charming bits of scenery; but at no point is it prettier than near the neat little town of Innistiogue. Here it foams along in a narrowed bed by rocks veiled with trailing ivy, and fringed with tufted fern. The banks, a mass of billowy woodland, soar to a majestic height, one summit being crowned by a tower. Some way beneath this can be discerned the roof of a mansion peering from amidst the foliage. From a chimney here and there rises a thin column of purplish smoke into the still air. This is Woodstock, the most enviable possession, perhaps, in a country rich in pleasant residences. In the middle of last century an edifice of plainer construction stood there, and in it lived Sir William Fownes, second baronet of that name, and his wife, Lady Elizabeth Fownes (nee Pon- | sonby), a sister of the first Lord Bessborough. This couple had an only child and heiress, who, in early life, married Mr. Tighe, a gentleman of property in Wicklow; and in this way the Woodstock estate passed into the hands of the Tighes, who are now its owners. The departure of their daughter left a void in their household, which was soon filled by Lady Elizabeth's adopting a young relative, Sarah Ponsonby, at that time about eighteen. Their relationship was, strictly speaking, that of first cousins once removed, but they called one another niece and aunt. Miss Ponsonby was an orphan and penniless. There is no reason to suppose that she was remarkable for good looks. She is said to have been a tall, well-grown young woman, with all the freshness of youth, a pleasing aspect, and gentle disposition. There was everything in her position to make her happy, and happy for some years she certainly was. She had every comfort that mortal could want. The society around Woodstock was numerous and lively; when the days began to shorten, she accompanied the Fowneses to their house in Dublin, which stood in that rather gloomy thoroughfare, Dominick street. Here the Parliamentary season was passed, Sir William We all know how gay a capital old Dublin was in the days anterior to the Union. Sarah Ponsonby enjoyed her share of the pleasures it afforded as much as other young people; but that she had some trouble at heart was apparent in the expression of vexation which at times clouded her face. While in town the distractions of society kept her mind employed; it was at Woodstock that the change in her was most observable. On this clear autumu morning, when all nature lay tranquil in sunshine, why did she quit the house with the air of one pursued, and traversing the garden with hasty steps, plunge into the shrubbery? The cause was not far off. At the end of a long, straight walk, bordered on either hand by a closely clipped wall of holly, bay, and box, she beheld the portly figure of Sir William Fownes approaching. Turning at once down a side path, she fled back, locked herself in a room and sat down to meditate. The truth, then, must be told. Sir William, notwithstanding his advanced years, had fallen in love with her whom he ought to have looked upon as his own child. He made, it would seem, no effort to conquer this unworthy passion, but urged his suit so persistently as to render life a burden to the object of his admiration. For Miss Ponsonby the situation was most painful. She had the sincerest affection for Lady Elizabeth; and for Sir William-till he appeared in this new character-her feelings were those of gratitude and respect. But now she shrank from him with abhorrence. She knew that to continue beneath his roof would be to encounter fresh insult. She could not bring herself to reveal the affair to Lady Elizabeth (or Lady Betty, as she was generally called) knowing how it would distress her. At the same time she needed some one to listen to her story and give her advice. Passing in mental review the few friends she knew well enough to confide in she soon came to a decision. Her choice fell upon Miss Butler, the youngest of the three daughters of Mr. Walter Butler, of Kil- | cation finished, she left France with kenny Castle. This gentleman was really sixteenth Earl of Ormonde, though the title (owing to the belief that it had fallen under the attainder of the second duke) was now dormant. Kilkenny Castle was, indeed, a changed place from what it had been in the time of the duke who lived there in almost regal state. It was there that he entertained William III. with masque, ball, and banquet, in the interval between the battle of the Boyne and the siege of Limerick. But after this attainder and death in exile it was allowed to fall into a dilapidated condition. Its owner occupied the only habitable portion of the building, and there lamented the decay which he was too poor to arrest. A traveller who visited the castle at this epoch calls it an illustrious ruin;" the state apartments were deserted; the gardens lay waste; the once trimly kept bowlinggreen was open to all who could pay for using it. His mention of the But lers themselves is not without interest: At present (he says) the inheritor of the castle