alarm. 
 
 He saw at a glance 
 
 That she felt love's trance ; 
 When he gave her his hand to lead, 
 
 And guide her to where 
 
 The dancers prepare. 
 He saw fortune smiling indeed. 
 
 Before she resumed 
 
 Her seat, he presumed 
 To offer Ms hand and heart ; 
 
 His court was repaid. 
 
 Before he obeyed; 
 'I'o allow the miiid to depart.
 
 211 
 
 Her words the next day, 
 
 Cause her father to say, 
 " My dear, shiin the gipsy camp ; 
 
 Your heauty might snare 
 
 The men that are there, 
 Or take from your path its lamp. 
 
 While virtue is thine. 
 
 It wiU brightly shine ; 
 But a breath can sully its flame ; 
 
 Avoid then the snare, 
 
 Nor evil prepare, 
 Nor tarnish your father's bright name." 
 
 Oh, had she obeyed, 
 
 The fortunate maid 
 Had been spared the anguish and pain, 
 
 Of a (beary cot, 
 
 Where honour was not, 
 And hope lost, she could never regain 
 
 Or had she but told 
 
 Her father, the bold 
 Love address of the gipsy man, 
 
 His fondness and care, 
 
 Explaining the snare, 
 Would have taught her the risk she ran.
 
 212 
 
 But young Miss was smit, 
 
 With a love lorn fit, 
 i'or a handsome, swart gipsy face ; 
 
 The flame was revealed, 
 
 And the lovers sealed 
 Then- contract, with lovers' embrace. 
 
 They loved each as well, 
 
 For an equal sjiell 
 Enchained him, when first he perceived, 
 
 From the maid's fond glance. 
 
 His love-suit's fair chance ; 
 And with transport his bosom heaved. 
 
 The treaty was made ; 
 
 Tliey tried to evade 
 Tlie vigUant care of her sire; 
 
 Succeeding so well, 
 
 The tale 1 shall tell 
 Proves vigilance less than desire. 
 
 ^o'^ 
 
 The last gala night, 
 She took her bold lliglit 
 
 From lici- inuofciit, liappy home ; 
 l''orgot her sire's prayei', 
 I'^orsook his fond care, 
 
 Will) viiffranls and chcnts to miun.
 
 213 
 
 Eloped from this home, 
 For some time to roam, 
 
 A rude, wandering gipsy life : 
 Her father declares, 
 While he raves and swears, 
 
 He will banish the gipsy wife. 
 
 But he cannot deprive, 
 
 Or dead or alive. 
 The maid of her uncle's great wealth ; 
 
 And she gave the whole, 
 
 With body and soul. 
 To the man she married by stealth. 
 
 Then travelling o'er 
 Wide lands, to explore 
 
 For a cottage, where love could repose, 
 They find a sweet dell. 
 Where in peace they dwell ; 
 
 Neither care nor strife to it goes. 
 
 Thence sometimes they roam, 
 
 Anon dwell at home, 
 And he calls her liis day-light star ; 
 
 And thus he would sing. 
 
 As their flight they wing 
 To the regions from home afar :
 
 214 
 
 " Thus I wander far, 
 With my Daylight Star, 
 
 Beaming full brightly beside me ; 
 And no tongue can tell 
 My fond heart's proud swell ; 
 
 Now no son-ow can betide me. 
 
 " Sipping love at will, 
 Joy's bright cup I fill, 
 
 And quaff its nectar daily; 
 The eyes of my lass 
 Ai'c my looking-glass ; 
 
 While I dance the hornpijie gaily. 
 
 " And then, I embrace, 
 
 At my table place, 
 The loveliest giil in the town ; 
 
 And there we enjoy 
 
 No viands that clov, 
 To the simplest fare we sit down. 
 
 " And the eye's bright beam, 
 
 With its holy gleam, 
 From the smiling face before me, 
 
 Gives a sweeter gi-ace 
 
 To tliat hap]iy face. 
 And throws a warm sunshine o'er me.
 
 215 
 
 " In vain they decry, 
 And declare that I 
 
 Deserve not the treasure I stole ; 
 How can words disclose 
 My fond love, she knows 
 
 She 's my life, my love, and my soul. 
 
 " And we wade tlu'ough life, 
 
 Void of care or strife ; 
 Nor envy man, or his mother ; 
 
 Divide with each man, 
 
 As far as we can. 
 And welcome him like a hrother. 
 
 "I know not a care. 
 
 Whilst I clasp my fair, 
 And soothe her to gentle repose. 
 
 When gone my last sigh. 
 
 May her soul reply, 
 And together our eyelids close. 
 
 " Not alone could we live, 
 Earth nor heaven could give 
 
 To either, a charm to bind us; 
 One in heaven alone, 
 The other would gi-oau 
 
 Till death room for V)otli should find us.
 
 216 
 
 " Wheu time to live there, 
 We both will preimre, 
 
 To dwell in the same holy spot. 
 When one shall exph-e, 
 The other's desu-e, 
 
 By heaven, shall not be forgot. 
 
 " And there when we dwell, 
 No language can tell 
 
 The fervour of love we shall feel : 
 Oiu- essence divine, 
 As stars we will shine. 
 
 In unison ring the same peal. 
 
 " In unison bend, 
 Tlirough time, without end ; 
 
 Immortal our love and our soul : 
 To sing and to dance 
 Over heaven's expanse. 
 
 And love, without check or control." 
 
 Vain boasting ! as though 
 
 Frail mortals could know 
 The intentions decreed above. 
 
 More bold to provoke 
 
 The terrible stroke. 
 That robbed him of life, and of love.
 
 217 
 
 All, little they dreamed, 
 While happiness beamed, 
 
 Of the cloud that was gathering near ; 
 He changed not his name, 
 Though degTaded by fame. 
 
 He a stranger to honour and fear. 
 
 So misfortune came, 
 Then disgi-ace and shame, 
 
 The gipsy was tried for his life ; 
 He had raised his hand. 
 When with his fierce band. 
 
 The first murderer in the strife. 
 
 His retreat was sought, 
 The gipsy was caught, 
 
 By a villain, resolved to snare ; 
 By the chief was seen. 
 Who disdained to screen ; 
 
 This lion was tracked to his lair. 
 
 He lurked neai' the dell. 
 
 Where he saw them dwell, 
 In tranquillity, love, and joy ; 
 
 And went to betray 
 
 The following day, 
 For he swore their peace to destroy. 
 19
 
 218 
 
 And succeeded too well. 
 
 The sequel will tell, 
 It discloses Clarinda's woe ; 
 
 Nor her lovely face, 
 
 Her virtues and gi-ace, 
 Could soften the heart of their foe. 
 
 Tlie villain betrayed ; 
 
 With revenge he paid 
 This chief, for a hasty blow ; 
 
 Thougli he scorned a bribe, 
 
 Was true to his tribe, 
 Kevenge he would not forego. 
 
 No, he loved lier too. 
 
 And swore she should rue 
 The day she became a fond bride 
 
 To his rival foe ; 
 
 He laughed at her woe. 
 When her love was torn from licr side. 
 
 Oh, fearful the woe. 
 
 When tlie officers go, 
 To the home of the gipsy wife ; 
 
 For the maid ne'er sped, 
 
 Of the life he led. 
 Before she became his for life.
 
 219 
 
 The shock was profound, 
 
 She fell to the ground, 
 And her heart strings then snapp'd in twain, 
 
 That bound her to Life, 
 
 Had made her the wife 
 Of her vagabond gipsy swain. 
 
 And misery now 
 
 Clouds the fond wife's brow ; 
 Her folly is fully revealed ; 
 
 She sees at a glance 
 
 That love is a trance, 
 That degrades, if it need be concealed. 
 
 But what words can tell 
 
 The wonderful spell, 
 That gives blindness to love-lorn maids ; 
 
 Unless it can be, 
 
 That Cupid can see, 
 And cool reason always evades. 
 
 Then, maidens, bewai-e. 
 
 And for ever take care, 
 To shun all clandestine amours : 
 
 On parents rely. 
 
 The best friends to try. 
 When any perplexity 's yours.
 
 If orphans — bewai-e, 
 
 And for ever take care, 
 To call on your reason to guiile ; 
 
 And then you may see, 
 
 To slum, or to flee, 
 Whatever misfortune betide. 
 
 Had Clara revealed, 
 And nothing concealed 
 
 Of the bold entreaties she had : 
 Her father might then 
 Have shielded her, when 
 
 She was choosing a fate so sad. 
 
 She never need then 
 
 Have taken her pen, 
 To wiite of her shame, and imjilore — 
 
 That if he were dead, 
 
 From the scaftbld led, 
 Her father would open his door, — 
 
 To take her once more, 
 
 And throw a veil o'er 
 The folly that brought her to shame ; 
 
 Nor speak of the love. 
 
 All others above. 
 Now she scorned the gipsy's name.
 
 221 
 
 Her father made haste, 
 
 And with pity embraced, 
 His poor penitent, fallen cliild ; 
 
 Though feeling her shame, 
 
 Was too fond to blame 
 Her, for choosing a life so wild. 
 
 To shelter her woe. 
 
 His pride conld forego 
 The punishment due to her crime ; 
 
 He hoped that his care, 
 
 And a life of prayer, 
 Might soften her son-ows in time. 
 
 Her father received, 
 
 And fondly believed, 
 She no longer loved the vile man ; 
 
 But the sequel told, 
 
 To all will unfold 
 That love's flame requu'es not a fan. 
 
 Oh, pitiful case, 
 
 To read in her face 
 The deep woe her fond heart could feel ; 
 
 She thought, love had fled ; 
 
 That she felt only dread 
 Of the trial, and law appeal. 
 -lU-
 
 222 
 
 Tt lingers in spite, 
 
 Of disgrace and blight, 
 
 And clings to the fond one ever ; 
 No sorrow can drench, 
 No dishonour quench, 
 
 Forgetting the feeling never. 
 
 'T was so with the wife, 
 
 She, not for dear life, 
 Could forsake the one she adored ; 
 
 'T was in vain to strive 
 
 His image to drive. 
 Reason, sire, shame, vainly implored. 
 
 In vain she applies, 
 
 To heaven's Ruler flies, 
 To petition his aid, and care ; 
 
 But no hope ensnares. 
 
 Or omen declares, 
 [f ho hears, and answers her prayer. 
 
 The spu-it not rig) it, 
 
 The prayer to indite, 
 No answer descends from above ; 
 
 Till the spu'it range. 
 
 And make an exchange, 
 Of lieavenly, for earthly love.
 
 223 
 
 The sad hour draws nigh, 
 
 And friends in vain try 
 To persuade her the trial to shun ; 
 
 But her heai't beat still 
 
 With memory's thrill, 
 And a hope that his hand had not done 
 
 The terrible stain, 
 
 For which they arraign. 
 The still loved one, that claimed her breast. 
 
 Before her he stands. 
 
 The chains on those hands. 
 That erst she so tenderly pressed. 
 
 Oh, fearful to think. 
 
 That he stands on the blink 
 Of a felon's unhallowed grave. 
 
 The trial all done, 
 
 Death, the verdict gone ; 
 No evidence there to save. 
 
 Oh, that feai-fiil shriek, 
 
 No tongue can speak ; 
 Astounding the coui't with its sound. 
 
 Or the peal on peal. 
 
 The stagger, the reel. 
 Before she fell down to the ground.
 
 224 
 
 Her friends raised her up, 
 
 But the poisoned cup 
 O'envheluied, with its tortuiiug smart ; 
 
 They convey her home, 
 
 But her thoughts still roam 
 To the verdict, that broke her heart. 
 
