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THE RUINS OF ST. COMAN'S.

A TRADITION OF THE WEST OF IRELAND.

Many a devout and holy prayer ascended like incense to heaven which was breathed on the altar of the little chapel dedicated to Saint Coman, and many a penitent's vow was registered before that altar, not a vestige of which now remains to be seen. It was desecrated and razed to the ground by Cromwell and his unholy myrmidons, and the only wreck that remains to be seen are two old gothic walls which were situate at either end of the once neat little chapel; and they, too, would have long since crumbled to the dust, were it not for the ivy which every where mantels them and keeps them together; and so closely are they covered, that the traveller passing on the road beside cannot discover a single stone of either walls. The gentle aclivity or slope on which the church of Saint Coman was situate, was ever after its spoliation deemed a hallowed and sacred spot; and all around, and even the part which at one time was the aisle of the church, was converted into a receptacle for the dead. Any person who visits the little church-yard cannot but be struck with wonder and amazement, on beholding the old time-worn head-stones, with the letters altogether effaced, or so nearly so, that on any one of them there are not three lines perfectly legible; the confused manner in which the dead are heaped together; and the neglect and desolation which every where meets the wandering eye. Within the last few years the custom of interring within its precincts has been discontinued; it being so crowded, that in making a new grave, in many cases old coffins, falling asunder, were partially exposed, in order to cover those more recently consigned to the earth. Every step you take you behold the remains of mortality, and graves yawning before you; and in one part of the church-yard might be intended for the receptacle of a family, a part of seen a grave or vault arched over with brick, the end wall of which has fallen in, and exposes to view three or four empty coffins; but what became of their tenants, we must leave our readers to

divine.

Many a tale of thrilling interest, and many a wild legend, is there linked with the little history of Saint Coman's; but never shall the one we are

about to relate be effaced from our memory; both on account of its singular and fearful denouement, and the unhappy fate which attended the hero of our tale.

It was Saint Hallow's-eve that we had occasion to pass the night with Roderic O'Reygan, whose door was ever open to each and every one, who chose to partake of his hospitality; and it was from him, and beneath his hospitable roof, we learned the tale we are about to relate to our readers.

O'Reygan was one of those who come under the denomination of a small farmer, yet living in much more comfort, and possessing much better means, than that class generally do in Ireland. But it was not always so with him: perseverance and untiring industry had made him what he was; and he had good reason to be fully convinced of the truth of the old adage" All is not gold that glitters;" for when commencing his career, a more unhappy prospect, or more unlike

his present condition, he imagined never appeared to any one but himself. But he continued to persevere and buffet the storms of life; and his He had a perseverance was well rewarded. family of four or five children, all young and blooming like his wife. They were seated around the fire-side, after being tired amusing themselves casting lead into water, playing snap-apple, and the usual sports a tendants of Saint Hallow's. By degrees they all slunk away from their innocent sports, and assembled around the fire-side ; and sat listening in wonder and astonishment to the following tale, which O'Reygan related to them, who was ever trying with paternal anxiety to make his offspring happy:

The last of the De Veseys are no more; not one of them remain to uphold that proud rank and title; the last of the name has been long since forgotten, and sleeps with his forefathers in the little church-yard of Saint Coman's. Henry De Vesey was the only son of Lord De Vesey, and heir of Killanamore Castle, the family mansion of the De Veseys-a proud and stately gothic pile of the sixteenth century. But it, like its occupiers, who so often beguiled away the time in its beautiful pleasure grounds and shady walks, who paced its long corridors, and passed through its splended halls, has long since fallen beneath the hand of time, and not a wreck of it now remains to be seen. Henry De Vesey was a profligate and reckless youth; and although he had the name of having fought three successive duels, and escaped unhurt, still it was not courage prompted him to retrieve lost honour. No, honour he had none; he was a base coward and villain of

the blakest die to the inmost core; and it was cowardice and fear of being openly and eternally branded what he really was, prevented him not giving satisfaction to brave and honourable men, whom he injured and insulted.

house of De Vesey was a pure gem, and he looked To his father the unworthy scion of the noble forward to him as the future Lord of Killanauphold the rank and title of his house: but little more Castle, and as one who would honourably did he think that with himself his proud name would be extinct.