and some of the appendant manors, a Roman Catholic gentleman, affects the state of his ancestors. His wife receives company, I am told, as the old Ormonde ladies used to do. She never returns a visit, and people seem disposed to yield her this pre-eminence. The Butlers had an only son who had begun repairing the fortunes of his house by marrying an heiress, and usually resided in England. Of their daughters the eldest married Mr. Morgan Kavanagh, of Bally hale in the same county, and the second his cousin, Mr. Thomas Kavanagh, of Borris, in Carlow. Particulars of their youngest daughter's early life are, unfortunately, scanty. She was educated in France, and during a residence of some years there contracted a strong taste for all things foreign. It has been said that, while abroad, she had a disappointment in love; but this is probably a myth. The resolution she formed of never marrying was due to other causes. Her edu deep regret, and returned to a home which she found in all respects uncongenial. The dismantled castle was a dismal sight; her father was moody and self-absorbed; her mother was a shrew, with an ungovernable temper. She felt herself misunderstood; her superior education was not appreciated; her refined tastes were regarded as affectation. Never was a woman so out of tune with her surroundings. Yet she reached the age of thirty-nine without one chance occurring of breaking the dreary spell. She escaped as often as possible from Mrs. Butler's ill-humors, and spent long periods in turn with her Kavanagh sisters. She also visited at Woodstock, and here she and Sarah Ponsonby first became acquainted. They were irresistibly drawn to one another-not that they were alike in disposition, for Eleanor Butler (the elder by sixteen years) liked to rule, while Sarah Ponsonby was willing to be influenced and led. Their tastes exactly agreed. They both loved the beauties in nature, books, music, drawing, witty society, and the many refinements and elegancies that brighten the lives of women of their class. Eleanor listened with eager sympathy to her friend, as she related her trouble. She herself, also, had much to tell of her unhappiness at home, of ber longings to be free. Did not the very similarity of their positions form a bond of union between them? Why, she urged, should they part-why should they not spend their lives together in some sequestered spot, where woes, unsought, would not assail them? It would have to be somewhere out of Ireland-that was settled. England was remoter than they liked. Of the beauties of North Wales they had often heard. Surely there were nooks amid those mountains and valleys in which it would be bliss to dwell! The idea was delightful; it was novel; there was a spice of romance in it too which pleased them. Long and earnestly did they discuss it, and the more they talked the more determined they were to carry it into effect. They agreed to run away together, | by Lady Betty and her daughter, Mrs. and a day was fixed for their elopement. It was arranged that Miss Butler, then staying at Ballyhale, should repair to a ruined abbey midway between that and Woodstock, and there await Miss Ponsonby. She did so; but the other fugitive not appearing, she went in search of her, and found her lying by the park wall, which she had sprained her ankle in scaling. She assisted her to rise; but poor Miss Ponsonby, after a vain effort to hobble a yard, sank down again in torture. In this plight they were discovered by a passing laborer, and the same evening they were restored to their relations. They accounted for their adventure in such a way as to satisfy inquiry. The simple Lady Betty was easily deceived. Sir William, whose guilty conscience, it may be surmised, enabled him to guess the cause, did not press Miss Ponsonby for an explanation. About two months later they again attempted to escape. While hurrying forward on foot, they were caught in a storm, and sought shelter in an old barn, the roof of which was not weatherproof. Here they remained, damp and shivering, that night and all next day till late in the evening. At length, the sky clearing, they ventured to set out, and succeeded in reaching Waterford, whence it was their intention to sail for Bristol. They had been observed on the road, however, and it soon became known at Woodstock what direction they had taken. After obtaining some much-needed food and rest, they were walking on the quay, enjoying a view of the ship in which they proposed taking passage, when whom should they meet but Lady Betty herself, who had come in pursuit with an emissary from Ballyhale! The shock was considerable; but, after some little show of resistance, they listened to reason and consented to return. Miss Ponsonby had caught a severe chill while in the barn; anxiety and disappointment told upon a sensitive nature like hers. She fell into a fever, and for some days kept her bed. While thus prostrate, great pressure was used Tighe (then staying at Woodstock), to induce her to give up Miss Butler, whom they both