"They are before you- Voltaire,' Rosseau,' 'Goethe Shelley' and Byron' are little better; the rest, the most dangerous, are within your own brain, are raging in your own heart."

"Vain, foolish imaginings, air-built castles, phantom bays, won by nothing," she continued, after a pause; "nameless phrenzy and wild enthusiasm, these are the materials from which you expect to gather a deathless fame. Charles, remember no murderer shall inherit the kingdom of heaven." She laid her hand upon the dagger, as she said, in a warning voice"Beware of eternal misery.'

Charles stood abashed before that weak girl; he covered his face with his hands; when he took them away, she was gone.

Had Kate remained near him, he would have been saved from himself. Kate, the thoughtless Kate, had grown at once a wise, faithful monitor. What a strange thing is this love! how it changes the foolish into wise, and often the wise into fools, and makes the coward brave, and the very miser liberal! How strange was the transformation of Kate in five short months! But the truth is, long before Kate and Charles met on the banks of the Lough, she learned to think and that deeply learned, did I say?-nay, thought was innate with her, no matter what Mr. Locke may say against the doctrine of innate ideas, She also learned to read and know the heart of her wild wayward cousin; and although she saw much to be loved, she also saw much to be feared in him. Day after day, she watched him, and trembled for him, but could never summon sufficient courage to tell him all she feared, or to warn him of his danger, until she overheard his strange wild soliloquy on that day, when he gave loud vent to his burning thoughts. 'Tis true, he never spoke to her on the subject of his yearning after fame, but she gathered sufficient from some notes on his favourite authors, and verses which he had written, and she had seen, to make her believe he was heaping fuel upon a fire within his breast which would one day consume him to ashes.

Several conversations afterwards took place between them, in which his faithful mistress endeavoured to show him the folly of his schemes and thoughts, and the utter impossibility of his succeeding in the course he had marked out for himself, and the dangerous effects which the intemperate perusal of his German, French, and Italian authors had upon his mind. At first he listened to her with a smile of pity upon his handsome lips: but by degrees he learned to examine his own heart, and was forced to acknowledge that some of Kate's accusations were but too true. By her advice he changed his studies to works of a more serious and reasonable kind, and he found himself a wiser and a better man-if we call a boy of eighteen by such a name. But, alas! his maiden mentor was about to be taken from him. Her mother gave it as her reason for leaving Ashfield, that on account of the increasing delicacy of her health, the winters of this country would be too severe for her, therefore she would return again to Brussels, ere that inclement season set in; but the truth was, she watched with no kind eyes the failings of poor Charles, and, being both cunning and selfish, she came to the conclusion that he would be anything but a desirable husband for her child. To bring Kate to some place where she would be likely to forget him, and to form an engagement with some other person who was more worthy of her hand, was the sole cause of her returning to the continent at this time.

About three weeks after the time when Kate and Charles had those conversations alluded to above, the latter was startled by the entrance of Kate into the library one morning while he was reading there. Her eyes were red with weeping, and the tears still trickled fast down her cheeks.

"Kate, my own sweet love, what ails thee now? why those tears? Come, dry them up, and tell me from what cause they flow."

He entwined his arms around her slender waist as

he inquired. She hid her face in his bosom as she sobbed

"We are going to part; mamma is going to Brussels again.'

Alas! poor Charles, this was a heavy blow to him; the first real sorrow he ever felt in his life. "Tis very, very bitter to part even for a time with those we love. To see them not-to hear them not-to miss their beloved form, smile to hear not their words of affection-to have them not to speak to-'tis bitter; but not as bitter as-what?-deceit. That is the gall in life's cup-the two-edged swordthe thorn in the side-when we love, fondly, faithfully, friend or mistress, for whom we would gladly labour, suffer, bleed, die-for whom our first best prayers are offered, to whom we turn as the needle to the pole-from whom we look for, are entitled to a return of love, advice in difficulties, assistance in need, consolation in suffering, protection in danger, but only find deceit. This has made robbers, murderers, suicides, seducers, misers, and broken hearts. Away, fiend, to hell! thou was born there.

Too well did Charles know the non mutatus nature of Mrs. Morley's decisions to attempt to change her in this.

"We shall meet again, Kate," he said; "at least in three years. I shall then be of age, to claim my promised bride. When do you go?"

To-morrow morning."

So soon, Kate! this is a dark thread in the web life-the first in mine." "And the last, I hope."

No, Kate, not the last; there is that within me that says, all that is bright in that web shall be changed dark, dark as the raven's wing." She shuddered.

་་

Kate," he continued, "forget me; if you link your fate to mine, I fear you will not be happy." "Do you intend to forget me?"

