gave to the enclosure a gloom dark almost as of summer midnight, while, to the adventurous eye which lifted a glance to the prouder summit opposite, the rocks and the green forest appeared lighted with the splendour which streamed in slant rays from the descending but yet undimmed luminary of the day. It was a contrast for the meditative, full of solemn warning; on the one side, the virtuous cheerfulness of heaven's light-below, the concealment and gloom in which they must abide who seek forbidden power or counsel.

No such meditations added to the poor mother's terror, while she led her son forward to the awful threshold, at which, for a few moments, both halted. When in obedience to the invitation given by a faint but steady voice, they stood within a clean small room, they found it illuminated by the light of many rush tapers. They could not, nevertheless, distinctly see the face of the weird woman, who sat in the shadow of a projecting chimney, bending over herbs which it appeared her occupation to divide and dispose into separate parcels. She did not leave her guests long ungreeted, but rising into what, from the infirmity of years, was still a stooping posture, and supporting herself on a black staff, crooked at the handle, she replied to the usual Irish greeting-the "God save all here"-in words which, if they did not convey the accustomed response, at least gave proof that she, too, could invoke God and the saints for a blessing.

There was what the gifted author of Calumny Confuted terms "a long pause of expressive silence." It was rather violently interrupted. "Woman of the dark mind," she said, addressing her ambassadress and confederate," you did not spake to me the thrue word. James Morrison, it is not sickness that's upon you, nor the sthrcke from them that can dhraw life out of your body, an' that you can't see nor stand agin. You have not sickness or sore-you haven't an inimy among them that should not hear us spake of 'em,— but you have that in your heart an' on your spirit that's the darkest and the brightest throuble that crosses the young, an' you have an inimy that

VOL. XXXV. NO. CCXIX.

done you the sorest turn ever was done to man, an' you'd give your heart's blood, and you'd bring m ortal sin on your own sowl, before you'd harm the one that hurted you. Go," she continued, rising into more erectness, and pointing with her staff to the door, "go back, Bridget Morrison,go, Judith, keep her company-go out agin to the hill; that must be done an' spoke here this good night, that ears of the living, except my own and this boy's, must never know." It was evident from the wild attitude and the agitated looks and gestures of the young man, that his secret was discovered; and the mother, overcome by the authority of the decrepit sibyl, after a long embrace and earnest recommendation to the keeping of all saints and angels, yielded to her companion's mild constraint, and left her child alone to his awful interview with one that saw more than mortal."

"Stand at the door," said this dreaded diviner, "and tell me when you don't hear any longer the sound of steps, or the shaking of branches."

"They are gone now," replied the listening youth; "there's no more noise about the place than in the sky that's above us."

"Come in, then; make the door fast; an' that little windy—it's open

shet it close, an' dhraw the shetter -there-now make the sign of the cross on the windy, an' on the door, an' come here-bring me the lights."

When her order was obeyed, she proceeded, muttering indistinctly something, half-chant, half-prayer, to extinguish all but one, (the central of a little castellated group of tapers,) which she left still burning-" "Tis not for the likes of men the light was made something a'most as great as sperit was here for every one of thim-an' now that they're dark, they that saw be 'em are departed. There's only one in under the roof with us now-an' that's a thrue friend. Do you see that little hole up high there, where the flower of the elder is growing in to the house-saving it from harm abroad, and sending its blessing to it within? Put the light up therewell, now-bless yourself-sit down there on that chair, an' tell me the thruth-for them that won't be de

2 A

saved are listenin'-tell me the thrue answer to what I ask. It is not knowledge I want-there is not a turn in your life, or a thought in your heart, but it's tould to me; 'tis for your good I spake-for no desaver, an' no consaler, can get the threasure that's kep for the thrue an' the open-hearted."

"Whatever I say," said the poor youth, "I'll spake the thruth; but it isn't out of any hope I'll spake. There's no good before me. What's in me, is in me; an' if you could put it out as easy as you made them lights dark, I rather you tuk the life o' me than that that's in my heart out of it. Wise woman, there never was one before you the same as me -you never were asked to cure him that would rather be in his graveaye, or worse than have his cure: there's nothing for me but to die."