distrusted; but without success. Miss Butler herself was nowise discouraged by this second failure. She had resolved never to go back to Kilkenny Castle, as she heard that her parents had formed the amiable design of immuring her in a convent. The possibility, too, of her outstaying her welcome with her sisters spurred her to action. The obstacles in her path, after all, were not insurmountable. Her ascendency over Miss Ponsonby was complete; Sir William was tonguetied; with any opposition from Lady Betty she felt quite capable of dealing. She soon changed her quarters to Borris, and thence wrote daily to her friend, exhorting her to remain firm. Among her numerous Dublin асquaintances, there was no one whom Lady Betty Fownes esteemed more highly than a certain Mrs. Goddard, a widow of middle age, in whose knowledge of the world, sound sense, and kindly nature, she had the fullest confidence. Just before starting for Waterford after the runaways, she had written apprising the other of what had occurred; and, on her return, she implored her to come to her without delay and help her in her difficulty. "Altogether, it is a most extraordinary affair," she wrote. "I sometimes hardly think the cause is known to any but themselves." can She Miss Ponsonby was aware that Mrs. Goddard had been summoned. had a regard for that lady, and valued her good opinion. She doubted whether, beneath such influence, all her resolution might not melt away; if only Eleanor were near to support her, she could brave anything. She had now recovered and was about again. Availing herself of an opportunity when the rest of the family were spending the day from home, she made her way over to Borris, and a consultation was held. It was decided that Miss Butler should establish herself secretly at Woodstock, leaving the fact of her presence there to leak out as it might-an unusual pro ceeding certainly; but they agreed that an end such as they had in view quite justified the means employed. This move was promptly made, and when Mrs. Goddard reached Woodstock, she found Miss Butler mistress of the situation. A diary kept by Mrs. Goddard, and some correspondence relating to this period, were unearthed not long ago. We learn from the diary that she left Dublin early on Friday, April 24 (1778), dined at Naas, slept at Timolin, dined on Saturday at Carlow, and got to Woodstock at nine o'clock at nightthus occupying two whole days over a journey which needs but three hours now to accomplish! "A most terrible long jaunt it was," she remarks. "I found them all in distraction; saw my poor Miss Ponsonby, but Miss Butler did not appear." Sunday 26th.-I saw Miss Ponsonby again, who came down to dinner; but Miss Butler not till evening, when she came in to tea, but did not speak to me. Monday 27th.-Spoke to them both. Gave them my best advice, which they seemed to take well, and I hoped, from their manner, would have followed. They both dined with us. Tuesday 28th.-Lady Betty made me go with her to talk to them. They seemed to have grown hardened in their resolution of going together. They would not show themselves below to-day. The fact is, the lovers were waiting till everything in the way of dissuasion that could be said had been said, before producing their trump card. This they presently did. Mrs. Goddard's arguments were met by the disclosure of Sir William's ill-conduct, and for the moment she was silenced. But she returned to the charge. Closeted alone with Miss Ponsonby, she was handling Miss Butler rather roughly, alluding to her "with harshness and freedom," when an interruption, prearranged no doubt, came: Sir William joined us, kneeled, implored, swore twice on the Bible how much he loved her; would never more offend; was sorry for his past folly, that was not meant as she understood it; offered to double her allowance of thirty pounds a year, or add what more she | pleased to it, even though she did go. She thanked him for his past kindness, but said nothing could hurt her more than such a proposal, nor would she ever be under other obligation to him. If the whole world were kneeling at her feet, it would not make her forsake her purpose. She would live and die with Miss Butler. She was her own mistress, and if any force were used to detain her, she knew her own temper so well, it would provoke her to an act that would give her friends more trouble than anything she had yet done. She, however, haughtily-and, as it were, to get rid of him-made him happy by telling him that if ever she was in distress for money, he should be the first she would apply to.1 There was nothing more, then, to be said. Opposition was at an end. The emancipated pair were at no pains to conceal their joy. "I never saw anything so confident as their behavior,” observes Mrs. Goddard. Preparations for departure were at once begun boxes packed; a carriage hired to convey them to Waterford; the services of a trusty waiting-maid secured. A few days later, they started "as merry as possible." But over Woodstock the clouds were still gathering, and