when disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven-in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the soul-that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness-and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She did not object to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe, that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely.'

"The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade (at the Rotunda, Dublin). There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more strikingly painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay-to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a vacant air, that shewed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd, mute and silent, around her, and melted every one into tears.

"The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation; for she was existing on the kindness of her friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another's.

"He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and, at length, sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart."

All these particulars are correct, as we have had them confirmed to us by a valued friend, who was personally cognizant of the whole. The officer alluded to was Captain Henry Sturgeon, of the Royal Engineers.

He was quartered in Cork at the time he made Miss Curran's acquaintance; and the marriage took place, in 1805, at Woodhill, a beautiful seat of the Penrose family, on the Lee, near that city. Captain Sturgeon shortly afterwards went on foreign service, and was accompanied by his bride. In the spring of 1808 they returned to England; and on the 5th of May in that year, Mrs. Sturgeon expired at Hythe, Kent, her disease being, as is stated above, consumption. She was buried in the Curran vault, at Newmarket, in the county of Cork, where a monumental tablet was placed over her by her husband. In September, 1847, this vault was opened to receive the remains of James, son of William Curran, nephew of Mrs. Sturgeon's illustrious father, when a leaden coffin was discovered (the outer wooden shell having decayed), bearing this inscription on a brass plate:—

"Mrs.
Sarah Sturgeon,

fifth daughter
of the

Right Hon. John Philpot Curran.

Died May 5th, 1808,

Aged 26 years."

It only remains for us to add, that Mr. Sturgeon rejoined his regiment in the Peninsula, and having distinguished himself in many a field, was promoted to the rank of Colonel. He fell at Toulouse.

The reader will doubtless remember Moore's verses on this hapless love of Emmet's, and will understand the allusion contained in the second stanza, from the preceding notice :—

"She is far from the land where her young
And lovers are round her, sighing:

hero sleeps,

But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

"She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking;

Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

"He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him,

"Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved island of sorrow."

THE MISS GUNNINGS.

To the Editor of "The Patrician."

SIR,-The interesting notice of the beautiful Miss Gunnings, in "The

*Irish Melodies.

Patrician" of last month, brought to my recollection some lines I had read
in an old letter in my possession, dated "Spa, 5th Sept., N. S., 1752."
The writer remarks, "I have opened this to send you an epigram on Miss
Buncomb's painting herself, which is handed about here:-

"Buncomb, I'm sure, deserves more praise
Than Gunning from the town;

You may thank Heaven for Gunning's face,
But Buncomb makes her own.

"Time may the charms of Gunning spoil,
Though now so much she's praised,
But Buncomb's bloom would never soil,
It she were framed and glazed."

Yours truly,

BARONETTUs.

TOBY MATTHEW, THE PREACHING ARCHBISHOP.

TOBIAS Matthew, or Matthews, Archbishop of York during the first quarter of the seventeenth century, was perhaps the most diligent preacher that ever lived. From a record kept by himself, it appears that while Dean of Durham, he delivered seven hundred and twenty-one sermons; while Bishop of that see, five hundred and fifty; and after his preferment to York, seven hundred and twenty-one, making a total of almost two thousand addresses, or nearly one for each single day in six years. We know no parallel in the history of pastoral labour, with the single exception of Charles Simeon, who in his Hora Homileticæ, furnishes the draughts of two thousand five hundred and thirty-six sermons; but whether these ail were actually preached, or not, we have no means of determining. Archbishop Matthew was descended from an ancient and honorable family in Wales, and was born in Bristol, in 1545. He received his education at Christ Church, Oxford, and rose to high honors in that University.

"When he had united," we translate the inscription on his tomb in York Cathedral, "the knowledge of theology with that of polite literature, he immediately entered upon the public service of the church, and became equally celebrated in the city, the country, the college, and the palace. Nor will Greece hereafter have more to boast of her Chrysostom than England of her Matthew. He was immediately known to Queen Elizabeth," continues the eulogy, "and was in great esteem with that princess. There was no preacher that she heard with more pleasure, or commended with more warmth. In the twenty-eighth year of his age, he was made head of the College of St. John Baptist, Oxford, and at the same time Archdeacon in the Church of Wells, and Canon of Christ Church, to the Deanery of which he was soon after promoted. At length, having enjoyed all the honors of the University, he was made Dean of Durham. After a few years, the Deanery became too small a dignity for his growing reputation; and such was the Queen's favour towards him, that he was created Bishop of Durham. When he had presided about twelve years in that see, he was translated by King James to the Archbishopric of York. So great a genius, whatever course it took, could not stop short of the highest attainments in it. These were the steps by which he arrived at so elevated a station. The virtues by which he adorned it

