house to another, when she visits the poor sick people of the neighbourhood, and carries things for their use; and, we often get together to the top of the hill, when it is a clear day, where we can see Scotland and the ships passing back and forwards. For, she says, it is a beautiful sight, and takes great delight in looking at it." "And, my dear girl, does she ever speak of her parents? Do you know any thing of them?" "I remember her mother. She died about seven or eight years ago, when I was a very little girl. Miss Ellen was then very little also; for she is not quite two years older than myself. She often talks about her parents, and laments their misfortunes so much, that it makes her rather pensive in her disposition, though she is generally one of the merriest and liveliest young ladies you ever knew. Her father, it is said, fled the country for fear of being punished, for killing some lieutenant in the army, in a duel, when she was but an infant." "Have they never heard of him since?" "Not that we poor country folk know of." "Did you ever hear his name?" "Yes; his name was Hamilton, and she should be called Miss Hamilton, but her grandfather will let her be called nothing but Miss O'Halloran." "Has she any brother or sisters ?" "No; her father and mother did not live long together. They never had any children but herself.-But, sir, the doctor told us not to fatigue you by talking to you, too much. Would it not be better to leave you to your sleep? for you must be very weak and distressed after being drowned. If you want any thing, tell me, for I ought not to stay longer with you, unless t● attend you." This impatience in Peggy, arose from the manner in which Edward had almost unconsciously caught her hand, and pressed it rather warmly, as he listened to her account of Ellen's parentage. Peggy's cheeks displayed a blush, which plainly discovered that she felt the indelicacy of her situation with a . young man, who in place of being as she expected, half dead with drowning, seemed quite alive to all the impulses of gallan 1 try and feeling. He checked himself, however, and bade her good-bye, thanked her for the information she had given him, and the attention she had manifested to his comforts. The alarm that Peggy felt was quite natural, and, to handsome young women who have been in similar situations with handsome young men, any explanation of it would be unnecessary. Even Edward felt that her withdrawing had relieved him from an impending danger. For whether it was occasioned by the sweetness of her looks, or the interest he took in her communications, he felt, as he pressed her hand, a warmer tide of blood than usual, flowing from his heart, which was not cooled for some minutes after her leaving the room, when the idea of the fair Ellen, excited a flow of affections, more congenial to his principles, and more agreeable to his feelings, because more capable of being approved of by his reason. The various agitations of his mind, together with the still fatigued state of his body, however, soon again found relief in sleep, from which he did not awake until the arrival of the doctor, accompanied by O'Halloran and his grand-daughter in the morning. The doctor found him rather exhausted, with a slight degree of fever, which although chiefly caused by the state of his mind, was readily enough accounted for by the preceding day's accident. He was assured, however, that the only inconvenience that could result, would be a few days confinement. O'Halloran was desirous that he should be conveyed to the castle until his recovery; which, after the adjusting of some preliminaries, such as apologies and expressions of gratitude on the part of Edward, and assurances that he considered it nothing but his duty, on the part of his deliverer, was at last effected. The doctor then having given some directions for his management, took his leave, carrying a letter to Tom Mullins, Edward's servant, whom it was expected he should find at the Antrim Arms, in the town of Larne. In this letter he informed Tom of the accident he had met with, and instructed him to continue at the inn until further orders, without communicating to any one his master's real name or quality, as he had important reasons for wishing to remain unknown in this part of the country for some time. Edward Barrymore, was of a very conspicuous family, distinguished alike for its rank, wealth, and devoted attachment to those political principles, which had set the family of Brunswick upon the British throne. With respect to England, their politics were exactly those professed and acted upon by the whigs of the country. Hence they were in favour of extending every kind of indulgence to the dissenters, and had opposed the American war, and lord North's administration. In Ireland, however, where their principal property and influence lay, they supported every high-handed measure of the government, and were rigid sticklers for the protestant ascendency. Whatever were their motives for such difference in their political conduct, with respect to the two countries, it is certain that they acted only as many other great Irish families at that time did. Their avowed reasons were, that it would not be safe to allow the mass of the Irish community the same