ir gaiety of temper, their
flashing and brilliant wit. How little they knew that such qualities,
by some strange incongruity of our natures, are the accompaniments
of deeply-reflective and imaginative minds, overshadowed by lowering
fortune. The glittering fancy, that seems to illumine the path of life,
is often but the wild-fire that dances over the bleak and desolate
heath.

Their apathy and indifference to exertion was made a matter of reproach
to them; yet, was it ever known that toil should be voluntary, when
hopeless, and that labour should be endured without a prospect of
requital?

We have been led, almost unconsciously, into this somewhat lengthened
digression, for which, even did it not bear upon the circumstances of
our story, we would not seek to apologize to our reader. Such we believe
to have been, in great part, the wrongs of Ireland--the fertile source
of those thousand evils under which the land was suffering. From this
one theme have arisen, most, if not all, the calamities of the country.
Happy were it, if we could say that such existed no longer--that such
a state of things was a matter for historical inquiry, or an old man's
memory--and that in our own day these instances were not to be found
among us.

When Hemsworth perceived that the project of his life was in peril, he
bethought him of every means by which the danger could be averted. Deep
and well-founded as was his confidence in the cleverness of his deputy,
his station was an insurmountable barrier to his utility at the present
conjuncture. Sam Wylie, for so this worthy was called, was admirable
as a spy, but never could be employed as minister plenipotentiary: it
needed one, now, who should possess more influence over Sir Marmaduke
himself. For this purpose, Frederick Travers alone seemed the fitting
person; to him, therefore, Hemsworth wrote a letter marked "strictly
confidential," detailing, with pains-taking accuracy, the inevitable
misfortunes Sir Marmaduke's visit would entail upon a people, whose
demands no benevolence could satisfy, whose expectations no concessions
could content.

He narrated the fearful instances of their vengeance, whenever
disappointment had checked the strong current of their hopes; and told,
with all the semblance of truth, of scenes of bloodshed and murder, no
cause for which could be traced, save in the dark suspicions of a people
long accustomed to regard the Saxon as their tyrant.

The night attack up