FORGIVENESS.

A TALE.

THE night was dark and tempestuous :-heavy gusts of wind shook the abbey walls, and resounded, in deep murmurs, along the cloisters;-while the moon, occasionally breaking through the thick clouds which enveloped her, cast an uncertain and awful light over the surrounding scenery.

The monk, Pierre, had lain down to rest,-but sleep fled from his eyes; and a broken slumber, which neither absorbed sense nor yielded repose, alone answered his solicitations. The groans of the distressed seemed to mingle with the sighing of the blast; and he frequently started from his couch, under the impression that he heard the well-known signal of his trusty dog, Fidele. In this manner he spent the hours, till the heavy bell of St. Gothard announced that midnight had passed. The storm was, in some degree, abated; and the beams of the moon were less interrupted. Pierre, however, no longer endeavoured to sleep. He fixed his eyes upon the bright luminary, which now shone full through the

casement of his little apartment, and a train of thought, involuntarily, stole over his mind.

"Behold," said he, mentally," a picture of myself! Delivered up to the dominion of my own wayward desires, every image was distorted in my imagination; and the common evils of life became burthens too great for endurance. The still small voice of reason was unheard in the whirlwind of passion; and-like the leaf, severed from its parent stem, and hurried down the torrent-I was alone on the sea of life, the sport of every breeze, and at the direction of every current. Oh, Father of Mercies!" he cried, energetically, "I thank Thee for the correction Thou hast given me, and for the light Thou hast communicated to me! A wanderer no more,-though poor and feeble, friendless, and forgotten by the crowds that once hung on my smiles,-I pursue my path with joy, because it leads to Thee; and lose the sense of individual suffering in the humble, but active, endeavour to mark my gratitude, and imitate Thee, by bringing my fellow wanderers to a place of earthly rest, and preparing them for a heavenly one!"

He was silent. A gentle calm diffused itself over his mind, and sleep began to steal over his eyelids; when, suddenly, he was roused by the reiterated barking of Fidele. He instantly obeyed the summons; and, wrapping his cloak around him, hurried into the air. Fidele fawned upon him with delight, -then sprang forward;—again barked loudly,—and

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then, as if dissatisfied at the slow pace that his master was obliged to observe, (for the path was rugged, ́and impeded with snow,) he returned-jumped upon him—licked his hand-and, with redoubled speed, pursued his own way, through the windings of the mountain. At length, he stopped. Exerting all his strength, Pierre pressed forward; and beheld the apparently lifeless remains of a man, stretched upon the snow. He knelt down, and perceived, by the rays of his torch, aided by the beams of the moon,that the ground was covered with blood. He laid his hand upon the breast of the stranger, and, to his joy, some slight pulsation evinced that life was not quite departed. He now dispatched Fidele for further assistance; and, in a short time, the wounded man was conveyed to the Abbey.

Pierre laid him upon his own bed; and, anxious to ascertain the extent of the injury he had received, he proceeded to examine the head, from whence the blood still flowed copiously. With this view he removed his cap, and parted the thick curls that covered his forehead. The light now shone full on his livid countenance. Pierre started back,-his eyes remained fixed upon the stranger, his whole frame shook with violent and increasing emotion,and the placid expression of his features was entirely lost. Recovering himself, he hid his face with his hands; and,-after an apparent struggle with his feelings, he knelt down, and in a short, but earnest prayer, deplored his present weakness, and suppli

cated the Divine assistance for the future. He then arose; the smile of benevolence again illumined his pale, but venerable face; and, approaching the sufferer, he applied every remedy in his power, and watched, with trembling anxiety, the result of his cares. With feelings of pure delight, he observed, at length, the heaving of his breast, and heard a deep sigh issue from his lips. In a short time, the stranger opened his eyes, and fixed them upon his benefactor; but seemed to have no recollection of the past, or apprehensions for the present. Pierre took his station by his bedside, and, for many days, assiduously attended him.

At the end of a week, Abdallah—as he called himself-was able to converse; and Pierre now asked the particulars of his disaster, and the meaning of the incoherent expressions of wrath which had, frequently, escaped from his lips, during his late delirium. "You behold," said Abdallah, 66 a man who has seen the reverses of fortune, in their greatest extent. I have basked in the smiles of monarchs; I have held the highest posts of office; and wealth unbounded has swelled my coffers. My rank, however, was unable to shield me from malevolence; and the envy of one who had long hated me wrought my ruin. I was disgraced, to make room for my rival; and I became an outcast from that country which had owed its prosperity to my cares, and a vagabond in lands that had lately trembled at the sound of my name."

Overpowered with the acuteness of his feelings, he paused ;—nor was Pierre less affected. He wrapped his face in his garments, and groaned aloud. “You feel for me," said Abdallah, "but what are your sensations compared with mine! Listen, however, good Pierre! and rejoice with me. My injuries have not slept in the dust !-no, no!"-added he, his countenance assuming an expression which made his auditor shudder, as he regarded him ;—“ I swore to be revenged, and I have performed my oath ! Night and day has the desire of vengeance pursued me. It has been my food-my occupation-the height of my wishes, and the very end of an existence of which I had, long ago, rid myself, but for the hope of living to witness the destruction of my enemy."

“But, surely,” interrupted Pierre, “you destroyed, by this means, your own happiness, (for, doubtless, sources of happiness were still open to you,) without injuring his." Happiness!" scornfully replied Abdallah," I desired no happiness but to be revenged; though, perhaps, I could not have wished my rival to endure a more bitter punishment than the state into which he had reduced me. The hope of vengeance haunted me every where. I had sufficient wealth,--but I despised it. I had a wife and children,--but their caresses were poisoned by the image of my foe. I forgot to take my food; and even sleep brought no repose. Frequently, in my slumbers, I thought I felt him in my grasp, and