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mean between these views of our author, and these generally entertained by Protestants in this country, which perhaps err in the other extreme. This is not the place for discussing the subject; nor, if it were, would it be proper to enter upon it at the close of an article. We would, however, throw it out for the consideration of our divines, whether there be not some ground for the charge of Bibliolatry, which is brought against the Protestants of the United Kingdom by the continental Christians, almost without exception; and whether there he not grounds for apprehension, lest the overdrawn statements commonly made at popular meetings respecting the Bible statements which are not warranted by anything in the book itself, and which were never made

dogmatically by any of the early fathers, or by any of the great divines of the Reformation-may lead, at no distant period, to a fearful reaction.

We merely throw this out as a hint for the consideration of our divines; but, lest our doing so should be misinterpreted, as implying an admission that the Egyptian chronology is irreconcilable with that of the Bible, we think it right to add that, whatever nonsense Miss Martineau and others may write on the subject, nothing has yet been discovered by which it can be proved that the Egyptian monuments go back to an epoch inconsistent with the received chronology of the Hebrew Bible; or by which it is rendered at all probable that they extend beyond the wider limits supplied by the Septuagint version.

I LOVE BUT THEE ALONE.

BY WILLIAM FORSYTH.

No distance e'er can alter me,

No time my heart can move,

No beauty win one thought from thee,
My early, only love!

And though I want the way to woo

In fancy's flattering tone,

Yet I can tell, I love thee well,
I love but thee alone,

Alone, alone, alone,

And love but thee alone!

I love the best, the gentlest grace—
Then dearly art thou loved-
The fairest form, the loveliest face,
The heart most truly moved;
But there, were I to call them thine,
Thy blushes would disown,
Though such thou art, as in my heart
I love but thee alone,

Alone, alone, alone,

I love but thee alone!

Of lovelier flowers let others speak,
That bloom 'neath lovelier skies,
I know no blossoms like thy cheek,
No sunshine like thine eyes;
And distance ne'er will alter me,

Nor time, when years are flown,
One change will know, I love thee so,
And love but thee alone,

Alone of all the world-
Oh! I love but thee alone!

MARY MAC ALISTER-A TALE OF THE ANTRIM GLENS.

Ar the base of the most beautiful hills of the county of Antrim, lies the village of Cushendall. Useful and magnificent roads have now made common to the trading, travelling, sight-seeing world, what used to be secluded, almost isolated. Strangers seldom came, except the military stationed there, and travellers passing and repassing to the Giant's Causeway, with weary feet climbing Court M'Martin, at the top of the hill of the high-street, or returning with drags at their carriage-wheels-gliding down the steep, unmacadamised road, over a rocky surface, as smooth as the glassy ice in winter-where children then upon their sledge-creels anticipated railways-their terminus the square, dark tower, that stood at the foot of the hill, in the midst of pure, whitewashed walls, with its projected windows, and embattled summit.

To the villagers, in their simplicity, it seemed a donjon-keep; yet it was built by their benevolent landlord, more to awe than to punish. Intended for a temporary prison, it has been seldom used for that purpose, and oftener resounds with the music of flute or clarionet, than with the moans of sorrow.

In one of the spaces of the embattlement, is hung the village bell, to warn the people when hours of rest or mealtime are at hand. Cheerily, to the hill-top, far beyond the sound of horn or shell, comes the ringing welcome, with thoughts of dear voices, the wife's bright smile, the climbing strife for "daddy's first," the warm, bright hearth, the potatoes and milk, the friendly "shannagh" with the neighbour-for they do love gossip, and stories of traditionary lore. In the quiet of the sabbath, the church-bell sounds far-that bell, speaking from man to man, of God's ordinances; but there seems something supernatural, when at night, as sweeping blasts come swirling down these valleys, the towerbell tolls, making the waking listener tremble and pray; for it may be as

Hollowly and slowly,

By that bell's disastrous tongue,

Is the melancholy knell of death and burial rung,"

for many an innocent, many a gallant, and, alas! many a sinful creature, as they may be sinking in the great deep. Never did it toll with a more dismal clangour, than in one fearful night of April, 18-, which brought our hero to the scenes sketched in this humble narrative. Sadly through the night, came the hollow roar of the wind, mixed with the booming of the breaking wave, while ever and again the harsh clangour of the bell rose above the tumult.