Lady Betty's heart was heavy. The conduct of her adopted daughter was a sore grief and puzzle to her. Of its real cause it is evident that she was, even now, ignorant; but the secret took wings, flew half over the country, and came in time to her knowledge. Sir William, though he may not have thought it, was in a The disprecarious state of health. tress, the humiliation, he now endured brought things to a crisis. Mrs. Goddard was awakened one morning at dawn by his cries. He was suffering acute internal pain, which the doctor attributed to gout in the stomach. He was bled and given a warm bath, he whereby appeared somewhat soothed; but the symptoms recurring, he was "blistered, clystered, and physicked." He was next seized with paralysis, the use of his right arm and his power of swallowing went, whereupon he was "cupped, blistered; and That he clystered." should have 1 Illustrious Irishwomen. By E. Owens Black burne. Vol. ii., p. 306. borne treatment so drastic for a whole | looking the river Dee, and commanding fortnight before succumbing is surprising. Mrs. Goddard was admitted to the sick-room. She told the patient that the "cause was in his mind," he admitting penitently that "his illness was his own fault that he was punished for." And so the curtain falls on a funeral procession winding through the little churchyard of Innistiogue. No bird escaped from cage or snare ever exulted as did the elder of the two friends on feeling herself free. "A long farewell to captivity and oppression," she thought, as the Irish coast receded from her view. Her companion, though contented, was less triumphant. A pang of remorse, as she recollected Woodstock and good Lady Betty, supplied the amari aliquid which is apt to mingle in the cup of human happiness when at its fullest. After a voyage of eight days from Waterford, they sailed into Milford Haven, whence they proceeded on a lengthened tour through the principality. While pursuing their way, they saw many spots that approached their ideal and tempted them to linger; but they pressed forward, believing that still greater attractions lay beyond. It was on a sunny evening in mid-June that they entered the Vale of Llangollen, in Denbighshire; and of all the scenes they had yet beheld, this appeared the loveliest. Here they decided that their future home should be. Though desirous of a secluded life, it was not their intention to cut themselves off from all communication with their kind. Llangollen lay on the main road to Holyhead. By living here they would enjoy the latest news from London and Dublin, besides having a peep at friends who might happen to be travelling either way. The first months of their long residence in the valley were spent at the Hand Inn, where they established friendly relations with the landlord. His advice, and the assistance he gave them in carrying out their plans, were of much value, and they were able in after years to reward him for his good offices by the extensive patronage they brought him. A little cottage standing on high ground, over a fine view of the castle-crowned eminence Dinas Bran, took their fancy. This, with three acres of adjoining land, they purchased. The ground, once a turnip-field, looked bare enough, but they perceived that the spot was capable of infinite improvement. The cottage was substantially built and in decent repair, yet too small to contain even three people with comfort. The necessary additions and alterations were begun without delay. Meanwhile, they managed to collect, in their rambles about the country, a quantity of fine old carved oak, and with this their dwelling was embellished within and without. The laying out of their pleasure-ground taxed all their ingenuity; never was so limited a space turned to such good account. The furrowed tract soon became a verdant lawn, with plantations so disposed as to give an idea of extent. Through this there wound a gravelled walk, leading to an ornamental dairy, half-concealed by shrubs, and thence descending to the margin of a brook that ran gurgling to join the Dee. But these essays in building and landscape-gardening, delightful and successful though they were, proved expensive. In the third year of their residence at Plas Newydd (such was the name they had given their cottage) the two ladies found themselves in debt. It is not exactly known what their pecuniary resources were. Miss Butler is believed to have had some small capital at her own disposal, and it is possible that her brother and sisters may have helped her. Miss Ponsonby cau have had little indeed. A reconciliation between her and her relations in Ireland took place subsequently; but just now they were not in correspondence. She ventured very reluctantly to apply to the head of her family, Lord Bessborough, for assistance. She sent him at the same time a silk skull-cap she had knitted for him, and offered him a purse of the same material. She was mistaken in supposing that her attentions would propitiate his lordship. It is clear from the manner of his reply |