for I was grieved and sick at heart for my poor master, and couldn't but speak.

"Here's the punch," says Jason, for the door opened; "here's the punch!" Hearing that, my master starts up in his chair, and recollects himself, and Jason uncorks the whisky. "Set down the jug here," says he, making room for it beside the papers opposite to Sir Condy, but still not stirring the deed that was to make over all. Well, I was in great hopes he had some touch of mercy about him when I saw him making the punch, and my master took a glass; but Jason put it back as he was going to fill again, saying, “No, Sir Condy, it shan't be said of me, I got your signature to this deed when you were half-seas over: you know your name and handwriting in that condition would not, if brought before the courts, benefit me a straw; wherefore let us settle all before we go deeper into the punch-bowl." "Settle all as you will," said Sir Condy, clapping his hands to his ears; "but let me hear no more; I'm bothered to death this night." "You've only to sign," said Jason, putting the pen to him. "Take all, and be content," said my master. So he signed; and the man who brought in the punch witnessed it, for I was not able, and crying like a child, and besides, Jason said, which I was glad of, that I was no fit witness, being so old and doting. It was so bad with me, I could not taste a drop of the punch itself, though my master himself, God bless him! in the midst of his trouble, poured out a glass for me, and brought it up to my lips. "Not a drop; I thank your honour's honour as much as if I took it though," and I just set down the glass as it was, and went out, and when I got to the street-door, the neighbours' childer, who were playing at marbles there, seeing me in great trouble, left their play, and gathered about me to know what ailed me; and I told them all, for it was a great relief to me to speak to these poor childer, that seemed to have some natural feeling left in them; and when they were made sensible that Sir Condy was going to leave Castle Rackrent for good and all, they set up a whillulu that could be heard to the farthest end of the street; and one fine boy, he that my master had given an apple to that morning, cried the loudest; but they

were all the same sorry, for Sir Condy was greatly beloved amongst the childer, for letting them go a-nutting in the demesne, without saying a word to them, though my lady objected to them. The people in the town, who were the most of them standing at their doors, hearing the childer cry, would know the reason of it; and when the report was made known, the people one and all gathered in great anger against my son Jason, and terror at the notion of his coming to be landlord over them, and they cried, "No Jason! no Jason! Sir Condy! Sir Condy! Sir Condy Rackrent for ever!" and the mob grew so great and so loud, I was frightened, and made my way back to the house to warn my son to make his escape, or hide himself for fear of the consequences. Jason would not believe me till they came all round the house, and to the windows with great shouts: then he grew quite pale, and asked Sir Condy what had he best do? "I'll tell you what you'd best do," said Sir Condy, who was laughing to see his fright; "finish your glass first, then let us go to the window and show ourselves, and I'll tell 'em, or you shall, if you please, that I'm going to the Lodge for change of air for my health, and by my own desire, for the rest of my days." "Do so," said Jason, who never meant it should have been so, but could not refuse him the Lodge at this unseasonable time. Accordingly, Sir Condy threw up the sash, and explained matters and thanked all his friends, and bid 'em look in at the punch-bowl, and observe that Jason and he had been sitting over it very good friends; so the mob was content, and he sent 'em out some whisky to drink his health, and that was the last time his honour's health was ever drunk at Castle Rackrent.

Of the Happiness of the Life to Come.

ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON. Of all the thoughts of men, there is certainly none that more often occurs to a serious mind, that has its own interest at heart, than that to which all others are subordinate and subservient, with

regard to the intention, the ultimate and most desirable end, of all our toils and cares, and even of life itself. And this important thought will the more closely beset the mind, the more sharpsighted it is in prying into the real torments, the delusive hopes and the false joys of this our wretched state; which is indeed so miserable that it can never be sufficiently lamented; and as for laughter amidst so many sorrows, dangers, and fears, it must be considered as downright madness. Such was the opinion of the wisest of kings. I said of laughter, says he, It is mad: and of mirth, What doeth it? (Eccl. ii. 2.) We have, therefore, no cause to be much surprised at the bitter complaints which a grievous weight of afflictions has extorted, even from great and good men : nay, it is rather a wonder if the same causes do not often oblige us to repeat them.

If we look about us, how often are we shocked to observe either the calamities of our country, or the sad disasters of our relations and friends, whom we have daily occasion to mourn, either as groaning under the pressure of poverty, pining away under languishing diseases, tortured by acute ones, or carried off by death, while we ourselves are, in like manner, very soon to draw tears from the eyes of others! nay, how often are we a burden to ourselves, and groan heavily under afflictions of our own, that press hard upon our estates, our bodies, or our minds!

