in his pocket, but no testimonials of divinity-for Bernard || parties looked forward with the most earnest anxiety. The O'Neill had refused to be made a priest. How this revo- Liberals felt that by its consequences they must stand or lution had been effected was never definitely known. His fall. The Government officials knew that their interests, family either could not or would not explain it. Some and perhaps their political existence, were staked upon it. said he had left the Irish college and become a Protestant, While to neutral minds it presented the probability of an some that he had conversed with the French philosophers impending civil war-the more to be dreaded, because in and had no religion at all, and others—but they only strong contrast to earlier as well as later factions-the whispered thought it might have somehow regarded his opposition then included much of the rank, the intellicousin, the tailor's daughter, who had died of typhus fever gence, and the talent of the land. It was a time to make a week before his arrival. The former supposition was in thoughtful men ponder deeply on the past and the future; some degree supported by his appointment to a mastership for the die was about to be cast, and who could tell what in the High School, it was said, through the influence of destinies it carried? the Bishop of Derry, with whom he had become acquainted in France. The next was countenanced by the fact that he attended no place of worship whatever, and, though strictly moral and temperate in his habits, avoided all participation in duties of religion. The only evidence that could be adduced for the last-mentioned was, that immediately on his return, the twin-brother and confidant of poor Rose, though brought up to his father's trade, had abandoned shears and lapboard, and devoted himself entirely to Bernard's personal service as his humble companion and man of all work.

There were some who regarded the man's unhallowed abstinence as a sacrifice to the prejudices of his relatives, to whom declared Protestantism would have been still more intolerable. If things were not altogether satisfactory, the awe with which they had learned to look on one so much their superior, or Bernard's liberality in pecuniary matters, kept them silent; for his brothers and sisters, besides sundry collateral branches of the family tree, were well married, or provided with good service through his means, especially his elder brother Terrence, whom that friendly Bishop had taken at Bernard's request for his personal attendant. The roof and floor of his parents' cabin were kept dry; they never wanted for peat fuel, a cow, potatoes, and tobacco, and anything further would have been but an invasion of their comfort.

Bernard and his trusty servant, Maurice Flynn, occupied a small but respectable house at the other end of the village. Over its domestic economy Maurice presided without a rival, sometimes admitting an elderly dame who lived opposite, as he said, to help him. The salary of a teacher in the High School, which, by the way, was also one of James the First's establishments, was handsome for a resident of an Irish village. Bernard O'Neill's simple habits made it|| more than sufficient for his wants. It was shrewdly suspected that he saved little, but he spared much, and was generally respected for his charity to the poor, and most gentlemanly manners.

Bernard O'Neill sat in his small parlour at the close of a calm but cold twilight, as usual, reading a large book, and opposite him sat that faithful though uncongenial sharer of his home, Maurice Flynu, industriously mending his old coat, as he expressed it, "to keep the loneliness off him." The bare white walls, ornamented only with some popular prints-Grattan, Curran, George Washington, and the American Congress-the carpetless oak floor, which Maurice boasted that his hands kept in order, and the single table, covered with coarse green baize, might have seemed poor and comfortless in eyes familiar with affluence; but a blazing fire of bogwood filled the room with a warm and ruddy light, in which both faces looked cheerful, and Maurice had fallen into his wonted reverie touching the grandeur which Master Barney, as he respectfully styled his cousin, had attained in comparison with the accommodations of earlier days,

Maurice resembled his master as little in personal appearance as in education and fortunes. He was a short, squat little fellow, who looked as if he had been born old, and though not twenty-five, his motions were so methodically slow that he might have been taken for an aged grandfather who had wonderfully retained his faculties.

"Thank goodness for it all," ejaculated he, at length finishing the mental survey.

"For what, Maurice?" said Bernard, looking up; but the reply was interrupted by a sound of stumbling steps, Next moment the door was pushed open, and in walked the Bishop's servant.

"Is't yersilf, Terry?” cried Maurice, springing from his seat in joyful welcome; for between him and Terrence O'Neill there existed an old but rather jealous intimacy, on the ground of their mutual relationship to Master Barney.

"Faith is't," responded Terry; "an well for ye it no worse, afther leavin' the masther's doore open these thrubbled times, when ye don't know what might come

in."

