My first care on reaching my quarters was to make preparations for my departure by the packet of the same evening; my next was to sit down and read over my letters. As I turned them over, I remarked that there were none from my father or Lady Charlotte; there was, however, one in Julia's hand, and also a note from O'Grady. The others were the mere commonplace correspondence of everyday acquaintances, which I merely threw my eyes carelessly over ere I consigned them to the fire. My fair cousin's possessed—I cannot explain why—a most unusual degree of interest for me; and throwing myself back in my chair, I gave myself up to its perusal.

The epistle opened by a half-satirical account of the London season then nearly drawing to its close, in which various characters and incidents I have not placed before my readers, but all well known to me, were touched with that quiet, subdued raillery she excelled in. The flirtations, the jiltings, the matches that were on or off, the rumoured duels, debts, and difficulties of every one we were acquainted with, were told with a most amusing smartness—all showing, young as she was, how thoroughly the wear and tear of fashionable life had invested her with the intricate knowledge of character, and the perfect acquaintance with all the intrigues and byplay of the world. 'How unlike Louisa Bellew!' said I, as I laid down the letter after reading a description of a manoeuvring mamma and obedient daughter to secure the prize of the season, with a peerage and some twenty thousand pounds per annum. It was true they were the vices and the follies of the age which she ridiculed; but why should she have ever known them? Ought she to have been conversant with such a state of society as would expose them? Were it not better, like Louisa Bellew, to have passed her days amid the simple, unexciting scenes of secluded life, than to have purchased all the brilliancy of her wit and the dazzle of her genius at the price of true womanly delicacy and refinement? While I asked and answered myself these questions to the satisfaction of my own heart, I could not dismiss the thought, that amid such scenes as London presented, with such associates as fashion necessitated, the unprotected simplicity of Miss Bellew's character would expose her to much both of raillery and coldness; and I felt that she would be nearly as misplaced among the proud daughters of haughty England as my fair cousin in the unfashionable freedom of Dublin life.

I confess, as I read on, that old associations came crowding upon me. The sparkling brilliancy of Julia's style reminded me of the charms of her conversational powers, aided by all the loveliness of her beauty, and all that witchery which your true belle of fashion knows how, so successfully, to spread around her; and it was with a flush of burning shame on my cheek I acknowledged to myself how much her letter interested me. As I continued, I saw O'Grady*s name, and to my astonishment found the following:—

'Lady Charlotte came back from the duke's ball greatly pleased with a certain Major of dragoons, who, among his other excellent qualities, turns out to be a friend of yours. This estimable person, whose name is O'Grady, has done much to dissipate her ladyship's prejudices regarding Irishmen—the repose of his manner, and the quiet, unassuming, well-bred tone of his address being all so opposed to her preconceived notions of his countrymen. He dines here twice or thrice a week, and as he is to sail soon, may happily preserve the bloom of his reputation to the last. My estimate of him is somewhat different. I think him a bold effrontÉ kind of person, esteeming himself very highly, and thinking little of other people. He has, however, a delightful old thing, his servant Corny, whom I am never tired of, and shall really miss much when he leaves us.

'Now as to yourself, dear cousin, what mean all the secret hints and sly looks and doubtful speeches about you here! The mysteries of Udolpho are plain reading compared to your doings. Her ladyship never speaks of you but as “that poor boy,” accompanying the epithet with the sigh with which one speaks of a shipwreck. Sir George calls you John, which shows he is not quite satisfied about you; and, in fact, I begin to suspect you must have become a United Irishman, with “a lady in the case.” Yet even this would scarcely demand one half the reserve and caution with which you are mentioned. Am I indiscreet in saying that I don't think De Vere likes you? The Major, however, certainly does; and his presence has banished the lordling, for which, really, I owe him gratitude.'

The letter concluded by saying that my mother had desired her to write in her place, as she was suffering from one of her nervous headaches, which only permitted her to go to the exhibition at Somerset House; my father, too, was at Woolwich on some military business, and had no time for anything save to promise to write soon; and that she herself, being disappointed by the milliner in a new bonnet, dedicated the morning to me, with a most praiseworthy degree of self-denial and benevolence. I read the signature some half-dozen times over, and wondered what meaning in her own heart she ascribed to the words, 'Yours, Julia.'

'Now for O'Grady,' said I, breaking the seal of the Major's envelope.

