she had known it she might have resisted the temptation; but as it was, she took the coveted walk, admired the black branches which were intertwined like a cathedral roof above her head, and turned back again. Then she saw a figure advancing, and started; for at first she fancied it was Sir Miles. Another glance however showed her that she was mistaken; and before she had time to collect her thoughts or resolve what to do, Harry Sutton again stood before her. But not as he had stood in the church; this time he was resolute to speak, and she felt that he was.

"Marie, Marie !"

The voice took her back strangely enough to the sunset over the sea, the summer day, and the Mermanrock.

"Won't you speak to me?" pleaded Harry. But she did not know how to speak to him; and the head of the baronet seemed to rise up between them, so how could she?

"You might give me one word in mere compassion," said Harry. "Marie, you know-you do know that I have given you my whole life, and yet you will not even look at me. A dog who had followed you out of devotion might hope for a kind word at least; and I-"

and press it down. After all, if either of them were an injured party, it would be Sir Miles, not himself. But he was not going to shirk the meeting, for all that. He stood his ground, touching his hat slightly, as the baronet came up to him, at a pace quicker than his dignity usually permitted.

Perhaps you are not aware-Mr. Sutton, I believe that you are trespassing."

Harry could hardly restrain a laugh at this. Trespassing in his own park! but he answered coolly

"I am not likely to do any mischief, Sir Miles. I have just seen the present owner of the property, and she did not eject me."

As soon as this was said, the speaker would have taken it back if he could, for fear Sir Miles might vent his displeasure upon Marie; but he did want to find out how much the baronet knew, and whether he had seen them together or not.

"Oh you must not-you make me forget! I am not free-you know I am not free."

"You are, you will be. Marie, I love you so much; don't send me away without one word to tell me you will care for me; after all this time, do not send me away hopeless."

“No, no. Oh, you are an old friend and I trust you: why not trust me too, and help me to be patient?"

He was looking into her face, and she raised it to him imploringly. By a strong effort he mastered the impulse to take her into his arms for one brief moment.

"I will trust," he said. "I can go now, Marie; for I have hope. Hope will do all things; let it be our watchword, coupled with the other one, Trust. Good bye."

She hurried away from him, and he stood with folded arms, watching her proudly. He saw her dress disappear between the trees, and then he turned. His adventures were not yet over. Approaching him from the Bellenden side, there was another figure-a tall, thin, haughtylooking figure. Watching it with the smile still on his lips, Harry wondered how Marie had passed unobserved; or was it possible that Sir Miles had suffered her to pass, and had come on for the express purpose of seeing him, perhaps even demanding what he meant by his audacity. That unlucky impetuous temper rose up as he thought this, but he tried to conquer

Sir Miles was under a cloud, and he felt it. He had not spoken with his usual calm politeness, but had shown to the enemy that he was exasperated. A strange thought came into Harry's head. Perhaps this was the very spot where the two brothers had grappled years ago, and the proud old man had come in to save one of them from the fate of Cain. Was there to be another struggle in this same place? Could not he, in his youth and vigour, at once decide the question between the thin, weak-looking man who stood there, and himself? There seemed to be a mutually acknowledged animosity be tween them; would the baronet attack him? At that moment his own life and its struggles flashed before him, as on the brain of a drowning man; and he heard again a voice saying, “My father was a proud man; we Rutherfords are all proud."

The thought might have given a dangerous expression to his face; or perhaps the petty annoyances which had fretted Sir Miles the whole day, all rose up into one, at this, the last and most grievous; whatever might have been the cause, the baronet lost his temper utterly. "I have a great mind to knock you down, sir," he said.

"I hope not, Sir Miles," retorted Harry, "not because I should find it very difficult to defend myself, but because I should be sorry to see you lose that dignity which becomes you so well." "Will you leave the park or not?" shouted Sir Miles.

66

Why," replied Harry, with a slight drawl, "for the present I think I will, because I am beginning to feel fatigued. I hope to return however at a future date, when I think even Sir Miles Bellenden will give me permission to walk here."

It was fortunate for Marie's peace of mind that she was not to be found when the baronet returned to Bellenden. There was no comfort for him still in the state of the household, and be was fain once more to betake himself to his library, and ask himself angrily what the fellow meant by his insolence. His meditations brought forth two strong resolves; viz., that he would keep a strict watch over Marie for the future, and that, in the second place, he would listen to no excuse for delaying the marriage further. Half a year, under such circumstances, was surely long enough. He did not mean to be harsh with Marie; but she was so youngand he was so sorry to think it so silly and triding, that it was quite time she had a powerful protector and guide. He would try persuasion first; but if that failed, he flattered himself that her temper was too yielding and too timid to hold out against something more peremptory. Whilst the baronet came to his conclusions thus comfortably, there was a colloquy going on not far from his retreat, which might possibly have disturbed his complacency if he could have heard it. Cecil Bellenden had just arrived, and was crossing the hall on his way to the stables, when Augusta stopped him.

