ready. Nelly was sitting by the fire, looking beautiful, though fearfully emaciated.

"What way d'ye feel the night?" asked Bet, after a long survey of her pale features.

"I feel as if I was dead, Mrs. Fagan."

ແ Lord be good to us! How's that, an' you sittin' there alive enough?”

"I feel as if I was dead, Bet Fagan, an' as if God had cursed me so that I was condemned to walk the earth, a spirit that nobody wanted to see.'

"It's a sin to talk that wild way, agra," said Bet, looking a little alarmed. Nelly certainly looked rather spectral; but there was the light of an unquenchable pride burning still in her eye.

The next morning was Saturday, a wild, dreary day, and Bet went early to Father M'Cabe to give him Peter Fogarty's message. The priest was a good-natured man, and he lost no time in repairing, in his gig, to Clonmel. Mrs. Fagan saw him off with great satisfaction, and yet, when he was gone, a dull misgiving crossed her mind that Fogarty might, possibly, make matters worse than ever by stating falsehoods in his dying confession.

"Musha, he was always full of thricks and divilment," she muttered as she went home; "an' he no more cared for priest nor mass than the haythen."

This reflection induced Bet to take a gloomy view of affairs for the remainder of the day; and she was glad that she had not given Nelly any rea

son to hope. She felt very uneasy, indeed; and when she heard the wellknown rattle of the priest's gig returning, she ran out in the dusky evening to hear the worst at once.

"Well, yer riverence, what news have you for me?" she asked, as Father M'Cabe alighted at his own house.

"You must'nt be impatient, Bet," replied his reverence, slowly and calmly; "whatever I have to say, you can't hear it till to-morrow."

"Oh, musha, Father John, let me hear it this minnit," entreated the widow, in an agony of suspense.

'To-morrow, Bet-to-morrow," repeated the priest.

"Oh, it's no good; it's no good!" moaned the woman, striking her hands together. Sure, if it was, you'd spake it out at wonst."

"You must bear all things patiently," rejoined Father M'Cabe, gravely.

"Oh, sorra bit o' patience ever I had, your riverence," said Bet, with frankness. "If you'd tell me at wonst what news you have, I'd sleep sound the night."

"To-morrow I will-not till then." "To-morrow's Sunday, an' sure there'll be three masses an' a sermon, an' it 'ill be all hours afore I can see yer riverence to spake to."

"Never mind that. Come to mass, just as you do every Sunday, and don't be thinking of any thing but your prayers," replied Father John, as he unrelentingly entered his house and closed the door.

THE Sunday broke over the world bright and cloudless, and from far and near the peasants were flocking to Father M'Cabe's chapel. Bet Fagan, as usual, got ready for twelve o'clock mass; and as she left the house she recommended Nelly to the attention of old Norry Croon. The chapel was very much crowded that day. Bet found some difficulty in pushing her way through the mass of people that thronged the building. The Dillons were there, praying devoutly, and sprinkling themselves well with holy water; while Denis Ryan could be seen among the crowd busy with his missal. Nobody was eventually more

wrapt in devotion than the widow herself. She swayed herself backwards and forwards in a perfect agony of piety, and a murmur like the swell of the ocean occasionally arose through the building as the enthusiasm of the people waxed greater and greater. At length the sermon commenced. Everybody was attentive. A pin might have been heard dropping, so still was the congregation. At the conclusion of the discourse, Father M'Cabe, according to custom, entered into some secular affairs of the parish; asked why Jack Molloy hadn't brought in his harvest dues months ago, like everybody else; threatened

to denounce any man that had been concerned in cutting off Tim Brogan's cow's tail, and painting his horse's skin; and declared his intention of horse-whipping whoever it was that nailed Mary Hannegan's three fine hens to her own door. The worthy pastor kept his most remarkable piece of information till the last, summing up all by an astounding disclosure"And now, good people," said he, as he turned his face full round to the congregation, "I'm going to tell you something that'll astonish and gratify you all; and it's no less than that I have it in my power to declare to you this blessed day that Pat Dillon's daughter, Nelly, is as innocent as the unborn child. I heard the confession from Peter Fogarty's own lips, in Clonmel gaol, yesterday; and it was his wish that I'd tell it before you all this day."