With feelings of the most poignant despair and regret, did Matilda Dawson call to mind linked all her misfortunes; to her Henry De Vesey the name of De Vesey. With that name was proved a demon and deceiver of the lowest grade; and it was he who blasted all her happiness, and made her taste of the cup of bitterness, which she Until the fell moment she drained to the dregs. found he had made her his dupe, she was happy; and in almost every thing found something new to create pleasure, until she became intimate with the heir of Killanamore Castle. Matilda Dawson, both in person and manner, was every thing that From a slight could please the imagination. acquaintance the profligate scion of the De Veseys became enraptured with her guileless innocence and virtue; and at length, after innumerable promises and solicitations, he prevailed on her to agree to a clandestine marriage; as he knew, if he openly avowed his intentions, neither his own or Matilda's father would sanction their union. They were married; but, oh, Heavens! what a

By

mockery! He remained with her for a few weeks, and then went to France, under the pretence of staying there for a short period, to avoid, as he said, the consequences of his father's displeasure, as their marriage was known to him. A year passed away, but yet she heard no tidings of him. degrees the once lively and vivacious Matilda Dawson pined slowly away; it was evident the deepest sorrow and anguish racked her inmost soul; misfortunes crowded upon one another; her offspring died (for she was now a mother) for want of proper care and attendance-not that she neglected her duty towards her child, but anxiety, sorrow, and uneasiness prevented her doing it in the manner it should be done. At length she sunk beneath such repeated shocks of fortune; and died of a broken heart; and ere long the reckless De Vesey had the double and damning crime to answer for the breaking the young and innocent heart of Matilda Dawson, and "sending her father's grey hairs in sorrow to the grave." Such was the fate of Matilda Dawson and her father. Such was the fate of the victim of the hardened and licentious De Vesey; and it was thus he blighted the happiness of her, whose virtue and innocence would have been a shield to her, and a protection from any one but the hardened demon who deceived her.

*

About a year after the death of the once beautiful and broken hearted Matilda Dawson, Henry De Vesey was returning from a midnight debauch to Killanamore Castle; it was a dark and fearful night: the distant thunder reverberated through the arched vault of heaven; the forked lightning flashed vividly through the old ruins of Saint Coman's; the rain poured down in torrents; not a single star was there visible, and the moon, except at intervals, was completely hid behind dense masses of hugh black and scowling clouds, moving quickly through the heavens. To reach Killanamore Castle he had to pass the old churchyard of Saint Coman's; and although not one of the villagers was ever known to pass it after midnight, on account of it being generally supposed it was haunted, he had not any dread of passing it, as he was not in the least degree superstitious: and, even if he were, he was in a state which drowned all fear, and prevented him thinking on such a subject. Onward he made his way, until he came within view of the old ruins; the rain continued to pour down incessantly; and to get shelter from the storm, he made his way into the church-yard. The storm continued to increase, and in a few moments a red and lurid glare of lightning shot across the church-yard, and a wild and suppressed shriek was heard rising from the ruins. On the following morning, the body of De Vesey was found in the ruins of Saint Coman's; the features were horribly and hideously distorted; the glaring eye-balls seemed about to start from their sockets; the ghastly features, and distorted countenance showed the unworthy heir of Killanamore Castle died a death of terrifying and horrible despair. The remains of young De Vesey were interred in the little church-yard; he met his well merited fate. But in it there is not a mark or a stone to perpetuate his unhallowed memory.

G. H.

TO INFANCY.

Farewell farewell! thou dawn of lifə,
Whose morning sky was unobscured
With cloudy cares and dark'ning strife,
When sorrow yet was unendured.
The blissful, happy hours have fled,
The days of infancy are gone;
The early dreams of joy have sped,
And with them all their pleasures flown.
Remembered still is every thought

On which a mind unformed could dwell,
Each childish sport which with it brought
A joy none but a child can feel.
To thee will pensive mem'ry stray,

And linger fondly round thee yet, "Til grief, now constant, tears away The wanderer: then, with sad regret, 'Twill turn it from the gladsome scene, Where pleasure purest, unalloyed, Alone in life's drear path have been,

And mourn for infant hopes destroyed,.