 There speechless she lay. 
 
 Day following day. 
 Few signs of breath, reason, or life 
 
 Till that to decide 
 
 How the gipsy died. 
 Then uprose the pale gipsy wife. 
 
 To the scaffold sped, 
 Her reason had fled ; 
 
 There she beheld him suspended. 
 Her reason returned, 
 Her anguish so burned, 
 
 Her soiTows on earth there ended. 
 
 She caught his last sigh. 
 And, prepared to die. 
 
 Her spuit responded his call. 
 One fond tender glance. 
 The last of love's trance. 
 
 She e.\pired, as the drop let fall.
 
 225 
 
 Their spirits advance, 
 Her's loses love's trance, 
 
 And receding, flies up to heaven ; 
 And Chi'istians can tell. 
 His descending to hell, 
 
 To see her fai' off, had power given. 
 
 'T was thus they expu-ed, 
 
 As he had desired, 
 The eyes of both closing together ; 
 
 But if he might dweU, 
 
 In heaven or hell, 
 The bold villain asked not whether. 
 
 Her father declined. 
 
 For no longer sliined 
 The bright beam of joy on his home. 
 
 He shunned every walk. 
 
 Where they loved to talk. 
 And in evening's soft twilight roam. 
 
 The neighbom's all sigh. 
 When they meet his eye. 
 
 And they droji the pitjing tear : 
 But none e'er presume 
 To speak of the doom. 
 
 That had made his mansion so drear.
 
 226 
 
 But one month was gone, 
 
 When his soul sped on, 
 To dwell with the child of his love ; 
 
 He sank in his grave, 
 
 No fond hand to lave, 
 The fevered brain, flying above. 
 
 The mind's eye may see, 
 Tlie state of the three, — 
 
 lie-united father and child ; 
 The gipsy afar 
 From Iris Daylight Star, 
 
 In endless flames, frantic and wild. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Young ladies, believe, 
 
 This warning receive. 
 Fly from love that cannot be told. 
 
 Disclose every snare 
 
 To parents' fond care, 
 Lest your life, and life's j)eace, be sold. 
 
 Avoid all you can 
 The siren -tougued man, 
 
 For such in this world oft appear. 
 Sliould fortune not smile, 
 The lieart free from guile 
 
 Has no shame, nor dishonour, to fear.
 
 Iittrflimttoii t0 fines, 
 
 Written after dreaming that a young lady had swerved from propriety 
 and integrity ; the first six lines a part of the dream. 
 
 It will perhaps not be uninteresting to the reader 
 to state one little incident in the di-earn, and a few cir- 
 cumstances which preceded, and followed it. I thought 
 that after my young friend, with whom I had heen inti- 
 mate from childhood, had swerved from the modesty and 
 sanctity of her virtue, I had, in the fever of my anger, 
 grief, and disgust at her disregard of honour, fame, 
 family, morality, and all the bright precepts inculcated 
 by her education, flown to her album, which was then 
 in my possession, and tearing out the leaves upon 
 which, at her request, I had written several poems, 
 I then wrote upon the next blank leaf the first six lines 
 of the poem, which I now present for the benefit of 
 my yoimg readers. When I awoke in the morning, 
 I wrote these six lines, from thp recollection of 
 my dream; the first word "farewell" in very large 
 letters, as I supposed I had written it in the book 
 belonging to her. 
 
 Duiing that day T continued the piece to the length 
 that it now is, in order that T might lay it before her,
 
 228 
 
 as a landmark to preserve her footsteps from this gloomy 
 path of sin ; for I feared, from many cii-cumstances 
 that were then in existence, that the vision in my 
 dream was, perchance, only too prophetic of what 
 might happen. 
 
 She had only a short time hcfore, in confidence, 
 communicated to me, that the passion she had con- 
 ceived for the gentleman in question was so imcon- 
 troUahle, that if he did not make her an offer of 
 marriage, she was determined to offer herself to him. 
 I earnestly remonsti'ated on the danger, folly, and 
 impropriety of such a scheme. Tliough many years 
 older than myself, she asked my advice iuvariahly on 
 all important occasions, and particularly on tliis. How 
 should she act? Wait, said I, till he asks you to 
 many him ; he pays you gi'eat attention, and seems 
 inclined to offer to you. In the meantime, avoid even 
 tlie most ti'ansieut glance, or indication that you love 
 him. T have seen enougli of the man to believe it 
 would only excite his vanity, and make him tantalise 
 you; or perhaps it might induce him to insult you. 
 We long argued, she for the scheme, I against it; she 
 had hoped for my assistance, I told her that it never 
 should be her' s in sucli a course of action. But, feai'ing 
 that she might commit the indelicacy she premedi- 
 tated, I promised, the first opportunity, to speak of 
 her to him, and try to ascertain if he had any real 
 penchant for her; and, in the conclusion of our argu- 
 ment, I candidly declared to lier, that if she let me
 
 229 
 
 know the clay on which she made her own indiscreet 
 and indelicate overture, I would make it the date on 
 which oiu' intimacy should subside for ever ; and again 
 I exhorted her to wait patiently, hoping that her 
 personal attractions, lively spirit, real natural talents, 
 and accomplishments might win him m the end for 
 a husband. His rank and talents were certainly 
 gi-eater than hers; hut, as he was very intimate with 
 her family, 1 did hope she might obtain him ; though 
 he knew that she was a desperate coquette. Time 
 rolled on, and for some time I saw neither of them. 
 When I next saw her, I liad dreamed, and written 
 the lines which follow. I told her all my dream and 
 vision, presenting her with the wiiting. She read, and 
 wept most bitterly over it, — acknowledged her first step 
 in iniquity and folly, just about the time of my dream. 
 She knelt down, and made a solemn vow to resist all 
 repetition of her crime; and demanded my jiledged 
 word to conceal all that I knew of it from her con- 
 fession. This was readily gi-anted ; for I both loved her 
 for her redeeming qualities, and pitied her; and I 
 believe she faithfully kept her vow. She married 
 another, who was worthy of a better wife. Our inti- 
 macy, some time after her marriage, subsided for ever, 
 because I doubted her again; I fear with truth. Her 
 death was a most lamentable one, and her afliictions 
 great, before the hand of death had mowed her down 
 in penitence, I hope. I never saw her by any chance, 
 after our acquaintance once ended. 
 
 20
 
 230 
 
 Farewell, from heretofore thy friend, 
 But our loug fr-ieudsbip uow must end ; 
 While virtue stood, the gift was mine 
 To overlook each fault of thine ; 
 While vfrtue stood, I thought all fair. 
 That flown, adieu to thee for e'er. 
 
 Yet not so rash, but let me pause, 
 
 My heart's warm feelings plead thy cause ; 
 
 Ere yet I bid adieu to thee, 
 
 Some friendly liints receive from me. 
 
 Though now, misled by selfish man, 
 
 Thy downward course is but began, 
 
 AiTCst that course, nor dare to run 
 
 A race, 't were madness not to shun. 
 
 Though steep the hill to re-ascend; 
 
 Make one bold start to gain thy end; 
 
 What though thou stumble in the way, 
 
 There 's One will raise thee, if thou 'It pray 
 
 With heart to him, to give thee grace. 
 
 To make retreat fr-om sucli foul race. 
 
 Ah, when the summit thou hast won, 
 
 Wliat joy to thuik thy task is done; 
 
 It will be done, if thou wilt try 
 
 To gain that summit, though so liigli ; 
 
 Oh let me hope that you will seek, 
 
 l'"roiii lliiii who doth sustain tlic weak,
 
 231 
 
 The aid which he will give to thee. 
 
 If contrite when thou makest thy plea ; 
 
 Eepentance' tear present to one, 
 
 To whom all secret thoughts are known ; 
 
 Depend that his acceptance will 
 
 Thy contrite heart with gladness fill : 
 
 He will assist thee to forbear 
 
 To sink still deeper in the snare ; 
 
 What though his wrath your wounds may probe, 
 
 When you put on religion's robe, 
 
 He will receive you for his own ; 
 
 And well you know, more joy is known 
 
 In heaven, o'er one repentant soul. 
 
 Than thousands righteous in the whole. 
 
 He '11 aid thee to sustain thy part. 
 
 When pointed finger galls thine heart ; 
 
 Humility will teach to thee, 
 
 Nor bid thee from the scoffer flee. 
 
 Forbeai- to shrink from worldlings' scorn. 
 Reflect, 't is just, now that thou 'rt shorn 
 Of brightest gem, that woman can 
 Unthinkingly yield up to man : 
 'T will teach thee to look back, and say. 
 How much more bright was viilue's way ; 
 Though scorned by those who greatly sin, 
 The custom rules, that they walk in 
 This world's rude customs must be trod ; 
 Nor good unto the wicked nod ;
 
 232 
 
 For lofty mind, 't is hard to look, 
 Yet who gives more than pity's look. 
 To one whom frailty calls her own ; 
 Whose inward yearnings are not known ? 
 What though tliine heart repents of sin. 
 Know those who pass thee what 's within ; 
 E'en though myself for thee would pray, 
 If met by thee, I dare not stay ; 
 Lest doing so the contact might, 
 Not heart, but reputation blight ; 
 For Scriptm'C warns, and by its rule 
 All wUl he governed, but the fool. 
 Approach not pitch, lest you should gain 
 A filth spot you may e'er retain ; 
 For those who evil concert keep. 
 Are for lost manners prone to weep. 
 
 Thence, shunned by those who might persuade 
 
 Satan's allurements to evade, 
 
 I pray that you yourself will rouse. 
 
 And try your own cause to espouse ; 
 
 Plead unto God for strength, to win 
 
 A heart resolved no more to sin ; 
 
 And let your light so shine 'fore man, 
 
 That he no more will dare to fan 
 
 The hidden flame that lights to sin, 
 
 But let thee smother it witliin ; 
 
 Nor bid thee longer run a race, 
 
 To overwhelm thee with disgi'ace ;
 
 233 
 
 Move on to gain such high degi-ee, 
 Then will nought earthly make you flee 
 Again from virtue ; God's right hand 
 Will aid you, when you take yom stand 
 'Mong those who walk in wisdom's way, 
 And unto Him thanksgiving pay ; 
 Who seek by Jesus' blood to gain 
 Eedemption from the sins that stain 
 Then- souls, and render them unfit. 
 But for his ransom, e'er to sit 
 Within that holy, resting place, 
 Ordained for those who seek his face. 
 
 May you he one 'mong those who try 
 Unto this blessed abode to fly ; 
 Oh then, dear gM, give sign to me, 
 And I will qioicldy haste to thee ; 
 With open arms I will receive 
 'i'he fallen one— who doth retrieve 
 One dark foul sin, by making haste 
 Repentance' privilege to taste. 
 When cleansed by God's redeeming love, 
 The truly good wUl ne'er reprove; 
 But lift thee on a rock to shine. 
 Remodelled by the light divine ; 
 Then anywhere with thee I '11 stand. 
 And every where present my hand. 
 Oh let me hope that, thed of sin. 
 You will at once new life begin ; 
 20-
 
 234 
 
 Think on the joys that you will lose, 
 If you should cai'nal love still choose ; 
 Tliiak on the scoffs, rebuflfs, and scoui'ge, 
 That foul iniquity doth forge ; 
 The consciousness of doing iU, 
 I hope, ere long, thy mind wiQ fill ; 
 For conscience cannot long lie still ; 
 It must awake, then let it now 
 Arouse thee unto God to how ; 
 Think on the joy thy life did yield, 
 When thou hadst virtue for thy shield ; 
 Can you resign the hope to gain 
 That joy's renewal — freed fi-om pain 
 Of conscious guilt's remorseless sting ? 
 Ah no, arouse thee, haste to fling 
 Away this vile coiToding sin ; 
 A welcome from true friends to win. 
 