He led her to the window-the sun was shining bright in the cloudless sky.

"Do you see that bright sun, Kate? Those eyes shall look their last on its glory when you shall be forgotten by me."

"And I, Charles, shall receive no more warmth from its beams when I cease to love you." "Enough! I can now bear my fate." Neither sought any private conversation with each other after this.

At day-dawn the next morning the old heavy family chariot received Mrs. Morley and her daughter, who departed for Belfast, where they were to take shipping for London, and from thence to the continent. Kate felt chagrined that Charles was not present to bid her farewell. After they gained the road, she perceived through the carriage window the tall form of her cousin, as he stood on a declivity near to which the carriage must pass. When the old coachman perceived his young master, just as he arrived opposite to him, he was about to stop; but Charles waved his hand for him to go on. Kate saw at once from the disordered state of his dress that he was abroad all night. She burst into tears; he saw her do so; he raised his hat as she passed by, and stood uncovered until a turn in the road hid the carriage from his streaming eyes; he turned to go home. Having reached the house, he went to his room; he threw himself upon the bed, exclaiming at the same time— "The sun of my life is set for ever!"

It might have been about six or eight months after the incidents related above, that too gentlemen were seated together in a house in a fashionable street in

Dublin. It was after dinner. The wine was old and of the very best quality which was placed before them; but it would be evident, even to a casual observer, that something of more consequence than their wine occupied their attention at the present moment. "So you say you have been only three days in Dublin, and already lost two thousand pounds?" said the junior of the two.

"Such is the case, Mr. Closefist, and I want to know if you will give the ten thousand pounds for the property or not?"

"Tis full five hundred a year; no annuities or anything of that sort?"

None, Mr. Closefist. Will you give the money?" "I am not to get the property till after your death?" "Not a stick of it till then.'

44

All! Mr. Closefist."

Well, Mr. M., the money is yours as soon as the papers can be got ready. Are your debts very heavy?" "I only owe debts of honour. A thousand to Lord Crow, another to Mr. Raven; two to Sir Harry Hawke;" and on he went enumerating debts to the amount of seven thousand pounds, all contracted by play; play, that damning vice-that beggar-makerthat crusher of all that is noble, lovely, and good in the human heart-that destroyer of domestic peace. What would the world call this man--what punishment would the human laws inflict on him? I take a pistol and present it at the head of my fellow man, and cry-stand-your purse or your life. I am taken and condemned to a fate, even worse than death. But here is one who robs his child of his birthright; who at his death turns him out a beggar, and he is not only not punished, but is even permitted to do this by human laws.

Alas! poor Charles, thy father is thy greatest foe. For months after the departure of Kate, Charles was bent to the earth by sadness; but time, that infallible physician of human suffering, lifted up his heart and his eyes, but it was only to fix them on the dangerous mount to which few can ever ascend the mount of fame. He dreamt; he wrote; he chose the sea for his subject, on which to write a poem that should astonish the world. Having it almost finished, he placed it triumphantly in the hands of a nautical friend, upon whose judgment, even Charles set some value, for Captain Adams' literary attainments and taste were felt and respected by him. Poor Charles-his dismay may be better conceived than told, when his blunt sailor friend told him, however good the language, however smooth the verses of his poem might be, yet it was all nonsense.

"Look at this verse, my young friend," said Capt. Adams; "in speaking of the ocean in a storm, you have

It swept the moon with its raven wings.' Now, my dear boy, the sea never sweeps the moon at all, and, in a storm, the tops of the billows are crested with white foam. And again, in speaking of the ship which is tossed on the waves in this wild night, you have

She rushed to where the wild blast blew.'

Now we always scud before it when it blows that way, if we have plenty of sea room; and, if not, we beave the ship too. I would advise you to give up this sort of thing; you do not understand it; and if you must write poetry, take up some subject you do understand. Good morning, Charles."

