"But how is this done so openly? the house is surely known to the police."

"Of course, and they are well paid for taking no notice of it." "And you?"

"Me! Well I do a little that way too, though it's only a branch of my business. I'm only Dirk Hatteraik when I come down to the coast: then you know a man doesn't like to be idle; so that when I'm here or on the Bretagny shore, I generally mount the red cap, and buckle on the cutlass just to keep moving, as when I go inland I take an occasional turn with the gypsy folk in Bohemia, or the masons in the Basque provinces: nothing like being up to every thing-that's my way."

I confess I was a good deal surprised at my companion's account of himself, and not over impressed with the rigour of his principles; but my curiosity to know more of him, became so much the stronger.

"Well," said I, "you seem to have a jolly life of it; and, certainly, a healthful one."

66

Aye, that it is," replied he quickly. "I've more than once thought of going back to Kerry, and living quietly for the rest of my days-for I could afford it well enough; but, somehow, the thought of staying in one place, talking always to the same set of people, seeing every day the same sights, and hearing the same eternal little gossip about little things and little folk, was too much for me, and so I stuck to the old trade, which I suppose I'll not give up now as long as I live."

"And what may that be?" asked I, curious to know how he filled up moments snatched from the agreeable pursuits he had already mentioned. He eyed me with a shrewd, suspicious look for above a minute, and then, laying his hand on my arm, said—

"Where do you put up at here in Antwerp ?"

"The St. Antoine."

"Well, I'll come over for you to-morrow evening about nine o'clock; you're not engaged, are you?""

"No, I've no acquaintance here."

"Nine, then, be ready, and you'll come and take a bit of supper with me; and, in exchange for your news of the old country, I'll tell you something of my career."

I readily assented to a proposal which promised to make me better acquainted with one evidently a character; and after half an hour's chatting I rose.

"You're not going away, are you?" said he. "Well, I can't leave this yet; so I'll just send a boy to show you the way to the St. Antony."

With that he beckoned to a lad at one of the tables, and addressing a few words in Flemish to him, he shook me warmly by the hand: the whole room rose respectfully as I took my leave, and I could see that Mr. O'Kelly's friend stood in no small estimation with the company.

The day was just breaking when I reached my hotel; but I knew I could poach on the daylight for what the dark had robbed me; and, besides, my new acquaintance promised to repay the loss of a night's sleep, should it even come to that.

Punctual to his appointment, my newly-made friend knocked at my door exactly as the cathedral was chiming for nine o'clock. His dress was considerably smarter than on the preceding evening, and his whole air and bearing bespoke a degree of quiet ease and reserve very different from his free-and-easy carriage in the "Fischer's Haus." As I accompanied him through the porte cochere, we passed the landlord, who saluted us with much politeness, shaking my companion by the hand, like an old friend.

"You are acquainted here, I see," said I. "There are few landlords from Lubeck to Leghorn I don't know by this time," was the reply, and he smiled as he spoke.

A caleche with one horse was waiting for us without, and into this we stepped. The driver had got his directions, and plying his whip briskly, we rattled over the paved streets, and passing through a considerable part of the town, arrived at last at one of the gates. Slowly crossing the drawbridge at a walk, we set out again at a trot, and soon I could perceive, through the half light, that we had traversed the suburbs, and were entering the open country.

"We've not far to go now," said my companion, who seemed to suspect that I was meditating over the length of the way; "where you see the lights yonder that's our ground."

The noise of the wheels over the pavé soon after ceased, and I found we were passing across a grassy lawn in front of a large house, 'which, even by the twilight, I could detect was built in the old Flemish taste. A square tower flanked one extremity, and from the upper part of this the light gleamed to which my companion pointed.

1

We descended from the carriage at the foot of a long terrace, which, though dilapidated and neglected, bore still some token of its ancient splendour. A stray statue here and there remained, to mark its former beauty, while, close by, the hissing splash of water told that a jet d'eau was playing away, unconscious that its river gods, dolphins, and tritons had long since departed.

"A fine old place once," said my new friend; "the old chateau of Overghem-one of the richest seignories of Flanders in its day-sadly changed now but come, follow me."

So saying, he led the way into the hall, where detaching a rude lantern that was hung against the wall, he ascended the broad oak stairs.

