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'Ir grieves me,' said an eminent poet once to me, it grieves and humbles me to reflect, how much our moral nature is in the power of circumstances. Our best faculties would remain unknown even to ourselves, did not the influences of external excitement call them forth like animalculæ, which lie torpid till wakened into life by the transient sunbeam.'

This is generally true. How many walk through the beaten paths of every day life, who, but for the novelist's page, would never weep or wonder; and who would know nothing of the passions but as they are represented in some tragedy or stage piece? not that they are incapable of high resolve and energy; but because the finer qualities have never been called forth by No. 90-N. S.

imperious circumstances; for while the wheels of existence roll smoothly along, the soul will continue to slumber in her vehicle like a lazy traveller.

But for the French revolution, how many hundreds-thousands-whose courage, fortitude, and devotedness, have sanctified their names, would have frittered away a frivolous, useless, or vicious life, in the saloons of Paris!

We have heard of death in its most revolting forms, braved by delicate females, who would have screamed at the sight of the most insignificant reptile or insect; and men cheerfully toiling at mechanic trades for bread, who had lounged away the best years of their lives at the toilettes of their mistresses.

We know not of what we are capable till the trial comes ;-till it comes, perhaps, in a form which makes the strong man quail, and turns the gentler woman into a heroine.

The power of outward circumstances suddenly to awaken dormant faculties-the extraordinary influence which the mere instinct of self-preservation can exert over the mind, and the triumph of mind thus excited over physical weakness, were never more truly exemplified than in the story of Halloran the Pedlar.

In the south part of the county of Kilkenny lived a poor peasant named Michael, or, as it was elegantly pronounced Mickle Reilly. He was a labourer renting a cabin, and a little potatoe-ground and on the strength of these possessions, a robust frame which feared no fatigue, and a sanguine mind which dreaded no reverse, Mickle Reilly paid his addresses to Cathleen Bray, a young girl of his own parish, and they were married. Reilly was able, skilful, and industrious; Cathleen was the best spinner in the county, and had constant sale for her work at Kilkenny: they wanted nothing; and for the past year, as Cathleen said, 'There wasn't upon the blessed earth two happier souls than themselves, for Mick was the best boy in the world, and hadn't a fault to spake of-barring he took the drop now and then; and why wouldn't he?'

But, as it happened, poor Reilly's love of the drop' was the beginning of all their misfortunes. In an evil hour he went to the fair of Kilkenny to sell a dozen hanks of yarn of his wife's spinning, and a fat pig, the produce of which was to pay half a year's rent, and add to their little comforts. Here he met with a jovial companion, who took him into a booth and treated him to

sundry portions of whiskey; and while in his company, his pocket was picked of the money he had just received, and something more; in short-in short of all he possessed in the world. At that luckless moment, while maddened with his loss and heated with liquor, he fell into the company of a recruiting ser geant.

The many-coloured and gaily fluttering cockade in the soldier's cap, shone like a rainbow of hope and promise before the druken eyes of Mickle Reilly, and ere morning he was enlisted into a regiment under orders for embarkation, and instantly sent off to Cork.

Distracted by the ruin he had brought upon himself, and his wife (whom he loved a thousand times better than himself) poor Reilly sent a friend to inform Cathleen of his mischance, and to assure her that on a certain day, in a week from that time, a letter would await her at the Kilkenny post-office; the same friend was commissioned to deliver her his silver watch, and a guinea out of his bounty money.

Poor Cathleen turned from the gold with horror, as the price of her husband's blood, and vowed that nothing on earth should induce her to touch it. She was not a good calculator of time and distance, and therefore rather surprised that so long a time should elapse before his letter arrived.

On the appointed day she was too impatient to wait the arrival of the carrier, but set off to Kilkenny herself, a distance of ten miles: there, at the post-office, she duly found the promised letter; but it was not till she had it in her possession that she remembered she could not read: she had therefore to hasten back to consult her friend Nancy, the schoolmaster's daughter, and the best scholar in the village.

