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debate; and Maurice was more than astonished when, || are matters of song and story, but “the spree" engaged in the evening, about the hour of Terry's visit, the Maurice and Terry's attention for the rest of the day, bishop's carriage drove up to the door, and his master- | There was nothing like the routine of ordinary life in as it seemed, by appointment-hastily arranged his toilet, Dungannon ; and, after seeing and hearing all that came and stepped in, telling him not to sit up as he had a key | within the scope of their ideas, Terry, in right of his Maurice had nothing to do that night, and he sat by the wealthier station, treated Maurice to some refreshment at hearth wondering and surmising, till all the legends he a public-house. They were remarkably sober young men had ever heard came crowding back on his memory; and in those somewhat intemperate times, but the night hul he rose and left the solitary house for that of his father. | fallen before their last glass was discussed; and Terry It, like the homes of most country tailors, was an emporium telling Maurice that the bishop had allowed him to spend of news and politics; but the gossips had long dispersed, that night with his parents, they set out together for and Maurice been some hours in bed, before his master's || Castlecaulfield. return. Day after day, and night after night, thus passed. The night was clear and breezy. Maurice and Terry Duly as the winter twilight closed, that carriage arrived, walked on, canvassing the scenes of the day with several and Bernard departed. Ile returned sometimes earlier, of their acquaintances, who were also hastening home; and sometimes later, but always looked weary and troubled but one after another turned off at lanes and bye-ways, in the morning; and though he regularly attended his till they were left alone at a part of the road where, accordwonted duties, seemed, as his pupils afterwards remem- | ing to tradition, anciently stood a watch tower of the bered, at times unaccountably absent.

O'Neills. Maurice could elicit no explanation of these strange pro- “ Maurice," said Terry, whose heart, under the influence ceedings either by curious inquiry or vigilant observation; of that last glass, seemed inclined to relieve itself of a burbut that the bishop still remained at the principal inn of densome secret ; “ Maurice, hive ye any notion what makes Dungannon, and had particular business to transact with yer masther an' the bishop so thick? It must be a quare Bernard every evening, in its great oak parlour.

business they hive on hands every night in that oak parAt length the day of so much interest and anxiety | lour, as quiet as mice. Goodness be about us, but from arrived. Never had Dungannon seen such military pagean- | observations I made through the key-hole, it crasses me try, and such eager crowds. From an early hour of that that they're readin' that ould book.” dim winter day, the streets were lined with men of all ranks “ Oh murther! do ye think so?” rejoined Maurice. and ages, in the dashing uniform of the Volunteers, while “Bit that wis the bad larnin Masther Barney got in France, armed battalions, with music and banners, marched in though it made him the cliverist man in Irelan', as all the from the rural districts. The windows, the doors, and country knows, by thim gran' letters he wrote about Owen even the roofs of the houses, were thronged with spectators; Roe.” and every space unoccupied by the armed men was crowded “Are you speaking to me, gentlemen,” said a tall with the peasantry, who had poured in from ten miles man, dressed in a long dark cloak and singularly-shaped round to see the Delegation, for every order of Ireland had cap, who, at that moment, stepped from behind a broken hope in the Volunteers.

wall on the roadside. The Delegates marched two and two, fully armed, “God bliss us—no!" answered Maurice, while Terry through a living lane in that dense multitude, to their stood in amazement. meeting-house--as poor and plain an edifice as ever Dis- “ You needn't bless yourself, young man, as you're not senters worshipped in. Hundreds of their political friends in the chapel,” rejoined the stranger, sharply; "I thought and associates closed the long procession ; and in the shouts you mentioned my name.” that greeted them as they passed, were heard names that “We hivn't the plisure of knowin' ye, sir," sail have become famous in history through widely different Maurice. memories. Flood, by whose war with Grattan his party was “Oh; I often walk here, looking after some friends of to fall–Curran, whose after eloquence was mighty against mine." triumphant and unscrupulous power-Robert Stewart, “ But ye don't live here?” said Maurice, getting whom they were to call Lord Castlereagh–Edward Fitz- || frightened—he knew not why, but still curious. gerald ; Theobald Wolfe Tone—but the loudest acclama- “Not now,” said the stranger, as he walked slowly tion was raised for the liberal and most popular Bishop of past ; "I have been a long time at Cavan. Its a book Derry.

