CHAPTER XX. For what admir'st thou, what transports thee so An outside? fair, no doubt, and worthy well Thy cherishing, thy honouring, and thy love,- MILTON. THE next day my friend left us, according to his intention. I told him what had altered my resolution of accompanying him. He was too wise to give any after-advice, when the die seemed cast. Mr. O'Sullivan's consent was soon obtained, when he found I made no objection to the settlements he wished, and asked no fortune with his daughter. He knew, from Alfred Usburn, that my property was considerable, and unimpaired; this was all he cared about knowing. I wished to have taken Dora with me, to live in England: but she objected to it; and I, who had many reasons for not liking to visit my Cornish dwelling again, determined for the pre sent to take up my abode in Cork. I, accordingly, took one of the handsomest houses in the place, and it was furnished under Dora's superintendence. The round of visiting and amusement we were now engaged in, suited well my mood. I strove to banish reflection. I wished to try another phasis of existence. The vanities of life assumed a new value in my eyes-the trifles of it a new importance. Among our host of friends, there were a few of superior talents, with these I essayed to shine in their own style by repartee, and epigrammatic brilliance. Dora, too, excelled in this way, and it was the species of cleverness she best understood and valued. As for the higher exercises of mind, the more exalted goings forth of intellect, they seemed to have forsaken me-there was no one near who would have sympathized in them. But every emotion was for a time absorbed in the one ruling passion of my heart. I now, at this distant period, cannot help wondering at myself, for the extent of the infatuation-it set at nought all previous predilections, all previous experience and reasonings-it could not be accounted for by any probabilities of my former mental condition. I seemed to be the tool of destiny, and to be moved at the pleasure of another! I was given up in fact "to walk in the sight of my eyes," and "after the desire of my heart!" There was none-I can now well remember-of the sweet calm repose, the divine peace, attending my first happy and holy courtship. I was in continual feverish excitement —often, nervous agitation and hurry. I soon felt, too, the pangs of jealousy beginning their torment. Dora's free and familar manner to other gentlemen annoyed and vexed me. I wanted her to love me as devotedly as I did her, and to be as exclusive in her outward demonstrations of interest. This she would by no means agree to, but parried my complaints with so much skill, that I felt ashamed of myself for having made them. She was evidently very fond of admiration, and had no idea of being contented with my single tribute. She enjoyed being in a whirl of company continually, and would have thought the evening dull, if her papa had not invited several other guests to join us. This often vexed and chafed me-I wanted more of her sole society-I wished to sound more thoroughly her principles and capabilities. The attempt seemed vain. "She will be improved, certainly," I thought, "by matrimony-then she will feel it necessary to live more for me than she does now she is young and thoughtless, and has never had the benefit of a mother's training, since she was a mere child; besides, as I am so much older -Dora was nineteen, myself about thirty-five-I must necessarily assume somewhat the character of a mentor, as well as husband, and, with her sweet disposition, it will all be well, and my task will be a happy one. Notwithstanding these attempts at self-delusion, my heart would often misgive me when alone, and I would form almost the half wish that I had remained firm to my first and virtuous resolution of quitting Ireland altogether, and flying from the creature that had thus spell-bound all the higher energies of my spirit. But when I rejoined her, one smile of blandishment, one endearing word, would lull all previous suspicions, or forebodings to sleep, and I became again her willing, her devoted captive. Mr. O'Sullivan hurried as much as possible every preparation for our wedding, alleging as a reason, that he wanted soon to leave Cork for England, and wished to see Dora married before then. I was glad that it should be so: rest or pause was irksome to me; beside, I longed for the time when I might consider the beautiful Dora my very own. The day at length arrived: we were married with much pomp and circumstance,-first by a Protestant clergyman, afterwards by a priest of the church of Rome. I was rather startled when this was first proposed, but I had gone too far to recede; beside, I had been endeavouring to reason away all that Alfred Usburn had called my exclusive notions, and had now arrived at a very accommodating pitch of liberalism. I had persuaded myself that every creed, held with sincerity, must be equally acceptable to the searcher of hearts. I recollected, with satisfaction, indeed, the bright and shining lights that had illumined the church of Rome from time to time, in past ages. I recalled to mind some living witnesses of the existence of earnest, sincere piety, amongst persons of her creed. I hoped-for I had not yet given up hoping on such subjects-that my Dora might prove one of |