His poem-the labour of months-the first hour of

his fancy and brain-the first step to the high pinnacle of fame, was thrust into the flames. He caught up the poker and thrust it deep into the fire. 'Twas well for Captain Adams that he was not before the almost frenzied Charles, as he glanced upon the dying embers of his darling treasure. Months passed away after the circumstance related took place, before Charles again took up his pen. When he did, his subject was "Waterloo." Having finished his poem, he sent it to a well-known publisher in London ; a month elapsed before he had heard anything from that personage; at the expiration of that time he received his MS. and a polite note, in which Mr. Page was very sorry that he was unable to publish Mr. W.'s poem, and (if he was asked) he might offer an opinion, he thought Mr. W. not likely to succeed in that line." With fear and trembling, he rode over the next morning to the residence of Colonel B., who not only had fought at Waterloo, but had also a high character in the country for talent in many departments of literature, poetry among the rest, and was, beside, a kind and benevolent man. After having perused the poem, he told Charles that the battle which he described was no more like that of Waterloo than of Clontarf. This was too much anguish for Charles to suffer in body as well as in mind; a fever seized upon him; a brain fever too, and he narrowly escaped with his life. His poor mother watched him night and day, but a heavy cold caught, in the discharge of her tender duties, was the harbinger of a consumption, which defied the skill of medical aid, and which in a few months brought her to the grave. The loss of his mother had a greater effect in awaking Charles to the realities of human existence than anything that ever occurred to him before. He was alone in the world; his father and he had no thoughts, feelings, or tastes that bore the slightest resemblance to one another; consequently, his mind and heart turned with painful fondness to Kate, and the time when she should become his bride. They corresponded with each other regularly, from the time she left him for another land; her letters were full of affection, warning, and advice.

"My betrothed!" she wrote at this time, "how much must you suffer for the loss of your dear mother; would I was near you to console you under this great trial; but my mother is determined no to leave the continent until the time comes when we are to be united: you know how impossible it is to change her determination; we are at Geneva, and

'Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face;'

but neither it nor the tomb of Julia Alpinula, nor the gloomy turrets and towers of the castle of Chillon, now fast mouldering to decay, and made immortal by the pen of Byron, can win me from the grief I suffer from my own Charles; but remember_" Les amertumes sout en morale ce que sont, les amers en medicine.”

This letter was balm to the wounded heart of poor Charles.

In the course of a few months his father again relapsed into his old habits of play, and even to a greater extreme than before the death of his wife. All his money was lost, and he retired into the country with feelings which cannot be described. He now for the first time was haunted by remorse for his base conduct towards his son. What if he should die before the marriage of that son with Kate Morley? Alas! he knew that his sister would never consent to their union, were Charles a beggar. If she came to hear that he had sold his property to Closefist, the consequence would be the same.

These thoughts,

all too late, haunted the wretched man like so many fiends: he fled the society of his fellow man shut

himself up in his chamber, and confined himself to his bed, without any illness save that which preyed upon his mind and what disease is like that of the heart? what agony, what pain, like that of remorse? Ah! little does the man of crime-no matter what his rank, riches, or honours-know of peace; hell is already raging within, burning and devouring up every pleasure in its very bud. The recollection of his former innocence adds fuel to the flame, and he would willingly purchase a year, a little year, of his boyhood's innocence and joy, with all his rank, riches and honours.

It only wanted six months of the time when Charles and Kate were to meet to part no more in this world, save by death, when the former entered the bedroom of his father, who had never left his bed for four days before.

"Father, dear father," begun his affectionate son, "you must let me send for Dr. M., as I fear you are very unwell."

"No, Charles, my disease defies the doctor's skill; 'tis in my heart.'

"My mother is now long dead, sir, and my grief has yielded to time; why not yours?"

"The young tree bends to the blast, Charles, that prostrates the old oak in the forest."

Oh!

Charles was deeply touched by the tone of utter misery with which his father expressed that simile; he fell upon his knees at his bed side, and took his parent's hand in his own, and bathed it with his tears. "Father-my dear, dear father," he exclaimed, "do not thus resign yourself to hopeless grief. do not make me mourn for you now more than I do for her that is gone. Rise from this bed of sorrow and I will strive to charm away your grief, and bid you hope and enjoy again. There is a bright world without, father, and ten thousand things to bring back the happiness you have lost. Rise, father, rise; we shall be happy again. Come with me to the woods and to the lough; in the first, the spring's new creation bursting into life shall bring forth, in your sorrowful heart, new buds of bliss which in time shall bring forth much fruit. Rise, sir, and come, or you will make me even more wretched than yourself."

Mr. M. hid his face under the clothes, and groaned in the agony of his soul. This love, anxiety, and grief for him, manifested by his son, was too much even for his heart.

"Leave me, Charles, leave me," he gasped out, "in an hour I shall do what you desire; leave me, leave me now-quick, quick."

Charles obeyed him. When he did, the wretched man gave free vent to the feelings that in his breast raged like a tempest through a wintry sky.

66

And is this the son," he burst forth, "whom I have robbed of his heritage? is his the heart against which I have launched a spear that may wound him even unto death ?-is it him I am about to crush, whom I have crushed, even as a serpent the dove? I made a beggar of him-my only, my noble child. I will not live," he continued, as he became phrenzied by his passions. "My pistols, and I soon shall

He was in the act of springing from his bed with the intention of putting his threat into execution, when he fell back upon the pillow; he gasped as if for airshuddered; a moment he seemed to writhe in agony; his whole frame became convulsed, and a torrent of blood rushed from his mouth, nose, and ears.

