twenty, tall, well made, free and loose in his movements, with a handsome sunburnt face, dark restless eyes, and black hair. His dress was sailor-like-a short blue jacket, red waistcoat, white trousers, and low-crowned hat; and yet, from its trim cut, costly quality, and foppish arrangement, as well as from the expression of his features and bearing, the costume seemed to be a holiday affectation of the wearer, assumed, perhaps, to make him a fitting figure for the stern of his pleasure-boat during occasional excursions over the beautiful bay of Dublin. Still glancing around him, he darted into the ruin; and now his eyes became differently occupied, for they turned here and there as if expecting to meet another person. He found himself alone however, and a shade of disappointment crossed his fine brow. He snatched out his watch, looked at it, nodded his head as if in a spirit of less impatience, and then, with a quick, hot sigh, suddenly reclined his person, in a half-sitting position, upon a low, moss-covered head-stone, and seemed endeavouring to make up his mind to wait a little, as quietly as he could.

After a few minutes, the character of his place of rendezvous gradually impressed itself upon his mind-though, indeed, habits had not for many years prepared him for a fit of moralising. He started up, and, as if to occupy himself against reflection, peered closely through the twilight at the rude or quaint inscriptions upon the humble monuments at hand. Deciphering many without profit to himself, and not even with passing attention, he suddenly stood still before a particular one. He found it unskilfully carved in a rough slab inserted into the wall of the ruin, and it seemed to him the handywork of a village amateur in the use of the chisel and mallet, rather than that of the least expert regular practitioner. At first he had glanced over it lightly, and read it imperfectly, now he stepped closer to it, rubbed it with weeds, that their moisture might more plainly bring out the letters, and perused it again attentively, word for word, until his heart-albeit long unaccustomed to such sensations -half owned an admiring and a subdued feeling. A time of simple and happy boyhood—of the springing up of intellect, afterwards checked of a gentle mother's voice, praising him or reprehending him-became present to his thoughts; and then recollections of a wildly-spent youth-of pure mental pleasures foregone and scoffed at -and of that mother's consequent regrets and pining, with a cold fear that they had shortened her life,—all this was called up by what he read. But we have intimated that his first feeling was admiration of the little elegiac inscription. It was so, indeed. In his boyish days, to which allusion has been made, he had heard a good deal of what was and what was not to be considered as approaching to perfection in epitaphs; and, with a recollection of these gleamings of early knowledge, he now thought that in the mouldering wall of this village cemetery he had discovered one which the most polished poets of, at least, his own language had scarcely equalled. To enable others to judge of his criticism, we will give the lines in question; adding, that we see no reason why they should not be open to perusal at the present moment, in the spot where our young friend found them out; they certainly were there a few years ago.


"An earthly friend, who loved thy form when here,
Erects this stone to dust he held most dear;
Peace to thy gentle shade! eternal rest

To thy pure soul, now numbered with the blest!
Yet take these tears, mortality's relief,
And, till I share thy joys, forgive my grief:
These little rites, a stone, a verse receive-
"Tis all a father and a friend can give :
Sept. 18th, 1766.

Aged nearly 25 years."

"Very beautiful!" soliloquised the holiday sailor; "very beautiful, if not in the art and science of the verses, certainly in the sentiments. I get before me at once the affection of that father for that daughter; her affection for him; and the pure flow of the blended stream of both. I almost get before me their ways of life, in some little village solitude hereabouts; ways of elegant pursuit, though held on in poverty, or, at least, privation; I almost see the growing up, under his hand, of the girl's mind and heart, until she became a companion to him-a solace for worldly disappointments-perhaps for her mother's untimely death; and so she was his earthly all, until death took her too. There is a sacred strain of love through those lines; they do not breathe of the passion of human affection, and yet they are exquisitely human. The lorn survivor respects and venerates as much as he loves. Nay, there is not only admitted equality with his daughterfriend, but, in the certainty of the elevation of her spirit to a higher sphere, there is a kind of admitted superiority. He does not erect the little stone-carved doubtless by his own hands-to the immortal soul that is now beatified beyond his regrets; he offers it but to his child's dust'-(and even that dust is most dear!')—his tears fall upon the rough slab; and such is his holy, christian consciousness of her place and worth in heaven, that he deems, father as he is, an apology necessary for them. He asks her to indulge them as 'mortality's relief;' and what can be more touching than the argument, here, to his sainted child

" And, till I share thy joys, forgive my grief.""


