visits have furnished me with matter for after reflection; and any thing which urges a rational being to think cannot be entirely useless. These visits have made me acquainted with one, from whose society I have derived pleasure and improvementwith one whose life has been long, and full of troubles-one whose story of suffering might savour of romance, if it were not in itself more fearful and melancholy than any thing which the pages of the romance-writer have, in their wildest varieties, exhibited.

A few evenings before my departure from Clone, I had wandered, as usual, towards the churchyard; I had gone my accustomed rounds, and indulged in the wonted train of gloomy meditations. I was about to quit the place, and had already proceeded nearly half-way to the little stile which was fixed as the mode of entrance from the road, when I beheld in one of the walks at a distance some person employed, like myself, in deciphering inscriptions. I was not startled by the appearance, for I was easy as to the dead; and my closeness to the road and to home rendered me fearless of the living. I was curious, however, to learn who it was that ventured to this place of loneliness at such an hour; and this curiosity I was determined, at all hazards, to gratify. I approached the stranger, and, as I was unobserved, I had a better opportunity of viewing his figure and manner. He was a tall old man, with white hair, dressed in the garb of the country; that is, a broad felt hat, and a long brown outside coat. He supported himself upon a staff, the end of which rested at the base of a lofty head-stone. He was reading the inscription; and so deeply was he engaged in the task, that he was not aware of my being beside him. "Here lies the body of Margaret, late the wife of William Fortescue, and of her daughter Jane." Oh! God,' he continued, that I could only "and of her sons!" But, no! their dust never shall be gathered here. The remains of the one may even now be thrown out among the carrion of the field; and, as for the other, he has no tomb, no resting

say

place: his dust has been scattered by the winds of Heaven; his bones have been consumed; and of his strength and of his beauty there does not exist even a relic.'

He turned at the moment, and observed me; but at once recognised me as a neighbour. Sir,' said he, you have dropped in on my little hour of sorrow; but, if I do not entirely mistake you, you are not one disposed to trifle with trouble, or to indulge a jest at the expense of misfortune.' I assured him, on my part, that I was not; and, as some proof of my sincerity, I for the time forbore making any remark on the nature of his visit to the dwelling of the dead, or on the lateness of the hour which he had chosen for it. I turned him from the subject by some uninteresting observations on the calmness of the night, and the stillness and solemnity of the scene around us. The old man nodded, as if approving of my remark; and, as he was about quitting the churchyard, I offered him my arm to lean on. Ay,' said he, accepting of the assistance which I proffered,

it is cheering and pleasant in old age to have something to rest upon, some stay to uphold the limbs that are tottering; but I have none. I linger in utter loneliness, in the midst of a cold and heartless world: I am childless, kindredless, friendless; like a worn-out tree of the forest deprived of its branches.' He wiped off a tear as he spoke; we crossed the stile which conducted to the road, and an easy walk of about five minutes brought us to his door, where we parted for the night.

I was eager to know more of the story of this aged sufferer: I made some inquiries relative to him among my friends at home; I visited the churchyard occasionally, particularly whenever a calm moonlight night favoured the ramble, for I knew that on such nights it was most likely he would walk abroad. In this I was not mistaken; I met him evening after evening in his accustomed range; we conversed for hours together, and I gradually gained his confidence. He made me, at intervals, acquainted with the details of his melancholy history; he placed in my

possession some papers that helped to illustrate it. From these, and from the information collected in his immediate neighbourhood, I have framed the following simple narrative:

