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COLUMN FOR THE LADIES.

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

THE COQUETTE.

"A Psyco-logical curiosity."-D'Israeli, Jun. The above-quoted authority proves that the Coquette is of the butterfly species, for, when deprived of its ephe meral blandishments, it appears in its pristine deformity. The insect is of French origin, and although abundant quantities of the animal exist in this country, retains its Gallic cognomen. The only literal translation of its name into English is rendered in the word "Man-trap."

The education of the Coquette is usually derived from boarding-schools, and its sentiment from song-books. It learns precepts of morality from novels, and examples of virtue from waiting-maids; and the only evidence it shows of possessing the power of reasoning is the ingenuity with which it special-pleads out of broken vows. If it have a heart, that is like the Public Ledger, “open to all parties and influenced by none."

At Church it ogles under smart bonnets, and attracts general attention from its gaudy attire, while, at the theatre, it becomes the focus of every opera glass, on account of its levity.

This insect is carnivorous, feeding upon the human heart as spiders do upon flies. It spreads the net of insinuation and encouragement, inveigles its victim into the web, and makes a boast and glory of the agonies it may

cause.

Its ideas are singularly confused about the monosyllables "Yes," and "No," frequently substituting the one for the other, so that it loses all chances of matrimony, and it is to be anticipated that to this fact and the general contempt into which the race is gradually falling, the Coquette population will decrease in a Malthusian ratio.

Maids and Widows; if you wish to arrive at that "consummation devoutly to be wished," good husbands, eschew coquetry; and ye, O! Wives, who have already got them, be not Coquettes lest they flee from ye!

WOMAN.

CALL woman-angel-goddess-what you will!
With all that fancy breathes at passion's call,
With all that rapture fondly raves, and still
That one word, wife, outvies, contains them all!
It is a word of music, which can fill

The soul with melody, when sorrows fall
Round us like darkness, and her heart alone
Is all that fate has left to call our own.
Her bosom is a fount of love that swells,
Widens, and deepens with its own outpouring;
And like a desert spring, for ever wells
Around her husband's heart, when cares devouring
Dry up its very blood, and man rebels

Against his being !—When despair is lowering,
And ills sweep round him, like an angry river,
She is his star, his rock of hope for ever.
Yea, woman only knows what 'tis to mourn,

She only feels how slow the moments glide,
Ere those her young heart loved in joy return,

And breathe affection, smiling by her side.
Hers only are the tears that waste and burn-

The anxious watchings-and affection's tide
That never, never ebbs !-hers are the cares
No ear hath heard, and which no bosom shares.
Cares-like her spirit, delicate as light

Trembling at early dawn from morning stars.
Cares all unknown to feeling and to sight

Of rougher man, whose stormy bosom wars With every passion in its fiery might,

Nor deems how look unkind, or absence, jars Affection's silver chords by woman wove, Whose soul, whose business, and whose life is love. J. M. W. [These verses are taken from a neat volume published at Haddington, entitled, AUTUMN LEAVES, and full of pleas ing tales, sketches, and verses.]

tion that must be solved by the Episcopacy of that devated Why, why, are the Irish a rebellions people? This is a ques Country. Why, why, is the produce of the English farmer reduced in value? Let the annexed statement show; let it shew maintain the luxuries of Absentee Landlords, the poor Irish that, to support the Irish Established Church, as well as to producer is obliged to force a sale in this country, by underselling the English farmer.

An Account of Wheat, Barley,

Oats and Flour, imported
from Foreign Ports, within
ten years, from 1821 to 1830;
both inclusive.

Wheat

An Account of Wheat, Barley, Oats, and Flour, imported from Ireland, in the same period:

HINTS FOR WIVES.-Obedience is a very small part of conjugial duty, and, in most cases easily performed. Much of the comfort of the married life depends upon the lady; a great deal more, perhaps, than she is aware of. She scarcely knows her own influence; how much she may do by persuasion how much by sympathy-how much by unremitted kindness and little attentions. To acquire and retain such influence, she must, however, make her conjugal duties her first object. She must not think that any thing will do for her husband-that any wine is good enough for her husband-that it is not worth while to be agreeable when there is only her husband-that she may Barley' close her piano, or lay aside her brush, for why should she play or paint merely to amuse her husband? No, she Total..... 11,844,345 Ireland must consider all these little arts of pleasing chiefly valua. Cwts. of Flour...... 1,921,066 The World ble on his account-as means of perpetuating her attractions, and giving permanence to his affection She must remember that her duty consists not so much in great and solitary acts-in displays of sublime virtues to which she will only be occasionally called; but in trifles-in a cheerful smile, or a minute attention naturally rendered, and proceeding, from a heart full of kindnes, and a temper full of amiabi

Oats

............