M. J. R.

ABSORPTION OF FOOD IN THE STOMACH.-Experiments have been lately made by MM. Sandras and Bouchardat, with a view to ascertain the mode of absorption of the elements of nutrition contained in the principal articles of food used by man or the lower animals. Taking as a basis that soluble aliments are absorbed by the veins, and insoluble aliments by the chyliferous tubes, it remained to be ascertained in what way nature had provided the means of rendering certain aliments soluble, or of separating them to such a degree as to enable them to pass through the chyliferous tubes. MM. Sandras and Bouchardat divided their experiments into two series. one chemical, the other physiologcal. The chemical experiments showed the action which water, slightly acidulated by chloridic acid, exerand the gelatinous tissues. cises upon the fibrine, albumine, caseum, gluten, All these substances enlarge and become translucent, and some of them dissolve. It is sufficient, in order to produce most of those phenomena, to add to 10,000 grammes of water, 6 grammes of hydrochloric acid; but it was found necessary, in order completely to dissolve the fibrine, to add a few drops of rennet. Hydrochloric acid, therefore, is not the sole dissolving agent in the gastric juice; the animal matter, called pepsino, or chymosine, must also be present. This being admitted, it appears probable from the experiments of MM. Sandras and Bouchardat, that neutral azoted animal substances, when once dissolved in the stomach, pass directly into the veins. This is the case with gluten. Starch and fecula are wholly or partially converted into lactic acid in the stomach, and are absorbed in this form. Neither starch nor sugar is found in the chyle during a course of feculent alimentation, Greasy substances resist the action of the stomach, and pass into the intestinal canal, where they form a sort of thick cream; and at the same time the chyle, under their influence, devecapable of rendering them milky and opaque. lopes itself in extraordinary abundance in globules According to MM. Sandras and Bouchardat, therefore, greasy substances are the main agents in the production of chyle, so necessary for the process of digestion.

ENTOZOARIES IN THE BLOOD OF A DOG.-Animal

life has been discovered in the blood of a dog. There has hither to been no well-authenticated case of such phenomenon in warm-blooded animals, excepting birds. The presence of animal life in the blood of cold-blooded animals, particularly frogs, however, is common.

THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

The Anglo-Saxon tongue, though scarcely to be considered in the light of old English, is yet the stock upon which all changes and improvement have been engrafted, in order to produce the language which we now speak. This branch of the Teutonic family, was perhaps the earliest spoken European language that was employed in the services of literature. Alfred exerted all his energies, and used all his influence to make the study of his native tongue universal throughout his own dominions, and so far as it lay in one man's power, he succeeded; but his successors, mostly under the yoke of a foreign hierarchy, and sunk deep into sloth or superstition, neglected to nourish the tree which he had planted, and which had already, under the care of his fostering hand, produced good fruit.

During the age preceding the Norman settleinent, the Saxon had degenerated into a barbarous jargon, unfit for the higher purposes of literature; in fact, we possess but few writings in the language of this period, except some rude chronicles composed in (what was then called) rime; a peculiarity of verse, it must be observed, very different from the modern rhyme, for it did not employ like sounding syllables at the end of certain lines; indeed, it is somewhat difficult to discover in what these rimes were distinguished from prose, as they do not appear to have been measured off into a definite number of syllables: perhaps, after all, the only difference is a greater pomp and dignity of style, producing what in the present day would be called poetical prose. There was, however, one distinguishing characteristic which marked the Saxon poetry, which is almost, if not entirely, unknown to modern metre; and this was alliteration, or the repetition of the same letter at the beginning of two or more words in the same line, which letter serves as the initial in the marking word of the next line. This peculiarity, which, indeed, would seem to be fully as defensible as that of rhyming endings, is by no means unpleasant when skilfully executed, and even a modern ear soon becomes accustomed to it. Alliterative verse was common to most of the Celtic and Gothic nations, and was, moreover, peculiar to their literature. Rhyme would appear to have been the invention of the Norman minstrels, and was unknown in England before the Conquest. The earliest instance we have of it is in a few lines of the Saxon chronicle commemorative of the death of William the Conqueror.