Thus ran the young man's thoughts. And now, is it not singular that he who could make this soliloquy was not at present by any means a good man? That at least his conduct had lately and for some time been what is deservedly called immoral ? Such is the fact, however. It may appear more extraordinary, when we become better acquainted with him, that he could even go on to meditate, almost like a philosopher, upon his temporary position in the little churchyard. Perhaps, indeed, since his boyish days, a pause of intellectual abstraction, such as he now experienced, amid the whirl of mere animal predominance, had not happened to him. But awakened feeling often fires, in a heart not radically bad, although a very erring one, a previously dormant train of moralising; and so, touched by the pathos of the village epitaph, our young roué first ruminated as a sentimentalist, and eventually as a sage. Not that either the one

mental estrangement or the other had any influence for good, as will be seen, upon his immediate future; but do not people like him, upon the very threshold of doing almost the worst things they can do, sometimes, for a few moments, feel very amiably, and think very philosophically?

We shall follow his second soliloquy, (or more properly reverie,) as we have followed his first; and our object in this, is to hint the neglected order of mind, as well as of heart, with which we are concerned.

After having perused, for the last time, the letters on the slab in the wall, he detected himself unconsciously crushing and crumpling between his fingers the weeds which he had plucked to rub over it. He raised his hand mechanically towards his eyes, extended his palm, and gazed upon the relics of the bruised weed. Some crumbs of black clay adhered to it, and these he now went on grinding into finer particles, while something like the following was his sermon from the text they supplied.


"Ay, indeed; if one had only the time for it, it might do one's heart no harm to be alone, now and then, just in such a place, and at such an hour; trampling, though not irreverently, earth and dust that once were as proud as we are, but at present as humble as what we yet shall be. Ay, it is good to pick up, here, a little scrap of clay, and think what portion of some loquacious fool, some waxen beauty, or some Solon, only a few years ago, it formed-it was! To think that once it lived, this mean, stupid dust-had senses and apprehensions-lived, perhaps, in the orator's arching brow, or in his tongue of honied modulation; nay, throbbed and thrilled as a part of a very heart-pulse-in and of itself a very act of being!"

He was interrupted by a stealthy step sounding among the rubbish near him; he turned, and his glances flashed with earnestness and vivacity, as they encountered the figure of a man, only a few years older than himself, close at his side. The new-comer met him with smiles. He was fashionably though modestly attired, and, like his friend, well limbed and well looking, though the character of the comeliness of each was very different; and his air and manner seemed quiet, particularly in contrast with the dash and impetuosity of the other.

"Welcome, James," said the first visiter of the churchyard, grasping his hand; "this is an odd kind of place I have appointed to meet you in this evening-is it not ?"


Why, I thought so when I got your letter, William," still smiled

his friend.

"I saw it, by chance, a short time ago, and it came into my head as convenient for our present purpose, on account of its nearness to you, in the old man's house yonder, and also because it seemed a secluded nook where we could talk freely, and without impertinent lookers-on. Well! I have not ventured into town all day, but kept rowing about the bay, to give you time to work for me. You are a little behind your time."

"I had been here sooner, but that your good wife and the old baronet


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"Stop, James Hutchinson; do not mention their names-do not allude to them—that is, do not make a single allusion to them away from our present business. I cannot bring my mind to look out homeward this evening. 'Tis a smiling shore, to be sure; yet I will not-I cannot turn my eyes towards it, while I am swimming and kicking, for the bare life, upon the breakers."

"Well, William, I shall say as little as possible about wife or father."