Qrs. 5,073,429 Wheat 1.558,407 Barley 5.212 509 Oats

Qrs. 3.419,871

761,027

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Ireland,
Cwts. of Flour
The World

4,158,767

1,921,006 2,921,701

By which it appears, that starving Ireland has exported to lity.—Mrs. Sandford's Woman in her Sceial and Domes-2,187,701 cwts of flour, more than all the other ports of the Great Britain in ten years, 4 356,811 quarters of corn and world!!!!!-Mark Lane Express.

tie Character.

THE STORY-TELLER.

TUBBER DERG, OR THE RED WELL.

(Concluded from last Number.)

THE misfortunes of Owen and his family were not the consequences of negligence or misconduct on their own part, They struggled long but unavailingly against high rents and low markets; against neglect on the part of the landlord and his agent; against sickness, famine, and death. They had no alternative but to beg or starve. Owen was willing to work, but he could not procure employment, and provided he could, the miserable sum of sixpence a-day, when food was scarce and dear, would not support him, his wife, and six little ones. He became a pauper, therefore, only to avoid starvation.

Heavy and black was his heart, to use the strong expression of the people, on the bitter morning when he set out to encounter the dismal task of seeking alms in order to keep life in himself and his family. The plan was devised on the preceding night; but to no mortal, except his wife, was it communicated. The honest pride of a man whose mind was above committing a mean action, would not permit him to reveal what he considered the first stain that ever was known to rest upon the name of M'Carthy. He therefore sallied out under the beating of the storm, and proceeded, without caring much whither he went, until he got considerably beyond the bounds of his own parish.

In the meantime hunger pressed keenly upon him and them. The day had no appearance of clearing up; the heavy rain and sleet beat into their thin, worn garments, and the clamour of his children for food, began to grow more and more importunate. They came to the shelter of a hedge which enclosed on one side a remote and broken road, along which, in order to avoid the risk of being recognised, they had preferred travelling. Owen stood here for a few minutes to consult with his wife, as to where and when they should "make a beginning;" but on looking round, he found her in tears.

"Kathleen, asthore," said Owen, "I can't bid you not to cry; bear up, acushla machree; bear up: sure, as I said when we came out this mornin', there's a good God above us, that can still turn over the good lafe for us, if we put our hopes in him.”

"Owen," said his sinking wife; "it's not altogether bekase we'er brought to this, that I'm cryin. No indeed." "Thin, what ails you, Kathleen, darlin ?"

The wife hesitated, and evaded the question for some time; but at length, upon his presssng her for an answer, with a fresh gush of sorrow, she replied,

He then raised his wife tenderly, for she had been compelled to sit from weakness, and they bent their steps to a decent farm-house, that stood a few perches off the road, about a quarter of a mile before them.

As they approached the door, the husband hesitated a moment; his face got paler than usual, and his lip quivered, as he said" Kathleen-"

"I know what you're goin' to say, Owen. No, acushla, you won't; I'll ax it myself."

"Do," said Owen, with difficulty; "I can't do it; but I'll overcome my pride afore long, I hope. It's thryin' to me, Kathleen, an' you know it is-for you know how little I ever expected to be brought to this." "Husht, avillish!

God."

We'll thry, then, in the name o'

As she spoke, the children, herself, and her husband, entered, to beg for the first time in their lives a morsel of food. Yes! timidly-with a blush of shame, red even to crimson, upon the pallid features of Kathleen-with grief acute and piercing-they entered the house together.

