MISS MARTINEAU'S IRELAND.

THE course of these extraordinary productions has taken their authoress to Ireland, as the scene of miseries best illustrating the consequences of over population, and a bad system of land-letting: that country also furnishes her with the occasion of fresh argu- ments against poor-laws, and in recommendation of agricultural improvements and a judiciously-conducted emigration. These doctrines are, as usual, enforced by a dramatic exhibition of their necessity. Under the form of a history of a young married couple, who have come together with perhaps less than ordinary impru- dence, and who are driven, step by step, from industry to idleness and starvation, thence to smuggling and Whiteboyism, and ulti- mately to transportation and worse misery, this admirable writer shows in operation the principles of a mistaken economy, the mis- chief of bad. laws. We have so often praised Miss MAwrineA.0 for the force of her descriptions—the vigour and naturalness of her dialogues, that it may seem superfluous to repeat that the ta- lent invariably exhibited by her is only equalled by the utility of her design. In her Ireland, it is possible that her excellence will not be so immediately acknowledged as in some of her preceding Numbers ; because the magnitude of the subject will have raised expectation to a high pitch, and the quantity of ability, more espe- cially of the kind. required to depict actual life, that has been em- ployed on it, has rendered the world familiar with Irish scenes and Irish character. In no instance, however, has greater ability been. brought to bear on their successful exhibition; and in none has the imagination been so well and regularly directed upon tho- roughly useful objects. The topics, arising as they do out of the whole interests of Ireland, are necessarily various : some are more completely investigated than others, as might have been expected in a very small volume ; in which, moreover, is displayed, in minute detail, the history of a family. It is to be hoped that Miss Mika- TINEAU will take up other branches of this great, though melan- choly subject, and assign some of her future Numbers to the ser- vice of this most unhappy and misgoverned land. The questions discussed—such as Poor-laws, Absenteeism, Sub- letting, Tithes, and Church Expenditure, as we have partly indicated above, are chiefly of a kind that our readers at least have pretty well made up their minds about : and, however well argued they may be, we prefer selecting for quotation some of the scenes that in- terest by their truth, and which, by their forcible painting, may act as a stimulant upon such as have it in their power to contribute to the removal of the causes of Irish distress.

Of the incidents of the tale, Miss MARTINEAU thus speaks her Preface— My choice was influenced by the consideration, not of what would best suit the purposes of fiction, but of what would most serve the cause of the Hishpoor,. A much more thrilling and moving story might have been made of conspiracy, rebellion, and slaughter by weapon and by gibbet ; but these scenes want no further development than may be found in our daily newspapers; while the silent miseries of the cottier, the unpitied grievan .es of the spirit-broken labourer, cannot have been sufficiently made known, since they still subsist. These mise- ries, protracted from generation to generation, are the origin of the more lively horrors of which everybody hears. Let them be superseded, and there will be an end of the rebellion and slaughter which spring from them.

The first incident to which we shall call the attention of our readers is a distraining for rent, followed by a clearing off of all that remained for tithes. Dora is a young maiden, on the eve of marriage with a neighbouring youth, as yet dwelling with her parents in the Glen of Echoes, the scene of the story. A few hours after the distraint, Dan, the lover, returns from a long absence, to . which he has been forced by the more than ordinary prudence of the parties : but the state he finds the family in, so far from operating as a further check upon the union, according to Irish rea- soning, only proves the immediate necessity of it. Dan and Dora are immediately married—that the son-in-law may be lawfully' entitled to support his sweetheart and her parents. He proceeds' to take a piece of land,—that is to say, an acre or so, at St. or 91,. the acre, by way of material to work upon ; and the result might not have been so bad but for an event that shall appear— When she came within sight of home, she did not know what to make of the appearance of things. The cows were not visible; but they were apt to disap- pear among the ditches, or behind the cabin. Her father gave tokens of merr,.. merit, but with rather more activity than was natural to him. He was throwing. stones and bits of turf at the pigs in the ditches, so as to make them run hither and thither, and singing, to drown their squeaking, in the following strain:— "You're welcome to the beasts for sale;

For the Devil take me if I go to gaol.

