ter, and so she kept them on from day to day for as good as a fortnight, thinking the life would go out of her every minute. Kelleher didn't mind sending word to let his woman know where he was, because why he thought his sister would draw her last breath every hour, and then he could carry the news himself; and to be sure she did die, at last, and left all her money to Kelleher, tied up in the toe of an old stocking. "Och ullagone, what'll I do at all, for sure and certain something has happened to Paddy, or he wouldn't stay out in this kind of way from me. Oh, then for certain he's drownded, kilt, and murdered, and I to be left after him, a poor lonesome widow, with never a one in the wide world to do a hand's turn for me,' cried poor Moll Kelleher, as she sat on a siestheen in the chimney corner; and then she threw her apron over her head, and began to clap her hands, and rock her body to and fro, like a ship on the wild sea, and she cronauning all the time, enough to break the heart in a stone, if it had one. 444 Why then, Molly dear, can't you be asy,' said Murty Mulcahy, a red headed tailor that was at work in the house, winking his left eye, can't you be asy, and who knows but things mayn't be so bad entirely; and sure, which ever way it goes, you won't want a friend, and Murty Mulcahy to the fore." "Now, whether it was Murty's coaxing words, or the wink, or whatever it was, it's quite certain, that Moll Kelleher from that out got quite asy, and did'nt seem to take on half so much as before, no, not even when news was brought that a man was found drowned in a bog hole on the farm: and though she didn't half believe that it was her own Paddy, she let Murty persuade her to it; for he swore by this and by that, and by all the saints in the calendar, that the drowned man was Paddy Kelleher himself, and no other in life; so they had a fine wake, and lost a world and all, till they buried him. "Well, sir, when the berring was over, Murty began to discourse Mrs. Kelleher, to try and persuade her to marry himself. 'Now, Mauria agra,' says he, 'sure you won't be after refusing Murty Mulcahy, that's the very moral of poor Paddy that's gone; and sure you never'll be able to live or manage all alone here, without having man or mortal to lend you a hand; 'tis myself would do that same for you as nate as any man in Munster; but you know it would't be dacent without our being married; so, Mauria dear, you'd better make up your mind at once." "Faint heart never won fair lady, they say, but Murty was none of that sort, signs by, that he persuaded Moll Kelleher to go with him before the priest to be married. "The Rev. Father O'Callaghan was just mixing the fourth tumbler of whisky punch, when who should bole in to him but Moll and Murty. And you must know the Rev. Father had a way with him, that he didn't like to be bothered when he was over his tumbler of punch; so he asked them, as gruff as you plase, what they wanted with him at that time of day. Upon which well become Moll, she up and told his reverence, how she was left a lone woman, without a mankind in the world, to see after her little farm, or do a hand's turn for her; and so she thought as how she'd take Murty for a husband, if his reverence had no objection, and that what brought them there was to be married that very night. Then the priest got into a mighty great bit of a fret, and told her she was no better than she should be, to think of marrying so soon after Paddy's death. But Moll, who had a pretty way with her, whispered something in his reverence's ear, without minding in the least, his being in a fret. "The fat pig,' says he. "Yes, your reverence can send for her this very night,' says she. "Why, now I consider the matter,' says the priest, to be sure you are a lone woman, and live in a lonesome place; so, as there's no knowing what might happen to you, I believe I'd better marry you out of hand. Well, sir, after every one [was gone from the wedding, and all the family in bed. who should come to the door but Paddy Kelleher himself, after walking all the way from Buttevant, and a good step it was. So he gave a thundering knock at the door, for he was mighty tired after the journey, and was in a hurry to get into bed. "Who's there? a pretty time of night to come knocking at a dacent man's door,' said Murty. ""Tis I, Paddy Kelleher; get up and let me in; and sure a man may rap at his own door, and no thanks to any one.' "When Moll heard that, she gave a great screech entirely, The Lord have mercy on us,' says she, what is it you want now, Paddy ; but don't I know very well it isn't you at all, but only your ghost; and sure you haven't any business in life to be coming here now, for didn't I give you a fine wake and a decent berring, and the fat pig to the priest to say masses for the good of your soul.' "The devil you did,' said Paddy, and away he ran to the barn to look for his pig, for he saw it was all in vain to knock or call; they wouldn't let him in, and he didn't like to break his own door; so, finding the pig safe in the barn, he lay down to sleep in the straw till morning; but he wasn't long there, when the priest's boy came for the pig, and was