"Ob, Cecil, I am glad youare come; but have you brought anybody?""

Brought anybody?-no. What do you

mean?"

"Any gentlemen for to-night."

"No, why didn't you tell me? I could have asked Johnson of ours, and Blake, and Hamilton. Well, it's too late now."

"What a pity! But Miles is so disagreeable about it, that one forgets everything, and we shall be so dreadfully short of gentlemen." "What, is Bell crusty about it? I'm sure he ought not to be; everybody is talking about his good fortune."

"You mean Marie; if his temper doesn't improve, the good fortune will be all on one side. But, Cecil, what shall we do?"

"Oh, never mind; I'll make myself as useful as two or three, and I flatter myself, though I am a miserable younger brother, not many could resist these whiskers. But now, have you said your say? because I just want to look at Jupiter's knees; it was so deuced slippery down the Hone bank."

"Yes," said Augusta, disconsolately. "I wish I had thought of writing to you."

"Ob, I say, Augusta," cried Cecil, turning back, "I've thought of something." "Well ?"

"Would Burford and Sutton do?"

"Do? of course they would if we could have them."

"Well, I came in with George Burford and

Mr. Spencer to-day, and Sutton joined them in the village."

"Why, Cecil, nothing could be better! A composer and a famous artist-lions both. Besides, young Sutton is so handsome."

"He was a paid Professor once," said Cecil, provokingly; "but now that you want him-" "Don't be stupid, Cecil; besides, it was Georgie that said that, not I."

"I don't think Bell will be pleased." "Why, what can it matter to him?" "Don't you remember how savage he was once before about this young Sutton, when he found out that Marie knew him?"

"Absurd!" exclaimed Augusta; "just like Miles; as if he could not take care of his own interests!"

"Well, will you take his displeasure upon yourself, then ?"

་་

Augusta looked up scornfully. "Give the invitation in my name-I mean mamma's name; and apologise for the short notice; though that is unnecessary, as they only arrived to-day."

"Sutton has been staying in the village some time."

"How aggravating you are, Cecil! No one knows better than you how to manage these things. I should have thought of Mr. Burford before; but he came to wish us good-bye, and I concluded he had left the neighbourhood. But you mentioned another name."

"Spencer-oh, he is a lawyer."

"What matter for that? Is he old ?"
"Well, fifty perhaps; but he wears well."
"He will do."

"Then I am to ask all three ?"

I did for you, which is the same thing." "But, Mr. Spencer, do you think there is no fear that Sir Miles, even when he knows the truth, will refuse to release my cousin from her promise ?"

"Out of revenge, you mean. If I know Sir Miles at all, he is not the kind of man to do that. But, even in that case, do not you see that the conditions of the promise no longer exist? The contract was made under certain provisions; Miss Rutherford has no power to fulfil those provisions, and the contract is of course not binding. Sir Miles will see at once that he cannot make a pretence of keeping his ward to her promise: he may, as her guardian, object to her choice; but I do not think he will." "Are you all going?" asked Harry. "I shall not. But Mr. Burford-" "Could not lose it." said George. fear, Harry, I shall not be in your way."

"Never

Mind," said Mr. Spencer, "if there is no occasion for you to make the disclosure to Sir Miles, I would not do it. If he forgets what is due to himself, and from himself to you as a guest, invited by his mother, that will be different; or if he questions your right to see your cousin-not as a suitor, mind, but in right of your relationship."

"He will doubt my word."

propose

"Then refer him to me. Say that I visiting him to-morrow upon this very subject. To tell the truth, I shall be heartily glad to get rid of you two troublesome young people tonight.'

"Thanks, for both," retorted Burford. Harry, one word, before more interesting subjects (to yourself) drive it from your mind. There is to be a smoking room, where Burford the Bohemiaa may take his cigar in peace, at Rutherford."

(To be concluded next month.)

DANGEROUS.

BY ADA TREVANION.

Her dark eyes they flash and they languish,
Her curved lips new meanings still wear
An angel in sorrow and anguish,

She maddens in hours free from care.

When the rosy morn starts from her pillow; When the shadows from purple noon flee; When the pale moonbeam sleeps on the billow, Her smile and her glance still I see.

But safer the perilous ocean

Than where those eyes meteor-like shine, And wasted the heart's deep devotion Whose treasures are laid on her shrine.

PHOTOGRAPHY AND ART.

(Two Sonnets.)

BY MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.

I.

