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«« Will you promise that, this night?' love-powdber for a sweetheart ov my asked Kitty.

own, I might get it betther from the "I promise,' returned the other ; shop than from Mrs. Costigan. How and from the slap that followed, I think the docthor laughed when I axed for they shook hands on it.

it; and he was a mighty 'cute man, ** Well, then,' commenced Kitty, the Heavens be his bed, for many a life you must get some love-powdher and he saved, so he soon wormed out of me mix it in his drink.'

all I have been tellin' your honour ; "Love-powder !' repeated Nancy. an' when he asked me if I thought I never heard tell of such a thing. Miss Mullins would give Jerry the

"You're wiscr now,' laughed Kitty ; powdher, and I said yes. Well, o'tis the only thing for a bashful man; then, no harm in bringing this at all when once he tastes it, he grows bould events,' he said, as I'm having the as the best o' them.'

gig, and, Dan, you shall have a sate; "And where is it sold ?' demanded and he put a matter like the worm of Nancy Mullins.

a potteen-still, with the medicine, into "At Mrs. Costigan's.'

the gig, and we started for home. ro The wise woman?' demanded Though I lost no time on the road, Nancy, anxiously.

the clock struck ten ere we left Athy, « The wise woman,' echoed her com- and I said by that time the hounds panion.

quitted the kennel, and were on the “ This was a fortune-teller, plase way to the meet. The docthor touched your honour, who lived near the Dane's up his horse, and we trotted on gaily, Rath, you noticed a-blow near the till we came to the cross leading to Barrow side.”

Bat Mullins's farm. Here one of the «« Oh! I can't go,' sobbed poor gossoons, with his face as white as a Nancy; "the priest spoke again any sheet, ran against the gig, as he cried, one having call to her; and you know half breathless, Whip up the bohreen we're to have the station soon.'

for your life, doctlıor dear, poor Jerry «« Well, I wash my hands out of you, Nowlan's aʼmost ofl.' for I can't think of anything else. So, What ails him, Patsy ?' asked the good night, Miss Mullins, and a better doctor, turning the gig. adwiser,' said Kitty, as she turned ".Foamin' like a mad dog, and aside to depart.

takin' four men to hould him.' «« « Oh! do not leave me, for pity

Thank God, we may save him sake,' cried Nancy, I've no friend yet,' muttered the doctor, an' he kept but you I dare spake to, Kitty dear; skelpin' the horse along the rough and I suppose I had better

road, an' the gig leapin' from jowlt to the best.'

jowlt; 'twas as much as we could do to “I know no other way to bring him keep our sates. round,' observed Kitty, it's only a « lle pulled up at the door with a short step from this to the wise wo. jerk that nearly druy the gig into the man's: no one will see you, an' to- kitchen windys, and the cries of the morrow the hounds will be passing women, and groaning of poor Jerry, your door, when you can have a cup o with the shouting, and noise of the syllabub or a dandy o'punch, and just men, as they almost failed to keep him drop the powdher into it, and you'll see down, were distracting. my words are true.'

“ Out with you, Dan,' cried the " The girls kissed each other. I wait- docthor, and get out the stomach. ed till I see Nancy take the road to pump.' the Rath, an' went in to deliver my “ I did not know what he meant. errands.

• There's no pump nearer than the “One of the family was taken sick Great House, sir,' I said ; but there's in the night with consternation of

a very fine well.' the bowels, I think they called it, an' * You be hanged, you omadhawn ! I was sent over to Athy early, to the Lift up the cushion till I open the docthor's shop, to bid him come imme- box;' and on my raising the lid of diately. When I see all the beautiful the drivin'-sate, be pulled out the physics, in blue and yallow bottles, machine that reminded me of the still, and quare snakes, and other combus- and hurried witb it into the house. tibles, I thought it I could get a little “ The moment the docthor laid his

go, if it's for

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eyes on Jerry, he knew what ailed up the whites of his eyes, and rested him. All the effects of arsenic were his arms around Nancy's white neckbefore him.

and, poor girl, she was delighted, for "I guessed as much,' he said. she thought Kitty Molloy's words were • What did he take the powder in?' coming true ; when, Lord save us from

"• Milk,' was the reply, from a do- barm! he fell froin the saddle as if he zen voices.

was shot, and foamed at the mouth, ««• How long since ?'

workin' like one in the fallin'-sick"Not ten minutes from the time ness. Mrs. Costigan never gave ano. you come.'

ther look, but cut away as if the " . Then there's hope for him yet,' hounds were chasing her, and tale nor said the worthy jontleman, and he tidings were never heard of her again." fell to work pumping at Jerry, and i " Did Jerry forgive Miss Mullins ?" pouring in hot wather, and, glory be we inquired. to God, he did wondhers, and brought “ Ayeh! 'tis he that did, and mar. him to.

