stances, and attributed to indifference my anxiety to leave. I was obliged to let her in some degree into the secret, but not to the full extent, and thus partly reconciled her to my departure. She wept bitterly on taking leave; but I promised to write frequently, and see her again as soon as possible. I never saw her more, and our correspondence soon ceased. It is strange how quickly the memory things we think destined to live for ever in our recollection is obliterated, as time rolls slowly and imperceptibly over them. To a young girl of warm imagination, an actor more especially the actor whose business lies in the sentimental characters-is most dangerous society. She has seen him, perhaps, for the first time, bodying forth the very being of her young anticipation; uttering, in the most finished and fascinating language, sentiments to which her heart's deepest echoes respond; and this impression, the first and strongest, clings fondly to all their future intercourse. He must be very revolting, indeed, if his actual does away with his fancied character.

Next morning I set out a little before the car, having an understanding that the driver was to take me up as he passed. After paying for my new lodging, and sharing with Henry and Mrs. Liston, my whole stock was half-a-crown for a journey of eighty miles; yet I felt much less uneasiness than when I sent our carpenter and property-man the same distance with fifteen shillings. About a mile out of Kilkenny the car overtook me. I imagined the driver had directions to stop and take me up: no such

E

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

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 bill— which, 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.