Imatges de pàgina
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relation; but she was the slave of petty vanities and outward appearances. Of course, with such a partner, his native disposition to extravagance was nourished rather than restrained His salary was liberal, but inadequate to his own love of ostentation and his wife's taste for finery, who had actually opened a correspondence with Madame Beauchamelle of Curzon-street, receiving in return for good bills on England, a box of the newest dresses almost by every ship that anchored in the roads. Madame Beauchamelle assured her that the dress she had just forwarded was sent by stealth, and with such caution, that if the Marchioness of Londonderry, by whom it had been bespoke, and who had fallen in love with the drawing from which it had been modelled, were to hear of it, she (Madame Beauchamelle) would lose her "bonnes graces éperduement." But, besides this, a new mansion of three stories rose near the Triplicain tank, like an exhalation. It was built after a design of Vitruvius, and was the noblest house at the presidency, the Government-gardens alone excepted. Banquettings and their adjuncts, a rich service of plate from Hamlet's, and the finest wines of the finest growth, followed in due order. This train of seeming luxuries was in a short time followed by a corresponding train of evils. It was now that poor Arabella, the despised, rejected Arabella, ventured to remonstrate, and to render remonstrance more effectual, addressed it to the wife. She might as well bave addressed it to the winds. Her impertinent interference flew round the presidency, and envenomed every tongue against her.

But iron times were approaching. Barlow's government was the reign of spies and informers. The social board was unsafe; the servant who stood behind his master's chair reported the next morning what fell from his lips. All was dismay and suspicion. Civil and military functionaries were thrown out of employ without any reason assigned, or any offence committed or intended. Sydenham, in the thoughtlessness of the convivial hour, had abused Sir George and his measures; and what was worse, had asserted that her ladyship was drunk every day. It was determined to ruin him. But so valuable a servant could not be causelessly displaced. A decent excuse was wanted. It was not long wanted. He had been storekeeper of a large quantity of rice purchased by the Government, which had been deposited in warehouses on the beach. A storm, unequalled in violence and duration within the memory of man, had taken place, and the sea had broken down the walls of the granary. A large quantity of rice was of course destroyed. Sydenham was called upon to give in bis accounts, both of the grain that had been disposed of, and of that which was still in store, allowing him a certain deduction of weight for the quantity damaged or destroyed. In this perplexity, the accounts, which were kept in cadjan books, were missing. Sydenham had a mortal foe in a civil servant. named Beatson, who had been an unsuccessful aspirant for the very office in which it was now attempted to prove the former a defaulter. Every one believed that the accounts had been abstracted by this person, who had frequently sent for Sydenham's accountant, and remained in close conference with him for several hours. But, in the meanwhile, Sydenham was dismissed from his employments and reduced to penury, overwhelmed with debts he had no means of discharging: in one word, disgraced and ruined! The shock preyed intensely on his wife's spirits, for it involved the loss of every luxury, and luxury of every kind had become essential to her being. She died not long after of a bilious fever.

To solace his widowed hours, and to divert his mind under the other misfortunes that had befallen him, he became a frequent visitor at the house of Mr. Archibald Duncan, in whose family Arabella resided. He was, therefore, thrown into frequent converse with her whom, in his better day, he had cast away with the levity and indifference with which a child throws away its plaything. That converse by degrees became necessary to his existence. He could see only through her judgment, reason only through the reflected light of her understanding, and feel

only through the medium of her sensibilities. In a short time they were married. She thus became the wife of a civilian, poor, destitute, disgraced, and in debt, who had nothing to live upon but the small stipend of a servant out of employ, barely adequate, in that country, to a mere existence. But Arabella well knew what miracles may be affected by the economical distribution of the most inconsiderable pitttance; and having taken a bungalow upon the cheapest scale, she tried to make herself acquainted with the details, intricate as they were, of her husband's case. By degrees, she began to perceive its merits and its defects, but in the memorial which she assisted him to frame, she did not presume too strongly on the one, nor dissemble the other by sophistry and fine words. The abstraction of the cadjans rendered for the present those defects incurable. Her skill in arithmetic, no uncommon advantage of a Scottish education, enabled her to detect many errors in the calculations of Sydenham's enemy; but till the missing accounts were forthcoming, his defence remained incomplete, and his restoration to the service impossible.