that brings me here. Good night.” • Why don't you cheer?” said a man behind, laying a “Good night,” said Maurice; but the words were heavy hand on the shoulder of Maurice Flynn, as he stood finished with a gasp; for he and Terry, at the same infast wedged in a crowd of his own order.

stant, observed that the figure, which had stepped into “Sorra bit I'll cheer,” responded he, casting an upward the broad moonlight, suddenly disappeared ; and buth stood look of recognition at the speaker, who was none other terror-struck on the high-road. than Terrence O'Neill. “ There's screechin enough for The sound of approaching steps at last recalled them, lim, am thinkin', widout me?"

and the next moment they were joined by Bernard hin“Where's yer master, Maurice ?” inquired Terry, in a self. Terry first inquired if he had met any one, but lower tone.

Bernard assured them he had not; and his brother made “ Where wid he be, bit in the church wid all the gen- | an entreating sign to Maurice not to mention what had tlemin, an' tould me not to wait for him, bekase he wud occurred. stay an' hear out the delegation. Delegation on them; its Bernard seemed at once worn out and engrossed with jist wars and murther 'ill be the ind on it; but this is a that day's proceedings. IIe spoke little, but that little brave spree, anyhow!” said Maurice, gazing round him. was cheerful ; and when he and Maurice reached home,

The resolutions passed at that meeting, and its results, something like their old familiarity seemed restored. The

on,

elbow.

nights were still long; Bernard had read a newspaper || people within, and the two spies had just time to take refuge aloud for Maurice's benefit, told him all that had oc- behind some trees that grew, as Terry said, “convaniant," carred at the meeting, and sat down to write a letter, when out of the principal door walked the bishop and when the well-known carriage was again heard driving up | Bernard O'Neill, the former carrying a lantern of strange to the door.

form, and the latter a large oaken book. “ It's itself!" “Give me my greatcoat, Maurice,” said Bernard. whispered Terry, as he caught sight of the volume. But

" Yer coat, Master Barney! Its eleven o'clock !" cried | Bernard at once took his position beside the bishop, both Jaurice, determined to make a stand.

having their backs to the door, and began to read. "No matter, Maurice; I have an appointment this The tone was low and the words were Latin, but when night in Dungannon. Perhaps I won't be back till the reader paused, the bishop called aloud on some Latin morning. Don't be lonely, but go down to your father':;"name. Suuldenly there was heard within the church the and Bernard was stepping out.

movements of a crowded assembly. Then a voice in the "Oh, Master Barney,” cried Maurice, in whose mind act of delivering a continuous oration, which was intera great terror had overcome all minor ones, “ for the rupted by a wild cheer as if from thousands, and when it sake of her that's gone, listen to me, and don't go this ceased, a little man in ofiicial robes walked out, and passed night, for yer goin' to no good. I hive had a quare slowly before the bishop and Bernard. warnin',"'

“ That's Mr. Curran," said Terry, still whispering. "I can't help it,” said Bernard, sadly, “but it will be “I never saw him so gran'. Murther, but that must be the last time. Don't frighten yourself by staying alone the great meetin'intirely. Where lias he gone, do you in the house ;” and he jumped into the carriage, which think?" Maurice couldn't see. But again Bernard read, instantly drove away.

and at another pause the bishop called. As he spoke, Maurice obeyed the last injunction, though not in his there caine at once the peal of bugles and drums, followed master's meaning. “I'll sce what they're about," was by long rolls of musketry and rushing of squadrons in the his desperate resolution, as, seizing his hat and stick, he wild uproar of a battle, in the midst of which a man with harried to the cabin of the elder O'Neill.

torn, bloody clothes, and a ghastly face, rushed out, and “God save all here. Is Terry widin ?" he inquired, as was lost in the night. soon as the door was opened; for nothing could be seen “It's Lord Edward!" gasped Terry, but Bernard read through the dense tobacco smoke with which the aged and again the bishop called. Maurice and Terry pair filled the cabin, from their scats on each side of the could scarcely believe their ears, for they heard, as if close fire.

at hand, the roar of a stormy sea, followed by a confused " It's me that's lettin' ye in, sure," said Terry, at his murmur of steps and voices, and some one saying aloud,