"What do you wish for ?" said the sibyl, perfectly unmoved by the young man's passion and despair.

"What do I wish for? Did you ever hear of one that wished for the shining stars to be brought down to him, an' to have 'em for the lights that his eyes were never to turn from? I might as well tell you that's what I wish, an' it would be as good for me as to be repating my folly."

"An' if it was that itself you tould me-there was them before me, when the world was better, that could do what you desired. Did you never hear of the ould times, an' of them that could bring the stars out of the sky-aye, an' the bright moon-as aisy as I can gather what I want in my arub garden, an' kindle the lights that bring them that have power about me? I can't do such things; but I can do the good you want-an' I can make them that you think as high above you as if they were holy stars, stoop down to folly where you go-an' to come where you call-yes-an' to laive all that are great, an' rich, and fond of 'em -and think it heaven on airth to be in the emptiest an' darkest cabin where James Morrison would say, Welcome. I can do this," said she, and struck her staff repeatedly with vehemence on the ground, and turned her face upwards, as if appealing to some unseen being to confirm her asseverations.

Although "there was no voice, nor any that answered" to the call,

it found a favourable response within James Morrison's heart. The wise woman had convinced him that her power was great. Her knowledge of his secret affliction had strongly affected him, the novelty of his situation was not without its influence; and as he gazed on the withered form of what seemed scarcely to be a habitation for the principle of life, and marked, in the features and colouring of the upturned face, the hue and lineaments of the grave, while in the glazed, the animated eye, there was an energy and expression altogether strange to the relics of mortality in which it was exhibited, like the lights which may be made to gleam dimly through the sockets of the eyes in a skeleton, his thoughts became somewhat be wildered, and for a time he felt the awe of a supernatural presence, and could not collect his faculties. Relieved a little by observing that the mysterious eyes retained their up. ward direction, and did not seek to penetrate his hidden thoughts, recollection returned, and with many interruptions, and much diffidence and confusion, he told his story of love at first sight-a frantic, and, but for the wild expectation of the moment, an utterly hopeless passion.

The sibyl paused for a time as if pondering on the recital to which she had listened. "You spoke well," said she, " an' there's a good day before you-it's a sore an' a strong charm you're under, but there's a stronger that can break it. She has them that can do her bidding wellthat rich girl has-but there's one that can defate them." Thus she spoke, muttering indistinctly to herself; then, in a more soleman tone, she addressed the young man. "What's to be done for your good must never be known while the day has lightand the night that has neither moon or star has darkness with it. You must sware that you'll not be the betrayer of what you are to see an' to share." The young man motioned assent, and she continued, "Sware then, and repate my words, 'be them that can always know the heart, an' the one that laives his light burning, that not to her that's to lie in your bosom, nor to him that has your life in his hands, not when you kneel before the priest to confess your sins,

nor when he stands at your dying bed, opening Heaven to resave you, you'll bethray me in what I do for your good, under that blessed light, and with the help of the one that

owns it.'"

There was a pause-the youth hesitating to become bound by so strict and fearful an obligation, and the old woman awaiting his decision, without an attempt to influence it. "Must I," said he at length, "hide it from the priest? Sure that's like selling my sowl."

"Is my sowl sould ?" replied the crone. "Look, boy-is this the cross I'm signing? Is this the blessing I'm giving myself," touching her forehead, breast, and right and left shoulder, and repeating in Irish, "in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. -Is she sould that can do this? No, boy, there's not a work I do but I have my groans to make for it. If I have my time over them-surely they have their hour an' their revenge. If I bid them come an' help me, an' they come-they burst to me like the storm of wind, when I can't keep them off, an' carry me where their power is too great for me.-Many a sore penance I have to do but the one that can pray to God an' the saints, an' that can sign the cross on the head an' the heartshe is not sould to sin. From the priest-aye-from priest and from Pope-in life an' in death-you must sware to consale what you're to see me doing; an'-if you break the oath -you may be left on airth, a start, for a show an' an example; but it's then you'll be sould in airnest-an there'll be that within you that'll make men dread your looks, an' 'ill give you the sintince of a trimbling heart, antil your day is done, an' you're called away to the place where perjurers an' traitors have their airnings."

