when I entered, that she spoke thick, and was rapidly losing her speech. Father A pointed to her, evidently in agitation, and began-"Rash and headstrong young man-but, no, James, I will not address you in that tone-listen to her whose voice you shall cease to hear for ever." "James," said my mother, "do not-oh! do not, as you hope for mercy, send me to face my God with the guilt of a broken vow upon my soul-Oh! my dear, you know not as I do, as Father A- can inform you, the awful sentence that is joined to it. You have been an obedient child, and I will bless you with my last breath, even should I suffer centuries of burning pain through your disobedience-I have only a short time to be with you-perhaps only a few minutes-but, James, I am your mother, and if I was ever unnecessarily harsh to you, forgive me now-the mother that loved you so tenderly, whilst these lips that kiss you for the last time have breath to ask it?" She spoke this at intervals, and with much pain and difficulty: but long before she concluded them, I wept bitterly-As she pronounced the last words, she stretched her hand to me-I embraced her-pronounced the irrevocable vow, and in about fifteen minutes afterwards she expired. After her interment, Father A wrote to Mrs. Upton an account of the vow I had taken, and of the solemn circumstances under which I had taken it; he added, that I was preparing to enter the seminary of Maynooth, where, he said it was determined I should prepare myself for that sacred office to which I had voluntarily devoted my future life. I did not see this letter when it was written; but I corroborated it to a certain extent, by setting out for Maynooth in six weeks afterwards, Father A- accompanying me.

It was when I had been some time here, not pursuing my studies indeed, but going through them with much indifference, that I had an opportunity of knowing the pernicious folly of forcing young men into a situation so different from any other into which a human being can enter. No sooner had grief for my mother's loss passed away, than my attachment for Miss Upton revived with redoubled force, and that which contributed to nourish it in my heart and memory, was the vow I had taken. The sense of restraint was now continually before me, and I am firmly persuaded, that had I been placed at a distance from Miss Upton during the period of my residence there, without being bound by this irrational and premature obligation, my attachment for her would, through the influence of other scenes and pursuits, have gradually died away. But, as I said, this perpetual sense of restraint rose up before my imagination, and never failed to bring the image of her who was now for ever lost to me along with it. Neither were the melancholy gloom and silence of the place, nor the necessary solitude into which the students were driven, at all calculated to divert my imagination from the object to which it constantly turned. My time was, therefore, principally spent in contemplating the character of her over whose image my love brooded. Her tall graceful figure, her loveliness, the shade of her dark flowing hair, every particular feature, and every distinct beauty

were dwelt t upon with a minuteness of attention which I had never paid them before. Nor was her charity to the sick and poor, her patience in instructing the ignorant, nor her liberality in encouraging the industrious forgotten. Every virtue, charm, and grace that she possessed became prominent in her character, and impressed me with a sense of her moral excellence and personal beauty incomparably greater than I had ever felt; although I believed until then that this was impossible. Those who are acquainted with the discipline of our Church know, that I could not keep this state of my affections secret from my confessor, without being guilty of sacrilege. He of course was in possession of it, and this knowledge, joined to the unceasing melancholy induced by the existence of a strong but hopeless passion, contributed, through his want of judgment and indiscretion, to hasten the approach of the decline in which you see me. From the moment he became acquainted with the state of my mind, he never ceased imposing the repetition of prayer upon prayer, and fast upon fast, until my compliance with these, and my observance of the other appointed abstinences, along with the sorrow which was preying upon me in secret, began to affect my health. The only consideration during all this time that ought to have had any weight in weakening the force of my affection, was that arising from from the account Father A- gave me of the young Officer and Miss Upton. But this, without being strong enough to counterbalance the many tender avowals she had made me of a sincere and unchangeable attachment, was only sufficient to keep me in a state of anxiety and suspense, that had greater effect in undermining my health than the force of my unhappy passion itself. To entertain any doubt of what Father Atold me was out of the question; his demeanour, during the relation, the simplicity with which he told it, and the harmless passion into which he got against them in defence of his old gown-what he conceived to be the sly and severe hits he gave the Officer, and his forgetting to satisfy me, when I enquired if he were certain that it was Miss Upton-all laid my suspicions at rest, as to the truth of what he had mentioned.

