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VOLUME I. |
BY C, R. HANLEITER.
(P©[Eir E3 Y a
“ Much yet renlhins unsung.”
NIGHT.
BY BARRY COSSWYLI.
‘Tis niaht—'lis night—the hour of hours.
When Love lies down with folded wings
By Psyche in her starless bowers.
And down his fatal arrow flings—
Those bowers whence not a sound is Iteard,
Save only from the bridal bird,
Who ‘midst that utter darkness sings
Sweet music like the running springs';
This her burthen, soft and clear—
“ Love is here I Love is here I”
’Tis night I the moon is on the stream,
Bright spells are on the soothed sea.
And Hope, the child, is gone to dream
Os pleasures which may never be!
And now is haggard care asleep,
And now doth the widow’s sorrow smile,
And slaves are hushed in slumber deep,
Forgetting grief and toil awhile.
What sight can fiery morning show
To shame the stars or pale moonlight ?
What beauty can the day bestow
Like that which falls with gentle night ?
Sweet lady singl not aright?
Oh, turn and tell me. for the day
Is faint and fading far away:
And now comes back the hour of hours,
When love his lovelier mistress seeks,
Sighing like wind ’mongst evening flowers,
Until the maiden Silence speaks!
Fair girl, meihinks—nay, hither turn
Those eyes which ’midst their blushes burn—
Mcthinks at such a time one’s heart
Can better bear both sweet and smart;
Love’s look—the first—which never dietli;
Or death—which comes when beauty flietlt—
When strength is slain, when youth is past,
And all save truth is lost at last.
‘ffAILES. !
From the Liverpool Chronic !e.
RONALD MOR,
TIIB ATIIOLF. SMUGGLER.
Ronald Mur (as bis cognomen amply in
dicates) was a huge, gigantic fellow, mea
suring upwards of six feet without his shoes; j
in his younger days, a novelist, especially it
lie had been accustomed to see a body of :
Dutchmen, might feel disposed to set him
up as a handsome young man of beautiful
mould and symmetry ; but when I knew
him, at the age of eighty-four, he stooped a
good deal, and seemed hut the wreck of ,
former perfection. Yet, there was in that
wreck something so imposing ami ovetaw
ing, that one shuddered and involuntarily
stepped back on first sight.
When Burns, the poet, made the tour of
the Highlands, and visited Athole in compa
ny with his fiietid Nichol, Ronald was in
the prime of life, full of fun, merriment
and mischief. It was, perhaps, because lie
had but one eye, that he looked upon all
men as being on a footing of the nearest
equality; hut whatever the reason, such
was the fact. For thee-ing and thou-ing
people he might he president of any con
fraternity of “ Friends” in the kingdom ;
yet, under his rule and blustering manners,
there was an under current of touchiness
and hospitality which oozes out on till fitting
occasions. He had been returning from
the hills, where lie had spent the preceding
week, doing damage to his majesty’s reve
nue in the shape of illicit distillation, and
to his grace’s deer in the way of poaching,
and met the duke, the poet, and the demine
as tiiey turned from the turnpike road to
the narrow winding pathway that straggled
up the hill to the “Falls of Bruar,” render
ed classic that day by the inimitable genius
of Burns. The smuggler was bathed in
perspiration ; he was humming some merry
cliaunt, and carrying a huge red deer on his
shoulder, which he hud just killed in the at
tignous dingle. The duke, who piloted the
tourists, stood still when he saw Ronald ad
vancing, and tried to put himself in a vio
lent fit of anger.
“ Fine work this, Ronald, in broad day
light! Know you not, villain, that the law
puts it in my power to banish you fiom the
country 1”
“ 1 dinna understan’ meikle about law,”
replied the huge figure before him, “ hut if
it banishes a man for doing the bidding of
his lord and master, l would no gie an ounce
of draft’ for it, man.”
“ At whose bidding have you killed one
of my deer I”
“ At whose bidding !” repeated Ronald,
in seeming astonishment: “at your own,
man; have you not sent me a message to
the bothy to get a fine fat one for you, as
the poet Burns an’ some other strangers
was with you, at Blair Castle—say, as sure
ns death, you haven’t, and I’ll believe you!”
