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whether yez do or not," said Fardorougha. | his shrunk and furrowed cheeks, whilst he "Say at once that you consint, and thin I'll wrung his hands, started to his feet, and spake-I'll say what I'll do." looked about him like a man encompassed by dangers that threatened instant destruction.

The Bodagh looked inquiringly at his wife and son. The latter nodded affirmatively.

"We do consent," he added.

"That shows your own sinse," said the o11 "Now what fortune will you portion

man.

your colleen wid?"

"If you love your son so well," said John mildly, "why do you grudge to share your wealth with him? It is but natural, and it is your duty."

"Natural! what's natural?-to give away"That depinds on what you'll do for your is it to love him you mane? It is, it's unnatural son," returned the Bodagh. to give it away. He's the best son-the bestwhat do you mane, I say?-let me alone-let me alone I could give my blood, my blood to sich a boy; but, you want to kill me-you want to kill me, an' thin you'll get all; but he'll cross you, never fear-my boy will save me-he's not tired o' me-he'd give up fifty

"And that depends upon what you'll do for your daughter," replied the sagacious old miser. "At this rate we're not likely to agree." "Nothin's asier; you have only to spake out; besides, it's your business, bein' the colleen's father." "Try him, and name something fair," whis- girls sooner than see a hair of his father's head pered John.

"If I give her a farm of thirty acres of good land, stocked and all, what will you do for Connor?"

"More than that, five times over; I'll give him all I have. An' now when will we marry them? Throth it was best to make things clear," added the knave, "and understand one another at wanst. When will we marry them?" "Not till you say out openly and fairly the exact sum of money you'll lay down on the nail-an' that before ever a ring goes upon them."

"Give it up, acushla," said the wife, "you see there's no schrewin' a promise out of him, let alone a penny."

"What 'ud ye have me do?" said the old man, raising his voice. "Won't he have all I'm worth? Who else is to have it? Am I to make a beggar of myself to plaise you? Can't they live on your farm till I die, an' thin it 'ill all come to them?"

"And no thanks to you for that, Fardorougha," said the Bodagh. "No, no; I'll never buy a pig in a poke. If you won't act ginerously by your son, go home in the name of goodness, and let us hear no more about it."

"Why, why," said the miser, "are yez mad to miss what I can lave him? If you knew how much it is, you'd snap-; but, God help me, what am I sayin'? I'm poorer than any body thinks. I am-I am; an' will starve among you all, if God hasn't sed it. Do you think I don't love my son as well, an' a thousand times better than you do your daughter? God alone sees how my heart's in him—in my own Connor, that never gave me a sore heart --my brave, my dutiful boy!"

injured so do your best; while I have Connor I'm not afraid of yez. Thanks be to God that sent him," he exclaimed, "oh, thanks be to God that sent him to comfort an' protect his father from the schames and villany of them that 'ud bring him to starvation for their own ends!"

"Father," said John, in a low tone, "this struggle between avarice and natural affection is awful. See how his small gray eyes glare, and the froth rises white to his thin shrivelled lips. What is to be done?"

"Fardorougha," said the Bodagh, "it's over; don't distress yourself-keep your money— there will be no match between our childre."

"Why? why won't there?" he screamed"why won't there, I say? Haven't you enough for them until I die? Would you see your child breakin' her heart? Bodagh, you have no nathur in you-no bowels for your colleen dhas. But I'll spake for her I'll argue wid you till this time to-morrow, or I'll make you show feelin' to her-an' if you don't—if you don't---"

"Wid the help o' God, the man's as mad as a March hare," observed Mrs. O'Brien, "and there's no use in losin' breath wid him."

"If it's not insanity," said John, “I know not what it is."

"Young man," proceeded Fardorougha, who evidently paid no attention to what the mother and son said, being merely struck by the voice of the latter-" young man, you're kind, you have sinse and feelin'-spake to your father— don't let him destroy his child-don't ax him to starve me, that never did him harm. He loves you-he loves you, for he can't but love you-sure I know how I love my own darlin' He paused, and the scalding tears ran down boy; oh, spake to him-I'll go down on my

two knees to you, to beg, as you hope to see God in heaven, that you'll make him not brake his daughter's heart! She's your own sisther -there's but the two of yez, an' oh, don't desart her in this throuble-this heavy, heavy throuble!"

