"Well is my home by the forester's hearth, But Walter, my son, is the heir of a king." When the shadows fell on our quiet pool, And the birds were asleep on the firs overhead, She returned alone, but her face was white, And her step as the step of one waked from the dead. (By permission of the Author.) PAUDEEN O'RAFFERTY'S SAY-VOYAGE. SURE now, ladies and gintlemen, if ye plase, I'll relate the great mistake I made when I come here to Naplesstop! aisy, Paudeen, and don't decaive the ladies and gintlemen; for bedad, I didn't come at all; they brought me in a ship-a grate big ship, with two big sticks standing out of it. Masts they call thim, bad luck to it, and the day I saw it! If I had been an ignorant fellow, and didn't know joggraphy and the likes, I'd be safe enough at home now, so I would, in my own cellar, on the Coal-Quay in Dublin. But divil fire me! I must be making a man of myself, showing me larnin', me knowledge of similitude, and the likes. You see, I wint over to England, on a bit of an agricultural speculation-hay-makin' and harvist-rapin'and, the saison bein' good, I realized a fortune; so I did—a matter of thirty shillings or so. So, says I to myself, says I, "Now I have got an indipindant competance, I'll go back to Ireland-I'll buy it out, and make meself imperor of it." So I axed one of the boys which was my nearest way to Bristol, to go be the say. So, says one of thim-(be the same token he was a cousin of mine-one Terry O'Rafferty-as dacint a boy as you could wish to meet, and as handy with a shillaly. Why, I've seen him clear a tint at Donnybrook fair in less than two minutes, with divil a won to help except his bit of a stick, and you know that's no aisy job). "Well, says Terry to me, says he, "Go down to the quay," says he, "and you'll find out all about it while a cat'd be lickin' her ear." Well, I wint to a man that was standin' be the dure of a public house-it was the sign of the signWhat the divil is this the sign was?-you see I like to be sarcumspectius in me joggraphy-it was the sign of the blind cow kicking the dead man's eyes out—or the dead man's cow kicking the blind--no—well, it was something that way anyhow. So says I to the man, "Sir," says I, "I want a ship." "There you are," says he. I. "Where?" says "Thank you," says I. land?" "Which of thim's for Ire “Oh, you're an ould countryman?" says he. "Who tould you?" says I. "No matther," says he. "I will," says I. "Come," says he. Well, we wint in, and we had a half a pint of whisky. Oh, bedad it 'd have done your heart good to see the bade rise on the top of it. May-be my heart didn't warm to him, and his to me-ow murther! "Erin go bragh!" says he. "Ceadh mille failthe!" says I. And there we wor like two sons of an Irish king in less than a minute. Thin we got to discoorsing about Dublin and Naples, and other furrin parts that we wor acquainted with, and he began talking about how like the Bay of Naples was to the Bay of Dublin-for, you see, he was an ould soger, d'ye mind?-an' thim old sogers are always mighty 'cute chaps. He was a grate big chap that was off in the wars among the Frinch and the Spaniards and the Rushers, and other barbarians. So we got talking of similitude an' joggraphy, an' the likes, an' mixin' Naples an' wather and Dublin an' whisky; and be me sowl, purty punch we made of it! I was in the middle o' me glory, whin in walks the captain o' the ship. 66 Any one here to go aboord?" says he. "Here I am," says I. And be the same token, me head was quite soft with the whisky, and talking about Dublin an' Naples, and Naples an' whisky, and wather an' Dublin, Dublin an' Naples, Naples an' Dublin-bad 'cess to me! but I said the one place instead of the other, whin they axed we where I was going, d'ye mind? Well, they brought me aboord the ship as dhrunk as a lord, and threw me down in the cellar-the hould, they called it, and the divil's own hould it was-wid sacks, pigs, praties, an' other passengers, an' there they left me in lavendher, like Paddy Ward's pig. I fell asleep the first week. Whin I woke up, didn't I heave a-head in me sthomatics enough to make me backbone an' me ribs strike fire! 66 Arrah," says I to meself, says I, แ are they ever going to take me home?" Just thin I h'ard a voice sing out- That was enough for me. I scrambled upstairs till I got on the roof-the deck they call it-as fast as my legs could carry me. "Land-ho!" says one of the chaps. "Where?" says I. "There it is," says he. "For the love of glory, show me where !" says I. I looked around, but the divil recaive the cat's-head or dog's tail aither I could see! The blaggard stared at me as if I was a banshee or a fairy. I gev another look, and there was the Bay, sure enough, afore me. "Arrah, good luck to you!" says I, "but you warm the cockles of me heart. Hill of Howth?" says I. But what's come over the "It used to be a civil, paice able soort of a mountain; but now it's splutthering an' smokin' away like a grate big lime-kiln. Sure the boys must have lit a big bone-fire on top of it, to welcome me!" With that, a vagabone that was listenin' to me, cries out, in a horse-laugh "Hill of Howth?" says he. "You're a Grecianthat's not the Hill of Howth." "Not the Hill of Howth?" says I. "No," says he. "That's Mount Vesuvius." "Aisy, aisy," says I. "Isn't Mount Vesulpherous in Italy?" "Yis," says he. "An' isn't Italy in France?” says I. "Of coorse," says he. "An' isn't France in Gibberalther?" says I. "To be sure," says he. "An' isn't Gibberalther in Russia?" says I. "Maybe so," says he. "But we're in Italy, any how this is the Bay of Naples, and that is Mount Vesuvius." "Are you sure?" says I. "I am," says he. And, be me sowl, it was thrue for him. The ship made a big blundher in takin' me to Naples, whin I wanted to go to Dublin, d'ye mind?” THE CHRONICLE. ABRAHAM COWLEY. [Abraham Cowley was one of that glorious band of poets who, living in the "troublous times" of the Cavaliers and Roundheads, sank or swam as, by turns, their party came uppermost. Born in 1618, he was educated as a King's Scholar at Westminster, and in the seventeenth year of his age published a volume of poems entitled "Poetical Blossoms," which procured for him considerable reputation. In 1636 he was elected a Scholar of Trinity College, Cambridge, where he produced two comedies (one of them in Latin), which were performed by the members of his college. In 1643 he was ejected by the Puritan visitors and became a partisan of the Royal cause, going abroad and managing the correspondence between the King and Queen. In 1656 he returned and published a collected edition of his works, when, being suspected by the party in power, he was thrown into prison, but released on bail. After the Restoration he was for some time neglected, but by the interest of the Duke of Buckingham he obtained the lease of a farm at Chertsey, which produced him about 300l. a year. Died 1667.] "The Chronicle" was written two hundred years ago. "Ladies, dear ladies, if one could be sure that no man would open this book, if we were altogether in (female) parliament assembled, without a single male creature in hearing, might we not acknowledge that the sex, especially that part of it formerly called "coquette," and now known by the name of "flirt," is very little altered since the days of the Merry Monarch? and that a similar list compiled by some gay bachelor of Belgravia might, allowing for differences of custom and of costume, serve very well as a companion to Master Cowley's catalogue? I would not have a man read this admission for the world."-MISS MITFORD'S Recollections of a Literary Life. Just so, but what a capital chance for a lady reader at one of our Penny Readings!-ED. P. R. MARGARITA first possessed, If I remember well, my breast, But when awhile the wanton maid, Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catherine: Beauteous Catherine gave place, Eliza to this hour might reign, Fundamental laws she broke, |