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tators, and called forth louder lamenta tions from the females among the crowd, than any other object, among the various dreadful forms of death that the shore presented. Another pitiable spectacle was discovered in the course of the day: In a little silvery-sanded creek-as peaceful as if tempest had never ruffled its rippling waters- was found the body of a fe. male, evidently of rank, and, as it was subsequently ascertained, the mother of this infant. The country-people describe her, as being arrayed with magnificent jewels, and in a splendid dress, a rich and massive chain of gold round her throat, and dazzling bril. liants on her fingers, and bearing traces of most extraordinary beauty, notwithstanding the dreadful nature of her death. The vessel had been a Spanish-American trader, bound for Liverpool - The lady was the wife of an English merchant of Carthagena, who was bringing her home to enjoy, in her native country, the wealth he had accumulated, and to procure a suitable education for the child, whose sad fate has been described. Alas! what a dreadful thing is a shipwreck: bright eyes, kind hearts, longing for home ; manly strength, womanly tenderness, childhood's joyous existenceall swallowed up in one cold, sweeping wave of the ocean! But our business is with the survivor, in whom it was with no small astonishment that some of the villagers discovered a well-known face, no less, indeed, than that of young Captain---so they called him, though but à lieutenant-James Mac D. of L- , who was, it is true, daily expected home, on sick leave, from his regiment, but hardly by so sum. mary and rough a mode of debarkation.

The Spanish trader had weighed at Oporto, and by her he had taken bis passage home. Poor fellow! his very arrival was a romance in itself. Equal. ly surprising to him, when he opened his eyes after recovering from his numbness and insensibility and to those by whose kind ministrations he was recalled to consciousness.

It was at the house of Father John C , the priest of that parish, that the young Glensman was recognised and restored to the use of his limbs and faculties. It would be foreign to the purpose of a tale which has, per

haps, already been too much occupied with preliminaries, to describe the emotions of wonder, joy, and gratitude, that agitated the host and his kind neighbours, as well as the object of their kind solicitudes on these re. spective discoveries. Suffice it to say, that the young soldier found himself at home under the roof of one who knew not only “all belonging to him," in the local sense of the phrase—his parents, relations, and family at large

but also all that more peculiarly belonged to him, as being nearest and dearest to his heart-bis love, and the object of his love, and she withiu a morning's walk of the very spot where the waves had cast him ashore. It may seem like romance, that he should have come home in such a way; but stories must be told with credibles, as well as incredibles. Romance is sometimes less strange than reality, and the writer feels a relief in having got over the only part of it that might appear to lie outside the limits of the latter. Kind treatment and a sound night's rest have restored the shipwrecked soldier to usual health, so let us, without further dallying by shore or sea, join him and his worthy host, as they bend their way across the hills towards Glendun. The young man's eye lightened with pleasure at each well. remembered turn of the road, as rocks, and bills, and blue-spreading bays of the sea, opened before them.

Question after question of all who were dear to him all were answered with sympathizing kindness. But the one for whom James MacD felt most interest was the last to be named. It was only when about to leave home he had discovered the true state of his heart, and that the childish attachment of early years had grown into a deep and tender affection for Mary Mac. Alister, and they had parted with a tacit understanding that the heart of neither could change.

Mary was a dark-eyed, graceful, bright creature, the light and the pride of her home-and that home surrounded by the grandeur of the sunny hills, with their uncertain waterfalls, and varying rivers-Aitting lights and shadows on the hills below and skies above, and the solemn beauty of the world around, had impressed her with a love of nature ; and in her heart grew (independent of all these) a love

of all that was tender, benevolent, and good-gay as the birds, or bees, or butterflies around her. Hers was

" A dancing shape, an image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay."

But, sir, how is the widow, and Mary? They will grieve deeply !”

“ Deeply !—you may well say that ; and the poor body has lost her eyesight in the small-pox—Mary and she both had it badly.”

“ Mary! Oh! sir, is ghe marked?"

“ No, not much ; she's not disfigure gured. There are some little marks, to be sure ; but doubtless they'll wear away in time. She is thinner and paler, but not scarred; and you ought to know, James, the beauty

* The beauty that is but skin-deep

Will fade, like the gowans in May ; But inwardly-rooted will keep

For ever, without a decay.'"

Her image did haunt James-in the watches of the night, in the camp, in the march, in the battle. Thoughts of

of his mother and his home came often; but always in his hopes and memories mingled the lythe and graceful figure of Mary-true love in her eyes, gen. tleness in her heart, and sweet, unaffected tenderness and sympathy in the tones of her soft voice. Her first sorrow had been their parting ; since then, she had suffered much: and James had a presentiment of evil and misfortune, which stopped his voice and paralysed his spirit, when he would have asked what he longed to know.

« Is Mary well, sir ?" at length, he said.

“ Yes, James, yes. Our dear Mary is well now, thank God! Well after suffering and sorrow. The poor thing has had almost too much to bear since you left us-her father is dead! Many a kind and true heart I have seen laid under the sod; but not one, of late years, I miss more than my old friend Donald More."