Such was the condition of the Anglo-Saxon language and literature in England during the eleventh century; and the subsequent introduction of the Norman French among the higher classes at first, and afterwards among the whole people, is very distinctly marked. The connexion between the two nations was first formed in the time of Ethelred.

We find that ideas of every-day life, which men are in constant use of, are expressed, even to the present day, by genuine Saxon words, whereas words of French extraction are almost entirely used to express what may be called extraordinary ideas, either abstract, and not of frequent occurrence, and of whose form, consequently, men are not so tenacious, or such as may be supposed to

have been peculiar to the Norman or upper classes, as, for instance, terms of war and of the law. And although, in numberless cases, words, though of French origin, appear in a Saxon shape, it will not be easy to discover any example of the converse. Indeed, this was the fate of nearly all the Norman words introduced into the English during the earliest stages of its existence. The writers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries afford abundant evidence of words originally quite French, taking in a short time a Saxon form and termination: thus the word batayl giided into battle; partye became part: verament changed to verily. Such mutations are rarely made but from a foreign into the native form of speech, and would certainly lead us to believe that they were made by a Saxon tongue. If the early English represent the imperfect attempts of a Norman to speak English, yet, at least, the children of these, being taught the same language, would not preserve the defects of their fathers, but would speak as good Saxon as the rest of the people; in the same manner as the child of a modern Frenchman, born and brought up in England, speaks the language of the country as well as an Englishman.

It appears also from history, that the English language was formed, and more unmixed Saxon entirely disused, before the upper classes ceased to speak French; and they do not appear to have corrupted it in any way, but to have left it off at once. The English writers before Chaucer, (except those whose works were professedly for the illiterate) composed in French, not at all different from that of their continential neighbours, while English (as distinguished from mere Saxon) had been commonly spoken and understood for a century before his time.

The English language arose, progressed, and was formed during the thirteenth century; for if we compare what Layamon of Ernleye wrote towards the end of the reign of Henry the Second (who died 1189) with what Robert of Gloucester produced in the time of Edward the First, (who died 1307,) we shall find, that while the former wrote in unmixed though very barbarous Saxon, the chronicle of the latter is composed in the same language as the Canterbury Tales, and is very nearly as intelligible to a modern reader.

It was, at some period between Layamon of Ernleye and Robert of Gloucester-that is, during the thirteenth century—that the English language was formed; and this circumstance may be satisfactorily accounted for by the great national events of that age.

It must be borne in mind, that previously to the reign of John, the king of England possessed vast territories on the continent; in fact, the dominions of Henry the Second in France more than doubled those at home. In consequence, the greater part of his nobility were Frenchmen, not only by extraction, but also by birth and education, and would of course give the fashion and tone to those of their own class in England, who were of the But when John lost his same race as themselves. foreign provinces, he lost his foreign barons at the same time; and the next age saw the nobility, now excluded from the society and influence of their transmarine cousins, begin to mingle more freely and cordially with their countrymen. In this reign

did the barons, almost for the first time since the death of Harold, think and act like Englishmen. They stood forth to oppose their tyrannical and headstrong sovereign, in the name, not only of their own order, but of Englishmen. And when, by their perseverance, the great Charter was wrested from John at Runnymede, in 1215, every denomination of subject, from the noble to the serf, was included in that declaration of rights.

The parliament of 1265, in the succeeding reign of Henry the Third, was the first wherein any other than the great crown vassals sat. Indeed, it was the first which can properly be called a parliament, in the modern acceptation of that term, by which is understood a representative assembly; for hitherto the great council had been composed only of those who immediately held their tenures from the sovereign, and who were called upon to furnish aid to their suzerain when required by him; just as the barons themselves held their courts of their own vassals. Whatever may be thought of these great events, they are at least sufficient to show that a stronger sympathy now existed between the Norman and Saxon people; and to them we must, in a great measure, attribute the union of the two races, and of their languages; for the distinction between Saxon and Norman was fast vanishing, and English taking the place of both.

