We drove through the city gate; our horses gallopped at a furious rate, and yet they were too slow for my impatience. “Is he far from hence?” I exclaimed, “where does he live, is he well, does he know that I am coming?” “All that you shall know presently!” said the Irishman, ordering the coachman to stop.
We got out of the carriage, and the sun was overclouding like the face of the Irishman. He uttered not a word, and made a silent signal to follow him.
The place where we were was a lonely solitary spot in the suburbs. The Irishman stopped at a high wall over which the tops of tall trees were portending. My conductor looked at me with a melancholy air, and then beat with his fist against a large gate. The folding doors burst open with a dreadful noise, and I beheld a burying-place before me. The Irishman entered. “What business have we here?” I exclaimed in a faultering accent. “Come along and be a man!” so saying, he pulled me after him, and the door was shut again by an invisible hand.
(To be continued.)
BENEVOLENCE.
There is a beautiful story recorded in an ancient Pagan writer, “That the deity who formed the first man out of the ground, reflecting at the same time on the calamities which the unhappy creature was to undergo, wept over his work, and tempered it with tears.” By this accident man was endued with a softness of disposition, and the most tender feelings: his descendants inherited these benevolent qualities, that by mutually relieving each other’s sufferings, they might in some measure alleviate their own; and that some amends might be made for the natural wants and imperfections of their nature, by the pleasure which they receive from soothing distress, and softening disappointment.
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.