Flood! that glidest noiselessly All thy waves into her breast- Ah! will ocean give back the wave? Who shall disturb the peace of the grave? Come, let us enter the wood, and so on and upwards still to the little mountain lake. Is not this a sweet spot even still? But you should have seen it a month since, when the thick-vestured trees stood closer around it, dipping their heavy branches into its margent, like lusty topers crowding round the wine-bowl, or when the stars, of a clear calm night, looked down into its still face, shewing a nether firmament of blue and silver. Now the trees are well-nigh leafless beside it, and the breeze that moans through them has ruffled the mirror of its surface. I assure you it is a favourite spot with me for contemplation. What better place could we find, in which "To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; Heaped over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust shut in an urn of brass." What fitter time is there for such memories in the year's circuit than “the fall of the leaf?" Here are some of my musings on the spot where we are now standing: they smack, at all events, of the locality, though I will not say they are altogether worthy of the genius loci :— Now, then, brave sinews and muscles, for we must thread this rough, steep path, which winds through the heart of the wood, right over the ridge of the hill. Take good heed of the tangled branches, as they are the worst possible brushes to apply to a silk "Chapeau de Paris," and the twisted roots may catch your foot, and disturb your vertical elevation. Now turn sharp round that wall of rock, with the light sprays of the feathery rowan waving on its summit, like the crest on a knight's helmet, and There's something "to take the shine out of your eyes." Sea, sea, sea! as far as the vision can stretch westward. Those are the billows of the mighty Atlantic, rolling in unbroken swell from a land whose existence was unknown to us a few centuries ago, till they dash against the base of those white cliffs on which we are now standing. Look down cautiously over the edge of this beetling rock, and you will see the waves plashing with a deep hoarse roar, and then crumbled into sea-dust, which the light wind catches and flings up into our very faces. We are just in time to witness a splendid sunset. See, now, the waves flush and glitter as the edge of his deep red disk, apparently enlarged to tenfold its ordinary size, touches them. Look at the black cloud that rises from the horizon and spreads across his face, by little and little, till the whole is hidden; but the golden shafts that shoot up beyond it through the blue ether, shew that he is still battling gallantly with the darkness that will soon shroud him. Let us sit down here and watch in silence the light fading away through a thousand hues, such as they say mark a dolphin's death, till the last tinge of the palest salmon-colour gives place to the cold greyish blue of twilight. It is all over, dear Anthony-the day is dead, and here are my musings the while upon the sunset. Here, then, to our beautiful air, "The brink of the white rocks" :— THE BRINK OF THE WHITE ROCKS. I. On the brink of the white rocks at eve I reclined, The low moans of ocean fell soft on my ears, The breeze brought the spray from the main; And I thought on the strong hearts that sobbed o'er their biers- II. As slowly the day-god sank down in the west, But radiant above, breaks a light from the tomb, III. At morning again, when the dark night is past, Renewed in his strength, and more bright than when last The grave night's soon o'er and the dawn will appear, While the clouds that hung round our last sad parting here I believe there is no vainer sorrow than sorrowing for the dead. If the past be unalterable, and the future inexorable, then is lamentation over the bier vanity itself; but in truth we mourn not for the dead, but after the dead, and for ourselves. And this too is vain-a weakness of our natnre, to be indulged in only so far as it sanctifies and improves us, to be mastered when it would enfeeble our minds or prostrate our energies. I like not the custom of the Hebrews, who honoured their dead with wailings. For myself I would prefer to struggle for the composure of feelings that will permit me to recur with pleasure to all the endearing recollections which restore to me my friend, unalloyed with gloom or repining. There are few to whom time does not at length bring this tranquillity-he is the wisest who can reach it soonest. I shall let death rob me of as little as I can. If he take the body that I loved, I shall not suffer him to mar my spirit's intercourse with that of the departedwith that I shall hold converse in my lonely rambles and in the watches of the night. I will cling to all the endearing and enduring memories that make it oftentimes sweeter to think upon the dead than to commune with the living. And so, dear Anthony, I will sing you THE MEMORIES OF THE DEAD. I. Weep not for the dead! Thy sighs and tears are unavailing; No more shall harm the blest, II. Weep not for the dead; But oh! weep sore for those remaining, Shall fill our aching hearts and eyes; III. As stars through dark skies stealing, As tongues of sweet bells pealing, So, on the spirit streaming, A solemn light is shed; And long-loved tones come teeming IV. As clouds drawn up to heaven Sweetest from bruised flowers, The memories of the dead. Adieu, dear Anthony, for the present—" sis memor mei." If you will think of me hereafter, when I have passed away, as I fondly trust you will-for my space is short, but thine is a lengthened one, and I hope my children's children will see thee every month in thy buff-think of me on some sweet autumn evening, when the heaven promises a bright morrow-when your heart is mellow, and your spirit is jocund. Think of me, my friend, at "THE FALL OF THE LEAF."-Ever, in life and in death, yours, To Anthony Poplar, Esq. JONATHAN FREKE SLINGSBY. MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF fortune. CHAPTER XVI. "AN OLD GENERAL OF THE IRISH BRIGADE." In obedience to an order which arrived at Saumur one morning in the July of 1798, I was summoned before the commandant of the school, when the following brief colloquy ensued :— "Maurice Tiernay," said he, reading from the record of the school, "why are you called l'Irlandais ?" "I am Irish by descent, sir." "Ha! by descent. Your father was then an Emigré ?" "No, sir-my great grandfather." "Parbleu! that is going very far back. Are you aware of the causes which induced him to leave his native country?" "They were connected with political troubles, I've heard, sir. He took part against the English, my father told me, and was obliged to make his escape to save his life." "You then hate the English, Maurice?" "My grandfather certainly did not love them, sir." "Nor can you, boy, ever forgive their having exiled your family from country and home: every man of honour retains the memory of such injuries." "I can scarcely deem that an injury, sir, which has made me a French citizen," said