My wife and they Hz a mournful lowing,

And they looked just in my eyes so knowing.

So now keep away, if you plase, that's all;

And the curse o' Jasus light on ye alt!"

This song, as soon as the words were distinguishable, told a pretty plain story,, and the occupation of Dora's mother told a .yet .plainer. She was breaking. aip the milk-pails to feed the fire; and, in answer to the girl's remonstrance, de-

immided what was the use of vexing their sight with what would be tempting them to thirst, and putting them in mind to curse the " scruff of the earth" that had robbed them of their kine ? But could not the cattle be got back again? Lord save her ! when did she ever know Mr. Teale give up any thing he had clutched ? Mr. Teak ! he who had just been paid ? Even so. He was behind- hand with his dues, like the people he scorned beneath his feet ; and instead of

seizing his car, horses, or the luxuries of his house, the man who was over him distramed upon the poor tenants, who had already paid their rents ; while Teale

looked on, amused to see the Sullivans and others compelled to pay rent twice over, while he escaped. The people having, in former cases, discovered that this monstrous grievance is not known in England, had, for some time, come to

the- conclusion that England is favoured by Government, while there is no jus- tice to be had in Ireland ; not being aware that the law is the same in both countries, and that the exemption from this fatal liability which English culti- vators enjoy, is owing to the rarity of the practice of subletting in their island. It soon appeared that Teale was disappointed in the amount of the levy upon his tenants, since the same men returned early in the morning to take what else they could get, by virtue of the note-of-hand. The crop, just ready for gather- ing in, was dug up and carted away, a small provision only being left for the immediate wants of the family. The fowls and pigs disappeared at the same time ; and to all the hubbub which disturbed the morning hours, the deep curses of Sullivan, the angry screams of his wife, the cackling of the alarmed poultry, the squealing of the pigs, and the creaking of the crazy cars, there suc- ceeded a bush, which was only interrupted by the whirring of Dora's wheel. She bad taken to her spinning, partly to conceal her tears, partly to drown thoughts which would otherwise have almost distracted her.

The ominous quiet of the cabin did not last long. Sullivan was sitting so as to block up the doorway, with his back against the mud-wall ; lie was chewing a straw, and looking out vacantly upon his trampled field, when his wife started up from her seat beside the fire-place, where the pot of cold potatoes was hang- inrover an extinguished fire. She greeted him with a tremendous kick.

"Get out o' that, you cratur !" natal she. "I'm thinking there's room and a plenty beyond there, you alone the styes with not a soul of a pig in them. Get out .with ye !"

"Give over, honey, or it will be the worse for ye," said Sullivan. "It's my own place where I'm lying entirely, and the prospect beyond is not so pleasing to the eye as it was, honey ; that's all." "The more's the reason you should be bestirring yourself, like me, to hide what's left us in the bog." "What do you mean, if your soul is not gone astray ?" inquired the husband. "Work, work ! if you'd save a gun, or a bed, or a bottle of spirits from the proctor. Into the bog with 'cm, if you wouldn't have him down upon you, hearing, as he will, bow little is left to pay the tithe. Leave off, I tell you," she shouted to poor Dora; " whisht, and give over with your whirring and whirring, that wearies the ears of me. Leave off, or by this and that I'll make you sorry." Dora did her best to understand the evil to be apprehended, and to guard against it. She roused her father from his posture of affected ease, sought out a hiding-place among the rushes in a waste tract, where they might stow their household goods, and helped to strip the dwelling as actively as if they had been about to remove to a better abode. While her father and she were laden with the chest which contained her mother's bridal provision of bed-linen, which had thus far been preserved from forfeiture, a clapping of hands behind them made the turn and observe a sign that enemies were at hand. "By the powers, here they come," cried her father. "Work, work, for the bare life, my jewel. In with it, and it's back we'd be going with as innocent faces as if we'd been gathering rushes. Here, pull your lap full."