“ I never did ; but who told you so ‘!”
“Oh, who told me! Nobody at all told
me, but I dreamed it, an’it’s vet a seldom
my dreams misgives me.”
“ Very seldom indeed, if they bring you
such household mercies as that noble fellow
on your shoulder. But do carry it to Blair
Castle; here is Mr. Burns, the poet, and
he will probably thank you in rhyme for the
deed.”
Ronald threw down his burthen on the
green sward behind him, and, rushing to
wards Burns, whose face was beaming with
satisfaction at what he had seen and heard,
he flung his arms about his neck, and began
& JFsituUg JlttosjjsKjjcv : Dcfcotcft to 2Utn*iturc, jfttecfuwtt#, iForrfsn aw?? Domestic XuteUCgence, szz.
to caress him in the most affectionate man
ner. “ Losh, man ! is it yourself ? You
did a clever turn any hno, when he sent the
dancing avva’ with the exciseman. Och !
everyday to you for that same—gu sio
ruidh !” Again he flung his brawny arms
about the poet, and pressed him fondly to
his bosom ; anil then disengaging himself,
he motions the duke and his party to follow
him down the declivity. On the hanks of
the Bruar, they came to a place of level
ground about twelve square feet; it was a
natural bower, such as a lady of eighteen
might choose to breathe Iter first love sigh
in. Ihe clirystaline river played, danced,
□ml meandered in front; behind, on either
side, it was densely embossed with alder
and hitch wood ; the thrush and the lionet
poured a flood of melody from the adjacent
copse ; the turrets of Blair Castle rose in
the distance; the intervening vale was re
velling in the luxuriant mande of autumn,
and all around was one universal scene of
mellowness, grandeur and magnificence.—
Arrived at the bower, the smuggler pulled
oft his shoulder plaid, and, having wiped
the perspiration from liis brow therewith,
lie laid it on the grass for a table-cloth ; a
grey-beard, full of 11 over-proof, was next
produced, and next a capacious wooden
quaicli, or dram glass. These were laid on
the plaid, and forthwith flanked with frag
ments of oaten cakes and cheese he had in
his pocket. Ihe repast being prepared,
the smuggler warmly invited the party to sit
down and eat. “ Come, my hearties,” said
lie, “ the brae before ye is hravv and tall, say
ye maun tak’ a ‘Jacobus’ to help ve up—
sit down 1” Resistance were useless—the
quaicli circulated freely, but the duke and
the dominie soon gave in, and Ronald Mor,
with a look of mingled pity and contempt,
drew his dirk, and threatened to take sum
mary vengeance on any one who would not
do ample homage at the shrine of the jolly
god. “ Maybe, howsomever,” said he, “you
would like to tak’ a wee bit rest ? Come,
Bob, my honey ! let us hae a sang, man.”
Burns hesitated, and the smuggler went on
—“ Guid sake ! let us hear the Deil and
Exciseman—hae ye ever heard ir ? 1
May he yruir.ledy play- 1 on die pinna- —go i
on, Boh; go on, my hearty !”
Upon the l.cathery highland hill,
1 met a man just frne his still,
Wha made a poet drink his fill—
A duke a little;
Aa’ forded a teacher wi’ his steel
To lick Ids spitt'e I' 1
Ronald, perceiving that the lines were
extempore and apropos, sprung to his feet,
and began to leap and gesticulate in tlie
funniest way imaginable. In one of his
croupades he shuffled in, wittingly or un
wittingly, between his grace’s legs, and seiz
ing him by the collar with both hands, pull
ed him to the dance. The poet, ever the
child of circumstances, yielding himself to
the irresistible tom-foolery of the moment,
pulled his fellow tourist on the carpet in an
equally unceremonious manner; and there
they were —the duke and the smuggler, the
poet and the schoolmaster—dancing and
leaping and flying away, like a thousand
briks, never so long. When this ludicrous
scene was over, Ronald gave them deoch
an-dorius standing, and cordially shaking
each of them by the hand, he bade them
good day. He then flung the deer again
on his shoulders, and was soon seen on the
turnpike, wending his way, not to Blair
Castle, but to his own home. *
On the day prior to his rencountre, Ro
nald had sinned grievously against the ex
cise laws ; but pecadillos of this description
were of such frequent occurrence that they
became almost necessary to his existence,
and he thought no more of driving the gau
ger back from the lawful prey than a farmer
would do of scaring a flock of crows from
a harvest field. Ronald, indeed, was one of
those dull-headed fellows who never chose
to comprehend what eight any government
whatever had to dictate to him, whether he
should convert liis barley into meal or whis
key. It was all gammon to talk to him
about national debt, executive government,
protective duties, free competition, and such
like—he was a free trader of the first dye.
