he imposed upon himself; the absence of all trying anxieties; and the gradual approximation to a more settled belief; had restored him apparently to almost perfect health; and the effects of the rude shock which his system had received from his mishap, seemed almost completely dispelled. It was accordingly thought that he might now well return to Ireland; and he resolved to leave Jersey towards the close of June. But the resolution was taken with a heavy heart. He had been projecting a longer tour in France. Every day that, in his wanderings, he caught sight of the sandy shores of the Cotentin from the heights of the Island, his old roaming propensity was fanned into a livelier flame. But indeed the Island itself was not without its winning attractions; and the object of his return to Ireland was vague enough; and there were reasons and reasons why he should regard the prospect with sadness and pain. In a letter written to G. A. C. on the 19th June, he treats, however, his disappointment and regret thus jestingly : LETTER XX. (To G. A. C.)-"Jersey, June 19, 1861. My dear Friend, I am packing up my books, with a sorrowful heart, as we are doomed to leave, on Friday morning, this loveliest Norman Isle, whose wooded dells, orchard-blooming hollows, dear old manors, and romantic crags, I shall in all probability look upon no more.e.-You ask me to write on poetry; but I have long forsaken the haunts of the Sacred Nine, and written Ichabod on my manuscript verses. For me, when love was turned to gall and wormwood, poetry passed away from the face of nature. Nor am I in the mood at present to criticise the poetry of others happier-fated than I. What then? Politics? Alas, I am a worse politician than Thersites himself, and even less a prophet than Moore, of Almanack' celebrity. What care I, besides, for the destinies of Italy, or of America, when I am impotent to control my own? What is Hecuba to me or I to Hecuba? Inexorable Fate compels me to return to the place which I absurdly hoped and vainly prayed should know me no more, and to which I would infinitely prefer the hottest berth in Tophet. You were in despair the other day—you are a thousand times more blest than I.... You can have no conception of the legion of causes which I have for detesting Dublin. Pah! the very thought of the brogue, the bogs, and the religion-mania of the place, produces a veritable nausea. My definition of the City of Black Water' is, Concentrated stench-morally, intellectually, and physically. Horrible! most horrible! I have climbed to the Seventh Heaven, and now I must descend once more into the lowest Hell. But I shall not 'sever the jugular veins' for all that. No! I will get a 1 Dhuv Linn (Dublin).—ED. new novel, a basket of the most luscious strawberries, a bottle of the most costly wine, a pistol, a rope, and a large stone. I have no desire to bleed to death like a 'staggering bob.' On a gloomy day I will retire to the furthest rocks of a lonely headland, about whose base the waves of ocean 'wreathe their azure smiles in ten thousand sparkling dimples.' I will read my novel and eat my fruit. I will write out an impassioned enumeration of my woes, and read it aloud in a voice of thunder, like the Genoese Saint who preached to the Evangelical flounders. I will quaff the bubbling wine; and when I begin to wax over-mellow,' I will load my pistol and prime it; tie the stone to the rope's end, and the rope about my neck; rehearse the articles of my disbelief; seat myself on an overhanging crag, in such a position that my centre of gravity will be with difficulty preserved by the tension of all my muscles; place my pistol's mouth to my heart; reflect once more on my unnumbered woes; think of Patrick's Close, the Coomb, and the Cross Poddle; . . . touch the trigger, and-DIE.. Adieu!...-Yours sincerely (the late), EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG (Furioso)." But the absolute pain which the mockery in this letter was meant to lighten was not to be thus easily subdued. Just as he was about to leave Jersey, his favourite companion of the mountaindays, G. B., travelled over to see him; but this visit, welcome though it was, somehow served to awaken associations which rendered the prospect of returning to the neighbourhood of Dublin still more disagreeable; a fact which could not but be apparent to his ever-watchful relatives. When the day of departure came, there were sad leave-takings; as the little steamer proceeded on its course, the bays and headlands, where so many happy days had been spent, were passed amid a throng of poignant memories; when the shores of the Islands faded out of sight, he felt that one of the fairest chapters of his life was closed; and the trackless misty waste of restless waters around him seemed but too vivid a picture of his own vague and indefinite future. CHAPTER XI. 1861, ÆT. 19-20. In England again.-Pleasant Rambles.-A Sunset off Milford Haven. - The Wicklow Coast.-Dublin.---Bitter Associations. Proposed Voyage to the Bahamas.-Meeting with the "Unknown Confidant."-Revival of Old Controversies.-Letter XXI. : "The Difficulties of Belief in the Doctrine of Responsibility."-Growth of Opinions.Letter XXII.: The God of Love, and Human Responsibility; A Resting-place at last.-Generous Self-sacrifice.-Hopes Darkened.-Leaves Ireland again.-Farewell to Wicklow. HE new scenes which he visited in passing THE A few days through England removed the cloud for at moment from his heart. The coast of the Isle of Wight; Southampton, with its effigies of Bevis and Ascabart; a glimpse of Salisbury; and again the panorama of Bath, seen on his way to Bristol; remained long tenants of his memory. spent at Clifton and in its neighbourhood, and in wanderings through the streets and among the buildings of Bristol, were lightened with mirth and enjoyment. Spots hallowed by connection with so many stirring events in England's history, and by recollections of Coleridge, Southey, and Chatterton, |