Here followed, amid the breathless silence of the hearers, a brief, but correct, account of events which the reader is already acquainted with; and when Father John ceased to speak, a cheer burst from the crowd that shook the chapel windows, and made the image of the Virgin over the altar sway from side to side perceptibly. A rush was made from the building without delay; and Bet Fagan, being near the door, got out first, and with the speed of lightning rushed to her own house, where she communicated to Nelly the glad tidings she had heard, and which were now known to everybody, far and near, in the parish. On being made acquainted with this intelligence, Nelly slowly arose from her bed, where she had been reclining. A bright flush burned on her cheek, a bright light flashed in her eye; but speech seemed to fail her, for she uttered no word.

"Oh, thin, it's meself's the glad woman this day!" exclaimed Bet, clapping her hands, and swaying her large head to and fro. Norry Croon now confronted her, with her hands in her sides, and her withered face agitated in every feature

"Didn't I tell you, Bet Fagan, that I never believed a word agin' Nelly Dillon. Didn't I say she wasn't the one to disgrace her people?"

"Ye did, Norry, ye did," murmured the widow, who was now fairly shedding tears of thankfulness.

A mighty surging sound was now heard without, and presently the doorway was blocked up by figures all eager to enter the house. Pat Dillon, with his wife and daughter, Kitty, were given precedence, of course, and rushing in, they frantically embraced Nelly, who stood upright in the middle of the floor.

"Stand back, all o' ye!" said Mrs. Fagan, as she motioned to the crowd outside to keep off, and, obeying her commands, the people moved from the door, leaving Nelly's relatives to speak to her in peace.

Nelly, my own jewel, you'll come back to your poor father wonst more!" cried Dillon, triumphantly.

"An' it's Dinny Ryan's the proud man this day!" exclaimed the mother, weeping. Kitty, unable to utter a word, hung upon her sister's neck, shedding tears. Nelly made no reply to any expression of endearment, and returned no caress. When Denis Ryan rushed joyously into the house, and prepared to seize her hand with enthusiasm, the girl drew back proudly, and, in a voice that thrilled through the nerves of her hearers, spoke out at last—

Keep back, Denis Ryan! keep back all o' ye! You're nothin' to me, an' I'm nothin' to ye!"

66

Nelly, dear Nelly!" said Bet Fagan, rebukingly.

Ay, nothin to me," repeated Nelly, with flashing eyes, while the proud dilatation of her beautifully formed nostrils lent an expression of wondrous power to her countenance. A painter might have chosen her as a personification of proud woman's indignation-"I'm nothin' to one o' ye!"

"Yis, yis," said Dillon, soothingly; "you're the same to me you ever were. You're me own pet child again!"

But you're not the same to me," replied Nelly, bitterly.

66

'I am! I am, me poor child," continued Dillon; an' you're father's house is there ready to recaive you this minnit: so you had best come home at wonst.'

"Never! cried the girl, vehemently. "Never will I cross the threshold of the door that shut me out in the dark night. No, Pat Dillon; I'm your daughter no longer. I've no father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother!

I haven't one to love me but the man that'll be hung in the front of Clonmel gaol the day after to-morrow!"

"Nelly, acushla!" murmured Bet Fagan, reproachfully.

You were kind to me, Bet Fagan!" said Nelly, taking her hand; "an' you, Norry Croon, knew me betther than my own people; you trusted me more than the man that wanted me for his wife; but still there wasn't one o' ye loved and trusted me like Pety Fogarty. Wid all his crimes on his head, an' great a wrong as he done me, an' great sorrow as he gave my heart, I'd marry him this blessed day, in Father M'Cabe's chapel, if he was here, free out of prison!'

The neighbours had by this time gathered into the house, and stood looking on aghast. Whispers ran round to the effect that Nelly must have grown light in her head; but some there were that thought she "sarved her people right."

"You'll come home this minnit!" cried Pat Dillon, whose anger was now roused, and he advanced to take his daughter's arm in a firm grasp.

66

Never, never!" exclaimed Nelly, shaking his hand off with wild eagerness. "If there wasn't another roof to shelter me in the world, I'd perish rather than put a foot inside your house! I loved you wonst, father; I loved you so well that I broke my own heart for you! I did what I could to forget the boy that was as dear to me as my own life for many a long year, just because you didn't like him; and I strove to like another till I did like him; and I gave my promise to marry him, and God sees it was a promise I'd have kept: but I'm sorry to the heart now that ever I did the like, for the love I threw away was the only true love among ye all! Ay, Pety Fogarty! murderer, robber, whatever you are, I'd marry you this minnit if you were here to take me! But we'll be together soon enough!"