William Fortescue, the old man already mentioned, was known at one period of his life as a merchant in the Irish metropolis; his dealings were extensive, and his general character among the men of business was high and respectable. The trade which he carried on was tolerably successful; his family, consisting of two sons and a daughter, were growing up under his eye; his age, his temperate habits, and the general state of his health,, promised him a fair career; on the entire, he was not presumptuous when he looked calmly onward, anticipating, in the presence of those whom he loved, many a long delightful year of ease and social happiness. His wife, however, was a drawback on this sum of enjoyment: she was the daughter of a professional gentleman of high character. She had figured, in her youth, in a splendid sphere; and, unfortunately, she carried into the plain dwelling of the industrious trader the extravagant and expensive habits which she had thus acquired. These habits agreed but indifferently with the pursuits of a commercial man: unsettled accounts might remain in the counting-house, but all was settled for that evening's party; protested indorsements might crowd the office desk, but the drawing-room was crowded with the glittering insipidity of fashionable life. Mr. Fortescue was an unassuming sensible man; he relished not these follies; but, for the sake of tranquillity, he sacrificed his better interest to the ridiculous whims of his lady. The consequence, however, was such as might have been foreseen these expenses, aided by an accumulation of bad debts, and a few unsuccessful speculations, brought on a temporary embarrassment. The claims of all the creditors were fairly settled; but the proud heart of Mrs. Fortescue never recovered the blow: she sunk under the unexpected mortification of being obliged to suspend payment; she fell gradually into a

deep consumption; and, within a year after the embarrassment already alluded to, her husband and her sons had to accompany all that was mortal of her to the dreary grave.

She was interred in the burialplace of her family at Clone: her daughter Jane, a beautiful and interesting girl of fifteen, speedily followed her. The death of the latter, who was Mr. Fortescue's favourite child, led him at once to form the determination of retiring from the crowded capital, with its business and its bustle, for ever. The declining state of his health, too, served to confirm him in taking this step. The measure was soon carried into effect with what little of property which failing debtors, greedy creditors, and over-pampered domestics, had left to him, he purchased a small annuity, and quietly withdrew to a farm, which had been rented by his father, on the banks of the river Bann, near the ancient and venerable ruins of Ferns.

His second son, Henry, accompanied him in his retirement: he was a youth of a gentle disposition and delicate frame, but possessed of great taste and sprightliness. His education was nearly completed on his leaving Dublin, for his father had destined him for the bar; but, in his present state of loneliness and destitution, he could not suffer him from his sight. Henry, perhaps, felt deeply affected by his altered prospects; he, no doubt, disliked the dull monotony of a mere country life; but, whatever his feelings might be, he, on the present occasion, betrayed nothing like gloominess or dissatisfaction. He saw that the happiness of a beloved parent was placed in his care; and to the comfort and the gratification of this parent he resolved at once to devote all his time and all his attention.

Edward Fortescue was a lad of a very different cast: he was rough and stubborn, and unruly. While at home he kept the family in confusion; and, when at school, he was perpetually engaged in deciding or fomenting quarrels: yet at bottom he was not void of good nature: he was most affectionately attached to his brother. This was not manifested

by looks or words: he joined the other boys with whom they associated in their different amusements; be looked upon Henry, as he did upon the rest, with an apparent indifference; but if any dispute arose, in which the former was likely to be wronged, then his real character broke out, and woe to the unfortunate wight who spoke harshly of his brother! The boy, however, was of a restless and wandering temper; he was eager to see the world, and (as he said himself) to push his fortune abroad. During the period of his father's prosperity he continued, day after day, to solicit letters of introduction to some friends of the family who resided in the south of France. In this point he at last succeeded: he departed amidst the tears and the blessings of his relatives, and landed at Bordeaux just as the memorable, but melancholy, revolution was commencing in the capital of the "Great Nation." The letter which announced his arrival there was the only one which his father had received from the period of his departure.

The situation of Mr. Fortescue's new residence was cheering and agreeable. On the edge of a pleasantly sheltered hill, by the river-side, arose the dwelling-a plain slated cottage, surrounded by a few well-built outoffices. A large garden, stocked with a great variety of fruit-trees, spread far to the back of the concern; and the little lawn in front was skirted by some young groves, that grew down even to the water's edge. Altogether it was just such a spot as seemed likely, by its calm beauty, to sooth a wounded and wearied heart: it was just such a place as a man of feeling and of taste would have chosen. The old man seemed to enjoy the scenery; and, to Henry, this alone was enough to make all about it bright and beautiful. He beheld his father cheerful and resigned; and this, for him, was a sufficient source of gratification. For himself, however, he was by no means destitute of the means of amusement: he felt that high advantage which cultivated minds will at all times possess, whenever circumstances compel them to depend

solely on their own resources. The cast of his education, and the habits that he had formed, had qualified him not merely for enduring, but even enjoying, retirement. From his first acquaintance with the mysteries of the alphabet he was partial to books; he was an eager, although rather a desultory, reader; he had a pleasing turn for occasional composition, and a tolerable ear for music.

