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countenance, again the still more evident similitude came to my mind—for in grief I last saw her whose image lives again in you. As yet I am to you a stranger; I presume not to express my feelings on beholding that mourning garb; I forbear, for sorrow is a theme on which I am not privileged to enter, yet I cherish the hope, that while I shrink from profaning the sacred name of father, time and farther intercourse may prove to you the sincerity of my wish, that you should eat of my bread, and drink of my cup, and be unto me as a daughter!' 'Think of me as one whom your beloved mother honoured with her regard think of me as—call me-grandfather! If it so please you, I entreat you to confide in my friendship, and, above all, to believe si Yours most respectfully,

« G. H. S


It required much to convince my young friend of the apparently romantic assertions contained in the above communication, but there are few novels half so romantic as real life. However, in time I gained some insight into the events of her past life, and drew from her the confession, that at the period of her father's misfortunes she was engaged to a young clergyman, who at that time possessed neither fortune nor preferment. When the wealth of the “heiress” vanished, the approbation of his family was withdrawn. His father resorted to the usual threats of tender parents, and vowed eternal displeasure and ultimate disinheritance. What was to be done? Love cannot live on love, let poets say what they please—so the lovers parted.

Now, were it to be asserted that I at once determined on making Miss Courtney my heiress, it might be doubted; or, if credited, might be set down as the freak of a romantic and disappointed old bachelor. But, however this may be settled in your mind, gentle reader, true it is, that within a very few weeks, at a neighbouring church, the lovely Miss Courtney was standing at the altar while the emphatic words, “I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost;" and, “Lo, thus shall the man be blessed!” were being uttered; and, as if to render the scene complete, by her side stood one whose looks betokened more than words can well describe, and who, gently taking her hand, invested it with that indissoluble link which binds two

All seemed happiness:—the bridegroom was happy-the bride was happy-and there stood by one on whose bosom she laid her head to hide her emotion. Was he happy? Did he say “ Amen” to the whole scene? If the suffused eye,

Sept. 1844.—VOL. XLI.-30. CLXI.

hearts in one.


which stays the utterance of softest words, and the warm embrace of paternal love, are evidences—he was.

It may here be added, that the softening of the obdurate hearts of relentless parents had been effected by the signing of certain deeds and documents, in which it was necessary that I should take a prominent part; and that the young couple returned to the rectory which was henceforward to be their home, and whither I accompanied them, to end my days as an adopted parent.



Slowly we marked our lov'd one pass away,

Yet still her cheek retain'd its roseate bloom ;
Still her dark eye beam'd forth a dazzling ray;

She reck'd not she was hast’ning to the tomb:
And though her voice its full rich tones had lost,

And though she trembled by the hearth's warm blaze,
She watch'd the breaking of the winter frost,

And talk’d, with smiling hope, of future days.
Oft spoke she of the pleasant summer-time,

The gay and vivid wild-flowers of the glade,
The breezy heath, the fountain's tuneful chime,

The cool recesses of the forest shade,
And the fair bower upon the verdant hill,

Where the sweet song-birds pour’d their joyous lays ;
Thus would she mingle with our converse still

Glad sportive images of future days.

Oh! how it wrung our hearts that she should cling

Thus, in fond trustfulness, to hours in store;
We knew that never should the buds of spring,

Or flowers of radiant summer, greet her more :
And we reveal'd to her the mournful truth-

Shunning the while her sad and startled gaze-
That darken'd was the sunshine of her youth-

That brief and number'd were her future days.

And God, whom she had serv'd, forsook her not;

Some few faint sighs she heav'd, then rais'd above
Her thoughts, and dwelt upon the happy lot

Won for the faithful by their Saviour's love.
She died; we saw her laid in peaceful rest,

Ere yet the trees were clothed with blossom'd sprays.
Oh! earth had granted her no boon so blest,

Had Heaven fulfill'd her hopes of lengthen’d days.


BY WILLIAM DODSWORTH. Phelim Doolan remained unheard of for several months; conjectures of course were rife as to what had become of him, some averring that he had got involved in a riot in County Clare, and died of the wounds inflicted on him by a gigantic antagonist; whilst others, puzzled per. haps to account for his wandering so far from home, very kindly gave out he had joined a French privateer that had for several days been hovering about the coast, and having fomented an insurrection amongst the crew, had thrown the captain overboard, and now reigned in his stead. This report was much more likely to be true; so, for the present, we will give it the benefit of our belief, and leave the reader to determine Phelim's present fate for himself.

Katty Mc Keoun—noble Katty! believed neither of these reports ; nay, she seemed to listen to the wild tales that were bruited about concerning Phelim, and averred that he would turn up, some day soon, and sober down into an honest quiet man ; so the shebeen was still kept open and prospered bravely, for Katty drew quite as much custom as her master had done before her: some went for the sake of the good liquor she kept; others because they were sure to meet the pleasantest company in the parish at the "Ould Jontilman ;" but by far the greater number went because they very sagely fancied that Phelim would never have the face to turn up again, even if he was alive, and in that case the “Ould Jontilman,” with all its goods and chattels, not to mention the heavy bag of “goold" Katty had hid under the lucky stone behind the chimney, together with the buxom landlady herself and Busear, would be a very good investment for their trouble in courting its present possessor; so Katty drove a brisk business, and became quite blithe and merry again, when bustling about amongst her beterogeneous guests, more than one of whom fancied himself the lucky dog on whom she bestowed her coveted favours. Katty, however, kept her own counsel, and never troubled herself to deny the hints and inuendos she had poured in upon her on every side, but managed to keep friends with everybody, and lived in the enjoyment of her popularity.

