room, which looks like eternity at night--and one does fancy such
sights, Job--such horrid, horrid sights. Feel my wristband, Jonson, and
here at my back, you would think they had been pouring water over me,
but its only the cold sweat. Oh! it is a fearful thing to have a bad
conscience, Job; but you won't leave me till daylight, now, that's a
dear, good Job!"

"For shame, Dawson," said Jonson; "pluck up, and be a man; you are like
a baby frightened by its nurse. Here's the clergyman come to heal your
poor wounded conscience, will you hear him now?"

"Yes," said Dawson; "yes!--but go out of the room--I can't tell all if
you're here; go, Job, go!--but you're not angry with me--I don't mean to
offend you."

"Angry!" said Job; "Lord help the poor fellow! no, to be sure not. I'll
stay outside the door till you've done with the clergyman--but make
haste, for the night's almost over, and it's as much as the parson's
life is worth to stay here after daybreak."

"I will make haste," said the guilty man, tremulously; "but, Job, where
are you going--what are you doing? leave the light!--here, Job, by the
bed-side."

Job did as he was desired, and quitted the room, leaving the door not so
firmly shut, but that he might hear, if the penitent spoke aloud, every
particular of his confession.

I seated myself on the side of the bed, and taking the skeleton hand
of the unhappy man, spoke to him in the most consolatory and comforting
words I could summon to my assistance. He seemed greatly soothed by my
efforts, and at last implored me to let him join me in prayer. I knelt
down, and my lips readily found words for that language, which, whatever
be the formula of our faith, seems, in all emotions which come home to
our hearts, the most natural method of expressing them. It is here, by
the bed of sickness, or remorse, that the ministers of God have their
real power! it is here, that their office is indeed a divine and
unearthly mission; and that in breathing balm and comfort, in healing
the broken heart, in raising the crushed and degraded spirit--they are
the voice, and oracle of the FATHER, who made us in benevolence, and
will judge of us in mercy! I rose, and after a short pause, Dawson, who
expressed himself impatient of the comfort of confession, thus began--

"I have no time, Sir, to speak of the earlier part of my life. I passed
it upon the race-course, and at the gaming-table--all that was, I know,
very wrong, and wicked;