 But lest I urge with little force, 
 
 And thou shouldst still run on thy course, 
 
 I will endeavour to appal. 
 
 By painting life of those wJio fall ; 
 
 And siu'cly thou wUt shrink from lot. 
 
 Which pleasure, joy, or good hath not. 
 
 The frailest fair, men slowly win ; 
 To hush the monitor witliiu, 
 In vain he tries to make lier tread 
 In folly's steps, imtil misled —
 
 235 
 
 By vain desire, to captivate 
 
 The senses, rather than create 
 
 That holy feeling of pui'e love, 
 
 Which always seeks its sti-eugth to prove, 
 
 By drawing off, per geutle force, 
 
 Weak woman's mind from eiTor's coui'se : 
 
 In vain he tries to make her swerve, 
 
 Integrity she will preserve ; 
 
 Till vanity o'erclouds her soul, 
 
 Her virtue she may yet keep whole. 
 
 Woman, by vanity misled. 
 Win soon on brink of rain tread ; 
 Man flatters, woman to beguile ; 
 She feels he loves her all the while, 
 And starts not at the flatterer's voice. 
 But vainly thinks she 's his soid's choice ; 
 Ah, could she look beneath the snare. 
 Which his fond wiles for her prepare, 
 Her passion sm-e would pause, nor leap 
 Into a stream so foul, so deep ; 
 Yet, having nished into the tide. 
 Behold her then, with fallen pride; 
 Her haggard looks bespeak that she 
 Would give up worlds, if she could be 
 Relieved from burning pangs within, 
 Engendered by her life of sin ; 
 We see upon her livid face. 
 The ravage made by deep disgi-ace ;
 
 236 
 
 In vain she tries to gain relief 
 
 From those who overlook her grief. 
 
 Wearied of sin, she would forego 
 
 Its once thought joy; oh did she know 
 
 Of any means, hy which she could 
 
 Sustain herself among the good ! 
 
 But none will trust, none dare take in, 
 
 A fallen sister — 'mersed in sin; 
 
 Too many tliink that they display 
 
 Their virtue, if they thrust away 
 
 The poor lorn penitent. For why ? 
 
 They have too delicate an eye 
 
 To let it beam on the impure ; 
 
 Even not internally, too sure 
 
 That they themselves are pm-e within ; 
 
 Severity they hope will win 
 
 Belief that they are free from sin : 
 
 For tliis refuse to take her in, 
 
 To shelter, feed, and fi'om sin fi'ee 
 
 The heart that bleeds, and yearns to see 
 
 The flowery path again she trod, 
 
 Before she lost faith, hope, and God. 
 
 Refused a place among the good, 
 She must do something for her food ; 
 Now shorn of all her youthful bloom, 
 By vainest arts she would resume 
 Appearance of a healtliful state. 
 Which her sunk eyeballs dissipate.
 
 237 
 
 Now loathed by those, who taught her how 
 Unto their hold desii-es to how ; 
 Sunk deej^er still, she shuns the pangs 
 Inflicted by scorn's jioisoned fangs ; 
 With liquids, that give sleep to sense, 
 But, when awoke, render more dense 
 The wounding dart hurled at her pride. 
 When spurned fi'om her seducer's side ; 
 For boldest Libertme can scorn 
 The woman that 's of honour shorn ; 
 And leave her to a shameful fate. 
 Whom they reduce to loathsome state : 
 And such, too oft, weak fraU ones own, 
 Once among spotless women known ; 
 But, falling on the fowler's snare, 
 Theii' Uherty and plumage fair 
 Are changed for infamy, despau-. 
 And all the woes attendant on 
 The victim, whose pure life is gone. 
 
 Behold her then, bereaved of all 
 The baubles that bedecked her fall ; 
 Lean famine in her sunken eye. 
 Pale with disease, and near to die ; 
 None to support her aching head, 
 None to surround her dying bed, 
 No tear of love or pity shed. 
 A filthy cellar her retreat. 
 No sympathetic friend to gi'eet,
 
 238 
 
 With tender look, her languid eye. 
 Alone she lives, alone may die. 
 Not she reposed on softest down. 
 To her such comfort is not known ; 
 On withered straw the lost one lies, 
 Offended God but hears her sighs ; 
 Forgive her, God, before she dies. 
 
 Ah let me hoj^e, now tliat I 've shewn 
 
 The life of one to Satan known, 
 
 That thou wilt rise above the snare, 
 
 Which thy seducer doth prepare ; 
 
 Spui-n from your heart the man who dai-es 
 
 To trammel you witli guilt's rude cares ; 
 
 And let him see that you can shun 
 
 The wi-etch by whom you were undone. 
 
 Hence be resolved to win pure fame, 
 
 God gives who ask in Jesus' name ; 
 
 Let me not doubt that thou wilt try 
 
 From foul iniquity to fly; 
 
 Nor doubt tliat thou wilt quickly haste, 
 
 liepentant sinner's joys to taste; 
 
 Yon heaven is open to receive 
 
 All those who pray, repent, believe.
 
 Irflfcssioiial fetter 
 
 TO A PROFESSIONAL GENTLEMAN, ON A PROFESSIONAL 
 
 SUBJECT. 
 
 LivEHPOOL, December 18th, 1837. 
 
 To Richard P , Esq. 
 
 Sib, — Previous to presenting to your immediate view 
 the subject upon which I wish to consult you, I feel it 
 necessaiy to eutreat that you will not impetuously dis- 
 miss or shrink from the perusal of a cause which, 
 perhaps, should rather appear before a Court of Equity, 
 or, at least, before one who understands how to uphold 
 and practise, unremittingly, an equitable distribution of 
 justice. 
 
 But I wish to consult a professional man ; therefore, 
 can I do better than consult you — you who profess to 
 understand the laws of God, and to govern yourself by 
 His dictates — you who profess to understand the laws 
 of man, and professionally and conscientiously dictate 
 them to others — you who profess to understand the 
 duties of a Christian, and to practise those duties botli 
 openly and secretly — you who profess to love yovir neigli- 
 boirr as yourself, and to withhold fi-om none that which 
 is his or her due — you who profess to love vii'tue for
 
 240 
 
 virtue's sake, and to cultivate and practise its adorning 
 righteousness, all for the glory of God? Thus being, 
 iu every sense of the word, a iDrofessional man — and 
 tnily as Nathan said unto David, Thou ai-t the man — 
 therefore I appoint thee judge over the following cause, 
 hoping that a reviving principle of justice will wring 
 from thee a verdict like my own. 
 
 But, forbearing other preface, let me open the cause. 
 In the 37th year of the iOth century, a certain profes- 
 sional gentleman, whom, for brevity's sake, I shall call 
 Mr. P , obtained an introduction to a young lady of 
 pleasing appearance, agi'ccable manners, and unquestion- 
 able talents. Tlic gentleman himself was not very 
 ])repossessing in his appearance ; but this amiable young 
 lady (believing him to be really in possession of virtue, 
 and the principles of Christianity wliich lie professed, 
 iniadvisedly gave him her warmest affections, and at the 
 same time not doubting, as he protested, that she was 
 I'ully invested witli his unalienable love,) accepted his 
 offered hand. 
 
 "When he had pledged himself to become her hus- 
 l)and, he, like any honourable man, appeared to consider 
 liimself as firmly bound to tlie lady and her famOy as 
 though the church had blessed him, and the nuptial knot 
 were really tied. But, as a drawback on liis honour, 
 or rather liis respectability, he made her father's house 
 his home, in so niuHi that he nearly obtained the 
 whole of his support gratuitously. Their intended union 
 was confidently and publicly spoken of by the friends ol"
 
 241 
 
 both parties, and the lovely scenes of Aberystwyth chosen 
 for the witness of their honeymoon felicity. 
 
 But let me pau?e in my tale, and utter such reflec- 
 tions as the subject prompts, and my nature will not 
 suffer me to bury unrevealed. Oh, honour ! wliithcr art 
 thou flown? Why is it that thou canst not attain pos- 
 session of the breast of man, and there eternally hold 
 counsel and preserve thy station ? But no ! Thou art 
 become as fleeting, variable, and insignificant as the 
 wisest resolves of vacillating and perfidious man ; for no 
 sooner has he ingratiated himself into favour, and too 
 confiding, trustful woman surrenders to him her heart, 
 than he, presumptuously forgetting his own unworthi- 
 ness, feels tempted to resign the boon within his grasp, 
 vainly hoping that, as he has but too easily won the love 
 of one in every respect his superior, another perhaps, 
 more wealthy, but equally wortliy and susceptible, may 
 be in reserve for him. But beware, vain man, and dare 
 not to think that, when thy disgraceful dereliction of 
 honour is published, that it will be in thy power to dupe 
 another by thy false idolatry ; for rest assured that 
 meanness, falsehood, ingratitude, and cowardice are not 
 the attributes which allure and captivate the senses of 
 too, too credulous, but virtuous woman. 
 
 But I must endeavour to suppress all inclination to 
 digress, and continue a representation of the cause in 
 view. Matters were going on as above displayed, when, 
 lo ! the gentleman presents himself, mentioning the 
 receipt of letters from the cliief members of his family, 
 
 21
 
 242 
 
 expressing disapprobation of the intended union, because 
 the lady had no fortune — wholly overlooking the little 
 pretension he had to claim the privilege of proposing 
 himself as a suitor to a lady of fortime ; a man past the 
 bloom of life, confirmed in the selfish, sordid, and 
 unsocial habits of a bachelor, and not even possessing 
 the equivalent of a handsome revenue from his profes- 
 sion. The wealthy uncle threatened to withdraw liis 
 favour, in the shape of money lent as mortgage on his 
 little property; no doubt fearing that, if the nephew 
 married, his mother and sister whom he supported woiUd 
 naturally prefer their claim on him (tlie uncle.) 
 
 But the action most destitute of honour, (that enno- 
 bling quality which properly belongs to every moral 
 man,) and of which T most complain, is, that after he had 
 disregarded the remonstrances of his friends, and con- 
 tinued his addresses another year, living the whole time 
 upon the young lady's famUy, she having consented to 
 await the fulfilment of his mati'imonial engagement 
 until, as he termed it, lie could see his way clear, or, 
 rather, procure the means of rendering himself indepen- 
 dent of his sordid relatives. lie, without assigning any 
 other reason thiiu the formerly-expressed disapprobation 
 of his friends, cruelly and abniptly severed himself li-om 
 the society of his betrothed, intimating to her that he 
 declined all future visits, in a cold, unfeeling, calculat- 
 ing, and 1 may with truth say, cowardly letter ; for he 
 has since declai-ed that tlic sentiments wiiidi ]\o wrote 
 were not his own, but such as were dictated to liiiii by
 
 243 
 
 Ms female relatives. They were, no doubt, some vinegar- 
 faced, antiquated vii-gins, who felt a demon-like pleasui-e 
 in depriving a more amiable one of their sex of those 
 delights which they vainly endeavoiored to procure for 
 themselves, then envenomed and illiberal hearts render- 
 ing their souls unfit for the pm-e felicity engendered by 
 domestic duties and enjoyments. 
 
