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RESULTS; OR, THE DEATH OF THE HUNTSMAN.

Perkins having presented Mr. Cwith the living of Bunny.

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-called out, as the vehicle moved off-"We shall see you on Thursday."

In the vicinity of the splendid mansion of Sir Thomas, stood the more humble dwelling of the Reverend Mr. C. They had not long taken up their residence in their new parish, before a polite, but pressing card of invitation was received by them, from the baronet and his lady, to meet a party at the hall for dinner, on an appointed day. Sensitive to excess, the interesting Mrs. C. fearing lest the duties of her station might be broken in upon by such acquaintance, and dreading the possibility too, of again feeling attached to parties and pursuits which she had from principle given up, and which she now felt she ought to decline, she pressed Mr. C

to ex

cuse himself from accepting the kind invitation which Sir Thomas had so kindly sent them.

Ingenious as the excuse might have been which the rev. gentleman tendered, it was not deemed conclusive by his friendly patron. Before the day had arrived, Mrs. C- was surprised in the midst of her domestic arrangements, by a visit, sans ceremoni, from Lady Parkins herself, who, with all the good-natured familiarity of good breeding, jocosely informed her that she was aware her acknowledgments were due to Mrs. C for her pleasant morning ride, for had she not by her witchery influenced the mind of Mr. C. the excuse which he had tendered to Sir Thomas would not have been made, and so her ride would not have been called for; she had however called to say, that no excuses which the ready mind of Mrs. C might furnish, would satisfy either herself or Sir Thomas. "In short," added the smiling lady," Sir Thomas has charged me to say, you must favour us with your company nolens volens." In vain did Mrs. C

urge her incapacity to mix again with parties, it was reasoning which Lady Perkins did not understand. In vain did she plead the want of dresses which would comport with her ladyship's splendid drawing-room, and especially the singular notoriety she should possess—from her plain and unornamented cap.

Lady Parkins had no ears for any thing which did not accord with her wishes, and every moment's hesitancy to comply with her desires only tended to augment them. After more than half an hour's controversy on the subject in question, her ladyship most affectionately pressed the hand of Mrs. C and as she stepped into her carriage, nodded a familiar "good day," and touching her smiling lips with her fingers,

Two days afier this visit, on the return of Mr. and Mrs. C- from an evening's walk, which they had taken, to see and converse with an invalid in an adjoining village; the servant informed Mrs. Cthat a box directed to herself had been left by one of Lady Parkins' servants. On its being opened, a splendid dress cap, accompanied by a polite note from Lady Parkins, requesting the favour of her acceptance of it, were discovered. Mrs.

C

saw instantly the invincible determination of her ladyship, that she should accept the invitation, and felt as if good manners would not permit her longer to oppose. Still she felt a measure of regret beyond what she could even account for: and notwithstanding the affectionate raillery of Mr. C upon the subject, a sleepless night and an uneasy day preceded the dreaded visit.

were

The appointed morning arrived; and on reaching the hall, Mr. and Mrs. C——— were introduced to a large and fashionable company, many of whom, having heard of the accomplishments of Mrs. Canxious to meet her. The young and the aged, lavished alike upon her all the attentions which even envy of superior attractions either of person or parts will not sometimes fail to produce. It was upwards of two years and a half since she had mixed in a polite circle; yet the charms of elegant manners and the attractions of occasional intellectual converse won upon her insensibly, and with a degree of unconsciousness she became one of the party, or felt as if she breathed in her own atmosphere. Her conversational powers were of a superior order, and now the employment of them was courted. Her opinion was constantly requested, and her decisions listened to with well-bred deference. The occasional, and indeed frequent pleasantry of Sir Thomas and his amiable lady, enlivened the party, and Mrs. C felt a portion of gratification.

Many circumstances frequently unite to produce results which were not previously contemplated. So it was on the present occasion, and these tended greatly to produce the ease which Mrs. C enjoyed. Her high sense of courtesy, and attention to polite behaviour, made her feel, that as a guest of Sir Thomas, it would be a breach of good manners to be reserved and unaffable at his table. In addition to this, she had taken her seat at dinner by the side of a most fascinating and well-informed gentleman, a captain in the East India service.