For some minutes they stood and spoke not. The unhappy woman, unaccustomed to the language of supplication, scarcely knew in what terms to crave assistance. Owen, himself, stood back, uncovered, his fine but much changed features overcast with an expression of deep affliction. Kathleen cast a single glance at him as if for encouragement. Their eyes met; she saw the upright man-the last remnant of the M'Carthy-himself once the friend of the poor, of the unhappy, of the afflicted—standing crushed and broken down by misfortunes which he had not deserved, waiting with patience for a morsel of charity. Owen, too, had his remembrances. He recollected the days when he sought and gained the pure and fond affections of his Kathleen; when beauty, and youth, and innocence encircled her with their light and their grace, as she spoke or moved; he saw her a happy wife and mother in her own home, kind and benevolent to all who required her good word or her good office; and now she was homeless. He remembered, too, how she used to plead with himself for the afflicted. It was but a moment; yet when their eyes met, that moment was crowded by remembrances that flashed across their minds with a keen sense of a lot so bitter and wretched as theirs Kathleen could not speak, although she tried; her sobs denied her utterance; and Owen involuntarily sat upon a chair, and covered his face with his hand.

To an observing eye, it is never difficult to detect the cant of imposture, or to perceive distress when it is real. The good woman of the house, as is usual in Ireland, was in the act of approaching them, unsolicited, with a double hand“Owen, since you must know-och, may God pity us!-ful of meal-that is what the Scotch and northern Irish since you must know, its wid hunger-wid hunger! I kept unknownst, a little bit of bread to give the childre this

call a gowpen-or as much as both hands locked together can contain when, noticing their distress, she paused a

mornin', an' that was part of it I gave you yesterday early moment, eyed them more closely, and exclaimed—

I'm near two days fastin."

"What's this? Why there's something wrong wid you, good people! But first an' foremost take this, in the name

an' honour of God."

Kathleen! Kathleen! Och! sure I know your worth, avillish. You were too good a wife, an' too good a mother, amost! God forgive me, Kathleen! I fretted about beggin', dear; but as my Heavenly Father's above me, I'm now happier to beg wid you by my side, nor if I war in the best house in the province widout you! Hould up, avourneen, for a while. Come on, childhre, darlins, an' the first house we meet we'll ax their char, their assistance. Come on, darlins, all of yees. Why, my heart's asier, so it is. Sureb—b-cloth, or any thing to hould it.” we have your mother, childhre, safe wid us, an' what signifies any thing so long as she's left to us."

"May the blessin' of the same Man rest upon yees!" replied Kathleen. "This is a sorrowful thrial to us; for it's our first day to be upon the world; an' this is the first help of the kind we ever axed for, or ever got; an' indeed now I find we haven't even a place to carry it in. I've no

God is sometimes thus termed in Ireland. By " Man" here is meant person or being. He is also called the "Man above," although this must have been intended for, and often is applied, to Christ only.

"Your first!

"Your first, is it ?" said the good woman. May the marciful Queen o' Heaven look down upon yees, but it's a bitther day yees war driven out on! Sit down, there, you poor crathur. God pity you, I pray this day, for you have a heart-broken look! Sit down awhile, near the fire, you an' the childre! Och, Oh! but it's a thousand pities to see sich fine childre-handsome an good lookin', even as they are, brought to this! Come over, good man; get near the fire, for ye'er wet an' could all of yees. Brian, ludher them two lazy thieves o' dogs out o' that. Eires suas, a wadhee bradadh, agus go mah a shin !—be off wid yees, ye lazy divil that's not worth you feedin'! Come over, ho

nest man."

What woman 'ud put up wid you but myself, you shkam-
in' flipe? It wasn't to give me your bad tongue I hired
you, but to do your business; an' be the crass above us, if
you turn your tongue on me again, I'll give you the weight
o' the churnstaff. Is it bekase they're poor people that it
plased God to bring to this, that you turn up your nose at
doin' any thing to sarve them? There's not wather enough
there, I say-put in more. What signifies all the stir-
about that 'ud make? Put plinty in; it's better always to
have too much than too little. Faix, I tell
you, you'll
want a male's meat an' a night's lodgin' afore you die, if
you don't mend your manners.'