 I am partially unacquainted with the nature of what 
 passed between the uncle and nephew, except from his 
 relation of what the uncle said; and refer it to your 
 judgment whether the arguments adduced by the nephew, 
 in the following dialogue, convey not to the mind such 
 sentiments as every honourable and feeling-minded man 
 ought to utter under similar circumstances : — 
 
 Uncle. — I feel somewhat uneasy. Nephew, at a report 
 which has recently been communicated to me. I am 
 informed that you still continue your addi-esses to the 
 portionless young lady of whom we all so much disap- 
 prove, and refer myself to you for a confii-mation or dis- 
 proval of its truth ? 
 
 Nephew. — Sir, T plead guilty to the accusation; for, 
 having made an unequivocal offer of my hand previous 
 to my knowledge of your disapproval, and the young 
 lady not being willing to resign me, I feel as much bound 
 in honour to fulfil the pledge as though your voice did 
 not dissent. T cannot conscientiously withdi-aw myself; 
 therefore, I will not. 
 
 Uncle. — I presume you ai"e awai'e of the consequences 
 which must result, of the poverty which you will entail
 
 244 
 
 upon youi'selves, if you persist in yoiu' foolish detemiiQa- 
 tion to marry without our consent, my favour and money 
 withdrawn from you, and the displeasm'e of your whole 
 family to contend with. Under such circumstances, 
 pray, tell me how you will he ahle to support a wife, in 
 such style as will maintain your credit in the world, and 
 not derogate from ovu- family respectahility ? 
 
 Nephew. — Sir, when I proposed to many, I did hope 
 that you would have continued your favom-; and then, 
 with it, and the profits of my profession, I might be able 
 to support my mother, sister, and wife respectably. But, 
 if you obstinately persist in withdrawing my capital, 
 though the deeds are very expensive, I must, as my pro- 
 perty is equally as valuable now as formerly, procure 
 another mortgage, to refund your money ; and, my pro- 
 fession yielding me too little for the support of many, 
 as my brother is much more wealthy than myself, my 
 sister's future maintenance must naturally devolve upon 
 liim; and you, my wealthy uncle, can have no objection 
 to support your sister, my mother, until fortune so smiles 
 upon me that I may again enjoy the pleasure of perform- 
 ing my filial and fraternal duties. Rest assured I will 
 never marry a woman who will be Likely to object to the 
 performance of those duties, wlien my finances will 
 permit. Such is not the one whom I have chosen — 
 whom, fi-om the hour that T proposed myself and enjoyed 
 her acceptance, I have looked upon as my own; and 
 remembei", sir, that even scripture bids us to leave father 
 and mother, house and home, and cleave unto the wife.
 
 245 
 
 Every law, both of God and man, forbids the desertion 
 that you propose. Had she wealth, she would bestow 
 it upon me ; and since she is willing to risk the encoun- 
 ter of poverty with me, I shall mai-iy her, and endeavour, 
 by my laudable exertions in business, to preserve her 
 from it. I shall feel truly sorry to excite displeasure in 
 my family, but hope that their own reflections on the 
 justice of my conduct will appease them. Surely, at my 
 time of life, I may be allowed to distinguish that which 
 is most likely to promote my own happiness. 
 
 Uncle. — I have hardly had patience to hear you 
 express such silly, romantic notions. Yom- most proper 
 line of conduct, at present, is to break off yom' engage- 
 ment to marry, and continue the performance of your 
 other duties, which you must not expect any one else to 
 fulfil for you. 
 
 Nephew. — Impossible, sir. How can I consent to 
 destroy my own esteem, and forfeit that of every good 
 person? For who would love or respect me, when justly 
 branded with the vile names of coward, false pretender, 
 and deserter? 
 
 ?^^«c?t'.— Nonsense: nothing is more common than 
 for men to break such vows without losing the good 
 opinion of the world ; and do you seek your fortune by 
 uniting yourseK to wealth, and even ugliness, rather 
 than persist in your intended folly. 
 
 Nepheiv. — Forbear, sLi'. T owe you much respect, 
 and would not wish to lessen it. I thought you had 
 
 -21-
 
 246 
 
 more resj^ect for the Lououi' of yoiir family than to pro- 
 pose such unworthy conduct to your nephew. 
 
 Uncle. — Well, then, dismiss your intention for the 
 present. You can renew your engagement at some 
 futui'c pei'iod, if you remain in the same mind. 
 
 Nephew. — And how could I, with any confidence or 
 hope of success, propose myself again to one whom I 
 had so unjustly treated ? No ! Were I the ill-used lady, 
 T would spurn him as a poisonous reptile, even while a 
 humble suppliant at my feet for pardon, and disdain to 
 link my fate with such a worthless hypocrite. But for- 
 give me, su", I must beg leave to decline a continuance 
 of this discussion. You know my determination, and I 
 rely upon your generosity to disann yom* displeasm'e. 
 
 Now, tell me, sir, whether the nephew, in acting 
 contrary to the sentiments above-inserted, is not as, 
 according to my verdict, guilty of all the debasing quali- 
 ties which I have imputed to him, and truly deserves the 
 sentence of banishment from the society of the good until 
 ho reforms his principles ? 
 
 From a Friend to Truth and Honest Integrity, but a Bespiicr 
 of Meanness, FaUclwod, Cowardice, and Hypocrisy.
 
 6^ntrston. 
 
 A short and interesting excursion to the Killarney timnel, thence to the 
 Turk Waterfall, and to Mucruss Abbey, concluding with a short 
 history of the penitent hermit, who, for thirty-seven years, lived in 
 solitude there, doing penance for one dreadful crime. 
 
 I and the ladies with whom I travelled, to take a 
 sui'vey of the beautiful scenes of Killarney, chose a 
 lovely morning, near the end of July, and set out 
 on an excursion to the Tunnel, intending likewise to 
 visit the Turk Waterfall, and Mucruss xihbey, and 
 to travel a few miles further on the Kenmare road; 
 thus proposing to ourselves a whole day's feast of 
 contemplation, wonder, and delight; and, happily, we 
 succeeded to the full extent of our wishes. 
 
 In the early part of our drive we passed the Turk 
 Waterfall, and Mucruss Abbey, but deferred entering 
 the avenue to either until our retm-n ; and proceeded to 
 the Tunnel, through scenes of the most beautiful descrip- 
 tion, charming glens, hiUs, and dales, planted by the 
 hand of natm-e, in every variety of form. The spruce, 
 scotch, larch, and alpine fu'S gave gi-ace and beauty to 
 the ridges of the mountains, also the juniper, the smooth 
 leaved olive, and the frviitful arbutus, of which so many 
 finely inlaid ornaments and useful articles are made.
 
 248 
 
 The ai'butus wood, in tinink, root, and branch, exhibits 
 so many beautiful grains, that the entire can be used 
 in decorative boxes and furniture; it admits of a 
 splendid polish. 
 
 Some of these arbutus trees had here sprung up spon- 
 taneously underneath the rocks, piercing the stone with 
 their young libres, and growing into bulk without 
 any appearance of soil near them; indeed, few of 
 them had earth to rest upon. The bases of the 
 mountains are beautifully planted, and every variety 
 of verdant foliage hangs fi'om towering rocks, which 
 run up the sides of the mountains, and rest there, 
 as it were suspended to threaten those who venture 
 underneath them. 
 
 Here and there the road on wliich we travelled 
 was cut through groves and woods, containing trees 
 of uncommon magnitude and beauty. Our drive on 
 the borders of the Flesk river contained, in its land- 
 scapes, innumerable touches of beauty, and nuich of 
 sublimity in mountain scenery was opened to our view. 
 
 In the distance, some of the mouutaius appeared 
 like solid rocks, of the deepest jmrple hue, a frequent 
 feature in the charming scenes of Killarney ; to 
 describe the majesty and beauty of which I feel my 
 pen inadequate, as it would be impossible to call up 
 their enchantment to the mind's eye, or infuse my 
 own feelings on beholding them, into the heart, without 
 the external visual organ to assist me. 
 
 Leaving tlie scenes of the Flesk river, we proceeded
 
 249 
 
 to the Black Valley — more properly would it be called 
 the Green Valley, only for the black dingy hills at 
 a distance. The valley itself contains not a foot that 
 is not clothed with varied creeping heaths and mosses, 
 verdm-e of every tint, and foliage of every emerald 
 hue, from the most delicate to the deepest; its innume- 
 rable beauties almost stunned me, with their billiancy 
 and magnitude. The black water range of mountains 
 is seen from various openings in this valley, with views 
 of the middle lake, which is extensive. 
 
 Eiding about two or three miles further, through 
 scenes of the same character, and equal beauty, we 
 halted, to return ; highly pleased with every inch of 
 our exciu'sion, so far. We little expected to see any- 
 thing more sublime than what we had already beheld, 
 but the Tunnel, which is hewn through a solid rock, 
 of prodigious height and bulk, appears a master-piece 
 of nature, assisted by art, but deriving its gi-eatest 
 advantages and beauty from the position it holds in 
 the landscape, and the extensive views which the 
 summit commands. To my own astonishment, and 
 of my companions, I accomplished the ascent to 
 the to]i of the Tunnel, at the risk of my neck. I 
 made a slip on one of the sloping rocks, but, fortu- 
 nately, I had previously planted my cratch in a small 
 hollow of the rock, and holding fast to the carman's 
 arm, the two suspended me, or I must have been 
 precipitated from top to bottom. God spared me tlais 
 calamity, and I, after viewing the prospects from the
 
 250 
 
 summit, proceeded in safety to the Turk Waterfall, 
 through a lovely gleu, into which we could not take 
 GUI' conveyance, therefore we walked through its beau- 
 tiful windings, almost speechless with admiration. 
 
 Here the gi-aceful Alpine iir exhibited a delicacy, 
 in its tints and sliades, that I had never seen before; 
 it formed a sort of liedge-row up one side of the glen, 
 hanging in long flowing pendents, or graceful festoons, 
 over a vaiiety of shrubs below, and underneath these 
 the wild strawbeny, heaths, and mosses of every descrip- 
 tion gi-ew; among which the pink and yellow dog- 
 star prevailed. The whole gradually rose in a gentle 
 ascent, until it reached the rock, fi'om which this 
 magnificent waterfall cast its brilliant spray and foam. 
 For a moment, I was absolutely struck dumb, on 
 seeing this fall, never having seen one before. It 
 looked so splendidly wild, so rapidly streaming, in 
 six i)illar like fuirents, down the solid rock, which, 
 nearer the base than the centi'e, formed a broad shelf, 
 on which the currents mingle; dashing about their 
 spray, and dividing into three sti'eams, they rush down 
 to the bottom, and bubble among the huge stones 
 which form a channel down the glen, and are ren- 
 dered smooth by the constant Mction of the beating 
 waters. We sat for some time, contemplating this 
 small wonderwork of the Almighty, until stunned and 
 dazzled by the noise and spray. 
 
 Turning to the other side of tiic glen, we discovered 
 a small deer-track, which ran up the side of the moun-
 
 251 
 
 tain ; aud, though it had evidently never been trodden 
 by any but the brancliy-headed monarch of the mountain 
 glen, we determined to trace it to the end. 
 
 Accordingly we pursued it up the side of the moun- 
 tain, until we reached a very high shelf, but not the 
 summit, though much higher than the Turk waterfall. 
 The prospects from this point were magnificent. This 
 elevated shelf had evidently never been trod before by 
 any human foot, it being alone the wild deer's teni- 
 tory. 
 