"O! God, have mer-"

He could not finish the sentence; the blood stopped his utterance. He raised himself upon his elbow, fell back, and expired.

A servant who had been passing his master's bedroom after Charles left it, hearing him speak, stopped, thinking that he might be calling for something. When he heard him mention the word pistols,

he ran down stairs and told Charles what he had heard. Swift as the lightning the latter flew to the chamber of his father, and bursting open the door, beheld him weltering in his blood and quite dead. Alas! poor Charles, he was an orphan and a beggar. (To be continued.)

THE GARDEN OF LIFE.

As thro' the garden of life we stray,
Where infant blossoms greet the spring,
And the vernal sun, with genial ray,

Expands their petals with his wing;
We there the tenderest stems behold,
And purest drops of crystal dys
Bespangle the native wooldand wold,
And bathe the flowers as they rise.
The flow'rets nurtured by the showers,
Shed by the arch of varied hue,
Blush into fragrant rosy flowers

To sip the sweets of morning dew.
How happily now they blush and bloom,
Spreading their leaves to summer's sun;
Shunning the shadowy cloud of gloom,
Till their season of joy be run.

Yet, alas! too soon the blighting blast

Of withering autumn spreads decay, And hurries them on to death at last, In winter's dull and cheerless way. For, oh the flowers which rose in spring, And bloom'd when summer's sunbeams burned, Have flown on Time's all-senseless wing, And are to silent dust returned.

F.

THE ALLIES IN PARIS.-Nothing more strikingly marked the incongruous host that filled Paris in 1814 than the different guards of honour which were mounted at the several hotels where officers and generals of distinction resided. At one door might be seen the tall cuirassier of Austria, his white cloak falling in heavy folds over the flank and haunches of his coal-black horse, looking like some Templar of old; at another the plumed bonnet of a Highlander fluttered in the breeze, as some hardy mountaineer paced to and fro, his grey eye and stern look unmoved by the eager and prying gaze of the crowd that stopped to look upon so strange and singular a costume; here the impatient schim of some Hungarian hussar pawing the ground with restless eagerness, as his gay dolman slashed with gold glittered in the sun. The jager from Bohemia-the deadly marksman with the long rifle; the savage Tartar of the Ukraine, devouring his meal on his guard, and turning his dark suspicious eye around him, lest every passer-by might mean some treachery-all denoted that some representative of their country dwelt within. Nor were the horse men less dissimilar. The stately Prussian, with his heel aplomb beneath his elbow; the Cossack, with short stirrups, crouched upon his horse's mane; the English horse artillery-man powdering along with massive accoutrements and gigantic steed; the Polish light cavalry soldier, standing high in his stirrups, and turning his restless eye on every side-were all subjects of curiosity and wonder.-Dublin University Magazine.

POPULATION. Supposing the earth to be peopled with 1,000,000,000 of inhabitants, and allowing 33 years for a generation, the deaths of each amount to 30 millions of each day to 32,000, and of each hour to 3,416. But, as the number of deaths to the number of births is as ten to twelve, there are born yearly, 36,000,000-daily, 98,630-and hourly, 4,109. Out of every 1,000, it is computed, there die annually 30; and the number of inhabitants of every city and country is renewed every thirty years.

That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak !
It cried-
MARSDEN.

It was a cold stormy night in the month of November, 1818; the howling winds were whistling across the mountain side, ever and anon sweeping small showers of sleet before it, which, at intervals, patted heavily against the small window-panes of the comfortably situated dwelling of Paddy Doyle, an apparently respectable farmer in the town of Killalongford. But, notwithstanding the rage and roar of the boisterous element without, which often threatened to overturn the whole fabric from the foundation, there was a scene of unusual bustle and festivity amongst the smiling company which graced the interior on this memorable night. Seated in a reclining posture, by the fire side, was Paddy himself, who eyed the happy children with intense interest as they plied their whole energy at a large churn of milk which stood in the centre of the floor, while the joke, song, and legendary tale went round the whole, with that mirth and buoyancy so peculiar to the peasantry of our Isle. It is not an unusual occurrence in this part of the county Carlow to see such a sight; and, as the task was performed periodically, generally once or twice a week, hands were not wanting to share in the sport, and lighten the work; as the gorsoons and colleens all assembled for that purpose at the regular hour, who were subsequently regaled with a sample of the delicious butter they assisted to churn, with large fragments of homely bread, when their labour was concluded. As they were vieing with each other at every stroke, the churning was going on to the good woman's satisfaction-the butter already began to appear; when, to the utter disappointment of the expectant throng, the head of the dash broke into pieces in the hands of one of the eagerest of the assembly.

teen,

had

"Here, Larry," said the good woman to her eldest boy, a youth who had just attained the age of sevenrun down as fast as yer legs can carry ye to Brien Dolan's, for a loan of their dash-make haste a mock, an' don't have the butter coolin'; let me see now how soon yer back, an' I'll promise to give ye the biggest print of the whole of thim. That's my son,

avick."