this monument cannot contain: they exceed the province of the sculptor; history alone can do them justice. Among other things, his singular hospitality ought to be recorded: his house was a perpetual scene of entertainment for the rich, and of charity to the poor. It was a distinguished happiness to the see of York, that though he was in his 60th year when he took possession of it, he held it for twenty-two years. That rich vein of eloquence he possessed was not impoverished even in extreme old age; after he was seventy years old, there was no one who preached more constantly, more successfully, or more acceptably. When his strength became unequal to these public services, he immediately began to languish, as if he had lived by that health alone which he spent in preaching the word of God, and was unwilling to survive these studies and these labours. Having lived a long, excellent, and happy life, he calmly departed out of it, on the 29th day of March, 1628, in the 83rd year of his age." The epitaph concludes with some further laudations, that are fulsome and uninteresting.

As one of the ablest antagonists of Campian, the Archbishop deserves notice; and the only composition he committed to the press was a Latin sermon against that able but unfortunate Jesuit. Campian was sent to England, in 1580, on a secret mission, by Pope Gregory XIII. He was arrested on a charge of high treason, and was convicted and executed in the course of the following year. Archbishop Matthew was in nowise concerned in his unhappy death, which took place on political and not on religious grounds.

66
THE ELIZA OF STERNE.

In the Cathedral of Bristol, among multitudinous efforts of the statuary, is a tomb by the artist Bacon, that must attract the attention of every admirer of quaint, humorous, sorrowful, and irresistible-whether he be in mirth or pathos-Sterne. It is reared against the western wall, and consists of a Gothic arch, encircling two figures, representing Genius and Benevolence. The latter with a silent finger points to this inscription :——

A short tenure of life, yet sufficient now for our continued remembrance.

DOCTOR Lyne, a physician of the early part of last century, lived at

Arloom, in the extreme west of the county of Cork, and attained the patriarchal age of 85, being cut off at last by the small-pox. It was remarkable that, for fifty years together, no one died out of his house, though he had always a numerous family of children and grandchildren. His house was built after a design of his own. Every window had another opposite to it, none of which he suffered to be either shut or glazed. They were kept continually open, without any defence against the weather. The room the doctor lay in had four windows, two open on each side his bed. Upon his death, his son glazed all the windows, and the exemption from the wonted mortality in families straightway ceased. Now, in these our days of universal drugging, might not the Irish physician's recipe be more largely followed than it is? He simply recommended, though doubtless, on a more extensive scale than we are prepared to follow, "fresh air," a remedy, we are persuaded, far better than many a nauseous draught that is compounded for her Majesty's lieges.

VERSES BY SHERARD OF LOPINTHORP, 1592.

We derive the following lines from a rare old manuscript, and lay them before our readers in the hope they may receive from them the same pleasure with ourselves. The Latin tongue is unpaganised in them, and is made to speak the faith and hope of the Christian.

Rolandus Sherard de Lopinthorp, armiger, obiens 9 die Oct. A.D. 1592. "Quod potuit dare, terra dedit, nunc debita poscit;

Cedo libens; cœli nunc mihi restat iter.

Quid dare terra potest homini? Bona corporis atque
Fortunæ, et sobolis pignora chara suæ—
Hæc habui, et longæ placidissima tempora vitæ,
Queis pax Angligenis aurea semper erat.
Nunc nihil hic video restare quod amplius optem,
Deliciæ vitæ præteriere meæ.

Nec manus officium, nec pes nunc præstat, ut olim ;
Nec solito clarent lumina more mihi;

Musica nec solitâ dulcedine verberat aures;
Nec favet ad cantum debile vocis iter.

Brachia, quæ validos carnuabant (?) fortiter arcus
Debitu nunc ori vix alimenta ferunt.

Cornipedisque alacer quondam qui terga premebam,
Nunc jaceo lecti triste senilis onus.

Nec tamen ista quæror, nec torquent membra dolores,
Matura at senii tempora cerno mei;

Hoc solum mihi dulce manet, Mens conscia Recti,
Atque fides mentem concomitata bonam.

Christe Deus, qui multa dabas, majora daturus,
Qua sperem grates posse referre Tibi?

Nil mihi nunc restat, nisi ut Alleluia cantem,
Immixtis sanctis cœlitibusque choris ;

Et cum plenus erit numerus cætusque tuorum
Cum proprio rursus corpori junctus ero!"

The fourth word in line thirteen is illegible, but the sense is sufficiently plain without it. Will some of our readers attempt a version of the foregoing in English verse?