"We haven't much to lose, brother," said Bernard, shaking him heartily by the hand; "but come, take of your greatcoat, and tell us how is the Bishop."

ye," said Terry, producing the epistle.

Bernard never associated with the class in which he had been born; between him and them there was a great gulf, and though a young man, he led a studious and somewhat solitary life, his chief companions being books, "He's bravely in Dungannon, yonder at White's Inn, but his politics were known to be those of the Volunteers.||wid all his grandure, an packed me off wid this letter to He had made but little public demonstration, yet such was the prevalent opinion of his talents, that the letters which created so great a sensation were at once ascribed to him. Things were in this state, and popular excitement had risen to its highest pitch in Dungannon and its vicinity, when, about the beginning of February, it was known that the Irish Volunteers had determined to hold a grand convention on the 15th, and that town had been chosen for their meeting place on account of its central situation and eminent zeal in the cause. To that assembly men of all

"Is the Bishop come on the diligation bisness?" inquired Maurice, who now returned from securing the outer door.

"'Deed is he !" said Terry, "an the whole of us wid him-two-and-twinty sarvints, besides the huntsman and the chaplain; but maybe he isn't buildin' the gran' house all out, yonder at Derry."

“Is't a castle, Terry ?" "Ay, ye may say that.

demanded Maurice,
But do ye know where its s

buildin'? There's nobody here but ourselves," continued || possessed of a more than parvenue love of pomp and disTerry, glancing anxiously at Bernard, who seemed absorb-play. His housekeeping was on a scale of almost regal ed in the letter, which he read, by the light of the bog- splendour and hospitality, and he never travelled without wood fire. "An' a may as well tell yez a quare story a train like that of a petty sovereign. His political views about it. The bishop's buildin' his house on the very were in advance of his age; and he merits honourable respot where, they say, the ould Abbey of Columkill stud membrance for his endeavours to remind the Volunteers for nine hundred years. There's neither stick nor stone of their Catholic countrymen's right to representationof it to be seen there now, bit whin they wur diggin' for the denial of which so justly contributed to the ruin of the foundations, wid the bishop lookin' on, I wis prisint their party. meself beside Jerry Friell, the best digger in the parish, It was probably from these circumstances that there bit all on a sudden he stopped wonderful short. What's originated two prevalent reports, which have long surthe matter wid ye?' says the bishop, Plaze yer rivirince's vived him. First, that he had secretly adopted the Cathohonour,' says Jerry, me spade his struck agin somethin' lic creed; and, secondly, that he entertained a visionary hard.' Bring it up,' says the bishop, and he called the design of becoming the independent monarch of Ireland. rest, and they cleared away the clay, an' there wis an The bishop had travelled early, and far. He was believed iron box, as rid as ye like wid rust, an' an ould padlock to be a learned and talented man; but manifested, both on it. It's mighty light to be money;' says Jerry, as at home and abroad, a curious inclination for the converse he pulled it up. You'll get half of all it contains, my of charlatans of every description, and made some singufine fellow; says the bishop, and he knocked off the pad-lar acquaintances for a prelate. lock wid a stone, bit sorra a pinsworth wis there that we cud see, bit a big black book. A don't want the half of that anyway, yir rivirince,' says Jerry. Where will we burry it?''Why do ye say so, my good fellow ? says the bishop. Bekase, says Jerry, 'am thinkin' that's the ould book that Saint Columb laid by! Bring that up to the palace; it's a great antic,' says the bishop to me, pointin' to the box, an' away he walked wid the ould book under his arm. By the piper, he'll read it says Jerry. Ov coorse,' says I. 'Well, it's a pity, for he had the heart and the hand of a prince, bit there's no help for hard fortune,' says he. Whin I heerd that, I axed him all about it, an' he tould me there wis an ould story, that Saint Columkill had once been a heathin', an' nivir read a book but one that cum out of Egypt, an' it larn't him all that wis to cum, bit whin he was convarted an' built the ould abbey, he burried it under the high alther wid his curse, sayin', that whoever opened that book wid nivir rest agin either here or hereafther, for he had read bit the half oy it, and they wud read the whole."

||

"Is there anythin' wrong, Masther Barney?" cried Maurice, as he caught the troubled and half-terrified look|| with which Bernard turned from the letter, at these words.