Even those who seem to meet with the fewest and the least inconveniences in this life, and dazzle the eyes of spectators with the brightness of a seemingly constant and uniform felicity, besides that they often suffer from secret vexations and cares which destroy their inward peace, and prey upon their distressed hearts, how uncertain, weak, and brittle is that false happiness which appears about them, and, when it shines brightest, how easily is it broken to pieces! So that it has been justly said, "They want another felicity to secure that which they are already possessed of." If, after all, there are some whose minds are hardened against all the forms and appearances of external things, and who look down with equal contempt upon all the events of this world, whether of a dreadful or an engaging aspect, even this disposition of mind

does not make them happy: nor do they think themselves so; they have still something to make them uneasy, the obscure darkness that overspreads their minds, their ignorance of heavenly things, and the strength of their carnal affections, not yet entirely subdued. And though these we are now speaking of are by far the noblest and most beautiful part of the human race, yet, if they had not within them that blessed hope of removing hence in a little time to the regions of light, the more severely they feel the straits and afflictions to which their souls are exposed by being shut up in this narrow earthly cottage, so much they certainly would be more miserable than the rest of mankind.

As oft, therefore, as we reflect upon these things, we shall find that the whole comes to this one conclusion: "There is certainly some end; "-there is, to be sure, some end suited to the nature of man, and worthy of it; some particular, complete, and permanent good; and since we in vain look for it within the narrow verge of this life, and among the many miseries that swarm on it from beginning to end, we must of necessity conclude that their is certainly some more fruitful country, and a more lasting life, to which our felicity is reserved, and into which we shall be received when we remove hence. This is not our rest, nor have we any place of residence here; it is the region of fleas and gnats; and, while we search for happiness among these mean and perishing things, we are not only sure to be disappointed, but also not to escape those great miseries which, in great numbers, continually beset us. So that we may apply to ourselves the saying of the famous artist confined in the island of Crete, and truly say, "The earth and the sea are shut up against us, and neither of them can favour our escape; the way to heaven is alone open, and this way we will strive to go." Thus far we have advanced by degrees, and very lately we have discoursed upon the immortality of the soul, to which we have added the resurrection of our earthly body, by way of appendix. It remains that we now in. quire into the happiness of the life to come.

Yet I own, I am almost deterred from entering upon this in quiry by the vast obscurity and sublimity of the subject, which in

its nature is such, that we can neither understand it, nor, if we could, can it be expressed in words. The divine apostle, who had had some glimpse of this felicity, describes it no otherwise than by his silence, calling the words he heard, unspeakable, and such as it was not lawful for a man to utter, (2 Cor. xii. 4.) And if he neither could nor would express what he saw, far be it from us boldly to force ourselves into or intrude upon what we have not seen; especially as the same apostle, in another place, acquaints us, for our future caution, that this was unwarrantably done by some rash and forward persons in his own time. But since in the sacred archives of this new world, however invisible and unknown to us, we have some maps and descriptions of it suited to our capacity, we are not only allowed to look at them, but, as they were drawn for that very purpose, it would certainly be the greatest ingratitude, as well as the highest negligence in us, not to make some improvement of them. Here, however, we must remember, what a great odds there is between a description of a kingdom in a small and imperfect map, and the extent and beauty of that very kingdom when viewed by the traveller's eye; and how much greater the difference must be between the felicity of that heavenly kingdom to which we are aspiring, and all, even the most striking figurative expressions, taken from the things of this earth, that are used to convey some faint and imperfect notion of it to our minds. What are these things, the false glare, and shadows whereof, in this earth, are pursued with such keen and furious impetuosity-riches, honours, pleasures? All these in their justest, purest, and sublimest sense are comprehended in this blessed life: it is a treasure that can neither fail, nor be carried away by force or fraud: it is an inheritance uncorrupted and undefiled; a crown that fadeth not away; a never-failing stream of joy and delight: it is a marriage-feast, and of all others the most joyous and most sumptuous; one that always satisfies, and never cloys the appetite: it is an eternal spring, and an everlasting light, a day without an evening: it is a paradise, where the lilies are always white and in full bloom, the saffron blooming, the trees sweating out their balsams, and the tree of life in the midst thereof;