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IT was the last week in April, my leave of absence had expired, and I was hurrying to the village of join a detachment of the Rifles, to which I was then attached. The morning had been sharp and gusty, but as evening came on, the wind dropped, and a small thick rain succeeded. We stopped at for dinner, and for the first time, insides and outsides, with one exception, united round a well-covered table.

None of my fellow-travellers were in any way remarkable except the individual who declined dinner, and beyond a first look, I scarcely noticed them. To judge from their conversation, some were in trade, and others were cattledealers. They ate with the despatch of men accustomed to discuss a travel

ling meal-comforted themselves with a strong infusion of real Roscrea," assumed coats and cloaks, and, as the rain now fell heavily, every man protected himself against the inclemency

of the weather as he best could.

I have already said that one personage kept aloof from the remainder of the company, and while they were occupied at the dinner-table, he gazed listlessly from the window. I looked at him with attention; he was tall, thin, stricken in years, dressed in shabby mourning, but " every inch" a gentleman. I never witnessed such settled melancholy as his care-worn face presented; while deep and illsuppressed sighs occasionally escaped from a bosom, too evidently surcharged To look upon that pensive countenance unmoved, was impossible. I felt intensely for his sufferings, although ignorant of the cause from whence they sprang, and, when the guard announced that the coach was ready to proceed, I would have given "a Jew's eye" to have known the old man's history.

with sorrow.

The rain came down in torrents, the outsides mounted to their places, the object of my curiosity prepared to follow them, when the coachman advanced and touched his hat respectfully. "You had better get in, sir-there is but one gentleman-I'm sure he won't object."

Object! he would be a brute indeed, who would not submit to personal inconvenience to accommodate that meek and heart-broken stranger. The old man hesitated, looked upwards at the thick and murky sky, then at his own threadbare surtout, bowed gratefully when I seconded the driver's invitation, and placed himself beside me. The door closed, the horn sounded, “ all right,” said the guard," chit-chit,” returned the coachman, on rolled the mail, and the stranger and myself were left together.

Our têtê-a-têtê was but a short one. Four miles onward the coach pulled up, and my companion announced that his journey had terminated. He bade me a polite good evening, and once more I found myself in lonely occupation of "the leathern conveniency."

I watched my fellow-traveller from the window, and remarked that both the guard and coachman declined the small gratuity he offered them. The old man passed through a ruined gate

way, into an avenue overrun with sion. Suddenly a turning of the road weeds, that led to a dilapidated manshut out the stranger from my view; next moment the building disappeared, and I flung myself back in the vehicle, and strove to sleep.

The effort was idle; the old man could not be so readily forgotten; for, short as our interview had been, his conversation and address had fascinated me. He was unquestionably a voured to be cheerful, and succeeded. man of sorrow, but at times he endeaAlas! "the sunshine of the breast” was with him but a transient gleam, sad reality returned, the smile sickened on his furrowed cheek, and deep, heart-sinking despondency overspread a countenance that once had glowed with benevolence and intellectuality.

was

Three stages more brought me to my destination. My servant waiting the arrival of the mail, and to him I consigned the charge of my baggage, and entered the parlour of the King's Arms, which I had selected for head quarters, during my military

occupation of the village where my party were cantoned.

The coach proceeded on its route, my portmanteaus were safely deposited, and Hall, my best man, then delivered me a small book which the driver had found in the carriage, and concluded that it was forgotten by me. One glance told me that it was no property of mine. It was a memorandumbook, written closely in plain and oldfashioned characters. Whose could it be? The old man's certainly. I turned to the fly-leaf, there was a clear and remarkable autograph-the name was "Edmund Harley," and underneath, "Dunlow Rectory, 1830." Was Edmund Harley the melancholy stranger? He was; the landlord confirmed my conjectures, and favoured me with all the particulars of his sufferings, that he knew

For forty years he had been in possession of two adjacent parishes, and the income they produced was considerable, although, from the studious habits, and easy disposition of the incumbent, scarcely a moiety of what he might have conscientiously demanded, was obtained. He was generally respected, for his blameless life and gentle manners had rendered him deservedly popular. Harley was not the man to amass wealth, and when a lawless combination against the Irish clergy, fostered by the passive endurance of an executive, who should have crushed it in its birth, carried misery and desolation into many a happy home, the aged rector of Dunlow was prominent among the sufferers. He had not saved a guinea; for, confident in the stability of vested rights, he was content with forwarding the professional interests of his son, and securing, by a life-insurance, an adequate maintenance for his wife and daughters, if they survived him. Alas! to a certain extent that precaution was unnecessary. His son died in a foreign land, his favorite daughter survived her brother but a twelvemonth-indigence followed affliction-his income was withheld, and his carriage, plate, and books, all were gradually sacrificed to meet demands every day become more pressing. His wife, a woman of high sensibility, was unable to sustain the loss of her beloved ones, with unexpected and unmerited penury, and in

a few months she, too, was where the weary rest.