"Bud, Larry," interposed the youngsters, think

* Banshee, derived from Bhean, woman; She, a fairy-i. e., the fairy-woman. Although this is the literal signification, yet, the peasantry do not believe them to belong, in the slightest degree, to the regions of Faery, but consider them as some of their own immediate relatives, who erst resided, perhaps, on the very place they cry over. And unless they were

in some manner connected with the folks living on the earth, we see no reason why they should appear, with such tokens of sorrow and distress, at the demise of any human being. And the representing them as bearing a striking similitude to the families they deplore, as in the present instance, where the bow (as they call her in those parts) is described as having the black curled head, and long sharp features of the family of the Byrnes, confirms the aforesaid opinion.

ing to frighten him, "in yer goin' take care of the big thing with the legs like rake-handles, that 'ill walk acrass the lane over yer head; or the big rowlin' barrel that Bill Doolin seen t'other night; or the pack of wool we seen Saturdy evenin' comin' home from the ball-alley."

But it was no use in striving to deter him; the big print was in his mind, and, though the night was as dark as pitch, he had closed the door after him, and was pursuing his way down the lane before the last various stories went round the juvenile portion of the word was out of their mouth. During his absence, company to divert the time away, till an hour had elapsed, and still no Larry came. His mother grew attempted to speak to her husband concerning him' uneasy about his non-appearance, and, as she she thought she heard a cry as if of one in distress.

"O, Paddy aughrue," said she clinging to him, "did ye hear anything? As shure as day somethin' has befallen Larry. O, my darlant boy why did I let ye out by yerself such a night, an' so many idle strollers here that might have wint wid ye!"

Whisht, woman," replied Paddy, "'twas only the win' ye heerd: yer always that way goin' on; any thing at all frightens ye; there's no fear of the poor boy; he's able to care himself, I know. Don't ye remimber t'other night, when-”

He could not say another word; a terrific scream just above the house prevented him from uttering fell up in a panic into his arms. another syllable, as the whole group of boys and girls The good woman having demanded silence, the whole company could distinctly hear the crying and sobbing, as the voice retreated away up the fields from their hearing.

66

66

"O, Paddy, Paddy, there it is again," she cried ; my poor ready-reared boy is gone for ever! what will I do! what will I do at all I an' to say that he's taken from me in the prime of life; my lanna coora, that I was so fond of!"

"Stop now," replied the old man, who, 'till now, seemed lost in thought; "don't fly into such a fright at wanst, till ye know the sartinty of it: that's not Larry's cry at all, for he couldn't roar so pitiful, bud, as shure as I say it, it's the bow that's cryin' for poor Tom Byrne above, who, they say, wont live till mornin'."

The bow, Paddy !" she said, getting somewhat calm; "arrah shure enough, that's what it is; an' oughtn't I know the same cry? O, well do I remimber the night it was cryin' for ould Dinny, his father; an' more by token, it will be thirteen years next Candlemas since he died. Poor Tom," she resumed, "it's you war the honest, good man, an' rared your family so dacent and respectable; 'tis a pity yer goin' so soon the Lord be good to yer sowl this blessed night."

The conversation was here interrupted by the arrival of Larry, who entered with the greatest haste, of fear and dread depicted on his countenance, who his eyes blazing in his head, and the greatest symptoms no sooner got a glimpse of the light than he swoomed away in his mother's arms. After considerable exertion, he began to show signs of life, which was a scene of inexpressible joy to his mother to see him open his eyes and gaze wildly round. At length, being perfectly recovered, he was seated by the blazing fire in a large two-arm chair, when the whole circle clustered round him to learn the cause of his fright, unmindful of the churn of milk, which was left unfinished that night.

"Musha, Larry," at length inquired his father, "in the name of all that's curious, what's come over ye at all? we war thrimblin' in our shoes for ye all the time ye war out, ye sted so long, afeard anything 'id happen ye, espeshally whin we heerd the bow, that I know is comin' for poor Tom Byrne-go n'ain a Dhie