I could trace, by the fitful gleam of the light, that the walls had been painted in fresco, the architraves of the windows and doors being richly carved, in all the grotesque extravagance of old Flemish art; a gallery, which traversed the building, was hung with old pictures, apparently family portraits, but they were all either destroyed by damp or rotting with neglect; at the extremity of this, a narrow stair conducted us by a winding ascent to the upper story of the tower, where, for the first time, my companion had recourse to a key, with which he opened a low, pointed door, and ushered me into an apartment, at which I could scarcely help expressing my surprise aloud as I entered.

The room was of small dimensions, but seemed actually the boudoir of a palace. Rich cabinets in buhl graced the walls, brilliant in all the splendid costliness of tortoise-shell and silver inlaying; bronzes of the rarest kind; pictures; vases; curtains of gorgeous damask covered the windows; and a chimney-piece of carved black oak, representing a pilgrimage, presented a depth of perspective and a beauty of design beyond any thing I had ever witnessed. The floor was covered with an old tapestry of Oudenarde, spread over a heavy Persian rug, into which the feet sank at every step, while a silver lamp, of antique mould, threw a soft, mellow light around, revolving on an axis, whose machinery played a slow but soothing melody, delightfully in harmony with all about.

"You like this kind of thing," said my companion, who watched, with evident satisfaction, the astonishment and admiration with which I regarded every object around me. "That's a pretty bit of carving there that was done by Van Zoost, from a design of Schneider's; see how the lobsters are crawling over the tangled sea-weed there, and look how the

leaves seem to fall heavy and flaccid, as if wet with spray. This is good, too; it was painted by Gherard Dow; it is a portrait of himself; he is making a study of that little boy who stands there on the table; see how he has disposed the light, so as to fall on the little fellow's side, tipping him from the yellow curls of his round bullet head to the angle of his white sabot.

"Yes, you're right, that is by Van Dyk; only a sketch to be sure, but has all his manner. I like the Velasquez yonder better, but they both hold the same excellence. They could represent birth. Just see that dark fellow there, he's no beauty you'll say, but regard him closely, and tell me if he was one to take a liberty with; look at his thin clenched lip, and that long thin-pointed chin, with its straight stiff beard-can there a doubt he was a gentleman? Take care, gently, your elbow grazed it. That is a specimen of the old Japan china-a lost art now, they cannot produce the blue colour you see there, running into green. See, the flowers are laid on after the cup is baked, and the birds are a separate thing after all; but come this is, perhaps, tiresome work to you, follow me."

Notwithstanding my earnest entreaty to remain, he took me by the arm, and opening a small door, covered by a mirror, led me into another room, the walls and ceiling of which were in dark oak wainscot; a single picture occupied the space above the chimney, to which, however, I gave little attention, my eyes being fixed upon a most appetizing supper which figured on the small table in the middle of the room. Not even the savoury odour of the good dishes, or my host's entreaty to begin, could turn me from the contemplation of the antique silver covers, carved in the richest fashion. The handles of the knives were fashioned into representations of saints and angels, and the costly ruby glasses of Venetian origin, were surrounded with cases of gold filagree of the most delicate and beautiful character.

"We must be our own attendants," said the host. "What have you there? Here are some Ostende oysters, "en matelot;" that is a small capon truffleé; here are some cutlets "aux points d'asperge." But let us begin and explore as we proceed; a glass of Chablis with your oysters; what a pity these Burgundy wines are inaccessible to you in England. Chablis scarcely bears the sea, of half a dozen bottles, one is drinkable; the same of the red wines; and what is there so generous? not that we are to despise our old friend champagne; and now that you've helped yourself to a paté, let's have a bumper. By-the-by, have they abandoned that absurd notion they used to have in England about champagne? when I was there they never served it during the first course. Now champagne should come immediately after your soup,-your glass of sherry or Madeira is an holocaust offered up to bad cookery; for if the soup were safe, Chablis or Sauterne is your fluid. How is the capon? good, I'm glad of it. These countries excel in their poulards."

In this fashion my companion ran on, accompanying each plate with some commentary on its history or concoction; a kind of dissertation, I must confess, I have no manner of objection to, especially when delivered by a host who illustrates his theorem not by "plates" but "dishes."

Supper over, we wheeled the table to the wall; and drawing forward another, on which the wine and dessert were already laid out, prepared to pass a pleasant and happy evening, in all form.

"Worse countries than Holland, Mr. O'Leary," said my companion, as he sipped his Burgundy, and looked with ecstacy at the rich colour of the wine through the candle.

"When seen thus," said I, "I don't know its equal.”