The people had now dropped their Saxon, and used English; the higher classes also understood this language, but continued for some time to speak French among themselves; and Chaucer furnishes us with evidence that it continued to be spoken even so late as his time, by the refined or affected in London, in his Canterbury Tales, where he draws a sarcastic line of distinction between the French of Paris and of Stratford le Bow. Edward the Third, in 1360, gave the last and the effective blow to the French language in England, by abolishing in an express statute (36 Edw. 3) the use of it in the courts of law: the reason assigned is, that the French tongue was "much unknown in the realm;" and the object he had in view was to become popular with the burgher representatives, from whom he was obliged to draw large supplies to further his designs against France; and, at the same time, he wished to eradicate any remnants of French that might still exist among his chief subjects, and thereby to estrange them from any sympathy with his foes.

Afterwards, when English became the language of the whole country, it would be natural to expect that the upper classes would retain more French in their discourse than the people, who rather inclined to the Saxon; and this is accordingly found to be the case.

The productions of the English writers before Chaucer were of a very barbarous nature; the greater part were chronicles translated from the French or Latin, and intended for those uneducated persons who were unacquainted with these languages. The possibility of an elegant or wellfinished work appearing in English, was never imagined by any one before Chaucer. This great poet began his literary career by translating, not from the French, as his predecessors had done, but from a much purer source, the Italian-then the only European language which could boast

of great writers. He proposed to himself Boccaccio as his model. One of his earliest works, The Book of Troilus and Creseide,' was an imitation of Boccaccio's Filostrato. Of his other writings, many were translated from the Italian. Perhaps his only original work is that by which he is best known, the much admired Canterbury Tales; and even here, many of the tales are copied from other authors, and the plot itself is of a similar nature to Boccaccio's Decamerone. But the humorous tales, which are chiefly original, are unmatched in their kind, and vastly superior to any thing in the Decamerone. Since his

Chaucer fixed the English language. time, it has undergone but few changes, and those of an unimportant nature. They who will make allowances for his antiquated orthography, and quaint expressions, will meet with but few words which they do not understand; and when they have taken the pains to master these trifling difficulties, they are surprised that their own language is the same as Chaucer's " English undefiled."

Athenæum.

THOU WAST NOT THERE.

I stood within the festive hall,
With aching heart and vacant air;
What was it caused a tear to fall,
When all around seemed bright and fair?
Thou wast not there!

Soft music caught my list'ning ear;
Its sounds of mirth it seem'd to borrow;
And as I struggled not to hear,

Why was my heart so filled with sorrow?
Thou wast not there!

I join'd the gay and happy throng
Upon the ocean's "sparkling tide ;"
My sad heart echoed not their song;

It seem'd as if each note had sigh'd

Thou wast not there!

As o'er the moonlit waves we flew,

My bosom felt a glow of peace; For thou didst share its bright beams too, But then I felt my grief increaseThou wast not there! Yes! in each festive hall and bower, My wandering thoughts are turned to thee; And when alone each lingering hour, This simple thought can sadden me― Thou wast not there? E. A. K

NEWSPAPER REPORTERS.-What most extraordiral-I mean English newspapers! Surely if there be nary men are these reporters of newspapers in geneany class of individuals who are entitled to the appellation of cosmopolites, it is these. The activity, energy, and courage which they occasionally display in the pursuit of information, are truly remarkable. I saw them during the three days at Paris, mingled with canaille and gamins behind the barriers, whilst the mitraille was flying in all directions, and the desperate cuirassiers were dashing their fierce horses against these seemingly feeble bulwarks. There stood they, dotting down their observations in their pocket-books, as unconcernedly as if reporting the Finsbury Square; whilst in Spain, several of them proceedings of a reform meeting in Covent Garden or accompanied the Carlist and Christino guerillas in some of their most desperate raids and expeditions, exposing themselves to the danger of hostile bullets, the inclemency of winter, and the fierce heat of the summer sun,-Iorrow's Spain.

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THE MANIAC.

