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and hopes, and fears, dispute the hour, with patterns and fashions, while a few of another cast may be venturing on subjects on which, perhaps, they are not so well qualified to speak.

Isabella Maclelland was an orphan, under the guardianship of her uncle, a Methodist preacher of great repute, and since her removal from school, had associated solely with persons of that sect. During the preceding winter she had learned to love as well as to pray, while attending their meetings in Derry. Their chief singer, a darkeyed man, one endowed with external, as well as spiritual graces, loved her, and both "in the time of their sweet sighs," had promised to live for each other. But Isabella had beauty, and a couple of thousand pounds, and might hope to settle in a higher caste than the poor singer belonged to, and her uncle, perhaps tyrannically, perhaps contrary to the practice which he inculcated, had strongly discountenanced the match, and actually sent the young lady into her present seclusion.

Isabella did not complain, but she suffered as much as a rather phlegma. tic spirit could be called upon to feel, under the circumstances; for her sequestration to Glendun was a death-blow to any hopes on the part of her admirer that might have existed during her stay in Derry. Selfish, unexcitable, and what some persons have called gentle, she had, it is true, lost a lover, and so far was the victim of misfortune; but Bell Maclelland was not the girl to deem such a loss irreparable, even among the Antrim glens, where like a moonbeam, or a snow-flake, she alighted among the country beaux, just a few weeks before Mac D's arrival, and had already excited the spirit of emulation in those lesser heroes. There was the curate, the squire, the doctor too, a noted flirting man, who had persuaded half-adozen, at least, of the young, youngish, or old girls, black, brown, or fair, that each individual-she, and she alonehad a true lover; even he sighed in her chains. Admirers, in red coats and black coats, blue, grey, and green jackets, vied with each other, and rowed, and walked, and lounged, and raced, to win the lady's grace. Morning after morning she saw, she heard, she smiled upon them, and then the poor, prim singer, was soon forgotten. But now this

young soldier-his wounds, his laurels, his gallant tenderness! She more than half envied her friend Mary the attentions he paid, and now seemed not to see or to feel the interest she excited elsewhere. He was the companion of their domestic hours-their twilight whisperings their moonlight walks. The red-coated gentlemen, who fluttered the hearts of the village girls, were beaux, par excellence, for the song or the dance; but she did not sing profane music, and would not dance, and James was not sufficiently recovered for much exertion (his leave of absence had been rendered necessary by honourable wounds), so she had many hours of quiet flirtation (while Mary glided amongst her young companions, in all the lightness of her then happy heart), flirtations sometimes prolonged even till the morning's dawn gleamed into the doors of the wide barn-loft where these happy parties used to assemble. Mary prided herself on the decoration of that sylvan hall, for the bare stone-walls looked bright, when covered with glittering holly and laurel; uncovered beams, in their high duskiness, were unrevealed by the lights of the rustic chandeliers, suspended by slender cords: willow hoops twined with leaves and green flowers, held the lights, and no one could see, amid the dim, dark rafters, where or from whence came the echo, when Hoolaghan, or Gallagher, or Charlie Martin, with pipes or violin, awakened the young hearts around them.

Then had Isabel full leisure, in her own style of gentle languishment, to ensure her conquest. Then her regal white neck and rounded arm might be trusted; and, when her limbs were shrouded in flowing drapery, the majesty of bust and waist might be fully honoured; for she was far, very far, from possessing the elastic symmetry of limb that made poor Mary look so light and graceful. Abroad or at home, James was constantly at Isabel's side-abroad and at home

"They could not in the self-same mansion dwell,
Without some stir of heart, some malady;
They could not sit at meals, but feel how well
It suited each to be the other by.
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep,
But to each other dream, and nightly weep."

Alas, for generous, unsuspicious Mary! Little he knew or valued the self

sacrificing love, that lay, deep-lulled in peaceful trustfulness in her soul! Often when his wavering affection began to lean towards Bell, Mary would, by some artless word or unsuspicious look, draw his heart back to old times and feelings.