Dora could not at first tell whether their movements had been observed.

" God save you, kindly, Mr. Shard'," said St11111,1.CuCite rroctor. "It's just in time you'd be come to see the new way of thatching we have got, and 'these gentlemen to take a lesson, may be. Dora, my jewel, throw down the rushes and get some more out of hand."

"One of my gentlemen shall go with her," said Shehan. "There are things among the rushes sometimes, Sullivan, that fill a house as well as thatch it." Dora invited any of the gentlemen to help her, and led the way to a rush bank, in an opposite direction ; but, declining to follow her lead, they entered the house, and laughed, when they found it completely empty. "You're grown mightily afraid of the sky, Sullivan," observed Shehan, "since you'd be after mending your thatch sooner than getting a bed to lie on, to say nothing of a bit and sup, which I don't see you have to be boasting of." All Sullivan's good reasons why he should suddenly mend his thatch with rushes that lay " convaynient" went for nothing with the Proctor, who had caught a glimpse of the stratagem. The claim for tithes, arrears, and fees was urged, certain ominous-looking papers produced, and no money being forth- coining, the goods were found and carried off, even down to Dora's wheel, with the' flax upon it. The Proctor gave no heed to the despair of the destitute tenants, but rather congratulated himself on having heard of the former seizures in time to appropriate what remained.

Of those whom he had left behind, the father lay down once more in the door- way, declaring himself nigh hand broken-hearted, and melancholy entirely ; his wife went about to interest the neighbours in their wrongs; and Dora kneeled at her prayers in the darkest corner of the cabin. After a time, when the twilight began to thicken, her father started up in great agitation, and dared somebody outside to come in and see what he could find for rent, or tithes, or tolls, or tax of any kind. His creditors might come swarming as thick as boys going to a fair, but they would find nothing, thanks to the Proctor : unless they carried him off bodily, they might go as they came, and he would try whose head was the hardest before it came to that. Dora perceived that her father was in too great a passion to listen to one who seemed not to be a creditor ; and she.went to the door to interpose. More quick-sighted than her father, she in- stantly saw, through the dint light, that it was Dan; and not even waiting for the assuranceof his voice, threw herself on his neck, while he almost stifled her with caresses.

"Dan, are you come back true? Just speak that word." "-True as the saints to the blessed, darling of my heart." 9 Then God is merciful to send you now, for we want true friends to raise us up, stricken as we are to the bare ground." "Bare ground, indeed," cried Dan, entering and looking for a resting-place, on which to deposit the sobbing and clinging Dora. " They have used you basely, mg heart's life, but trust to me to make it up in your own way to each of you. You trust me, Dora, don't you, as the Priest gave leave ?" Dora silently intimated her trust in her lover's faith, which it had never en- tered her head to doubt—love having thus far been entirely unconnected in her mind with thoughts of the world's gear. She wept on his shoulder, leaving it to her father to tell the story of their troubles, and only looked up when she heard her mother's voice approaching, to ask, with great simplicity, what they were to do next?

"To be married in the morning, if Father Glenny was at hand, and consent- ing," her lover replied. • He had two guineas in his pocket for the fees ; and then they would be all on a footing (as he had no more money), and must help one another to justice and prosperity as well as they could. Sullivan interposed a few prudent objections, but soon gave up when be found his little Dora was against him. The fact was, that her filial dut , religion, and love, all plied her

at once in favour of an immediate marriage. be had always had a firm faith ness, till ?awn. The horse being unloaded, Dan mounted, and bidding the that Dan could achieve any thing he p)eased ; a faith which was much confirmed by his having paid his father's rent, and mved, moreover, enough for his mar- nage fees. It appeared to her that Providence had sent this able helper in the time of her parents' need, and that it was not for her to prevent his lifting them out of poverty as speedily as might be.