“ The French are landed.” Suddenly all was still, and "Well thin, Masther Barney wants ye,” said Maurice, | then came the noise of bolts and bars driven home, and stammering with mere unusage to falsehood.

the hammering of men at work, as if upon a scaffold, while " Take a sate, Maurice Flym, an' tell us yir news,”' || out of the church walked a man in strange dark uniform, said the old man.

with a bloody razor in his hand. “ It's Mr. Tone! but, " Thank ye kindly, but I hivn’t time. Its a brave Jaurice, was it himself cut his throat?” “I didn't see place ye hive there—I wish ye good ov yir comforts,"? || that—but whisht!" said Mauriec. said Maurice, with the civility of his class.

Bernard read again, and the bishop called another * Ay, Maurice,” grumbled the old dame, "we have There was a sound heard like rustling robes and plenty, but sorra one his time to spake to the ould people. papers, and then a man walked out in a rich court dress ; They're all away doin' for themselves, an' Barney's too but they saw, by the bishop's lantern, that his hands were great. Blessin's on him! Good night, boys, an' Terry, | dripping with blood. dear, come back if ye can.”

“ What his that chap done? It's Mr. Robert Stewart, Once outside the door, a few words sufficed to explain too!” said Terry. what had occurred, and Maurice and Terry agreed to take “Work enough of the kind” said a voice close beside the road to Dungannon. It was now utterly deserted; them. Maurice thought he could hear the sound of the carriage “Who are you?" said Maurice, half aloud,

“ Hiro far ahead, but it was lost in the distance, and they hastened you been at that meetin'?" on without speaking, except that both repeated their rosa- · Yes," said the man; “ that book has gathered us ries in passing that broken wall. The streets of Dun- all here!” and at the same instant the pair recognised gannon were silent when they reached it, as those of a the stranger they had met at the broken wall. Thoughts country town are apt to be at midnight. The crowd and whose horrors they could never tell in after years passed pageant of the day were over, but again the sound of the over them, and uttering one mingled shout of “ God have carriage was heard. “We'll follow it, Maurice,” said mercy on us !” Maurice and Terry rushed from the Terry; and follow they did, though it led them half roundspot. the town, and close to the meeting-house where the con- That night the parish priest and apothecary were each course had been greatest in the morning, and the silence roused from their rest, to render professional assistance to was deepest now; but their cars were assailed on all sides two young men, who had fallen in at the still open door of by the steps of a coming crowd. “May be they're goin' a public-he

May be they're goin' a public-house in a lane leading to the Presbyterian church, to hould another Diligation. Be the piper, the meetin’- | in strong convulsions—as it was believed, from fright. house is lighted,” said Terry, and lighted it was, though It happened to be the house in which they had been that faintly,

evening, and the landlord at once recognised Maurice The gate of the yard, or green, which generally sur- Flynn and Terrence O'Neill. rounds such churches, stood open; there were evidently Before daylight, Maurice was so far recovered as to tell

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VOL. XVI.NO. CLXXXVI.

ably gone.

the priest all that they had seen ; but though Terry's || the precipitous banks of the Blackwater. Popular rumour physical strength returned, his intellect was irrecover- || also added, that the horses never could be tamed or har:

The young man never spoke a rational word | nessed again, and were shot one after another as utterly after, but lived many years in a state of harmless imbe- || vicious and unserviceable. cility.

It was stranger still that Maurice never would return The priest of Dungannon was a polished prudent man, to Bernard's house, but resumed his father's bench and and a zealous friend to the Volunteers. He tried to con- | business; and his former master, within the same week, vince Maurice that the whole was a hoax or a fancy, and resigned his situation and became private secretary to the strictly enjoined him not to publish it; the story was bishop. As the latter, from that period, gradually gave therefore partly suppressed. But the bishop's coachman up political agitation, and travelled from city to city on knew that his master had sent him to the inn, saying, he || the continent, till his death, these circumstances were bewould drive home himself from the house of Colonel lieved to indicate the knowledge of coming events, and the Jones, where he spent the evening-that he and Bernard curse of restlessness derived from that long-buried volume. O'Neill had arrived very late, and on foot, and that all Report said it was finally deposited in the library of the the servants had been sent in the morning to look after | Vatican; and some years after the bishop's decease, a the horses, which were heard and seen for miles through | tourist from the neighbourhood of Dungannon mentioned the country the night before, thundering over fields and that he had recognised Bernard O'Neill among the silent fences with the carriage, till it was broken to pieces on monks of Chartreuse,

THE LOST FRIEND.