"Nothing at all;" said Bernard, hesitatingly, "but the bishop wishes to see me this night in Dungannon. Rest yourself, Terry, and you and I will take the road. Give Terry a glass, Maurice. What sort of a night is it ?"

"Dark an' could as ivir blew," responded Maurice, as he produced the then current refreshment, from a corner cupboard."Couldn't the bishop wait till the mornin', or cum in his own coach, I wondher ?"

His master made no reply to these observations. Terry discussed the glass of spirits, and the brothers conversed as familiarly as relations so dissimilar could. Then equipped with greatcoat, comforter, and thick walking-stick, Bernard set out with his brother; and Maurice, hentally resolving to go and meet him on his return, seated himself by the solitary fire.

The singular and imposing figure which "Frederick Derry," as in clerical fashion he was styled, made, at that agitated period, has been remarked on, according to their different opinions, by all his literary contemporaries, and left a strange impression on the popular mind of Ulster.

Nobly born, and inheriting princely revenues, he seemned

||

The most substantial monument of this bishop is a beautiful villa, near Derry, built on a Venetian plan, and known as the Cassino. It is also remarkable for standing on the traditional site of a long demolished abbey, said to have been founded by Saint Columba, commonly called Saint Columb, whose strangely-worded prophecies are still current among the Irish peasantry.

The story which Terrence related that night, regarding the bishop's discovery, is no less popular; nor was that circumstance ever clucidated. No wonder, then, that it filled the musings of Maurice Flynn, as he sat alone in the parlour. His work had been resumed, for it was necessary; but, like all things under repair, there seemed no end to the stitches his coat was found to require. However, its renovation was at last complete, and Maurice had commenced a search for his own walking-stick, when the sound of wheels and a loud knock summoned him to the door. It was the bishop's carriage, bringing home his master.

"Now, that's doin' the dacent!" said Maurice, as he ushered him in, candle in hand; but as the light fell on Bernard's face he saw that it seemed pale and careworn, as if the interview had been a trying one. "A hope his rivirince is well, an' that ye hiv got no bad news, Masther Barney," said the anxious attendant. "the

"None in the world, Maurice," said Bernard; bishop is quite well, and had only some matters to converse about."

"I hiv been thinkin'," continued Maurice, "it was a quare story that Terry tould about the ould book."

"All nonsense!" said his master, hurriedly, seating himself beside the fire; "but it is late, Maurice, and you were up early-hadn't you better get to bed?"

Maurice had lived with Bernard as a friend rather than a servant. He had not been used to see his master's temper ruffled, or secrets kept from him; but such seemed now the case, and the spirit of friendship revolted.

"Well," said he, with a vexed look, "it's thrue a wis early up, an' may be you could want me company. So good night!" and Maurice hurried up stairs to his own dormitory.

Next day they met as usual, but Maurice did not forget. There was a mystery in the business which he could not solve, and his curiosity was piqued as well as his friendship. Bernard, too, had grown suddenly reserved and thoughtful, as if he had some subject of earnest mental

Dungannon; and, after seeing and hearing all that came within the scope of their ideas, Terry, in right of his wealthier station, treated Maurice to some refreshment at a public-house. They were remarkably sober young men in those somewhat intemperate times, but the night had fallen before their last glass was discussed; and Terry telling Maurice that the bishop had allowed him to spend that night with his parents, they set out together for Castlecaulfield.

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, and stepped in, telling him not to sit up as he had a key. Maurice had nothing to do that night, and he sat by the hearth wondering and surmising, till all the legends he had ever heard came crowding back on his memory; and he rose and left the solitary house for that of his father.|| It, like the homes of most country tailors, was an emporium of news and politics; but the gossips had long dispersed, and Maurice been some hours in bed, before his master's 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. He 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 proceedings either by curious inquiry or vigilant observation; but that the bishop still remained at the principal inn of Dungannon, and had particular business to transact with Bernard every evening, in its great oak parlour.