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Owen and his family were placed near the fire; the poor Kathleen; "an' I'm sure she wouldn't be guilty of usin "Och, musha, the poor girl is doin' her best," observed man's heart was full, and he sighed heavily. pride to the likes of us, or to any one that the Lord has laid his hand upon."

"She had better not, while I'm to the fore," said her mistress. "What is she herself? Sure if it was a sin to be

"May he that it plased to thry us," he exclaimed, "reward you for this! We are," he continued, "a poor an' a sufferin' family; but it's the will of God that we should be so, an' sure we can't complain widout committin' sin. All we ax now is, that it may be plasin' to Him that poor, God help the world. No; it's neither a sin nor a

brought us low, to enable us to bear up undher our thrials. We would take it to our choice to beg and be honest, sooner nor to be wealthy an' wicked! We have our failins an' our sins, God help us; but still there's nothin' dark or heavy on our consciences. Glory be to the name o' God for it.

"Throth, I believe you," replied the farmer's wife; "there's thruth an' honesty in your face; one may easily see the remains of dacency about yees all. Musha, throw your little things aside, an' stay where yees are to-day: you can't bring out the childhre undher the teem of rain and sleet that's in it. Wurrah dheelish, but it's the bitther day all out! Faix, Paddy will get a dhrookin, so he will, at that weary fair wid the stirks, poor bouchal-a son of ours that's gone to Ballyboulteen to sell some cattle, an' he'll not be worth three hapuns afore he comes back. I hope he'll have sinse to go into some house, when he's done, an' dhry himself well, any how, besides takin' somethin' to keep out the could. Put by your things, an' don't think of goin' out sich a day."

"We thank you," replied Owen. «Indeed we're glad to stay undher your roof; for, poor things, they're badly able to thravel sich a day-these childhre.”

"Musha, yees ate no breakfast, maybe?” "Owen and his family were silent. The children looked wistfully at their parents, anxious that they should confirm what the good woman surmised; the father looked again at his famished brood and his sinking wife, and nature overcame him.

"Food did not crass our lips this day," replied Owen; "an' I may say hardly any thing yesterday."

"Oh, blessed Mother! Here, Katty Murray, drop scrubbin' that dresser, an' put down the midlin' pot for stirabout. Be livin' manim an diouol, woman alive, handle yourself; you might a had it boilin' by this. God presarve us! to be two days widout atin! Be the crass, Katty, i you're not alive, I'll give you a douse o' the churnstaff that'll bring the fire to your eyes! Do you hear me?" "I do hear you, an' did often feel you, too, for fraid hearin' wouldn't do. You think there is no place in the world but your own, I b'lieve. Faix, indeed! Its well come up wid us, to be randied about wid no less a switch than a churnstaff!"

"Is it givin' back talk you are? Bad end to me, if you look crucked but I'll lave you a mark to remimber me by.

shame."

"Thanks be to God, no," said Owen; "it's neither the one nor the other. So long as we keep a fair name, an' a -clear conscience, we can't ever say that our case is hard."

After some farther conversation, a comfortablé breakfast was prepared for them, of which they partook with an uppetite sharpened by their long abstinence from food. Their stay here was particularly fortunate, for as they were certain of a cordial welcome, and an abundance of that which they much wanted-wholesome food-the pressure of inmediate distress was removed. They had time to think more accurately upon the little preparations for misery which were necessary, and as the day's leisure was at their disposal, Kathleen's needle and scissars were industriously plied in mending the tattered clothes of her husband and her children, in order to meet the inclemency of the wea ther.

After being kindly entertained in this hospitable place, the new-made paupers resumed their march.

It is not our intention to trace Owen McCarthy and his wife through all the variety which a wandering panper's life affords. He never could reconcile himself to the habits of a mendicant. His honest pride and integrity of heart and cant of imposture, nor the slang of knavery. No raised him above it; neither did he sink into the whine there was a touch of manly sorrow about him, which neither time, nor familiarity with his degraded mode of life, could take away from him. His usual observation to his terness, was "Kathleen, darlin', it's thrue we have enough wife, and he never made it without a pang of intense bitTo a man like him it was a thought of surpassing bitterto ate an' to dhrink; but we have no home!—no home!"

ness, indeed.