When day had struggled through the heavy clouds, that poured their sheeted torrents on land and sea, a vessel was discerned in the offing: sometimes it almost disappeared among mountain waves-then, with bending masts and dripping canvas, rose above each huge, black, surf-crowned mass, and turned, like a stout wrestler, to meet the next, labouring in the trough of the sea, pitched over its enormous ridges. That vessel strove to avoid the shore all day, but with night came fearful presages of its fate; still, skilful seamen thought there was a chance of escape: and all the watchers hoped! At length the die was cast; and just with the descent of night, it became apparent that the vessel must go ashore. The sig nal-guns, flashing though the darkness, wrung the hearts, and almost maddened the courage of many brave fellows; but what could human hardihood effect to save the crew?-the attempt would have been vain. The blackest midnight fury of the tempest had come down, and amid the lashing of waves, that in their might seemed to shake the rocks, whose foundation lay old as earth, neither boat nor swimmer could have lived a moment. One bruised and fainting man was cast ashore, the sole survivor-all the rest had perished! In the morning, the ship had disappeared; her materials strewed the beach far and wide: and in an adjacent barn, there were stretched out on the threshing-floor, no fewer than fifteen of the crew. One man had a child in his arms-a father, even in death! The spectacle brought tears to the eyes of even the strongest-minded spec

tators, and called forth louder lamentations from the females among the crowd, than any other object, among the various dreadful forms of death that the shore presented. Another pitiable spectacle was discovered in the course of the day: In a little silvery-sanded creek-as peaceful as if tempest had never ruffled its rippling waters-was found the body of a female, evidently of rank, and, as it was subsequently ascertained, the mother of this infant. The country-people describe her, as being arrayed with magnificent jewels, and in a splendid dress, a rich and massive chain of gold round her throat, and dazzling brilliants on her fingers, and bearing traces of most extraordinary beauty, notwithstanding the dreadful nature of her death. The vessel had been a Spanish-American trader, bound for Liverpool-The lady was the wife of an English merchant of Carthagena, who was bringing her home to enjoy, in her native country, the wealth he had accumulated, and to procure a suitable education for the child, whose sad fate has been described. Alas! what a dreadful thing is a shipwreck : bright eyes, kind hearts, longing for home; manly strength, womanly tenderness, childhood's joyous existenceall swallowed up in one cold, sweeping wave of the ocean! But our business is with the survivor, in whom it was with no small astonishment that some of the villagers discovered a well-known face, no less, indeed, than that of young Captain-so they called him, though but a lieutenant-James Mac D. of L, who was, it is true, daily expected home, on sick leave, from his regiment, but hardly by so summary and rough a mode of debarkation.

The Spanish trader had weighed at Oporto, and by her he had taken his passage home. Poor fellow! his very arrival was a romance in itself. Equally surprising to him, when he opened his eyes after recovering from his numbness and insensibility-and to those by whose kind ministrations he was recalled to consciousness.

It was at the house of Father John C, the priest of that parish, that the young Glensman was recognised and restored to the use of his limbs and faculties. It would be foreign to the purpose of a tale which has, per

haps, already been too much occupied with preliminaries, to describe the emotions of wonder, joy, and gratitude, that agitated the host and his kind neighbours, as well as the object of their kind solicitudes on these respective discoveries. Suffice it to say, that the young soldier found himself at home under the roof of one who knew not only "all belonging to him," in the local sense of the phrase-his parents, relations, and family at large

but also all that more peculiarly belonged to him, as being nearest and dearest to his heart-his love, and the object of his love, and she within a morning's walk of the very spot where the waves had cast him ashore. It may seem like romance, that he should have come home in such a way; but stories must be told with credibles, as well as incredibles. Romance is sometimes less strange than reality, and the writer feels a relief in having got over the only part of it that might appear to lie outside the limits of the latter. Kind treatment and a sound night's rest have restored the shipwrecked soldier to usual health, so let us, without further dallying by shore or sea, join him and his worthy host, as they bend their way across the hills towards Glendun. The young man's eye lightened with pleasure at each wellremembered turn of the road, as rocks, and hills, and blue-spreading bays of the sea, opened before them.

