There are two records more connected with this transaction, with which we shall close. In a northern newspaper, dated some fifteen years afterwards, there occurs the following paragraph:-- “AFFAIR OF HONOUR--FATAL DUEL.--Yesterday morning, at the early hour of five o’clock, a duel was fought between A. Irwin, Esq. and J. Hewson, Esq. of Mooredale, the former of whom, we regret to say, fell by the second fire. We hope the words attributed to one of the parties are not correctly reported. The blood of Frank Finnegan is now avenged.” The other record is to be found in the churchyard of ----, where there is a handsome monument erected, with the following inscription:-- “Sacred to the memory of Francis Finnegan, whose death presented an instance of the noblest virtue of which human nature is capable, that of laying down his life for his friend. This monument is erected to his memory by James Hewson, his friend and foster-brother, for whom he died.” TRINITY COLLEGE LIBRARY. With awe around these sacred walks I tread; These are the lasting monuments of the dead:-- “The dead!” methinks a thousand tongues reply: “These are the tombs of such as cannot die! Crown’d with eternal fame, they sit sublime, And laugh at all the little strife of time.”--CRABBE. Our College Library is a creditable establishment--a goodly structure to look at, both inside and out--and has a choice and ample collection of books of all sizes and in all languages. Gentle reader, have you ever felt the book passion? Know you what it is? If not, belike you might walk down our noble library’s length, and survey the books and busts, and stalls and gallery at each side, and the beautiful antique manuscripts in glass cases at the end just before you enter the Fagel Library, and be no more impressed--you will excuse us--no more than a grave-digger in knocking about an old coffin or a skull, yea, though the skull should once have belonged to poor Yorick, the king’s jester! Ah, sir, the passion is a tender one, if you knew but all--full of lack-a-daisical and melancholy, yet pleasing fancies. There are people smitten by the mere outside of a book--by the fineness of the paper, the breadth of the margin, or the beauty of the letter-press; but they know nothing of the true affection. Give them an annual, or an album, or any other bit of gilt gingerbread, and they will have all they require to their hearts’ content. Let them make sonnets to their mistress’s eyebrow; there is no soul in them; they are mere dandies; they have nothing congenial with the true passion. To be a proper lover of books a man must have been a great reader of them; and the more his reading, the stronger will be his love for them. They then present themselves to him with their train of associations, and as his eye passes along the shelves, he recognises each volume as an old acquaintance: some he shakes hands with cordially;