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his noble features, reading aloud the impassioned effusions of genius,---and Emily, in all the breathlessness of fixed attention, smiling and weeping by turns, as the powerful master touched the different chords of sensibility. These were evenings of calm, but deep happiness long, long to be remembered.

circumvallation. After a three months' siege, it was pronounced impregnable. So Henry, who really loved his cousin next to his king and country, thinking it folly to endanger his peace and waste his time any longer, called for his horse one morning, shook Emily warmly by the hand, then mounted, " and rode away."

Autumn came; the leaves grew red, brown, yellow, and purple; then dropped from the high branches, and lay rustling in heaps upon the path below. The last roses withered. The last lingering wain conveyed from the fields their golden treasure. The days were bright, clear, calm, and chill; the nights were full of stars and dew, and the dew, ere morning, was changed into silver hoarfrost. The robin hopped across the garden walks; and candles were set upon the table before the tea-urn. But the stranger came not. Darker days and longer nights succeeded. Winter burst upon the earth. Storms went

stripped of their foliage, and the fields had lost their verdure. But still the stranger came not. Then the lustre of Emily's eye grew dim; but yet she smiled, and looked as if she would have made herself believe that there was hope.

And so there was; for the mail once more stopped at the Blue Boar; a gentleman wrapped in a travelling cloak once more came out of it; and Mr Gilbert Cherryripe once more poked the fire for him in his best parlour. Bur leigh did come back.

I shall not describe their meeting, nor enquire whether

Spring flew rapidly on. March, with her winds and her clouds, passed away; April, with her showers and her sunshine, lingered no longer; and May came smiling up the blue sky, scattering her roses over the green surface of creation. The stranger entered one evening, before sunset, the little garden that surrounded Violet Cottage. Emily saw him from the window, and came out to meet him. She held in her hand an open letter; "It is from my cousin Henry!" said she. "His regiment has returned from France, and he is to be with us to-morrow or next day. We shall be so glad to see him! You have often heard us talk of Henry ?---he and I were play-careering through the firmament; the forests were mates when we were children, and though it is a long while since we parted, I am sure I should know him again among a hundred.”—“ Indeed!" said the stranger, almost starting; " you must have loved him very much, and very constantly too."-" O yes! I loved him as a brother." Burleigh breathed more easily. "I am sure you will love him too," Emily added. "Every body whom you love, and who loves you, I also must love, Miss Sommers. But your cousin I shall not at present see. I must leave Hodnet to-morrow."-" To-morrow! leave Hodnet to-morrow!" Emily grew very pale, and leant for support upon a sun-dial, near which they were stand-Emily's eye was long without its lustre. But there was ing. "Good heavens! that emotion--can it be possible? -Miss Sommers---Emily---is it for me you are thus grieved?"--" It is so sudden," said Emily, so unexpected ;---are you never to return again,-are we never to see you more?"-" Do you wish me to return, do you wish to see me again ?”—“ Oh! how can you ask it?”— “Emily, I have been known to you only under a cloud of mystery, a solitary being, without a friend or acquaintance in the world,-an outcast apparently from society, either sinned against, or sinning,-without fortune, without pretensions ;—and with all these disadvantages to contend with, how can I suppose that I am indebted to any thing but your pity for the kindness which you have shown to me?"" Pity! pity you! O Frederick ! do not wrong yourself thus. No! though you were a thousand times less worthy than I know you are, I should not pity, I should- She stopped confused, a deep blush spread over her face, she burst into tears, and would have sunk to the ground had not her lover caught her in his arms. "Think of me thus," he whispered, "till we meet again, and we may both be happy.”—“ O! I will think of thee thus for ever!" They had reached the door of the cottage. "God bless you! Emily," said the stranger;— "I dare not see Mrs Sommers; tell her of my departure, but tell her, that ere autumn has faded into winter, I shall again be here. Farewell! dearest! farewell!" She felt upon her cheek a hot and hurried kiss, and, when she ventured to look round, he was gone.