political privileges, that might with advantage be allowed the English, because the former were chiefly catholics; professors of a religion which, they insisted, inculcated direct hostility to the establishments of both church and state, in either country. Those sentiments, while they made the family of Barrymore high in favour with the ruling powers, caused them to be looked upon as no better than tories, by those protestants, whose views with respect to their catholic fellow-subjects were more liberal. By the catholics, they were held in utter detestation, as their natural enemies, and as the supporters of a tyrannic system of government, which had deprived their ancestors and themselves of some of the most valuable privileges of the constitution. At the period at which our history commences, Edward's pa ternal uncle, the eari of Barrymore, was a member of the Irish privy council; and, his father, who was a member of the house of commons, had distinguished himself by his strenuous opposition to some measures, which had recently been introduced into parliament for the relief of the catholics. In consequence of these circumstances, Edward supposed, that if he made himself known, he should be no welcome guest in the house of O'Halloran, whose political principles, he had reason to believe, were in direct opposition to those of his fa mily; and, as he could not venture to incur the dislike of the lovely Ellen, or her venerable grand-father who had saved his life, he determined on concealment. (To be continued in our next.) ON THE SOCIAL AFFECTIONS. LIFE would be altogether miserable, were it not for the exercise of the social affections. Our desires concentrated within the narrow limits of self-gratification, and our feelings unexcited by any other object than self esteem, we should never enjoy the sweet interchange of mutual attachment, nor experience the pleasure of communicating delight. We should wander like hermits through a dreary world, our wants unrelieved by friendship, and our sorrows unmitigated by sympathy. No kind hand would shield us from error or misfortune, no disinterested coun; 'sel would direct us to wisdom and prosperity. If not direct opposers of each other's happiness, we would, at least, take no pains to promote it, and indifference is always a foundation for hostility. Regardless of esteem, we should lose a powerful inducement to be virtuous, and careless of admiration, we would sink into sloth and obscurity. Thus the affairs of life would stagnate; industry and enterprise would be at an end; and all the comforts they produce would be lost to the world. On the other hand, from the overflowing source of the social affections, are derived the most exquisite enjoyments of life; the endearments of lovers, the confidence of friends, the charities of philanthropy and patriotism, the luxury of kindness, and the blessings of gratitude. These are all the offspring of those generous and virtuous feelings that prompt us to extend our views, anxieties, and exertions beyond the contracted sphere of our personal concerns. energy to our underHow much does the Our attachment to those we love adds takings, and perseverance to our activity. consciousness that they will participate in our prosperity, stimulate us to exertion; and how much is our gratification on ex periencing good fortune, increased by the consideration, that they too are rendered happy! If it be in the power of self-love to compel us to exertion, by rousing our first and most natural impulse, which is to defend ourselves from danger, by warding off the attacks of either personal censure, poverty, or pain, it is the province of social affection to render our efforts agreeable, and to reward them by adding enjoyment to success. The one acts only by the stern compulsion of necessity, and cannot yield the same delight as the other, which acts by the alluring influence of the pleasure it bestows, or is expected to bestow. Hence the impulse of self-love, strong as it is, could never, without the aid of the nobler, more praise-worthy and endearing principle of social feeling, inspire mankind with that readiness of enterprise, and ardour of pursuit, so necessary to carry on the affairs of life with advantage or satisfaction. How amiable and delightful are those sympathetic feelings which enable us to enter into the griefs and joys of others, which induce us to pour our hearts and affections into their bosoms, and secure to us in return, their endearing confidence! I have long been of opinion, that of all the pleasures which heaven has been pleased to bestow upon humanity, in order to atone for misfortune, or to render existence more tolerable, there are none so pure, so exquisite, and so capable of recompensing us for whatever evils we may suffer, as those experienced by fond and virtuous lovers, when, in the retired enjoyment of each other's society, they pour forth the tale of mutual attachment, and concentrate all their felicity in the consciousness of rendering each other happy. Burns, the most natural of all poets, exclaims: O happy love, where love like this is found, "Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In others's arms, breathe forth the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale. Cotter's Saturday Night. |