I, proudly. "True, boy-you say what is perfectly true and just; any sacrifice of fortune or patrimony is cheap at such a price; still you have suffered a wrong -a deep and irreparable wrong-and as a Frenchman you are ready to avenge it." I Although I had no very precise notion, either as to the extent of the hardships done me, nor in what way was to demand the reparation, I gave the assent he seemed to expect. "You are well acquainted with the language, I believe?" continued he. "I can read and speak English tolerably well, sir." "But I speak of Irish, boy-of the language which is spoken by your fellow-countrymen," said he, rebukingly. "I have always heard, sir, that this has fallen into disuse, and is little known, save among the peasantry in a few secluded districts." He seemed impatient as I said this, and referred once more to the paper before him, from whose minutes he appeared to have been speaking. "You must be in error, boy. I find here that the nation is devotedly attached to its traditions and its literature, and feels no injury deeper than the insulting substitution of a foreign tongue for their own noble language.' "Of myself I know nothing, sir; the little I have learned was acquired when a mere child." "Ah, then you probably forget, or may never have heard the fact; but it is as I tell you. This, which I hold here, is the report of a highly-distinguished and most influential personage, who lays great stress upon the circumstance. I am sorry, Tiernay, very sorry, that you are unacquainted with the language.' He continued for some minutes to brood over this disappointment, and at last returned to the paper before him. "The geography of the countrywhat knowledge have you on that subject?" "No more, sir, than I may possess of other countries, and merely learned from maps." "Bad again," muttered he to himself. 66 Madyett calls these essentials; but we shall see.' Then addressing me, he said, "Tiernay, the object of my present interrogatory is to inform you that the Directory is about to send an expedition to Ireland to assist in the liberation of that enslaved people. It has been suggested that young officers and soldiers of Irish descent might render peculiar service to the cause, and I have selected you for an opportunity which will convert those worsted epaulets into bullion." This at least was intelligible news, and now I began to listen with more attention. "There is a report," said he, laying down before me a very capacious manuscript, which you will carefully peruse. Here are the latest pamphlets setting forth the state of public opinion in Ireland; and here are va rious maps of the coast, the harbours, and the strongholds of that country, with all of which you may employ yourself advantageously; and if, on considering the subject, you feel disposed to volunteer-for as a volunteer only could your services be accepted— I will willingly support your request by all the influence in my power.". 66 "I am ready to do so at once, sir," said I, eagerly; "I have no need to know any more than you have told me." Well said, boy; I like your ardour. Write your petition and it shall be forwarded to-day. I will also try and obtain for you the same regimental rank you hold in the school"-I was a sergeant "it will depend upon yourself afterwards to secure a further advancement. You are now free from duty; lose no time, therefore, in storing your mind with every possible information, and be ready to set out at a moment's notice." "Is the expedition so nearly ready, sir?" asked I, eagerly. He nodded, and with a significant admonition as to secrecy, dismissed me, bursting with anxiety to examine the stores of knowledge before me, and prepare myself with all the details of a plan in which already I took the liveliest interest. Before the week expired, I received an answer from the minister, accepting the offer of my services. The reply found me deep in those studies, which I scarcely could bear to quit even at meal-times. Never did I experience such an all-devouring passion for a theme as on that occasion. "Ireland" never left my thoughts; her wrongs and sufferings were everlastingly before me; all the cruelties of centuries-all the hard tyranny of the penal laws the dire injustice of caste oppression-filled me with indignation and anger; while, on the other hand, I conceived the highest admiration of a people who, undeterred by the might and power of England, resolved to strike a great blow for liberty. The enthusiasm of the people-the ardent darings of a valour whose im. petuosity was its greatest difficultytheir high romantic temperament their devotion-their gratitude- the child-like trustfulness of their natures, were all traits, scattered through the various narratives, which invariably attracted me, and drew me more strongly to their cause-even from affection than reason. Madyett's memoir was filled with these, and he, I concluded, must know them well, being, as it was asserted, one of the ancient nobility of the land, and who now desired nothing better than to throw rank, privilege, and title into the scale, and do battle for the liberty and equality of his countrymen. How I longed to see this great man, whom my fancy arrayed in all the attributes he so lavishly bestowed upon his countrymen, for they were not only, in his description, the boldest and the bravest, but the handsomest people of Europe. As to the success of the enterprise, whatever doubts I had at first conceiv ed, from an estimate of the immense resources of England, were speedily solved, as I read of the enormous preparations the Irish had made for the struggle. The Roman Catholics, Madyett said, were three millions, the Dissenters another million, all eager for freedom and French alliance, wanting nothing but the appearance of a small armed force to give them the necessary organisation and discip line. They were somewhat deficient, he acknowledged, in fire-arms—cannon they had none whatever; but the character of the country, which consisted of mountains, valleys, ravines and gorges, reduced war to the mere chivalrous features of personal encounter. What interminable descriptions did I wade through of clubs and associations, the very names of which were a puzzle to me-the great union of all appearing to be a society called "Defenders," whose oath bound them to "fidelity to the united nations of France and Ireland." So much for the one side. For the other, it was asserted that the English forces then in garrison in Ireland were below contempt; the militia, being principally Irish, might be relied on for taking the popular side; and as to the Regulars, they were either "old men or boys," incapable of active service; and several of the regiments being Scotch, greatly disaffected to the Government. Then, again, as to the navy, the sailors in the English fleet were more than two-thirds Irishmen, all Catholics, and all disaffected. That the enterprise contained every element of success, then, who could doubt? The nation, in the proportion of ten to one, were for the movement. On their side lay not alone |