He had been ten days in the bothy (by that
name an illicit distillery is known in the
Highlands,) and had barrelled thirty gallons
of double strong, when the exciseman and
supervisor came on him, like Catsar’s ghost,
in an evil hour. It was perfectly obvious,
at least to the smuggler himself, that infor
mation, with a minute description of his lo
cality, had been lodged against him. There
was no other way of accounting for detec
tion. He had erected his still within a na
tural cave, near the base of one of the most
inaccessible and alpine of the Grampians;
on either hand it was protected by huge
masses of rock thrown so closely together
that all, except the native Celt and moun
tain goat, shuddered from the contemplation
of it. The only access was immediately in
front, where it gradually sloped in a gentle
declivity to the margin of a lake that gleam
ed on the bosom of the mountains like an
embossed mirror. This sheet of water well
entitled to the distinction of being called a
loch, was hut a part of the river Tift. It
was about three miles in length and half a
mile in breadth, guarded on either side by
high perpendicular mountains. It grew
narrower and narrower towards its outlet,
and, after finding its way for about twenty
yards from the loch in a narrow channel, it
rose abruptly, and, with maddening impc
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JANUARY 21, 1813.
tuosity, tumbled over a tremendous rock
eighty feet high, and thus formed one of the
most imposing and sublime cataracts that
the Highlands of Perthshire can boast of.
It only remains to be told that below “ Ro
nald’ ‘s cave” there was a sort of creek or
landing place, w here the Duke’s fishing coll
ide was always moored. Thus protected
by natural bulwarks, Ronald felt peifectly
at ease on the score of invasions ; and he,
therefore, no sooner saw his door darkened
by the supervisor than his face darkened al
so, and he significantly muttered—“ betray
ed !”
“It serves you right, too, you gallows
rascal! what are you doing here ?” vocifer
ated the supervisor, as he advanced one
step, and struck his sword stick onthe worm,
till it sounded like a bass fiddle.
“ Noo ! keep a hottnie tongue in your
mouth neebour,” said the smuggler ; “ l’nr
tendin’ my lawful calling; but what in the
name of the planets, are you doing here ?
Ihe hills is wet, an’ I’m afearee you hae
mista'en your way, but sit down, till we tak’
something to heat our weasons !”
“Blast your impudence !” said the gauger,
“ we dr ink not with you ; hut we seize the
whiskey, still, and all, in his Majesty’s name,”
and he walked as if he was master of the
the whole premises.
“Stand back !” exclaimed the smuggler,
shooting his tremendous fist into the excise
man’s bosom, “ Stand back ! what’s the
matter with his majesty noo, when he re
quites so much w hiskey at once—has the
cholics 1”
“ Come, come ! Ronald, no resistance !”
interposed the supervisor, “ we are two to
one, so you’d better let busiuess be done
smoothly.”
