displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul-which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness—and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude ; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay-to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking about some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears.

There can

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for euthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness but her esteem.

He was assisted by her conviction of his worth and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another's.

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

Washington Irving.

It was on this same lady that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, composed the following lines:

"SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers around her are sighing;

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying!

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking;

Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him ;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,
From her own loved island of sorrow!"

IT

SIR WALTER RALEIGH'S EXECUTION.

T was now near nine, and having announced his readiness, he was conducted to the place of execution, in the old Palace Yard, by the Sheriffs of London and the Dean of Westminster. A sympathizing multitude had assembled to see the last of one whom most, if not all, remembered as the Captain of Elizabeth's Guard, the great Queen's favourite and councillor, and the observed of all observers. Remarking that an aged man, whose head was bald, pressed eagerly forward, he inquired if he wanted aught of him; and when the latter answered, that he only desired to see him, and pray God to have mercy upon his soul,—“I thank thee," said Sir Walter," and I am sorry I have no better thing to return thee for thy good will. But take this nightcap," removing the rich laced head gear which he wore beneath his hat, "for thou hast more need of it now than I." He observed that his friend, Sir Hugh Barton, whom on the previous day he had invited to be present, was unable to approach for the throng. He therefore bade him farewell, adding, "I know not how it may be with you, but I shall be sure to find a place."

career.

On ascending the scaffold, he bowed gracefully to the nobles and gentlemen who surrounded it, and proclamation having been made for silence, he proceeded to address them in a speech declaratory of his innocence, and justificatory of his He then embraced the lords, and those of his friends who were near him; and the Dean of Westminster asking him in what faith or religion he meant to die," In the faith," said he, "professed by the Church of England," adding "that he hoped to be saved, and to have his sins washed away by the precious blood and merits of our Saviour Christ." It was a cold keen morning, and one of the sheriffs invited him to leave the scaffold and warm himself before he should say his prayers: "No, good Mr. Sheriff," he replied, "let us despatch, for within this quarter of an hour my ague will come upon me, and if I be not dead before that, mine enemies will say I quake for fear." He then made "a most divine and admirable prayer;" after which he arose, and clasping his hands together, exclaimed, "Now I am going to God!" W. H. D. Adams.