A vague expectation, which he could not define to himself, had for some time exercised considerable influence over the youth's mind. He felt too, as if lifted out of the world of ordinary life, and that rules and maxims, by which common things are affected, should not have authority in the region to which he had obtained an entrance. It must be acknowledged also, that the unyielding resolution of the old woman had its

effect upon him, and that the impulse of curiosity had its full force in determining his decision. He repeated the words of the oath, and kept them. What he saw, therefore, and shared in, has not been learned, and the reader must be contented to remain in ignorance of the arts and ingredients with which Vhauria M'Grath composed her philters.

An hour or somewhat more had elapsed from the time when the two friends had left the sage's abode, before, at her summons, they returned. "Widow Morrison," said the sage, "your son has that within him which you must help to cure. It is not death that's come upon him, nor throuble nor sorrow, if you and he are sav'd be them that's knowlegeable to advise you. He see his luck this good day, and there is not a better fortune before the richest in the land. The pride of the Coort-the one that loved you when you were more to her than the mother-she'll love you bether. 'Tis she must be the cure for your boy-'tis the thought of her that ails him, an' 'id take his life if I didn't help him. Never let eye look upon this little charm, antil you give it in what she must dhrink; the boy knows well how you are to give it, an' he'll tell you all."

The poor mother had been partially prepared to understand the nature of her son's affliction. During the hour she remained with her companion on the hill, some indistinct intimations of his state had been afforded her, and she was thus enabled to comprehend fully the meaning of the mistress-magician's allusions. Still her heart revolted at the thought of wronging the child she had fostered. "Is it a dhrench," (such is the rude term by which, in that secluded region of Ireland, a love-potion is designated,)" is it a dhrench I'm to be the mains of giving to the lady-the best lady in the whole country round? Don't put such a work upon me. God defend me, and the Blessed Vergin this night-to make sich a lady as herself laive house and home, an' father-to laive greatness and good-name, an' thravel the world in disgrace for demaning herself to the likes of him!"

And the pride of the nurse for a moment eclipsed the mother's affection.-"Oh don't put it upon me; get the bad blood an' the wrong thought

out of the poor boy, an' if all that I can ever rap an' run will reward you, I'll give it with a will, an' my heart's blood to the back of it."

The old woman fiercely interrupted her. "Am I listening to the foolish talk? What made the blood bad? Answer me that. What put the wrong thoughts in his heartwas it nature was it sinse?-Answer me, woman. Are you the one that knows how the wild notion came into the mind-an' changed the boy-an' made him be to-day what you never saw him before? Go, take him to your house-pray for him, an' cry over him-get the docther an' the priest-don't come-you that doesn't know the heart of a mother-to this place again. Get the bad blood and the wrong thought out of the poor boy-What put 'em in him?-Is it a dhrench for the lady ?-Who gave the sore dhrench to the boy? Oh, it's very red the wine was, was poured out for him!-He must drink to the lady's health-'tis the mother of him that makes it the black dhrinking."

The mother was thunderstruckto think that fairy arts had been practised on her son, and that he must be their victim if she did not retaliate on her foster child. It was too much for her. However, the hysterics and the wild eloquence with which, in the intervals of convulsion fits, she declaimed of her sorrow, ended, as it was not unreasonable to anticipate, in her submission to the old sibyl's orders, and her consent to promise secrecy, and execute her dread commission.

As the party retired the wise wo man glanced a look upon the black stone where the offerings of her votaries had been deposited. "You think this much," said she, "but what is it to what I did for youwhat is it to the penance I must suffer for what I did? Go fast away, now I must prepare for them that'll soon be here-the best of every thing they must have-or I the worst of usage.