What seek'st thou here? o'er treasure gone

A miser do'st thou bend?
I seek for something I have known-

The figure of a friend.

I seek a smile—the sun is bright

And lovely to the eye;
Bat sunbeams are but drops of light,

No wonder that they die.
I seek a voice--the voice of bird,

It makes the car rejoice,
But inward echo it ne'er stirred;

'Tis not a human voice,

His smile-by that I knew 'twas day

His voice heard in mine ear,
Sweeter than bells on new-year's day,

Rang in to me new-year.
He loved me as few else could love,

For few had grieved as he;
He loved me when I needed love,

Nor asked for sympathy.
And ask'st thou what I seek that's gone?

Why like a miser bend?
Thou ne'er canst know who hast not known
The figure of that friend.

Thomas BLACKBURNE.

VERSES WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS,

WIEN nature, rich in glory, shonc,

And spread her boundless treasure forth,
A minstrel, weary and alone,

Sat on a summit of the north.
It was the loved land of his sire;

Iu distant climes long had he heen,
And as he gazed he tuned his lyre

To sing the praises of the scene.
“Reclining on this mountain-top,

Where shades of cagle forms sweep past,
Where often springs the antelope,

And sea-birds, screaming, tune the blast,
I cannot now resist the power

That thrills with secret fire my soul,
While at this bless'd, enchanting hour,

I gaze enraptured on the whole.
“ 'Tis noonday, and the blazing sun

Has hush'd each echo to its rest;
For here no city sends its sound

Like thunder through the aching breast.
And all is mute, save where a rill

In pearly brightness springs below,
And every vale around is still,

Nor heard the voice of joy or woe.

“The fields beneath are waving green,

And check'd in many a varied form,
While clear, mëandering streams are seen,

That never knew the occan storm.
And on the heath-clad hills around,

The sheep and kine in shadow lie;
The far-off sea, without a sound,

Seems blending with the boundless sky.
“In distance, on the mountain sides,

A rural village sweetly lies ;
The curling smoke above it glides,

And fair its sacred spires arise.
Before it spreads a beauteous bay

With gallant barks upon its breast,
And in the dazzling sheen of day

It seems a picture-all at rest.
“Oh! when I cast my eyes inspired

On all the bliss around me spread,
I feel my expanding bosom fired,

And more to heaven than mankind wed.
The burnished sea sends forth its light,

Refracted from its dazzling breast,
While islands, scatter'd in their might,
Look glorious from their ocean-rest!"

ANDREW PALE,

RETIREMENT OF JENNY LIND. In the character of the English people there are s| Travel through France, through Germany, through general features scarcely recognised by foreign na- Switzerland, Italy, or Spain, and you will meet tions, or at times even by ourselves. Among these with infinitely less entertainment for the ear than is our love of music. Until lately the opinion ap- in England. We dare say there are those who pears to have been generally prevalent that what will turn up their noses at the bare idea ; but a ever leaning we might have towards poetry and nation's real taste for music may always be mearomanco, however we might shine in wild adven- sured by the number of barrel organs put in requiture, or display that irresistible energy which leads sition. All the grinders of tunes, all the retailers to conquest and dominion, we were little susceptible of stereotyped airs, all the small artists who vend of the pleasure which springs from listening to the harmony, as it were, by the ell, flock to this counconcord of sweet sounds. And this idea, it must try as to the best market in the world. In street be owned, arose and spread naturally enough. music, in street singing, we accordingly outdo all We are a reserved people, fond of conventionalities other nations, so that these islands may be compared and appearances, very much addicted to keep our to one vast cage out of which torrents of melody thoughts to ourselves, and above all things ashamed are perpetually gushing. to betray emotions before strangers. Elsewhere in The same remark precisely will apply to the the world the exhibition of passion and sentiment higher efforts of musical talents, so that, though is supposed to be a merit, and therefore people covet great singers may commence their career in other the reputation of being impressionable. There are countries, they incvitably verge ultimately towards advantages and disadvantages in this. It produces England, where they are supposed to reach the a willingness to recognise openly and frankly the summit of fame. The continent is only a sort of claims of art, but leads, at the same time, in those preliminary school. There the first crudo efforts who are really ignorant and unsusceptible, to a gross of the singer are made, and the separation takes affectation of superior taste to a ridiculously false place between mediocrity and genius. But when enthusiasm, and to those extravagancies of manner all that art, and study, and experience can effect and language which distinguish the shallow pre- has been accomplished, the artist turns towards tender from the man of real judgment and sensi- | England, where the brightest laurels are to be bility.