"Or there may be another reason, James; I have not seen the face of home-I have not seen any face at home this week past, I believe; and during that week things have happened to make my face not very welcome there, perhaps; nay, they will find out, no doubt, if they have not already found out, that the sight of it is a reproach to them-good, immaculate souls, as they are; and for that reason, cousin James, they shall see little of it till we can give it another expression in their eyes."

"Tut, William; all may be well yet."


Ay, I know that, James-though I scarce hope it. I shall try it, however. Come to business; have you been able to do anything?"


Why, on your own single note or bond I could not raise a shilling.'


"Well, we feared as much."

"But," added his cousin hesitatingly, “but

"Then, James, the last resource is tried at last? What did she say? She refused; and why should she not?"

"She did not refuse."

"You have the money then?"

"I took her legal security to the little attorney, and he sends you at once upon it

"How much?" interrupted the other, snatching a pocket-book which James Hutchinson was slowly producing.

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"Five hundred pounds, William.'

"Well, it may do as much for us as treble the sum. But did she scold much ?"

"Not a word," answered James, continuing to smile assuringly.

“Well, then, what did she say?" continued William Hutchinson, forgetting his own recent resolution not to speak, away from business," of any one at home; "what did poor Fanny say?"



"Take it,' she said, with my love, and tell him to send me no more messages of apology on such an account, for I will coin my heart for him, if he only instructs me how to do it.'


"You saw no woman's frowns then?"

"Not one."

"Nor any of their other weapons-tears?"

"A few tears I think I saw. She is an estimable young person-a capital wife !"

"I-an improving scoundrel! Oh, this virtue of hers only dyes me blacker and blacker, by not leaving me a hope of rivalling it!How did she seem to take the story of my necessities ?-did she appear doubtful or credulous?"


"Quite indifferent upon that point, I thought; simply anxious to give when you had asked, no matter why or wherefore."

"And yet, James, it was her own, and her all; her very last—the relic of a dowry that I-God! what a mere reptile I have been-and am—to filch, in this manner, upon the doting love of that ture! Pray, James, how did she look ?"

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“O, convalescent; a little too pale and thin, perhaps; and yet not more so than young mothers do, who



By all that's manful I am an unnatural rascal, James—a father for the first time, and I have not yet looked into my child's features! How is the boy?"

"As I heard," answered his cousin again hesitatingly, "why, as I heard

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"From her?—she spoke of him?"

"No; we had not time for that; but just after she gave me her acceptance to your bill, my hard-grained uncle, your father"

"He was by ?" interrupted William; and he continued, in a dictatorial tone," and he saw you, and heard your conversation with her, of course? And did you, sir, so easily forget my particular charge to conceal your business from him?"

"You are too quick with me; I remembered everything; Fanny and I had settled accounts before he came in."

"All right then. So he came in to her, speaking of her little boy?" "Yes; scolding her, laughingly, for neglecting the young gentleman for a moment, who, in consequence, was very obstreperous, making a great row through the house for his luncheon."

"And how did Fanny answer him?" demanded the young father, half returning the smiles of his still-smiling cousin.

"Without a word, but with wet though laughing eyes; and then pressing the palms of her small feathery hands together, away she. bounded like a young fawn of the forest, seeking its own nestled young ones after a short absence."


Ay," muttered William, his voice broken.

"Come, come; these little things touch you close, I see; not, indeed, closer than is quite natural, but perhaps too closely for the claims upon your time and self-command at present."

"I own it, James."

"For if ever you were called upon to make an effort for the preservation of your honour, you are now appealed to."

"I will answer the appeal, sir."

"Even since I went into Dublin, on your affairs, to-day, I overheard, in the public street, something that

"They gossip about me ?-scoff at me, as a slight adventurer among them?-as the desperate spendthrift, who has not a shilling left to meet the loud calls of impatient honour!-I can guess it all, James!-Shame clings to me-but go on-in the street, you said,—in the public street ?"

"Yes; in Grafton Street; as I walked unseen behind your gay young friend Blake—”

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"He !-the old major's son ?"

"The very same-the son of your father's oldest friend; he was

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