'My dear Jack,—I was sitting on a hencoop, now pondering on my fortunes, now turning to con over the only book on board—a very erudite work on naval tactics, with directions how “to moor a ship in the Downs”—when a gun came booming over the sea, and a frigate with certain enigmatical colours flying at her main-top compelled the old troop-ship we were in to back her topsails and lie to. (We were then steering straight for Madeira, in latitude———, longitude the same—our intention being, with the aid of Providence, to reach Quebec at some remote period of the summer, to join our service companies in Canada.) Having obeyed the orders of H.M.S. Blast, to wait until she overtook us—a measure that nearly cost us two of our masts and the cook's galley, we not being accustomed to stand still, it seemed—a boat came alongside with the smallest bit of a midshipman I ever looked at sitting in the stern-sheets, with orders for us to face about, left shoulder forward, and march back to England, where, having taken in the second battalion of the Twenty-eighth, we were to start for Lisbon.

'I need not tell you what pleasure the announcement afforded us, delighted as we were to exchange tomahawks and bowie-knives for civilised warfare, even against more formidable foes. Behold us then in full sail back to old England, which we reached within a fortnight—only to touch, however, for the Twenty-eighth were most impatiently expecting us; and having dedicated three days to taking in water and additional stores, and once more going through the horrible scene of leave-taking between soldiers and their wives, we sailed again. I have little inclination to give you the detail, which newspapers would beat me hollow in, of our march, or where we first came up with the French. A smart affair took place at daybreak, in which your humble servant, to use the appropriate phrase, “distinguished” himself—egad! I had almost said “extinguished”; for I was shot through the side, losing part of that conjugal portion of the human anatomy called a rib, and sustaining several other minor damages, that made me appear to the regimental doctor a very unserviceable craft for his Majesty's service. The result was, I was sent back with that plaster for a man's vanity, though not for his wounds, a despatch-letter to the Horse Guards, and an official account of the action. As nothing has occurred since in the Peninsula to eclipse my performance, I continue to star it here with immense success, and am quite convinced that with a little more loss I might have made an excellent match out of the affair.

'Now to the pleasant part of my epistle. Your father found me out a few evenings since at an evening party at the Duke of York's, and presented me to your lady-mother, who was most gracious in her reception of me; an invitation to dinner the next day followed, and since, I have spent almost every day at your house. Your father, my dear Jack, is a glorious fellow, a soldier in every great feature of the character; you never can have a finer object of your imitation, and your best friend cannot wish you to be more than his equal. Lady Charlotte is the most fascinating person I ever met; her abilities are first-rate, and her powers of pleasing exceed all that ever I fancied even of London fashionables. How you could have left such a house I can scarcely conceive, knowing as I do something of your taste for comfort and voluptuous ease. Besides, la cousine, Lady Julia—Jack, Jack, what a close fellow you are I and how very lovely she is! she certainly has not her equal even here. I scarcely know her, for somehow she rather affects hauteur with my cloth, and rarely deigns any notice of the red-coats so plentifully sprinkled along your father's dinner-table. Her kindness to Corny, who has been domesticated at your house for the last five weeks, I can never forget; and even he can't, it would appear, conjure up any complaint against her. What a testimony to her goodness!

'This life, however, cannot last for ever; and as I have now recovered so far as to mount a horse once more, I have applied for a regimental appointment. Your father most kindly interests himself for me, and before the week is over I may be gazetted. That fellow De Vere was very intimate here when I arrived; since he has seen me, however, his visits have become gradually less frequent, and now have almost ceased altogether. This, entre nous, does not seem to have met completely with Lady Julia's approval, and I think she may have attributed to me a circumstance in which certainly I was not an active cause. However happy I may feel at being instrumental in a breach of intimacy between her and one so very unworthy of her, even as a common acquaintance, I will ask you, Jack, when opportunity offers, to put the matter in its true light; for although I may, in all likelihood, never meet her again, I should be sorry to leave with her a more unfavourable impression of me than I really deserve.'

Here the letter broke off; but lower down on the paper were the following lines, written in evident haste, and with a different ink:—

'We sail to-night. Oporto is our destination. Corny is to remain behind, and I must ask of you to look to him on his arrival in Dublin. Lady Julia likes De Vere, and you know him too well to permit of such a fatal misfortune. I am, I find, meddling in what really I have no right to touch upon; this is, however, de vous À moi. God bless you.—Yours ever, Phil o'Grady.'

'Poor Phil!' said I, as I laid down the letter; 'in his heart he believes himself disinterested in all this, but I see plainly he is in love with her himself.' Alas! I cannot conceive a heavier affliction to befall the man without fortune than to be thrown among those whose prospects render an alliance impossible, and to bestow his affections on an object perfectly beyond his reach of attainment. Many a proud heart has been torn in the struggle between its own promptings and the dread of the imputation, which the world so hastily confers, of 'fortune-hunting'; many a haughty spirit has quailed beneath this fear, and stifled in his bosom the thought that made his life a blessed dream. My poor friend, how little will she that has stolen away your peace think of your sorrows!