Charles Beauvais had in the meanwhile in a great measure recovered from his wound, although he was not yet capable of much exertion. His illness bad, however, ripened the attachment between himself and Rose Butler, who now smiled and hoped once more, as time wore away without any report of Doolan's return. Patrick Butler was very anxious for their union to take place at once, and after a good deal of coyish timidity on the part of Rose, and impatience on that of her lover, it was at length fixed to be solemnized at the end of autumn, when everybody would be able to share in her happiness. Rose consented more readily than she would otherwise have done, because a change had taken place

Continued from page 336, vol. XL.

in Patrick Butler's character which filled her daughter with much uneasiness.

Ever since the night of Shrove-Tuesday he had grown more reserved and silent towards his family ; his melancholy at times deepening into moroseness, if the luckless party chanced to be mentioned in his hearing. Why this should be so, is hard to say ; but, in all probability, the grief that followed the death of his wife had only slumbered in his mind, and had again burst into existence and action, when his old age had become embittered by Phelim's brutal ferocity. Unfortunately for himself, Patrick Butler was too proud a man to seek for sympathy in those in whom he might naturally expect to find it, and his feelings being unable to find vent in any other channel, at last burst out in a shape the most prejudicial to his future safety, as it embittered the minds of the surrounding peasantry to one whom they had been acustomed to look upon as their friend, but whose wealth and superior attainments did little more than keep them in awe of his presence, if any of his actions chanced to destroy their inherent love of his character.

Coul Shane, Phelim's ally, held a tumble-down crazy tenement under Patrick Butler, or, rather, had built one the preceding summer, on a piece of land belonging to him, without his permission. Patrick had long disliked the sneaking currish villain, who was too idle to work, and too dishonest to starve, whatever his family did ; and as a proof of his dislike of such a tenant, he sent some of his men down to Coul's shebeen one morning with strict orders to raze it to the ground and turn Coul off his property. The men overstepped their orders, and, not content with destroying the hut, thrashed Master Coul so unmercifully, to prevent his ever returning to the spot again, that the whole parish rang for weeks after with the brutal act. Coul fomented the popular feeling after his own fashion, and was rewarded for his pains by having his family and himself received into the best houses in the neighbourhood, until something could be done for them, which the idle villain sincerely prayed would not be very soon.

Patrick Butler, as may be expected, was entirely blamed for this. Meetings were secretly held almost every week to devise some means to punish him for his tyranny. Coul Shane was exalted into a martyr, and by his orations worked his auditors up to a state of phrenzy so wild and reckless, that it needed all the casuistry of their leaders to prevent a general outbreak. These meetings were held so secretly that none of Butler's adherents dreamed of their being carried on under their very noses; and the old man himself still continued his acts of severity without being aware of the fearful consequences they entailed upon himself and his family.

It was thus, when matters were as critical as they well could be, that a small, neatly-rigged, swift-sailing sloop hove into sight off Bantry Bay, one night in the commencement of October, and, reefing her sails, dropped anchor, as if her crew were afraid of making for the harbour in the hazy twilight that was at that moment coming on. The wind was high, and a keen frost had set in, so that very few people were abroad; and those who were, after the first view, failed to satisfy themselves as to what were her intentions, owing to the approaching darkness.

"Bring the glass, Jacques ; you'll find it lying on the table in my cabin," said the captain, as he walked towards the stern of the vessel. * Curse the fool, what a time he is ! Sacré ! Monsieur Jacques, you'd make the devil swear at your tardiness.”

"Oui, monsieur," muttered the seaman, as he thrust his grizzly head up the companion ladder very gravely.

"The glass, Jacques. Damn your stupidity," roared the captain, as he sprang towards the offending Jacques ; whereupon, Jacques made a hasty retreat, and presently reappeared with a telescope in his hand, which he presented to the other very humbly.

"Get about your business, fellow, but hold; send Couthon here ; and harkee, sirrah, try to do what I order you a little quicker in future," quoth the other, shouldering his glass.

Jacques shrugged his shoulders, and grinned an assent as he walked away; and in the next moment, the lieutenant of the vessel (which, it may be as well to mention, was a privateer) joined his superior, and a long and eager conversation was maintained between the pair ; during which the glass was often pointed towards the shore, as if they were discussing the practicability of running their neat little craft further into the bay, which, though attended with some danger, the captain fancied could be done before nightfal.

** There's a neap-tide running, monsieur," muttered the inferior officer, as he scanned with a wistful eye the dark expanse of water that lay between them and the coveted cliffs that loured afar off in the distance ; "and as far as I can judge, there's a nasty reef lying down there, just where the surf boils up so; and he pointed, as he spoke, to a long white crest of foam that hung like a sheet over the dark angry waves in front.

The captain gazed in the direction his subordinate had pointed out. The waves rolled heavily towards the shore with a dull sullen sound, as if they were brooding over the storm that was about to burst so soon upon them. The darkness was closing in quickly, and, from time to tiine, the leaden-coloured clouds to windward were lit up by a short vivid flash; the thunder rolled nearer at every moment, and sounded the more awfully from the unwonted stillness of the wide watery gulf around.

“We must lower the long-boat, M. Couthon,” said he, at length, as he turned himself round after his survey.

" If the Fleur de Marie cannot, with safety, be brought nearer ashore, we must employ our only alternative. Pipe the men on deck, and send Le Diable to me at once."

The lieutenant walked away at once, and, whilst he is executing these various orders, we shall take the opportunity of describing as far as possible, the appearance and character of the captain of the privateer.

Monsieur Jean Guiscard was in person the very epitome of a jolly skipper; being a trifle under five feet nine in height, with a round, merry, jovial-looking visage, well tanned with the sun, but which yet had plenty of colour and vivacity in it to protect its owner from being condemned to the epithet of a sallow-faced man. His eyes were small,

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