Question after question of all who were dear to him-all were answered with sympathizing kindness. But the one for whom James MacD felt most interest was the last to be named. It was only when about to leave home he had discovered the true state of his heart, and that the childish attachment of early years had grown into a deep and tender affection for Mary MacAlister, and they had parted with a tacit understanding that the heart of neither could change.

Mary was a dark-eyed, graceful, bright creature, the light and the pride of her home-and that home surrounded by the grandeur of the sunny hills, with their uncertain waterfalls, and varying rivers-flitting lights and shadows on the hills below and skies above, and the solemn beauty of the world around, had impressed her with a love of nature; and in her heart grew (independent of all these) a love

of all that was tender, benevolent, and good-gay as the birds, or bees, or butterflies around her. Hers was

"A dancing shape, an image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay."

Her image did haunt James-in the watches of the night, in the camp, in the march, in the battle. Thoughts of his mother and his home came often; but always in his hopes and memories mingled the lythe and graceful figure of Mary-true love in her eyes, gentleness in her heart, and sweet, unaffected tenderness and sympathy in the tones of her soft voice. Her first sorrow had been their parting; since then, she had suffered much and James had a presentiment of evil and misfortune, which stopped his voice and paralysed his spirit, when he would have asked what he longed to know. "Is Mary well, sir ?" at length, he said.

"Yes, James, yes.

Our dear Mary is well now, thank God! Well after suffering and sorrow. The poor thing has had almost too much to bear since you left us her father is dead! Many a kind and true heart I have seen laid under the sod; but not one, of late years, I miss more than my old friend Donald More."

"Ah! sir," said James, "no wonder no wonder-we shall all miss him! The kindly, blythe, good old man; and, even independent of his many higher qualities, he will be a loss to young and old, as a cheerful, witty companion. He was the life of our sports when he would join us up the trouting-streams (another old Isaac Walton); or over the hills, with our dogs and guns, he used to delight us with his wit, and wisdom, and droll sayings. Poor, kind old fellow! I think myself, while we speak, that I see his bright face, and clear eye, and silver hair, under his red nightcap or blue Kilmarnock; his grey spencer and cord breeches, gartered outside, and keeping so sleek; his silver-grey stockings on his well-turned limbs-he was a remarkable-looking man. ver saw more perfect urbanity of manner; and he used to bow like a prince. He was, sir, a fine specimen of a fine race of men-the true old Irish gentleman; though stripped of all extraneous ornament and power, 'the man was the man for a' that.'

I ne

But, sir, how is the widow, and Mary? They will grieve deeply !"

"Deeply!—you may well say that ; and the poor body has lost her eyesight in the small-pox-Mary and she both had it badly.'

"Mary! Oh! sir, is she marked?" "No, not much; she's not disfigured. There are some little marks, to be sure; but doubtless they'll wear away in time. She is thinner and paler, but not scarred; and you ought to know, James, the beauty

The beauty that is but skin-deep
Will fade, like the gowans in May;
But inwardly-rooted will keep

For ever, without a decay.'

"That's the beauty for my fancy, sir; though you, young fools-more shame for you!—so very often undervalue it that first best gift,' a right mind and kind heart! She's the best girl in Ireland, great as that word is; and if you saw her tenderness, her goodness to the old woman, you would say so. God bless her."

This painful information had made James silent and thoughtful for a time; but the involuntary feeling of disappointment soon wore away, under the cheerful views in which everything was placed by his amiable companion, who, when he had brought him to the last range of hills that lay between them and the object of their anxieties, considerately struck into another road to visit a sick parishioner; and the young man, left to his own impulses, bounded on, with a re-assured heart and happy anticipations.

The

Over the thymy, heathery hills to Glendun he went, like a hunter of old, with springing step and lightened spirit. He bared his exulting forehead "to the sweet sea breeze." blue, calm ocean lay in glory below; beyond lay the coast of Scotland—distant, yet distinct, as if but an hour's row could reach it.

