(which, when illumed by faith, is conscience), is the safe path of the just; and to rely with implicit confidence on divine providence for happy results, shall be his hope here, and prove his reward hereafter. To inculcate such doctrine is the object of the present work, which would attempt to blend useful instruction with innocent amusement; and if it can, even in a small degree, produce on one weak and erring mind such happy effect, the author shall not feel wholly unrecompensed. THE FATALISTS. CHAPTER I. -Oh, Peace! Thou soul and source of social life, THOMSON. ABOUT the middle of April in the year 1814, a general rejoicing gladdened the whole kingdom of Ireland, on the cessation of arms caused by the abdication of Napoleon Buonaparte. Every city, town, and village, kindled with brightening flame, luminously expressive of the common joy with which was hailed longabsent peace; and in every quarter of the kingdom were heard the harmless roar of cannon, and the merry changes of joy bells. The village of -was not the least tardy in testifying the universal joy all felt on this occasion. Various were the gay groups that appeared in the thronged streets, each meeting with joyful gratulation his friends or neighbours; and radiant were the dwellings with innumerable lights, amidst which, on several of the windows, blazed curious emblematical devices. Here a branch of laurel, cut out of faded green silk, delineated withering triumph, and there a painting of two grey ducks, pulling between them, with voracious appetite, a stalk of beans, was intended to represent doves bearing the olive of peace! Another window presented to the admiring spectators Buonaparte dished, with the lion of England trampling him under his paw, and our mighty Wellington (the figure indeed rather large large for the background of a picture) appeared (where the clouds in the piece ought to be) soaring high above the prostrate hero! Buonaparte dished failed not, however, to attract general notice; and though there were many who greeted this representation of the abject state of the fallen hero with a shout of approbation, there were others who turned away in disgust with a hiss of contempt. Of this last number was sir Richard Courteney's postboy, who, with his letter-pouch strapped to his breast, from which he had just been depositing letters in the office, and mounted on his long-tailed pony, had paused with gaping wonder, like the rest of the crowd, en passant, to gaze on this strange spectacle. 66 Arragh! by my sowl, boys," said he, "'tis all a bam: that raw-boned thing there is no more like Buonaparte himself than I am like an archbishop; and this, they say, is our own lord Wellington! (which, when illumed by faith, is conscience), is the safe path of the just; and to rely with implicit confidence on divine providence for happy results, shall be his hope here, and prove his reward hereafter. To inculcate such doctrine is the object of the present work, which would attempt to blend useful instruction with innocent amusement; and if it can, even in a small degree, produce on one weak and erring mind such happy effect, the author shall not feel wholly unrecompensed. |