She had great faith in the moral force and indestructible quality of truth. She believed that no artifice could so effectually hide it, but by the application of a few simple and natural tests, it would burst through every covering by which it was overlaid or concealed. This, in fact, is the whole philosophy of what, in courts of law, is called cross-examination. She had long suspected that the brahminy, who had been the head-accountant in Sydenham's grain-department, was privy to the abstraction of the cadjans. But without some knowledge of the Tamul language, she could not pursue him through the labyrinth of evasions, in which the cunning of the natives screens itself from detection. Sydenham, indeed, was well versed in the dialects of the country; but he was as ignorant as a child of the means by which truth is elicited. Was it impossible to learn sufficient Tamul to enable her to conduct with skill and effect such a cross-examination as Sydenham's case required? To diligence, warmed by enthusiasm, nothing is impossible. In a year she was mistress of that language. She gave herself six months more to acquire a sufficient insight into the esoteric or inner language, if so it may be called, in which a native witness, unwilling to speak the truth, but fearful of asserting a falsehood, so frequently shrouds himself. She received some admirable aids in this exercise from Raganaudum, the interpreter of the Supreme Court, and was at length fully qualified for the momentuous task she had undertaken. Sydenham had been suspended the service till the pleasure of the Court of Directors was known. But three years elapsed and his case remained unconsidered. In the meanwhile, Barlow was recalled. His successor was a man of a plain indolent understanding, but uninfected with the party-spirit of the preceding period. Sydenham asked for a committee of civil servants and merchants, in order to institute an impartial examination of his accounts. It was granted; and the committee, having at her own especial instance, permitted his wife to examine the head accountant, in three-quarters of an hour the whole truth was established by a process as decisive as if the spear of Ithuriel had been in her hand. It was not, indeed, Ithuriel's spear that served her, but a talisman of equal efficacy. It was common sense, an instrument which, rightly applied, is omnipotent in the affairs of men. The cadjans were forthcoming; they had been concealed by the brahminy, at the subornation of Beatson. The whole plot was unveiled, and Sydenham returned triumphantly to the service. Through a gradation of offices he obtained at last nearly its highest rank; re-purchased his splendid mansion, formerly the monument of his folly and extravagance, but now bearing honourable attestation to his official diligence and integrity. Who, therefore, will despise the spinster that went out to India

IN SEARCH OF A HUSBAND?

NIGHT AND LOVE..

When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes,

As stars look on the sea!

For thoughts, like waves that glide by night,
Are stillest where they shine;

Mine earthly love lies hushed in light,
Beneath the heaven of thine

There is an hour when angels keep
Familiar watch on men;

When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep-
Sweet spirit, meet me then.

There is an hour when holy dreams, Through slumber, fairest glide; And in that mystic hour, it seems, Thou shouldst be by my side.

The thoughts of these too sacred are

For daylight's common beam ;

I can but know thee as my star,
My angel, and my dream.

THE DESTROYER.

Madeline Arlington was a young lady of great personal attractions, residing with her brother in a manner highly respectable, though very far from affluent. How proud was that brother of her! How he watched her every movement! What joy would sparkle in his eyes, as Sir Edward Markham craved Madeline for a companion in his rambles. He loved Sir Edward for the kindness he displayed, for the goodness of heart he evinced towards all around him. His title-his rank, were nothing in the eyes of the brother of Madeline Arlington. The affection which Sir Edward had so long shewn towards Madeline, he doubted not would ripen into love; and that he should ere long behold his sister the happy bride of his dear friend Sir Edward. But a "change came o'er the spirit of his dream;" inasmuch as Sir Edward proved to be a fiend disguised in human form; and being rich and handsome, was the "observed of all observers," and more especially by Madeline, upon whom he had bestowed the greatest attention; but alas! it was but to abuse the confidence she had so unwittingly reposed in him.