Reilly's letter, on being deciphered with some difficulty even by the learned Nancy, was found to contain much of sorrow, much of repentance, and yet more of affection. He assured her he was far better off than he expected or deserved; that the embarkation of the. regiment to which he belonged was delayed for three weeks, and entreated her, if she could forgive him, to follow him to Cork without delay, that they might part in love and kindness, and then come what might he would demane himself like a man, and die asy,' which he assured her he could not do without embracing her once more.

Cathleen listened to her husband's letter with clasped hands and drawn breath, but quiet in her nature, she gave no other signs of emotion than a few large tears which trickled slowly down her cheeks.

And will I see him again?' she exclaimed, poor fellow! poor boy! I knew the heart of him was sore for me! and who knows, Nancy dear, but they'll let me go out with him to the foreign parts? Oh! sure they wouldn't be so hardhearted as to part man and wife that way!'

After a hurried consultation with her neighbours, who sympathised with her as only the poor sympathise with the poor,-a letter was indited by Nancy and sent by the Kilkenny carrier that night, to inform her husband that she proposed setting off for Cork the next blessed morning, being Tuesday, and as the distance was about forty-eight miles English, she reckoned on reaching that city by Wednesday afternoon; for as she had walked to Kilkenny and back (about twenty miles) that same day, without feeling fatigued at all, to signify,' Cathleen thought there would be no doubt that she

could walk to Cork in less than two days.

In this sanguine expectation she was however over-ruled by her more experienced neighbours, and by their advice appointed Thursday as the day on which her husband was to expect her, God willing

Cathleen spent the rest of the day in making preparations for her journey; she set her cabin in order, and made a small bundle of a few articles of clothing belonging to her self and her husband. The watch. and the guinea she wrapped up together and crammed into the toe of an old shoe, which she deposited in the said bundle, and the next morning, at sparrow chirp,' she arose, locked her cabin door, carefully hid the key in the thatch, and with a light expecting heart commenced her long journey.

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It is worthy of remark that this poor woman who was called upon to play the heroine iu such a strange tragedy, and under such appalling. circumstances, had nothing heroic in her exterior: nothing that, in the slightest degree indicated strength of nerve or superiority of intellect. Cathleen was twenty-three years of age, of a low stature, and in her form rather delicate than robust: she was of ordinary appearance ; her eyes mild and dove-like, and her whole countenance though not absolutely deficient in intelligence, was more particularly expressive of simplicity, good temper, and kindness of heart.

It was summer, about the end of June: the days were long, the weather fiue, and some gentle showers rendered travelling easy and pleasant. Cathleen walked on stoutly towards Cork, and by the evening she had accomplished, with occasional pauses of rest, nearly twentyone miles. She lodged at a little inn by the road side, and the fol

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lowing day set forward again, but soon felt stiff with the travel of two previous days the sun became hotter, the ways dustier, and she could not with all her endeavours get farther than Kathery, eighteen miles from Cork.

The next day, unfortunately for poor Cathleen, proved hotter and more fatiguing than the preceding. The cross road lay over a wild country, consisting of low bogs and bare hills. About noon she turned aside to a rivulet bordered by a few trees, and sitting down in the shade, she bathed her swollen feet in the water; and overcome by heat, weakness, and excessive weariness, she put her little bundle under her head for a pillow and sunk into a deep sleep.

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On waking she perceived with dismay that the sun was declining and on looking about, her fears were increased by the discovery that her bundle was gone. Her first thought was that the good people (i. e. the fairies) had been there and stolen it away; but on examining farther she plainly saw large foot-prints in the bank, and was convinced it was the work of no unearthly marauder. Bitterly reproaching herself for her carelessness, she again set forward; and still hoping to reach Cork that night, she toiled on and on with increasing difficulty and distress, till, as the evening closed, her spirits failed, she became faint, foot-sore, and hungry, not having tasted any thing since the morning but a cold potatoe and a draught of buttermilk. She then looked round her in hopes of discovering some habitation, but there was none in sight except a lofty castle on a distant hill, which raising its proud turrets from amidst the plantations which surrounded it, glimmered faintly through the gathering gloom, and held out no temptation for the poor

wanderer to turn in there and rest. In her despair she sat her down on a bank by the road side, and wept as she thought of her husband.

