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thing. I called after him, and to my inquiry whether he was not so directed, got an answer which convinced me that all chance of a lift was out of the question. I thought he was the most unfeeling scoundrel I ever met to travel on, with his car occupied only by himself, and leave me on my solitary and weary way.

I met a return chaise within twelve miles of Clonmel, and got on the rest of my way for tenpence. Here I found Bedford and the company; with whom I consented to try a few nights, I was advertised for Othello, as a first-rate tragedian-" Mr.W. from of the Theatre Royal, Bath." There was something ominous in the name, for it rained incessantly on the day and night of my announcement. Not a single soul came to the house. My second appearance (play or no play we count an announcement an appearance) shared the same fate, and no one came to see "Mr. W. of the Theatre Royal Bath" in Macbeth, It rained upon my Hamlet also, and prevented my drowning the stage with tears." Where was the use in contending with conspiring elements, that "owed me no subscription," and paid me no respect? Besides, why should I eat up the food of poorBedford's children, which the kind-hearted Englishman shared with me most ungrudgingly. I resolved to be off next morning. Little S., the good and beautiful little angel, hearing of my intention invited me to tea, and gave me half-a-crown. The next morning was a glorious one. Bedford begged of me to stay and try that night, but why should I deprive the company of a chance of subsistence? It was resolved

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that my every attempt should be rained at, and I was determined not to subject others to the consequences of my destiny.

Within about twenty-five miles were some poor tenants of my grandfather's, with whom I resolved

to sojourn until I collected some flesh upon my attenuated frame. The life of an actor, who would advance himself in his profession, must be, in its outset, one of incessant labour. In Kilkenny, I rose at eight; studied until breakfast; went then to rehearsal, where I remained until three or four; took a hurried walk; returned before dinner to lay out my dresses; dined; read with my punch until it was time for the theatre; played; on my return home took a light supper, and then studied until two, three, four, or five in the morning. This, with my subsequent starvation, had reduced me almost to a skeleton,

I failed of my destination that evening by about seven miles, and was obliged to put up at the King's Head Tavern, in a small village by the way.

Notwithstanding its regal title, the King's Head was a miserable hole. I was ushered into a kitchen about four feet square, which was warmed by the smoke issuing from a heap of wet turf that, by the process of fumigation, might be dried into firing in the course of a week. There was no breathing there. I tried the parlour, a cold, comfortless, earthenfloored room, furnished with deal tables and benches. Here I had some bread and porter, but both were so old it was impossible to swallow them; so I made

an exchange for a part of the family supper, potatoes, butter, and milk. My bed was pretty comfortable; for, though the sheets were as coarse as the coarsest bagging, they were as white as mountain snow.

The next morning was Sunday. The chapel, usually attended by the country people with whom I intended to sojourn, was about six miles distant across the mountain, and I resolved to overtake them, if possible, before Mass was concluded. My billwhich, as if they counted my pocket, amounted exactly to the last halfpenny of what was left of my half crown-being settled, I set out on my morning journey. I had got about three miles of the way, when I found I had left behind upon the dressingtable my hair-ring-the only token from my Kilkenny love. Here was a situation. I was sure of something to eat at the chapel: a ravenous appetite on one hand, and the ring upon the other! I sat by the road-side to deliberate, but could come to no conclusion. A glance at my shoes resolved me upon going on. They could not stand the backward journey. On my arrival at the chapel it was deserted. The congregation had left about fifteen minutes before. I had two miles farther to travel into the mountain. Faint and hungry, I accomplished them with much difficulty; but a glorious dish of bacon, for which I just arrived in time, made amends for my suffering. Here I remained a fortnight: mountain air and abundant food soon restored my good looks, and a little rent, furnished in advance, enabled me to return home-completely CURED,

STANZAS.

The following is the only article in the volume not original. I took the lines from an old periodical, and placed them here for an increased circulation. If they yield my readers anything like the pleasure they afforded me, I shall not regret the selection :

Come, here's a health to thee and thine!
Trust me, whate'er we may be told,
Few things are better than old wine,
When tasted with a friend that's old;
We're happy yet, and in our track,

New pleasures though we may not find,
There's still a joy in looking back
On sunny prospects left behind.

Like that famed hill in Western clime,
Through gaudy noon-tide dark and bare,
That tinges still, at vesper time,

With purple gleam the evening air;

So there's a joy in former days

In times, and tones, and thoughts gone by,
As, beautified, their heads they raise

Bright in imaginations sky.

Time's glass is filled with varied sand,

With fleeting joy, and transient grief,
We'll turn, and with no sparing hand,

O'er many a strange fantastic leaf:
And fear not, but, 'mid many a blot,

There are some pages written fair,
And flowers, that time can wither not,

Preserved still faintly fragrant there.

As the hushed night glides gentler on,
Our music shall breathe forth its strain,

To tell of pleasures that are gone,
And heighten those that yet remain;

And that creative breath, divine,

Shall waken many a slumbering thrill,

And call forth many a mystic line
Of faded joys, remembered still.

Again the moments it shall bring

When youth was in his freshest prime
We'll pluck the roses that still spring
Upon the grave of buried time.
There's magic in the olden song-
Yea e'en extatic are the tears
Which will steal down, our smiles among
Roused by the sounds of other years.

And as the mariner can find

Wild pleasure in the voiced roar
E'en of the often-dreaded wind

That wrecked his every hope before→→
If there's a pang that lurks beneath—
For youth had pangs-oh! let it rise
'Tis sweet to feel the poet breathe
The spirit of our former sighs!

We'll hear the strains, we heard so oft
In life's first warm, impassioned hours
That fell on our young hearts, as soft

As summer dews on summer flowers;
And as the stream, where'er it hies,
Steals something in its purest flow-
These strains shall taste of extacies

O'er which they floated long ago.

E'en in our morn, when Fancy's eye
Glanced sparkling o'er a world of bliss,
When Joy was young, and Hope was high,
We could not find much more than this.
Howe'er, then, Time our day devours,
Why should our smile be overcast-
Why should we grieve for fleeting hours
Who find a future in the past 2

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