" Ah! sir,” said James, “no won der-No wonder - we shall all miss him! The kindly, blythe, good old man; and, even independent of his many higher qualities, he will be a loss to young and old, as a cheerful, witty companion. He was the life of our sports when he would join us up the trouting-streams (another old Isaac Walton); or over the hills, with our dogs and guns, he used to delight us with his wit, and wisdom, and droll sayings. Poor, kind old fellow! I think myself, while we speak, that I see his bright face, and clear eye, and silver hair, under his red nightcap or blue Kilmarnock; his grey spencer and cord breeches, gartered outside, and keeping so sleek ; his silver-grey stockings on his well-turned limbs-he was a remarkable-looking man. I never saw more perfect urbanity of manner; and he used to bow like a prince. He was, sir, a fine specimen of a fine race of men—the true old Irish gentleman ; though stripped of all extraneous ornament and power, o the man was the man for a' that

« That's the beauty for my fancy, sir; though you, young fools-more shame for you!--so very often undervalue it that first best gift,' a right mind and kind heart! She's the best girl in Ireland, great as that word is ; and if you saw her tenderness, her goodness to the old woman, you would say so. God bless her.”

. This painful information had made James silent and thoughtful for a time; but the involuntary feeling of disappointment soon wore away, under the cheerful views in which everything was placed by his amiable companion, who, when he had brought him to the last range of hills that lay between them and the object of their anxieties, considerately struck into another road to visit a sick parishioner ; and the young man, left to his own impulses, bounded on, with a re-assured heart and happy anticipations.

Over the thymy, heathery hills to Glendun he went, like a hunter of old, with springing step and lightened spirit. He bared his exulting forehead “to the sweet sea breeze.” The blue, calm ocean lay in glory below; beyond lay the coast of Scotland_dis. tant, yet distinct, as if but an hour's row could reach it.

The lark carolled its shrill delight from many a sunny cloud above him ; around lay the wide-spread magnificence of his own hills and mountains Throsthan, Thievaboulie, Turgaiden, Thieverah-with their winding streams and rivers, the pools in which he had fished-the glens in which Mary and he had gathered nuts, and sloes, and rasps, all brought right feelings to his heart, and before he had reached Glendun, he had forgotten his fears and his doubts of himself, and said in his soul “she shall still be mine, if she loves me.” But the heart of man is deceit ful and desperately wicked; as it was of old, so is it now. As he passed the garden fence, he saw a young woman tying up some flowers — his heart bounded-could that be Mary ? The priest had said she was paler and thinner. He leaned over the low hedge, to get a nearer view, thinking it might be herself. Time changes the young so fast, and the good father may have been trying me, said he, and almost certain he was right in his conjecture, he was about to speak, when she turned round-he saw not Mary, indeed, but a very lovely fair girl, as ever the sun shone upon. Even with all his home-longings, thick thronging as they were, he paused until she passed through the little arched doorway, without having observed him. Cheerful, and warm, and bright, the cottage looked in the sunshine that morning, and all was silence within and around it, yet unheard was James's quick, light step. As he passed the open door way, he found Mary in the breakfast. parlour settling the cushions on her mother's chair ; she neither saw nor heard him till he stood by her side, and whispered “ Mary !"-she started,

“She gazed, she reddened like a rose,
Syne pale as ony lily,"

that every fear of inconstancy fled before the beaming of his dark eyes, that rested so lovingly on her blushing face. For some minutes, in full, but silent thankfulness of love, they stood; then Mary left him to bring in her mother she returned, leading the blind old woman, and had James not known she was “ dark," as the Glenspeople say of the blind, he could not have supposed that the sun was for ever set from those mild, hazel eyes, that turned their seeming intelligence on him, as almost with a mother's af. fection in her voice, she said." Ma haght milliu a benisort achree sa roon, your welcome"_" God bless you, my child, and be thanked! though I can. not see you now, acushla, many's the eye will be glad at the sight of you, never to speak of the joyful tears, your mo. ther, God help her weak heart, will be crying over you, avick! well may she be proud and happy, to see one of her brave boys return safe at lastYou left our poor Alick well ?”.

“Living and well, ma'am, and as brave as a lion."

Ogh, mamisin sasthee, God look to you! this fighting is bad, unchristianlike work; but James, dear, it's a wonderful thing to me to hear your voice again, and to feel the touch of your kindly, warm hand. Let me draw my hand over your face, machree, till I feel is there much change on you."

“Oh, not much, ma'am, but that the growth of moustache and whisker may, perhaps, make you think of Esan."

“ Yes, dear, in troth you have lost your boyish face. But-but, James, if there was no worse change with us

your heart would be sore if you knew all our tronble, my poor Do. nald. Mary, my dear, where is Beli?

tell her who is come.”