gathered ; after which there is nothing to be Most of the continental nations had, until lately, aspired to but repose, retirement, and the enjoylittle else to think of but amusement. Politics were ments of private life. interdicted to them by their governments, and, This, we are well aware, is not a popular opinion, where political investigations are forbidden, litera- but, if our readers will be at the pains to examino ture itself becomes worthless. Pleasure, therefore, and think for themselves, they will find it is a true of all kinds, became the sole object of life, and mu. Where was the scene of the greatest triumphs sie and tho drama were called in to fill up the in- of Catalani, Pasta, Sontag, Malibran, Grisi, Altervals of intrigue. If they produced no great boni, or Jenny Lind? Not in Paris, Berlin, or stateśmen, they could boast of the composers of Vienna, but London. No one can doubt this, besuccessful operas ; the place of politicians was sup- cause the facts of the case are on record. But if plied by singers ; and if the most execrable discord we wish to know the feeling which pervades Italy, prevailed in the state, they were certain to find a for example, we have only to mix there with the fall blaze of harmony in the theatre. All their young aspirants for fame, when we shall find that talk, consequently, turned upon what to them were every heart beats to be distinguished in Inghilterra, the great events of the day—the achievements of a to which they invariably look as the goal of all favourite cantatrice, the squabbles of managers, their efforts. We once remember conversing in the loves and friendships, the hatred and jealousies, | Tuscany with a beautiful singer who had never of occasionally, perhaps, the virtues and moral travelled further than Naples, and knew little or qualities of performers and singers.

nothing of the general character of the European In topics like these it is impossible for a free nations. But in her comparative obscurity all the people to take an equal degree of interest. It is great traditions of the musical world had reached no doubt perfectly true that art of all kinds has her, and she would dwell for hours on the brilliant flourished most in democracies, a truth which may || visions which floated before her when she thought appear to be inconsistent with what we have just of England. The fascination may reside, no doubt, been stating. There is, however, no inconsistency | partly in our wealth, yet only partly, since it is far in the matter. In a well organised state there is less the fortunes they make here than the admiraa time and a place for everything ; for severe study tion and the glory which attend the making of and serious business as well as for the arts; and them, that constitute the attraction. those elegant amusements and enjoyments which It will, from what has been said, be evident that we contribute to fit men for the sterner duties and are not disposed to assign a low place to music in the more laborious pursuits of life. Without, there. list of national amusements. We regard it as a fore, meriting the name of a musical people, which, highly pure source of pleasure; and as they who it is to be hoped, will never be justly applied to us, we administer delight to us deserve to be rewarded to are perhaps more fully alive to the true delights a certain extent, perhaps even with affection, we of music than any other nation in Christendom. cannot otherwise than approve of the enthusiasm

one.

excited among the true lovers of music by Jenny || cognise her talent. They voluntarily proclaim the Lind. Music, however, addresses itself more to the wonderful resources of her art. They dwell with imagination than the intellect, and more to the critical earnestness on her numerous and varied senses than to either; and it is only the sensorous merits, moral and technical. She does not, how sphere of our nature that it can be said to refine ever, possess a thorough command of their sympaand purify. The intellect lies beyond its reach, but thies, to stir the whole depths of which requires the as it moves among our passions, and fans them with presence of an element seldom found in the northern its breath, it appears to melt and bear away all the division of the temperato zone. To them, an Italian grosser elements, while it excites and invigorates woman of equal genius would possess infinitely whatever is healthful in them. Nearly all persons greater charms. Take an illustration from the know some voice with which they associate whatever sister art of sculpture. Two artists, the one from is most pleasing and rapturous in life. They have Scandinavia, the other from Rome, may divide boheard it perhaps in their happiest hours, when the tween them a block of Carrara marble, and each i whole instrument of their mind was attuned to har- sculpture therefrom it Venus.