Fiercely wroth, Dillon made another rush towards the excited girl, but many hands held him back.

"You'll not lay a finger on her!" shouted the voice of Bet Fagan. "Ye desarve this, every one o' ye, for yez were like Turks to her, an' ye know it!"

Mrs. Dillon looked nearly as stern

as her husband; and her sons, who were now entering, would have almost torn their sister limb from limb, so great was their indignation, had not the crowd forced them out again. While much bustle ensued, Nelly's strength became exhausted, and seeing her sway to and fro, as she stood in the centre of the floor, Bet Fagan rushed to catch her in her arms. The girl's head dropped heavily on her shoulder, and seeing the expression of her features, Norry Croon shrieked out

"She's dyin', she's dyin'; lave the house every one o' ye!"

The crowd fell back as Norry waved her hand to them, but the Dillons did not move. Bet laid Nelly on the bed, and Mrs. Dillon, now overcome with a mother's feelings, ran forward to her; but gathering up all her strength, the girl pushed the unfortunate woman away from her with scorn and indignation.

Pat Dillon at length burst into tears, and wrung his hands despairingly.

Nelly, Nelly!" he exclaimed wildly, "won't ye look on yer own father, an' say ye forgive him?”

Fixed and glazed, the daughter's eyes were fastened on vacancy: the things of this world had vanished from their sight for ever: the lifeblood was already growing stagnant in the veins.

66

"She's dead," whispered Norry Croon, bending over her; the breath's gone."

A wild cry, like the shriek of some forest beast-discordant, ferocious, despairing-rang through the room; and rushing towards the bed, Pat Dillon seized the senseless form of his child in his arms, and bore it from the house in a frenzy fearful to behold. The women screamed and ran after him; but with the speed of madness, he gained his own house ere they could stop him. Flinging the corpse on a bed in the kitchen, he exclaimed

"She'll not be waked a night out o' her father's house, any how," and then burst into a hideous peal of laughter.

Bet remembered his own words, spoken the morning after Nelly's disappearance, that she should never cross his threshold alive again. It was her duty to lay out the dead

body, and very mournfully she did it. Never had she dressed out a fairer corpse. The wake that night in the Dillons' house was a strange one. The neighbours from far and near had gathered to it-all except Denis Ryan; and though there were pipes and tobacco in abundance, and plenty of whiskey, there was little merriment. One alone of those present joked and laughed with a wild revelry that struck horror into the hearts of the rest. This was the father of her who lay lifeless before their eyes. The light of reason had vanished for ever from Pat Dillon's mind; and when his child's corpse was lowered into its last earthly resting place upon the same day that witnessed the execution and burial of Peter Fogarty, he clapped his hands, uttering unearthly shouts of triumph. From that time he was a confirmed

maniac, gradually sinking into idiocy. His family became scattered: the sons departed to America and Australia; his wife, and daughter Kitty, did not survive their misfortunes very long; and Pat became a miserable object, wandering from town to town, generally attired in a cast-off soldier's uniform. He was soon well known at Thurles, Clonmel, and Cashel; and till his hair was gray, and his form bent with age, he continued to live a poor idiot. His farm passed into other hands. The walls of the house are black and old now, reader, but they stand still; and though Pat is long dead, his unhappy story, and the melancholy fate of his favourite child, is still spoken of in the neighbourhood, though Bet Fagan and Norry Croon, like many of their contemporaries, have been gathered to their eternal dwellings.

OUR purpose in dealing with the clever fiction before us is to adopt for the nonce the profession of the Delphic priestess, and from the elevation of our critical tripod aim at a lower kind of divination respecting the whereabouts and whatabouts of the author. Certain forms of vaticination, very influential and much more pretentious, in their day, we advisedly abjure the whole family, for instance, that end in mancy, from arithmomancy, as old as Pythagoras, down to rhabomancy, which, in a very prosaic method, is practised in our grammar schools to the present day, with unquestionably successful issues in the detection of dullard and dunce. The gross impiety and palpable fraudulence of modern Spirit-rapping and Medium-manifestations render that mode of ascertaining the unascertainable out of the question, however great may be our curiosity to plumb the Dead Sea of our author's pseudonyme. From such a "vasty deep" as he abides in we would fain call the spirits to answer our questioning anent

"SWARRA

the "local habitation,' TON," and the “name” THOMAS, and and the social grade, ARMIGER, of the historian of The Noble Traytour; yet to further our quest would we not violate the meanest of the morals, nor sacrifice the very cheapest virtue to win indubitable success. Friar Bacon's brazen head could not lure us into demolition of the murus aheneus of an unaccusing conscience; nor gipsy promise of a golden future, followed by a more than gipsy performance, induce us to do evil that good may come; so that our projected divination resolves itself, after all, into a simple figure of speech, representing our earnest desire and our fixed intent to learn, if learn we may, by a careful scanning of the work before us, somewhat more of the author than mere surface-skimmers of the tale could gather.