He who has made the Sun his serf can show
Man's life-leased House, each window-pane and bar,
With all the lines that beautify or mar
The human soul's palatial prison now,
And at the wonder still doth reverence grow;

For sometimes, lured by happy guiding-star
Which even shines to prison-homes from far,
The Royal Captive looks through casement low.
But only thus we see-or we miss see-

The Soul's fine traceries, which seem so mean Through the dull glass, we turn with childish glee To dote upon the wall the panes between, And marvel how its shapely forms agree And own the Prison has a lovely sheen.

II.

The Artist labours in a nobler way;

He hath a mighty wand that subtly breaks The hard straight bar which every casement streaks, The thick dim panes, he bids the Prisoner stay And as he quickly opens to the day

Full-statured at the window: then there wakes A fresh creation, which an Art-life takes Diviner than the fairest thing Sun's ray Can father! And forgiving, we forget

If casement panes, and bars less fact-like glow Than those the Sun's sharp-pointed ray hath set, More glad to have the Prisoner fairly show With all the jewels of his coronet,

Than perfect outline of his Prison know!

CHILDREN'S FEET.-Life-long discomfort, disease, and sudden death often come to children through the inattention or carelessness of the parents. A child should never be allowed to go to sleep with cold feet; the thing to be last attended to, in putting a child to bed, should be to see that the feet are dry and warm; neglect of this has often resulted in a dangerous attack of croup, diphtheria, or fatal sore throat. Always, on coming from school, on entering the house from a visit or errand in rainy, muddy, or thawy weather, the child's shoes should be removed, and the mother should herself ascertain if the stockings are the least damp; and if so, should require them to be taken off, the feet held before the fire and rubbed with the hand till perfectly dry, and another pair of stockings be put on and another pair of shoes, while the other stockings and shoes should be placed where they can be well dried, so as to be ready for future use at a moment's

notice.

No. I.

CAROLAN, BLIND BARD AND MINSTREL.

In the year 1670, in a little village called Nodder, in Westmeath, one of the northern counties of Ireland, and on lands which still bore the name of Corolanstown—although their actual possession had passed from his family to that of the Nugents, so far back as the days of Henry the Second-was born Turlough Carolan, the celebrated blind bard and minstrel, the last indeed of that once honoured and influential brotherhood worthy of bearing that name in his native country.

His father was a poor farmer-a man in very humble circumstances, the few acres of coarse soil tilled by him scarcely affording a subsistence to his family. His mother, a mere peasant of the same part of the country, has never had ascribed to her by tradition any elevation of mind or refinement of taste, which, as in the stories of the mothers of other distinguished men would enable us to trace the splendid gifts of her son to her, either as their source or their cultivator; his genius was indeed all his own, bestowed upon him directly from Heaven.

Carolan was not born blind, but was deprived of sight in infancy by smallpox. This misfortune it is said, however, never caused him the slightest distress; on the contrary, it was a favourite saying of his through life- After all, my eyes were only transplanted into my ears." From his earliest childhood his greatest delight was to listen to songs and music-milkers, singing to their cows; mothers crooning old Irish ballads to their infants; keeners, lifting their voices in their wild, sweet wailing above the dead, were sure to find in him a delighted listener. And often, too, the sightless boy found his way to the weddings, christenings, and other merry-makings in his neighbourhood, where, while listening to the spirited notes of the merry Irish jigs and reels, danced with such thorough enjoyment by the peasantry, it is but probable he unfortunately contracted that taste for strong drinks, which afterwards proved, as it has done to many others, the bane of his life.

When he was about twelve years old, his great musical taste having attracted the notice of a few of the surrounding gentry, and they, thinking it a pity so much talent should be neglected, procured a master to instruct him on the harp. He did not find a diligent or patient pupil; for, although Carolan's harp, from the time he first got possession of one, was seldom silent, yet in

the composition of his excellent melodies he was guided much more by his own great natural genius than by the strict rules of musical science. The only time he ever departed from the simplicity of his own style was in his "Concerto," a manifest imitation of Corelli, which has been pronounced by competent musical critics to be a decided failure.

"Bridget Cruise," which is considered by good judges to be the most beautiful of all his airs, was composed in honour of a young lady of that name, who was his first love, and certainly it sounds like the very outpouring of his whole young generous warm heart to her. She loved him, too; but, as usual, the course of true love did not run smoothly, and they were separated, but not before he had conferred immortality on her in that glorious song; and it is a tradition that after twenty years, during which period they had never met, that, in a crowded assembly, where many had spoken to and touched him, a hand having been placed silently in his, he exclaimed, without a moment's hesitation, "If Bridget Cruise still lives, I hold her hand in mine!" And he was right: it was indeed the hand of his early idol.

