You have asked me to write a memoir of my life; but, after all, what is it? It is only a description of my heart and its feelings; of my early sorrows, and of my deep, deep love for one, whom I still continue to think is far too good—too far above me. Of her unworthy uncle I will not speak; she was his sister’s only child, and he could neither appreciate nor love her. All my felicity has arisen from his blindness, and I therefore forgive him. But if there has been nothing remarkable in this memoir, if the events are such as we meet with frequently, surely there is some novelty in the Surprise. THE SEVEN SHANTIES. “Jemmy, come here—come quick, will ye,” said a poor, dirty, good-natured looking fellow, to a man as ragged and poor as himself—“step faster, will ye, and help me to raise this wagon.” They lifted up the overturned light carriage and dragged out of the mud—first, a trunk and carpet bag, then a gun case, and lastly the owner of all this, a middle aged man, apparently, who had been stunned by the fall, although in so soft a spot. He recovered his senses, however, as soon as the men raised him from the ground, and the next thing was to know what to do with him. One of the men, Jemmy Brady, scratched his head and said, “If I had ever a room but the one in which the wife and childer are, I would take the gentleman there any how, but the noise would be too great for him I’m thinking.” “Och! but he’ll never mind the childer, God bless them,” said the other. “I dare say his honour has plenty of them—the likes of these jontlemen are always fond of young childer.” “You are very much mistaken, my friend,” said the stranger, “I do not like children. Is there no cabin or hut about here where I could rest for an hour or two, and change my clothes? I see that the wheel is off the carriage, so I cannot proceed to the tavern.” “Yes, sure,” said Larry, “plenty of them, barring Jemmy Brady’s and mine. Jemmy has seven childer and I have five,—too much noise for your honour, I’m thinking, and the mud is almost as thick on the floor of my shanty as it is here, your honour—but if you’ll step a bit this way, I’ll take you to Sally M’Curdy’s.” The gentleman asked if this Sally M’Curdy had any children. Larry said that she had not—that she was a lone woman. “She’s left with one grand-daughter,” said he, “Norah—you’ll may be have heard of little Norie, yer honour, for she is very smart at her latters, and can read and write too, and she’s very quiet and very mindful of her grandmother.” Both Jemmy and Larry had the instinctive feeling, that this widow’s shanty bade fairer for comfort than any other in the range, and they were hastening forward to show the way and to prepare her for the guest, when he discovered that he had sprained his ancle, and could not move. “What _now_ is to be done,” said he, impatiently, “I cannot lift my foot from the ground, and the pain is becoming intolerable.”