 We proceeded a little farther and higher, and dis- 
 covered another waterfall, with which the people of 
 Killarney appeared, on inquiry, to be quite unacquainted. 
 It dashed from a great height in the mountain, and 
 flowed along a deep ledge towards the Tm-k fall. We 
 conjectured it to be the source of this large fall; but our 
 fatigue was so great that we did not explore beyond this 
 point, having yet to visit the Abbey, to wliich we pro- 
 ceeded through a noble park, in the centre of which it 
 is situated. 
 
 I believe that Mucruss Abbey is one of the finest 
 ruins in the kingdom. Every remaining portion is in 
 a perfect state of preservation. Some of the monuments 
 are very fine and perfect. The cloisters are entire, and 
 surround the court-yard, in the centre of which stands a 
 noble yew tree, which was planted in the year 1000, 
 we were told, which is the year in which the Abbey was 
 built. The trunk of this ti'ee is nine feet in cirumference 
 at the base, and thirteen where the branches begin to
 
 252 
 
 spread from it, which was not till it had towered the 
 height of the court walls — at least the trunk at present 
 stands above the court walls, which are entire, and more 
 than thiity feet high. Its branches, when I saw it, 
 formed a canopy, which entu'ely covered the court and 
 cloisters. An ash tree grows in the Cemetery attached 
 to the Abbey, of almost equal magnitude, which, we were 
 told, was planted on the same day as the yew tree. 
 
 We ascended to the cells above the cloisters, which 
 were used by the monks when under severe penance for 
 real or supposed crimes. In one of these cells there was 
 a small square flag stone, elevated about a foot fi'om the 
 ground. Tins stone, we were told, had formed a pillow 
 for a penitent hermit for the long period of thirty-seven 
 years, during the whole of wliich time he had occupied 
 tlie small cell, leaving it only for the short period that 
 he went for the herbs and water on which lie lived. 
 Here he spent his days and nights in solitude, prayer, 
 penances, and inflictions, lashing himself with a wliip 
 each day, and at night either kneeling or reclining on 
 the bai'e flags — no pillow but the elevated stone 
 for his head — no coverlid but his cloak for the body. 
 AH this was done in atonement and penitence for the 
 one dreadful crime of parricide. 
 
 His early life was marked with much gaiety and 
 dissipation, and a reckless expenditure of fortune; and in 
 order to continue this career of folly and sin, he craved 
 more wealth. His father stood in the way of its attain- 
 ment, and he determined to destroy him. ITis mother
 
 253 
 
 dying while he was hut a child, he possessed her 
 accixmulated fortune, and, having imhibed expensive 
 habits, had dissipated the whole. 
 
 His father, weary of his debts, refused to pay any 
 more of them ; therefore, he entered his chamber in the 
 night, and smothered him. It was supposed that he had 
 died in a fit; and the wicked son escaped the punishment 
 that the offended laws of his countiy would have awarded 
 to his crime. Not so did he escape the punishment that 
 an offended God hurls down, on those who violate his 
 commandments, and disregard the laws of nature too. 
 
 The child that raises a hand against a parent, even 
 to strike a transient blow in anger, though it may have 
 no killing effect, should expect his arm to wither at his 
 side. This was not the punishment of the young mur- 
 derer; but the Almighty cast a blight upon his heart, 
 and all its former joyous impulses withered and shrunk 
 into nothing but a trembling palsy. 
 
 This feeling pervaded his whole life, and caused his 
 conscience to draw forth his father's shadow, struggling 
 in the convulsive pangs of death, in eveiy corner of the 
 habitation that he had occupied. The park, the 
 grounds, the stable, everywhere the same gloomy spectre 
 followed him, and robbed his life of ease. He could not 
 spend or enjoy the fortune and estates that he had 
 acquired, by the unnatural deed that put him too early 
 in possession of them. 
 
 In vain he strove, by penitence and prayer, and 
 
 22
 
 •;>54 
 
 sometimes by an application to the maddening bottle, 
 to di'ive away the fiend that followed him. 
 
 His conduct at last excited suspicion, and he fled 
 from exposure, writing to a priest to whom he made 
 confession, and he bade him to report his death, and 
 allow the next male heir to take possession of the pro- 
 perty for which he had sold his soul to Satan, unless, 
 in pity to his human sufferings and penitential prayers, 
 his Maker has ordained it otherwise. 
 
 I was told by our conductor, whose little history I 
 have related in my own words, but exactly with the 
 same sense and incidents, that his wanderings ended at 
 Mucruss Abbey. Arriving at the Abbey, he made a 
 solemn vow never to leave it while he lived ; and, din-ing 
 a period of thirty-seven years, he resided in the ruins, 
 leading the horrid life that was described to me as I 
 have related it. 
 
 How certain it is that the crime of murder never 
 remains entirely undiscovered or unpunished, even in 
 tliis world. Either conscience, accident, or indisputable 
 evidence is sure to bring it to light. Even be it other- 
 wise, how impossible it is for any one to feel happy for 
 a moment with the teiTors of such a crime hanging over 
 them? 
 
 In vain they try to fly from its recollection. Con- 
 science is too faithful to its Crea,tor ever to lose sight of 
 its duty, or permit the triumph of Satan witliout implant- 
 ing a sting, to warn the sinner not to yield again, 
 however trifling may be the error.
 
 255 
 
 Nevertheless, the sinner yields agaia, untH the sting 
 of conscience becomes so blunted, that flesh sometimes 
 Will cease to feel it, untU accompanied by the burning 
 j)ains of everlasting perdition ;. and then no penitence 
 can change the doom. Tliough the sentence of the law 
 may be eluded here, hereafter is a certain sentence. 
 
 We returned to our temporary abode much pleased 
 with our day's excursion, having nothing to complain of 
 but a drenching that we got, in a sudden change of the 
 weather, which took place a little before the approach 
 of twUight, and hastened our return to Mrs. O'Connor's 
 comfortable and well-conducted lodging-house, Main- 
 sti"eet, Killaruey.
 
 'i\t |IatarbeiJ |op. 
 
 Of all the follies that disfigure the fine-wrought propor- 
 tions of the human form divine, and deck it out in 
 fanciful equipments that distort it out of shape, the 
 appearance of the thorough-bred, fashionable demi- 
 monkey, or double-dandy exquisite, is perhaps the most 
 ludicrously-revolting to intelligence and pitiable to the 
 genuine lover of mankind. 
 
 There was a certain over-wrought species of this pug- 
 like kind infesting the metropolis and all popular or 
 fashionable towns, about the thirty-ninth year of the 
 nineteenth century, that might be known by its slender 
 neck, stretched out to the last degree of longitude, and 
 stiffened to tlie utter annihilation of rotatory movement, 
 by the aid of starch and buckram, cased in an outer bark 
 of spotted black and scarlet satin. 
 
 This crane-like neck supported a head thickly studded 
 with crisp and well-pomatumed curls, so much spread 
 out tliat, at a glance, all expectation of a centre piece 
 containing wit or knowledge vanished. The skull was 
 much too thick and crowded to permit of wisdom creep- 
 ing in or going out. The face, ye gods, how it was
 
 257 
 
 baboonified, and covered witli hair, on some of them, 
 as brilliant, crisp, and cunning as the fox's own. 
 
 Each eye contained a note of admiration; but it was 
 admii-ation of his dandy self. The nose was aquihne, 
 or twisted into Eoman, and made for iiothing but to 
 snufF up essence. The mouth — how can I possibly 
 describe the mouth — that fund so exquisite of all the 
 creature's fascinations ? The moustaches twisted at each 
 smiling corner into crisp, lady-killer curls, which evi- 
 dently appeared great pets, to judge from the strokings 
 and caresses so incessantly bestowed upon them. The 
 assassin, which he, to all intents and pm-poses, esteemed 
 in-esistibly killing, displayed itself in the centre of the 
 upper lip, in the shape of a little, flat, round curl, oiled, 
 pressed, and patted down to an affectionate adliesiveness, 
 yet pouting conspicuously, for the admu-ation of all 
 beholders, who were, no doubt, expected to become 
 planet-struck at the first glance at its witcheries. The 
 chin was decorated with a little tuft, to beautify the 
 centre, some short space above the bushy whiskers, that 
 were lengthened out to clasp it imdenieath, and make 
 the animal look more ferocious, lest he should fascinate 
 too suddenly, and kill his victim at a stroke. The centre 
 point beneath the chin concluded the face's outline, pre- 
 senting a Lilliputian hau--dagger, the only weapon that 
 this coxcombed biped had the heart or courage to use. 
 
 The shoulders were slightly shrugged, and the waist 
 pinched into an appearance of wasp-like divisibility, by 
 tight bandage or lacing ; the elbows were pressed into the 
 
 -22-
 
 258 
 
 sides; and the coat spread out, to shew the gorgeous 
 waistcoat; and sleek continuations, which were leng- 
 thened out to the golden sjjurs, and had delicate white 
 straps to fasten them, requiring tip-toe walldng over 
 dirt, to keep the earth from spoiling them. 
 
 The general walk of this animal was a mixtm-e of the 
 strut, mince, shuiHe, prance, and stride ; and, when upon 
 the rapid go, a sort of spasmodic shake hetween each 
 change of locomotion. The sight was not defective, 
 yet the thing required an eye-glass; and, lest the even 
 teeth should not be seen, it played the tat-too on them 
 with a golden-headed cane, unless the creature was better 
 occupied by frapping his gilded sjiurs, pets that must be 
 noticed either by spectators or the dainty wearer. 
 
 Enough of his description. I must now announce to 
 my kind readers that I came in contact with an exquisite 
 one day, the very model of the one above-described — a 
 regular infallible baboon of fashion — decked out in all 
 the trickery of fops and fribbles — one of the Liverpool 
 thorough-bred species; and I did use him handsomely, 
 as sliall be shewn anon. 
 
 Calling on a lady of my acquaintance one day, I had 
 not sat long in conversation with her, when the outer 
 door was assailed by a quaking, shaking, continuous 
 ratta-tatta, tatta-tatta, tantan-tan of the real exquisite 
 order, which was played upon the knocker, and imme- 
 diately was ushered in a modern wliiskerando dandy 
 jiopinjay — a gem of the first water, according to its kind. 
 
 Tills crcatm-e possessed the organs of speech willmut
 
 259 
 
 impediment, yet preferred adopting an artificial mode of 
 utterance, rather than speak distinctly, or condescend to 
 make himself intelligihle to general hearers. He there- 
 foi'e maintained the time yaw-haw style of articulation. 
 With quizzing glass in eye, imposing aix of conscious 
 self-importance, and, like the general species as before- 
 described, a most gorgeous attii-e, flaming scarlet in 
 the buckramised stock that kept his crane-like neck on 
 the full stretch, and obliged him to wheel round when- 
 ever he wished to view a thing not fixed exactly sti-aight 
 before liim ; and a pai'ty coloured, embossed waistcoat, 
 glorifjang itself in all the varied hues of yellow, green, 
 and blue, evidently much to the admiration of the 
 wearer, who frequently glanced at it with undisguised 
 satisfaction. 
 
