ite,
this little cottage was almost concealed from view. Unpretending as it
was without, its internal arrangements included every comfort; and my
father found himself not only surrounded with all the appliances of ease
and enjoyment, but in the very midst of objects well known and dear
to him from old associations. It had been in our family for about a
century; but up to this moment my father had never seen it, nor was he
aware of the singular beauty of the neighboring coast scenery.

At first, he could do no more than sit at an open window that looked
over the sea, enjoying, with dreamy languor, the calm influences of a
solitude so thoroughly unbroken. To an overwrought and excited mind,
this interval of quiet was a priceless luxury; and far from experiencing
weariness in his lonely life, the days glided past unnoticed.

Raper was not of a nature to obtrude himself on any one; and as my
father neither sought nor needed a companion, they continued to live
beneath the same roof almost without meeting. While, therefore, there
was the most scrupulous attention to all my father's wants, and a
watchfulness that seemed even to anticipate a wish on his part, his
privacy was never invaded nor disturbed. A few words each morning
between Raper and himself provided for all the arrangements of the day,
and there ended their intercourse.

Leaving him, therefore, in the indulgence of this placid existence,
I must now turn to another scene, where very different actors and
interests were engaged.

The death of Barry Rutledge had created the most intense excitement,
not alone in Dublin, but throughout the country generally. He was almost
universally known. His acquaintanceship embraced men of every shade of
opinion, and of all parties; and if his character did not suggest any
feelings of strong attachment or regard, there were social qualities
about him which, at least, attracted admiration, and made him welcome in
society.

Such men are often regretted by the world more deeply than is their due.
Their amusing faculties are frequently traced back to some imaginary
excellence in their natures, and there mingles with the sorrow for their
loss a sort of tender compassion for the fate of abilities misapplied,
and high gifts wasted. This was exactly the case here. Many who did not
rank amongst his intimates while he lived, now affected to deplore his
death most deeply; and there was a degree of sympathy felt, or assumed
to be felt, for