The soldier laughed, and hesitated.—“ You haven't the least guess? What should you think if 'twas Owen himself?"

A cry of agony-deep, terrific of hopeless, unalleviated torture-a yell of despair-burst from the lips of Grania, as, darting from her seat, she fastened her powerful fingers round the Englishman's throat. "Say that word again, an' by the eternal God I'll tear your lyin' tongue out by the roots!"

The man, brave as he was, shrank from the maniac glare of her fierce eyes, and the expression of fiend-like rage which distorted her

countenance.

"Oh, you've told it to her too suddent," said Darby, in a tone of mild reproach. "Grania, asthore," he added, winding his arms round her, "sit down and pacify yourself."

But, dashing him from her, she flung herself on her knees before the soldier." Say 'twasn't him-say 'twasn't him-and I'll follow you the world over on my bare knees-say 'twasn't him, an' I'll give ye my heart's blood!—Oh, do, do!-only one word—one word!— Have mercy on me!—have mercy on me!"

Not receiving any answer from the Englishman, too bewildered to know what to say, her natural violence returned, and she started to her feet. Ye gaping fool! why don't ye answer me?" she yelled out, dragging him towards the dresser, from which she snatched up a knife. "Now will you dare tell me 'twas Owen?" she cried, brandishing the weapon, in mad fury, over his head——“ that 'twas Owen,"–she gasped for breath, and spoke through her clenched teeth-" Owenthat I murdhered-last night!"

A cry of horror burst from Darby.

"Hold your tongue-he wasn't yours, at any rate." And with wild shrieks she rushed from the door.

At the moment of her escape the group was gathered round the unhappy husband, who had fallen to the ground in a faint. And when, after the lapse of some time, the soldier and Tim went in search of her, she was nowhere to be found. The next morning she was discovered on her knees, dead, bent over some fresh-disturbed earth in an adjacent field.

It was scarcely an alleviation of the horror Darby experienced to know that poor Owen had not been his son. He had loved him as such, and the boy had been, in duty and affection, a son to him. Those who had deceived him were gone to their God, and Darby was incapable of bitter feeling towards the dead. "Poor Owen !" the old man said, mournfully, "the wish of surprisin' us cost you dear; an' the present ye intended for your mother turned out death to you and her; but Owen, agra!" he added, in a lower voice, " Owen, my boy, why did'nt ye think of the mother before?-why didn't ye write to her, and keep her heart up? You had money-why didn't you send her some, and then maybe the temptation wouldn't have come on her. But God be merciful to you, my boy!-an' to you too, poor Grania! The money that was got by blood shall be laid out in masses for him who had no time to make his peace with God, and for her who, God help her! never cared to make it, livin' or dying-though that's thrue, Tim, we found her on her knees-who knows?"

Mr. B., at Darby's request, handed him back the money paid by Grania, and, touched by his misfortunes, forgave him the sum altogether. Soon after, the Kanes quitted the country, and are doing well in America.*

This sketch is not a ñction; the circumstance occurred about three years since, in the west of Ireland.

TO A SKYLARK, SINGING OUT OF SIGHT.

WHENCE art thou, bold heaven-haunting bird?

I saw thee not ascend,

Yet o'er the clouds I hear thy song

As it would never end.

What bubbling ecstacies of bliss,
What flutterings of glad sound,

Are thine, O soul of love intense!
In melody unbound.

Descendest thou from heaven, O bird!
Blithe spirit of the cloud?

I long have looked, yet see thee not,
Where thou art singing loud.

The nightingale may shroud her deep
In darkness of the night,
But like thee is none other bird,
Thou singest hid in light.

As from some fountain infinite,
Dost thou thy strains prolong:

Or as a chain let down from heaven,
A golden chain of song.

The dewdrops scattered from thy wings
Are lost not on the wind;

The poet sees them, and they turn

To diamonds in his mind.

My eye-balls ache with vacant search
Thy happy form to see,

All heaven-o'erflowing-bliss! too blithe
From mortal bird to be.