Dan told them that there was to be a letting of land in the neighbourhood the next day ; and that if he was made sure in time of having Dora for his cabin. keeper, he would bid for an acre or two, and did not doubt to do as well in the world as his father before him. Of all this, Dora's mother, on her return, seemed to have no more doubt than the rest of the party; and she immediately dismissed all her cares, except the regret that she could not walk so far as to see her daughter married. • Dan was now requested to name his hour for departure in the morning, and to go home to his father, who had had but a hasty glimpse of him on his return. He busied himself in obtaining some clean dry straw and a rush candle for his poverty-stricken friends, overwhelmed Dora with caresses, and ran home.

Great exertions are used by the well-meaning and industrious couple, in accumulating the rent of the first year. It is paid ; but there is arrived an order from the landlord, an absentee, that ne fresh leases shall be granted, and that those who have not leases shall be ejected, in order to consolidate the land and introduce the more advantageous system of larger farming. 'Poor Dan has beeu promised a lease from the first ; but, thinking himself secure; he has put oft' the business of signing from day to day, till he goes to pay the rent ; when he receives this intelligence which nearly distracts him. In his despair, he is driven to proceedings which involve him and his family in both crime and misfortune. His first steps are thus detailed in the authoress's forcible manner— Father Glenny shook his head, sighed, and advised them to remain where they were, till he should have considered their case and that of some of their neighbours, who were suffering under similar calamity. . On inquiring whether they had any savings, Dom joyfullv mentioned the rent, naturally supposing that Dan Would not part with it when he found how matters stood ; but her counte- nance fell when she extracted from her now moody husband the fact that the agent had received him with a smiling countenance, requested him to count down the money while he „prepared his pen and ink, signed to his assistant to sweep off the gold, silver, and copper into a drawer and turn the key, and then, and not before, explained the necessity he was under, of refusing to fulfil his engagement, scoring the lease from corner to corner with his newlv-mended pen as he spoke, and bidding the insulted Dan move aside to make way for Ids betters who were fortunate enough not to have put off signing and sealing.

"Then we have nothing left," said Dora calmly. "Murther !" cried her father, "and we might have had an elegant bed to have carried away on the shoulders of us, instead of a coat that has nothing left hut the sleeves, by reason of their having never been used. And muCh besides is it we might have had if you had let us be comfortable, Dan, and leave the rent to take care of itself in peace. By dad, we may very well pass for beggars without any pretending."

His son-in-law looked fiercely at him, and the priest interposed to show that it was all right. All were to have their dues, and Mr. Tracey should, there- fore, receive his rent; for paying which honestly, Dan might fully trust he should never suffer. After more words of exhortation and comfort, the priest gave Dora a small present of money, and expressed his hope of seeing them all at mass in the morning, after which he would converse further with them on their attars. • Dan stood watching him from the door, after receiving his blessing with a dubious expression of countenance. Dora had sunk down at her mother's feet, hiding her face in her lap, when she heard her husband say, " Praise to the powers, he's out of sight ! Up with you, you women, and all ready for night- fall."

To the question of all three, what lie meant to do? Dan replied, by giving orders, in a tone which none dared disobey. He made Sullivan take a spade and dig up, with all his might, potatoesavhich were not yet fit for cropping. Dora found up sacks and turf-panniers, and Dan proceeded, as soon as twilight came on, to impress into his temporary service a horse which grazed in the neighbourhood. On this animal lie packed the panniers, so as to afford a seat between them and then commanded the trembling Dora to mount by his assist-

ance. She them, her hands, crying, " 0, Dan ! where will you be for taking

us in the dark night? You are over full of haste, I'm thinking, Dan." His only reply was to lift her upon the horse. " Mv mother !" cried Dora, weeping. "You will not leave her alone; and if my father stays without us, depend on it he will call in the neighbours." Dan lifted her down again, went for the old woman (who had seemed stapi- fied ever since the news came), placed her between the panniers, gruffly desired