"Aileen Aroon," of which Handel declared he would rather be the composer than of his grandest pieces, was composed in compliment to Ellen Kavanagh, of the once princely house of that name. Her grave is still pointed out in the ancient burial-place of Kilmeshall, Newtownbarry; but, alas! "Love will still be lord of all," and the descendant of the olden Celtic kings, the beautiful heroine of Carolan's lovely ballad, bears on her tomb the Saxon name of Boote, she having been wooed and won by an officer in King William's army.

Some time after his enforced parting from his first love, Carolan married, too, one whom he loved tenderly, and with whom he spent many very happy years. Her name was Mary Maguire, and she was of a very good family in the county Fermanagh. Immediately after their union they went to live at a small farm called Moshill, in the county Leitrim, where, with the aid of her fortune (a few hundreds) as he himself possessed nothing but his genius, he built a neat little house, where he soon commenced (neither master nor mistress being possessed of any worldy prudence) to entertain not alone those who might be considered his friends, but indeed all comers, in a style much more suited to his mind than to his means. The usual penalty was soon paid for such profusion, and the little farm was soon lost to the too hospitable and improvident pair.

It was after this short attempt at mere com,

Several very wonderful stories of Carolan's almostmiraculous knowledge of music are told: among others the following has been given in almost every received account of his life as "a fact well-ascertained." The fame of Carolan having reached the ears of an eminent Italian music-master in Dublin, he was resolved to put his abilities to a severe test, and the issue of the trial convinced him how well-founded every

thing had been which was advanced in favour of the great Irish bard. The method he made use of was as follows: He selected an excellent piece of music in the highest Italian style, and here and there altered or mutilated the piece, but in such a manner as that no one but a true judge could make the discovery. This was played before Carolan, who, unconscious that it was intended as a trial of his skill, still bestowed on it the deepest attention, and at its close declared it to be an admirable composition; only, he added, humorously, in his own language, to the astonishment of all present, "Ta se air chois air bacaighe;" that is to say "here and there it limps and stumbles." He was then requested to correct its errors, which he accordingly did; and in this state it was sent back to Dublin, where, when he saw it, the Italian at once acknowledged his true musical genius."

As has been already stated, Carolan at a very early period of his life unhappily contracted a love for spirituous liquors, which never left him; not, to do him strict justice, that he frequently drank to excess; yet, despite the remonstrances of friends and the warnings of physicians, he was seldom free from the influence of his favourite beverage, whiskey. He would drink whole pints of it-it is told of him, and as he himself insisted-without suffering any perceptible ill consequence; and yet finally it brought on him the illness of which he died; not, however, bfore he had the misfortune to lose his wife, who died in 1733.

This event was a violent shock to him; but after his first acute suffering had subsided, he composed a monody on her, full of harmony aud poetic beauty. After this he yielded more

and he, its master, sunk into the deepest melancholy. Passing, while in this wretched state, one day through the town of Boyle, in the county Roscommon, after a six weeks' abstinence from drink, he was tempted to enter a grocer's shop, uncertain whether to abide by his late resolution, or to follow his present impulse, which was strongly pressing him to break it.

"Well, my dear friend," said he to the man who stood behind the counter, "you see I am a man of constancy: for six long weeks I have refrained from whiskey. Was there ever such an instance of self-denial? But a thought strikes me, and surely you will not be cruel enough to deny me the gratification I am about to ask-fill up a measure of my favourite liquor, and place it before me, that I may smell it; but, you may depend upon my word, I shall not taste it."

On this latter condition his request was granted, and no sooner did the odour of the cup ascend before him, than it acted upon him like a spell; his face brightened, his whole frame became animated, and immediately he poured forth over it a soliloquy, which was the foundation of that much-admired song, "Carolan's receipt for drinking whiskey." But, alas! the temptation was too much for him, and that evening again, inspired by the forbidden cup, he composed the air of this unrivalled drinking song in Boyle, and the next morning sang and played it in the parlour of a gentleman named Stafford, at Elfin, for which reason it is sometimes called "Stafford's receipt," as well as Carolan's.

In Walker's account of Irish bards, he says, "Carolan's inordinate fondness for Irish wine, (as Pierre le Grand used to call whiskey) will not admit of an excuse; it was a vice of habit, and might therefore have been corrected; but let me say something in extenuation: he seldom drank to excess. Besides, he seemed to think-nay, was convinced from experience that the spirit of whiskey was grateful to his Muse, and for that reason generally offered it when he intended to invoke her."

Another writer speaking of him says: "I have been told that in his (Carolan's) latter days he never composed without the inspiration of whiskey, of which at that critical hour he always took care to have a bottle beside him."

The precise manner of his death has been vari. ously related; however, that intemperance was its primary cause, has been confessed by all his biographers. One of them, writing soon after his death, relates: "His end was not less remarkable than his life. Homer was not more fond of a glass than he. He would drink whole