Translated for the Metropolitan from the Works of Chateaubriand. HOPE, the second theological virtue, is almost as powerful as faith. Desire is the parent of power; whoever strongly desires is sure to obtain. "Seek," says Jesus Christ," and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you." In the same sense Pythagoras observed that "Power dwelleth with necessity;" for necessity implies privation, and privation is accompanied with desire. Desire or hope is genius. It possesses that energy which produces, and that thirst which is never appeased. Is a man disappointed in his plans? it is because he did not desire with ardor; because he was not animated with that love which sooner or later grasps the object to which it aspires; that love which in the Deity embraces all things and enjoys all, by means of a boundless hope, ever gratified and ever reviving. There is, however, an essential difference between faith and hope considered as a power. Faith has its focus out of ourselves; it arises from an external object. Hope, on the contrary, springs up within us, and operates externally. The former is instilled into us, the latter is produced by our own desire; the former is obedience, the latter is love. But as faith more readily produces the other virtues, as it flows immediately from God, and is therefore superior to hope, which is only a part of man, the Church necessarily assigned to it the highest rank. The peculiar characteristic of hope is that which places it in relation with our sorrows. That religion which made a virtue of hope was most assuredly revealed by heaven. This nurse of the unfortunate, taking her station by man like a mother beside her suffering child, rocks him in her arms, presses him to her bosom, and refreshes him with a beverage which soothes all his woes. She watches by his solitary pillow; she lulls him to sleep with her magic strains. Is it not surprising to see hope, which is so delightful a companion and seems to be a natural emotion of the soul, transformed for the Christian into a virtue which is an essential part of his duty? Let him do what he will, he is obliged to drink copiously from this enchanted cup, at which thousands of poor creatures would esteem themselves happy to moisten their lips for a single moment. Nay, more (and this is the most marvelous circumstance of all), he will be rewarded for having hoped, or, in other words, for having made himself happy. The Christian, whose life is a continual warfare, is treated by religion in his defeat like those vanquished generals whom the Roman senate received in triumph for this reason alone, that they had not despaired of the final safety of the commonwealth. But if the ancients ascribed something marvelous to the man who never despaired, what would they have thought of the Christian, who in his astonishing language, talks not of entertaining hope, but of practising it. What shall we now say of that charity which is the daughter of Jesus Christ? The proper signification of charity is grace and joy. Religion, aiming at the reformation of the human heart, and wishing to make its affections and feelings subservient to virtue, has invented a new passion. In order to express it, she has not employed the word love, which is too common; or the word friendship, which ceases at the tomb; or the word pity, which is too much akin to pride; but she has found the term caritas, CHARITY, which embraces all the three, and which at the same time is allied to something celestial. By means of this, she purifies our inclinations and directs them towards the Creator; by this she inculcates that admirable truth, that men ought to love each other in God, who will thus spiritualize their love, divesting it of all earthly alloy and leaving it in its immortal purity. By this she inculcates the stupendous truth that mortals ought to love each other, if I may so express myself, through God, who spiritualizes their love, and separates from it whatever belongs not to its immortal essence. But if charity is a Christian virtue, an immediate emanation from the Almighty and his Word, it is also in close alliance with nature. It is in this continual harmony between heaven and earth, between God and man, that we discover the character of true religion. The moral and political institutions of antiquity are often in contradiction to the sentiments of the human soul. Christianity on the contrary, ever in unison with the heart, enjoins not solitary and abstract virtues, but such as are derived from our wants and are useful to mankind. It has placed charity as an abundant fountain in the desert of life." Charity," says the apostle, "is patient, is kind; charity envieth not, dealeth not perversely, is not puffed up, is not ambitious, seeketh not her own, is not provoked to anger, thinketh no evil, rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth with the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things." MARY LEE: Or the YANKEE in IRELAND.* BY PETER PINKIE. Edited by PAUL PEPPERGRASS, Esquire. CHAPTER XXII. THE reader will recollect that when Kate Petersham parted with Mary Lee at the light-house steps, the latter looked somewhat alarmed at the serious tone in which her light-hearted friend begged her to remember Randall Barry that night in her prayers. She made an effort in fact to detain Kate for an explanation, but Kate eluded her grasp and bounded down the steps the moment she uttered the words, with the fleetness and agility of a fairy. On her return to the sick room the agitated girl found Else seated on a low stool beside the little cabin-boy's bed, knitting her stocking. 66 "What ails ye, dear?" said the latter, with a tenderness of look and tone she seldom betrayed even to her favorite. What ails ye, Mary? yer so pale.” "Pale! am I pale?" "Yer as pale as a ghost-what's the matther?" "Nothing. But come into my room here—I have something to ask you. We must'nt disturb our little patient, you know. How is he, Else?” "Better." "Your sure?" "Sure as can be, dear-he's recoverin fast. He got the coal' (crisis) this mornin, an his pult's greater now." "Thank God," exclaimed the grateful girl, with all the fervor of her pure loving heart. "O, I knew well the Blessed Virgin would'nt forget him. Her prayers have saved him. Poor fellow, he'll see home and friends once more. Won't he, Else?" "Hope so." "But Else!" "What?" "You have a secret for me." "A secret!" "Yes; I saw it in Miss Petersham's face, and I see it now in yours. You need'nt try to keep it from me, Else. Randall Barry's taken." "Randall Barry—what in the world pit that in your head?” said Else, evasively. "Oh Else, Else," sobbed the