The old man bore his trials as the follower of a meek Master should bear them. He was destitute and bereaved-he had outlived those who should have closed his eyes-he had been stricken with poverty, but no complaint escaped him, and in an unfurnished and half-ruined house, once the home of happiness, he was patiently wearing out his appointed days, and waiting for death, the deliverer.' And was he abandoned by all? Oh, no! one there was who never left him. Ellen Harley-she, the young, the beautiful, the gifted-she on whom, in the brilliancy of the ball-room, the eye would turn-she tended the sufferer with that love that woman only knows. She shared her parent's indigence without a murmur; and, while a once proud heart was breaking, the sigh was hushed, the tear repressed from starting, lest any indication of the misery she endured, might add to the wretchedness of her father."

I listened in agony to the landlord's narration. What are fictitious sorrows to the sad realities of life? I never regretted that Fortune had not loaded me with her gifts till now. I unlocked my writing-case; and the few banknotes it contained were quickly under an envelope, and directed to Harley's address. "Heaven will repay you, sir," observed mine host. "I will bring the letter to the office, and pay the postage, or the old gentleman would not, most probably be able to release it." Great God! a scholar and a gentleman so destitute that the possession of a few pence was questionable! It was indeed too true, and the landlord's precaution was not unwise.

Night came on, the torrents fell from the sky, the wind rose, the doors rattled, as every gust, with increasing violence, swept the sleet and rain against the windows. I never felt myself more wretched and depressed; and yet, why should a tale of individual suffering touch me so deeply? Is not misery entailed upon existence? and, sooner or later, every heart must bleed. I snuffed the candles, drew my chair closer to the fire, and opened the old man's diary. But was I authorized to read that record of affliction?

1830." The fortieth anniversary of my marriage, and Elizabeth and I have gone smoothly hand in hand through life. They told me, when I resigned my fellowship and married my beloved, that I undervalued my talents and had no ambition. They were wrong. I knew I had within my power means to command worldly or collegiate honors: but they were right I had no ambition beyond competency and a virtuous woman. Was I not wise, and Heaven too bountiful? My attached companion, my brave boy, my innocent and beautiful daughters, the luxury of a quiet life, my books, my happy home would lawn sleeves, or a provost's chair repay them? No, no, Edmund Harley; thank the Dispenser of all good for the happy lot assigned thee!"

*

1831.—“ Tithe resistance increases, and money comes in tardily. My wife urges me to lay my carriage down; but to her declining health gentle exercise is necessary, and I must not deprive her of the means. Surely the government will check these outrages! If suffered with impunity, it is hard to say where the mischief will end."

1832." Matters grow worse. They bave posted threatening notices on my rate. Not a shilling to be had. My ife insurance falls due within a month. Where is the money that shall pay the policy to be obtained? I fear the carriage must go. Poor, dear Elizabeth! when I hinted at parting with my library, never was distress like her's. She solemnly declared against entering her carriage again, and I know her determination. Well, well, we must wait a week or two before we sell it."

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My equipage is laid down. Thank God, a provision for my dear wife and daughters is safe for another year.”

1832.-"Alas! the mischief is but beginning. They have murdered my tithe-proctor to prevent his proving what is due me. He was an honest and inoffensive man and his only fault, fidelity to his employer. I must provide for his family. Alas! I can hardly provide a sufficiency for my own."

1833.-"A letter from Frederick. He has heard of my embarrassments, and what a sacrifice does he contemplate! To leave the army, quit the profession he glories in, and sit down in degrading inactivity at thirty-seven! No, Frederick, thy father shall never shorten a career commenced so bril liantly. I have written and implored him to abandon his design. I told him I had a present supply. There is not a shilling in the house; but surely the falsehood is excusable, for a few days will bring us the amount of the plate I have sent to Dublin to be sold."

"The last Protestant family has departed. The murder of their neighbours, the Gilmores, has terrified them into a resolution to quit the country altogether, and they set off this morn ing to embark at Limerick for the States. My congregation is now confined to a few policemen. Ten years since, I have reckoned one hundred in my church; but terror has gradually driven them from a place where life and property is not worth a pin's fce."

"A letter scaled with black, and bearing the Jamaica postmark. My God! I dare not open it!"