putting a sugan about her leg to drive her away, for 'twas settled he should take her in the night; but Kelleher, not liking to lose his pig that way, and thinking it was stealing the beast he was, for he didn't clearly understand what his wife had said, up he jumps and gives him the mother of a beating. "I'll engage the boy did'nt wait for the pig after it, but ran off to his master as fast as his legs could carry him. "Where's the pig?' says the priest. "The never a pig have I,' says the boy, for just as I was going to take her, Paddy Kelleher's ghost jumped out of a corner of the barn, and gave me the truth of a beating; so I ran away as fast as I could, and I wouldn't go back again for half Cork.' "A likely story indeed,' says the priest; 'you know well enough 'tis no such thing, but the glass I gave you, and you going, that made you drunk, you vagabond, and so you fell down and cut your self and couldn't bring the pig.' every word I told your reverence wasn't as true as the sun,' says the boy; but come yourself with with me, and see if I won't bring the pig home, if you'll only give her into my two hands' "I will,' says the priest, and away they went to the barn; but the moment he put a hand on the pig, up jumped Kelleher, from among the straw, and gave the priest such a beating as he never got before or since. Away he went without the pig surely, and the boy after him, roaring ten thousand murders. Poor Kelleher, you may be certain, was tired enough after this, so down he lay, and slept as sound as a top till late next morning, which happened to be a Sunday, so that when he got up and went into his own house, he found every one was gone to mass, except an old woman who was left minding the place, and she, instead of getting him his breakfast as he desired, ran away out of the house screeching for the bare life, at the sight of the drowned man walking in. "So Kelleher had to make out breakfast for himself as well as he could; and when he was done, away he goes to mass, thinking to find all the people there before him, and learn some account of how things had been going on at home. He was walking smartly along, when who should he almost overtake, but his ould neighbors, Jack Harty and Miles Mahony. Good morrow, Jack,' says Paddy: Can't you stop for a body, Miles?' says he; but when they looked back at the sound of his voice, and saw who they had after them, they took to their scrapers and ran as fast as their legs would carry them, thinking all the time it was a ghost at their heels. "Kelleher thought it was running to overtake mass they were, so he ran too, for fear he'd be late, which made them run the faster; and sure enough they never stopped or staid, till they got into the chapel and up to the priest where he was standing at the altar. "Why, boys,' says the priest, what's the matter with ye?' "Oh, your reverence!' says one, and Oh, your reverence,' says the other, "Tis Kelleher's ghost that's running after us, and here he is in.' Murder alive!' roared the priest, 'tis me he wants and not you; so if he's in, I'll be out,' and flinging off his vestments, away with him through the side door of the chapel, and the people after him: he never stopped to draw breath till he got to the top of a hill a good mile or better from the chapel, and there he begun to say mass as fast as he could, for fear of the ghost. But it was Murty Mulcahy, the red haired tailor, was in the pucker when he saw Kelleher; he roared like a bull, and went clean out of the country entirely, and never came back again. "To be sure, Kelleher thought nothing at all, But they were all out of their senses, every mother's son of them, till his ould crony Tom Barret, seeing at last that he wasn't a ghost, came up to him and tould him how they all thought they buried him a fortnight before. "So Kelleher went home to his own house, and his wife was kind and quiet of tongue; and the priest ever after was as civil to him as may be, and all for fear he'd spake about the fat pig." ORIGINAL. The Essayist.--No. III. "An elegant sufficiency, content, A distinguished journalist remarks-"It was with no ordinary feelings of admiration that I viewed the valuable productions of Reynolds' master pencil; but no one, except him who has had the honor of an acquaintance with the renowned artist, can have any possible conception of the delightful emotions with which I afterwards pressed the hand that so ably guided that pencil." Thus I laid aside Hope Leslie,' and 'Redwood,' with a favorable opinion of the talents of Miss Sedgewick, and the honor she conferred, as a novelist, upon American literature; but my mind was filled with ecstacy and delight, when, a short time since, while on a tour through the western part of Massachusetts, a stage companion informed me, as we entered the village of Stockbridge, that "this was the delightful retreat of Miss S. during the sultry season of the summer." Nothing could exceed my joy in thus visiting a place where she oft had rambled, and penned perhaps her finest descriptions of New England scenery; or held sweet converse' with her friends, in the lasting enjoyment of rural felicity: where the amiableness of her disposition, and