“ The odds is in your favor,” said Ronald,
coolly ; “ hut, nevertheless, I’ll mak’ ye
look odd enough before I’m done wi’ ye;
for look ye, I hae two on my side, likewise,”
and he menaced them with two clenched
fists as large and as big as any two ordinary
anvils. Theofficersdrew their swordsticks,
and a scuffie ensued. Ronald seized the
gauger hv the collar of his coat and the seat i
..p i. % .. umi KioJiu linn uoml
the hill; the supervisor soon followed. The
distance between the mouth of the cave
and the loch was only about twenty yards,
and they soon rolled over it; but Ronald
who descended with a free and easy race,
was fortunately before them. I say for
tunately, for the supervisor, by reason of
t’ne rotundity of his carcase, gathered such
velocity in the descent, that he would inev
itably have landed in the loch and perish
ed, had not Ronald snatched him from the
brink. When they regained their feet, the
smuggler asked them whether they looked
odd enough now, hut to this query the only
answer they deigned was a simultaneous
rush upon him with their sword-sticks. Ex
asperated beyond measure at the dogged
tenacity with which they clung to a good
opinion of their own strength, Ronald seiz
ed each of them by the throat, and dragged
them tovvaids the cobble. They perceived
his design, and prayed earnestly for mercy,
but to no purpose. He flung them into ibe
boat, and sent them adrift ori the loch, with
out oars, helm, or sail! This, in ordinary
circumstances, might be attended with no
alarming aspect, hut it happened at the time
the loch w r as overflowing, and should the
current in the middle get hold of the cob
ble, it would to a certainty sweep them
along, and precipitate them over the water
fall into the gulf beneath, when they would
be dashed to pieces. There w’as a strong
gale of wind blowing, however in the op
posite direction ; and Ronald thought that
the conflicting influences of the torrent and
the wind might be so nearly equal as to put
danger out of the way, at least till he should
put his whiskey and smuggling apparatus
beyond the reach of detection. Away went
. Ronald, and away drifted the cobble.
About an hour afterwards the smuggler
was ascending a small knoll, about half way
between the loch and the waterfall, when a
shrill and lugubrious cry of “Oh, mercti!
is there no one to save us from destruction]”
burst on his ear. The cobble was within
twelve yards of the rock ; with the bound
of a madman Ronald rushed forward, and
dashed into the foaming flood up to his chin.
A moment longer, and the gaugers would
have been in eternity; he got hold of the
cobble by the gunwale and pulled it ashore,
timid the benedictions of the supervisor.—
, But the exciseman sat in sullen and gloomy
silence, not deigning to take any notice of
liis preserver, even after they found them
selves out of the reach of danger.
A weelofter the events recorded above,
Ronald Mor might be seen on the road be
tween Blair Athole and Perth driving a
cart, loaded .with peats or turf. Ostensibly
his business to the fair city was to dispose
of his peats, while in reality it was a smug
gling speculation, for he had three ankers
jof whiskey concealed in his cart. He ar
rived at Perth about two in the morning,
and made direct for the inn of James Sea
ton, Athole-Square—a man with whom he
had transactions of that kind for years pre
viously. Seaton was at home, and rose as
soon as ho was apprised of his friend’s ar
rival. After a great many “ feelers” had
been put forward on both sides, Seaton said
he was sorry ho could not tako the whiskey,
as another customer of his had overstocked
him the night before. “ However,” added
he, “ as you are an old friend, and as I can
depend upon the quality of the artielp, l
shall give you six shillings per gallon for it.”
“ Six shillings per gallon ! bout, tout,
awa! Six shillings per gallon ! na, na, ye
carina hae it at that.”
1 Can’t give more, upon my honor! bad
times—very had times. But I’ll tell you
what, there was a friend of mine speaking
to me the other day to send something of
tins sort his way. Go down Grey-street to
No. Gl, rap at the door, and you’ll soon find
a buyer.”
“ Thank you, honey,” exclaimed the de
lighted smuggler, as he rose and adjusted
liis bonnet to proceed to his new destina
tion.
Seaton saw him to the street; he then
bolted the door, opened it again—roared
after him, “ don’t forget the number, Gl,
Grey-street” —bolted it a second time, and
retired to bed.
A few moments brought the smuggler to
Gl Grey-street. He rapped at the door
again and again, but no one answered : at
length, when on the eve of giving up ir.
despair, an upper window opened, and a
man having a red cap on, thrust his head
and shoulders over it.
“ Hallo ! vvliat now—any thing in the
wind ?” demanded the man with the night
cap.
“ A prime chance,” answered Ronald,
“ come down, if you please.”
“I’ll be with you in a moment.”
The window was shut, and in less than
ten minutes the front door turned cautiously
on its hinges, and Ronald was admitted.
“Is it a smuggling concern I” inquired
the man with the night cap.
“ It is, avick, and the very best in Athole.
But the proof of the pudding is the preeing
o’ it,” replied the smuggler, and he pulled
a bottle and quaich out of his coat pocket.