Vhauria M'Grath bolted the door when her visitors had departed. She lingered a few moments for the last sound of their receding footsteps, and as she turned from her listening posture and moved towards her chair, another visitant in human form was ready to receive her. She did not

start, or scream, or faint, or betray surprise, although such an appearance as she beheld under her roof might well provoke an exclamation of wonder. It was of a man, mature in years and form, but retaining the ardour and vivacity of countenance and gesture which decay before advancing age. He was of a bold, if not a lofty bearing, his figure active and well-proportioned, and his braided dark-green frock and somewhat picturesque travelling-cap, whose shaggy furniture contrasted effectively with his smooth brow and bright complexion, indicated a not less than dramatic attention to the adornments of his person. His attention was otherwise occupied now. The herbs which had but late made a goodly show, were no longer to be seen on the table-their place was supplied by a cold fowl, a loaf, and a large bottle, with the requisite accompaniment of plates and glasses. The transformation had been effected during the few moments in which the wise woman waited at her door; and when she turned round, it was to see that supper had been arranged, and to receive a smiling invitation to the good cheer prepared for her. She did not, however, partake with her guest except by sympathy; but so far as one could judge from the altered traits of her countenance, and the apparent satisfaction with which she beheld the viands disappear before his spirited and well-sustained assault, this participation was effectual.

"That drawingroom of yours, mother," said the less imaginative feeder, as he copiously diluted with fair water a contribution from the black bottle, "would be rather a chill abode in a black frost; even tonight I should have felt the hole rather uncomfortable while you were deluding these fools, if they had not given me something better than the cold to think of."

His mother interrupted,-" Stop your wild and unruly speech, you poor thoughtless creature, for my sake, if not for the fear of them that's maybe angry at your side."

"Whatever you like best, my poor mother, I'll do or say; none but a brute could vex you now, especially when your knowledge puts me in the way of doing the business I have in hand in the way that will make

my work completest. I might be beating the air for weeks without thinking of any thing half so wise as I learned in that little retreat of yours."

"My dear child, this is a gentle place, and many a thought that poor mortals never could think visits them that's in it. What was it you learned?-may be I can tell you what it mains."

"It means, mother, the readiest way to remove an obstacle."

"An obstacle!-what's that?-Oh aye, something that stands in your way. An' what is it, my dear, is most in your way ?"

"He that's most in the way of those who sent me. You know too much not to know who he is. What do you think of Sir William Elmere?"

"He's, they say, for I never saw

him or his goodness,-the best friend to the poor in the whole country round."

"And, in being so, the very worst foe to the cause. It is his kindness to the poor that has dragged me to this d-d place, where I have nothing to reward me but the sight of you-nothing but faint hearts and forgetting of oaths. Out of the country he must go, or, if he remain -the cause must not suffer." He paused a little, as if in thought, and resumed

MARY awoke later than her usual hour of rising, and hastened to try whether the morning air, and the odours and melodies of the garden, would chase away the disagreeable fancies, which thronged to her remembrance, of the night's alarm. Among the means of distraction, she had not computed the gambols, and attempts at speech, of an uncouthlooking boy, who, in his capacity of gardener's apprentice, had sometimes attracted her notice, and experienced her bounty. His attentions were, on this morning, very embarrassing. Mary was of too gentle and benevolent a nature to pain any thing living. She sought rather to escape from the persecution of her follower, than to command him away; but whenever she came within shadow, however remote from the spot where she had left her strange-looking cicerone, she found him busy, apparently, at his garden toils, but ready to start up for her annoyance the moment she approached him. He had repeatedly endeavoured to allure her into conversation on the beautiful flowers which it had been her delight to attend, but had the tact to perceive that his efforts were vain,-that he spoke to an occupied mind. At

length he abandoned all points, and entered on the subject of which, evidently, his mind was full.

"It's very unaisy I am to spake to your ladyship something one bid me to tell you; an' sure 'twasn't far from being the death o' me when it went be me in the three-the shot I main

just like a knife or a sheers."

Mary started." Were you then in the laurel last night ?-How could you have behaved so ill?"

"Oh, ill or well, there's one that I couldn't say again', desired me to have word wid your own honor last night or this morning, an' not to let mortal living besides yourself know the rights of it. An' I thought I could call you, for I see you at the windy, and when you went away I climbed up on to the three, an' I called you aisy; but I waited-waited on antil I see you coming again to look out

and I was jest going to spake, when I thought it was death was coming over me-there was the beautifullest music ever was heard in the world-didn't you hear it, ma'am?-it makes me thrimble now to think of it, it was so sweet and sthrange. Well, I begin to say my prayers, an' wid that I hear somebody spaking, an' in a moment afther the shot went off, an' the bullet