the chapel several preceding sabbaths, and spoke in a low and clear voice, and with much intelligence, of the doubts and fears that had gathered on her mind. The following evening, having missed her in her usual place at worship, I set out in quest of her habitation, and with some difficulty found it, in an obscure row of houses, only to be reached through many a winding lane of poverty and wretchedness. Passing up stairs to a miserable room, in a corner on a little straw, lay the girl: a dark-looking woman sat beside her on the ground, and a wretched fire burned low in the grate. Expressing sorrow at seeing her look so ill, she asked me to be seated on the only piece of furniture in the room, a little stool; it matters not how humbly or delicately it be, when we sit beside the valley of the shadow of death. She had once heard a lady, two years before, read the Scriptures to an invalid, and so sweet did the language of inspiration sound, that she asked if there was any place where she might hear that word again. After hearing this, I said I would read it to her now: a bright flush came on her face, on which, and on her hands, was the exquisite whiteness, like a beautiful shroud, that death first puts on as his wedding garment. As soon as I began to read, the woman sitting by her started up and left the room; the sufferer lifted her eyes with a look, I thought, of terror mingled with sorrow. I asked her, 66 was that a relative of her's?" She said, no; consumption had deprived her of all she loved on earth." I saw that my care was useless now, and that the heaviness of death was on her. I brought some grapes to moisten her parched lips, and knelt beside the bed, giving them. "I am departing," said the girl; "forgive me, for I have troubled you: you know that I am dying. Those words, now so dear to me, I never heard from our priests: I never found them in our prayers-He died the just for the unjust.' That calming bible is what my country wants, to hush her tumults and heal her sorrows."

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She wept much as she spoke: she was alone, the last of her race, and there was an appealing look in her dark and lustrous eyes, as she turned them on me: her hands were very wasted. How beautiful is the hand of the dying, when it points feebly to eternity! She laid one burning hand on mine, and pressed it softly, placed the other on the little volume which I had been reading to her, and became almost unconscious. I heard the noise of many persons coming up stairs; still I bent over that poor frame, but I was soon obliged to gaze on others. The woman, who had re-entered, called my attention by saying, "Father M," I looked up and saw a tall, fashionable looking young man, gazing on me with no smiling countenance. He asked the girl, in a loud and commanding tone," Am I here by your own request?" She moved not. A man whom I had not seen before said, "Yes, sir, I am her messenger." I said, "I beg you will let her speak for herself. She has no relative: she is alone in the world: spare her the few moments of loneliness that are left." We all looked at her but she still seemed to be unconscious. "Come, come," said the priest, you sent for me: that will do; every one leave the room." I said, "Is this a time to make converts?" He replied, ""Tis never too late: I wish you to leave the room;" and he pointed to the door. "I cannot leave this room," said I, "without imploring you not to

t

teach that departing spirit that the Redeemer's work needs any addi tion!" The people were standing near, looking anxiously at us. The priest, with a mixture of scorn and contempt in his countenance, again pointed to the door, and I left him. That night she died, but not till he had disturbed her last moments by the rites of his church, which she desired and needed not.

The number of converts from popery has been large during the last three years, and is still increasing: in the county Kerry, many hundreds have embraced a purer faith. The most zealous anp efficient agents of this change are the Irish teachers, whose success has alarmed the Romish hierarchy: the more so, as it is impossible to arrest the silent progress and influence of these indefatigable men, who are supported by subscription: their expenses are trifling; their addresses and tracts admirably adapted to the feelings and minds of the people, whose language, tastes, and habits, are theirs also. In all seasons and weathers they traverse the coasts, moors, and remote places of every province: many of them are clever and educated men, and very many have the quickness of thought and eloquence of tongue peculiarly Irish, which, beside the turf fire in the midst of the family circle, find a way to the hearts and fancies of the hearers.