I hear thee, 'till thy strains no more
Seem modulated breath;

I cannot deem thou art allied
To dust-resolving death.

It must be that thou comest down,
And hoverest there to sing,

When earth a vision is of heaven,
And life is love in spring.

RICHARD HOWITT.

THE COURTIER OF THE REIGN OF CHARLES II.

BY MRS. C. GORE.

CHAPTER I.

DEEP as they are fruitless are the furrows impressed of late years upon the fair field of society by the iron-share of party-spirit. The Conservatives and Radicals of to-day scarcely yield in acrimoniousness to the Whigs and Tories of yesterday; and, even in this age of refinement, the world is apt to pull caps and draw triggers-to call names and indulge in retorts uncourteous, in a spirit becoming the barbarian feuds of the White and Red roses. The Catholic Question and Reform Bill begat "haters," such as even Dr. Johnson might have pronounced "good;" while banners of orange and green still emulate in the sister kingdom the exciting influence of the Bianchi e Neri of the factions of the Middle Ages.

Yet how pale and vapid appears even the bitterest of these modern antagonisms, compared with the party-spirit engendered by the deepseated injuries of civil war! To stir up the soul of man into genuine partisanship, his pecuniary interests must be affected. The loss of a ministerial salary, administering to the daily cake of life, rather than to its daily bread, is scarcely worth bringing into comparison with the tribulation of having a fair house razed to the ground, or blazing to the sky-woods hacked down-farms ravaged-nay, perhaps the dear ones of our hearts given up to slaughter before our eyes. Such are the injuries which create heroes and patriots; such the losses which, in England's olden time, set the lances of York and Lancaster in rest; or, at a later period, stimulated the remnant of chivalry to oppose the roundhead Puritans whom the spirit moved to plunder and slaughter their fellow-countrymen in the abused name of the Lord!

It is not, however, in the hour of strife that the force of party hatred roots itself strongest in the heart. The feeling does not acquire its deadliest force till, seated by the desolated fireside, and missing one of its accustomed treasures, we revert to the origin of the bereavement-recal forgotten grievances-revive effaced recollections-dwell upon those frightful tumults, when a fellow-countryman became a deadly enemy, and our dwellings resounded with the cry of pillage and violence, breathed in the accents of our native land.

Such was the state of national feeling in England at the period of the Restoration. Things had been done and suffered, which it behoved the sufferers to steep in oblivion. Country neighbours who, a few years before, had been opposed hand to hand in unrelenting strife, were required to meet at public convocations, as having no cause of discord; the words they had uttered, the cruelties they had mutually inflicted, were all to be obliterated by the act of amnesty which afforded leisure to King Charles for his licentious orgies at Whitehall, and to bumpkin squires for hanging up their buff jerkins

and steel head-pieces on pegs in their musty halls, scouring up the battered arms which were not doomed by act of parliament to become rusty like their resentments or their pride. Scarce a neighbourhood throughout the kingdom that was thoroughly at its ease. The Londoners had their commerce and their recreations-the courtiers their fêtes and processions; but the rural population had nothing to divert its sense of injury. The evidence of evil was still hatefully before them. Fair estates fallen to ruin-fair edifices overthrown-naked hills in place of thriving plantations, and roofless halls instead of goodly manor-houses. The stately minster lacked its desecrated

shrine

"Levelled, when fanatic Brook

The fair cathedral spoiled and took ;"

the lonely hearth-the helpless orphan-its master and father, martyrs of unavailing and unrewarded devotion.

In one of the most beautiful of the woodland districts, on the borders of Northamptonshire, there abided an individual-rich even to overflowing in the best gifts accordable by nature or societywhom the evil chances of those disastrous times had visited with searching influence. The Lady Lovell, in her twenty-sixth year, was beautiful and intelligent beyond the common lot-nobly born, nobly allied, immensely wealthy. Yet with these and other means and appliances of happiness, such as good health, good humour, good sense, good principles,-a hopeless blight was upon her destinies. Scarcely to be termed a wife, scarcely to be termed a widow, the love of every heart was hers, save that of the man who, as she was required by law to share his title and estates, can be designated no otherwise than as her husband.