the simplicity of her person, appeared to full advantage-where the actions are easy, and unrestrained by fashionable etiquette-where the mind becomes free, and the imagination cooled-where the bent bow relaxes from its tension,' and mankind act as they were created-open-hearted, and natural. To get a peep into such a scene, at such a time, is looking upon nature as it is, and things as they ought to be. I, although A stranger! unacknowledg'd, unapprov'd,' felt a burst of enthusiastic delight, as I thus pictured to myself the happy condition of Miss S., and viewed the dwellings and the beauty of their architecture. The village is situated on a fertile plain, surrounded with a beautiful variety of gently sloping hills. The regularity and neatness of the streets are truly to be admired. The gravel walks, as they stretch along either side of the way, add no small portion to the beauty and variety of the scenery. The lofty elms, as the soft mountain breeze blows noiselessly through their branches, wave majestically beneath the blue expanse of the heavens, and extend their refreshing shade o'er the unlatticed window, and neatly constructed piazza. Every thing wore the aspect of life and vigor, and the bustle of business bespoke a community industrious and persevering. Intensely did I gaze on the neat and simple dwelling wherein the noble-minded author was ensconced; and how elevated were my feelings in thus beholding the pleasantly situated structure, which she had chosen for her residence, rather than some magnificent dome of modern splendor. To see a mind thus indifferent to the foibles and follies the place in which we had garnered up our soul. of the world, increased my high opinion of her At length the appalling light breaks upon us-we noble character and caused me to pay a new trib- discover we are no longer loved. And what remedy ute to her literary excellence. It was an object of have we? None! Our first, our natural feeling is wonder, that she, who had gained such high re-resentment. We are conscious of treachery; this nown by the talent so eminently displayed in all ungrateful heart that has fallen from us, how have her writings-who had so perfectly described the we prized and treasured it-how have we sought aborigines of Massachusetts-who had so nicely to shield it from every arrow-how have we plea pourtrayed virtue and female excellence in the sed ourselves, in solitude and in absence, with character of Miss Leslie, and showed so clearly the yearning thoughts of its faith and beauty; now it infamous and inhuman disposition of Pedrillo- is ours no more! Then we break into wild rewho had so often wove for herself wreaths of lite-proaches-we become exacting-we watch every rary fame as lasting as her own native mountain look-we guage every action-we are unfortu rocks, should have preferred the society and hap- nate--we weary-we offend. These our agoniespiness of a country villa and rural life, to the adulations of the great, in more refined communitiesthat the shaded walks, the green shrubbery, and the white portico, should have possessed more at tractions than the silvery trappings of splendorthe marble walk, and the richly decked saloon. But this tended to show the different tastes and dispositions with which mankind are endowed. While to some, the thick bustle of the city, the crowded halls of the gay, and the pomp of magnificence, furnish the only passport to their life's end; to others, the retirement and stillness of the boudoir, the pleasure of the domestic circle, and the scenes of rural sports, afford more lasting happiness than the emblazoned finery of the rich and fashionable, which, To the vulgar there is but one infidelity-that which, in women at least, can never be expiated or forgiven. They know not the thousand shades in which change disguises itself; they trace not the fearful progress of the alienation of the heart. But to those who truly and deeply love, there is an infidelity with which the person has no share. Like ingratitude, it is punished by no laws. We are powerless to avenge ourselves. our impetuous bursts of passion-our ironical and dark. What shall we do! We have accustomed ourselves to love and to be loved. Can we turn to new ties, and seek in another that which is extinct in one? How often is such a resource in vain! Have we not given to this-the treacherous and the false friend-the best years of our life—the youth of our hearts-the flower of our affections? Did we not yield up the harvest? how little is there left for another to glean! This makes the crime of the When two persons are united by affection, and moral infidelity. The one who takes away from the love of one survives that of the other, who can us his or her love takes from us also the love of all measure the anguish of the unfortunate who watch- else. We have no longer, perhaps the youth and es the extinction of a light which nothing can re- the attractions to engage affection. Once we might illumine! It mostly happens, too, that the first have chosen out of the world-now the time is discovery is sudden. There is a deep trustfulness past. Who shall love us in our scar and yellow in a loving heart; it is blind to the