"And what is mulled wine made with?

Three or four voices exclaimed at once,

Here a servant entered, and said, "Luncheon-time." The old gentlemen, who have excellent appetites, dispersed at once, one of them politely asking us if we would not stop and have a bit of bread and a little mite of cheese.

There is one thing I have forgotten to show you,” said the Superintendent, "the cell for the confinement

of violent and unmanageable Punsters."

We were very curious to see it, particularly with reference to the alleged absence of every object upon which a play of words could possibly be made.

The Superintendent led us up some dark stairs to a corridor, then along a narrow passage, then down a broad flight of steps into another passage-way, and opened a large door which looked out on the main entrance.

We have not seen the cell for the confinement of 'violent and unmanageable' Punsters," we both exclaimed.

"This is the sell!" he exclaimed, pointing to the outside prospect.

My friend, the Director, looked me in the face so good-naturedly that I had to laugh.

"It has

spirits to Some of

"We like to humor the Inmates," he said. a bad effect, we find, on their health and disappoint them of their little pleasantries. the jests to which we have listened are not new to me, though I dare say you may not have heard them often

before. The same thing happens in general society, with

this additional disadvantage, that there is no punishment provided for 'violent and unmanageable' Punsters, as in our institution."

We made our bow to the Superintendent and walked to the place where our carriage was waiting for us. On our way, an exceedingly decrepit old man moved slowly towards us, with a perfectly blank look on his face, but still appearing as if he wished to speak.

"Look!" said the Director,-"that is our Centenarian."

The ancient man crawled towards us, cocked one eye, with which he seemed to see a little, up at us, and said, "Sarvant, young Gentlemen. Why is a- a-a like a a a-? Give it up?

a a

Because it's a a

He smiled a pleasant smile, as if it were all plain enough.

"One hundred and seven last Christmas," said the Director. "He lost his answers about the age of ninetyeight. Of late years he puts his whole Conundrums in blank, but they please him just as well."

We took our departure, much gratified and instructed by our visit, hoping to have some future opportunity of inspecting the records of this excellent charity and making extracts for the benefit of our readers.

MR. TIBBOT O'LEARY, THE CURIOUS.

BY GERALD GRIFFIN.

N that exceedingly romantic, but lonesome tract of country which extends along the Upper Lake of Killarney, stood, within my own recollection, one of those antique mansions which are to be found in different stages of decay in many parts of the country. It was easy to see, from the style of building, that the hands by which it was raised had given up business for more than a century, at least.

In this house, somewhat less than fifty years since, dwelt a gentleman of very ancient family indeed. He was one of those persons whose faces ought to be turned behind them, in order to correspond with the prevailing bias of their intellects, for he seemed to think of nothing but the past, and was infinitely more familiar with the days of Moses and Zoroaster, than with his own. As to the future, he saw, and desired to see, no more of it than a man beholds of those objects which stand in a right line behind him. His tastes, if not so entirely sentimental as those of Sterne, who could find more satisfaction in communing with a dead ass than with a living Christian,

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7

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appeared yet sufficiently fantastic in their way to that very limited number of persons who had the honor of being scattered in his neighborhood. A mouldy Irish manuscript, a Danish rath or fort, a craggy ruin of an Abbey or Castle, which had survived the very memory of their possessors, a moss-covered cromleach, or lonely Druid stone, were to him more welcome company any day in the year, than the wittiest or most sociable amongst his living friends. As to the ladies, if Cleopatra herself were to arise from the grave, unless her great antiquity might awaken some interest for her, she would find her charms and talents as entirely wasted on the insipid mind of Mr. Tibbot O'Leary, as they were in her natural lifetime on that very ill-bred gentleman whom they call Octavius Cæsar. Although habits of retirement and absence of mind had made him very unobservant of the manners of his own time, and he was apt to make awkward mistakes occasionally, both at his own table and at those of others, yet he could hardly be taxed with a want of breeding, for he would have known to a nicety how to conduct himself at the tables of Lucullus or Mecœnas, when those who now laughed at him for his ignorance would have looked like fools or clodpoles by his side.

But the darling object of his affections was a round tower. What especially charmed him about these singular buildings was, that nobody in the world could tell for what possible use they were intended. Volumes on volumes had been written, all proving the great learning and acuteness of the different writers, yet the subject still remained as much a mystery as ever. What in the

world could they be for? That was the question which constantly recurred to his mind, alone or in company, silent or conversing, sleeping or awake. There they were, round, lofty edifices; as cylindrical inside and outside as the barrel of a gun, exact in all their proportions, and admirable in their masonry, yet of no possible use that anybody could divine, -no steps, -no way of getting up to the top, either inside or outside, no apartment underneath, nothing but its small doorway, and the tall circular wall, as if the sole object of the founder had been to show how high it was possible to build a round wall which could not be of any earthly use to himself or to anybody else. They could scarcely have been watchtowers, seeing that some (as at Glendaloch) were at the bottom of a valley, and surrounded by hills, any one of which would give a better view than the top of the round tower. Nor could they have been Stylite columns, since that was acknowledged to be almost exclusively an Oriental institution. Nor could he see that great resemblance in structure which others professed to discover between them and the Pyratheia of the Persian Gaurs, which are still to be seen in the East, for those last were at least habitable and accessible. What on earth could they be for? There was no knowing, and that was the very circumstance which fascinated his mind, and kept his intellectual powers forever on the stretch.

Absorbed by such pursuits, he felt not for a long time the loneliness of his position, living in a dilapidated house, with no other company than that of his man, Tom Nash, and a moving antique in the shape of an old woman who took care of his housekeeping. Tom felt no great interest