These artists will mony, when their passions had been lulled by enjoy- each impress upon the goddess the characteristies ment into luxurious repose, and when the various of their country and their race, and their respective softer sentiments, melting imperceptibly into each | peculiarities will recommend their workmanship to other, appeared to have lifted up the soul to the those influenced by analogous sympathies. But the very summit of happiness.

admirers of each will scarcelycoinprehend the others, It is from this portion of our life's experience that or be able to enter into the admiration they respec. we derive the power to sympathise heartily with a tively excite. The voice is the Carrara marble to public singer. The spell she exercises does not re- a singer, and is moulded, and fashioned, and sido entirely in her. We contribute much towards adapted to produce particular effects by the same the completion of the process, and her voice, as it principle which presides over the tastes and habits diffuses itself over the theatre, becomes as it were of races. ten thousand voices, modified by partiality and fond- These remarks are made to account for what ness, which speak in different tones to every heart. | might otherwise seem unaccountable—the superior In this consists entirely the triumph of music. It influence exercised by Jenny Lind over society in is as the handmaid to something else that it con- England. Scarcely has any public singer boen quers. The taste goes for much, but the heart goes before received so freely into the homes and hearths for infinitely more ; and as we listen we gather up, of English families, though it cannot be doubted as it were, and bind together all the delicious threads that many persons, equally estimable, hare been of our former existence, and bind them secretly among us. But all the analogies of their nature around the one we love. No one can have ever constituted an almost insuperable bar to familiar penetrated into the metaphysics of music without intercourse, while by blood and race Jenny Lind becoming conscious of this. We are very far, how- appears to be one of ourselves. Her very name is ever, from insinuating anything to the disparage-as purely English as that of Margaret Smith. inent of the public singer, and only endeavour to There are, besides, other causes which have conaccount for what must be otherwise inexplicable. tributed towards producing the same result. She

There is another observation which we may as is said, soon after her arrival, to have formed an well throw out, now that we have got upon this part attachment in this country, and to have meditated of our subject—it is this, that Jenny Lind, belong. settling here, which has scarcely ever been the case ing to a northern race, speaks more directly to the with any Italian singer of the first eminence. In sympathies of a northern nation than a woman cast the eyes of the latter, we may be correct judges, in the fiery mould of the south. There is far more and liberal patrons of merit ; our taste may

be in what may be termed the idiosyncracies of race sound and our generosity unequalled ; but we are than our philosophy has yet led us to acknowledge. | not generally calculated to become their compaFor example, no art purely Hellenic has hitherto | nions for life, to excite or repay their volcanic affetbeen thoroughly naturalised in the north. Even tions. Jenny Lind is an English woman at the first religion itself has acquired, in passing the Alps, a remove, while Pasta or Catalani would not have new character, and been invested with different at-| been rendered such by a century's residence. tributes, and learned to speak to the heart in a lan- These considerations will, we think, sufficiently guage unknown in other latitudes. The causes of explain the regret which has accompanied the aft: these phenomena may lie too deep for serutiny, but nouncement of Jenny Lind's retirement from the they are not on that account the less real or influ- stage ; but this feeling will be greatly enhanced if ential.

there be any truth in the report just put in circalaAt the same time, there exists among us a small || tion, that the step has been rendered necessary by number of individuals bearing within them the germs the alarming state of her health.

She is said to of southern afinities, introduced by the mixture of be subject to nervous attacks, which affect the head, blood, or some of those other subtle and unknown and increase in an extraordinary degree the action processes which produce the modifications of indi- || of the heart. It is added, that a sudden access of vidual temperament, whose whole system of sensi-this complaint on Tuesday, the 3d of May, deterbility is more alive, and vibrates more fiercely to the mined her to quit the stage immediately; and on touch of ficrcer natures. These form the compara- the 10th she suddenly and unexpectedly took her tively small minority who experience inferior delight || cave of the public. It is perfectly true, in this case, from the performances of Jenny Lind. They re- that a sort of friendly and familiar intercourse had

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