Dora to remain behind till her turn came, and began to lead the horse up the hill which stretched towards the sea-shore. Dora followed, however, at some distance, determined to see whither her mother was to be conducted. The horse was a grey one, which enabled her to keep within sight, and out of hearing, amidst the increasing darkness. It was a dreary walk, over four or five miles of boggy ground ; and many times would she have called out for her husband's help, if she had not feared his present mood more than the stormy sky. above and the treacherous soil beneath. Gusts of wind blew from the sea, piercing her with cold through her scanty raiment. Drenching showers were dashed in her face, blindiug her so effectually for many minutes together, that she would have lost the track and have sunk yet deeper than she did in the bog, if the same cause had not obliged those whom she followed to stop also, and turn their backs for awhile to the storm. The fitful gale brought to her the feeble wailin,as of the old woman, and the growling,s of her impatient husband, who cursed heaven, earth, and hell, at every impediment to their progress. During one of their pauses on a ridge, over which the roaring of the sea rose more distinctly to their ears, Dora came closer upon them than she intended. The horse started, and his snort seemed to be answered from a distance by a cry. The old woman saw something waving near her, and screamed ; and Dan himself shook with superstitious terror at the very moment that he swore another oath at those who were scared when the echoes were up and awake on a stormy night. "The echoes are up and awake," said Dora, venturing round to her husband's side. "Take care, Dan, that they repeat nothing you would not have heaven hear." As she expected, his anger was now turned on her, for risking her own life and her child's by so perilous a walk. She made no reply, but held by his arm till they arrived at their destination, thankful that he had slackened his pace and moderated his wrath somewhat, as if in consideration of her. They stopped on the extreme verge of the cliff, when Dan desired his wife to hold the horse while he carried her mother home. She was not left for many minutes to conjecture what this home could be. Her husband led her down to a doorless and half- unroofed cabin, placed just so far below the verge of the cliff as to be unseen from the land. Having lodged both the women under shelter, Dan tried to strike a light with a flint and steel he had brought with him; but as fast as the little rush candle was lit, it blew out again, there being no corner of the hovel free from drau tits. There was iaothing for it but to abide in wet, cold, and dark- wtmen expect Sullivan and himself before morning, set off again across the bog. Three hours aftenvards they appeared with another horse, and a heavier load; and, to Dora's disappointment, her husband again left her, not saying this time 'when he should return. Sullivan expressed his belief that Dan's purpose was to Spoil the place as much as passible before morning, and then to hide himself for a time in some such convenient sort of place as he hinted he had thoughts of betaking himself to the next day. No inquiries could get out of him what sort of place that was. Dora spent the rest of the night in mounting front the hut to the cliff; and descending front the cliff to the hut, trying to comfort her mother meanwhile, who lay moaning and peevishly complaining of manifold evils that it was im- possible to remedy. Towards morning, it startled Dora on her watch to per- ceive a bright light burning in the direction of their late abode. She called Sullivan to look at it, who forthwith began to wave his ha: crying, " Ililloo,

hilloo! Dan is the boy in the world to deal with Flanagan. ! Dan, my darling, you've finished the job out of hand ! 'Twill he as good as a year's rent to see the agent overlook the place, let alone the tenant. It's burning—the cabin is, my jewel, and the turf-stack beside it ; and it warms my heart at this distanes!" 66 And Dan—where is Dan, father ?" " 0, the cratur, he'd just stop up the drain, and cut the pig's throat, and throw him into the bog, and see that every thing that he couldn't bring with him is put in the way Of the fire ; and then Ile would set it alight, and neep off some roundabout way to us here." This was exactly what took place : and the device was so much to the taste .of most of the ejected tenants, that the example was followed to a great extent before a sufficient force could be summoned to check this destruction of pro- yerty. For the next three nights, fires were visible here and there in the dark and dreary glen. As fast as the agent and his body-guard galloped from one point of watch to another, a blue arose in their rear; and as soon as they arrived at the scene of destruction, the perpetrators had vanished, and it was too late to do any good. A mocking laugh came, from time to time out of the darkness which surrounded the horsemen, in the intervals of the conflagrations ; but this always happened on spots where the ground on either side the road was not of a kind to be attempted on horseback. In the morning, slain pigs not in condition to be made food of, were found scattered on the road ; houghed horses lay groaning about the fields; and many a poor cow was burned in its shed.