ried her in style, with Kitty Molloy “And oh ! when poorNancy,who bad as bridesmaid." Shure,' sis she, ''tis been the cause of such destruction to I made the match after all, for you the boy she loved best in the world, must bring a bashful man to death's found that his life was saved, how she door before you get any good of threw herself on her knees before the him.'" docthor, and prayed blessings on his While our entertaining companion gray hairs; and he kissed her, and thus shortened the road, we had pass. lifted her up, and told her he knew ed by various country seats. Some Jerry loved her, and if she came to locks are on the stream of the Barrow, consult him, instead of the wise wo- which is increased in volume by juncman, he would have spared her all she tion with divers small rivers, the Lert suffered. Poor Jerry himself remained and the Greese, which fall into it near at Mrs. Mullins's for a fortnight, be- the bounds of the counties Carlow and ing as wake as a child, with pains in Kildare. In our progress through the his boncs, and the joints of his legs parish of Urglin, in the County Carwithout motion. We thought he was low, our companion pointed out Palacrippled for life ; but by good care, tine town, with the handsome residence and the best of nursing-and may be of F. W. Burton, Esq., Burton Hall, Nancy was not taking good care of surrounded by fine woodlands. Ruthim - he came round, and in six land House and Rutland Lodge are months he was brave and hearty as also in this district. We caught glimope ever."

ses of Mount Leinster and Black. “ Was the wise woman prosecuted ?" stairs Mountain, separating Carlos we inquired.

from the County Wexford, and skirted “ She, the deluderer," replied Dan. the spacious demesne of Oakpark, to “ Likely enough. Do you think the Besfield Lock. The smoke and bustle, wise woman would let herself be nab- crowded houses, and clamour of a large bed that way.

She happened to be town, now rose on every side, and we prowlin' about just when Jerry got entered Carlow, an account of which the bowl o' milk from Miss Mullins, we must reserve for the next number of and when he drank it, he just turned our national Magazine.

J. R. O'F.

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Once again “ the year is growing ancient.” Another of those cycles, seventy of which measure the ordinary life of man, is well nigh completed. One more of those seventy waves, which drift man into Eternity, is just about to break on the shore of Time. Hours, and days, and months, have poured out their sands, to make up the sum of one of the most eventful years this generation has seen; and, as it speeds irrevocably away, we stand on the skirt of the unretraceable Past, on the brink of the unknown FUTURE. “ Horæ cedunt, dies, menses, anni: nec præteritum tempus unquam revertitur, nec quod sequatur sciri potest.” It is good to pause a moment at seasons such as these, if it be only to take breath, ere we start anew on the race of life, to look around us, and consider whence we have come, whither we are going

“ 'Tis wisely great to talk of our past hours." The Past! the irrevocable past! All that we once looked forward to with an intense desire — all that we sought so eagerly to accomplish — for a moment, and for a moment only, became the Present; and in that moment only became ours-perishing in the using, dying in our embrace, or phantom-like, eluding our arins; and the moment after beyond our reach once more, as the things that have been, hurrying away into the dim distance, growing smaller and smaller, fainter and fainter every hour — till, like the lessening objects on the distant horizon that shrink into misty spots in the physical landscape, they, too, shrink as they recede, occupying but a little space in the field of our mental vision, till at last we can only discern them by the light of Memory that illumines them upon the far away verge of the past.

MEMORY, “the warder of the brain," the great magician of life. She stands far away behind us, holding up her nirror; so that, when at times we stop a moment in our onward progress, and turn the mind's eye backwards, we see the things that have long since sped away, caught and deflected in their course by that magic glass and lo! the phantasms of the departed flit back to meet us, and the images all stand before us, “lifeless, but life-like,”-our childhood, our youth, our manhood, and all the scenes and beings with which we conversed some dim, and shadowy, and undefined—some standing out with sharp outlines and in strong colours, so that we think we can handle them with our hands, and see them with the eyes of our body. And thus Memory gives us back the days that are gone-its pleasures and its sorrows, its good and its evil

MEMORY.
Sad, as the waves of the low-moaning ocean

Break in the light of the moon on the shore-
Fitful, as music, when winds set in motion

Strings of the air-lute their wings tremble o'er ;
VOL. XLVI.-N0. CCLXXVI.

2U

Pure, as the spring from its fountain-heart welling

Through the hot sands in the wilderness lone,
Come back again from their shadowy dwelling,

All the dear memories of days that are gone.
Childhood—its light-hearted sorrow and pleasure,

Smiles like the sunlight, and tears like the dew;
Youth_rich in love, as a vase filled with treasure;

Prime-with its dreams of the grand and the true.
Sunlight and dew-drop will come back at morning,

Night give new dreams, and the vase find new store;
Life! on thy stream there is no more returning-