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"Ah! Kathleen," he would observe, “if we had but the poorest shed that could be built, provided it was our o doesn't do us good. wouldn't we be happy? The bread we ate, avourneen, We don't work for it; it's the bread of shame and idleness; and yet it's Owen M'Carthy that ates it! But, avourneen, that's past; an' we'll cuttin' into my heart, Kathleen. Never!--never!" our own home, or our own hearth agin. That's what's

never

see

Many a trial, too, of another kind was his patience called upon to sustain; particularly from the wealthy and the led him to solicit their assistance. more elevated in life, when his inexperience as a mendicant

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"Begone, Sirrah, off my grounds!" one would say. "Why don't you work, you sturdy impostor," another would exclaim, rather than stroll about lazily, training your brats to the gallows?" "You should be taken up, fellow, as a vagrant," a third would observe; " and if I ever catch you coming up my avenue again, depend upon it, I will slip my dogs at you and your idle spawn."

Owen, on these occasions, turned away in silence: he did not curse them; but the pangs of his honest heart went before Him who will, sooner or later, visit upon the heads of such men their cruel spurning and neglect of the poor. "Kathleen," he observed to his wife, one day, about a year or more after they had begun to beg; "Kathleen, I have been turnin' it in my mind, that some of these childhre might sthrive to earn their bit an' sup, an' their little coverin' of clo'es, poor things. We might put them to herd cows in the summer, an' the girshas to somethin' else in the farmer's houses. What do you think, asthore ?"

"For God's sake do, Owen; sure my heart's crushed to see them-my own childhre, that I could lay down my life for-begging from door to door. Och, do something for them that way, Owen, an' you'll relieve the heart that loves them. It's a sore sight to a mother's eye, Owen, to see her childhre beggin' their morsel."

"It is, darlin-it is; we'll hire out the three eldest, Brian an' Owen, an' Pether, to herd cows; an' we may get Peggy into some farmer's house to do loose jobs an' run of messages. Then we'd have only little Kathleen an' poor Ned along wid us. I'll thry any way, an' if I can get them places, who knows what may happen? I have a plan in my head that I'll tell you, thin."

"Arrah, what is it, Owen jewel? Sure if I know it maybe when I'm sorrowful, that thinkin' of it, an' lookin' forrid to it will make me happier. An' I'm sure, acushla, you would like that."

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"But, maybe, Kathleen, if it wouldn't come to pass, that the disappointment 'ud be heavy on you?"

"How could it, Owen? Sure we can't be worse nor we' are, whatever happens?"

"Thrue enough indeed, I forgot that; an' yet we might, Kathleen. Sure we'd be worse, if we or the childhre had bad health."

even in a cabin, whose inmates are blessed with a love of independence, industry, and mutual affection.

Owen, in pursuance of his intention, did not neglect, when the proper season arrived, to place out his eldest children among the farmers. The reader need not be told that there was that about him which gained respect. He had, therefore, little trouble in obtaining his wishes on this point, and to his great satisfaction, he saw three of them hired out to earn their own support.

It was now a matter of some difficulty for him to take a cabin and get employment. They had not a single article of furniture, and neither bed nor bedding, with the excep He was resolved, tion of blankets almost worn past use. however, to give up, at all risks, the life of a mendicant. For this purpose, he and the wife agreed to adopt a plan quite usual in Ireland, under circumstances somewhat dif ferent from his: this was, that Kathleen should continue to beg for their support, until the first half-year of their children's service should expire; and in the mean time, that he, if possible, should secure employment for himself. By this means, his earnings, and that of his children, might remain untouched, so that in half a year, he calculated upon being able to furnish a cabin, and proceed, as a cottier, to work for, and support his young children and his wife, who determined, on her part, not to be idle any more than her husband. As the plan was a likely one, and as Owen was bent on earning his bread, rather than be a burthen to others, it is unnecessary to say that it succeeded. In less than a year he found himself once more in a home, and the force of what he felt on sitting, for the first time since his pauperism, at his own hearth, may easily be conceived by the reader. For some years after this, Owen got on slowly enough; his wages as a daily labourer, being so miserable, that it required him to exert every nerve to keep the house over their head. What, however, will not carefulness and a virtuous determination, joined to indefatigable industry, do?