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Henry arrived next day, but there was a gloom upon the spirits of both mother and daughter, which it took some time to dispel. Mrs Sommers felt for Emily more than for herself. She now perceived that her child's future happiness depended more upon the honour of the stranger than she had hitherto been aware, and she trembled to think of the probability that, in the busy world, he might soon forget the very existence of such a place as Hodnet, or any of its inhabitants. Emily entertained better hopes; but they were the result probably of the sanguine and unsuspicious temperament of youth. Her cousin, meanwhile, exerted himself to the utmost to render himself agreeable. He was a young, frank, handsome soldier, who had leapt into the very middle of many a lady's heart,-red coat, sword, epaulette, belt, cocked hat, feathers, and all. But he was not destined to leap into Emily's. She had enclosed it within too strong a line of

still another trial to be made. Would she marry him? "My family," said he, "is respectable, and as it is not wealth we seek, I have an independence, at least equal I should hope to our wishes; but any thing else which you may think mysterious about me, I cannot unravel until you are indissolubly mine." It was a point of no slight difficulty; Emily intrusted its decision entirely to her mother. Her mother saw that the stranger was inflexible in his purpose, and she saw also that her child's happiness was inextricably linked with him. What could she do? It would have been better perhaps had they never known him; but knowing him, and thinking of him as they did, there was but one alternative,—the risk must be run.

It was run. They were married in Hodnet, and immediately after the ceremony they stepped into a carriage, and drove away, nobody knew whither. We must not infringe upon the sacred happiness of such a ride, upon such an occasion, by allowing our profane thoughts to dwell upon it. It is enough for us to mention, that towards twilight they came in sight of a magnificent Gothic mansion, situated in the midst of extensive and noble parks. Emily expressed her admiration of its appearance, and her young husband, gazing on her with impassioned delight, exclaimed,-" Emily! it is thine! My mind was imbued with erroneous impressions of women: I had been courted and deceived by them. I believed that their affections were to be won only by flattering their vanity, or dazzling their ambition. I was resolved, that unless I were loved for myself, I should never be loved at all. I travelled through the country incognito; I came to Hodnet, and saw you. I have tried you in every way, and found you true. It was I, and not my fortune, that you married; but both are thine. We are now stopping at Burleigh House; your husband is Frederick Augustus Burleigh, Earl of Exeter, and you, my Emily, are his Countess !"

It was a moment of ecstasy, for the securing of which it was worth while creating the world, and all its other inhabitants.

THE BURIAL OF THE BRAVE.

STANZAS SUGGESTED BY WITNESSING THE FUNERAL PROCES-
SION OF MAJOR MALCOLM OF THE 42D.
By Thomas Atkinson.

PLUME of the proud! thy crimson crest

Droops languid o'er the bonnet now;
For he who wore thee is at rest,

Where thou no more canst grace his brow

Darkly to nod above his bier,

The only task that waits thee here!

Sword of the soldier! art thou there,
For ever in thy scabbard laid?
Wilt thou not flash again in air,

A meteor amid many a blade?

Like him who bore thee, sleep thou must,
And all thy glories end in rust!

Plaid of the free! the manly heart

That beat beneath thy chequer'd fold
Will throb no more; 'tis now thy part
To hide a heart at length grown cold;
Thy many hues still gleam to-day;
Its many hopes-Oh! where are they?

Badge of the brave! the noble breast

On which thy silver honours hung,
Will heave no more beneath its vest

As praise drops from some tuneful tongue;
There thou wilt beam no more-a star
Whose glory hid full many a scar!

Trump of the troop, still thy proud notes!
Drum of the dead, be't thine to roll
Thy sad and muttering grief, which floats
Like far-off thunder round my soul!
Clarion and fife, be mute! be mute!
And breathe but like a sigh, thou flute!

Though ye were hush'd and silent all,
There would be solemn music here;
Hark! 'tis the slow and measured fall
Of kindred footsteps round the bier ;-
A fitting requiem for the brave—
The tread of comrades to his grave!
And there is more-a low, still breath
Of awe and sorrow floats along;
As winds the sad parade of death

Through all the gather'd city's throng;
The rudest holds his peace a while,
The merriest drops a half-form'd smile.

On more than woman's ready cheek,
Unwonted moisture trickles down;
Tears which of parted virtue speak,

And flow for worth too early gone,
Whilst round his bier the name they blend
Of soldier, citizen, and friend.
Glasgow.

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS, FEELINGS, AND RECOLLECTIONS.

