seriousness, and I will abide by the decision to which your conscience may lead you." Mr. Fiscal rose, and began to pace the room; a common resource with men, when driven to extremi His face was pale, and his voice unsteady, from the effort he was making to suppress his resentment. "I find," he observed, "that you have been deceived in reference to the character of my business. Do not suppose that I keep one of those vulgar dens from which flow so much misery and shame. I make my business respectable, sir, because my customers are gentlemen, men who respect themselves; and I do not consider myself answerable-for-the wretchedness-of which you speak." "Then, my brother," returned I, "permit me to assure you that you are deceived; for, last night, I saw one of your customers drive his family into the street, in the madness of intoxication; and, this morning, an old man came to solicit my counsel in behalf of his son, who is also one of your customers, and who is fast descending to ruin, under the same fatal influence." "There must be some mistake, sir, about these cases," returned Mr. Fiscal, sharply. "I tell you again that I don't keep one of your vulgar liquorshops. I make my business respectable; that is, the little I do in that line, for most of my trade, as you may have noticed, has reference to quite other things." His anger had begun to express itself in words, as well as in looks, and I saw that nothing was to be done with him. Nevertheless, I could not help assuring him that there was no mistake about the cases I had alluded to; and, to confirm the assertion, I gave him the names of the parties. But this only exasperated him the more; and, after making another vain effort to enlist his conscience against his cupidity, I was obliged to leave him, with the conviction that I had only enlisted his enmity against myself. Perhaps the importance of this affair may seem to be over-rated by the space which I have allowed it to occupy; but, as it was my first case of actual collision with a member of the parish, I thought my readers might like to have a circumstantial statement of it. XI. THE LEGEND OF SIR BRASIL AND HIS FALCON. It was several days after my inauspicious interview with Robert Fiscal, before I obtained access to the son of Silas Willet. The young man had been running a very destructive career in dissipation, and his character had deteriorated rapidly. Though perfectly sober when I conversed with him, he showed a great deal of surly impatience under my counsel, and a headstrong wilfulness that was discouraging. Still, I did not leave him until persuaded that I had driven a few wholesome convictions into his torpid heart, and obtained some evidence that he felt the claims I had urged upon him. My exertions proved more successful than I had dared to hope; if, indeed, the reformation which took place in the young man's habits, soon after, was justly traceable to any influence I had been able to exert,— a supposition which the fact did not altogether warrant, considering what an example of virtue and manliness he was blessed with in the person of his venerable parent. On the ensuing Sunday, I was not surprised to find Fiscal's pew vacant. The circumstance attracted Mr. general attention, however, as the liquor-dealer was known to be a prompt church-goer, and, withal, an unequivocal admirer of the new minister. When I announced the text, in the afternoon, "Am I therefore become your enemy because I tell you the truth?" the words seemed so pregnant with meaning, that many were the inquiring glances exchanged, and very eager was the look of expectation that shone from the multitude of upturned faces. It seemed to signify that something characteristic of the Bubbleton pulpit was about to transpire; some pyrotechnic display of eloquence, to dazzle the fancy of the gay, or some impertinent innuendo of reform, to startle the placidity of the serious. The subject of the sermon, as any one would infer, was THE FOLLY OF BEING OFFENDED BY THE UTTERANCE OF THE TRUTH. What is truth? It is God's eternal verity, the vital principle upon which the universe is framed. What is the object of truth, in relation to ourselves? To bring us into harmony with God,-to save us. How, then, should we regard those who proffer us the truth, nay, urge our acceptance of it? As enemies? By no means; but as our friends, as our true benefactors. But truth is a blunt, unfashionable quality, and often puts self-conceit out of countenance, and even drives out the money-changers of self-interest. In such cases, what shall we do? Shall we cherish the truth, and resign our pampered favorite? Alas! few of us are wise or strong enough to make the sacrifice, as we foolishly call it. We can't see why truth may not compromise matters with us, leaving the most comely of our idols, and winking at our least culpable peccadilloes. And, because the stern, indomitable principle won't yield, or accommodate our caprices in any manner, we go into a passion, call its minister our enemy, and bid him begone,-little knowing what a suicidal piece of madness we are obeying. To illustrate this, I related the story of SIR BRASIL AND HIS FALCON. Sir Brasil, wearied with the toil of the chase, and parched with extreme thirst, "leashed his favorite falcon to his wrist, and, girding on his sword, straight took his way along the silent groves," in search of some refreshing spring. There was no water In all the summer woods. The insatiate sun Sir Brasil pursued his wearisome search; "his brow was hot, his tongue beat dry against his teeth.” In a word, he was ready to expire of thirst. |