I have little left worthy of relating that occurred while stationed in Kilkenny, but I cannot dismiss the subject without paying a tribute of respect and admiration to the character of the clergyman who acted as chaplain to the troops in that place—the Rev. Mr Rowe, rector of St Mary’s. Joined to an indefatigable discharge of his duty, the purest benevolence, and a liberal mind, he possessed an eloquence that caught the attention of the most illiterate and careless. Our men were never very remarkable for their church-going propensities, but we had not been long in Kilkenny when the greater part of the regiment voluntarily attended his Sunday evening sermons. Without stooping to coarseness of expression, he rendered himself plain and intelligible to all; and by his earnest and affectionate manner, endeared himself to his hearers. His preaching had a very visible effect on the conduct of many of our men, and I am sure they all remember him with feelings of esteem and veneration. He was no time-server, ‘with doctrines fashioned to the varying hour,’ but rigidly followed the example of his Master in being ‘no respecter of persons.’ It would be well for the people of Ireland were all the clergymen of the established church like Mr Rowe. As a specimen of the familiar manner in which he drew the men’s attention, I was once on the jail guard when he came to visit the prisoners. Those of the guard not posted as sentinels were always called in on such occasions, and when we were assembled he read some passages of Scripture; but while he was reading the men’s attention wandered. Perceiving this, he shut the book, and looking round his audience, ‘I will tell you a story,’ said he; every eye was fixed on him, ready to hear the promised tale:— ‘There was once a gentleman possessed of great riches, and he lived up to his income, enjoying all that this world could afford. He was on the point of setting out on a pleasure tour, when he took suddenly ill and soon after died. Some time after, a gentleman, who had been on very intimate terms with the deceased, but ignorant of his death, called at the door, and asked the servant if his master was at home; the servant replied, in melancholy accents, “Alas, sir! my master has gone to his long home—he is dead.” “Dead!” said the gentleman, horror-struck with the news, but recovering himself,—“Well,” said he, “it is the road we must all go sooner or later—but I hope he has gone to heaven?” The servant, who knew his master’s wild manner of living, shook his head. “What!” said the gentleman, “do you doubt it?” “I don’t know,” said the servant, “but when my master was on the eve of going a journey, he was always talking about it, and making great preparations some days before he set out; but during his illness I never once heard him mention _heaven_.” ‘Are you, my friends, making preparation for that long journey that we must all soon take?’