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live-long night ? Sure what has the 'sizes to do upon him compared to his lawful wife?'

Nothing but his weakness, Judy,' replied her mistress ; "he has no command over himself when he gets out o' my sight. I dare say he thinks to make a great friend of the judge by his condescension, just as he used to tell me he made a friend of Father Kane

· For the love of Heaven, Mistress, jewel, don't talk of Father Kane; myself's not myself when I hear his name; there's such stories told of him about the country.

This Father Kane, we should premise, was an ex-communicated priest, who, having committed some nameless indiscretions, had brought himself under the ban of mother church. In such cases, the laity are forbidden to harbor or succor the outcast, and be generally lives by the profit of secret marriages and unlawful courses. Rendered desperate by the malediction that closes the communion of society against him, he abandons himself to the most criminal and wanton excesses.

Have you heard anything lately?' inquired Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Och ! then, avich, I heard a frightful story of him last night; God save us! it would make the hairs of vour head afеard of each other— '

•There can be no harm in telling what you hear, Judy,' said Mrs. Fitzgerald, as she involuntarily drew closer to the fire, and looked peeringly round the room.

• Troth, then, Mistress, honey, there's not another in the world,' said Judy, “that I'd risk my salvation for, but yourself; and sure if you don't think there's no harm in it, I'll tell you all I know about it.

See is the door fast, Judy, and the shutters ;' whispered the mistress, inspired, perhaps, with a portion of the terror that filled the maid.

Judy slowly, and with trepidation obeyed; and when all was secured, drew her short gown over her head, and huddling herself on her stool close to Mrs. Fitzgerald, commenced the promised narrative.

You know, Ma'am,' cried Judy, in a prelude, that it's the law that a child can turn his father out o' doors, by turning Protestant; and that no matter how much land or money he's worth in the world, it all falls as naturally as possible to the child that's bad enough to turn against his religion and his priest.* Well, poor Paudgeen Dowling, that had a sight of ground at the top of the hill beside the kiln, and that was a saving man, and paid regard to his little family, the cratures, and reared them up dacent, and saved up a snug penny for the rainy day, poor Paudgeen's son, Tim Dow. ling, a boy that ought to have known better than to break his ould father's heart, came across Father Kane one night, God help us, in the dark glyn, just under the waterfall.

• And so they fell to talking about one thing or another, until at last Tim Dowling began to tell how he was out of his mind about Margaret White, the flourman's daughter, up in Ennis, but that she was a Protestant, and that he knew her friends would never consent to such a thing as their marriage : and so he wanted Father Kane's counsel what he should do to get Margaret White.

6. Sit down here,” says Father Kane, “and I'll tell you." So ma'am, chris chreestha! f they sat down upon the very stone where Shamus Healy murdered his own brother, last Michaelmas twelvemonth!

"Well, the water was dashing about their ears, and the trees moaning

* This law was repealed in 1793. + Literally, the Cross of Christ-idiomatically, the Cross of Christ be about us !

just like the branches, and Tim Dowling says, “Don't sit here, Father Kane; this is a gloomy place to talk about a wedding in,” but Father Kane gripped him by the arm, and desired him to stay where he was.

6“ Then what is your advice to me?" says Tim Dowling, and they say he shook like a leaf all the time. 56“My advice to you,” says Father Kane, “is this, and it's few that I'd give it to ; you know you've got no house, nor home to bring her to when you marry her, so you must get that first. There's your father's nice little place, and there's plenty of room in it for Margaret White if you choose."

"“But what would I do with my father, and my brothers and sisters?" says Tim.

" Why as to that,” says Father Kane, “there's no trouble about them at all, for all you've to do, is just to say you're a Protestant, and all the fathers and brothers in the world can't stand against you."

““And would you have me turn rebel to him that reared me, Father Kane,” says the other, and he looked at him as if he would pierce him through,

«« No-not that neither," says Father Kane, “but if you just go and say you're a Protestant, you can marry Margaret, and then bring her home; nobody can turn you out then, because you see the house and place will be your own, and you may then take care of your father, who is getting too ould to take care of himself."