By William Weir.*

of the question. Holidays are for the school-boy and the hard-handed artizan, and all grown-up gentlemen who have still something in common with the schoolboy and the artizan. Holidays are for those who are in general kept hard at work, and whose minds are not sufficiently expanded to know that man's destiny is toil, in one shape or another; and that the truest happiness is to be found by voluntarily and of forethought bowing our necks to the yoke. An intermission from their daily tasks, is to the beforementioned school-boy or artizan, what a green paddock and a Sunday's repose are to a donkey—a prefiguration of liberty. They disport them in their short sunny hour, with the same fulness of heart and absence of all forebodings of futurity, that leads their grave prototype to roll about in the herbage, stretching his ungainly limbs into strange antics, while some benevolent Westminster Reviewer, leaning over the pales, gazes light-heartedly on a creature, already enjoying that perfect happiness, which in his Utopia is to be the lot of all. And if such be a single holiday, what must the present season be to every one who has one spark of the school-boy or the labourer remaining in him, when one high and solemn festival treads upon the heels of another, like the rapid succession of jewelled beauties who sweep past their smiling hostess at a route ?-when from Christmas to Twelfth Night, or Hansell Monday, (aut quo alio nomine gaudet) we are, or ought to be, borne up and onward on one vast springtide of wassail and revelry!

Whoever they were who fixed upon this season as that from which the year should date its commencement, they showed a delicate tact and sound discretion. There is something peculiarly modest and unobtrusive in the character of the first of January. It is not the longest day, and it is not the shortest day; nor is it, like two days of the year, divided into equal portions of light and darkness. In its utter want of any thing to distinguish it from any other day of the three hundred and sixty-five, it comes up to Lord Chesterfield's standard of a perfect gentleman-one who has no peculiarity or individual characteristic left. Thus amiable and unassuming, we see without uneasiness its elevation to the supremacy over all its fellow-days; and are no way envious at its standing the first letter of that A, B, C, wherewith Time stammeringly spells the great history of events.

A deep sense of the noiseless and unmarked transition of the past into the future, is evinced by this choice of so commonplace a day for the commencement of the year. The analogy of nature is thereby preserved unviolated. There is no human thought or action,—no event in the history of men or nations, of which we can with certainty point out the first step. In tracing them backwards to their source, they elude our gaze, and die away into those which preceded them, as the colours of the rainbow fade into one another. And thus it ought to be in our arbitrary apportionings of time. They ought to mingle and coalesce gently-no startling transition ought to break in upon the continuity of life. It is indeed good for the human soul that it be kept awake to the feeling that it is journeying towards eternity; but this may be effected more gently than by shattering our nerves every now and then by a plaguy jolt over some great rut in the road along which we are driving.

Nor can we fail to perceive, that the happy selection of the associates of New-Year's Day is equally worthy of our admiration. It was requisite that the modest and HOLIDAYS are not for philosophers or people of fashion. unpretending demeanour of the monarch should be reTo the former, if worthy of the name, every succeeding lieved and set off by the splendour of his court. And in day is a festival,-time itself one perpetual feast, "where the whole world of days, a better assortment of lusty galno crude surfeit reigns." To the latter, pleasure is a busi-lants could not have been found than now stand around ness, which puts holidays or enjoyment of any kind out

This is the first of Mr Weir's articles in the Literary Journal to which he has prefixed his name. We are happy to avail ourselves of the opportunity it affords us to mention, that he has already contributed anonymously many able papers to our pages; and we congratulate ourselves on possessing the steady support of so talented a writer.-Ed, Lit. Jour.

him. As in the chivalry of Europe we may trace the iron nerve and stubborn independence of their Teutonic ancestry, softened at once and elevated by the influence of religion and the mild graces of social life,-so, in Christ mas and his retainers, we may trace a vein of that 1 and boisterous merriment which gave fire to the 1'

Saturnalia, strangely blent with those pure and maiden thoughts, those lofty aspirations inspired by the presence of the holiest festival that Christendom celebrates.