The lark carolled its shrill delight from many a sunny cloud above him; around lay the wide-spread magnificence of his own hills and mountainsThrosthan, Thievaboulie, Turgaiden, Thieverah-with their winding streams and rivers, the pools in which he had fished-the glens in which Mary and he had gathered nuts, and sloes, and rasps, all brought right feelings to his heart, and before he had reached Glendun, he had forgotten his fears and his

doubts of himself, and said in his soul "she shall still be mine, if she loves me." But the heart of man is deceitful and desperately wicked; as it was of old, so is it now. As he passed the garden fence, he saw a young woman tying up some flowers. his heart bounded-could that be Mary? The priest had said she was paler and thinner. He leaned over the low hedge, to get a nearer view, thinking it might be herself. Time changes the young so fast, and the good father may have been trying me, said he, and almost certain he was right in his conjecture, he was about to speak, when she turned round—he saw not Mary, indeed, but a very lovely fair girl, as ever the sun shone upon. Even with all his home-longings, thick thronging as they were, he paused until she passed through the little arched doorway, without having observed him. Cheer

ful, and warm, and bright, the cottage looked in the sunshine that morning, and all was silence within and around it, yet unheard was James's quick, light step. As he passed the open doorway, he found Mary in the breakfastparlour settling the cushions on her mother's chair; she neither saw nor heard him till he stood by her side, and whispered "Mary !"-she started,

"She gazed, she reddened like a rose,
Syne pale as ony lily,"

but no more. Her first impulse would have been to throw herself into his arms; her next-to kneel to God in thanksgiving for his perservation : then, remembering she was not like what she had been, and waiting the effect of what she knew must shock him, a shuddering chill fell on her heart. He looked long and anxiously. There, with her tearful eyes bent on the ground, stood his Mary, the same graceful creature-the same gentle inanner-the same in heart and soul, but (though slightly) her pure forehead was scared, and her bright cheek pitted-she was no longer "smooth-skin gentle," as he used to call her in Irish. He was shocked; yet he loved her, and so long as she was his Mary, shame upon his wavering heart, that could for one moment chill or shrink from all that was good, and so much that was lovely. But he loved her still; and so tenderly and fondly he assured her of his unchanged affection,

that every fear of inconstancy fled before the beaming of his dark eyes, that rested so lovingly on her blushing face.

For some minutes, in full, but silent thankfulness of love, they stood; then Mary left him to bring in her mother-she returned, leading the blind old woman, and had James not known she was "dark," as the Glenspeople say of the blind, he could not have supposed that the sun was for ever set from those mild, hazel eyes, that turned their seeming intelligence on him, as almost with a mother's affection in her voice, she said " Ma haght milliu a benisort achree sa roon, your welcome"-" God bless you, my child, and be thanked! though I cannot see you now, acushla, many's the eye will be glad at the sight of you, never to speak of the joyful tears, your mother, God help her weak heart, will be crying over you, avick! well may she be proud and happy, to see one of her brave boys return safe at last— You left our poor Alick well?"

"Living and well, ma'am, and as brave as a lion."

“Ogh, mamisin sasthee, God look to you! this fighting is bad, unchristianlike work; but James, dear, it's a wonderful thing to me to hear your voice again, and to feel the touch of your kindly, warm hand. Let me draw my hand over your face, machree, till I feel is there much change on you."

"Oh, not much, ma'am, but that the growth of moustache and whisker may, perhaps, make you think of Esau."

"Yes, dear, in troth you have lost your boyish face. But-but, James, if there was no worse change with us -your heart would be sore if you knew all our tronble, my poor Donald. Mary, my dear, where is Beli? -tell her who is come.'

Mary went out to bring her friend, and then the mother's heart overflowed in praises of her Mary-enthusiastic they might be called-but he knew she deserved them, and listened with pleasure, till the girl came in. He was now introduced to the young, fair gardener, and Bell Maclelland blushed on being introduced to the soldier, who so often had been the subject of interest in their conversations-so often a theme for curling-chat, when dressing their hair at night-that time when the young and communicative unbend, and beaux, and adventures,

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