Mr. Arlington had lately observed a dulness in his sister never before known, and whenever he questioned her as to the cause, she would smile upon him in so forced, so spurious a manner, that an indifferent discriminator could at once detect the fraud. He had also noticed in Sir Edward a disposition to evade him— for what, he was at a loss to conceive, but evidently it was so. His visits to Madeline were less frequent, and his whole appearance had undergone a change. No smile-no affectionate kiss, would he meet his once beloved Madeline with. All his warm love, language, eloquence had left him, he was cold, indifferent to the sweets of her "who loved not wisely, but too well."

One evening, as Sir Edward entered the room where Mr. Arlington and his sister were reading, Madeline raised her eyes as the door opened-fixed them upon the intruder, and without uttering a word left the apartment. Something was wrong, thought Mr. Arlington, and he was determined to have the mystery unravelled, and on the departure of Sir Edward, he imme

diately repaired to his sister's chamber, where he found her bedewed with tears.

"Madeline, you have been weeping," said Mr. Arlington to his sister. "'Tis of no use attempting to deceive me- -I know you have. What is the meaning of your sadness?"

"Tis nothing, Frederick."

"Tis useless to evade my question. I know there is something weighing heavily upon your heart. Two short months agd, your cheeks would have matched with the rose, and now they are as pale as the lily."

“Another time, dear Frederick, you shall know all."

"And why not now? Such treatment is unkind—nay unjust. I am your brother."

"And as a sister, I must not reveal to you the secret of my heart. Pray force me not."

"Must not! Has the sister of Frederick Arlington a secret which her brother must not partake of? You have been wronged Madeline-I know it. Who is the fiend that has dared to deceive you? Name me the villain, that I may plunge a dagger in his heart."

"Brother, be not so rash. True I have been wrongeddeceived."

"I know thou bast. Some serpent hath stung the bud, and destroyed the bloom. Confide everything to me, and I will bless thee even in guilt.

Who is the fiend ?"

"Your friend;" replied Madeline, as the tears ran down her pale cheeks.

"No man is the friend of Frederick Arlington who tramples and destroys his sister's honour. Whom Madeline, do you

allude to ?"

"A pause ensued—an awful pause-and it was with great difficulty she articulated "Sir Edward Markham!" The name appeared to have stricken terror to them both, for scarcely had she concluded the name of ber destroyer, ere she fell apparently lifeless on the floor. It was some time before Madeline recovered, and then she found herself folded in the arms of her brother. He inquired of her whether Sir Edward had promised ber wedlock, and on receiving a reply in the affirmative, his joyous eyes began to sparkle forth their delight; but on learning that he had subsequently refused, a wild madness seemed to pervade his whole frame, and with clenched teeth he uttered, "he shall rue this baseness."

"Brother!" exclaimed Madeline, "be not too rash-do not do a deed heaven would spurn thee for. Think of our familyuphold its honour. I have stained it, but do not you stain it too." I will wipe off the foul blot-the stain shall not remain while I have power to erase it."

And he hastened from the apartment, leaving Madeline in tears; and ere an hour had elapsed, was ushered into Sir Edward's study.

So I have found you alone, Sir Edward."

"You appear indisposed, Arlington. I pray you seat yourself."

"Not in your presence, Sir Edward," haughtily replied Mr. Arlington, "I should not have taken the liberty of intruding upon you were my business not of the utmost importance. I have learned from Madeline your crime, and I have also learnt that you have refused reparation."

"Crime! reparation! I understand thee not."