Blended with the usual frankness of a British sailor, and the attractions of a handsome person, he possessed a winning address, a voice whose tones he knew well how to modulate so as to produce effect, and a disposition highly tinctured with gallantry. Like Desdemona listening to the Moor's narrative of hardships by "flood and field," she attended to his touching or sprightly accounts of the service and scenes through which he had passed.

Earlier than the usual hour in the evening, the company moved to a spacious and superbly lighted ball-room. Thither the captain escorted Mrs. C. The music struck up in "soul-subduing sounds." The polite son of Neptune requested and obtained the hand of Mrs. C as his partner, and immediately with this accomplished lady led off the dance! Scarcely had Mrs. C- reached the bottom of the room, before an overwhelming conviction, amounting almost to distraction, seized her mind, in reference to the impropriety of her conduct. The struggle now was short; she no longer meditated what course to take; she attended no longer to the sophis try of a fallen human nature, but instantly, scarcely knowing what she did, left the apartment, and hurried towards her quiet dwelling. The moon shone brightly as she quitted the hall, and, with a mind agonized and yet prayerful, she passed on alone, nor halted until she found the doors of her own welcome recluse shut upon her.

The departure of Mrs. C was not immediately discovered, but when it was, an alarming sensation spread through the party. Inquiries were instantly set on foot concerning her. No one had seen her leave the room, and even the captain, at the moment of her exit, having turned to exchange a word with a gentleman near him, could neither give information of, nor account for her sudden departure. Information, however, from a servant, soon produced order. Mrs. Chad met her as she hurried from the hall, and complained of sudden indisposition, and intimating her fear of disturbing the company, she had conceived it most proper to return home, but at the same time objected to the tendered services of the servant. The dance was resumed with all the spirit which the devotees of so unintellectual an employ could display, while Mr. Chasted home to join his beloved Georgiana. Here an understanding soon took place, while the positive determination of Mrs. Cwas made, never again, on any pretence, to mingle with the fashionable world.

A few years after this, Sir Thomas Par

kins, was rather suddenly summoned to the world of spirits, and his widow, who had ever cherished the most affectionate regards towards Mrs. C—, feeling the loneliness of her situation, determined to break up her establishment, and, if possible, more fully to enjoy the society of Mrs. CIn order to accomplish this, she made a proposal of the most handsome kind, that she might reside with her friends at the rectory. This was a new trial for the amiable woman. She knew the spirit and habits of Lady Parkins, and trembled lest such a connexion might have an unfavourable influence over her own mind. After considerable conversation and prayer for direction, arrangements were made for the proposed change in their establishment, and her ladyship became a resident beneath their humble roof.

The influence of practical piety soon displayed itself in the conduct of Lady Parkins. The spirit of the pious Mrs. C was caught by her; light was followed by conviction; and conviction led to the diligent search after, and speedy possession of, that grace which renews the heart, and sanctifies the soul. Humility and devotedness to the interests of religion, and not of party, were now the principal characteristics of Lady Parkins. Not only by proxy, but in person, she strove to do good; and hence she became herself a Sabbath School Teacher, in a village some distance from Bunny; and in order to devote all her time to this "work of faith and labour of love," not unfrequently did she eat her dinner in the school-room, and then resume her instructions to the children of the poor.

The inhabitants of the rectory were a happy, useful trio. They copied the example and emulated the spirit of Him, who "went about doing good."-Often did Mrs. C.

admiringly survey the mysterious workings of the providence of God; and while, with her beloved husband and Lady Parkins, she contemplated the wonderful results which had flowed from the premature death of her lamented Beauclerk, subscribe to the sublime aphorism of the psalmist, "Clouds and darkness are round about him, righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his throne". while with Cowper each of the party sang—

"Long unafflicted, undismay'd
In pleasure's path I stray'd;

Thou mad'st me feel thy chastening rod,
And straight I turn'd unto my God.
What though it pierc'd my fainting heart,
I bless'd the hand that caus'd the smart;
He taught my tears awhile to flow,
But sav'd me from eternal woe."

