broke orth from behind a dark cloud, and suddenly lighted the ghastly spectacle before him—the disfigured mass, which retained scarcely a feature of his once beloved friend, the streams of blood which bathed the body, and all the earth around,—that he waked with horror, as from some infernal dream. But the deed was done, and judgment was at hand. Led by the instinct of self-preservation, he fled, like Cain, into the nearest wood. How long he wandered there he could not recollect. Fear, love, repentance, despair, and at last madness, pursued him like frightful companions, and at length robbed him of consciousness,-for a time annihilating the terrors of the past in forgetfulness; for kind nature puts an end to intolerable sufferings of mind, as of body, by insensibility or death. Meanwhile, the murder was soon known in the city; and the fearful end of the gentle youth, who had confided himself, a foreigner, to their hospitality, was learned by all with sorrow and indignation. A dagger, steeped in blood, had been found lying by the velvet cap of the Spaniard, and not far from it, a hat, ornamented with plumes and a clasp of gems, showed the recent traces of a man who seemed to have sought safety in the direction of the wood. The hat was immediately recognised as Edward's, and as he was nowhere to be found, fears were soon entertained that he had been murdered with his friend. The terrified father mounted his horse, and, accompanied by a crowd of people calling for vengeance, swore solemnly that nothing should save the murderer, were he even compelled to execute him with his own hands. We may imagine the shouts of joy, and the feelings of the father, when, at break of day, Edward Lynch was found, sunk under a tree, living, and although covered with blood, yet apparently without any dangerous wound. We may imagine the shudder which ran through the crowd,

-the feelings of the father we cannot imagine,—when, restored to sense, he embraced his father's knees, declared himself the murderer of Gonsalvo, and earnestly implored instant punishment.

He was brought home bound, tried before a full assembly of the magistrates, and condemned to death by his own father. But the people would not lose their darling. Like the waves of the tempest-troubled sea, they filled the market-place and the streets, and, forgetting the crime of the son in the relentless justice of the father, demanded with threatening cries the opening of the prison and the pardon of the criminal. During the night, though the guards were doubled, it was with great difficulty that the incensed mob were withheld from breaking in. Towards morning, it was announced to the mayor that all resistance would soon be vain, for that a part of the soldiers had gone over to the people; -only the foreign guard held out, and all demanded with furious cries the instant liberation of the criminal. At this, the inflexible magistrate took a resolution, which many will call inhuman, but whose awful selfconquest certainly belongs to the rarest examples of stoical firmness. Accompanied by a priest, he proceeded through a secret passage to the dungeon of his son; and when, with newly-awakened desire of life, excited by the sympathy of his fellow-citizens, Edward sunk at his feet, and asked eagerly if he brought him mercy and pardon? the old man replied with unfaltering voice," No, my son, in this world there is no mercy for you; your life is irrevocably forfeited to the law, and at sunrise you must die. One-and-twenty years I have prayed for your earthly happiness, but that is past,-turn your thoughts now to eternity; and if there be yet hope there, let us now kneel down together, and implore the Almighty to grant you mercy hereafter; but then I hope my son, though he could

not live worthy of his father, will at least know how to die worthy of him." With these words he rekindled the noble pride of the once dauntless youth, and, after a short prayer, he surrendered himself with heroic resignation to his father's pitiless will.

As the people, and the greater part of the armed men mingled in their ranks, now prepared, amidst more wild and furious menaces, to storm the prison, James Lynch appeared at a lofty window; his son stood at his side with the halter round his neck. "I have sworn," exclaimed the inflexible magistrate," that Gonsalvo's murderer should die, even though I must perform the office of executioner myself. Providence has taken me at my word; and you, madmen, learn from the most wretched of fathers, that nothing must stop the course of justice, and that even the ties of nature must break before it." While he spoke these words, he had made fast the rope to an iron beam projecting from the wall, and now suddenly pushing his son out of the window, he completed his dreadful work. Nor did he leave the spot till the last convulsive struggles gave certainty of the death of his unhappy victim. As if struck by a thunder-clap, the tumultuous mob had beheld the horrible spectacle in death-like silence, and every man glided, as if stunned, to his own house.

From that moment, the mayor of Galway resigned all his occupations and dignities, and was never beheld by any eye but those of his own family. He never left his house till he was carried from it to his

grave. Anna

Blake died in a convent. Both families in course of time disappeared from the earth; but the skull and crossbones still mark the scene of this fearful tragedy.

For the foregoing account of the most remarkable incident connected with the west of Ireland, we are indebted to "the Tour of a German Prince," published some few years since.

THOMAS PITT, LORD CAMELFORD.

MARVELLOUS indeed was the construction of Lord Camelford's mind, exhibiting, as it did, the strangest compound of human goodness and human frailty. High spirited, generous, and forbearing, his lordship was, at the same time, headstrong, violent, and rash. At one period, distinguished for sound sense, enlarged views, and a love of science, he rendered himself conspicuous at another, for foolish vanity, mad profusion, and acts of reckless frolic. Those who studied his character, knew not whether they ought the more to admire his excellent qualities, or condemn his dangerous eccentricities. Be that point, however, as doubtful as it may, certain it is that Lord Camelford possessed, in an eminent degree, the all-redeeming virtue of Charity— that sacred gift, which covereth a multitude of sins, and which, we gladly hope, " blotted out for ever" the manifold transgressions of his turbulent career.

Thomas Pitt, Lord Camelford, was the great grandson of the famous Governor Pitt, who acquired the principal part of an ample fortune in India, by the vantageous purchase of a diamond, which was sold in Europe, with great profit, to the Duke of Orleans, regent of France. He was allied to some of the first families in the kingdom; his father, who was elevated to the peerage in 1784, being the nephew of the Earl of Chatham, and his sister having married Lord Grenville.

Lord Camelford was born February 26, 1775. In his spirit and temper, when a boy, there appeared something which, though vigorous and manly, was, however, peculiar and unmanageable. He received at Berne, in Switzerland, the first rudiments of his education, which he afterwards completed at the Charter-house. In compliance with a predilection of his own, he was suffered at an early age to enter the Royal Navy as a midshipman. In this capacity, he sailed in the year 1789, in the Guardian frigate, commanded by the gallant Captain Riou, and laden with stores for the then new colony of convicts settled at Botany Bay. The calamity which befel that ship was well calculated to inure the youthful seaman to the perils of the element which he had chosen for the theatre of his professional life. At that early period he manifested the same contempt of danger which so particularly distinguished the whole of his career. It is well known that, when all endeavours to save the vessel appeared to be fruitless, her commander gave permission to such of the crew as chose to avail themselves of it, to consult their safety and betake themselves to the boats, On this occasion, Lord Camelford was one of those who, to the number of ninety, resolutely resolved to remain in the ship, and to share her fate with the gallant commander. After a passage, little less than miraculous, in the wreck to the Cape of Good Hope, his lordship, in September, 1790, arrived at Harwich, in the Prince of Orange packet.

So far from being daunted by the hardships and dangers he had encountered in the Guardian, Lord Camelford, soon after his return, solicited an appointment in the voyage of discovery which was then fitting out under the command of the late Captain Vancouver. He accompanied that officer, in the ship Discovery, during part of his circumnavigation; but, in consequence of