There is something in the present season which has, in all ages, driven men to compensate the deadness and sterility of external nature, by drawing more close the ties of sociality, and enlivening their separate circles by the overflowing of their own hearts. It is the time of the year when we most need to lean upon each other, and it is the time of the year when labour is least in de- | mand. As it is always well to join trembling with our mirth, lest it evaporate into heartlessness or folly, our happiness is chastened and subdued, not destroyed, by the linking together of two festivals,-the one of which is connected with the consummation of our highest destinies; while the other causes the rushing of Time's wings to fall more distinctly upon our ear, as the roaring of the distant waterfall swells upon the scarcely-felt nightbreeze. For such a festival, this hour of Nature's dead, icy, midnight sleep, is peculiarly fitted. That the old year should now cease to be, and the new, strong of wing and bright of eye, rise Phoenix-like from its ashes, is in accordance with that law which makes the termination of one animal's life the matrix of a thousand new existences, and our own sleep of death our birth into a pure and un

troubled existence.

During a festival of such a character, assemblies, public places, and theatres-except in the case of a pantomime for children-are an impertinence. The gaieties of the season are strictly domestic. How finely was this felt in Old England, where Christmas-tide served to draw closer, not only the bonds of family affection, but the more distant and precarious tie of landlord and tenant. those unkindly feelings which the tear and wear of bargains and money transactions had engendered, melted away in the genial heat of the Christmas log. Even in Scotland, where the wise and the pious laid their precious numskulls together to put down this heterodox love-feast, all their exertions were only able to create the strongest and most indomitable body of dissenters that ever opposed themselves to a true church. But it is in Germany, after all, that St Christmas is worshipped in the way most after his own heart.

apartments, to all of which they had the entré, except to that for which alone they cared. Minna glided backwards and forwards with her wonted gentle and noiseless step: "Minna, is it time?"—"No!" They tried to begin some game, but in a few minutes their voices died away, and they were seated near the forbidden chamber. Adolph positively took up a book, the first time I had ever seen him do so of his own accord, but he only turned over the leaves his eye was wandering. At last the folding door was thrown open, and what a rush! A long table, covered with a clean white cloth, stretched through the room. In the centre, in an immense flowerpot, stood a large pine branch,* hung with lights, and beneath it the various gifts, each with a label, showing for whom it was destined. Their value consisted chiefly in the evidence they afforded of the noiseless and delicate watch which each member of the family had kept upon the wishes of the others. The pressure of hands, and the unconscious glistening of eyes as they looked into each other, were the only language of the seniors; childhood's joy was more loudly and loquaciously expressed. And thus a short half-hour not only furnished delighted employment and anticipations for months before, and plea sing thoughts for a long succeeding time, but knit the family affections more surely than the costliest gifts or the greatest sacrifices.

Let us, in conclusion, add the two following maxims, which appear to us of much importance at the present moment :

Firstly, No native of the northern temperate zone ought to emigrate, either to the tropical regions, or to the other side of the equator: His physical man may resist the inAll sidious encroachments of a new climate, but the moral man must sink under the loss of Christmas and Newyear's day. It is impossible to celebrate either, unless with the concomitants of a roaring fire, and a thermometer some degrees below Zero. Secondly, Tradesmen really ought not to send in their bills at this season. tice adds, no doubt, to the joviality of their Christmas firesides, but in Christian charity they ought to have some consideration for ours. Like the boys and the frogs, it may be sport to them, but it is death to us.

It is worthy of remark, that in most countries, all the traditionary associations that cling round the name of Christmas are essentially human. Its blazing fires scared away, from the first, all the supernatural brood of night; and latterly, its religious associations-themselves of too solemn and elevated a nature to mix freely with the frolicsome spirit of the season-rejected, as inconsistent, the apish and fantastic mythology of man's imagination. Germany alone makes a partial exception to this rule. That nation carries its peculiar homely and hearty character even into its conceptions of the most awful solemnities of religion, and speaks of God in a style of domestic love, that would be blasphemy in any other people. This remark is made, lest the reader should be startled when he is informed, that Christmas-boxes in Germany are all presented anonymously, and as if they were a special gift from the "Christ-child."

In Germany, for some time before Christmas-day, every member of a large family is busy preparing the gifts he intends to bestow; but at stolen moments, apart, and

in dead secrecy. On Christmas-morning, the various stores are stealthily put into the hands of a common confident, whose business it is to arrange them in a room, to which, for that day, no person has access but herself. I can never forget the Christmas of the year 1824, on which I first witnessed this solemnity. There were a great number of children in the family. It was, of course, a holiday, but, in the intense expectation of the evening, they could not play. Even our walk at noon, which we usually took in a body, was dull, and without its usual accompaniment of practical jokes. Evening came at last. The sealed chainber was the farthest off of a long suite of

The prac

AUGHTEEN HUNDER AN' TWANTY-NINE,

By the Ettrick Shepherd.