"I won't interfere farther in it,” replied the young man, who, however, felt disturbed and anxious in the extreme.

"Mrs. O'Brien," said he, turning imploringly, and with a wild haggard look to the Bodagh's wife, "I'm turnin' to you-you're her mother-oh think, think

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"I'll think no more about it," she replied. "You're mad, an' thank God, we know it. Of coorse it 'ill run in the family, for which reasing my daughter 'ill never be joined to the son of a madman."

He then turned as a last resource to O'Brien himself. "Bodagh-Bodagh, I say:" here his voice rose to a frightful pitch; "I enthrate, I ordher, I command you to listen to me! Marry them don't kill your daughter, an' don't, don't, don't dare to kill my son. If you do I'll curse you till the marks of your feet will scorch the ground you tread on. Oh," he exclaimed, his voice now sinking, and his reason awaking, apparently from exhaustion, "what is come over me? what am I sayin'?but it's all for my son, my son." He then sat down, and for more than twenty minutes wept like an infant, and sobbed, and sighed, as if his heart would break.

A feeling very difficult to be described hushed his amazed auditory into silence: they felt something like pity towards the unfortunate old man, as well as respect for that affection which struggled with such moral heroism against the frightful vice that attempted to subdue this last surviving virtue in the breast of the miser.

On his getting calm they spoke to him kindly, but in firm and friendly terms communicated their ultimate determination, that in consequence of his declining to make an adequate provision for his son the marriage could by no means take place. He then got his hat, and attempted to go to the road which led to the little lawn, but so complete was his abstraction, and so exhausted his faculties, that it was not without John's assistance he could reach the gate which lay before his eyes. He first turned out of the walk to the right, then crossed over to the left, and felt surprised that a wall opposed him in each direction.

"You are too much disturbed," said John, "to perceive the way, but I will show you."

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Phelim, as is the wont, on finding the din of the conversation raised to the proper pitch, stole one of the bottles, and prevailed on Peggy to adjourn with him to the potato-bin. Here they ensconced themselves very snugly; but not, as might be supposed, contrary to the knowledge and consent of the seniors, who winked at each other on seeing Phelim gallantly tow her down with the bottle under his arm. It was only the common usage on such occasions, and not considered any violation whatsoever of decorum. When Phelim's prior engagements are considered it must be admitted that there was something singularly ludicrous in the humorous look he gave over his shoulder at the company as he went toward the bin, having the bottom of the whiskybottle projecting behind his elbow, winking at them in return, by way of a hint to mind their own business and allow him to plead for himself. The bin, however, turned out to be rather an uneasy seat, for as the potatoes lay in a slanting heap against the wall, Phelim and his sweetheart were perpetually sliding down from the top to the bottom. Phelim could be industrious when it suited his pleasure. In a few minutes those who sat about the fire imagined, from the noise at the bin, that the house was about to come about their

ears.

"Phelim, you thief," said the father, "what's all that noise for?"

"Chrosh orrin!" said Molly Donovan, "is that tundher?"

"Devil carry these piatees," exclaimed Phelim, raking them down with both hands and all his might, "if there's any sittin' at all upon them! I'm levellin' them to prevint Peggy, the darlin', from slidderin', an' to give us time to be talkin' somethin' lovin' to one another. The curse o' Cromwell an them! One might as well dhrink a glass o' whisky wid his sweetheart, or spake a tindher word to her, on the wings of a windmill as here.

There, now they're as level as you plase, acushla! Sit down, you jewel, you, an' give me the egg-shell, till we have a sup o' the crathur in comfort. Faith, it was too soon for us to be comin' down in the world!"

"Betune you an' me, Peggy, I'll tell you a sacret; I was the boy for deludin' them. It's very well known the matches I might a' got; but you see, you little shaver, it was waitin' for yourself I was."