"'Tis false thou base calumniator; thou understandest me well, and thou shalt maintain her honour. You come to me in the guise of friendship-obtain my sister's love-trample upon her beauty, and have not manhood enough to act as high heaven decrees. I spit upon thee Sir Edward."

"This is madness, and I will not stay to be so abused." "You shall not leave me thus; 1 will have a confession. You are guilty and the world shall know it. You have been writing, I perceive-calumny perhaps! Now sit down and write a true confession of your guilt-it will be an honourable composition,

if not appreciated. Sit down and do it, or this sharp pointed dagger shall lacerate thy heart, if not impenetrable alike to steel as to thy duty.'

Little did Sir Edward anticipate that he should ever be compelled to write a confession of what he feared to think on. He entreated Arlington to allow him a few hours to ponder on the subject; he would probably wed his sister, and save the stigma which must inevitably be cast upon his character. But no; nothing would satisfy the brother of the lady, but a written confession of his guilt. He sat down, and wrote by the dictation of Arlington, and as the latter snatched the guilty document from his hand, he exclaimed, "the world shall know thee, thou blaster of reputations!" and hurried from the apartment.

Sir Edward was in a state of dreadful mental excitement, thinking in what manner he could eradicate the foul stain that would be cast upon his character: and he was fearful lest it should get to the ears of his intended bride, a lady of considerable fortune, and a branch of the aristocracy, and thereby frustrate all his ambitious intentions. A thought flashed across his braincould he not effectually pronounce the confession to be a forgery committed by Arlington. He doubted not, through Arlington, everything would be made public; his connexion with his sister --his frequent visits to his house-his rambles with her in public ---all would go against him. This must not be-he must sacrifice himself for the sake of his honour-he must forego the hand of the wealthy to satisfy the honour of the poor. He would never allow the matter to be exposed, as it inevitably must be if he did not immediately offer reparation. He hastily put on his hat and cloak, and repaired to Arlington's house, where he found him absorbed in thought.

"What am I so honoured?" said Arlington, sarcastically. "Mr. Arlington, I am perfectly conscious of having done wrong, but I trust the proposition I am about making, will render your exertions to prove my iniquity, vain. I am willing to sacrifice myself to save your sister from ignominy."

"Sacrifice!" exclaimed Arlington, sneeringly; "to wed a girl whom you have deceived, and through your deceit dishonoured." "To-morrow, Mr. Arlington, with the permission of your sister and yourself, I will make her my wife."

"She shall be your bride, Sir Edward." "To-morrow, then, I will lead her to the altar.-I shall be punctual, but breathe not a word."

"I know my duty-remember yours."

On the following morning, the marriage bells were merrily ringing as Sir Edward entered the house, for the purpose of leading Miss Arlington to the altar. How awful was the sight -death appeared to cling to the fair bride. She was as a statute of marble, inanimate. She stood gazing upon Sir Edward calmly, but resolutely. Her lips, which were as pale as death, moved not; she appeared like one of another world. How Sir Edward rejoiced as he saw that life was ebbing fast from her. He entreated the hand of that lady whom he had once loved, and whose happiness appeared to consist with his alone. Her hand was taken by Sir Edward, but on its first touch, the beautiful but deadly bride started like one electrified. In a few minutes they were at the altar; and as Sir Edward placed the ring upon the finger of his bride, she sunk beneath its weight, and expired. "God, she is dead!" exclaimed Sir Edward, rejoicing inwardly at the thought.

"And well for her she is," said Frederick; "she died at least more sinned against than sinning. You are a widower, Sir Edward—my sister was your bride—I am your brother—you have killed her-YOU ARE HER DESTROYER."

THE RUNAWAY CUPID.