In the long evenings of autumn, while his father enjoyed an easy slumber, he was accustomed to stroll out through the fields that bordered upon the river, with his flute in one hand, and a volume of some favourite bard in the other, regaling himself alternately with the rival fascinations of music and of poetry. In one of these evening excursions he had walked by the edge of the Bann un. til he reached a narrow and unfrequented road, that led over it by a pass called Doran's Bridge. A labourer belonging to his father was employed on the spot in repairing a fence that some straggling cattle had broken down. Henry was in conversation with him, when his attention was suddenly called off by the sound of a jaunting-car, which just at that moment was crossing the bridge. It was driven by a servant, in the plain rural costume of the place. On the far side sat an old man, whose dress or appearance young Fortescue did not particularly notice; for all his attention, at the moment, was directed to his companion, who was placed on the opposite part of the vehicle. This companion was a pale, but beautiful, girl, of about eighteen, with lively blue eyes, and light hair: her figure was principally concealed by a large dark mantle, which she had folded around her. The car on which she sat went rapidly on; but Henry, even in the moment of its passage, saw enough to render him anxious and uneasy. He turned to the labourer: "Do you know the young lady that has just passed us?"

She on the car, sir? To be sure I do: doesn't every body in the parish know her and her old father, Guinea Booker, along with her there? Troth, Master Henry, I wish, between you and I, that you were mar

ried to her to-morrow; if you wor, ye needn't call an alderman your cousin. She has the mocusses, sir! The old fellow has the yellow gould rusting in crocks; it will all be hurs; and, along with that, she'll have all the land from the fur side of the road there to the bounds' ditch at Effernogue." "Has her father no other child?" asked Henry.

"Sorrow one but herself, sir; and, upon my sowl, sir, she's a good cratur, and a purty cratur; it would do you good to hear the poor praising her.”

Henry had no inclination to pursue his walk: he returned slowly homewards; and, after reading a chapter for his father from a religious book, he retired to bed-but not to repose.

A few days only had passed when Henry had the gratification of meet ing the fair stranger, and of being introduced to her as an acquaintance. This was brought about in a way that could hardly have been anticipated; and the pleasure which young Fortescue experienced on the occasion was as great as it was unexpected. He had accompanied his father on Sunday morning toFerns; they had heard what was called twelve o'clock mass in the parish chapel, for Mr. Fortescue and his family belonged to the Roman Catholic persuasion. The crowd was gradually clearing off, and Henry and his father stood for a time in the chapel-yard viewing the different faces that passed before them in a corner, under the shade of some sycamores, they observed the parish priest, a venerable-looking old man, engaged in conversation with a person who had something in his appearance that at a glance indicated what we would call snugness; he wore a broad hat, with a well-curled yellow wig; a tight brown body coat,buckskin breeches, and new top-boots, not indeed embellished by the compositions of Warren, or of Day and Martin, but gaily shining from a plentiful application of grease; the man had all the air of a farmer, and was evidently a substantial one. His countenance was by no means prepossessing; there was a turn in his eye, and a projection in his under lip, that bespoke a mixture of cunning and of monied pride.

He and the priest, while talking, looked occasionally towards Mr. Fortescue, who lingered behind the rest of the congregation; they at last approached him, and Father Doyle formally introduced the stranger.

"Mr.James Booker, sir, feels anxious to speak with you about a matter in which both of you are concerned. You are both men advanced in life-both experienced and respectable. You are both parishioners of mine, and I would like to have you acquainted. The present affair, sir, is something about a joint ditch to divide your farms.”

Booker looked for a moment at the clergyman. "D'ye see me now, Father John? I think this an odd place, and a cold place, to talk about matters of this kind. What if you and Mr. Fortescue, and this young lad with him, come down to Effernogue this evening? We can have a quiet tumbler together, and settle the business at our aise: say but the wordas yourself says-and it's done."

