of,
intemperance was an Irish vice, and one which prevailed largely. Whisky
entered into every circumstance and relation of life. It cemented
friendships and ratified contracts; it celebrated the birth of the
newly-born, it consoled the weeping relatives over the grave of
the departed; it was a welcome and a bond of kindness, and, as the
stirrup-cup, was the last pledge at parting. Men commemorated their
prosperity by drink, and none dared to face gloomy fortune without it.
Owen Connor had recourse to it, as to a friend that never betrayed. The
easy circumstances, in comparison with many others, he enjoyed, left him
both means and leisure for such a course; and few days passed without
his paying a visit to the "shebeen-house" of the village. If the old man
noticed this new habit, his old prejudices were too strong to make him
prompt in condemning it. Indeed, he rather regarded it as a natural
consequence of their bettered fortune, that Owen should frequent these
places; and as he never returned actually drunk, and always brought back
with him the current rumours of the day, as gathered from newspapers and
passing gossip, his father relied on such scraps of information for his
evening's amusement over the fire.

It was somewhat later than usual that Owen was returning home one night,
and the old man, anxious and uneasy at his absence, had wandered part
of the way to meet him, when he saw him coming slowly forward, with that
heavy weariness of step, deep grief and pre-occupation inspire. When
the young man had come within speaking distance of his father, he halted
suddenly, and looking up at him, exclaimed, "There's sorrowful news for
ye to-night, father!"

"I knew it! I knew it well!" said the old man, as he clasped his hands
before him, and seemed preparing himself to bear the shock with courage.
"I had a dhrame of it last night; and 'tis death, wherever it is."

"You're right there. The master's dead!"

Not another word was spoken by either, as side by side they slowly
ascended the mountain-path. It was only when seated at the fire-side,
that Owen regained sufficient collectedness to detail the particulars he
had learned in the village. Mr. Leslie had died of the cholera at
Paris. The malady had just broken out in that city, and he was among its
earliest victims. The terrors which that dreadful pestilence inspired,
reached every remote part of Europe, and at last, with all the
aggravated horrors of its devastating