"Of marks and signs the child hath plentyYou may know him among twenty, Not white his skin but fiery bright;

Sharp his eyes, and full of light.
Crafty-minded; but his words
Sweet as song of summer birds.
In his anger, nothing wild
Is so cruel as the child.
Curly headed; o'er his face
Plays a wanton charm, a grace.
Small his arrows, but they fly
Down to Acheron, through the sky,
From earth to heaven; bare his skin-
His cunning clothes him well within!
Winged like a bird he flies
From the bosom to the eyes;
From boy to girl, in every part,
Then rests and nestles in the heart.
Small his arrows, small his bow;
Yet his arrows he doth throw
Over hill, and wood, and river.
At his back a golden quiver,
Of deadly arrows full, which he
Angry oft doth shoot at me.
Listen then-and if you find him,
Bring him here; be sure and bind him.
If he weep, and sob, and pray,

Look he does not run away;

If his face with smiles grow brighter,
Pull him faster, tie him tighter.
If he seeks to kiss thee, fly!
Poison 'neath his lips doth lie.
If in softer strains he say,

Take my bow and darts away'-
Touch them not-the boy's a liar;
Bow and darts are dipp'd in fire."

THE VIRGIN WIDOW.

There is no country in the world whose scenery is more sweetly diversified than in many parts of Ireland. How many deep vallies, wild glens, green meadows, and pleasant hamlets, lie scattered over the bosom of a country whose inhabitants are equally moved by the impulses of mirth and sorrow; each valley, and glen, and retired hamlet marked by some sad remembrance of humble calamity of which the world never hears!

The village of Kilmore is situated in the bosom of as sweet a valley as ever gladdened the eye or the heart of man to look upon. Contentment, peace, and prosperity, seemed attendants on its happy inhabitants. The people were marked by a rural simplicity of manners, such as is still to be found in some of the remote and secluded hamlets of Ireland. The vale was green and shelving, having its corn fields, its pasturage, and its patches of fir, poplar, and mountain ash, intermingled and creeping up on each side, in wild but quiet beauty, to the very mountain tops that enclosed it. At one extremity of this glen, lay a small, clear sheet of water, as calm and unruffled as the village itself. From this sweet lake flowed the pure stream which murmured down between banks here and there open, and occasionally covered by hazle, blackthorn, or birches. As it approached the village, the scenery about it became more soft and tranquil. The banks spread away into meadows, flower-spangled and green; the fields became richer; the corn waved to the soft summer breeze; the noon-day smoke of the dinner fires rose up from the cottage chimnies, and was gently borne away to the more wide-spread scene of peace and cultivation that lay in the campaign country below it. On each side of the glen were masses of rock and precipices, just large enough to give an air of wildness and picturesque beauty to a view, which, in itself was calm and serene. In the distance, towards the North, stood out a bold and storm

vexed headland, that heaved back the mighty sweep of the Atlantic, of which there was a distant view from an eminence above the village. Nothing could be more grand than the hoarse roar of the gigantic billows, as they shivered themselves into spray, and thundered among the gloomy caverns of the headlands, especially when contrasted with the calmness and security which reposed upon the neat white village of the glen.

It is fair time, Heaven! what an astounding multitude of discordant noises all blend into one hoarse, deep, murmuring body of sound, for which we can find no suitable term! Cows lowing, sheep bleating, pigs grunting, horses neighing, men shouting, women screaming, fiddlers playing, pipes squalling, youngsters dancing, hammering up of tents and standings, thumping of restive or lazy animals, the showman's drum, the lotteryman's speech, the ballad-singer's squall-all are upon us in joyous, though inharmonious, strains.