Father John, to do him justice, was nothing loth-" he relished his friend, and he relished a bumper'— he agreed to go. Mr. Fortescue could not refuse he went in the evening, accompanied by Henry. The latter was introduced to the beautiful Emily Booker, and, from that hour, all the young folks of the surrounding villages looked on them as marked out for each other. The old people clung to the punch-bowl through the greater part of the time; and, as is usual in such cases, the affair for which they met was not once spoken of.

'After this Henry had various opportunities of meeting and talking with Miss Booker: in his evening walks by the river-side he frequently enjoyed that gratification, but the chapel of Ferns, on Sundays, was the place in which they were always sure to be found together. Whenever Mr. Booker happened to be from prayers, Henry always conducted Emily to her home, and the father usually obliged him to remain for the evening: for this it was not necessary to resort to very earnest solicitation; indeed, the young lover (for such he now was) appeared at all times eager to frame an excuse for remaining there. His music was thrown aside-his reading

was entirely neglected-or, if he went at all near his books, it was only to try if there were any among them likely to interest or gratify one who was now become but too dear to him. His malady went on progressively-his acquaintance rallied him on his fading complexion-and his father some times wondered at his apparent coldness. His prospects, however, were encouraging; Emily had in her disposition but little of coquetry; she was partial to him, and she sought not to conceal it but there was a rival in question, and he happened at the present period to enjoy the favour and the countenance of old Booker. This was a Mr. Tyndall, a smooth-tongued Munsteronian; he was said to be extensively engaged in the corn trade at Cork, and his object in coming to Ferns was to make some purchases in that way from Mr. Booker he engaged a considerable quantity, and, in the course of only one evening, he became quite a favourite with him. The secret of this sudden attachment lay in his ready acquiescence with all the old farmer's violent theological prejudices. Old Booker maintained it as an article of faith, that out of the Church of Rome there was no salvation to this Tyndall fervently agreed. He looked on Luther as one regularly raised from hell to curse the world, and the Munsterman could not doubt it. He showed that the meeting of the two Eighteens (that is 18-18) was the time fixed for the destruction of heresy and the stranger was more than convinced. The old theologian was delighted: he had met with a congenial spirit-he was apparently a monied man-and, although elderly, his appearance was fair and respectable. In the fulness of his heart he thought of him as a son-in-law; and the other eagerly availed himself of a slight hint which Booker had given. With the daughter his case was hopeless-she disliked him. This, however, did not discourage him; he urged on his cause with the old man, and might have succeeded but for an unlucky accident. A friend whom he met with in the streets of Ferns, while his intended father-in-law stood near him, disclosed the unfortunate secret. Mr. Tyndall was a pretender-he was no Catholic-but a thorough-going,

card-cursing, dance-damning, tabernacle-hunting, sleek-headed Methodist. All was over; the doors of Effernogue were closed against him for ever!

Another suitor was spoken of, but he was tardy in making his appearance. The father continued, in a goodhumoured mood, to threaten Emily with the intended favour: she thought he spoke merely in jest, but old Booker was of too serious a turn to joke upon matters of the kind; he was for weeks upon the look-out for the coming sweetheart, and angry was he when, evening after evening, he sat at the broad window which looked down the road, dwelling with a vacant eye upon the objects that passed before him-tracing the trees that waved with the temporary wind—and reckoning even the crows that flew across the way-yet beholding the twilight still deepening, and no stranger approaching.

their

On one of these evenings, in particular, he had been sitting at the window already mentioned until he became almost drowsy with watching; he had seen the sun going slowly down-he had observed the neighbouring farmers driving home their cattle for the evening-he had marked the sun-burnt mowers as they trudged down the narrow road, with their sithes loosely thrown across shoulders-his own hay-makers had returned from their work-and from the gloomy marshes of Effernogue the wearied tramplers of the turf proceeded by many a route to their distant homes-the children who through the evening had flung their quoits, or tossed their little jack-stones about the dusty path, were now obliged to give up the old grey-headed men,. who sat upon the green bench or the sheltered bank by the road side, talking of things which probably happened in their boyhood, felt the darkness stealing on them, and the cold nightdew dropping about them, and prepared to retire ;-there was hardly a gleam of light abroad. Old Booker had been dozing at his window; he started, and found that all around him was darkness; he arose and walked downwards to the little parlour, where Emily sat engaged in some trifling piece of needlework. She laid it aside as her father entered, and proceeded