simple hearted girl, dropping on her knees, and hiding her face in her old nurse's lap, "I know well he's taken." * Copy-right secured according to Law. "Whisht, don't cry, asthore," said Else, smoothing down the disheveled tresses of her lovely protege with her hard bony fingers, whilst the muscles of her own face twitched with emotion-" whisht now, don't cry, dear." "I can't help it, Else-don't blame me." "I don't blame ye, asthore; why shud I blame ye? yer a woman, sure, and only showin a woman's wakeness." "O had I only taken my dear uncle's advice, and told him not to come again, this had never happened." “And did'nt ye tell him a hundred times?" "Yes; but Else, dear, he knew it was'nt from my heart," replied Mary, with all the simplicity of a chlid. "I told him often and often, how my uncle loved me, and how it would break his heart to leave him-and how little I knew of the world, and how poor a companion I would be for one like him-I told him all this many and many a time, Else, and begged him to return home to the South, and wait for better and happier days-but he knew my heart was'nt in my words. Oh he knew it Else, as well as I knew it myself." "God love yer innocent heart," exclaimed Else, while her old eyes filled with tears, "God love ye dear, yer too good for this world." "Had I only prayed fervently to God for strength," continued Mary, “I might have overcome my weakness. But alas, Else, I'm so selfish I was thinking only of his love for me, all the time, when I should have thought of nothing but his safety. And he's a prisoner on my account, with shackles on his limbs, and the doom of the rebel before him. Oh if I had only parted with him forever the last time he clambered up these rocks to see me—" "And if ye had," said Else, "ye'd have nothin for it. for one another, and for that raison ye niver cud part him. don't cry, all 'll be well yit." Ye were both intended "O Randall Barry, Randall Barry! so brave-so faithful-so true to his country and to me," murmured Mary. "Else, Else, could I see him free once more, were it only for an instant, I would bid him farewell forever, should my heart break in the parting." There was a sense of desolation in the words or the tones of Mary's voice that touched the old woman deeply, for she stooped and kissed the afflicted girl's cheek several times as she gave vent to her anguish. But when she spoke of her heart breaking, the very idea seemed to recall back again into life the better and holier feelings of her nature, and unable to control the emotion that agitated her soul, she flung her arms around the neck of her foster child and wept over her like a mother. "Oh God forbid! God forbid! asthore mochree," she cried, "God forbid, yer heart'd break. Darlin! darlin! why shud it ever brake, for it's little this world can spare a heart lake yours. Oh angel! ye don't know what yer heart is, or what yer pure innecint soul is worth to a sinful earth lake this. It's little ye know dear, what ye are. Modest wee crather, yer as simple and bashful as the dazy that grows undher the green fern by the mountain strame; no one sees ye, no one knows ye, no one thinks of ye down here in the black binns of Araheera-but I know ye, asthore, I know what yer heart is; och, och, it's I that diz, ivery pulse of it. And why wud'nt I, Mary darlin; wus'nt it these withered hands tore ye from yer dead mother's arms, here among the rocks; wus'nt it me nursed ye on ould Nannie's milk, and rocked ye in yer cradle up there in my poor cabin on the Cairn. I know what the valie of yer heart is, alanna. An to spake of it brakin for Randall Barry, or sufferin one minit's pain-niver, niver," she exclaimed, suddenly rising, "niver, Mary, while I'm livin an able to prevent it." The change in Else's look and tone was quick as thought. In a moment her heart had softened under the mesmeric touch of the angelic being she embraced. But it was only for a moment. Again the dark shadow came rushing back upon her soul, and again the relaxed muscles of her face resumed their usual hard and stern expression. "Let me pass, girl,” she said; “ I have work to do; let me pass." "What work?" inquired Mary, looking up in her face. "No matter-let me pass." "Else, your countenance terrifies me. Oh I know that dark, awful temptation is upon you again." "Away, child; take your hands off my cloak-I must be gone." "What's your purpose, Else?" "Purpose! I niver had but one purpose for thirty years,” replied Else, in hollow tones," and the time is come now to execute it." "You shant leave me," said Mary, still kneeling, "you shant leave me, Else, till you promise to do no harm to Robert Hardwrinkle or his family." The old woman folded her arms on her brown half-naked breast, and looked down on the face of her foster-child. "Mary Lee," she said, her voice husky with the passion she strove in vain to conceal, "Mary Lee, yer tears baulked me of my vengeance twict before-take care they don't a third time, for I swear by " "Hush! hush! Else," interrupted her fair protege, holding up the golden crucifix that hung suspended from her neck, and laying her forefinger on the lips of the figure. "Hush! these lips never spoke but to bless." "Take it away, girl; take it away," exclaimed Else, averting her eyes from the image as if she feared to look upon it lest her courage should fail, "take it away, and listen to me. I'm bound by a vow made at the siege of Madeira, by the side of my dead husban, niver to forget what Lieutenant Richard Barry did for me that day. Randall Barry is that man's grandson, and he lies a prisiner in Taurny Barracks through the threachery of Robert Hardwrinkle. The time is now come to fulfil my promise, and I'll do it; I'll save Randall Barry, should I lose body and soul in the attempt." "Else, Else! this is impious," said Mary, "remember there's a God in heaven above you." "Paugh!" ejaculated the old woman, "I knew no God these thirty years;" and as she spoke she wrested Mary's hands from her cloak, and caught the handle of the door, "let the villain luck to himself now," she cried, "let him and them that brought my only sister to shame an an early grave, that driv my brother from his father's hearthstone to die among the strangers, that hunted myself like the brock through the craggs iv Benraven-hah-let them luck to themselves now, for as heaven's above me, if Randall Barry's not a freeman in four and twenty hours, their roof tree smokes for it. Ay-my own ould bones and theirs 'll burn in the same blaze." "Else, stop for a moment." "Away, girl." 66 "Else, Else,” entreated Mary, again attempting to detain her. commit murder-deliberate murder?" "Would you |