"“Faith, then, I believe you're right there,” says Tim, whose love of Margaret was uppermost, “and I'll take your advice Father Kane!”

"So up they both got, and come away together through the glyn; and just as Tim parted from the priest, he met his poor ould father.

6« Where are you going so late at night, Tim," says the father, because he always kept a watch over his children.

€“ I'm going home, father,” says Tim: and you see he meant that he was going to take his father's home from him.

So they walked on a little way, and Tim says, “ I'm a Protestant, father, and all your land is mine, and I'ın going to marry Margaret White tomorrow."

(“Go on, you fool,” says poor Paudgeen, not thinking but that Tim was joking with him.

«« Fool?” says Tim, “ do you call me a fool ? " and with that he turned round, and was going, the Lord save us! to strikc the ould man; but as the Lord would have it, he missed his blow, and the ould man ran on to the top of the hill, and got into the house and locked the door upon him.

"To be sure Paudgeen Dowling was wrong to lock out the boy all night, but then he was vexed out of his reason with him, and may be he did'nt know rightly what he was doing.

"Well, Tim goes off to the Protestant minister, and tells him the whole story; so the next morning a patrole of soldiers comes down to poor Paudgeen's place, and turns them all out, little creatures and all, just as they were, and would'nt even give them time to get their little clothes to put upon them. And what do you think Pat Dowling did ? He brings the whole boiling of them down to the glyn, for he knew it would be no use to talk to the sassenachs, and there he makes beds for them, six of them in all, under the trees just upon the edge of the stream. The neighbors all collected to console poor Paddy, but he would'nt hear of them at all, nor would'nt take any comfort they gave him. So he lived there, like a wild man, for a whole week, while Tim was about at the house, pulling down and building up, and singing and drinking like as if he was to live forever. No wonder, to be sure, that no luck should come of him after such doings.

Well, at the end of the week, one morning, as one of the neighbors was going down to fetch the famishing children a bit of breakfast, he thought he saw a man lying with his feet in the water. “Now,” says he, “if this should be Pat Dowling ;” and sure enough, as he said the word, it was Pat Dowling that was lying in that spot. So he goes over to him, and tried to waken him, and pulled him, and shook him. “Get up, Pat Dowling," says he, “this is no place for you to be taking your sleep in." But never a stir Pat Dowling stirred. So he tried to lift him, and he found him as heavy as a log of wood. “What's the matter with you, Pat Dowling," says he ; but never an answer did Pat Dowling make, until at last he began to feel his hands and his face, and-holy mother of God !-he found a cold clainny sweat upon them, and they were just like the marble. “ Pat Dowling," says he, “you're dead." And poor Pat Dowling, at the word, dropped from his hands like a stone, without motion or life ; and there he lay before his ould neighbor, that came to bring him nourishment, as stiff and dead as a lump of clay. “Och, wurrah! wurrah!” says the poor man, “ what's to be done at all? and what'll become of them that brought you to this?”

So the story of Paudgeen Dowling's death was in every body's mouth, and people said that his heart was broke inside, and that he died in a fit. Well, when the poor all about, that loved him as if he was their father, heard of his end, they set about to think what they'd do with the son, and so they thought that he desarved a just punishment for his wickedness.

• Although his poor father died that death, Tim Dowling was drunk all day yesterday, and roaring about the place, and saying that he'd bring Margaret White home to-morrow; but it was’nt to thrive with him, as I'll tell you.

Last night he had a great carousing, and it was very late when his sinful drinking was over, and his bad advisers left him; so just after they were gone, a heap of the boys from Slievegraughan gathered, and went up to the house; and there was’nt a single light in the whole place, but they brought one with them, that was better than any they could get at the kiln.

So after they looked well about them, and found that Tim was snoring in his bed, they set fire to the haggard, and then set fire to the house wherever they could get a bit of wood in it to take the flames. Well-the cross of Christ protect us!-in a few minutes the whole pile was one blaze, and they say you could see the fire for miles across the mountains over to Bally boden, and round again for miles over Galway.