She could not have thought it possible he could do wrong! Sore puzzled was he, one day, when, after a long walk with the girls, they stopped to rest on the spot called "Cruck-na-navig," on the hill above Red Bay. Isabel sat on a little mossy knoll at his feet, her soft blue eyes now raised, now lowered, with the light of dawning love gleaming under her veined eyelids. Beautiful she looked; her little rice-like, pearly teeth, her pure bright mouth, her self-satisfied, but not conceited air! The girls had their bonnets off, after the exertion of climbing the hill. Mary stood at his side, looking happy, undoubting confidence, to both friend and lover, as she called their attention to the various beauties around them; her rich, dark curls, lifted by the breeze-her colour, clear as carmine, pure as a gipsy's-so different from her usual pale complexion -her eyes, bright intelligence speaking without words-and then her voice, which gave whatever she was saying—

"Or grave, or gay, a music of its own."

She was a perfect picture of innocence and happiness. Sometimes, when Isabel looked up at her, there was an expression which clouded even her beauty from the consciousness of wrong and injustice to her friend. Who but a cold-hearted coquette could hourly witness her truth to others, yet, night and day, deceive her without pain?

"Look," said Mary, "look James, at that white-winged ship coming round Tor Head-the sunlight is so bright upon its sails, like a welcoming smile after its far voyage. And oh, how very beautiful!-the Point of Garron!-the clouds and sunshine chasing each other, over rocks, and waterfalls, and green slopes."

But James had his eyes fixed on Bell.

"Yes, Mary!—the hills will be there hundreds of years hence, when we, with all our joys and sorrows, shall be gone!

"I care not, I, for the lights above,

The lights on earth are the lights I love.""

"Well, really now, James, this is indeed too bad. Neither you nor Bell seem to sympathise with me in any. thing. When I see and say, this is pretty, or that is beautiful, you keep looking at each other, as if that epithet should rest between yourselves. Well, I can't but look and admire, and I must be talking, it seems. Oh, there's a gannet!-how high it soars! almost out of sight; and now it darts, straight as an arrow, and swift as light, into the waves. Is that not like the longings for goodness and holiness which sometimes come over the soul, Soaring on the wings of Faith and Hope, we might rise to heaven, till, tempted by some earthly bait, down we plunge headlong. How few of us can, like that little bird, as it rises again, and shakes the glittering drops from its wings-how few can shake off the taint, the pitch that defileth, from the spirit! for not like the pure deep sea, is the deep, dead sea of habit and of sin."

"Well done, Mary! fair moralist," cried James; "I could wish that every one in this world loved the good, and knew as little of the bad as you do. I did not mean, Mary, dear," he added, in a lower tone of affection" I did not mean to be thoughtless of your good taste and quick feeling; but I never see that Point of Garron without miserable recollections I am glad to banish even by levity. When you see sunshine, and silver-fringed clouds, and dancing waves, I see what makes me shudder. At remembrance of that night, black clouds hide the sunshine, and under those waves I see the companions of my voyage."

"

The girls shuddered, and Mary sat down beside him while he pursued his story.

"There was one poor lad-I often think of him with painful regret, as if I could have saved him-he had endeared himself to all on board; I have seldom met a more prepossessing per son. About six years before, under one of those wild, restless impulses, with which the spirit of adventure possesses the young, he had stolen away from his mother: she was a widow,

and he the only son. For a length of

time he had talked to her of foreign countries; of men who had returned from abroad, laden with wealth, after

a few years' absence from home, to live in comfortable independence, and to share that independence with those dearest to them! Then travellers and sailors had such wit, and knowledge, and manner, never to be attained by these apron-stringed, fireside young men, the keepers-at-home, of stupid life and poor fortunes. He pictured to himself so vividly the pleasures of a voyage, the wonders of other countries, the dollars he would pour into his mother's lap, on his return-the peace of her old age, when his affection and honour would leave her without a care, but the cares of affluence! Ah! bright dreams! how seldom realised! But though they too, too often fade before stern realities, adverse circumstances, or, it may be, untimely death; yet honoured be the motive, blessed be the affection that impelled, and guarded by all holy power be the wanderers! So this poor fellow, in all the strength of hopeful seventeen, left his mother without a farewell beyond the usual good night's blessing.

"His romantic love of the sea was soon satisfied: harsh realities there, and nothing else on shore. He reconciled himself to his disappointments, and worked late and early at some employment he procured in one of the seaports of the States, till he had realised what to him seemed a large sum of money; but he could not be happy. He had written letter after letter to his mother, but received no answer. 'Twas not like his mother to be so unforgiving. He wrote again, filling his letter with prayers, blotting it with tears. This letter was answered as a happy mother might answer a beloved, long lost child; his other letters had never reached her. He had no sooner received this than he set out on his return. With us, on his passage home, he would talk of the delights of the fireside scene, the joy of his mother and his sisters over the wanderer returned; then he would sing

"Hame! hame! hame! fain would I be--

Hame! hame! hame! in my ain countrie!" "

till I envied the boyish, unsubdued confidence of hope.