“Hold, hold!” said the other. “YVho
sent you to me I”
“ Who, avick, but my worthy friend, Ja
mie Seaton, over the way.”
“ A worthy friend indeed,” said the man
with the night cap, emphatically, and then
he roused for about ten minutes, and vvalk
?AbacksYWl.acd.§ O R*IRtI. Vl\* bft.lvJ'by u.4*
nald’s side, and, stretching out his hand,
asked him, in a tone of the softest affection ;
“ Ronald Steward, dor/t you know me ?”
“ May he,” said Ronald, hesitatingly,
“ may be you are somebody, if I had a
Hglit!”
“ I am M’Pherson, the supervisor, whose
life you saved the other day. Y"ou have
been betrayed, Ronald. Seaton, the scoun
drel, is an enemy of yours. The thing is
this—nay, nay, don’t get into a passion, else
you’ll not he able to entrap your enemy in
return. M’Culloch, the exciseman, who is
on terms of matrimony w ith Seaton’s daugh
ter, divulged the whole history of our ad
venture at Glentilt the other week, and it is
in pitiful revenge for the manner in which
you frustrated our efforts to make a seizure
there and then that you weie now goaded
into my clutches.”
“ By the ”
“ Now, not another word, Ronald*; go
back to Seaton’s—say that I am not at home,
that you saw no one ; let him have the whis
key at his own price, and I shall make it
dear enough for him. Be sure and get your
money from him ; for, whenever I sec you
leave the house, I shall pop in, and seize
the whole on his hands ; and, as he is an al
most quarterly delinquent, he will assured
ly he made to smart for it.”
Ronald liked the proposal remarkably
well; and, after hugging and caressing the
supervisor as a father would a child, he re
Maced his steps to teuton’s. Sitting vis-a
vis over flowing bumpers, the smuggler told
the result of his visit to Gl Grey-street, as
instructed by the supervisor; and it was
evident that the innkeeper felt chagrined at
the failure of liis plot. But both felt an in
terest in concealing real sentiments and feel
ings. and a bargain was finally concluded.
Tilf innkeeper counted down twenty pounds
on the table—the smuggler pocketed the
money —anil, as Seaton held the door open
to let him out, the supervisor rushed in, and
after some preliminary proceedings, put the
government seal on every individual anker
of it!
A SKETCH
Adapted to the Season.
BY MISS C. M. SEOGWICK.
It was on lhe last night of December, IS—,
that the family of my friend Ellen Clay were
lingering over the drawing-room fire, be
tween tlie hours of eleven and twelve.
There were Ellen Clay anil her father anil
mother. They bad lapsed into deepsilence,
seeming to have retired into the recesses of
their own hearts; and, if ono might judge
from the shadows that were gathering over
their faces, there was nothing there partic
ularly light or cheering. The last hour of
the year is one of those marked points of
time when Conscience, with a torch glowing
with heavenly fire, throws a light over the
whole track of the outrun year, showing ev
ery wilful departure and every caieless de
viation from the right path.
Ellen sat on an ottoman beside her mo
ther, her head resting on her mother’s lap ;
both were abstracted. Mr. Clay bad been
reading at the table. The book was still
open before him, but his hands were clasped
over its pages.
There sat on the sofa a person who was
a remarkable contrast to the other members
of tlie parly.