O AUGHTEEN Hunder and Twanty-Nine!
Thy skaith is past retrievin',-
I'm glad to see that back o' thine

Out ower the wast gaun skrievin';
Thou plishy-plashy, cauldrife quean,
Bane o' the farmer's biggin,
Deil that your tail war rumpit clean,

Braw curlin' ower your riggin!

In pain we bleer'd our een at morn,
Glowrin' for sunshine weather,-
Down cam' the burns, in fury borne,
Winds, rains, an' a' thegither;
The ewes stood hurklin' on the hill,

The lambs aneath them bowin',
The croonin' kie misca'd the bill,

Whene'er he cam' a-wooin'.

Our houms grew lather ankle deep,

Our neeps a' bleach'd an' blacken'd;
Our corn laid down its head to sleep,
An' never mair awaken'd;
Then took the gee our hopes o' thee,
Nae profit mair could wait us;
Nought we could do wi' tarry woo,
But set our yam potatoes.

• Des Christkindchen Baum.

Frae Paisley town to Spitalfiel's
Was mony a hungry meetin';
An' even the painfu' Galashiels
Fell down afore thee greetin';

The very bairnies changed their cheer,
An' lookit gash an' grievin';
Thou dour, unsonsy, Papish year,
Thy skaith is past retrievin'!

O, thy warst crime is yet to name,

An' laith am I to say it,

For thou hast brought our land to shame,
An' ruin'd those who sway it;
'Gainst all experience tried an' good,
Sin' mankind's first creation,
Thou'st open'd a devouring flood
To overwhelm the nation.

Now let the cocks o' Calvin craw,
Their kaims are croppit sairly;
An' Luther's rhamers to the wa'

Hae got their backs set fairly;
Faith thou hast gien them baith a fa',
For a' their blausts an' barming,
And left them caulder coal to blaw

Than thou hast done the farming.
Fareweel, thou auld sneckdrawin' jade!
The queen o' priests an' prosers;
Where ane by thee has profit made,
A thousand hae been losers;
But yet I owe thee farewell meet,

For gift whilk nane could marrow,
For thou hast brought an angel sweet
Unto the Braes o' Yarrow.

Mount Benger, December 25, 1829.

ENGLAND AT THE CLOSE OF 1829.
By William Weir.

THERE'S muttering on the quarter-deck,
And railing at the bow;
There's mutiny aboard us, boys,

Ere the storm has ceased to blow.

The coxswain swears the jury-mast

Must not be cut away; The boatswain blasts his eyes, and fain Would save yon old back-stay.

A scud is gathering o'er the waves,

The sky looks thick and brown; And they all prate on, nor lend a hand, Though the gallant ship go down.

While steering through a laughing tide,
Ne'er heed an empty word;

But if they growl when the tempest raves,
Then heave them overboard.

We've smote the foremost man of earth,
And rode through wintry seas;
God cannot will that we should sink
In but a passing breeze.

When Europe, leagued against us, came,
We broke through their array;
And dash'd their reeling barks aside,
As they were ocean's spray.

In vain did Holland's arrows fly,

And France's eagles soar;

The Russian bear might suck his paws, For he could do no more!

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THE LEGEND OF THE RIVAL GIANTS-AN IRISH TRADITION.

By Robert Carruthers, Editor of the Inverness Courier.

WESTWARD of the high hills near the Bay of Dundalk, and skirting the woods of Ravensdale, a stream winds onward to the sea, its banks garnished with villas, cottages, mills, and bleaching-greens-a fair and fragrant landscape that like a garden smiles, and scents the seas, -its cultured beauty blending with the wilder graces and luxuriance of the soil. By the side of this romantic stream, one fine, cloudless afternoon in August, a delicate youth and female, neither of whom appeared to have seen twenty summers, were wandering in silence, their eyes frequently turned to each other with alternate glances of youthful vivacity and half-subdued tenderness. Stopping at one of the loops or bends of the river where a narrow stream is drawn off for the supply of a distant mill,-"Methinks," said the young lady, "so gallant a youth as Martin O'Connor might step to the assistance of a poor damsel, with only this rude plank interposed between her and the waters.""-" Even so, fair maiden," rejoined the youth, stepping to her side, "let us clear this dangerous pass," and snatching up his fair companion in his arms, he placed her in safety on the other side of the rustic bridge.