About twelve o'clock the fair tide is full; for that is the time in which the greatest interchange of property, and the most vigorous transactions of business, with all its accompanying bustle and activity, takes place. For an hour or two this continues. About three o'clock the tide is evidently on the ebb; business begins to slacken ; and those who have their transactions brought to a close, meet their families and friends at the place of rendezvous-always some public house. It is now, when the heat and bustle of the day have passed away, and refreshment becomes both grateful and necessary, that the people fall into distinct groups for the purpose of social enjoyment. If two young people have been for some time "coortin' one another," the "bachelor," which in Ireland means a suitor, generally contrives to bring his friends and those of his sweetheart together. It must be known that it is at such meetings the greater number of the love matches amongst the peasantry of the "Emerald Isle" are brought about, and always towards evening, after every other kind of business is bought to a stand still. Then it is that busy, and oftentimes noisy groups, may be seen crowded together, at the corners of lanes, and under gateways, the friends of the "boy" driving as hard a bargain with those of the girl as if it was about a drove of bullocks or a flock of sheep they were debating. In a great many instances, indeed, the parties really concerned are never consulted till they are brought before the priest on the wedding night.

But at the fair in question,-let us just turn our eyes on a smaller and less noisy party than those we have been noticing: a young man, a middle-aged woman, and her two daughters-the one grown up, the other only a child. Mary Moore is the widow's daughter, the pride of the parish, and the beloved of all who can appreciate goodness and filial piety. The child is her sister; and that fine, manly, well-built youth is pledged to the modest and beautiful girl. He is a wealthy young farmer, and her family is rather poor.

Edward Murray, the hero of our narrative, was the son of a wealthy farmer, who died whilst he was young, leaving him and an elder brother to the care of their mother, who, being a woman of sense and prudence, conducted all the business of the farm herself, until her sons became sufficiently grown to take the management of it on themselves.

At the period at which our story commences, Michael, the eldest, being married, lived in a separate habitation from his mother and brother. When a young man, though in good circumstances, he looked cautiously about him, not for the best or handsomest wife, but for the largest fortune; in which speculation, so far as money was concerned, he succeeded: but his domestic peace was overshadowed by the gloom of his own character, and not unfrequently disturbed by the violent temper of a wife, who united herself to him with an indifferent heart. He was, in short, a man more respected than loved, for he was always looked upon by his neighbours as rather hard in money matters, or as what they call “a nagur.”

Edward and his mother both resided together, for after his father's death he succeeded to the inheritance which had been designed for him. The Widow Murray, though rather of an ascetic, irascible temperament, still loved her son Edward, whose good humour at all times seemed to sweeten the natural vinegar of her disposition. He was her younger son, too, of whom she was justly proud, and on whom she was immediately dependant for support; and to him, also, she looked as the prop of her declining years ;-and she also knew, that in spite of her frequent upbraidings and reproofs, he loved her dearly, as was evident from the many instances of his considerate regard towards her at different times, and in contributing. as far as lay in his power, to her comfort. It would be difficult, indeed, to find a family in which those transient feuds that occasionally appear in domestic life do not occur, and when noticed by strangers, it is both uncharitable and unjust to conclude that there is an absence of domestic affection in the hearts of those amongst whom they occur. No mother in the world, for instance, ever loved a son with stronger affections, than poor Widow Ryan did her son Edward, notwithstanding the repeated scoldings which, for very trivial causes, he experienced at her tongue.

The courtship of Mary Moore and Edward had arrived, on the fair day of Ballycastle, to a crisis which required decision on the part of the wooer. They went into a public-house. Their conversation, which was only such as takes place in a thousand similar instances, there is no necessity to detail. It was tender and firm on the part of Edward, and affectionate between him and her. With that high pride, which is only another name for humility, she urged him to forget her; "as you know," added she, "it is not pleasin' to your friends. You know, Edward, that I am poor, and you are rich-and your mother and brother would respect no one that had not the money." And such was really the case: both his mother and brother discouraged the match, and urged every argument they could think of to dissuade him from it, but to no purpose.

"Mary, dear," replied he, "I know that both Michael and my mother love me in their hearts, and although they may pretind to anger in the beginnin', yet they'll soon soften, and will love you as they do me."

