happy effect, that he was sufficiently convinced the devil had given up the pursuit, and had retired peaceably to his own kingdom; but so thoroughly was he impressed with the conviction that he had actually received a brush from that celebrated personage, that no intreaties were able to induce him to return to the cathedral; and he retired to his own habitation so disordered in his mind, that a fever became the consequence, and he was confined to his bed for a very considerable time, to the misery of his wife and numerous family, who were by these means deprived of their usual food, and were now obliged to depend upon the charity of others.

The particulars of this story, together with many additional circumstances, manufactured by the various reporters, soon afforded matter of conversation throughout the city; and, it at length reached the ears of Pivett, who alone being acquainted with the truth of the mystery, and hearing of the lamentable condition of the poor sexton and family, he immediately went to his habitation, and assured him that the supposed devil, or goblin, or whatever ghost he had imagined himself to have been attacked by, was no other than himself; and he forthwith related all the circumstances of

the affair, together with the cause of his confine. ment all night in the church.

But all the solemn asseverations of Pivett, had no effect upon the desponding sexton, weak as he was from the effects of his fever; he thanked him for his endeavours to remove the cause of his suffering; but he said it was a made up tale that would not set aside the pain he felt at his heart; he said it was an omen of his death, and that no human art could save him from a speedy destruction.

Pivett finding himself incapable of doing any good, left the infatuated man to his fate, and his fever daily increasing, actually carried him off from the stage of life, leaving a widow and six small children to bewail his untimely end. Thus was a human being, gifted by nature with reason, made a victim to superstitious fears, and a whole family made miserable, and driven into the vortex of woe and want.

Pivett lived many years after this circumstance, but at length died towards the close of the last century. He was upwards of ninety years of age, when he expired upon the boards of his own apartment, upon which he had slept for so many years. This room was thinly but curiously

furnished. It contained, at the decease of its inhabitant, one old worm-eaten chair, one crazy table, upon which stood an antique cross and an human skull, and from the walls depended a complete suit of rusty armour.

I understand there are many more curious particulars relating to the life of this extraordinary man, which certainly should be collected together and given to the world. Biography, properly studied, is, perhaps, of all other species of writing the most interesting, as well as the most beneficial to society, as it brings us immediately acquainted with the human mind, with al her actions and springs of action. The low rank or situation of a man in life, is certainly no reasonable objection to the value of his biography, be cause the great features of the mind are nearly alike in all mankind, whatever may be their post on the great stage; and, perhaps, the events of a poor man's life would contribute as much to the great study of man, as those of the most distinguished members of society.

But this essay having had a different object in view, than the relation of circumstances foreign · to the subject of fear, I will conclude it with the hope that those of my readers who may unhap

pily be subject to this weakness, have been more than amused by an account of so extraordinary a character as Mr. Pivett.

"Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts,
"And change misdoubt to resolution:

"Be that thou hop'st to be; or what thou art
"Resign'd to death, it is not worth the enjoying;
"Let pale-fac'd fear keep with the mean born man,
And find no harbour in a royal heart,"

THIRD

ESSAY UPON FEAR.

Speak! say what horrid phantom stalks in view,
And with terrific glare appals thy soul!

Or, by what strange witchery thou art mov'd
To this deadly gaze on dark, and empty space,
Which nought contains, but one impervious gloom!
Thy speechless tongue and mad'ning looks, infest
Ev'n my undaunted soul. Thy outstretch'd arm,
And form convuls'd, bespeak a troubled mind,
And act thy nameless fears: but this dumb shew
Is aching to my sight: I pray thee speak.

It was in the year 1784, that a gentleman and lady of Yorkshire were making the tour of Ire land.

Towards the close of one of those summer days when the threatening clouds appear to be surcharged with storms, they arrived at a small village, situated in a most romantic spot upon the margin of the principal lake of Killarney. Being that particular season of the year, when a great number of persons visit these celebrated lakes,