gradual decrease leaf, as in that time when we had most the qualiof sympathy-its divine charity attributes the ab- ties that win love? It was a beautiful sentiment sent eye, the chilling word, to a thousand causes, of one whom her lord proposed to put away— save the true one; care-illness-some worldly" Give me, then, back," said she, "that which I trouble-some engrossing thought, and (poor fool brought to you." And the man answered, in his that it is!) endeavors by additional tenderness to vulgar coarseness of soul," Your fortune shall recompensate for the pain that is not of its own caus-turn to you." "I thought not of fortune," said the ing. Alas! the time has come when it can no lady; "give me back my real wealth-give me longer compensate. It hath ceased to be the all-in-back my beauty and my youth-give me back the all to its cruel partner. Custom has brought its virginity of soul-the cheerful mind, and the heart invariable curse, and indifference gathers round that had never been disappo'n'ed." I ORIGINAL. Evening Thoughts. Yes it is of these that the unfaithful rob us of years-may make friends of foes: but the love when they dismiss us back upon the world, and we have lost is never renewed. On that dread vatell us, with a bitter mockery, to form new ties. In cuum of the breast, the temple and the garden rise proportion to the time that we have been faithful- no more: that feeling, be it hatred, or be it scorn, in proportion to the feelings we have sacrificed-be it indifference, which replaces love, endures to in proportion to the wealth of soul--of affection- the last. And, altered forever to the one, how of devotion, that we have consumed, are we shut many of us are altered forever to the world? neiout from the possibility of atonement elsewhere. ther so cheerful, nor so kind, nor so active in good, But this is not all-the other occupations of the nor so incredulous of evil as we were before! The world are suddenly made stale and barren to us! deluge of passion has rolled back-the earth is the daily avocations of life-the common plea- green again. But we are in a new world. And sures the social diversions, so tame in themselves, the new world is but the sepulchre of the old. had their charm when we could share, and talk over them with another. The talk has become the tinkling cymbal, and society the gallery of pictures. Ambition, toil, the great aims of life-even these cease abruptly to excite. What, in the first place, made labor grateful, ambition dear? Was it not the hope that their rewards would be reflected upon another self? And now there is no other self. And, in the second place (and this is a new consideration,) does it not require a certain calmness and freedom of mind for great efforts? Persuaded of the possession of what most we value, we can look abroad with cheerfulness and hope; the consciousness of a treasure inexhaustible by external failures makes us speculative and bold Now, all things are colored by our deep despondency; our self-esteem-that necessary incentive to glory, is humbled and abased. Our pride has received a jarring and bitter shock. We no longer feel that we are equal to stern exertion. We wonder at what we have dared before. And therefore it is, that when Othello believes himself betrayed, the occupations of his whole life suddenly become burdensome and abhorred. "Farewell," he saith, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war-- But there is another and more permanent result from this bitter treason. Our trustfulness in human nature is diminished. We are no longer the credulous enthusiasts of good. The pillars of the moral world seem shaken. We believe, we hope, no more from the faith of others. If the one whom i we so worshipped, and served--who knew us in our best years to whom we have offered countless daily offerings-whom we put in our heart of hearts--against whom if a world hinted, we had braved a world-if this one has deserted us, who then shall be faithful? At length we begin to reconcile ourselves to the worst gradually we gather the moss of our feel. ings from this heart, which has become to us as stone. Our pride hardens down into indifference. Ceasing to be loved, we cease to love. Seasons may roll away, all other feelings ebb and flow. Ambition may change into apathy--generosity may sour into avarice; we may forget the enmities gaze upon the calm blue sky Yes, as those glorious stars appear, My course through life was calm and clear But then there came a shadow, I loved her!