Lovell House was a noble seat, situated on a gentle eminence, overlooking the river Nen; surrounded by a stately park, with vast domains widely outstretching its enclosures. The place was antiquated, it is true; having undergone no material alteration since the latter days of Elizabeth, who had feasted within its walls on her progress to the grander domicile of her favourite chancellor. But few mansions in the county were to compare with the old hall of Lovell ; for in addition to its formal groves, avenues, and pleasance, its young mistress had chosen to indulge for its adornment in choice whimsies of her own, by creating in the midst of a straggling coppice of beech and elms, fringing the western boundary of the pleasance, a garden of fair shrubberies and parterres, wild and beautiful as Ariel's wand might have called into existence amid "the still vex'd Bermoothes."

Nor were the usual accessories of country pleasures wanting at Lovell, albeit its liege lady could do but inadequate justice to their entertainment. The ancient mews, the old kennel and stables of the hall, were carefully kept up; and Lady Lovell, though a somewhat subdued representative of the barons bold who had of old taken pleasure in the sports, was perhaps the best horsewoman who ever laid aside her riding-gear to resume the gentle occupations of the lute, pen, needle, or distaff.

Dwelling alone at the hall, as lady paramount of the vast estate,

she fell not into the usual faults of female sovereignty. Her rule was neither arbitrary nor capricious. The afflictions and vexations of life had subdued rather than soured her temper. The ancient servitors of the house adored their lovely mistress-the tenants respected her-the poor (save when in the lady's hearing) never named her without blessings; for Anne Lovell had a proud and generous spirit, and abided not the servility of overstrained gratitude.

Nevertheless, with all this affluence of love and prosperity, no one could look observantly upon the countenance of the lovely lady, without discerning a certain "unquiet glancing of the eye" that betrayed a spirit ill at ease. It was clear that Lady Lovell was not happy. When she returned from her brisk rides across the hills upon her favourite mare, Black Maud, whose beauty and spirit were well matched with her own, any one might perceive, when she dashed aside her beaver and threw open her velvet vest, that though her fair cheek glowed with the exercise, and her large dark eye beamed with momentary excitement, no joyous smile visited her compressed lips. Even the gleams of satisfaction called up into her countenance by opportunities for the indulgence of her beneficent propensities, or proof that some antecedent good action had brought forth its fruits, were transient as those of winter sunshine. There was discontent in her soul-impatience in her gestures. It was probable that she had suffered grievous wrong; for, in moments of unreserve, it was apparent that her opinions and feelings were under the dominion of a deepseated indignation.

Such were the comments of the casual observer. But when curiosity induced him to ascertain the facts of the case, his wonder was of short duration. Lady Lovell's domestic history was too well known, and her country neighbours were too ready to recount a tale so eventful, to prolong the suspense of strangers interested by her beauty and singularities to make further inquiry.

Lady Lovell, in her own right an heiress, was the only daughter of a Rutlandshire esquire, the representative of a Protestant branch of the ancient house of Heneage of Hainton. Himself an only son, and bearing token in his puny nature and physical infirmities of the over-solitude usually attending the breeding of a mother's darling, Miles Heneage at thirty years of age was a confirmed valetudinarian, absorbed by the contemplation of his own ailments, and utterly incapacitated for social enjoyment. Every better instinct of his nature seemed merged in selfish hypochondriacism.

Even his loyalty, a distinguished characteristic of his family, became enfeebled by the influence of habitual supineness; and though his heart was with the failing cause of the king, he took no active part in support of the royal standard, nor was known to offer the slightest resistance to parliamentarian usurpation. Certain of the Puritan generals who, having occasion to traverse the fertile pastures of Dalesdene Grange on their march from the northern counties to Marston Moor, had been moved to cast a longing eye upon the inheritance of an avowed malignant, and hereditary adherent of the house of Stuart, were at length compelled to direct their covetous views to other quarters. Miles Heneage was never known to commit