"For me! A purty story, indeed! I'm sure it was! Oh, afther that! Why, Phelim, how can you-Well, well, did any one ever hear

the likes?"

Phelim and Peggy, having each emptied the egg-shell, which among the poorer Irish is frequently the substitute for a glass, entered into the following sentimental dialogue, which was covered by the loud and entangled con- "Be the vestments, it's thruth. I had you versation of their friends about the fire; in my eye these three years, but was waitin' Phelim's arm lovingly about her neck, and till I'd get together as much money as ud set his head laid down snugly against her cheek. us up in the world dacently. Give me that "Now, Peggy, you darlin' o' the world-egg-shell agin. Talkin's druthy work. Shubad cess to me but I'm as glad as two ten- dorth, a rogarah! an' a pleasant honeymoon pennies that I levelled these piatees; there was no sittin' an them.

Eh, avourneen?"

"Why, we're comfortable now, anyhow, Phelim !"

"Faith, you may say that"-(a loving squeeze). "Now, Peggy, begin an' tell us

all about your bachelors."

"The sarra one ever I had, Phelim." “Oh, murdher sheery, what a bounce! Bad cess to me, if you can spake a word o' thruth afther that, you common desaver! Worn't you an' Paddy Moran pullin' a coard?"

"No, in throth; it was given out on us, but we never wor, Phelim. Nothin' ever passed betune us but common civility. He thrated my father an' mother wanst to share of half a pint in the Lammas Fair, when I was along wid them; but he never broke discoorse wid me, barrin', as I sed, in civility an' friendship."

"An' do you mane to put it down my throath that you never had a sweetheart at all?”

"The nerra one."

"Oh, you thief! Wid two sich lips o' your own, an' two sich eyes o' your own, and two sich cheeks o' your own! Oh, by the tarn, that won't pass." "Well, an' supposin' I had-behave, Phelim -supposin' I had, where's the harm? Sure, it's well known all the sweethearts you had, an' yet have, I suppose."

"Be gorra, an' that's thruth; an' the more the merrier, you jewel, you, till one gets marrid. I had enough o' them in my day, but you're the flower o' them all, that I'd like to spend my life wid"-(a squeeze).

"The sarra one word the men say a body can trust. I warrant you tould that story to every one o' them as well as to me. Stop, Phelim it's well known that what you say to the colleens is no gospel. You know what they christened you 'Bouncin' Phelim' for."

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to us!"

"Wait till we're marrid first, Phelim; thin it'll be time enough to dhrink that."

"Come, acushla, it's your turn now; taste the shell, an' you'll see how lovin' it'll make us. Mother's milk's a thrifle to it."

“Well, if I take this, Phelim, I'll not touch another dhrop to-night. In the manetime here's whatever's best for us! Whoo! Oh, my! but that's strong! I dunna how the people can dhrink so much of it!"

"Faith, nor me; except bekase they have a regard for it, an' that it's worth havin' a regard for, jist like yourself an' me. Upon my faix, Peggy, it bates all, the love an' likin' I have for you, an' ever had these three years past. I tould you about the eyes, mavourneen, an'-an'-about the lips

"Phelim--behave-I say-now stop wid you well-well- but you're the tazin' Phelim!-Throth! the girls may be glad when you're marrid," exclaimed Peggy, adjusting her polished hair.

"Bad cess to the bit, if ever I got so sweet a one in my life-the soft end of a honeycomb's a fool to it. One thing, Peggy, I can tell you that I'll love you in great style. Whin we're marrid it's I that'll soodher you up. I won't let the wind blow on you. You must give up workin', too. All I'll ax you to do will be to nurse the childhre; an' that same will keep you busy enough, plase goodness."

"Upon my faix, Phelim, you're the very sarra, so you are. Will you be asy now! I'll engage when you're marrid it'll soon be another story wid you. about us thin!"