Brigg.

THE ATHEIST.

THE ATHEIST.

"Lo, a form, divinely bright,
Descends and bursts upon my sight,
A seraph of illustrious birth,
Religion is her name on earth."

COTTON. ""Tis heav'n itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man." ADDISON.

It was on a delightful July morning, during a short sojourn in the north of England, that my friend Charles Lawrence and myself forsook our pillows, to wander amid the charming scenery which surrounds Bassenthwaite Water; one of the most beautiful lakes in Cumberland.

Enlivened by the warbling of the feathered choir, we trod airily along, until we had surmounted one of the highest hills, which bound the lake on its northern side. The enchanting prospect that every where met our view would have amply repaid a walk ten times the distance of that we had taken. About three miles to the south lay the smiling vale of Keswick, nurturing in its bosom the town of Keswick, and the lake of Derwent Water, with all its paradisiacal scenery of bold lofty uplands, and smiling tranquil valleys. Beyond this could be traced the expansive silver waters of Buttermere Lake, and Lowes Water, the latter of which closed at that point the view, and seemed to kiss the orb whose brilliancy tinged her bosom with gold. On the opposite side of Bassenthwaite, was a wide extent of pasture land, here swelling into small eminences, and anon sinking gracefully into sloping vales; all alike clothed with the freshest verdure, relieved in many parts by clusters of small white cottages, which gemmed the landscape, and seemed like so many pearls upon the mantle of nature. On the skirts of these fields soared the towering mountain Skiddaw, like a giant protector of Nature's works, and the entire scene received animation from the rapidity with which the river Derwent flowed through its whole length, sparkling and winding like a silver-scaled serpent.

As we stood gazing tranquilly upon the beauties I have presumptuously endeavoured to describe, the still air was suddenly broken by the tolling of a bell; and looking in the direction from whence the sound proceeded, we perceived, enthroned upon the apex of a gentle acclivity, one of those gothic ivy-grown churches which have stood in different parts of the country-uninjured by the lapse of time-since the primitive days of Christianity in this country. Already were cleanly and neatly attired peasants proceeding with sedate steps from

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various quarters towards the sacred edifice, (for it was Sunday morning), and it formed no unpleasing sight to see the aged assisted by the youthful, or the rustic flaxen-haired girl led up the hill by her ruddy-faced ad

mirer.

"Come, Lawrence," said I," let us hasten across the fields, and make two of the congregation"-" With all my heart," returned he, and, taking my arm, we walked to the margin of the lake, where the passage-boat awaited to ferry us over. The distance to the church was about three miles, on account of the long sweep taken by the hills in their descent, it therefore occupied nearly an hour to traverse the intermediate ground; and on arriving at the door we paused, thinking it would appear indecorous to enter so long after service had commenced, and eventually determined on strolling about the church-yard until it was over. Every thing here was calculated to tranquillize the mind, and soften the everyday feelings of the heart to that mellow melancholy, yet pleasing tone, which the emblems of mortality are sure to inspire. A deep shade was cast over the ground by a thickly planted row of yew-trees that surrounded it, and many a tale of sorrow was told by the wooden tombs, which recorded the death of husbands, wives, parents, and children. The burial-ground extended to the very verge of the hill which at one side was pretty steep, and presented the same scene to view, that we had before beheld; though every feature of it was altered on account of its being seen from a different point.

We had now a better opportunity of admiring the beautifully simple style in which the church was built. It consisted of a long low chancel, and at the west-end a square embattled tower or belfry. Many parts appeared to have been recently in a very ruinous condition, as they were patched up with red bricks, giving the building an appearance of much greater stability than, perhaps, it really possessed.

Whilst thus indulging ourselves, we were attracted by the figure of an old man, who was slowly toiling up the hill, evidently in great pain. Age had bent him nearly to the ground, and it appeared totally impossible for him to preserve a standing position without the assistance of two stout oaken staves on which he leaned his whole weight. He was clad in a well-brushed but threadbare coat of a russet-gray colour, with long skirts, each furnished with a pocket, out of which peeped a prayer-book and a bible. A flowered waistcoat that reached considerably below his hips, scarcely allowing a

pair of cord small-clothes which he wore to be seen; and ox-hide gaiters, with the hair outwards, completed his costume. His shoes had been carefully brushed and oiled. and were decorated with massive silver buckles and from beneath his three-cornered hat streamed long yet thin locks of grey hair, which, though not possessing the beauty of snowy-white, appeared equally venerable.