Several horsemen rode by, and one carriage and four attended by servants, who took no further notice of her than by a passing look; while they went on their way, like the priest and the Levite in the parable, poor Cathleen dropped her head despairingly on her bosom. A faintness and torpor seemed to be stealing like a dark cloud over her senses, when the last approaching sound of footsteps roused her attention, and turning she saw at her side a man whose figure though singular, she recognised immediately: it was Halloran the Pedlar.

Halloran had been known for thirty years past in all the towns and villages between Waterford and Kerry. He was very old, he himself did not know his own age; he only remembered that he was a tall slip of a boy,' when he was one of the

regiment of foot, and fought in America in 1778. His dress was strange, it consisted of a woollen cap, beneath which strayed a few white hairs, this was surmounted by an old military cocked hat, adorned with a few fragments of tarnished gold lace; a frieze great coat with the sleeves dangling behind, was fastened at his throat, and served to protect his box of wares, which was slung at his back; and he always carried a thick oak stick, or kippeen in his hand.

There was nothing of the infirmity of age in his appearance: his cheek, though wrinkled and weather beaten, was still ruddy; his step still firm, his eyes still bright; his jovial disposition made him a welcome guest in every cottage, and his jokes, though not equal to my Lord Norbury's, were repeated and applauded through the whole coun

try. Halloran was returning from the fair of Kilkenny, where apparently his commercial speculations had been attended with success, as his pack was considerably diminished in size.

Though Halloran did not appear to recollect Cathleen, he addressed her in Irish, and asked her what she did there; she related in a few words her miserable situation.

'In troth, then, my heart is sorry for ye, poor woman;' he replied, compassionately, and what will ye do ?'

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An' what can I do?' replied Cathleen, disconsolately; and how will I even find the ford of Ahnamoe and get across to Cork, when I don't know where I am this blessed moment??

'Musha! then, its little ye'll get there this night,' said the pedlar, shaking his head.

'Then I'll lie down here and die,' said poor Cathleen, bursting into fresh tears.

'Die! ye wouldn't he exclaimed, approaching nearer; is it to me, Peter Halloran, ye spake that word; and am I the man that would lave a faymale at this dark hour by the way side, let alone that has the face of a friend, though I cannot remember me of your name either, for the soul of me. But what matter for that ?'

'Sure I'm Katty Reilly, of Castle Coon.'

Katty Reilly, sure enough! and so no more talk of dying; cheer up, and see, a mile farther on, isn't there Biddy Hagan's? Was, I mane, if the house and all isn't gone: and it's there we'll get a bite and a sup, and a bed, too, plase God. So lean upon my arm, ma vourneen, it's strong enough yet.'

So saying, the old man with an air of gallantry, half rustic, half military, assisted her in rising; and

After about half an hour's walking, they came to two crossways, diverging from the high road: down one of these the pedlar turned, and in a few minutes they came in sight of a lonely house, situated at a little distance from the way-side. Above the door was a long stick projecting from the wall, at the end of which dangled a truss of straw, signifying that within there was entertainment (good or bad) for man and beast.

By this time it was nearly dark, and the pedlar going up to the door, lifted the latch, expecting it to yield to his hand; but it was fastened within he then knocked and called, but there was no answer.

The building, which was many times larger than an ordinary cabin, had once been a manufactory, and afterwards a farm-house. One end of it was deserted, and nearly in ruins; the other bore signs of having been at least recently inhabited. But such a dull hollow echo rung through the edifice at every knock, that it seemed the whole place was now deserted.

Cathleen began to be alarmed, and crossed herself, ejaculating, ‘O God preserve us!'

Halloran, who appeared well acquainted with the premises, led her to the back of the house, where there were some ruined out-buildings, and another low entrance.Here, raising his stout stick, he let fall such a heavy thump on the door that it cracked again; and a shrill voice from the other side demanded who was there?

The Bijou.

(To be continued.)