After some time, backed as he was by his wife, and even by his youngest children, he found himself beginning to improve. In the mornings and the evenings he cultivated his garden and his rood of potato ground. He also collected with a wheelbarrow, which he borrowed from an ac

"God forgive me thin, for what I said! We might be quaintance, compost from the neighbouring road; scoured worse. Well, but what is the plan, Owen ?"

"Why, when we get the childhre places, I'll sthrive to take a little house, an' work as a cottar. Then, Kathleen, 'we'd have a home of our own.' I'd work from light to light; I'd work before hours an afther hours; ay, nine days in the week, or we'd be comfortable in our own little home. We might be poor, Kathleen, I know that, an' hard pressed, too; but then, as I said, we'd have our own home, an' our own hearth; our morsel, if it 'ud be homely, would be sweet, for it would be the fruits of our own labour."

an old drain before his door; dug rich earth, and tossed it into the pool of rotten water beside the house, and in fact, adopted several other modes of collecting manure. By this means, he had, each Spring, a large portion of rich stuff on which to plant his potatoes. His landlord permitted him to spread this for planting upon his land; and Owen, ere long, instead of a rood, was able to plant half an acre, and ultimately, an acre of potatoes. The produce of this being more than sufficient for the consumption of his family, he sold the surplus, and with the money gained by the sale, was enabled to sow half an acre of oats, of which, when

"Now, Owen, do you think you could manage to get made into meal, he disposed of the greater share. that?"

"Wait, acushla, till we get the childhre settled. Then I'll thry the other plan, for it's good to thry any thing that could take us out of this disgraceful life."

This humble speculation was a source of great comfort to them. Many a time have they forgotten their sorrows in contemplating the simple picture of their happy little cottage. Kathleen, in particular, drew, with all the vivid colouring of a tender mother, and an affectionate wife, the various sources of comfort and contentment to be found

Industry is capital; for even when unaided by capital it creates it; whereas, idleness with capital, produces only poverty and ruin.

We cannot follow the gradual rise of this virtuous family by slow and sure degrees; but we will take Owen's re

turn home.

When Owen once more found himself independent and safe, he longed to realize two plans on which he had for some time before been seriously thinking. The first was to visit his former neighbours, that they might at length

know that Owen M'Carthy's station in the world was such as became his character. The second was, if possible, to take a farm in his native parish, that he might close his days among the companions of his youth, and the friends of his maturer years. He had, also, another motive; there lay the burying place of the M'Carthys, in which slept the mouldering dust of his own "golden haired” Alley. With them in his daughter's grave-he intended to sleep his long sleep. Affection for the dead is the memory of the heart. In no other grave-yard could he reconcile it to himself to be buried; to it had all his forefathers been gathered; and though calamity had separated him from the scenes where they had passed through existence, yet he was resolved that death should not deprive him of its last melancholy consolation ;-that of reposing with all that remained of the "departed," who had loved him, and whom he had loved. He believed, that to neglect this, would be to abandon a sacred duty, and felt sorrow at the thought of being like an absent guest from the assembly of his own dead; for there is a principle of undying hope in the heart, that carries, with bold and beautiful imagery, the realities of life into the silent recesses of death itself.

Having formed the resolution of visiting his old friends at Tubber Derg, he communicated it to Kathleen and his family; his wife received the intelligence with undisguised delight.

"But whin do you mane to go to Tubber Derg, Owen ?" "In the beginnin' of the next week. An' Kathleen, ahagur, if you remember the bitther mornin' we came upon the world-but we'll not be spakin' of that now. I don't like to think of it. Some other time, maybe, when we're settled among our onld friends, I'll mintion it."

"Well, the Lord bliss your endayvours, any how! Och, Owen, do thry an' get us a snug farm somewhere near them But you didn't answer me about Alley, Owen ?"

"Why, you must have your wish, Kathleen; although I intended to keep that place for myself. Still we can sleep one on aich side of her ; an' that may be asily done, for our buryin' ground is large: so set your mind at rest on that head. I hope God won't call us till we see our childhre settled dacently in the world. But sure, at all evints, let His blissed will be done!"