When the old man had reached the church-door, he leaned against it gasping for breath, apparently exhausted. We approached. "My good friend," said I to him, "you seem far too feeble to venture the distance you must have come without some one to assist you."

"Alas, sir!" he replied, "I am indeed; yet I would not miss hearing our reverend vicar, were my pains and the distance trebled."

"That may be," observed Lawrence, "but 'tis a pity that one seemingly so zealous should not be able to arrive at the commencement of service, and he pointed to the church clock.

"Ah, sir, it is not for want of the will; but my old dame would have it that I was too ill to venture abroad this morning, and I was therefore obliged to wait until she had gone out, before I durst leave my bed; but truly, truly I hope the Lord will forgive my backwardness ;" and with a tearful eye he entered the church.

"Does not this cry shame upon us;" cried I, turning to my friend, "that we, who are healthy and active should lack that old man's piety?"

In

"Foolery rather," exclaimed a voice behind us, and turning suddenly round we beheld, with some surprise, a stranger leaning against a small wooden monument. he was six feet high, well made and person dignified his age might be about thirty, but care, dissipation, and something undefinable, seemed to have impressed the lineaments of his handsome, though wan countenance, with a premature old age."I beg pardon, gentlemen," said he, for being unintentionally surprised into an exclamation, which yon old fool led me to make by his cant.' "Heavens!" cried I, "and is it possible a man in appearance so devout should be a hypocrite!"

66 Nay, nay, I said not that," returned the stranger, "he may be sincere enough in what he says, but it maddens me to see those who have lived so many years, still suffer themselves to be imposed upon-still be governed by the opinions of othersand even risk their lives by leaving a bed

of sickness, to listen to the lies and trash, served up in the garb of what asses rather than men term religion."

"You are an Atheist," said Charles Lawrence, boldly.

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"Men call me so; with others who, like myself, laugh at the idle tales of churchmen. Religion may be a good political cheat, to keep the rabble quiet, but no man of sense will for a moment believe in the visionary tales of a Creator, and a future.” According to which doctrine," interrupted I," it matters not whether our actions are good or evil, as-if we escape detection of our crimes in this world-we escape punishment altogether, there being no future state for the rewarding or chastising of our souls."

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Futurity!-souls!-ha ha ha!—thus are men deceived. No, no, believe me if we do possess souls, they perish with our bodies, and the only hell is that which inhabits our bosom in the shape of conscience, the reproaches of which inflict keener tortures than could the rack."

"But what requital are we then to receive for those commendable acts which are not rewarded by the world?" I asked. The Atheist for a moment fixed his searching eyes upon my face, and then replied, "With all your piety, you never can have performed a truly good action, or you would assuredly know that such always carries its own reward. The same still voice which upbraids you for your crimes will applaud for your virtues."

you

"This is sophistry," said I," but I am unable at present to adduce the proper arguments to oppose it; however, if you will accompany us into this sacred place, we shall yet be in time to hear the discourse, and my life on it you will return convinced of the fallacy of your assertions." At this moment a low strain of music floated past, accompanied by the word " Amen" plaintively uttered by the children within, as if to confirm what I had said.

"I admire eloquence," said the stranger, even when falsely applied, therefore have with ye."

"We are ruined, and shall have the laugh completely against us, should the preacher turn out some fat old twaddle," whispered my friend.

"Fear nothing," was my reply.—Above the inner door was an exquisite piece of sculpture, representing the Redeemer, surrounded by his disciples; and underneath was written "He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet he shall live." This curled the Atheist's lip with a smile we passed on. As we proceeded up the

THE ATHEIST.

aisle, the congregation were joining their voices in a hymn. We were shewn into a pew opposite the pulpit, where we had an admirable opportunity both of seeing and hearing. During the psalm the vicar (whom I afterwards learnt was the Rev. Theodore Augustus), attired in his sable gown, walked slowly towards the desk.

