nother mile being passed, I had the satisfaction to perceive that the
pursuit was given over, and in an hour more I crossed Thomond Bridge,
and slept that night in the fortress of Limerick, having delivered
the packet, the result of whose safe arrival was the destruction of
William's great train of artillery, then upon its way to the besiegers.

Years after this adventure, I met in France a young officer, who I found
had served in Captain Oliver's regiment; and he explained what I had
never before understood--the motives of the man who had wrought my
deliverance. Strange to say, he was the foster-brother of Oliver, whom
he thus devoted to death, but in revenge for the most grievous wrong
which one man can inflict upon another!

'THE QUARE GANDER.'

Being a Twelfth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis
Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh.

As I rode at a slow walk, one soft autumn evening, from the once noted
and noticeable town of Emly, now a squalid village, towards the no less
remarkable town of Tipperary, I fell into a meditative mood.

My eye wandered over a glorious landscape; a broad sea of corn-fields,
that might have gladdened even a golden age, was waving before me;
groups of little cabins, with their poplars, osiers, and light mountain
ashes, clustered shelteringly around them, were scattered over the
plain; the thin blue smoke arose floating through their boughs in the
still evening air. And far away with all their broad lights and shades,
softened with the haze of approaching twilight, stood the bold wild
Galties.

As I gazed on this scene, whose richness was deepened by the melancholy
glow of the setting sun, the tears rose to my eyes, and I said:

'Alas, my country! what a mournful beauty is thine. Dressed in
loveliness and laughter, there is mortal decay at thy heart: sorrow,
sin, and shame have mingled thy cup of misery. Strange rulers have
bruised thee, and laughed thee to scorn, and they have made all thy
sweetness bitter. Thy shames and sins are the austere fruits of thy
miseries, and thy miseries have been poured out upon thee by foreign
hands. Alas, my stricken country! clothed with this most pity-moving
smile, with this most unutterably mournful loveliness, thou
sore-grieved, thou desperately-beloved! Is there for thee, my country, a
resurrection?'

I know not how long I might have continued to rhapsodize in this strain,
had not my wandering thoughts been suddenly recalled t