"Know ye not," resumed the lady, "that we are now in the land of faery? This sheltered woodland, where the verdure is marked with rings of fresh and vivid green, has for ages immemorial been the haunt of the aerial visitants of earth, and many a tale is told of the gentle sprites that print the greensward on the long, dewy, moonlight evenings of summer. Yonder ruined convent, too, has its legendary story. There dwelt, in other times, a holy man, now blessed and canonized, whose sole employment it was to tend the poor, and speed their souls to heaven. Over this fountain, in whose basin he would stand barefoot at sunrise, and repeat his psalter, his spirit, it is said, still hovers, and pours the balm of comfort into the souls of weary pilgrims."

"Rosa," replied Martin, "seest thou yonder high hill -the hill of Foughart, with its circular mount, fallen church, and sunken graves?-there, under a nameless stone, sleep the ashes of a hero-of the hot and valorous Edward Bruce. He died in battle, his friends lying in heaps around him, and his royal brother's ships, too late to save, riding proudly in the bay. One hour more, and they would have gained the beach-another struggle, and the day might have been won. Yet I would not, Rosa, exchange the dying thoughts of this warrior, though full of sorrow and despair, for the godly fame of the fairest priest that e'er told beads in monastery, or shrived the passing soul."

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"A hero, a very hero!" rejoined the young lady, laughing, a Nial of the Nine Hostages! Thou shouldst have been a soldier, Martin. But

'Peace has its victories no less than war;'

and surely he who communes with the spirit of God in these calm solitudes-who tends the sick and destitute, and takes the sting from death, is worthy the blessing of

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"The young and beautiful," interrupted the youth "Thou art ever right, Rosa. One touch of truth and n ture dissolves the illusions of romance, as the blessed su shine dispels the gloom and phantoms of the night."

"Shall I go on with my description?" said the lady; "for I see the grave of Cucullin the giant, and in yonder chasm his mighty rival, Paramore Mac Shaudeen, threw the poison"

"Which Cucullin swallowed as he stooped to drink at the waterfall," added Martin. "I fancy I know it all. But let us hasten to the spot, for our traditional storytellers, like the monks of old, have a taste for the picturesque."

The scene of the giant's death is, indeed, a wild romantic spot. A ledge of craggy rocks extends across the river, intercepting its progress, and forming above a deep, dark, waveless pool

"The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below"from which the waters are precipitated in one unbroken sheet, white and flowing as the tail of an Arabian steed. A tremendous cavity, hollowed out of the dark-grey rock, with several smaller cells or receptacles of the same rugged material, receive the agitated element below, whence it again rises to the surface of the stream, a few yards distant from the fall, bubbling like a boiling cauldron. The outhanging banks are covered with light feathery birches and shrubs, waving in all the rank luxuriance of nature, their thin tops bending and dipping in the stream, and forming a delicious shady retreat for the yellow-speckled trout and salmon, which are seen darting above the glassy surface of the pool.

that somebody was in the bed, he asked who was there. 'Only my youngest child, the blue-eyed urchin that the fairies ran away with last holly-eve,' replied Molchy. 'Ha,' said Cucullin, he is a fine tearing boy; has he got any teeth?' and he put his hand under the blankets. Paramore getting his finger in his mouth, almost bit off the top of it, when Cucullin roared out, ‘If your men be as strong in the jaws as your children, the devil himself cannot come near them!'

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'Molchy then handed him a large cake of bread with the iron girdle baked inside of it, which when Cucullin discovered, he asked what it was put there for. My husband,' says the wife, 'always has his bread prepared so, as he must have something solider than common bread for his meals.' Cucullin, not to be behind his rival, made a shift to eat it up, when Molchy said, I wish my hus band was at home, for the wind blows straight against the house.'

'What would he do, if he were at home?' said Cucullin.

'O,' replied the cunning wife, he would just put his arms round the house, and lifting it up, turn the back to the wind!'

'Well,' said Cucullin, I'll try what I can do;' and he turned round the whole house, with Paramore and Molchy and all.”

"No, no, Judith," interrupted her auditors; "that will never do; why, it is worse than the cake and the girdle."