Maybe you'd care little

"Be the vestments, I'm spaking pure gospel, so I am. Sure you don't know that to be good husbands runs in our family. Every one o' them was as sweet as thracle to their wives. Why, there's that ould cock, my fadher, an' if

you'd see how he butthers up the ould woman to this day, it ud make your heart warm to any man o' the family."

"Ould an' young was ever an' always the same to you, Phelim. Sure the ouldest woman in the parish, if she happened to be single, couldn't miss of your blarney. It's reported! you're going to be marrid to an ould woman.' “He-hem—ahem! Bad luck to this cowld I have! It's stickin' in my throath entirely, so it is!-hem!-to a what?"

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"Come, come, you shaver; that won't do. Be sarous. If you knew how my heart's warmin' to you this minute, you'd fall in love wid my shadow. Come now out wid it. Are you fond of a sartin boy not far from you, called

Why, to an ould woman wid a great deal Bouncin' Phelim?" o' the hard goold!”

Phelim put his hand instinctively to his waistcoat-pocket, in which he carried the housekeeper's money.

"Would you oblige one wid her name?" "You know ould Molly Kavanagh well enough, Phelim."

"To be sure I am. Are you satisfied now? Phelim! I say

"Faith, it won't pass, avourneen. That's not the voice for it. Don't you hear me, how tendher I spake wid my mouth brathin' into your ear, acushla machree? Now turn about, like a purty entisin' girl as you are, an' put Phelim put up an inward ejaculation of your sweet bill to my ear the same way, an' thanks. whisper what you know into it? That's a darlin'! Will you, achora?"

"To the sarra wid her, an' all sasoned woman! God be praised-that the night's fine, anyhow! Hand me the shell, and we'll take a gauliogue aich, an' afther that we'll begin an' talk over how lovin' an' fond o' one another we'll be."

"An' maybe all this time you're promised to another?"

"Be the vestments, I'm not promised to one. Now! Saize the one!"

"You'll say that, anyhow!"

"You're takin' too much o' the whisky, "Do you see my hands acrass? Be thim Phelim. Oh, for goodness' sake!—oh—b-b-five crasses, I'm not promised to a girl livin', n-now be asy. Faix, I'll go to the fire, an' lave you altogether, so I will, if you don't give over slustherin' me that way, an' stoppin' my breath."

"Here's all happiness to our two selves, acushla machree! Now thry another gauliogue, an' you'll see how deludin' it'll make you." "Not a sup, Phelim." "Arrah, nonsense! Be the vestments, it's as harmless as new milk from the cow. It'll only do you good, alanna. Come now, Peggy, don't be ondacent, an' it our first night's coortin'! Blood alive! don't make little o' my father's son on sich a night, an' us at business like this, anyhow!"

"Phelim, by the crass, I won't take it; so that ends it. Do you want to make little o' me? It's not much you'd think o' me in your mind, if I'd dhrink it."

"The shell's not half full."

"I wouldn't brake my oath for all the whisky in the kingdom; so don't ax me. It's neither right nor proper of you to force it an me."

"Well, all I say is that it's makin' little of one Phelim O'Toole, that hasn't a thought in his body but what's over head an' ears in love wid you. I must only dhrink it for you myself, thin. Here's all kinds o' good fortune to

so I'm not, nor wouldn't, bekase I had you in my eye. Now will you tell me what I'm wantin' you? The grace o' heaven light down an you, an' be a good, coaxin' darlin' for wanst! Be this an' be that, if ever you heerd or seen sich doins an' times as we'll have when we're marrid. Now the weeny whispher, a colleen dhas!"

"It's time enough yet to let you know my mind, Phelim. If you behave yourself an' be--Why, thin, is it at the bottle agin you are? Now don't dhrink so much, Phelim, or it'll get into your head. I was sayin' that if you behave yourself, an' be a good boy, I may tell you somethin' soon."

"Somethin' soon! Live horse, an' you'll get grass! Peggy, if that's the way wid you, the love's all on my side, I see clearly. Are you willin' to marry me, anyhow?"

"I'm willin' to do whatsomever my father an' mother wishes."

