ll his
physician forbade such effort, and to use his own words, "stripped him
of his gown." Toward the winter of 1821, it was thought advisable to
remove him to Bordeaux for a time, but adverse gales twice drove him
back to Holyhead, and he suffered so much from fatigue and sea-sickness
that it appeared best to locate him near Exeter, where he staid till the
spring of 1822, in the house of a clergyman, whose practice among the
poor had qualified him to act the part of a physician to the invalid. In
the spring, apparently somewhat improved, he returned to Dublin, and in
the summer made a short voyage to Bordeaux, where he staid about a
month. He then again returned to Dublin, and from that time steadily
declined. In November, 1822, accompanied by a relative and the Rev. Mr.
Russell, his biographer, he removed to the Cove of Cork, but all efforts
to recruit his failing strength were unavailing, and he expired there on
the 21st of February, 1823, in the 32d year of his age. About a
twelvemonth previous to his death, he had been preferred to the
important curacy of Armagh, but he never lived to visit his new parish.
All the letters written during his protracted illness prove his
amiability, and the patience with which he suffered, as well as the
ardor of the Christian faith on which he so confidently leaned, and few
men were more sincerely mourned by a large number of devoted and
admiring friends.

Charles Wolfe was one of those characters eminently fitted to make good
men, but destitute of some of the qualities for what the world calls
greatness. He was a high type of that class who form the cynosure of
their own peculiar circles, where they are admired as much for the
kindliness of their nature as the extent of their attainments, and the
power and versatility of their talents. But wanting the self-esteem, the
unwavering self-confidence, the perseverance and unshaken resolution
which go to make up greatness, he possessed in an eminent degree those
kindly sympathies, tender feelings, and that earnest devotion to the
interests and wishes of his fellows, which among friends and intimates
make goodness so much more lovable than greatness.

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

(_Continued from Page 478._)

CHAPTER XXVI.

A REMNANT OF "FONTENOY."

There was no resisting the inquisitive curiosity of my companion. The
short, dry cough, the little husky "ay," that sounded like any thing
rather than assent, whic