 After his entrance, and my introduction to him, our 
 former confidential chat diverged into general conversa- 
 tion ; and this was interlarded, at the end of eveiy sen- 
 tence, with his " Yaw-haw — excellent — yaw-haw — that 
 was good — yaw-haw — charming — yaw-haw — superla- 
 tive, ladies — yaw-haw, (wheeling round upon me) — 
 ch-a-a-a-rming creature, pon honour — witty — yaw-haw — 
 M-a-a-a-a-a-m, a most apropos introduction — yaw-haw- 
 haw — I shall be soiTy to leave this excellent society." 
 This lengthened eSbrt was lisped out with a most lack-a- 
 daisical look of love-lorn imbecility, much to the amuse- 
 ment of the lady of the house, myself, and the lady's 
 young sister, who sat near me. To amuse her still more, 
 I turned to a little work-table, and asking the son, (a
 
 200 
 
 beautiful, intelligent urchin, of seven years old, and a 
 clever mimic, who was playing the antic at the fop's 
 back, and burlesquing every movement,) for a sheet of 
 writing paper. I wrote impromptu, in true placard-like 
 style, the first word in extra large letters, to provoke 
 attention — 
 
 " BEHOLD the happy, strutting varlet, 
 Arrayed in new and shining scarlet ; 
 A glorious vest begirds his waist — 
 Blue, green, and yellow. Ye gods, whiit a taste !" 
 
 I held it up against the fop's back, for my young friend 
 to read; instantly the little mimicing imp snatched it 
 out of my hand and ran away with it; presently return- 
 ing, with four large wet wafers on the corners of it, he 
 swiftly, with stealthy gentleness, fastened the placard 
 on the exquisite's back. I threatened, in whispers, all 
 the vengeance I would do, if he did let the creature go 
 out witli it. Methinks I see before me now tlic lovelv 
 urchin's merry face, so redolent of fun, frolic, and 
 humour, the imitative powers distinctly visible in every 
 antic that lie played heliind the foil's chah in gleeful 
 ]irank, glancing now and then to quiz mine and his 
 aunt's eflPorts to restrain the twitching of our risible 
 muscles, occasionally convulsed beyond our control by 
 these two opposite disturbers of our gravity. 
 
 Presently the labelled and deliglited exquisite, 
 delighted with our courtesy and smiles, arose to take 
 his leave with sundry yaw-haw parting salutations and — 
 " Yaw-haw — Madam, I am vour slave" — addressed to me.
 
 261 
 
 Assuredly, thought I, (my badge upon your back.) " You 
 claim my badge, su-," said I ; and he, courtier-like, then 
 backed out, too delicately sensitive to politesse to turn 
 his back on ladies, and thus the lady of the house dis- 
 covered not the trick; and, with his placard on, he 
 sallied forth, cane in hand and glass in eye, striding 
 with a bantam-like stmt of importance, occasionally 
 varied by a sim23ering mince. 
 
 He had not gone far before I took my leave, after 
 laughing heartily at his yaw-haw parting compliments of 
 yaw-haw deep regi-et at leaving my yaw-haw charming 
 society. I, too, had sallied forth, when, on turning the 
 corner of the street, my ears were suddenly assailed with 
 the shouts and hootings of a noisy troop of reckless raga- 
 muffins; and, turning to whence the sounds proceeded, 
 I perceived my victim furiously lashing about him with 
 his cane, he turning teetotum-like, round-and-round, in 
 an ecstasy of passion, the effervescent fi'oth of his saliva 
 dripping fi-om his lady-killer moustaches and his chin- 
 adorning beauty-tuft. In vain he lashed his tormentors. 
 As he S23un round, each new arrival caught a glimpse of 
 the writing on his back, and chimed in with the vari- 
 ous shouts of Behold him ! Strutting varlet ! Shining 
 scarlet ! Glorious vest ! Ye gods, what a taste ! The 
 fop thought that his costume was the only incentive to 
 the insults he received, and the uproarious laughter of 
 each passer-by, who, like myself, looked on convulsed, 
 while he, in frantic fury, carried on the battle, until a body 
 of police arrived to know the cause of the tumidt. For
 
 OflO 
 
 a moment they all stood iu woudermeut, to see and bear 
 the riot's cause, and scan, with mirtlifid look, the phject 
 of its onset. I shot off to a little distance, just as one of 
 the amazed policemen, in an attitude of irresistible 
 comicality, dislodged the mulh-exciting document, and 
 held it uj) to view, esclairaiug, " What better could you 
 exjiect with this on your back ?" 
 
 I feared discovery, but, luckily for me, the frantic fop 
 tore it up and trampled it beneath his feet, believing that 
 the troop around him put it on ; and then he tore about 
 again, attacking tliem with, "Yaw-haw — you, you ras- 
 cal, you did, you, sir, put it on — yaw-haw — but I will 
 yaw-haw all your bones, you vUlains you; begone." They 
 all denied; but ho covild find out no way else; and, as 
 bis faculties were so obtuse, I escaped detection, and 
 consequently gave no offence. The police dispersed the 
 mob, and T resolved to keep the conclusion of the frolic 
 quite snug and secret, till the proper time to tell the tale, 
 as I now do, to please my gentle readers, hoping tliat 
 young men will never copy the degraded portrait, and 
 young ladies always shim the conquest of such distorted 
 and disfigured representatives of human nature, alike 
 deterioi*ating fi-om the noblest work of the creation, and 
 dishonouring the dignity of its intelligence and reason.
 
 ^^"nu'sion. 
 
 A Journey from Killarney to Glengariff : thence to Bantry and Bandon : 
 the legend of the Priest's Leap, and a concluding anecdote of tlie 
 elopement of a young quakeress, and her father's change of mind 
 as to the pursuit, and recapture of the fugitive. 
 
 HA\^NG explored all the scenes in Killarney, that were 
 interesting to look upon, we hade a final adieu to it, 
 and proceeded on om- journey to Glengariff"; having 
 a remarkahly fine day, we could travel in an open 
 car, and enjoy again the Kenmare scenery, through 
 which we first had to ride, after having passed the 
 road heyond the Tunnel, which I have hefore described; 
 we were equally gratified with the scenes heyond it. 
 Lakes, mountains, woods, glens, and valleys, each form- 
 ing a beautiful contrast to the other, and varying the 
 scene to a pitch of beauty, diflficult either to conceive 
 or describe. 
 
 On arriving at Kenmare, we dismissed our car, and 
 spent an hour or two viewing the church, the chapel, 
 and the adjacent scenes; we tben hired another car 
 to convey us to Glengariff. In the commencement of 
 this journey we passed over the Suspension Bridge, 
 from wliich we had a good view of the Kenmai'e Bay,
 
 2U 
 
 and the mountains in the distance; on the other side 
 we had a fine landscape view. 
 
 Proceeding onwards, we had a good view of Dromin- 
 assig Cascade; as there had heen much rain during 
 several nights, the stream of water was increased, 
 and poured down in torrents. We passed innumerable 
 small waterfalls, and one of great magnitude and height, 
 called the Priest's Leap, pouring down the side of Priest 
 Leap moiuitain, which received its name from the cir- 
 cumstance of a priest, who, being pursued by a pai'ty of 
 Orangemen, determined to destroy him, leaped from 
 from the top of the precipice into the abyss below, 
 as it appeared, preferring instant death to the tortm*e 
 that would liave been inflicted on him by liis pursuers, 
 had they cauglit him. 
 
 As the legend has it, the venturesome jiriest di-opped 
 very comfortably on his feet, in a sand bed below, 
 and stood there uninjured, surveying in astonishment 
 the wonderful lieight from which he had leaped, his 
 piu'suers leaving the heights above, never supposing 
 anything but that he was dashed to pieces. But tlicre 
 he stood, alive we were told; and the Lord, to refresh 
 him, immediately caused the stream to flow tliree 
 hundred feet above his head,, exactly out of the spot 
 from which he sprang, as they thought, into destiiic- 
 tion. He drank of the water, which greatly revived 
 liim ; was able to continue the advantage he had 
 gained by the leap, and, passing over that part of 
 the country, eluded pursuit, and knowledge, the lull
 
 26.') 
 
 of water continuiug to flow ever since, to indicate the 
 exact spot on which the miracle took place. This is 
 firmly believed by the peasantry around. 
 
 The glen into which the water falls, is more marked 
 by sublimity than beauty; and the adjacent scenes 
 are very mountainous, bleak, and rugged. 
 
 We next had to travel on a road, which over- 
 hung many a precipice ; and passed through several 
 tunnels, cut through solid masses of slate stone, or rock, 
 of great height and bulk, not arched and even, like our 
 railway tunnels, but the rock and slate stone hanging at 
 the sides and top, in all sorts of fantastic forms, just as 
 it shaped itself in the gunpowder blasts, that were 
 applied to it. This has a veiy pretty, and curious 
 effect; and I fancy has an influence upon the echoes 
 that reverberate along them, when any one shouts or 
 sings; both of which experiments we tried, to the 
 utmost sti-etch of our ability. 
 
 We passed through three tunnels, of not very 
 remarkable extent, but the next was five hundred 
 yards long, cut through a hill that traversed om' 
 path, and through one rocky mass, without any sign 
 of earth, exhibiting strata of various kinds of stone, 
 not like the others, all slatestone, or sandstone and 
 granite. 
 
 These tunnels formed an interesting part of the 
 romantic road, through which we wound ouT way very 
 slowly, in order that we might the better view the 
 
 23
 
 266 
 
 scenes around. Sometimes on the edge of deep preci- 
 pices, fonned by tlie hollows of the mountains, leading 
 onward to beautifully cultivated vales and glens, 
 skirted with woods; some planted by the hand of 
 nature, and others laboui'ed into beauty by the efforts 
 of art, the whole journey through the mountains, and 
 from Killarney to Glengai-iff, was romantic in the 
 extreme. 
 
 A little before we arrived at Glengarifl", our inten- 
 tion of remaining there for the night was changed 
 to a determination to take a boat, and proceed across 
 the bay to Bantiy. 
 
 Within a few miles of Glengariff, is the rural resi- 
 dence of the Earl of Ban try, which we visited. It 
 is beautifully situated in a mountain glen, surrounded 
 by woods, through which we rode ; in some jiarts we 
 walked on the borders of a line trout stream, and saw 
 the fish gamboling in the water. In the park, many 
 of the wild deer were gi'a/ing, or at sport. A short 
 time since, this nobleman had one of the red deer, 
 from the wilds of Killarney, presented to him, and 
 one day, when walking alone, was fuiiously attacked 
 l)y the animal ; a frequent occurrence in Killarney, 
 when strangers meet them. The earl was much injured, 
 and with great difficulty rescued by some of his servants. 
 
 We proceeded to his lordsliip's cottage, where we 
 saw a beautiful little museum; the residence being so 
 fill- fi-om any seaport, it rather surprised me to see so
 
 267 
 
 many foreign cmiosities collected together ; they occu- 
 pied some space, and were very tastefully aiTanged. 
 
 While strolling in the park, I saw a peacock and a 
 peahen perfectly white, not one coloured feather on 
 them, except the peacock's tail; which, as he walked 
 in pride, and spread it out in the sun, glittered most 
 gloriously. They had each a brilliant gi-een tuft on 
 their heads. I thought them a great curiosity, never 
 having seen any of a snowy white before. 
 
 Leaving the Earl of Bantry's ga-ounds, we went on 
 to GlengarifF, much delighted with the wild and pictu- 
 resque scenery ; and while our boat was sent for, and 
 prepared, we proceeded to an elevation behind the inn 
 gai'den, which commanded a view of all the suiTound- 
 ing country ; comprising the magnificent bay of Bantry, 
 the Sugarloaf Mountain, and Hungary Hills. In 
 scenery, GlengarifF is a second Killarney. 
 