"When the danger of our situation became known on the night of our shipwreck, nothing could exceed his exertions. We had all worked hard

at the pumps till we found that our efforts were useless. I had missed him a few minutes, and went down to the cabin; he was there, and writing. "There is no hope now,' said heno hope, and I cannot swim; but if I could, that would not save me. Oh, my beloved mother! God pity her, and forgive me my sins and my selfishness! My daily prayer has been that I might be enabled to make her independent; that I might see her, and be forgiven the pain my ambitious folly has caused her!'

"He knelt to pray, laid his head upon his arms, and sobbed.

"I never saw him again; his body was found early in the morning, with a rouleau of doubloons tied round his waist, and a line or two for the nearest magistrate, where his remains might be cast ashore, requesting him to take charge of the money, his watch, and a farewell blessing to his mother. These lines were enclosed in waterproof silk, the cover of an old hat. I have often wondered at his presence of mind. But I have saddened both bright faces; and I feel almost womanish in my sentimentality. Our conversation has taken a very different turn from what I wished, or from what it should be, either in heart or in word, prompted by the blessings around; for which, if you did not suspect me of hypocrisy, I would gladly say the Lord make me-yes! the Lord makes me thankful.

"How delightful it would be to me, could I give myself up to a long, long life of love and peaceful quiet like this, doubly valuable to me, now that I know the miseries, the pomps, the bustling nothingness of a soldier's life'

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"Shoot a sheep!" said Bell; “I never heard of such a thing."

"Oh, then, indeed, there is such an atrocity committed in this country. There is no other way of persuading the poor things to come and be killed. I have often known this plan taken with ours, for when large flocks are turned out to the mountains, on the long range of pasture from Lurgaiden to the top of Glenariff, with only the shepherd and the dogs (though the wisest of their kind), when the sheep got upon the rocks, it is no easy matter to get near enough to choose or to select the fattest one, except by sight. If they don't keep the poor things long in pain, it can't make inuch difference to the creature how it dies. I only wish from my heart we could keep the letter as well as the spirit of the law, which says, Thou shalt not kill.' Then the pretty, graceful, happy things might live their time in peace, and be swift as Glendun deer, and, I should think, nearly as pretty."

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"You talk very strangely," said Bell; "is there such a thing as deer in Glendun?"

"Not now; but there were plenty of them not many years ago, at least in my grandfather's time. Long ago, Glendun was an oak forest, from Ora mountain to the bay of Cushendun, and there were herds of wild deer where there now is scarcely shelter. for the fox to hide in. We may guess what the trees must have been, from the stumps which remain, surrounded by shoots that now are very respectable trees themselves."

"Speaking of Glenariff sheep," said James, "reminds me of a pet I once had. When I was a little lonely boy, living among the rocks at Murloch, I had a lamb, which was my constant companion and playfellow. Wherever I went it followed. I cannot tell how much I loved that creature; and when I was about to be sent to school at a distance from home, neither father, nor mother, nor sisters, nor dogs, nor horses, grieved me so to part from them, nor drew such showers of tears from me, as leaving Darby. I put my arms round his neck, laid my head down upon him, and, choking with sobs, cried Dhea benitore Darby, slanlat go bragh!' I could not speak much English, and so, when my heart was full, my tongue was Irish. But

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passers of the flock; he had no sense of propriety or bounds; his horns grew so long he became the terror of the neighbourhood, and at last he nearly killed an old woman crossing the hill, and he was condemned to die. But, girls, 'tis late; the sun is setting; it will be chill and dark before we reach home: yet 'tis a pity to turn our backs upon the beautiful Red Bay; and there are the fishers hauling their nets !"

They waited to see the finny treasure landed-the salmon and mackerel sparkling on the beach, and then turned homeward.

James had little sleep that night; for though Mary had borne the chief part in their conversation, Bell's eyes had been equally eloquent. Day after day our party made some pleasant excursion, or some bond of common sympathy in prose or poetry, which James read to them, and awoke a world of new enjoyments. They watched the daily glide of the season, in health, and peace, and social interest; but a gradual change was working in their hearts.