He was a man about sixty, of small ?>ta
lure, and of so delicate a structure, that as
you looked in his heavenly face, you won
deied how that fiail body had servedso long
to detain its celestial guest. Never was the
record of a character anil life written more
plainly than on that beaming countenance,
where peace was stamped, and love and
charity seemed every year of life to have
been accumulating their treasures. If you
would shrink from his far-seeing, penetra
ting, spiritually discerning eyes, the benev
olence enthroned on liis serene brow, and
the gentle tenderness of liis countenance,
manner, and voice, would have encouraged
you to confide to him sins sedulously hidden
from less perfect and therefore lesskind fel
low-beings. It is “ perfection that bears
with imperfection.” One might have told
him the sorrowful tale o^j^tlf-condemnation
with much the same feeling with which it is
poured out in the confessions of secret pray
er. I shall merely designate him as the
Clays’ friend ; a friend he truly was, and is
to the whole human race. He was the first
to break the silence of the party by saying
in a low thrilling voice—“ My fi iends, I have
ever thought this hour between eleven and
twelve of the closing year, ono of the gra
cious periods of life. Our Heavenly Father
seems interposing for us—stretching out His
arm to us to help us over the dreary distance
that some of us have interposed between
Him and ourselves. It is one of those high
points of life whence we see before as well
as behind, and if the burden of sins, volun
tarily borne thus far, weighs heavily, we are
incited by its galling to throw it off. We
perceive some glimmering of our immoital
destiny ; we feel that the chords of our true
life are interwoven witli every thing endu
ring in the universe, and that when the sun,
moon and stars, whose revolutions now mark
to us the periods of our lives, shall he blot
ted out; the site of their urns all spent; we
shall still live in our spiritual relations to the
JYVriarvrtPaTivi uufffiOing tremg. Does not
this thought,” he continued, taking Ellen’s
hand, ami addressing himself to her, “give
a dignity to your present life 1 does it not
make existence appear to you an infinite
good ? It seems so to me.”
Ellen looked in liis face for a moment, and
then said, “It may to you—it should ; but
to me”—she burst into tears and was again
silent.
“ My dear child,” he said, “ I fear there
is something wrong here. Clouds should
not hang over the closing year. Your fath
er and mother looks sad too. An honest
parent,” he added with a smile, “ may help
you to separate the true charges of consci
ence from false self-accusations; and per
haps he may suggest to you some availing
pilgrimage or penance. Come my dear El
len, make me your confidante; tell me what
trouble is on your mind.”
Ellen looked to her father anil mother.
“ Do, Ellen,” said her mother; “I will
make my confession too.”
“ Anil I mine,” said her father, “ end we
will all be upon honor to tell the true story.”
We must premise that there is in the tech
nical sense of the word no story to tell.—
There is nothing striking in the history or
condition of the Clays. They are wealthy
and respectable inhabitants of one of our
large cities. Neither are their characters
very strikingly marked, though like all oth
er human beings they have their individual
ities.
Ellen Clay has a pleasing countenance
without distinguishing beauty. She is well
educated, in the common acceptation of that
phrase, having passed through the thorough
fare of English and French schools; but us
she has reached unmarried the advanced age
in American city life of four-and-twenty, anil
as, having several joint heirs of her father’s
property, her shuie is not enough to attract
those worthies who make marriage a money
contract, she began to feel the chill atmos
phere that surrounds a reserved, modest
young woman among the budding or fresh
ly blown young people that constitute the
gay society of our thawing moms. Ellen
went to parties because it would seem odd
if she did not; anil she gave them in her
turn, because she was expected to givethem.
She had the customary round of home occu
pations. She rose late, nrul dawdled through
the morning with devising changes in her
dress, or reading the morning paper—or
running through anew poem, or anew nov
el. If the day were fine she made visits or
received them, or shopped, or took a short
stroll in the sunshine. After dinner she
took a nap, and if the evening were passed
without society, she occupied it with the
monotonous varieties of hemming and stitch
ing that fill a young woman’s work-box, or
she might he so fortunate as to have on hand
that most exciting of the needle-arts —a hit
of worsted-work. Occasionally she played
and sung agreeably a few tunes, or she
sketched a head, or painted a flower, but
she hail no passion for music ; nor u tuleut
for drawing that could call forth her energy.
Certainly there was nothing in such a life rs
this to satisfy a creature endowed with a
conscience!
“ lain to go first to the confessional,” EU
len said, following her tears with a smile—
“ well, 1 must produce my condemnation
book, as I regard it.” She left the room,
aud returned with a little hook hound with
| NUMBER 43.
IY. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
green morocco, and lettered in gilt letters—
“ Book of Resolutions for IS—.”
“I bought this book,” she said, “onthe
last day of the last year, and I wrote in it,
as you sec, several pages of very good reso
lutions. Not one of them have I kept.—
Please to run your eye over them. You see
I began with sundry resolves in relation to
health.”
