sure too, on those portions of my life when I was poorest and most forsaken, in preference to the days of my prosperity, and the hours of my greatest enjoyment: like the traveller who, after a long journey through some dark winter's day, finds himself at the approach of night seated by the corner of a cheery fire in his inn; every rushing gust of wind that shakes the building, every plash of the beating rain against the glass, but adds to his sense of comfort, and makes him hug himself with satisfaction to think how he is no longer exposed to such a storm-that his journey is accomplished-his goal is reached-and as he draws his chair closer to the blaze, it is the remembrance of the past gives all the enjoyment to the present. In the same way, the pleasantest memories of old age are of those periods in youth when we have been successful over difficulty, and have won our way through every opposing obstacle. Joy's memory is indeed no longer joy. Few can look back on happy hours without thinking of those with whom they spent them, and then comes the sad question, Where are they now? What man reaches even the middle term of life with a tithe of the friends he started with in youth; and as they drop off one by one around him, comes the sad reflection, that the period is passed when such ties can be formed anew — The book of the heart once closed, opens no more. But why these reflections? I must close them, and with them my story at once.

"The few pounds I possessed in the world enabled me to reach Quebec and take my passage in a timber vessel bound for Cork. Why I returned to Ireland, and with what intentions, I should be sorely puzzled, were you to ask of me. Some vague, indistinct feeling of home connected with my birth-place had, perhaps, its influence over me. So it was-I did so.

"After a good voyage of some five weeks, we anchored in Cove, where I landed, and proceeded on foot to Tralee. It was night when I arrived. A few faint glimmering lights could be seen here and there from an upper window, but all the rest was in darkness. Instinctively, I wandered on till I came to the little street where my aunt had lived. I knew every stone in it. There was not a house I passed but I was familiar with all its history. There was Mark Cassidy's provision store, as he proudly called a long dark room, the ceiling thickly studded with hams and bacon, coils of rope, candles, flakes of glue, and loaves of sugar; while a narrow pathway was eked out below, between a sugar-hogshead, some sacks of flour and potatoes, hemp-seed, tar, and treacle, interspersed with scytheblades, reaping-hooks, and sweeping-brushes-a great coffee-roaster adorning the wall, and forming a conspicuous object for the wonderment of the country people, who never could satisfy themselves whether it was a new-fashioned clock, or a weather-glass, or a little threshing-machine, or a money-box. Next door was Maurice Fitzgerald's the apothecary, a cosy little cell of eight by six, where there was just space left for a long prac tised individual to grind with a pestle, without putting his right elbow through a blue glass bottle that figured in the front window, or his left into active intercourse with a regiment of tinctures that stood up, brown, and muddy, and foetid, on a shelf hard-by. Then came Joe McEvoy's, licensed for spirits and enthertainment,' where I had often stood as a boy, to listen to the pleasant sounds of Larry Branaghan's pipes, or to the agreeable ditties of Adieu, ye shinin' daisies, I loved you well and long,' as sung by him, with an accompaniment. Then there was Mister Moriarty's the attorney, a great man in the petty sessions, a bitter pill for all the country gentlemen. He was always raking up knotty cases of their decisions, and reporting them to the Limerick Vin

dicator, under the cognomen of Brutus' or Coriolanus.' I could just see by the faint light that his house had been raised a story higher, and little iron balconies, like railings, stuck to the drawing-room windows. Next came my aunt's. There it was my foot was on the door-step where I stood as a child, my little heart wavering between fears of the unknown world without, and hopes of doing something-heaven knows what-which would make me a name hereafter; and there I was now, after years of toil and peril of every kind, enough to have won me distinction, success enough to have made me rich, had either been but well-directed, and yet I was poor and humble, as the very hour I quitted that home. I sat down on the steps, my heart heavy and sad, my limbs tired, and before many minutes fell fast asleep, and never awoke till the bright sun was shining gaily on one side of the little street, and already the preparations for the coming day were going on about me. I started up, afraid and ashamed of being seen, and turned into the little ale-house close by to get my breakfast. Joe himself was not forthcoming; but a fat, pleasant-looking, yellow-haired fellow, his very image, only some dozen years younger, was there, bustling about among some pewterquarts and tin-measures, arranging tobacco-pipes, and making up little pennyworths of tobacco.

"Is your name M'Evoy?' said I.

"The same, at your service,' said he, scarce raising his eyes from his occupation.

"Not Joe M'Evoy ?'

"No, sir, Ned M'Evoy; the ould man's name was Joe.'

"He's dead then, I suppose?'

666

Ay, sir; these eight years come micklemass; is it a pint or a naggin of sperits?'

"Neither; it's some breakfast, a rasher and a few potatoes, I want most. I'll take it here, or in the little room.'

“Faix, ye seem to know the ways of the place,' said he, smiling as he saw me deliberately push open a small door, and enter a little parlour once reserved for favourite visitors.

