and, God between us an' harm! sure enough he was found dead one morning, half out of the bed, with his head as black as a sloe, and swelled like a puddin', hanging down near the floor. It was a fit, they said. He was as dead as a mackerel, and so he could not say what it was; but the ould people was all sure that it was nothing at all but the ould Judge, God bless us! that frightened him out of his senses and his life together. "Some time after there was a rich old maiden lady took the house. I don't know which room she slept in, but she lived alone; and at any rate, one morning, the servants going down early to their work, found her sitting on the passage - stairs, shivering and talkin' to herself, quite mad; and never a word more could any of them or her friends get from her ever afterwards but, 'Don't ask me to go, for I promised to wait for him. They never made out from her who it was she meant by him, but of course those that knew all about the ould house were at no loss for the meaning of all that happened to her. "Then afterwards, when the house was let out in lodgings, there was Micky Byrne that took the same room, with his wife and three little children; and sure I heard Mrs. Byrne myself telling how the children used to be lifted up in the bed at night, she could not see by what mains; and how they were starting and screeching every hour, just all as one as the housekeeper's little girl that died, till at last one night poor Micky had a dhrop in him, the way he used now and again; and what do you think, in the middle of the night he thought he heard a noise on the stairs, and being in liquor, nothing less id do him but out he must go himself to see what was wrong. Well, after that, all she ever heard of him was himself sayin' Oh, God!' and a tumble that shook the very house; and there, sure enough, he was lying on the lower stairs, under the lobby, with his neck smashed double undher him, where he was flung over the banisters." Then the handmaiden added "I'll go down to the lane, and send up Joe Gavvey to pack up the rest of the taythings, and bring all the things across to your new lodgings." And so we all sallied out together, each of us breathing more freely, I have no doubt, as we crossed that illomened threshold for the last time. Now, I may add thus much, in compliance with the immemorial usage of the realm of fiction, which sees the hero not only through his adventures, but fairly out of the world. You must have perceived that what the flesh, blood, and bone hero of romance proper is to the regular compounder of fiction, this old house of brick, wood, and mortar is to the humble recorder of this true tale. I, therefore, relate, as in duty bound, the catastrophe which ultimately befell it, which was simply this that about two years subsequently to my story it was taken by a quack doctor, who called himself Baron Duhlstoerf, and filled the parlour windows with bottles of indescribable horrors preserved in brandy, and the newspapers with the usual grandiloquent and mendacious advertisements. This gentleman among his virtues did not reckon sobriety, and one night, being overcome with much wine, he set fire to his bed curtains, partially burned himself, and totally consumed the house. It was afterwards rebuilt, and for a time an undertaker established himself in the premises. I have now told you my own and Tom's adventures, together with some valuable collateral particulars; and having acquitted myself of my engagement, I wish you a very good night, and pleasant dreams. SCRIPTURE PIECES. IV. Who among us shall dwell with everlasting burnings?"-Isaiah, xxxiii. 14. Far, far beyond the furthest bound That pit of infamy and shame, Bleached by the ceaseless rain of unavailing tears. Each scorching eye to Heaven they raise, One drop, one cooling drop from pitying Heaven to crave. There curse for evermore in vain. His judgment, just and true, whose glory once to save. Oh! who those scalding tears shall dry? Of that undying worm, that ceaseless preys within? The crown within their reach before, For spotless robe of shining white, All freshly blooming still on many a favoured head, Yet, worse than all, the blissful song, To poison more the cup of pain, And more the depth profound of their dread fall disclose. Their happy seat of bliss on high, Their Lord's approving smile, his words of welcome sweet. Yet never more the heart to cheer, As once, in days of yore, with glorious hope replete. O Crucified! be mine the power Through life a daily cross for thy dear sake to bear; Thy heavenly benediction shed, To fit me here below Thy future bliss to share. V. "I sleep, but my heart waketh."-1 Cant. v. 2. I sleep-and in the dreams of night Though ceaseless roll the ages by, I sleep-as in a magic glass No shade upon the smile they wear, I dream—and in my thrilling car Through wood and welkin ring. One name upon those lips of love How vainly gaze my longing eyes, VI. "And she became a pillar of salt."-Gen. xix. 26. 'Twas but a little band, From the dark fate of that doomed city spared; Yet of the few who climb the mountain's side Breathes one of heaven accurst! Her guilty soul Pined for the world below; her tottering feet, Now lingering, pause; and on the city fair, Outspread in gorgeous beauty far beneath, The wanderer turns to gaze. Its golden sheen Gleams in the rising sun. It seems, deep slumbering in the soft lap cradled What storm hangs reddening o'er the shadowy plain, One guilty soul, What though from out that smouldering furnace drawn, Feels now its withering breath. The deadly blast, That ruthless swept the distant plain below, To fan the widening flame, bleached the wan brow That o'er the ruin gazed. Once blooming red, Her cheek, with weeping chill, instinctive feels The blight unseen that creeps apace within. Her fixed eyes now, with bootless sorrow dim, Scarce view the blackening pile; till, as she wept, The salt tide ceased to flow her stiffening hand Shrank to her stony side! As mute they gazed Upon her glistening form, each fearful heart Beat inly quick and loud; for changing slow, Her wan cheek paled, her thin form whiter grew Into one frozen heap, one giant tear congealed! No sheltered grave was hers-unburied there Upon the mountain's side, a beacon pale, The lonely Pillar stood; her silvery shroud The briny drops she wept herself her monument! I blame thee not! Yet thou hast cast Which looked so fair; I blame thee not! yet thou hast wrung With other care. I blame thee not! I do not think One thought, from which thy soul could shrink, I blame thee not! I may not let Aught which could give thy heart regret, On mine encroach. |