"I'm for havin' the weddin' off-hand; an', of coorse, if we agree to-night, I think our best plan is to have ourselves called on Sunday. An' I'll tell you what, avourneen,-be the holy vestments, if I was to be 'called' to fifty on the same Sunday, you're the darlin' I'd marry."

"Phelim, it's time for us to go up to the

fire; we're long enough here. I thought you had only three words to say to me."

"Why, if you're tired o' me, Peggy, I don't want you to stop. I wouldn't force myself on the best girl that ever stepped."

"Sure you have tould me all you want to say, an' there's no use in us stayin' here. You know, Phelim, there's not a girl in the parish ud believe a word that ud come out o' your lips. Sure there's none o' them but you coorted one time or other. If you could get betther, Phelim, I dunna whether you'd be here tonight at all or not."

"Answer me this, Peggy. What do you think your father ud be willin' to give you? Not that I care a crona baun about it, for I'd marry you wid an inch of candle."

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You know my father's but a poor man, Phelim, an' can give little or nothin'. Them that won't marry me as I am needn't come here to look for a fortune."

"I know that, Peggy, an' be the same token, I want no fortune at all wid you but yourself, darlin'. In the manetime, to show you that I could get a fortune-Dher a Lorha Heena, I could have a wife wid a hundhre an' twenty guineas!"

Peggy received this intelligence much in the same manner as Larry and Sheelah had received it. Her mirth was absolutely boisterous for at least ten minutes. Indeed, so loud had it been, that Larry and her father could not help asking:

"Arrah, what's the fun, Peggy achora?" "Oh, nothin'," she replied, "but one o' Phelim's bounces."

"Now," said Phelim, "you won't believe me! Be all the books

"

Peggy's mirth prevented his oaths from being heard. In vain he declared, protested, and swore. On this occasion he was compelled to experience the fate peculiar to all liars. Even truth, from his lips, was looked upon as falsehood.

Phelim, on finding that he could neither extort from Peggy an acknowledgment of love, nor make himself credible upon the subject of the large fortune, saw that he had nothing for it now, in order to produce an impression, but the pathetic.

"Well," said he, "you may lave me, Peggy achora, if you like; but out o' this I'll not budge, wid a blessin', till I cry my skinful, so I won't. Saize the toe I'll move now till I'm sick wid cryin'! Oh, murdher alive, this night! Isn't it a poor case entirely, that the girl I'd suffer myself to be turned inside out for won't say that she cares about a hair o' my head! Oh, thin, but I'm the misfortunate blackguard all out! Och, oh! Peggy achora, you'll break my heart! Hand me that shell, acushla-for I'm in the height of affliction!"

Peggy could neither withhold it nor reply to him. Her mirth was even more intense now than before; nor, if all were known, was Phelim less affected with secret laughter than Peggy.

"Is it makin' fun o' me you are, you thief. Eh? Is it laughin' at my grief you are?" exclaimed Phelim. "Be the tarn' o' war, I'll punish you for that."

Peggy attempted to escape, but Phelim succeeded, ere she went, in taking a salutation or two, after which both joined those who sat at the fire, and in a few minutes Sam Appleton entered.

GENERAL CHESNEY.

BORN 1789 DIED 1872.

[Francis Rawdon Chesney was born at Ballyhea, in county Down, on the 16th March, 1789. Evincing a fondness for military life, he was presented with a Woolwich cadetship by his godfather, Lord Moira, and in his sixteenth year obtained a first lieutenancy in the Royal Artillery. During the great European war he was confined to the irksome offices of garrison duty. In 1827, while on leave of absence, he offered his services to the Porte, then at war with Russia, and was intrusted with the

task of fortifying the Balkan passes. The peace of Adrianople left him without employment, and, having visited the scenes of the different engagements between the hostile armies, he embodied the result in his work, Russo-Turkish Campaigns of 1828-9, which was not published, however, till 1854. A mission to Egypt on which he was despatched in 1829 by Sir Robert Gordon, then British ambassador at Constantinople, first introduced him to the task which was to become the

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