"It's many years since I was here before,' said I to the host, as he stood opposite to me, and watched the progress I was making with my breakfast; 'so many, that I can scarce remember more than the names of the people I knew very well. Is there a Miss O'Kelly living in the town? It was somewhere near this, her house.'

666

Yes, above Mr. Moriarty's, that's where she lived; but sure she's dead and gone, many a day ago. I mind Father Donellan, the priest that was here before Mr. Nolan, saying masses for her sowl, when I was a slip of a boy.

"Dead and gone,' repeated I to myself sadly-for though I scarcely expected to meet my poor old relative again, I cherished a kind of half hope that she might still be living. And the priest, Father Donellan, he's dead too ?'

"Yes, sir; he died of the fever, that was so bad four years ago.' "And Mrs. Brown that kept the post-office?"

"She went away to Ennis when her daughter was married there; I never heard tell of her since.'

"So that, in fact, there are none of the old inhabitants of the town remaining. All have died off?'

"Every one, except the ould captain; he's the only one left.' "Who is he?'

"Captain Dwyer; maybe you knew him?'

"Yes, I knew him well; and he's alive?-he must be very old by this time?'

"He's something about eighty-six or seven; but he doesn't let on to more nor sixty, I believe; but sure talk of God preserve us, here

he is.'

"As he spoke, a thin withered-looking old man, bent double with age, and walking with great difficulty, came to the door, and in a cracked voice called out

"Ned M'Evoy, here's the paper for you, plenty of news in it too about Mister O'Connell and the meetings in Dublin. If Cavanagh takes any fish, buy a sole or a whiting for me, and send me the paper back.' "There's a gentleman inside here was just asking for you, sir,' said the host.

"Who is he? Is it Mr. Creagh? At your service, sir,' said the old man, sitting down in a chair near me, and looking at me from under the shadow of his hand spread over his brow. You're Mr. Studdart, I'm thinking?'

"No, sir; I do not suspect you know me; and, indeed, I merely mentioned your name as one I had heard of many years ago when I was here, but not as being personally known to you.'

"Oh! troth and so you might, for I'm well known in these parts— eh, Ned?' said he, with a chuckling cackle, that sounded very like hopeless dotage. I was in the army-in the "Buffs;" maybe you knew one Clancy was in them?'

“No, sir; I have not many military acquaintances. I came here this morning on my way to Dublin, and thought I would just ask a few questions about some people I knew a little about-Miss O'Kelly.'

"Ah, dear! Poor Miss Judy-she's gone these two or three years.' "Ay, these fifteen,' interposed Ned.

"No, it isn't, though,' said the captain crossly, 'it isn't more than three at most-cut off in her prime too-she was the last of an old stock-I knew them all well. There was Dick-blazing Dick O'Kelly, as they called him, that threw the sheriff into the mill-race at Kilmacud, and had to go to France afterwards; and there was Peter, Peter got the property, but he was shot in a duel. Peter had a son-a nice devil he was too-he was drowned at sea; and except the little girl that has the school up thereSally O'Kelly-she is one of them-there's none to the fore.'

"And who was she, sir?'

"Sally was-what's this? Ay, Sally is daughter to a son Dick left in France; he died in the war in Germany, and left this creature, and Miss Judy heard of her, and got her over here, just the week she departed herself. She's the last of them now-the best family in Kerry-and keeping a child's school. Ay, ay, so it is, and there's property too coming to her, if they could only prove that chap's death, Con O'Kelly; but sure no one knows any thing where it happened. Sam Fitzsimon advertised him in all the papers, but to no use.'

"I did not wait for more of the old captain's reminiscences, but snatching up my hat, I hurried down the street, and in less than half an hour was closeted with Mr. Samuel Fitzsimon, attorney-at-law, and gravely discussing the steps necessary to be taken for the assumption of my right to a small property, the remains of my Aunt Judy's, but a few hundred pounds, renewal fines of lands, that had dropped before my father's death. My next visit was to the little school, which was held in the parlour, where poor Aunt Judy used to have her little card parties. The old stuffed macaw, now from dirt and smoke he might have passed for a raven, was VOL. XXII.-No. 127.

C

still over the fire-place, and there was the old miniature of my father, and on the other side was one, which I had not seen before, of Father Donnellan, in full robes. All the little old conchologies were there too, and except the black plethoric-looking cat, that sat staring fixedly at the fire, as if she was grieving over the price of coals, I missed nothing. Miss Sally was a nice modest looking young woman, with an air of better class about her than her humble occupation would seem to imply. I made known my relationship in a few words, and having told her that I had made all arrangements for settling whatever property I possessed upon her, and informed her that Mr. Fitzsimon would act as her guardian, I wished her good-bye and departed. I saw that my life must be passed in occupation of one kind or other-idleness would never do, and with the only "fifty" I reserved to myself of my little fortune I started for Paris. What I was to do I had no idea whatever, but I well knew, you have only to lay the bridle on Fortune's neck and you'll seldom be disappointed in ad

ventures.