Goodness and happiness, alas! are too often but a seeming: as the canker in the flower, so the blight of deceit in the heart can destroy all within its influence. James had some hard struggles with himself, when he first began to fail in his faith to Mary, and her unsuspicious temper only served to increase his difficulties. 'Tis true, there was no absolute pledge between them, though more than once he had urged such an irrevocable promise, and had in most solemn words tendered his own, and had meant to keep it. This, however, she steadily refused, but did not refuse to love him, and to be true to him. He was dear to her as existence, but if ever that willing love she valued should fail, then he should be free. And well he knew there was no change in her heart; then how could he be so selfish? Again, he'd apologise for himself:-an almost portionless wife for a poor lieutenant is a dragging load, with her crying, ill-kept children, on a long march, so often ill attended, she herself pale, worn, and anxious,

How

fatigued and fretting, or bearing patiently and skilfully the perpetual strife between poverty and rank. could he bear to think of his wife being subjected to the shifts, the expedients, and the actual miseries, of which he so often had seen painful examples? Then, were he to sell out now, what an enormous sacrifice! A short time would certainly give him promotion. No, in justice to Mary he should not think of marrying her! He determined not to involve her in such trials. Oh, no! she had now a quiet home with her mother and sisters, besides, who could ensure her a steady independence? And he-why, he would gradually change his manner to her; she had sense, and would, no doubt, see the justice of his views. It would be much more prudent of him to marry Isabella: she had two thousand pounds and good expecta tions. Then he might sell out, and turn farmer; and though Bell had neither Mary's generous spirit nor warm affections, she had a calm, easy temper. Certainly, were it not for her pretty face, she would be but a stupid companion. But then, a man who likes an active life need not care much on that account. Should his wife be pretty, and housewife-like, and tolerably goodhumoured, why, she might do well enough. Yet Mary has such superior qualities; such easy, kind, agreeable manners; little as she has seen of the world, any man might be proud of her taste, her gentle grace, her quiet consideration for others. "Really she has so much sense, that I need not feel so awkward after all," said he, "and I shall explain my views to her; I know I can reason her into anything."

So with such sophistry, such vanity, such worldly wisdom, did he cheat himself of a treasure. For in sickness, or sorrow, or adversity, Mary never thought of herself; and in peaceful home-happiness, who could be better fitted to add to, and to participate in, a good man's best enjoyment?

On one of these many unclouded summer days, our party set out for the top of Glenariff, to see the waterfalls, and spend the day among the mountains. Little as this beautiful valley is known, some tourists and painters have visited it; and thanks to the ingenious and tasteful Nichol,

there are some beautiful paintings, to gratify those who are unable or unwilling to go so far to see the originals. But let the lover of nature who has time and means, go and see that fairy-haunted, Swiss-like solitude

"Where up among the mountains,
In soft and mossy cell,

By the silent streams and fountains,
The happy wild flowers dwell."

Where the song of the lark, and the hum of the bee, and now and then the bleat of a straggler of the flock, are the only sounds that interfere with the chorus of the elements. There the gentle welling of the waters is noiseless, till many streams meet in one, which flowing, with a light ripple, between soft rising green banks, presently rushes over a mountain precipice at one leap, tumbling over rocks, boiling in deep pools, and so battles its way down the glen to Eass-nacruib. Unlike the solitary leafless grandeur of the upper fall, here the banks are dotted with variegated verdure, nature's own glorious shrubbery; here the glittering holly and arbutus brighten its sides in winter, and in summer vie with the beauty of the rowan tree; the hazel and sweet hawthorn, with the woodbine and wild roses, and many a bright-eyed flower of lowly growth, scattered around their stems, on the green mantled ferny bank.

Our light-hearted, light-footed, shall we say light-headed? party set out early. The sun was shining gloriously, as they drove, or walked, or cantered up the glen; for the narrow, hilly, rugged road compelled them frequently to alter their paces and their mode of travelling. Altnagraine was the first waterfall of any consequence that tempted them to alight, and wander up its little glen of raspberries and hazel. Several other falls along the valley gleamed like silver threads over the face of the black rocks; but the weather having been dry, this one, though reduced, still asserted its preeminence over its brethren; and there, above Glasmullin, it came foaming down the precipice, though smiling in its summer aspect, and flinging its glittering spray in rainbows to the sunbeam. The eagle and the raven were circling high overhead, and the cattle on the edge of the precipices above looked not

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