Mary went out to bring her friend, and then the mother's heart overflowed in praises of her Mary-enthusiastic they might be called_but he knew she deserved them, and listened with pleasure, till the girl came in. He was now introduced to the young, fair gardener, and Bell Maclelland blushed on being introduced to the soldier, who so often had been the subject of interest in their conversations-s0 often a theme for curling-chat, when dressing their hair at night-that time when the young and communicative unbend, and beaux, and adventures,

but no more. Her first impulse would have been to throw herself into his arms; her next-to kneel to God in thanksgiving for his perservation : then, remembering she was not like what she had been, and waiting the effect of what she knew must shock him, a shuddering chill fell on her heart. He looked long and anxiously. There, with her tearful eyes bent on the ground, stood his Mary, the same graceful creature - the same gentle manner—the same in heart and soul, but(though slightly) her pure forehead was scared, and her bright cheek pit. ted-she was no longer “smooth-skin gentle," as he used to call her in Irish. He was shocked; yet he loved her, and so long as she was his Mary, shame upon his wavering heart, that could for one moment chill or shrink from all that was good, and so much that was lovely. But he loved her still; and so tenderly and fondly he assured her of his unchanged affection,

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, per haps contrary to the practice which he inculcated, had strongly discounte. nanced 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 on'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 flirt. ing 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 redcoats and black coats, blue, grey, and green jackets, vied with each other, and rowed, and walked, and lounged, and raced, to win the la. dy'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 firtation (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 her. self 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 ma. jesty 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, bencath the same roof sleep,

But to each other dream, and nightly weep."

Alas, for generous, unsuspicious Ma. ry! Little he knew or valued the self

sacrificing love, that lay, deep-lulled in “Well, really now, James, this is peaceful trustfulness in her soul! Often indeed too bad. Neither you nor Bell when his wavering affection began to seem to sympathise with me in any. lean towards Bell, Mary would, by thing. When I see and say, this is some artless word or unsuspicious look, pretty, or that is beautiful, you keep draw his heart back to old times and looking at each other, as if that epi. feelings.

thet should rest between yourselves. She could not have thought it pos. Well, I can't but look and admire, and sible he could do wrong! Sore puzzled I must be talking, it seems. Oh, was he, one day, when, after a long there's a gannet!-how high it soars ! walk with the girls, they stopped to almost out of sight; and now it darts, rest on the spot called “Cruck-na-na- straight as an arrow, and swift as vig," on the hill above Red Bay. Isa light, into the waves. Is that not like bel sat on a little mossy knoll at his the longings for goodness and holiness feet, her soft blue eyes now raised, now which sometimes come over the soul, lowered, with the light of dawning Soaring on the wings of Faith and love gleaming under her veined eye. Hope, we might rise to heaven, till, lids. Beautiful she looked ; her little tempted by some earthly bait, down we rice-like, pearly teeth, her pure bright plunge headlong. How few of us can, mouth, her self-satisfied, but not con like that little bird, as it rises again, ceited air ! The girls had their bon- and shakes the glittering drops from nets off, after the exertion of climbing its wings-how few can shake off the the hill. Mary stood at his side, look taint, the pitch that defileth, from the ing happy, undoubting confidence, to spirit! - for not like the pure deep both friend and lover, as she called sea, is the deep, dead sea of habit and their attention to the various beauties

of sin." around them; her rich, dark curls, « Well done, Mary! fair moralist," lifted by the breeze-her colour, clear cried Jaines ; I could wish that as carmine, pure as a gipsy's—so dif. every one in this world loved the ferent from her usual pale complexion good, and knew as little of the bad - her eyes, bright intelligence speak as you do. I did not mean, Mary, ing without words—and then her voice, dear," he added, in a lower tone of which gave whatever she was saying affection_" I did not mean to be

thoughtless of your good taste and “Or grave, or gay, a music of its own,"

quick feeling; but I never see that She was a perfect picture of innocence Point of Garron without miserable and happiness. Sometimes, when Isa. recollections I am glad to banish even bel looked up at her, there was an ex by levity. When you see sunshine, pression which clouded even her beau. and silver-fringed clouds, and dancing ty from the consciousness of wrong waves, I see what makes me shudder. and injustice to her friend. Who but At remembrance of that night, black a cold-hearted coquette could hourly clouds hide the sunshine, and under witness her truth to others, yet, night those waves I see the companions of and day, deceive her without pain ? my voyage."

“ Look," said Mary, “ look James, The girls shuddered, and Mary sat at that white-winged shipcoming round down beside him while he pursued his Tor Head—the sunlight is so bright story. upon its sails, like a welcoming smile There was one poor lad_ I often after its far voyage. And oh, how very think of him with painful regret, as if beautiful!-the Point of Garron!—the I could have saved him-he had enclouds and sunshine chasing each other, deared himself to all on board ; I have over rocks, and waterfalls, and green seldom met a more prepossessing perslopes."

son. About six years before, under But James had his eyes fixed on one of those wild, restless impulses, Bell.

with which the spirit of adventure pos« Yes, Mary !-the hills will be there sesses the young, he had stolen away hundreds of years hence, when we, from his mother : she was a widow, with all our joys and sorrows, shall be and he the only son. For a length of gone!

time he had talked to her of foreign

countries; of men who had returned " I care not, I, for the lights above,

The lights on earth are the lights I love." from abroad, laden with wealth, after

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