ent, and was at the same time
assured that all the kind efforts of his friends would not save him
from his fate--a hangman's rope and the county gallows.

There he sat the greater part of that night alone on his cold
bedside, not knowing whether he was warm or cold--not perceiving
whether it was light or dark; and no one but God might know the
thoughts that passed through his untutored brain, or the feelings
which kindled his warm, though rugged heart. Did he complain that
though honest, industrious, and patient, ignominy and death should be
his probable doom? Had he bitter hatred in his heart for those who
had driven him to his fate? Did he still love those who had evinced
so little sympathy with him? Sympathy! Ah! how could he miss that
which he had never felt, till Father John had blessed him with his
kind words! His love had not been that conscious love which requires
kindness to nurture it, and love again to keep it warm. He was not
aware himself how well he loved his father and his sister. His lot
had been thrown with them; he had passed his life with them, and the
feelings, which in a selfish man are given up to self, had with him
been turned on those to whose care it had seemed that his life should
be dedicated.

I do not say that he looked forward to a probable death without a
shudder, or to so speedy a termination of his career, without a wish
that, unfortunate as it had been, it might be prolonged; but it was
the disgrace, and the circumstances of his fate, which made by far
the greater portion of his misery. Could he be but once quiet in his
grave, and have done with it all--be rid of the care, turmoil, and
uneasiness, he would have been content. Could he have been again
unborn--uncreated! He had once repined to Father John, that existence
had been for him a necessary evil; and though checked by the priest
for the impiety of the thought, was it odd if he often thought, that
he was one of those for whom it would have been better had they never
been born?

About three or four in the morning, he fell asleep, and was
awakened by Father John about eight; he dressed himself in his best
clothes--those in which he had been accustomed to go to mass--ate
his breakfast, and about ten o'clock was led out of gaol, handcuffed,
into the court-house. The gaol at Carrick-on-Shannon is not far from
the court-house, and as they are both built on a neck of land running
into the river, no portion of the town has to be traver