"Well, Edward dear," says Mary, "my mother and you are present; if my mother says that I ought”—

"I do, darling!" replied her mother: "that is, I can't feel any particular objection to it: yet my mind is troubled. I know that what he says will happen; but for all that-och, Edward, aroon! there's something over me about this same match-I don't know I'm willin', and I'm not willin'."

They arose to depart; and as both families lived in the beautiful village of Kilmore, which has been already described, of course their walk home was such as lovers could wish.

Evening had arrived: the placid Summer sun shone down with a mild flood of light upon Ballycastle and the surrounding country. There was nothing in the evening which, by external phenomena, could depress any human breast. The ocean lay like a mirror, on which the beams of the sun glistened in magnificent shafts, in whatever position you looked upon it. Not a wave, not a ripple broke the expansive sheet, that stretched away till it melted into the dipping sky. Yet to the ear its mysterious and deep murmurs were audible, and the lonely, eternal sobbing of the awful sea, struck upon the heart of the superstitious mother with a sense of fear and calamity.

Edward and Mary passed on, unconscious of the ominous forebodings which troubled the heart of the poor woman. The arrangements for their marriage were on that night concluded, and the mother, after some feebly expressed misgivings, at which Edward and Mary laughed heartily, was induced to consent that on the third Sunday following they should be joined in wedlock. When his mother heard that the arrangements were completed, she poured forth a torrent of abuse against what she considered

the folly and simplicity of a mere boy, who allowed himself to be caught in the snares of an artful girl, with nothing but a handsome face to recommend her; but he received it all with good humour, and replied in a strain of jocularity to all she said. Michael, on the other hand, was more inveterate and unyielding. "Edward," said he, "once for all I tell you that this marriage must not go on. I won't see you throw yourself away on a girl that is no match for you;" and as he uttered these words, his dark brows were bent, and his eyes flashed with a gleam of that ungovernable passion, for which he was So remarkable. They then separated without more words, each resolved to accomplish his avowed purpose.

At length the bappy Sunday morning arrived, and never did a more glorious sun light up the beautiful valley of Kilmore than that which shed down its smiling radiance from heaven upon their union. Edward's heart was full of that eager trembling delight, which, where there is pure and disinterested love, always marks our emotions on that happy event of human life. His mother, contrary to her wont, was unusually silent during the whole morning but he could perceive that she narrowly watched all bis motions. But, when she saw him ready to set out to fulfil his engagement, she opened at him deep mouthed. "Aint you a purty young omedhaun, you spiritless crathur, to go marry sich a thing as that, when you know that one of the best fortunes in the glen would jump at you! Yes, faiks! to bring home that mannerless crathur, that hasn't a penny to the good! A purty farmer's wife she'll make, indeed! A poor unsignified smooth-faced, that never did a dacent day's work out of doors, barrin' to shake a cock of hay, or to pull the growing of a peck of flax; The sorra a one of you'll go out of this to day," and she closed the door, and placed herself before it, to prevent him from passing.

Edward, who was resolved to pass, saw there was nothing for it but a little friendly violence. A good humoured struggle accordingly commenced between them; good humoured on his side, but bitter and determined on hers. Finding it difficult to proceed, he was beginning to use a little force, when she, perceiving that any further interference was useless, yielded, and suffered him to proceed. His mind, however, was disturbed, and his heart sank at this ill-omened commencement of his wedding day.

"Mother, dear," said he, when about to leave the house, "I'm heavy at heart for what has happened. Will you say that you forgive me before I go? And tell Mikel, too, that I forgive him every thing, and that the last words I said before I went, were "that the blessin' of God may rest upon him, and upon you too, mother, dear."

These expressions are customary among Irish families when a marriage is about to take place; but upon this occasion they came spontaneou-ly fram a generous and feeling heart.

His mother after he had departed from the threshold, followed him with her eyes, and the tears slowly forced their way down her cheeks.

"It's no use," said she, "it's no use, I love him in spite of every thing. May God bless you, Edward, agra! May God bless you and all you love! God forgive me for opposin' the boy, as I did; and God forgive Mikel! but he thinks it would be all for his good to stop his marriage with Mary Moore."