When the first vacation occurred I received a letter from my father dated at the Seminary at C- -It informed me that he had been there for some time on a visit, and that he was requested by Father A- and Dr. K- -to ask me to spend the vacation with them. This was a mortifying arrangement to me, for I must confess that I would have given at that time the wealth of empires for an interview with, or even a sight of Ellen Upton. But it was to prevent this that I was asked to the Seminary at C- . Indeed I was surprised that my father had not sent me there, instead of to Maynooth, and a little before my setting out, I asked him why he preferred the latter place, seeing it was determined on, that I should join the order at C "I have consulted Father A upon that, James," he replied, " and on the whole, we think it better, that is, prudenter, to educate you there than in Maynooth,-they, of C are narrowly

watched; you know besides, if you and I were dead, that those who have the next claim on the property are the Wilson's—and I do not wish that it should go into the hands of Protestants, whilst it is in our power to turn it to a more meritorious use." During my vacation at C I saw nothing remarkable, except my father's rent roll and the map of the estate, both of which I happened to observe in Father A's room. I passed the next year in Maynooth in the same manner as I did the preceding one, with this difference, that my health became worse, my unhappy passion more prevailing, and the whole state of my mind more morbid. The cause of this my confessor knew, and whether or not he might have, in an indirect way, occasioned my being selected to receive orders the next ordination, I cannot say; but just a month before my vacation I was ordained. My health was now so ill, that immediate removal was judged necessary, and I accordingly returned home by the advice of the physicians to enjoy the benefit of my native air.

Before I had been two day sat my father's, I learned the hopeless state of Miss Upton's health; but judge of what my sensations must have been, when I heard in addition to this, that it was caused by her unhappy attachment to myself. She was, Sir, one of those meek, mild, uncomplaining creatures, who bear the stroke of affliction or the disappointment of the heart, in calm and serene silence. The grief of such is never loud, nor their sorrow clamorous; but there is a silent intensity of pain in what they suffer -a gradual but imperceptible exhaustion of the spirit-a drying up of the springs of life, that withers them away, until like some beautiful apparition they disappear from the eyes that love them. Her attachment to me was involuntary-but she bore the disappointment arising from it with a silent fortitude, with which no thing but true and unaffected religion could inspire her. Her struggles against it were indeed unceasing; for she knew her duty, and left no legitimate remedy untried to overcome it; but in vain, it seemed like destiny to fix her fate. I understood that, from the day of my departure for Maynooth, her spirits and cheerfulness wholly abandoned her; that she spent much of her time in solitary devotion, and was doubly attentive to the exercise of charity and benevolence.

As soon as I understood the melancholy nature of her situation, and saw that we were both the victims of a system-a new train of reflection was opened to me. I now began to examine that system and compare it with the Word of God, with unprejudiced reason, and the original intention of the Almighty with regard to man. It could not stand such a test-I went from this to history -examined the condition of the Church, in this particular, before the Reformation; and the consequence was, that I discovered such a revolting and corrupt state of things, resulting from this unnatural, unscriptural, and unreasonable obligation, that I began to question its authority as just or binding. It is not often that we are sent in quest of truth by the influence of our natural affections-but in this case mine happened to be on the side of both truth and reason. I was therefore, determined to continue

the process of impartial investigation, and be decided by its result.

