hope that the perusal might not be altogether unsalutary. "Now," continued my friend, " during my father's life most of the parties were alive, but I have lately discovered that the last surviving member of the family died in penury in the city of Cork; therefore, if you think, after a careful reading, any good might be done by its publication, the manuscript is at your service; and you may, if you please, prepare it for the press. When the perusal of the papers was finished, I availed myself of my friend's permission, and now present them to the public, hoping that the design may be realized which the writer seemed to have had in view, and which induced him to commit his sad memoirs to paper, namely that they may serve as a beaconlight, to warn others of the shoals and quicksands on which he had made shipwreck; and, though, as we may hope, he himself was finally received into the haven of peace, and saved 66 so as by fire;" yet, the loss sustained, and the wounds inflicted, were too real, and too agonizing, for their narration not to be rife with instruction the most important and mo mentous. THE VOICE OF CONSCIENCE. CHAPTER I. "But we have known that there is often found In mournful thoughts,—and always might be found- Try, and perhaps thou might'st not err Impels his bark o'er unknown waves; E. TAYLOR. THE wintry wind howls through my desolate dwelling-the scanty fire flickers in the grate-the dim light, burning feebly in the socket, makes the misery around more palpable: but what are these outward tokens of desolation, to those inward vultures that prey upon my most wretched heart? B I have at length summoned courage to take up my pen, and make it tell the story of my lifea life of no ordinary incidents and emotions—a life, many portions of which are "so strange, 'tis hard to think them true”—and yet, o'er true they are. The recording my sad history is no pleasing task, no light beguilement-the recital of some of its sections will cause my nerves to quiver, my heart to bleed-and yet, for the further satisfaction of my dear forsaken son, for the employment of my heavy hours, for a warning to any other wanderer from the paths of safety and peace, I must prosecute my task, I must endure the self-imposed penance of confession. I cannot pretend, however, to enter minutely into every circumstance, to record all the changes that have occurred both mentally and outwardly in my sad career; were I to attempt such an extended narrative, my waning strength would fail, death would stop my pen, ere the half was told. But what need of premising that my history will not be a complete one? for where shall we find a full and entire account of any one individual?—a full record, taking note of the internal as well as the external life, could only be accomplished (methinks). by the pen of the recording angel. In this world, we must be content with mere outlines of character, mere glimpses into the chambers of imagery-the revelation of many of the soul's secrets must be reserved for another and higher state of existence. I was born in a village of the county of Cornwall, about the year 17—, and in the very house I am now writing. My father's name was Trevanion; he was a miner, and in that employment had been occupied all his life; he earned good wages, and, in his lowly station, was deemed an upright, honest man; his employers treated him with confidence and consideration: he was better instructed than many of his fellow-labourers, for he could read-at that time no common acquirement in his walk of life. He was a man of quiet and orderly habits, without any ambition to emerge from the situation in which Providence had placed him, and was a good specimen of the better sort of English labourers before the ferment of later years had put other and more |