Edward, who heard not his mother's words, passed on with hasty steps towards the village; but he had not proceeded far when he saw his brother advancing towards him, his head down, and his eyes almost hidden in his heavy brows; sullen ferocity was in his looks, and his voice, as he addressed him, was hollow with suppressed rage:—

"So," said he, "you must have your own way! Go back home, Edward,"

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“I will, Mikel. Mind your business, and leave me to mind mine." And so saying he was proceeding on his way, when the fury of his brother shot out in a burst that resembled momentary madness as much as rage. “Is that my answer?" he shouted, in the hoarse quivering accents of passion, and, with the rapid energy of the dark impulse that guided him, he lifted up the ironheaded stick he held in his band, and struck his brother, whose back was turned towards him, a violent blow on the hinder part of the head. Edward fell forward instantaneously, but betrayed, after his fall, no symptoms of motion; the apparent stillness of death was in every limb. Michael, after giving him the blow, stood rooted to the earth; his bloodless lips quivered, his frame became relaxed, and the wild tremor of horrible apprehension shook him from limb to limb. Immediately he sat up a fearful cry, "Oh, wirra, wirra, Ned agra, can't you spake to me?" which cry was soon heard by his mother and the people in the neighbourhood, with a deep feeling of dismay.

"O God!" she exclaimed with clasped hands and uplifted eyes, "O God! my boy, my boy! Arrah wisha Edward, ashtore, what is it is the matter wid you?" But not a word could they get from him; there lay the young bridegroom smote down when his foot was on the very threshold of happiness, and that by the hand of a brother.

The apparently lifeless body was horne in; the water was got with which his face was sprinkled; in a little time he breathed, opened his eyes, looked mournfully about him, and asked what had happened to him. Never was joy greater than that of poor Michael's on beholding the dawn of returning life in his brother. The moment he saw the poor youth's eyes fixed upon him, and heard his voice, he threw himself at bis feet, and with an impetuous tide of joy, and grief, affection and remorse, he clasped bim in his arms, strained him to his bosom, and wept with such agony that poor Edward was compelled to console him. "I'm better now, Mikel," replied he " my head's a little confused, but I have no pain."

"Thanks an' praise be to God for that news for it takes off the crushin weight that lay on my heart, an' sure Ned, achorra," continued Michael, sure I'm willin' that you should marry Mary Moore."

Edward, on hearing her name, looked around and endeavoured to collect himself. He put his hand to his head, and for a moment his eyes appeared without meaning; the brother observed it, and exclaimed, Ned, what ails you, is the pain coming back?' "It's nothing, Michael, 'tis nothing,-but poor Mary! will my mother consent to it." His mother who had been weeping, now advanced, and smiling through her tears embraced him tenderly, as she said yes Edward Darling, and I am sorry that Michael or myself bad sat ourselves against it.

The young man's eyes sparkled with a light more brilliant than bad ever shone from them before. In a few minutes he arose, and expressed his determination to proceed and keep his ap pointment, and Michael and his mother agreed to accompany

him.

On arriving at the chapel, he felt that his short journey had not been beneficial to him. On the contrary he found himself worse, and very properly declined going into the heated atmosphere of the chapel, till mass was over. The bustling trembling yet happy blushing Mary was close by his side. Her neat white dress, and her plain cottage bonnet bought for the occasion, showed that she came prepared, not beyond, but to the utmost of her means. At sight of her Edward she smiled, but it was observed, that his face, which had a moment before been pale, was instantly flushed, and his eye unusually bright.

"Ah, then, Edward, what is it ails you?" cried she, "that you have that handkerchief on your head, as if you were'nt well;" but as she saw the smile fade from his lips, and the colour from his cheek, her heart sunk, and pale as death, with her soft blue eyes bent upon his changing colour and bandaged

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