Clonmel is a large and uninteresting town, with an extensive and improving trade in corn, bacon, and butter: the people are well looking, and there is a decided improvement in the features and complexion of the women. Ireland is not in general a land of female beauty; if the traveller expects often to find comeliness of features, richness of form, or delicacy of complexion, he will be disappointed: can these abound, in the midst of so much poverty and privation, and so habitual a neglect of niceness and cleanliness? The scenery around Clonmel is peculiar, with rather a foreign aspect: often in this country do its everchanging scenes call to memory some passages and places of far distant lands and climes. The Suir, that seems to bear loveliness on its bosom, has many a delicious walk on its banks to even twelve miles below. In a hollow of the mountains, in a site bold, wild, and lone, and suited to its own solemn character, is the ruined castle of Ardfinnan: its feudal village beside it, whose peasants still love it, for their fathers remembered the day of its power and plenty. A few days may be spent delightfully in this vicinity, wherein are the domains and woods of Lord Donoughmore and other gentlemen. Provisions of all kinds are cheap, as are the charges at the inns. When the projected railways through the heart of the country are accomplished, an Irish tour will be the cheapest in Europe. . . . . The town of Kilkenny, which we visited some days afterwards, is rich in interest, in its castle, abbey, and ancient cathedral, its pleasant site, its clean and prosperous appearance: it is not often that they who run mad about Irish antiqui ties, can find so orthodox a repast. Its antidote is found in Callan, eight miles distant, a small town of inexpressible wretchedness: almost every one who approached us had an aspect of helpless misery: lost to all energy, they breathed and crawled out of their hovels and in again; their life had no mercies or compassions: joy must long have forsaken every home in Callan, over whose every door might be written "here hope never comes."

How utterly the spirit, even of the Irish, that struggles earnestly to the last, may be crushed, is evident here: destitution, daily and hourly; want of employment, which no rising or setting of the sun relieves. It was impossible to give to all the groups who gathered fast around there was no cheerfulness among them, as in other places, no little sallies or smiles, no baits of the fancy to move the heart to charity. Poverty, like an armed man, bound them cruelly together and no hand could break that bond.

Even in this abject misery, they did not seem to hate or reproach each other: there is surely more sympathy among the Irish poor than in the poor of almost any other land. One evening, when wandering in the beautiful environs of Fermoy, a woman passed us with a countenance so expressive of fortitude and kindness, that we could not help accosting her. Her tale was told in a few words, yet it contained a little volume of mercy, that beamed as she spoke, from her large dark eyes. She was a widow and childless; but had an orphan nephew, decrepit, bedridden; yet she loved him as if he was her only son. He was a helpless burden on her life, for he required an anxious care: the daily pittance she earned was most of it devoured by his necessities; yet her's was the exquisite fruit of mercy-that they who love the forsaken shall be greatly comforted. Her words became eloquent as she spoke of his lonely suffering: the pity of the father and mother both taken away, and he was left upon the cold world, without the power to move from his bed,- -a desolate bed, on which no smile or tear, save her own, ever fell, to which no other foot came to save him from perishing. And now nothing should ever part them: she left him early in the morning in the poor-room that sheltered them both, worked all day for her wages, fourpence-halfpenny, and then hastened home to sit by his side, to talk to him and share their meal together. He was able to read, and she had got for him a few books and tracts, which amused the long day: he prayed often, and he prayed for her earnestly: his joy was great when she returned at night; and he had looked forward to this return in his sadness and in his pain, and had watched the decline of day on the walls. Is it any wonder that she loved this decrepit youth? was she not desolate also? and was it not beautiful to see that the thoughts and feelings, all the hope and love of this orphan, were given to her alone? Was it not better to toil and weep, to fear and watch for him, than to be loved by no one, to be prayed and longed for by no pale lips, by no watchful eye. It was strange how she contrived to support the two on such earnings, which were gained by daily and continual labour. There was a candle to be provided at times in the long winter nights, when he could not sleep for weakness or pain; his life, but for the love she bore him, was heavy to be borne. She uttered no complaint or murmur, where many would have murmured, or have been depressed at the hopelessness of the lot: if sickness and feebleness should intervene, and she could work no more from morning to night, on what were they then to live? and when all means failed, and fail they must ere many years, for she was now sixty, what gloom would fall upon the home of the widow and the orphan; what sorrow, deepening with every day and night's return! Yet she was cheerful, her voice was firm and animated. Could they

who are at ease in their possessions, and often luxurious in their woes, drink of the living waters of hope, resignation, and cheerfulness, that flow fast round the Irish home and heart-their life would be happier, their sun would less often go down at noonday.