Alas! that penury and crime
So oft go hand in hand;
Alas! that penury pervades,

And crime defiles our land.
Alas! that reason's still small voice
Is lost in passion's roar;

And wretched man should perpetrate
The deed I now deplore.

At early morn his maiden sword

On Bleueeim's plain was bright,
But red blood stain'd its brilliancy
Before the fall of night.

And still with Marlboro' on he trod
The fields of victory,

Till humbled Louis sued for peace
Upon his bended knee.

Hurra! hurra! the bonfires blaze!
The Gallic war is o'er ;
The victors quit the conquer'd land,
And seek their native shore.
Farewell the pride and pomp of war ;
Farewell its bright array :

He now subsides in humble life,
A major on half-pay.

But scanty was the pittance giv'n
A living to supply;

And when he view'd his children two,
The tear stood in his eye.

He sunk in listless apathy,

And when his wife would speak, "Oh! mention not their fate," he'd cry, "Or else my heart will break. "Poor younglings, darlings of my heart, Dear as its warmest blood, How can I bear to see them pine, And cry for want of food!"

He sunk upon his wretched couch,
With misery opprest;

The body slept-but horrid dreams
Denied the spirit rest.

He dreamt two forms in strange array
Were stationed at that bed;

A reverend friar at the foot;
Sathanus at the head!

"Despairing man, lift up thy soul
To him above the sky;
There's grace and mercy still in store,
There's aid and succour nigh!"

So spake the priest. The fiend advanc'd
With noiseless step more near,
And bending o'er the slumb'rer's head,
Thus whisper'd in his ear-
"Aye, go and pray, and supplicate,
And own thy wretched fears;
The wind that scatters wide thy pray'r,
Will also dry thy tears!

"Go, train thy sons to glorious war,
To laugh at steel and shot;
They will not fall in battle-field;
Look, and behold their lot!"

He turned, and saw a crowded street;
Ten thousand forms were there;
grated prison rose in front,
A gallows in the rere.

"Dost thou behold!" he whisper'd still;
They'll have no earthly tomb;
Now nerve thy arm, and steel thy soul,
Thou canst prevent their doom.
"There is no place of future pain,

Nor place of future bliss ;

Go ask that bald and craven priest,
If he can gainsay this?

"The dead repose in silent graves,
From pain and care aloof;
Yon priesl will say it is not so,
But can he shew thee proof?

"Then nerve thy arm, and steel thy heart,
And be thy courage shewn ;

Avert their ignominious fate,

And shield thee from thine own.
"Thy sword is rusting in its sheath,
Thy pistols mould'ring lie;

Up, man, and do what honour bids,
Or live in infamy!"

He started from that fearful dream,
But friar and fiend were flown,
Like mist before the viewless wind,
And he remain'd alone.

The cold sweat hung upon his brow,
Like beads of morning dew.
"Oh! save me, Heav'n!" he kneeling cried,
"My wife and children too."

A wild unearthly voice then rang-
"Why wish the youths to save ?

To see them load a gibbet tree,
And fill a felon's grave?"

He rush'd, fiend driven, to the spot
Where the death-weapons lay;
He loaded both with deadly store,
And then was heard to say-
"Come, Frederick and Adolphus, come,
Begin your exercise,

And learn the art of glorious war,

By which you are to rise."

"Oh! father, you look very ill;

Your cheeks are wan and pale: Let's go and call our mother dear,

She'll know what 'tis you ail."

"No, boys-'twill pass-take each your place, And do as I desire;

Your weapons hold with steady hand,

And wait for the word fire!"

With arm and foot advanc'd, the boys

The levell'd pistols held,

And look'd on each with smiling eye,
When "FIRE!" the maniac yell'd.
True fell the hammer on the steel,
True blaz'd the hidden fire:

He saw before his blood-shot eyes
The lovely boys expire!

Their mother at the sound rush'd in;
One look-one shriek-she gave,
And sank in death with those she lov'd,
But came too late to save.

He drew his sharp and war-stain'd sword,
And plung'd it in his breast;
But who can say that by that deed
He was consigned to rest?

His cursed grave is on the road
Diverging from Clontarf;

And there, 'tis said, at midnight hour,
The demons sport and laugh.

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