Dan becomes a Whiteboy, and is engaged in the most cruel and lawless enterprises : the rendezvous of his troop of Whiteboys, chiefly consisting of persons driven from the same estate, is near the hovel in which he has deposited his wife and her mother. On returning from one of his expeditions, he repairs to her abode. In his dreary absence, two events have taken place,—the birth of his child and the death of his mother. In this wretched and forlorn spot, his wife has been seized with the pains of childbirth, having no other aid than could be rendered by her old bedridden compa- nion, who dies herself in the struggle. This is the scene that presents itself to the unhappy marauder— He paused outside, leaning against the doorless entrance to watch what was passing within. All was so strange and fearful, that a deadly horror came over Lim, lest the one whom he saw moving about should not he the real Dora, but some spirit in her likeness. She was employed about her mother's corpse, which lay on the bare ground. Her motions were so rapid as to appear almost convulsive. Now she kneeled beside the body, straightening the limbs, and striving in vain to cover it completely with a piece of linen which was too small for the purpose; now she fixed her one rush-light in a lump of clay, and placed it at the head ; DOW she muttered from beneath the hair which fall over her face as she stooped ; and then, leaning back, uttered the shrill funeral-cry with a ve- hemence which brought some colour back to her ashy pale countenance.

" Whisht, whisht !' muttered she impatiently to herself. "I have given the cry and nobody comes. Father Glenny forgot me long ago, and my own father has forgot us; and Dan—I don't know what has been done to Dan, and he tells nobody. He won't forget me long, however." "Forget you, Dora? ' said Dan gently, as he laid hold of her cloak. "Did Ikeep my oath so lone when you lived in your father's cabin in the glen, and shall I forget you now!'" She folded her arms in her cloak with a look of indifference, as she glanced at the bale he carried.

"0, you have brought a sheet, as I was wanting," said site; "but where are the candles? I have but this one; and nothing in the way of a shutter or a door, you see; • and there's no company come yet; so you will have time. Make baste, Dan."

" Shall I bid the neighbours to the wake?" inquired Dan, who thought the best way of gaining her attention was to help her to fulfil first the duties to the dead, which rank so high among social obligations in Ireland.

At a sign from her he threw down his load and hastened to the beach, whence he brought a plank on which to lay the body, candles wherewith to illuminate the bier, and spirits with which to exercise hospitality. He gave notice, at the same time, to his captain and comrades, that when a blaze should be seen on the cliff, and the funeral lament heard, all would be ready for their xeception at the make,—the burning of the bed of the deceased before the door, and the utter- ance of the death-cry, being the customary mode of invitation to the wakes of the Irish poor.

Dan was yet more struck with the death-like paleness of his wife's face when he again joined her. He inquired whether any neighbours had helped her to nurse her mother, and whether her rest had been much broken: but she scarcely attended to his questions. She clapped her hands, as if in glee, at the sight Of what he brought, and seemed altogether so much more like a wilful child, than like his thoughtful and devoted Dora, that the fancy again crossed him that some mocking fiend had taken possession of her form. He asked her, with much in- ternal trembling, whether she bad duly prayed this night? She started, and said she had strangely forgotten herself; and forthwith went through her cus- tomary devotions In a way which, though hurried, was very unlike any which a fiend would dare to attempt ; and Dan was so fin satisfied. "Bring out the bed," said she' pointing to the straw on which her mother had been wont to lie. "While it is burning, I will raise the cry once more, and see if any one will come." _ Dan moved a bundle which lay on the straw, but let it go again in a Tang of horror when the feeble cry of an infant proceeded from it. In an instant he understood all. He took up the child, and placed it on Dora's bosom without saying a word. "0, my child : ay, I forgot it when I forgot my prayers; • but it cannot have been hungry long, I'm thinking. Hold him while I strip offmy cloak that keeps me as hot as if I had a fire burning within me." And she carelessly slipped the babe into her husband's arms.