Memory! oh, give back the sweet days of yore ! There is no sentiment that obtrudes itself more constantly upon a thoughtful man than this, that human life, with all its business and its bustle, its toils and its cares, its hopes and its fears, has more of the unreal than the real in it, more of the shadow than the substance, ever fleeting and transient. Sages and phi. losophers, in all ages, bave felt this sad and solemn truth, and proclaimed it to the world. “ Man,” says the poet-king of Israel, “walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain." “Our days on earth are but a shadow, and there is none abiding." And the great preacher upon vanities bears the same testimony, “ All the days of his vain life, which he spendeth as a shadow.” Pindar calls man “the dream of a shadow, Excães övæg tirdqwto; and Æschylus still more happily designates human life_""Ovag inpesgópartor"-a dream that appeareth in the daylight. St. Chrysostom, who was himself an elegant scholar and well acquainted with the classical literature of ancient Greece, had, in all probability, the sentiments of these poets in his mind, when, speaking of life, he says, "Like a shadow and a dream it flitteth away, having nothing that is true, nothing that is stable.* And again, in one of his fine homilies, he thus preaches — * Our life is like a scene in a play, or a vision of the night. For, as in the scene when the curtain drops, the decorations disappear; and the visions, when the light of the sun shines in upon the sleeper, all fit away, so, in like manner, when the last hour for all and for each draweth nigh, all these things are dissolved and vanish.”+

But if life be thus unreal-if the past be as a shadow, and the present but a dream-where shall we look for the real and the abiding? Where but in the future—the future beyond the grave—the morrow not of Time, but of Eternity, when

“ The days breaketh, and the shadows flee away.” Strange paradox of Nature ! mysterious antagonism between the physical and the moral condition of our being ! "To the eye of the Christian philosopher, as of the Christian poet, this life is

6. The land of apparitions, empty shades !
All, all on earth is shadow-all beyond

Is substance." There indeed is the real, the true, the stable. The strong hand of that mos. sublime and beneficent of God's ministers_Death-rends away the clay-scales from the eyes of the soul; her vision is no longer diseased that she sees spectres, no longer dim that she fails to see realities, no longer short to see the whole. And so there is no shifting, no passing by parts across the field of view; but all is beheld in its entirety, and therefore unchangingly.

In the midst, then, of all this fleeting, changeful, phantom-life, wherein we now dreamily move, let no man fail to take these comforting thoughts to his

* Καθάπερ σκια και όναρ ταρατρεχει, ουδεν αληθες ουδεν βέβαιον εχον. - Hom. Xxxv, in cap. xiv. Gen.

+ Σκηνή τις εστιν ο βιος και αναρ. Καθαπερ γαρ επι της σκηνής, του σκηνους αρθεντες, ποικιλιαι διαλυονται, και τα όνειρατα, της ακτινος φανεισης, παντα αφισταται ούτω και της συντελιας γινομενης, και της κοινής και της ενος εκαστου, ταντα λειται και αφαη ζεται.Ep. i. Tim., cap. 5, Hom. XV.

soul they will not make him the less earnest to do whatsoever his hand findeth to do; but while he is occupied about the things of time, let him not be falsely craven to the nobility of his nature, to fear to avow that he looks beyond and above the earth, and fixes his hopes on heaven. Let us listen to Nature while she teaches us this lesson in a figure

THE WILLOW.

" Tongues in trees-books in the running brooks."-SKAKSPEARE.
The Willow grows beside the River,

And the boughs bang o'er its flow,
Till the green leaves, as they quiver,

Kiss the waves that run below.
The River whispers to the Willow

With a sad, mysterious tone,
As the bubbles of each billow

Gurgling break on bank and stone.
What saith the River as it glistens

In the sun-glints through the tree,
While the bough stoops down and listens

To its plaintive melody?
“Like my waters, life is flying-

Brightest joys have shortest stay-
As my waves speed onward sighing,

With thy kisses far away :
“Human hopes are like the bubbles

Swoln and glittering on my tide,
Till the rocks, like earthly troubles,

Meet and wreck them as they glide.”-
High o'er Willow, high o'er River,

Soars a Lark in airy rings,
While his voice trills to the quiver

Of his sun-illumined wings.
And the ether-vault is riven

With this glad song, as he flics-
“Seek, like me, thy joys in heaven,

And thy hopes within the skies.” But it was not of such things that we sat down to write. The rude winds are blustering outside our close-curtained room ; the rain is plashing in drearily against our window-panes, and we feel that the winter is indeed upon us. Well, let him come. Happy, if we never meet worse enemies than “ winter and cold weather.” Come, then, thou hoary-headed and dripping shiverer : if thou art, indeed, an enemy, we will deal with thee as the great Christian philosopher of Tarsus enjoins us to deal with all our enemies. We will feed thee, we will give thee drink, we will “heap coals of fire upon thy head ;" we will thaw away all thy ice; we will dry thy dripping garments ; we will hush thy mournings, and wipe away thy tears. So now, be jolly, old fellow, and sing us a stave

"Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly;

Then heigh ho the holly,

This life is most jolly." Oh! rare Will Shakspeare, thou hast a sentiment for every season--a phrase for every thought-something apposite in the way of expression for every phase of human feeling; and they who cannot make their winter nights pass away gaily in thy company must have “ hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins’ heads."

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