-God alone can tell That love has made this heart a hell I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm regret DIARY OF A BLASE. BY THE AUTHOR OF PETER SIMPLE, ETC. ETC. CHAPTER 1. by my disease into the budget, and the cheques upon my banker into supplies. Even my children laugh and wonder at the answers which they receive. Yesterday one brought me her book of ani name, and I told her it was an O'Connell, I am told that I mentioned the names of half the members of the Upper and Lower House, and at the time really believed that I was calling the beasts by their right names. Such are the effects of my unfortunate disease. READER, did you ever feel in that peculiarly distressing state of mind in which one oppressing idea displaces or colors every other, absorbing, mixing up with, empoisoning, and, like the filth of the har-mals, and pointing to a boa constrictor, asked its py, turning every thing into disgust-when a certain incubus rides upon the brain, as the Old Man of the Mountain did upon the shoulders of Sinbad, burthening, irritating, and rendering existence a misery-when looking around, you see but one object perched every where and grinning at youwhen even what you put into your mouth tastes of Abroad I feel it even worse than at home. Sociebut that one something, and the fancied taste is so ty is unhinged, and every one is afraid to offer an unpleasant as almost to prevent deglutition-when opinion. If I dine out. I find that no one will speak every sound which vibrates in your ear appears to first-he knows not whether he accosts a friend or strike the same discordant note, and all and every foe, or whether he may not be pledging his bitter thing will remind you of the one only thing which you would fain forget:-have you ever felt any thing like this, reader? If you have not, then thank God by way of grace before you out with your knife and fork and begin to cut up the contents of these pages. I have and am now suffering under one of these varieties of Phobias," and my disease is a Politicophobia. I will describe the symptoms. enemy. Every man looks at his neighbor's countenance to discover if he is Whig or Tory: they appear to be examining one another like the dogs who meet in the street, and it is impossible to conjecture whether the mutual scenting will be followed up by a growl or a wag of the tail; but one remark will soon discover the political sentiments of the whole. Should they all agree, they are so busy in abuse that they rail at their adversaries I am now in the metropolis of England, and when with their mouths full-should they disagree, they I walk out every common house appears to me to dispute so vehemently that they forget that they be the House of Commons-every lordly mansion were invited to dinner, and the dishes are removed the House of Lords-every man I meet, instead of untasted, and the duties of the Amphytry on become being a member of society, is transformed by imagi- a sinecure. Go to an evening party or a ball and nation into a member of the senate-every chim- it is even worse, for young ladies talk politics, preney-sweep into a bishop, and a Bavarian girl, with fer discussion to flirtation, and will rather win a her " Py a proom," into an ex-chancellor. If I partner over to their political opinions than to their return home the ring at the bell reminds me of a personal charms. If you, as a Tory, happen to Peel-as I mount the stairs I think of the "Lob- stand up in a cotillion with a pretty Whig, she taps by."-I throw myself on the sofa, and the cushion you with her fan that she may tap your politics; if is transformed into a woolsack—if a solitary visi- you agree, it is “En avant deur," if not “chassez tor calls in, I imagine a public meeting, and call croisee." Every thing goes wrong-she may set to out chair! chair!--and I as often address my wife you indeed, but her's is the set of defiance, and she as Mr. Speaker, as I do with the usual appellative shakes her wig against your Tory. To turn your of " my dear." partner is impossible, and the only part of the figure which is executed con amore is dos a dos. The dance is over, and the lady's looks at once tell you that you may save your "oaths," while she "takes her seat." This incubus, like the Catholic anathema, pursues me everywhere-at breakfast, the dry toast reminds me of the toasts at public dinners-tea, of the East India charter-sugar, of the West India question-the loaf, of agricultural distress—and, as I have tried change of scene--posted to watering every one knows that London eggs are a lottery, places; but the deep, deep sea, will not drown polaccording as they prove bad or good, so am I re-itics. Even the ocean in its roaring and commotion minded of a Whig or a Tory measure. When the reminded me of a political union. newspaper is brought in, I walk round and round I have buried myself in the country, but it has it as a dog will do round the spot he is about to lie been all in vain. I cannot look at the cattle peacedown upon. I would fain not touch it; but at last, fully grazing without thinking of O'Connell's tail, like a fascinated bird who falls per force into the Stanley's tail, and a short-docked pony reminded reptile's mouth, so do I plunge into its columns, me of the boasted little tail of Colonel Peel. The read it with desperation, and when the poison has farm-yard, with its noisy occupants, what was it circulated, throw it away in despair. If I am re- but the reality so well imitated by the members of minded to say grace at dinner, I commence " My the Lower House, who would drown argument in Lords and gentlemen;" and when I seek my bed, discord! I thought I was in the lobby at the close as I light my taper, I move that the House do of a long debate. Every tenth field, every tenth now adjourn." The tradesmen's bills are swelled furrow, (and I could not help counting,) every |