"Now," said Rosa, "that we have gazed our fill upon the scene, shall I tell thee the legend which our wonder- "Smile on, my jewels, smile on," rejoined the old woloving peasantry relate of the rival giants? But stop-man; "but it's all true. The old times were'nt like I see a better chronicler approach, for yonder comes old these, bad luck to them, when a body might as well be Judith, whose tales and predictions are, among her com- exported to the bosom of Africa. But you'll see what peers, precious as the Sibylline leaves." became of him. Well, the giant then enquired the way to the stock-farm, but instead of directing him right, the wife told him to go across the mountains next Johnsburgh, and enquire on the other side. As soon as he was gone, Paramore started up, and taking with him a big knife, a bag of salt, and a box of poison-the deadliest in Christendom-he set off by a near way for the farm. He soon met with the great giant.

As she spoke, the village prophetess, a grey-haired, withered beldam, apparelled in a tattered red cloak, under the hood of which her keen black eyes shot forth significant glances, joined the youthful pair, and accosted them in a mingled strain of courtesy and freedom. Acquainting the aged dame with the subject of their discourse, Judith agreed to satisfy their curiosity, though not until, like the high-born lady in Marmion, she had parleyed with yea and nay," and coquetted as if loath to exhibit before her wondering and admiring auditors.

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Who are you?' asked Cucullin.

I am a herd that minds the cattle of my master, the mighty Paramore Mac Shaudeen.'

Where is your master?'

He is out behind the mountains, a great way off, hunting with the giants that live on the other side.' What does he get for dinner when he hunts hereabouts?'

'O, he just takes hold of a bullock, and after slaying it, he kindles a fire and roasts it, eating one half himself, and giving the other half to his huntsmen and herds.'

"Once upon a time," began the crone, in the true Milesian story-telling strain—“ once upon a time, many hundred years ago, when all this country round was nothing but grazing land, and the people that lived along the banks of this river subsisted by feeding cattle, and selling them to the upper farmers and squires, there lived a great giant called Paramore Mac Shaudeen, whose house was on the top of Foughart Hill yonder, where you see the walls of the old church. Well, Paramore was the strongest man 'Then I shall do the same,' said Cucullin, and he rushed in all the country; he could take ten men by the scruff forward, and caught hold of a young bullock. Paramore of the neck, just as you could take a rat-barring your got hold of one of the horns, as if striving to prevent him; presence, Miss Rosa-and shake their heads together. He and Cucullin pulling at the other, the poor beast was soon conquered all the people round, and took their cattle, keep-rent asunder. They then kindled a fire with the branches ing the owners as herds to tend them. In this way he lived for a long time, until one Cucullin, another great giant that lived in the south country, heard of our Paramore, and came to fight him. Now, before George, my young lady, this Cucullin was the greatest man in Christendom, for when he fell asleep, it took ten men to wake Paramore having heard that Cucullin was coming, laid his schemes to kill him if he could, and sent all his herds out behind the mountains, that they might be out of the way. When he saw the great giant coming, he ran into the house, and told his wife how to act. He then went and lay down in his bed, covering himself up with the blankets. In came Cucullin, like the side of a hill, and asked, with a voice like a war-trumpet, if Paramore MacShaudeen the giant was at home. No,' said Paramore's wife, he is gone to the plain where the cattle are grazing; but come in, and get some refreshment.' He crept into the house on his hands and knees, and seeing

him.

6

of a tree which they pulled down, and Cucullin ate the half, Paramore giving him plenty of salt. Cucullin then leapt from one mountain to the other and back again, several times, by way of exercise after dinner, when he felt very dry and wished to drink. He asked Paramore what his master did when he was dry. O,' said the other, he goes down to the river to a place which I shall show you, and drinks of the stream. Down they went to this sweet wild fall, where I have stood many a time and oft, casting fortunes for the poor folks; more by token. I must see Pether Beartha (toothless Peter) in his cot over yonder; for Peter has been canted up by the squire for his rent, and knows not how to turn himself. Here,' said the sly Paramore, 'my master stoops down and opens his mouth across the fall, letting not a drop pass till he is quenched; and I have heard him say, there is not another man in Ireland could do the like. Ay,' said Cucullin, but you may tell him there is;' and so saying, he laid

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