"Why, perhaps this is rather a favourable specimen of a smuggler's

cave," replied he, laughing. "Better than old Dirk's, eh? By-the-by, you know Scott?"

do

"No; I am sorry to say I am not acquainted with him.”

"What the devil could have led him into such a blunder as to make Hatteraik, a regular Dutchman, sing a German song? Why, 'Ich Bin liederlich' is good Hoch-Deutsch, and Saxon to boot. A Hollander might just as well have chanted modern Greek or Coptic. I'll wager you, that Rubens there over the chimney, against a crown-piece, you'll not find a Dutchman from Dort to Nimegen could repeat the lines that he has made a regular national song of; and again, in Quentin Durward, he's made all the Liege folk speak German. That was even a worse mistake. Some of them speak French; but the nation, the people, are Wallons, and have as much idea of German as a Hottentot has of the queen of hearts. Never mind, he's a glorious fellow for all that, and here's his health. When will Ireland have his equal, to chronicle her feats of field and flood, and make her land as classic as Scott has done his own!" > While we rambled on, chatting of all that came uppermost, the wine passed freely across the narrow table, and the evening wore on. My curiosity to know more of one who, whatever he talked of, seemed thoroughly informed on, grew gradually more and more; and at last I ventured to remind him that he had half promised me the previous evening, to let me hear something of his own history.

"No, no," said he, laughing; "story telling is poor work for the teller and the listener too; and when a man's tale has not even brought a moral to himself, it's scarcely likely to be more generous towards his neighbour." "Of course," said I, "I have no claim, as a stranger

"Oh, as to that," interrupted he, "somehow I feel as though we were longer acquainted. I've seen much of the world, and know by this time that some men begin to know each other from the starting post— others never do, though they travel a life long together ;-so that on that score no modesty. If you care for my story, fill your glass, and let's open another flask, and here it's for you, though I warn you beforehand the narrative is somewhat of the longest:"

THE YOUNG SIBYL.

BY THE LATE ROBERT CHARLES WELSH, ESQ.

"This is to be a mortal,

And seek the things beyond mortality."-MANFRED.

She gazes on the stars, her dark hair flung
Back from her brow of marble purity;
Her high, pale features wear a holy calm
Intensely beautiful, like Ocean's wave
Reposing in the light of summer's eve

When scarce a sound doth murmur in the breeze..

There is a magic in her lustrous eye

That eloquently speaks-a nameless spell-
Silent yet breathing volumes, and in words
Of mystery revealing that her soul

Holds with each scene of wide magnificence
A rapt communion, peopling the gloomy waste,
Of Solitude with bright imaginings,

April, 1834.

And catching from each mount, and valé, and stream,
The gorgeous visions of her strange romance.

She gazes on the stars, and o'er her soul
(Like voices from the undiscovered shores)
Rush the fond thoughts that in the grave of time
Had slumbered long-memories of the past-
Forgotten hopes-and dreams of vanished years-
The fame of gallant heroes, and their deeds
Recorded in the Poet's martial lay,

And chronicles which tell of empires rent
Asunder and as she gazed, the bright stars
Told their secrets, and ages yet unborn
In dreamy indistinctness shadowed forth
Stole on her ravished sight. Stately cities
That sate majestic in their queenly pride,
Stripp'd of their coronal of towers she saw;
And the halls where mirth and song re-echoed,
Voiceless as the tomb; and the streets that rang
With shouts of triumph, as the victor's car
Passed on, resembling some lone wilderness ;
And o'er each ruined arch and colonnade
Wild wreaths of ivy twined: no echo woke
The strange unearthly stillness of the scene-
It seem'd as if Death's angel spread his wings
O'er the devoted city.

She traced upon

The gleaming tablet of the clear blue sky
The destiny of kings: their grandeur gone
Like the rich sunlight from the crimson cloud
Of even; themselves lone exiles, crownless,
And forgotten as though they ne'er had been.
Young Warriors too, who in the noble cause
Of Liberty unsheath'd their glittering blades,
She saw in myriads falling on the plain
Of battle, as leaves before the hollow wind
When sweeping through the red Autumnal woods.
She gazed on Maidens fair and beautiful,
That in celestial loveliness appeared

Like Hebes of the earth; but on their brows
The seal of Death was set, and those voices

Which as the chiming fall of waters were
Most musical, she knew would soon be hushed
For ever!

But as she read the fatal characters

Emblazoned on the starry scroll of Heaven,

A deeper shade of melancholy passed

O'er her pale features, and a pearly tear

Fell from those large dark eyes, and mournfully
She turned from the sad history.