Where we have data, we shall conclude; where we have only surmises, we shall guess. Yet, as those who have read the fascinating tale of Voltaire will readily believe, a second

1857.

Zadig could put together the disjecta membra of that shrewd Arab's adventures as deftly as the first. Given the apple and given the Newton, and the problem of gravitation is solved.

"The Huron is certain of his prey from tracks upon the grass;

And shrewdness, guessing out the hint, followeth on the trail."

Without professing the indomitable perseverance of the Indian, intent on love or revenge, or promising our readers such full satisfaction as would arise from a direct ecce homo style of disclosure, we nevertheless can fancy ourselves in possession of such a reflection of the author's intellectual features in the work under review, that we can cunningly guess at "the manner of man" our Swarraton Armiger must be. We shall not say with Adolphus, "This must be Sir Walter Scott," nor with the omnivorous Maginn, "The Doctor is Southey;" for, as an author, we take it, we never encountered Thomas the Gentleman before; but we shall say, looking "at this picture and at that," the author's unconscious self-delineation, and our conjectural presentiment of the same -the author must be some such person as we opine.

A modern has avouched the pleasantness of "floating on a sea of speculation," a dictum in the truth of which we fully acquiesce, inasmuch as from the earliest days we have been rarely addicted to such imaginative navigation. Literal navigation has been our weakness no less, from the wash-tub or the fishing pond to "the sea, the sea, the glorious sea," with its graceful yacht and colossal three-decker from the Catamaran of Coromandel to the light canoe of the American rapids. And the literal has found its Behmen-like correspondence in the spiritual: for we cannot recall the time when fancy did not spread our sails for the aforesaid voyage on the sea of speculation, nor the mode of transit which we have not adopted to speed our way through the liquid realms of thought. The Argo of ancient Greece, the trireme of irresistible Rome, the coracle of the Celt, the Armada of Spain, the galliot of the Mediterranean, the merchant brig of Crusoe, the junk of China, and the prao of Siam, not to omit the wonderworking steamship, which dominates

the deep more proudly than the car of Neptune, have all in their turn conveyed the Cæsar and his fortunes of our thoughts "off, off and away" into distant regions and unknown solitudes, on airy speculation bent. Whither our present voyage has been made, and with what success, the sequel must show.

The title-page of our "Chronicle," which records the tale of Essex' misadventures in the time of Queen Elizabeth, presents a pretty heraldic device, which suggests to us something more than a mere love for the art of blazon on the part of either author or publisher. There is something in the concatenation of escutcheons at the head of the work besides a desire for a taking frontispiece on the part of the respectable firm who issued the work, or the fancy of an amateur.

Conjecture, even probability, is many degrees short of certainty, on which account we shall not deliver our judgment on this part of the case in dogmatic terms, but will take the liberty of hinting our opinion, that he who can read these devices aright will have got hold of the clue which commands the labyrinth we are now seeking to thread. Plantagenet contributes his shield; Devereux, Claydon, Beronshaw, Cheney, and Cobbe, theirs: and "thereby hangs a tail." The author may have designed to hint that he is of gentle, nay, royal, extraction, a few centuries back, and that some of the most noble blood of England circulates in his veins, on the evidence of indisputable family parchments, and the records of the Herald's office. But where the evidence is susceptible of at least one other interpretation, we have too great respect for the modesty of true science to be positive in our deliverance, and will leave the matter on that debateable ground where either conclusion will find its adequate premise. In furtherance, however, of the solution of the difficulty, we shall add a sentence of a dialogue between Sir Francis Drake, returned from his first Spanish-American expedition, and William Camden, the antiquarian, the latter asking

"And did'st sail? when?'

"Twas i' the beginning of winter, now some nine years agone. In the Pelican and the Swan, the Mary gold and the Christopher.'