“ Which you justly considered, I suppose,
my dear Ellen, essential to usefulness and
enjoyment I”
“Certainly, sir, and accordingly you see
vvliat fine plans I laid to keep in the fresh
air a certain portion of every day; to pre
pare my feet for boil walking, and then to
defy it; to eat and drink in such modes as I
found to contribute to the highest health,
&c. &c. After the first month of the year,
l never opened my book, and thought only
of these resolutions when I was reminded of
them by a headache or cold incurred by my
own fully.” She paused for a moment, ami
then as she saw her friend turn over leaf af
ter leaf, without dwelling long enough on
any one to peruse it, she said, “ You do not
think it worth while to read them, but in
deed I wrote tbern with an earnest desire to
shun the faults I specified, and to do the
good I proposed.”
“ I do not doubt it, my dear child, and I
rejoice to see in this multitude of things to
he done and to be avoided, the evidenue off
your high aspirations. But there are too
many of them, Ellen. You have set fence
behind fence, till you can scaicely yourself
see the marked and fixed boundary between
guod and evil. You have proposed to your
self such a multitude of good deeds to do,
that you have made a pressure on yourself
from every side, so that you could not feel
tin; force of any of them. Throw away the
book, my dear child,and look into the depths
of your own heart—consider your nature
anil its capacities—your relation to your
Heavenly Father, anil to his universe; the
dignity of the existence which is hut begin
ning to unfold before von, and I think you
uG11,,.. r- i .-...j—. fcci.
of Jesus When the fountain is filled anil
purified, the streams will buisl forth ou eve
ry side.”
Ellen was silent ami sad for a few mo
ments. She then Raid in a low voiar, as if
breathing aloud her thoughts, “ hut the year
is gone, ami here I am, with tnv broken res
olutions and forfeited hopes. Who can give
hack this lost vearl”
•
“ Could I by a spell restore it, Ellen,
would your purpose be fir mer, your hopes
renewed ]”
Ellen was discouraged, and she hesitated
before she ventured even to say, “1 do not
know—l want something to rouse me—
something to do.”
“ Do always the duly nearest to you.”
“But I want something more than little
every-day duties to stimulate me, an action
that when done shall make me feel as if I
uaJ brought something to pass.”
“ Well, my dear Ellen, I think I can point
out such an employment to you. It was
suggested to me yesterday, by your mother
telling me what a skilful nurse you were to
Anne when she had the billions fever. You
need trot go on a mission to find good to be
accomplished. Our Heavenly Father has
given us a mission of love and mercy, about
iiur very doors. My profession, Ellen, has
carried me often among the sick poor; and
I have often wished 1 lie young women, gift
ed and instructed as you are in the modes
of alleviating the suffering of illness, would
make it their business to go among them to
teach them the importance of ventilation; of
airing their bedclothes, which may be done
even if they have but a single change; to
show them how best to give thpir medicines,
and to prepare and regulate their food; how
much relief might he obtained by rubbing
and bathing-—means as much within the
reach of the poor as the rich. These offices
are often performed by the Sisters ofChar
itVj in countries where poverty is most ab
ject and revolting. It would be better if we
Protestants derided the Catholics less, and
imitated good deeds more.”
The clouds began to clear away from El
len’s face, and her friend continued, —“ I
leave you to ponder on this, my child ; your
mother is waiting to come to the confession
al, and it is almost twelve o’clock.
Mrs. Clay made her lamentation over res
olutions formed at the beginning of the year
now expiring—resolutions broken aud for
gotten, till the recurrence of this solemn pe
riod brought them before her conscience
with the light of the Judgment hour. The
loudest reproach seemed to be that she had
done nothing towards subjugating an irrita
ble, exacting temper. She concluded as her
daughter had done :—“ The year is gone,
and nothing accomplished.”
“ What if I give it back to you?” said her
friend. She raised her bead, startled by bis
thrilling tone, and then sank down agaiu in
silence aud despondence.
Mr. Clay’s story was a common one.—
“He was tho slave of business. Heliad no
time for anything but business. None for
domestic enjoyment—none for friendship—
none for social life—none for the great phi
lanthropicobjectsthat arc stirring the world’*
heart—none for his God, Al jhe close of
last year he had resolved it should be other
wise, l ut instead of extricating himself h©
had gone on multiplying aud complicating
his cotweitH. Now he was utterly diss*ua.