"For some weeks I strolled about Paris enjoying myself as thoughtlessly as though I had no need of any effort to replenish my failing exchequer. The mere human tide that flowed along the Boulevards, and through the gay gardens of the Tuileries, would have been amusement enough for me. Then there were theatres, and cafés, and restaurauts, of every class from the costly style of the Rocher' down to the dinner beside the fountain Des Innocents,' where you feast for four sous, and where the lowest and poorest class of the capital resorted.. Well, well, I might tell you some strange scenes of those days, but I must hurry on.

"In my rambles through Paris, visiting strange and out-of-the-way places, dining here, and supping there, watching life under every aspect I could behold it, I strolled one evening across the Pont Neuf into the 'Isle St. Louis,' that quaint old quarter with its narrow straggling streets and its tall gloomy houses, barricadoed like fortresses. The old porte cochere studded with nails, and barred with iron, and having each a small window to peer through at the stranger without, spoke of days when outrage and attack were rife, and it behoved every man to fortify his stronghold as best he could. There were now to be found the most abandoned and desperate of the whole Parisian world-the assassin, the murderer, the housebreaker, the coiner, found a refuge in this confused wilderness of gloomy alleys and dark dismal passages. When night falls, no lantern throws a friendly gleam along the streets-all is left in perfect darkness, save when the red light of some cabaret lamp streams across the pavement. In one of these dismal streets I found myself when night set in, and although I walked on and on, somehow I never could extricate myself, but continually kept moving in some narrow circle, so I guessed at least, for I never wandered far from the deep-toned bell of Notre Dame,' that went on chanting its melancholy peal through the stillness of the night air. I often stopped to listen, now it seemed before, now behind me, the rich solemn sound floating through those cavernous streets, had something awfully impressive. The voice that called to prayer heard in that gloomy haunt of crime, was indeed a strange and appalling thing. At last it ceased, and all was still. For some time I was uncertain how to act, I feared to knock at a door and ask my way, the very confession of my loneliness would have been an invitation to outrage, if not murder. No one passed me; the streets seemed actually deserted.

"Fatigued with walking I sat down on a door sill and began to consider what was best to be done, when I heard the sound of heavy feet moving along towards me, the clattering of sabots on the rough pavement, and

shortly after a man came up who, I could just distinguish, seemed to be a labourer. I suffered him to pass me a few paces and then called

out

66 6

Holloa, friend, can you tell me the shortest way to the "Pont

Neuf?"

"He replied by some words in a patois so strange I could make nothing of it. I repeated my question, and endeavoured, by signs, to express my wish. By this time he was standing close beside me, and I could mark, was evidently paying full attention to all I said. He looked about him once or twice, as if in search of some one, and then turning to me said in a thick guttural voice

"Halte la, I'll come;' and with that he moved down in the direction he originally came from, and I could hear the clatter of his heavy shoes till the sounds were lost in the winding alleys.

"A sudden thought struck me that I had done wrong. The fellow had evidently some dark intention by his going back, and I repented bitterly having allowed him to leave me; but then what were easier for him than to lead me where he pleased had I retained him; and so I reflected, when the noise of many voices speaking in a half-subdued accent came up the street. I heard the sound, too, of a great many feet; my heart sickened as the idea of murder, so associated with the place, flashed across me; and I had just time to squeeze myself within the shelter of the door-way when the party came up.

"Somewhere hereabouts, you said, wasn't it?' said one in a good accent, and a deep, clear voice.

"Oui da!' said the man I had spoken to, while he felt with his hands upon the walls and door-way of the opposite house.

there,' he shouted.

• Holloa "Be still, you fool: don't you think that he suspects something by this time? Did the others go down the Rue des Loups?'

"Yes, yes,' said a voice close to where I stood.

"Then all's safe; he can't escape that way. Strike a light, Pierre.* "A tall figure, wrapped up in a cloak, produced a tinder box, and began to clink deliberately with a steel and flint. Every flash showed me some savage-looking face, where crime and famine struggled for mastery, while I could mark that many had large clubs of wood, and one or two were armed with swords. I drew my breath with short efforts, and was preparing myself for the struggle, in which, though I saw death before me, I resolved to sell life dearly, when a hand was passed across the pillar of the door, and rested on my leg. For a second it never stirred; then slowly moved up to my knee, where it stopped again. My heart seemed to cease its beating: I felt like one around whose body some snake is coiling fold after fold his slimy grasp. The hand was gently withdrawn, and before I could recover from my surprise, I was seized by the throat and hurled out into the street. A savage laugh rang through the crowd, and a lantern, just lighted, was held up to my face, while he who spoke first called out

"You didn't dream of escaping us, béte, did you?' at the same moment hands were thrust into my various pockets; the few silver pieces I possessed were taken; my watch torn off; my hat examined, and the lining of my coat ripped open, and all so speedily that I saw at once I had fallen into experienced hands.

"Where do you live in Paris?' said the first speaker, still holding the light to my face, and staring fixedly at me while I answered.

"I am a stranger and alone,' said I, for the thought struck me, that