At length the day of so much interest and anxiety arrived. Never had Dungannon seen such military pageantry, and such eager crowds. From an early hour of that dim winter day, the streets were lined with men of all ranks and ages, in the dashing uniform of the Volunteers, while armed battalions, with music and banners, marched in from the rural districts. The windows, the doors, and even the roofs of the houses, were thronged with spectators; and every space unoccupied by the armed men was crowded with the peasantry, who had poured in from ten miles round to see the Delegation, for every order of Ireland had hope in the Volunteers.

||

"Maurice," said Terry, whose heart, under the influence of that last glass, seemed inclined to relieve itself of a burdensome secret; "Maurice, hive ye any notion what makes yer masther an' the bishop so thick? It must be a quare business they hive on hands every night in that oak parlour, as quiet as mice. Goodness be about us, but from observations I made through the key-hole, it crasses me that they're readin' that ould book."

"Oh murther! do ye think so?" rejoined Maurice. "Bit that wis the bad larnin Masther Barney got in France, though it made him the cliverist man in Irelan', as all the country knows, by thim gran' letters he wrote about Owen Roe."

"Are you speaking to me, gentlemen," said a tall man, dressed in a long dark cloak and singularly-shaped cap, who, at that moment, stepped from behind a broken wall on the roadside.

"God bliss us-no!" answered Maurice, while Terry stood in amazement.

"You needn't bless yourself, young man, as you're not in the chapel," rejoined the stranger, sharply; "I thought you mentioned my name."

"We hivn't the plisure of knowin' ye, sir," said Maurice.

The Delegates marched two and two, fully armed, through a living lane in that dense multitude, to their meeting-house—as poor and plain an edifice as ever Dissenters worshipped in. Hundreds of their political friends and associates closed the long procession; and in the shouts that greeted them as they passed, were heard names that have become famous in history through widely different memories. Flood, by whose war with Grattan his party was to fall—Curran, whose after eloquence was mighty against || mine." triumphant and unscrupulous power-Robert Stewart, whom they were to call Lord Castlereagh-Edward Fitzgerald; Theobald Wolfe Tone-but the loudest acclamation was raised for the liberal and most popular Bishop of Derry.

"Why don't you cheer?" said a man behind, laying a heavy hand on the shoulder of Maurice Flynn, as he stood. fast wedged in a crowd of his own order.

"Sorra bit I'll cheer," responded he, casting an upward look of recognition at the speaker, who was none other|| than Terrence O'Neill. "There's screechin enough for him, am thinkin', widout me?"

"Where's yer master, Maurice?" inquired Terry, in a lower tone.

"Where wid he be, bit in the church wid all the gentlemin, an' tould me not to wait for him, bekase he wud stay an' hear out the delegation. Delegation on them; its jist wars and murther 'ill be the ind on it; but this is a brave spree, anyhow!" said Maurice, gazing round him.

The resolutions passed at that meeting, and its results,

"Oh; I often walk here, looking after some friends of

"But ye don't live here?" said Maurice, getting frightened—he knew not why, but still curious.

"Not now," said the stranger, as he walked slowly past; "I have been a long time at Cavan. Its a book that brings me here. Good night."

"Good night," said Maurice; but the words were finished with a gasp; for he and Terry, at the same instant, observed that the figure, which had stepped into the broad moonlight, suddenly disappeared; and both stood terror-struck on the high-road.

The sound of approaching steps at last recalled them, and the next moment they were joined by Bernard himself. Terry first inquired if he had met any one, but Bernard assured them he had not; and his brother made an entreating sign to Maurice not to mention what had occurred.

Bernard seemed at once worn out and engrossed with that day's proceedings. He spoke little, but that little was cheerful; and when he and Maurice reached home, something like their old familiarity seemed restored. The

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," curred 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!?' whispered Terry, as he caught sight of the volume. || Bernard at once took his position beside the bishop, both having their backs to the door, and began to read.

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|| sake of her that's gone, listen to me, and don't go this night, for yer goin' to no good. I hive had a quare warnin'."

"It's Lord Edward!" gasped Terry, but Bernard read on, and again the bishop called. Maurice and Terry could scarcely believe their ears, for they heard, as if close at hand, the roar of a stormy sea, followed by a confused 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.

"Take a sate, Maurice Flynn, an' tell us yir news," out of the church walked a man in strange dark uniform, said the old man.

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 ably gone. 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.