" 0, Dora!" cried he in a choking voice, "is this the way you give a Child of ours into my arms for the first time?" . She looked at him with perplexity in her countenance, said she knew nothing at all about it, and before he could prevent her, set fire to the straw, and gave the other appointed signal. Up came the company of Whiteboys, crowding round the cabin, rushing to the bier, and exciting Dora more and more every

moment by their looks and their proceedings. She now, for the first time, perceived the peculiarity of her husband's dress. She went from one to another, observing upon the arms they carried, and stopped at last before Dan, who was in earnest conversation with )is captain. "So you have enrolled yourself, Dan ! So you have plighted and pledged yourself to your band since you swore you would wed me only. Much may they do for you that I could not do ! but 0, may they never do you the evil that I would not do ! They may give you clothes these winter nights, when I have nothing warmer at home for you than my own heart. They may find you whisky and lights for the wake, and other things as you want them ; but they will make you pay more than you ever paid to me, Dan. They will take you among snares in the night ; they will set you on other men's beasts to go over bogs where you will sink, and under rocks that will crush you ; they will set you where bullets are flying round you ; they will put a knife in your hand and make you dip your soul in blood. If you refuse, they will burn you and me to- gether within four walls ; and if you agree, they will lead you on to something worse than bogs, or rocks, or a soldier's shot ; they will send you to be set before the judge, and refused mercy, and then—"

"For Christ's sake stop her ! " exclaimed Dan. Ile seized her hands to pre- vent her stripping his Nlibiteboy uniform from his shoulders, as soon as he had given his baby in charge to a compassionate bystander.

"Move the corpse," ordered the captain. "Keep the wake down below, and bring the first woman you can meet with, to tend this poor creature. Clear the cabin instantly."

"Give the word, captain," cried one, "and we'll catch a doctor,--the same that we brought blindfold when O'Leary was murthered almost. We'll whip up horses, and have hint here and home by noon."

"No, no ; not till we see what the women say. Milo°, boys ! bring out the bier, fair and east-, and decent."

Dora's struggles to follow were fierce, and her cries at being kept from this duty heart-sending. No one could effectually quiet her till she had been some hours committed to the care of a matron, who was brought front some invisible place to nurse her. Slowly and sadly she recovered. Some said she was never again the same Dora ; but others saw no further change than the melancholy which was likely to become lived in her by such an experience as hers. She could never recatany circumstances connected with the death of her mother and the birth of her child. She could only suppose, as her husband did, that the old woman's ex- ertions had sufficed for her daughter, and been fatal to herself. Sullivan made his appearance ere long from underground, where he had been engaged in breaking the laws after his own method. He was duly grieved at having been absent from the burial of his wife ; but hoped to atone for the in- voluntary neglect, by devoting his gains at the still to the purchase of masses for her soul.

Dora is afterwards, on her partial recovery, employed by her husband to write a threatening letter; for which offence, and' for perjury in swearing that her hovel contains no arms, though arms are found there on search being made, she is transported for life. The last news we have of her IV biteboy husband is in the following sentences, put into the mouth of his old father-in-law, who is nursing his grandchild, and watching the vessel in which his daughter is sailing into exile, when he is suddenly encountered by his son. He is speaking to the priest, who rides up to inquire if the man he saw taking his departure was not Dan- " You will never see Dan more," said he. "though you may hear much of him. The just and merciful will never see his face again, and he has forsworn his priest. Where he will show himself from this time, it will be in the-dead of the night, with a crape on his face and a pike in his hand. They that have made him mad must put up with a madman's deeds."

"Mad !" cried Tracey.

"He means exasperated," replied the priest. "Dan hoped- to the last to rescue his wife, and the failure has made him desperate."

"I'm alone now in the world entirely," muttered Sullivan, rocking the now wearied infant to sleep. Barring this orphan's, I shall see little of the face of man. It was the face of a devil that bent over us just now. Long may it be before it scares us again." Sullivan said truly, that Dan would henceforth be heard of and not seen by any but the victims of his violence. He who was once the pride is now the scourge of the Glen of the Echoes.