Ireland was not, until recently, a very frequent haunt of the tourist : now it is become favourite and exciting ground, and draws increasing numbers every season away from Italy and the Alps. Yet it has not produced one eminent traveller from its own bosom. There was a young man, rich and enterprising, who went to Palestine, about four years since, resolved to distinguish himself in some way out of the beaten track of travellers: he took a fancy to explore the whole of the Dead Sea by sailing on its waters-a beautiful fancy, never yet realized. It was necessary to have a boat, and they began to build one for him on the very spot. This was an injudicious attempt; for with less trouble, a far better boat than he could build might be transported from Jaffa, a distance of only eighteen hours on the back of one or two camels. This ship-building at Jericho was full of annoyances: the workmen were awkward and inexperienced; it may safely be said, that it was the first time, since the walls of Jericho fell down, that a boat was seen in its vicinity. The work, however, went on under the superintendence of the traveller, who resided chiefly in a tent: slowly and with many interruptions it went on; but he was an enthusiast, bent to accomplish his design, and be the first who had ever sailed on the Dead Sea. There is certainly no other way in which they can be explored, in their windings, coves, beetling precipices, and caverns the journey by land around the coast is perilous and unsatisfactory; a long and savage progress, full of privations and dangers, unsoothed by any discovery. He was alone, and in such a voyage it was necessary to have a companion: but he was in the inexperience of his first journey: and Palestine ought never to be the first journey of any man, nor should it be undertaken at an early period of life; not till the mind is matured, and its hopes and memories in harmony with the indelible scenes. Pity that the Irishman was blighted in his intent when on the eve of accomplishment; a journal of such a voyage would have been a rich novelty. But it was not to be: a mightier enemy than the Bedouin or the desert was near. It was summer: the excessive heat, the fatigue and anxiety of his boat building, with the unwholesome air of the deadly shore, threw him into a fever: there was no medical aid at hand. He felt his life failing, and that the work, over which he had watched night and day, was for ever at an end. When they bore him slowly away to Jerusalem, and he cast his eyes for the last time on the dark waters, whose hope had perished, and with it every hope of home, and of all he loved-did not the iron enter into his soul? He was taken to the house of a German, who had lately come to the city as agent to one of the missions, and who did all that his slender means allowed for his comfort. Perhaps the sufferings of the mind were now more acute than those of the body: he was desolate; no friend or associate near; his last thoughts and feelings might never be known to his family. In these countries the anguish of sickness is aggravated by the belief that judicious and timely remedies might yet be availing.

The unfortunate young man lingered for a few weeks, and as his life wasted, his thoughts wandered intensely to his home, to the scenes of his own dear Ireland, where his future life was to have been passed. Palestine was the first fruit of his eastern journey, which was afterwards to include Syria and Turkey; but he was cut off at the threshold. It was fortunate that he was in the house of the German-his servant could not be depended on, for he had engaged him but a short time before. In the Franciscan convent, the monks would have had little sympathy for his state.

His host was a kind-hearted and a good man; while he soothed his sufferings, he spoke often and with emotion of the world to which he was drawing nigh, and of that garden and sepulchre through which its glory is attained. His words sank into a heart that was never hardened traveller wept over his parting life and hope, and lifted his spirit to God with an utter desolation, a dying energy that did not fail to find mercy. No love was to go with him to the tomb:-his grave would be forsaken. Yet the agony passed away from his mind; his "golden bowl was broken at the cistern," but over the blighted future, the lonely death-bed, the foreign grave-now woke the love of that Redeemer, who died near the spot where he was now dying. He could almost hear the hymns that rose round His tomb, day and night, which told that the terror was taken from death for ever. Every rock and bank, every hill and cavern around him was hallowed; the sun that rose over Olivet and Bethany seemed to fall with a deeper lustre on his lonely chamber; the very air seemed to breathe of compassion and peace. His last moments were to be envied by those who fall so early and so desolately. He was buried without the walls, on the declivity of the hill, in the Armenian burying-ground: his host was the only mourner who stood beside his grave.

The road to Dublin by Carlow, was through a rich and productive country, dimmed by a heavy fall of rain. Of a city so often described, it may be said that it is more one of pleasure than business; of display than of comfort or luxury, and would be to the stranger an enjoyable place, if the demon of party-spirit was less in the streets, the chambers, the festive and social parties.

One of its most useful establishments is a private asylum, whose governess was well known in a similar institution at York, which she left to take the direction of this. The building is in the environs, in a quiet and pleasant situation; it is extensive, and the interior admirably arranged; a perfect neatness and cleanliness pervades the whole, with a kindness of manner and gentleness of treatment, that recalled to mind the establishment of the celebrated Esquirol, near Paris. It is rarely that a lady is sole director of so delicate and baffling a government, that requires a peculiar ascendancy and influence over the inmates.

There is a spacious garden laid out in walks and flower-beds, with a corridor on one side, where they walk or sit, work or cultivate flowers; most of the patients were cheerful or calm, and pursued some employment or amusement. It was not thus in every case; there was one gentleman who never went there, and scarcely left his room, where he Jay good part of the day on the sofa; the weather was warm, but he had