 Our boat aniving, we embarked on the bay, at a 
 later hour than we should have done, could we have 
 ascertained the real extent of the bay, and the time 
 it would take to cross it. The weather was calm, and 
 we had daylight dming more than half of our passage 
 over it ; and the scene was beautiful. Then night came 
 on so rapidly, that we had but a dim view of the 
 siurroundiug islands, and hiUs. Had I not been quite 
 spent with fatigue, I should have been delighted with 
 this sail ; the solemn miumur of the waves, the gentle 
 ripple of the oars, the dim light, with only here and 
 there a star appearing to lessen the gloom, or perhaps
 
 268 
 
 to reuder it more perceptible, by the contrast of its 
 owu brighter twinkling light. The huge mountain 
 masses would have been undiscernible, only for the 
 sudden openings, that just emitted light enough to 
 display then- dark forms ; but night still advancing, 
 it became pitch dark before we lauded. And such a 
 landing. 
 
 The tide being low, the boat could not near the 
 quay, consequently one young man had to cany us 
 through the water. He took the elder lady of our 
 party first; she being taller, and nearly as stout, as 
 me, I thought it would be impossible ; he trembled 
 like an aspen leaf when he had put her down, and 
 returned for me. I certainly anticipated a toss into 
 the water, but ho only bestowed this privilege upon my 
 shoes, for which one of the other men waded and he put 
 them on my feet, before my gallant carrier set me 
 down; he got me safe to the beach, and the gi-ound 
 was so slippery, that for some time we were obliged to 
 cling to each other, and the gas lights on the quay 
 permitting a young Irish wag to perceive this love- 
 like position, he sti'uck up a merry tune, and sang, 
 
 " My glass, iny lass, my anns about my dearie 0; 
 I care not if the woiUl turn topsy tcary 0." 
 
 This was done with so much comic humour, and good 
 liuinoiu', that I joined in the laugh against myself, 
 and nearly upset my suj^porter; he called another 
 man to assist me, while he went for the other two 
 ladies, and carried thcui through the water, desiring
 
 2G0 
 
 tbem to wait till he got me safe upon the quay; a 
 much more ai'duous undertaking than the other, the 
 first step being so high; he must have had amazing 
 strength to Uft me on, and presei-re me from falUng, 
 or slipping. I was glad to discard my crutch, and 
 hold by the projections of the wall, till he sprang up 
 to support me; he carefully lifted me on to each step, 
 regai-ding not his own safety, only mine, and any 
 bruize that was got in this difficult ascent fell upon 
 him, while he shielded me; this is ever the way with 
 the kind hearted Irish, when they see any one suffer- 
 ing from bodily infliction. 
 
 When all were safe on the quay, the same young 
 man, who appeared to be the master of the boat, with 
 the assistance of the others, earned our luggage, and 
 went with us in search of private lodgings, as we 
 prefeiTed them to the hotel. We were fortimate in 
 procming a very respectable di'awing-room, and two 
 bed-rooms on a first floor. We, being total strangers, 
 arriving at so late an hour, travel-stained and jaded 
 with our many exertions, made an appearance which 
 would hardly have recommended us to a genteel abode 
 in England; but Ireland far surpasses it hi polite 
 confidence, and kindness disjilayed to strangers. I shall 
 not forget that I did, in this night's disaster, and many 
 other instances, paiticularly on the GaiTymene moun- 
 tain, receive more gallant attention from the lower 
 orders in Ireland, than the most chivalrous, in any 
 other country, would have excelled, or perhaps offered. 
 
 -23-
 
 :;i70 
 
 Indeed, none better understand how to practise the 
 politeness of the heart, than the Irish ; at least, those 
 acts of kindness, which arise from the warm feelings 
 of the heart. Whether they he lasting, or otherwise, 
 it is still very agreeable to meet with such ; and I 
 shall long remember the gallant exertions of the young 
 boatman, to preserve me from danger. After refresh- 
 ii]g ourselves, with a well brewed dish of the Cliinese 
 shrub, called tea, we were glad to retne, and rest our 
 weary limbs. 
 
 Happily for my aching bones, the elder lady of 
 oiu- jnirty was too much fatigued to be very anxious 
 to rouse us early in the morning. But after breakfast, 
 in spite of aches and pains, we could not resist the 
 temptation to go and contemplate, in the clear noon- 
 day, one of the, if not itself the very finest bay in 
 Europe; we were so smitten, and in love with its 
 broad blue expanse, the little islands in its centre, 
 and the mountain scenery by which it was surrounded, 
 that we decided on having a sail to one of the islands, 
 when it was high tide, aud appointed a boatman to 
 be tliere at five o'clock. 
 
 After viewing the bay, wc went to look through 
 the beautiful demesne of the Lord Berehaven, situated 
 ou one side of the bay, and on an elevation which 
 commands fine prospects ; this noble mansion gives 
 great beauty to the scene. The lower end of the 
 sloping lawn is tastefully formed into a flower garden ; 
 the shrub called idrangia prevails in great quantities,
 
 271 
 
 gi-own in hedge rows; this shi-ub is very common in 
 Ireland, and reqim-es no gi'eenliouse ; at the Glengai-iff 
 Hotel, we saw two in full flower, one of them was 
 the enormous size of thirty feet in circumference, 
 the other more than twenty feet round it. It is common, 
 in Ireland, to see even the hedges, to mean little 
 cottage gardens, formed of the broad-leaved laurel, 
 which is esteemed so much here. Below the flower 
 garden, at Lord Berehaven's, is a long tier of cannon, 
 which look rather formidable. 
 
 We explored the wood, and then proceeded to ascend 
 a steep mountain, covered with a carpet of verdure ; 
 this ascent was veiy difficult for me to attain, but 
 the prospect from the top amply repays the labour. 
 After resting a while, we traversed an elevated bank, 
 or ridge, which extended nearly the length of the 
 mountain top, at the extremity of which, we could 
 look down upon the towu and country, view the 
 distant mountains and woods, surrounding the noble 
 mansions in the neighbourhood, and then, turning 
 round, take a survey of the splendid bay, and trace 
 the track between the lofty mountains, leading to the 
 broad Atlantic. 
 
 We returned, by a circuitous path, to the entrance 
 of the demesne, and retired until five o'clock ; when we 
 adjourned to the quay, and, not finding our hhed boat- 
 man, engaged a fishing sail boat, to take us to Whiddy 
 Island. When there, we travelled to the fort, which 
 is built on the summit of the centre hill, and arrived
 
 272 
 
 on the fort, I was as much surprised to see the gi'eat 
 extent of this island, which appeared, from its -great 
 elevation above the water, as we sailed on the hay, 
 to be very small, as I was to view the extent of 
 magnificent scenery around. From the summit of tliis 
 great battery, we distinctly saw the Atlantic ocean, 
 Hungary Hill, Bear Isle, tlie Sugarloaf Mountain, 
 the whole extent of the bay of Bantry, the Bere- 
 haven domain, the towii of Bantiy, and Dursey Abbey 
 miu, all combining to render the view enchanting. 
 Every tree beginning to ])ut on its eai-ly autumn 
 dress, here and there a little tint of brown or yellow, 
 gave a richness to the scene. Tlie weather, calm and 
 cool, imparted the same serenity to my heart, that 
 appeared to rest on every external object. 
 
 We returned by the same boat, one of the men 
 politely presenting his hands for me to step upon, 
 that 1 might not wet my feet, in ascending the boat. 
 Before we got to the other side of the bay, the weather 
 became rainy, and a storm commenced, which cast a 
 veiy different coat upon the waters, the waves rising 
 very liigli ; we were thankful . to arrive in safety at 
 our lodgings, and prepai'c for our departure from 
 Bantry, at five o'clock in tlie morning. 
 
 We set out at that early liour, and the drive from 
 Bantiy to Dunmanway was more interesting, than 
 romantic or wild; here we left the small car, to go 
 iiitn the mail roach from Skibbercne. n small country
 
 273 
 
 town, once called Stapleton, until changed for the 
 " illigant" nomen of Skibberene, rendering it almost, as 
 one of my fellow travellers said, a misfortune to be 
 born in the town, and called a Skibberene man. I 
 was an inside passenger, two others were gentlemen 
 of education, and polite manners, very conversant, fiill 
 of anecdote, and ready to give me every infomiation 
 and legend relative to the scenes through which we 
 travelled. We saw many noble residences, while tra- 
 velling from Dunmanway to Ballynene and Bandon; 
 but only one ruin, of Killycorrenhaigh Castle; one of 
 the gentlemen told me a singular legend of this 
 castle, but being too lengthy, I omit relating it, to 
 make room for one of his anecdotes. 
 
 Passing a splendid residence, which appeared a 
 most extensive and elegant palace, I enquired who 
 resided there, admiring the mansion and grounds 
 greatly. He told me the resident's name then, and 
 what it formerly was, having been changed on an 
 accession of property, bequeathed on that condition. 
 He stated that a grandfather of the present resident, 
 had run away with a young Quakeress. His addi-esses 
 had been forbidden by her father, on account of the 
 difference in religion ; the Society of Friends not choos- 
 ing to mingle with the Church of England ; conse- 
 quently, the equally enamomed couple thought jn-oper 
 to elope. Immediately on discovering the flight of his 
 daughter, Obadiah summoned one of his quaint old
 
 274 
 
 frieuds, and set out in fiery pursuit of the fugitives, 
 determined to separate tlieni, and bring the villainous 
 abductor to a severe account. 
 
 On the way, passing the beautiful residence of which 
 I bave spoken, he was, like myself, struck with admira- 
 tion of its splendour ; and, on enquiring whose residence 
 it was, he, to bis astonishment, leax'ued that it belonged 
 to the very gentleman who had that morning stolen bis 
 lovely daiighter. Of the gentleman's circumstances be 
 knew but very little ; but, when he thus ascertained the 
 great wealth of his daughter's lover, he turned to bis old 
 friend, with evident satisfaction in his look, and said, 
 "Verily, friend, I think the girl has done well for berself : 
 we will e'en let them go on and get maiTied." Accord- 
 ingly be ordered the horses to be turned round, and, 
 retracing their steps to the last inn they bad passed, 
 went in willi bis friend to regale themselves, and 
 wish the bride and bridegi-oom a pleasant runaway 
 trip, and safe return ; fully prepai-ed to forgive, and 
 bless them; not dissatisfied at all at all to see bis 
 child m such comfortable, affluent cii-cumstances. 
 
 The union turned out more happily than the gene- 
 rality of such weddings; and Obadiah felt not a little 
 proud of liis judgment in declining the pursuit, when 
 be discovered, what he conceived to be, bis daughter's 
 good luck. 
 
 It is too generally the case, tluit parents look upon 
 wealth and worldly enjoyments as the main point, in 
 choosing establishments for their daughters, little regard-
 
 275 
 
 ing the morals and religiou of the mau whoui they 
 choose; if externals ai'e perfect, the interior is too 
 little taken into calculation. Whereas, if good morals 
 and religion were made indispensahle to the man of 
 fortune, and viituous women unattainable without these 
 indispensable requisites of character, men would strive 
 after holy things, if only to possess the women that they 
 loved; and having acquii-ed the habit, the love of holy 
 and moral actions would naturally follow. Being united 
 to a virtuous woman for life, her moralising influence 
 would certainly bind fast his better sentiments and 
 feelings, and give Ins life a relish that the immoral 
 man can never feel. It is too rich in its essence, 
 ever to lodge rminterraptedly in an impm*e tenement.
 
 PREFACE TO SEVERAL 
 
 lociiis 
 
 WHICH I WROTE IN THE ALBUM OP A YOUNO FRIEND. 
 
 This Preface will serve to shew tliat my writings of this period, when 
 I lay aftiicted and helpless, were never intended for pubhcation, 
 and how different my thoughts were in 1835 to the present period, 
 1852. 
 