One morning shortly after my return home, I went out as I usually did by medical advice, to take a walk for the benefit of my health, which was rapidly declining. By an impulse which I could not check, I turned towards Dr. Upton's. I did not walk however immediately in front of the house, but took a path which led me behind a little grove that terminated the back lawn. I stood in the shade of the trees for some time, gazing at the windows of the house, and examining the motions of such as stirred about it with an intensity of interest which none can understand except those who have felt such. At length I turned to retrace my steps, and on passing into a gravel walk that was obscured from my direct view by the angle of a hedge row, I met her who was dearest to me on earth, within seven or eight yards of the spot on which I stood. At that time, Sir, I was nearly as pale and reduced in my personal appearance as I am at present. The moment I saw her I became extremely agitated-my heart, I thought would have absolutely palpitated through my very breast -she on the contrary appeared calm and collected. At that time she knew not that I was in orders. As I approached her she noticed my agitation, and with a presence of mind and dignity peculiar to herself, stretched out her hand; "Mr. Butler," said she, "this rencounter between you and me is an unexpected one indeed; but as it has given me an opportunity of enquiring after your health and welfare, I do not regret it." I made no reply, but stood and gazed upon her pale and worn, but still beautiful features with a degree of sorrow which rent my inmost heart. As I did not speak she, to avoid the pain occasioned by my pause, continued "Mr. Butler, I have not heard of your illness, and yet I am sorry to perceive that you have been illyou are quite emaciated.' "Alas! alas! Miss Upton," I exclaimed," and is it thus I see you-oh! Ellen, my dear,” said I, forgetting ceremony in the tenderness of the moment-" you are gone, you are dying." We here stood for a few seconds surveying each other's pale faces with a melancholy interest ; our eyes then met, and the tale of mutual sorrow was soon told. "I know it," "I see it" I exclaimed, " you are the victim, but not the only one -this, this, I fear Ellen," said I, "laying my hand upon my heart is also broken." "I thought, James," she replied, at least I heard, that whatever you might have felt for me passed away." "Alas! look at my wasted cheek," said I, "and then judge of what it cost me : an explanation, however, is due to you-and as this is the only opportunity I may have, for some time, I will now give it. I then related an exact account of the peculiar combination of circumstances which compelled me to take the inexorable vow, and I mentioned in particular the death-bed scene with my mother-When I concluded she told me that an impression had been made by Father Aon their family, leading them to conclude, that the obligation I imposed on myself was certainly preceded by reluctance and hesitation at first, but that after some time, I had decided volunta

rily and without compulsion to embrace the clerical life. I was surprised to hear that Father A- of whose love of truth and simplicity I had entertained so good an opinion, could have given so gross a misrepresentation of the whole matter. This brought to my recollection the story of the officer and Ellen's mirth, on a former occasion; I then enquired about it, and she told me that she recollected the incident, but declared that neither the gentleman in question, nor herself, took the least notice of Father A. She rode out that day, simply in compliance with her mother's wish, as her health, even then, was beginning to decline. When I heard this, I recollected for the first time, that Father A- was a J-, and I instantly saw through the whole business." "The property," said I, "the property was his object." The rental and the map of my father's little estate were not transferred to C- for nothing;" the real cause of Father A-'s attaching himself to the family became now almost obvious. 66 Ellen," said "we have both been the victims, I fear, of wilful and deliberate deceit,— I see it all, but I hope it is not too late-I trust we may still be united; for I will no longer be the contemptible slave of such imposition-neither blame my father, my dear, he too is a victim to the same delusion; but, with the blessing of heaven, I will yet undeceive him.” James," said she, " if your prospects in life are fixed, and only to be unsettled on my account, do not now change them-if you do you must only experience another disappointment. My medical attendants-for my father called in additional aid-have given me over, and with respect to myself, you do not now stand in the same relation to me in which you did. My affections and wishes now turn to my Redeemer alone, through whose blood I can lay claim to the hopes of that happiness in which there will be no disappointment. I would not now come back to earth-nay, what is more, James, I would not come back to you, whom I did love-Oh! I fear too well-were it even permitted me to do so." "My dear Ellen, I know from my own experience," said I, that this despondency is inseparable from extreme weakness-do not talk, do not think so gloomily, for you will only give your complaint the greater ascendancy over you." "Indeed, it is not gloom, James, but a serenity of mind, founded upon a rational view of my own condition and my future hopes; do not, therefore, ask me to mingle considerations with what I feel that would only take my thoughts from heaven and fix them on earth." "Far be it from me, my dear, to occasion you one pang of additional sorrow-but do not -oh, do not thus give up the hopes of life." She gave me a smile that irradiated her pale features with a light which was surely from heaven. "Hopes of life, James,-oh! if you could but conceive for a moment the inexpressible foretaste of glory which is within me--if you could know-and, oh! that your bed of death may be cheered by the same assurances!-If you could but know how my soul is sustained by the hopes of life-of that life where the heart will experience neither misery nor affliction you would scarcely dignify an existence spent