"Amin! amin! It's not right of any one to keep their hearts fixed too much upon the world; nor even, they say,

upon one's own childhre."

so, at the most, an' afther that I'll have news for you about all o' them."

When Monday morning arrived, Owen found himseif ready to set out for Tubber Derg. The tailor had not disappointed him; and Kathleen, to do her justice, took care that the proofs of her good housewifery should be apparent in the whiteness of his linen. After breakfast, he dressed him. self in all his finery; and it would be difficult to say whe ther the harmless vanity that peeped out occasionally from his simplicity of character, or the open and undisguised triumph of his faithful wife, whose eye rested on him with pride and affection, was most calculated to produce a smile. "Now, Kathleen," said he, when preparing for his imme diate departure, "I'm thinkin' of what they'll say, when they see me so smooth an' warm lookin'. I'll engage they'll be axin one another, Musha, how did Owen M'Carthy get an, at all, to be so well to do in the world, as he ap pears to be, afther failin' on his ould farm ?'”

“Well, but Owen, you know how to manage them.” “Throth, I do that. But there's one thing they'll never get out o' me, any way."

“You won't tell that to any o' them, Owen ?"

"Kathleen, if I thought they only suspected it, l' never show my face in Tubber Derg agin. I think I could bear to be-an' yet it 'ud be a hard struggle wid me, too--but I think I could bear to be buried among black strangers, rather than it should be said, over my grave, among my own, there's where Owen M'Carthy lies-who was the only man, of his name, that ever begged his morsel on the king's highway. There he lies, the descindant of the great M'Carthy Mores, an' yet he was a beggar." I know, Kathleen achora, it's neither a sin nor a shame to ax one's bit from our fellow-creatures, whin fairly brought to it, widout any fault of our own; but still I feel semething in me, that can't bear to think of it widout shame an' heaviness of heart."

"Well, it's one comfort, that nobody knows it but our. selves. The poor childhre, for their own sakes, won't ever breathe it; so that it's likely the sacret 'ill be berried wid us."

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The sun had now risen, and as Owen ascended the larger of the two hills which we have mentioned, he stood again to view the scene that stretched beneath him. About an less, as if the land had been a land of the dead. hour before all was still; the whole country lay motion

The

mountains, in the distance, were covered with the thin mists of morning; the milder and richer parts of the land

"People may love their childhre as much as as they plase, Kathleen, if they don't let their grah for them spoil the crathurs, by givin' them their own will, till they become head-scape had appeared in that dim grey, distinctness which strong an' over-bearin'. Now, let my linen be as white a a bone before Monday, plase goodness; I hope, by that time, that Jack Dogherty will have my new clo'se made; for I intind to go as dacent as ever they seen me in my best days."

"An' so you will, too, avillish. Throth, Owen, it's you that'll be the proud man, steppin' in to them in all your grandeur! Ha, ha, ha! The spirit o' the McCarthys is in you still, Owen."

gives to distant objects such a clear outline. With the exception of the blackbird's song, every thing seemed as if stricken into silence; there was not a breeze stirring; both animate and inanimate nature reposed as if in a trance; the very trees appeared asleep, and their leaves motionless, as if they had been of marble, But now the scene was changed. The sun had flung his splendour upon the moun tain-tops, from which the mists were tumbling in broken fragments to the vallies between them. A thousand birds Ha, ha, ha! It is, darlin'; it is indeed; an' I'd be sarry poured their songs upon the car; the breeze was up, and it wasn't. I long to see poor Widow Murray. I dunna the columns of smoke from the farm-houses and cottages is her son, Jemmy, married. Who knows, after all we suf-played, as if in frolic, in the air. A white haze was befered, but I may be able to help her yet?—that is, if she ginning to rise from the meadows; early teams were afoot; stands in need of it. But, I suppose, her childhre's grown and labourers going abroad to their employment. The up now, an' able to assist her. Now, Kathleen, mind Mon- lakes in the distance shone like mirrors; and, the clear day next; al' have every thing ready. I'll stay a week or springs on the mountain sides glittered in the sun, like gru

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