Sure enough, Tim Dowling woke with the smoke and fire that was suffocating him; and not knowing where to run, broke the window to get out. Just as he looked out the flames gathered round him, and hissed about his ears, and he was going to jump out, when he saw the boys below. " For the mercy of God, save me !” says he ; and his throat began to grow stified as he called out. “You had no mercy on your father, Tim Dowling!” says the boys; and as they spoke the word, a volley of shot came upon him from under the window where he stood.

Well, for a short time, there was no noise heard but the groaning of the fire as it forced up through the chimneys and rafters, and spread through the roof of the house. Then after that they saw a figure stagger over to the same window, and the blood was dripping from his head, and his face was black and horrid, and he tried to call out to them, but he was'nt able to speak or to hould the sash. So as the words were gurgling in his mouth, the boys fired at him again, and Tim Dowling dropped from the window down upon the stones outside.

The fall finished him entirely. There was'nt a whole limb in his body, and his head was full of holes, and bleeding out of the eyes, and the skull was smashed, and the wretch was black dead.

•When this was done, the boys raised a shout over the body, and returned back again through the glyn, to Slievegraughan.'

This story was too horrible for Mrs. Fitzgerald, whose nerves were not a little affected in the first instance by the absence of her husband, and she entreated Judy to drop the recital. An hysterical sob relieved the intense apprehensions of the good lady, and after a pious prayer, and a great effort at composure, she retired to her room for the night; not, however, until she had made Judy bring in her little pallet, that she might sleep at the foot of her bed.

THE LADY OF THE OAK.

A Ballad.
Sir Roland of Rood hath sought the wood,

To chase the hart and roe;
And pacing in pride by the warrior's side,

Fair dames and bold knights go.
Merrily borne from the hunter's horn,

The wood-craft notes are sounding,
And the stately deer, uproused in fear,

From the deep-mouthed dogs are bounding.
On, on ! they dash like a torrent's flash,

And Marley cbase is ringing,
With many a steed at headlong speed,

To follow Sir Roland's springing.
On, on ; they sweep o'er stream and steep,

Till turns the hart to bay ;
The hounds rush in with furious din,

And sinks the bleeding prey.
Again, and again, from their ferny glen,

The startled deer are flying ;
And the sky was bright with sunset's light,

When the last proud stag was dying.
At the close of day, Sir Roland lay

His panting steed beside;
No sound from behind came down the wind.

But the forest was rustling wide.
On the broad trunks dun the setting sun

A yellow beauty breathed ;
The foliage green it flowed between,

An old oak's ivy-wreathed.

The forest ground, that knight around,

Was in softest glory bright :
Sky, breeze, and tree, seemed all to be

Filled with one pure delight.
Each ancient oak in murmurs spoke,

Like a happy infant's voice;
And every bird that Roland heard,

Said to his soul ' rejoice !!
The branches a breezy shade

Above his wearied browe;
While his eyes still strove afar to rove

Amid the dusky boughs.
But sudden broke from the knotted oak,

That o'er him cast its gloom,
And stood at his feet the knight to greet,

A form of ligbt and bloom.
Brown was each tress in its green wreath's dress,

As the old oak's sun-lit bark ; Her lips faint sigh was a melody,

And her eye was wild and dark. Up started the knight, when that dainsel bright

He saw before him stand; And so sudden she came, that the chief of faine

Half drew from the sheath his brand.
A cup of dew, before his view,

With fairy hand she raised,
And softly she smiled, while in accent mild

She spoke, and on Roland gazed :
Here am I come, from my green-wood home,

Sir Roland of Rood to see ; There lives not the Man, who, since time began,

Hath seen my cup or me !
The fresh dew draught Sir Roland quaffed,

The lady 'gan to sing,
Like the voice of a breeze in the rustling trees,

When birds are on the wing.
Soothing and low, the sweet notes flow,

A calm harmonious stream,
On the grassy bank Sir Roland sank;

The world seemed all a dream;
"Sleep, Roland, sleep ! the skies shall weep

The dews of evening's close,
And every star, that gleams afar,,

Shall bless thy soft repose.
"Tis mine by day through woods to stray,

That ne'er were trod by men ;

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