My dislike to the people of Liverpool may perhaps, arise from the fact that I claim to be a sailor; and that thousands of people in that great seaport--from beggars, thieves, and the like who crowd its crooked, narrow, dirty streets in search of a living, up to merchants, agents, and ship-owners--imagine that there is no harm in taking advantage of a sailor, and, under this belief, seldom lose an opportunity of doing so. The first thing I did after arriving in this precious seaport, was to possess myself of a city directory, and make a list of all the saddle and harness-makers in the place--putting down the address of each opposite his name. I then wrote a note to each of them--requesting, that if they knew anything of a journeyman saddler named Matthew Leary, they would have the goodness to communicate with me; if not, no answer to my note would be required. Having completed this interesting correspondence--which occupied me the whole of a day--I repaired to the residence of Mrs Hyland. There had been no change there. I found her still living in the same house, where years before, I had parted with her and her daughter. I was conducted into the drawing-room; and the next instant one of the most beautiful creatures man ever beheld, stood before me. Lenore was beautiful when a child; and time had only developed her young charms into the perfection of feminine loveliness. To me, her beauty transcended everything I had ever seen; although I had been in Dublin, New Orleans, and Mexico--three places which are not the least favoured with the light of woman's loveliness. Lenore was now sixteen years of age, and looked neither more nor less. The only description I can give of her is that there was nothing remarkable about her, but her beauty. I can give no particulars of how she appeared. If asked the colour of her hair and eyes, I should have been unable to tell; I only knew that she was beautiful. I was painfully disappointed at the reception she gave me. She did not meet me with those manifestations of friendship I had anticipated. It was true that I had been a long time away; and her friendship towards me might have become cooled by my protracted absence. But this was a painful consideration. I endeavoured to dismiss it--at the same time I strove to awaken within her the memories of our old companionship. To my chagrin, I saw that I was unsuccessful. She seemed to labour under some exciting emotion; and I could not help fancying that it was of a painful character. Her whole behaviour was a mystery to me, because so different from what it had formerly been, or what I had hoped to find it. I had left Lenore when she was but little more than a child, and she was now a young lady.