 I must premise to those who would, 
 Exjiectiag thence some moral good, 
 
 My faulty rhymes peruse, 
 That they shall make allowance for 
 The invalid who writes them, nor 
 
 My careless thoughts misuse. 
 
 Should they he clad in such an-ay 
 As renders them unfit for day, 
 
 Conceal tliem from the light. 
 The boon I ask is tribute due 
 1* or friendship long I 've felt for you 
 
 I claim it as my right.
 
 277 
 
 Should they be such as may be read, 
 All wisdom not from her have fled 
 
 Who hath composed them all, 
 You then may treasure them or not. 
 I would the former were their lot, 
 
 Theu" value though so small. 
 
 And, when perused, should any say 
 They feel contempt for such poor lay, 
 
 What care I for their scorn! 
 The poetess who does not vie 
 With any one, nor for fame try. 
 
 Can not of fame be shorn. 
 
 Some contradictions may arise 
 Above, below ; e'en in the skies 
 
 Such things sometimes apj^ear, 
 As, when for hidden things we seek, 
 Perceptive powers are then too weak, 
 
 Nor aught we see through, clear. 
 
 If I have erred in writing aught 
 Which critics may conceive is wrought 
 
 Without a cause or rule. 
 Unaltered let it ever stand ; 
 They may improve on what they 've scanned 
 
 I '11 not be critic's tool 
 24
 
 278 
 
 Too independent this may seem, 
 Uncourteous, perchance, you deem 
 
 TMs sportive scroll of mine. 
 Yet why should I weak homage pay 
 To any one who scorns my lay ? 
 
 I wish no praise hut thine. 
 
 Solicited hy yon to write 
 
 The liymns and rhymes that I indite, 
 
 I i^ut them in your book. 
 From hence, when my soul wings, my dear, 
 Forbeai* to shed regi'et's fond tear. 
 
 When o'er them you may look. 
 
 Oh ! then, fore'er adieu, my dear, 
 Till then, forbear to shed a tear. 
 
 When you may read this line. 
 Regret not that I gain a state 
 To which we all are doomed by fate ; 
 
 Why should my friend repine ? 
 
 Can fond regret or tears recall 
 A body clothed in shroud or pall ? 
 
 Can aught bring back a soul ? 
 Regi-et me not, when I am dead, 
 T may more happy regions tread. 
 
 When my death-bell shall toll.
 
 %a \\t |i,oitglrnt;tn, 
 
 RETUENING TO HIS COTTAGE AFTEK THE TOILS 
 OF THE DAY. 
 
 Hie thee home, ploughman, and rest from thy toil, 
 Haste thee to thine own cleanly cot, 
 
 Pai-take of the fniits which spring from the soil 
 Surrounding thy well-cultm"ed spot. 
 
 Thy children all run to the door, to meet 
 And gladden thine heart with a smile ; 
 
 But thy wife, not less oveijoyed to greet. 
 Will prepare thy supper the while. 
 
 Though coarse thy fare, it is sweet to thy taste, 
 "When the hlessing of God descends ; 
 
 Its sweets to enjoy I pray thee make haste, 
 And own Him the best of all friends. 
 
 Though poverty makes the sweat of thy brow 
 
 Descend, in procuring thy food, 
 Think of Him for sin slain : 't will teach thee how 
 
 To esteem thy portion too good.
 
 280 
 
 God gives to each man a station to fill ; 
 
 And though thine is of low degree, 
 State gives not bliss — thou art freer from ill 
 
 Than those who rank higher than thee. 
 
 Unrivalled by those who aspire to gain 
 
 Higher rank, their foes to outshine. 
 Enough 't is for thee thy house to sustain, 
 
 With God's blessing on thee and thine. 
 
 More happy the home that greets with a smile 
 
 The labouring poor man's retm-n ; 
 A welcome and peace his hours to beguile — 
 
 The thirsts of ambition ne'er burn. 
 
 Beyond his loved cot a thought never sti'ays. 
 Except when his childi-cu may roam ; 
 
 Heaven's help to their wandering footsteps he prays. 
 And a light to beacon them home. 
 
 His cares then tend to the welcoming hour, 
 
 His cliildren to clasp in fond love. 
 Imploring for gifts from the Supreme power 
 
 Till called to the realms above.
 
 BY GEOBGE ECCLES NIXON, ESQ., 
 
 TO ELIZA,— MY FIRST BORN. 
 
 What blissful feelings in my bosom dwelt, 
 When first I beard, sweet babe, tby feeble cry ; 
 And my glad beart a parent's rapture felt, 
 And treasured up the sound witb ecstasy ; 
 With trembling joy, I listened to thy breath, 
 While gazing anxious on thy infant face ; 
 And my pulse slowly beat, when thought that death 
 Might rob me of thee, in my breast took place. 
 
 Sweet bird of promise, daughter of my love, 
 How on thy sleeping form I fondly doat ; 
 May seraphs waft thee blessings fi-om above ; 
 And roiind thy cot may guardian angels float ; 
 Thou precious gift, bestowed by gracious heaven, 
 May the possession of a gem like thee 
 Direct my soul to where such gifts are given, 
 And guide my steps in paths of purity. 
 
 -24-
 
 
 How oft my heart within my bosom sinks, 
 Oppressed beneath the weight of hopes and fears 
 For thee, adored one, and my spirit shrinks 
 From all thy trials, in this vale of tears ; 
 The pleasures of this life, vain, empty round, 
 That lure the eye, but leave the young heart sore 
 Lilve the bright fruit near to the Dead Sea found. 
 That tasted yields but ashes at the core. 
 
 Poor slender bark, thy fragUe sails aa'e furled, 
 To buffet with the wind and swelling seas 
 Of tliis cold, heartless, and deceitful world ; 
 And tossed imcertain on each changing breeze ; 
 Oh may it be thy lot to smoothly sail 
 O'er the dread billows of this weaiy life ; 
 And, wafted onwards by each gentle gale, 
 Escape all hidden rocks, with dangers rife.
 
 il|e f r|l]iin dEli^a €Qxt'$ 'gt^li 
 
 TO THE PRECEDING STANZAS, 
 
 BY GEORGE ECCLES NIXON, ESQ., 
 
 TO ELTZA, — HIS FIRST BORN. 
 
 All, who can teU the joy a father feels, 
 
 When first his offspring meets his raptured eye, 
 
 Save he, who with poetic fire reveals 
 
 His transports, when he liears his babe's first cry. 
 
 Can any but the anxious father tell 
 
 The hopes and fears that agitate his breast ; 
 
 His doating love, the hope his babe may dwell, 
 
 When taken from hence, in everlasting rest. 
 
 The orphan gul, bereaved of guardian fond. 
 Who never chid, or frowned, or aught but smiled. 
 Feels oft endowed with power to look beyond 
 The grave, and draw the father to his child ; 
 Who fondly took her on his knee in life. 
 And prayed for eveiy blessing from above, 
 To soothe and guard his tender anxious wife. 
 But as she dealt to her the same fond love.
 
 284 
 
 She feels she could to other souls reveal 
 The tempest of wild thoughts that crowd her mind ; 
 And plant on each fond father's brow a seal, 
 By which the workings of his heart to find ; 
 That seal should be — her own dear father's smile. 
 That rendered eveiy feature bland and mild ; 
 While he prayed heaven to preserve from guile, 
 Not his first ofispring, but his sixteenth child. 
 
 Oh, he could feel a father's love and pride, 
 Though fifteen times the tribute had been paid ; 
 Now from her eyes a tributary tide 
 Doth fall, and shall the orphan's love be blamed ; 
 By none it takes not from her love of God, 
 Ecstatic feelings, smiles, and hopes, and joy, 
 Teach her in this world to endm-e the rod, 
 Which points to futm'c bliss, without alloy. 
 
 But (lid that fond loved lather look below, 
 Would heaven ailbrd an unmixed, jDeaceful joy ? 
 That he dwells there, I think, I feel, I know. 
 And looking down, my sufferings must destroy ; 
 The perfect feeling of celestial peace, 
 To which my father's spirit beckons me, 
 When all my trials in tliis world sliall cease, 
 And God, oui- l"'atiier, sets my spirit free.
 
 %\lt '§tm\\tlm\\l 
 
 A voice of warning steals upon my ear, 
 Pervading every sense with creeping fear ; 
 Conveying to my heart a fretful thi'ob ; 
 A fuller, fiery pulse, which seems to sob — 
 With anguish um-evealed, intensely keen, 
 The more so that its tremors are not seen ; 
 But felt within, suspending every sense, 
 And every energy, in wild suspense ; 
 A thrUl that vibrates on each vein and nerve, 
 Teaching the pulse from its true beat to swerve. 
 
 And what oppressive heaviness I feel, 
 A thrilling sense of doom, that seems to steal 
 Upon my mental organs, with such force, 
 As for a time an-ests their onward course ; 
 A something whispers of an hidden woe. 
 Or some enjoyment that I must forego, 
 Or danger falling on long cherished friends, 
 Or some rude change that providence intends ; 
 I dream of those I love, and swift my soul — 
 Suspects some evU, mortals can't control ;
 
 286 
 
 And anxious fears so agitate my breast, 
 
 They leave my mental energies distressed ; 
 
 The efforts which my reason puts in force, 
 
 Imagination jostles from their coui'se, 
 
 Inviting a chaotic mass of woe, 
 
 Which bears no form, by which the mind can know, 
 
 If it expresses good, or ill portends ; 
 
 Or what its essence, its effects, or ends. 
 
 Tell me, my every sense, what this can mean. 
 Or what the purport of this power unseen, 
 TJiat thus forewarns me of some dire affair ; 
 Creeps o'er my trembling frame, erects my hair. 
 Imparting feelings of a changeful glow, 
 Unlit by sunshine, but the lamp of woe ; 
 That burns more brightly in the midnight horn-. 
 Unseen by any but the eye of power. 
 That gi'asps all life, man, world, beast, flower, 
 And with a glance could crush them any hour. 
 
 Tell me, thou guider of my feeble brain. 
 The pui-port of this wild, inflicted pain ; 
 Tell me, doth some unseen, prophetic power 
 O'ernile my visions in this painful hour. 
 And teach my mind's eye, in perspective true, 
 Tlie coming evils fearfully to view; 
 Shall those I love ere long be taught to feel 
 Some absence from their present joy or weal ;
 
 287 
 
 Or is the tyrant death abroad, to throw 
 His dart on those not ready yet to go, 
 And fill the remnant left behind with woe ? 
 Say, ere the morn shines on this changeful world, 
 Shall none I love be to the other hurled ; 
 
 Can mortals stop the hand that measures woe, 
 Checks, or advances, or lops ofi" below ? 
 A spirit whispers No, but yet thy prayer, 
 If pure when wafted upward, enters where 
 That hand abideth, and its fragrance may 
 Surround and soften it ; so it shall lay 
 Its weight less heavily upon the soul, 
 That struggles to escape this earth's control, 
 And, casting off its base, encumbering clay. 
 Soars upward into never ending day. 
 
 Oh may each ransomed spirit that ascends 
 To where nor love, nor day, nor life e'er ends. 
 Be well prepared to meet the welcome glance 
 Of heaven's effulgent blaze, as they advance ; 
 Be well prepared for an eternal stand 
 Within some mansion, ia the better land. 
 And, there when stationed, centre each desire, 
 In songs amid the everlasting choir. 
 
 END OF FinST VOLUMK.
 
 D. MARPLE8, PRINTER, LIVERPOOL. 
 
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