A gentle tap at my door aroused me from my musings. I opened it, and saw, to my surprise, my old companion Tipperary Joe. He was covered with dust, heated, and travel-stained, and leaned against the door-post to rest himself.

'So,' cried he, when he had recovered his breath, 'I'm in time to see you once more before you go! I run all the way from Carlow, since twelve o'clock last night.'

'Come in, my poor boy, and sit down. Here's a glass of wine; 'twill refresh you. We 'll get something for you to eat presently.'

'No, I couldn't eat now. My throat is full, and my heart is up here. And so you are going away—going for good and all, never to come back again?'

'Who can say so much as that, Joe? I should, at least, be very sorry to think so.'

'And would you, now? And will you really think of ould Ireland when you 're away? Hurroo! by the mortial, there's no place like it for fun, divilment, and divarsion. But, musha, musha! I'm forgettin', and it's gettin' dark. May I go with you to the packet?'

'To be sure, my poor boy; and I believe we have not many minutes to spare.'

I despatched Joe for a car while I threw a last look around my room. Sad things, these last looks, whether bestowed on the living or the dead, the lifelike or the inanimate! There is a feeling that resembles death in the last glance we are ever to bestow on a loved object. The girl you have treasured in your secret heart, as she passes by on her wedding-day, it may be happy and blissful, lifts up her laughing eyes, the symbol of her own light heart, and leaves in that look darkness and desolation to you for ever. The boy your father-spirit has clung to, like the very light of your existence, waves his hand from the quarterdeck, as the gigantic ship bends over to the breeze; the wind is playing through the locks your hand so oftentimes has smoothed; the tears have dimmed his eyes, for, mark t he moves his fingers over them—and this is a last look. My sorrow had no touch of these. My eye ranged over the humble furniture of my little chamber, while memories of the past came crowding on me—hopes that I had lived to see blighted, daydreams dissipated, heartfelt wishes thwarted and scattered. I stood thus for some minutes, when Joe again joined me.

Poor fellow! his wayward and capricious flights, now grave, now gay, were but the mockery of that sympathy my heart required. Still did he heal the sadness of the moment. We need the voice, the look, the accent of affection when we are leaving the spot where we have once been happy. It will not do to part from the objects that have made our home, without the connecting link of human friendship. The hearth, the roof-tree, the mountain, and the rivulet are not so eloquent as the once syllabled 'Good-bye,' come it from ever so humble a voice.

The bustle and excitement of the scene beside the packet seemed to afford Joe the most lively gratification; and, like the genius of confusion, he was to be seen flitting from place to place, assisting one, impeding another, while snatches of his wild songs broke from him every moment. I had but time to press his hand, when he was hurried ashore amongst the crowd; and the instant after the vessel sheered off from the pier, and got under way. The poor boy stood upon a block of granite, waving his cap over his head. He tried a faint cheer, but it was scarcely audible; another, it too failed. He looked wildly around him on the strange, unknown faces, as if a scene of desolation had fallen on him, burst into a torrent of tears, and fled wildly from the spot. And thus I took my leave of Ireland.

At this period of my narrative I owe it to my reader—I owe it to myself—to apologise for the mention of incidents, places, and people that have no other bearing on my story than in the impression they made upon me while yet young. When I arrived in Ireland I knew scarcely anything of the world. My opportunities had shown me life only through the coloured gloss of certain fashionable prejudices; but of the real character, motives, and habitual modes of acting and thinking of others, still more of myself, I was in total ignorance. The rapidly succeeding incidents of Irish life—their interest, variety, and novelty—all attracted and excited me; and without ever stopping to reflect upon causes, I found myself becoming acquainted with facts. That the changeful pictures of existence so profusely scattered through the land should have made their impression upon me is natural enough; and because I have found it easier and pleasanter to tell my reader the machinery of this change in me than to embody that change itself, is the reason why I have presented before him tableaux of life under so many different circumstances, and when, frequently, they had no direct relation to the current of my own fate and the story of my own fortunes. It is enough of myself to say, that, though scarcely older in time, I had grown so in thought and feeling. If I felt, on the one hand, how little my high connections and the position in fashionable life which my family occupied availed me, I learned, on the other, to know that friends, and stanch ones, could be made at once, on the emergency of a moment, without the imposing ceremony of introduction and the diplomatic interchange of visits. And now to my story.