I must confess my heart beat as I heard his footsteps fall on the marble floor, but when, after ejaculating upon his knees a prayer, he stood upright, my mind was instantly at ease. He was a tall, dignified, yet slight-made man of about forty; his eyes were dark and piercing, yet tempered with mildness, and only shot forth their lightning-like glance, when he became peculiarly animated. His hair was black, and thinned considerably at the temples, giving ample display to the noblest and most magnificent forehead I ever beheld.

The Atheist appeared struck with his appearance; a solemn silence reigned throughout the place. The book of instruction was opened—and the text was given. It was the fourth verse of the forty-first Psalm, and ran as follows: "Lord, be merciful unto me: heal my soul, for I have sinned against Thee." I could not resist turning to see the effect this produced; but the Atheist only smiled, and said in an under tone, "Now for an evangelical dose." With a rich mellow tone of voice the preacher then proceeded to explain his text; he pointed out the situation in which the psalmist was placed, by a beautiful metaphor, representing the sinner as a sick man whose physician was the Lord. "Guilt," said he, "like a rapid disorder, grapples with the very vitals. On its first onset the patient may hearken to the healer's voice, but as the disorder increases he loses his faith in the physician's skill, he rejects his advice, spurns at his prescriptions, and abandons himself in despair to the ravages of disease. But let him not even at the most dreadful crisis forsake hope. Let him call in unshrinking faith upon the healer, though it be the tenth hour-let him but say, "Lord, heal my soul for I have sinned against Thee," and his voice shall be heard, and the Divine Physician will administer the balm of health to his soul."

The minister having proceeded for some time in a similar strain, I turned my head to see what effect this exhortation had taken on the Atheist, and found him leaning forward in an attitude of the deepest attention; his hand was pressed against his forehead, and his whole soul seemed concentrated in his fixed eyes, where could be read the most intense interest. I fancied that I

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traced the emotions of his awakened feelings in the troubled gaze. It seemed to express, a hope that the minister's assertions were true, though struggling with his previous infidelity. "If it be so, I shall not have lived in vain," were the words he seemed to express (and which I almost thought I heard uttered) by the smile upon his lips.

During the progress of his discourse, the preacher, in the following words, adverted to a topic in which the stranger was most intimately concerned.

"It is not, however, the aim of religion to fascinate the eye, but to convince the soul. She is constantly on the alert, to strengthen and support the virtuous; to bring back those who have erred, into the paths of rectitude, and to impress with her truth the unbelievers-such my brethren as those who in their sophistry deny their Creator, and will allow of no heaven, or no hell, but what is planted in their own bosom-such as these I would ask, Who seated those feelings in their hearts? who engrafted an accusing conscience in their breasts, to give a foretaste of future joys, and future torments? It was the Maker! the creating God! and that very feeling, on which the Atheist builds his theory, practically cries loudest in evidence of the falsity of his assertion."

Here the stranger, by whose side I sat, started upon his feet, as if a sudden pang had crossed his brain-he seemed agitated by various contending emotions-his brow was flushed-the eye flashed fire-and the pulses of his temples could be seen distinctÎy and rapidly beating. With a suppressed tone he muttered, "It must be true-something must have created those feelings."

The clergyman seemed to notice this emotion, and probably surmising the cause, fixed his soul-searching eye upon the Atheist, and raised his left hand to give emphasis to his words, as he thus concluded his dis

course.

"It is religion that resolves all the doubts of those who waver; when the sinner, wading in the dark rivers of guilt, 'would flee from the wrath to come,' yet knows not whither to flee-let him turn to the bible-scan its sacred pages, and examine the tenets therein contained-but let him not be discouraged, though on the outset he understand them not. The dark clouds of despair and uncertainty hover over his head he is distracted by the apparent contradictions he may discover-but again I say, let him not despair-'tis the midnight darkness of sin, struggling against the dawn of reason-let him but place reliance upon his God-let him but persevere, and anon the bright

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