THE HIBERNIAN MAGAZINE. CONTENTS OF No. I.: THE UNTENANTED GRAVES. CHAPTERS I., II., III., IV. A VISIT FROM MY MUSE. TRAITS OF RICHARD STEELE, KNT. WHAT I SEE IN THE FACES ROUND ME.' AN ADVENTURE. BY THOMAS IRWIN. LIFE IN THE TEMPLE. A LEGEND OF NORSELAND. ASPECTS OF FRENCH MILITARY LIFE. CONTENTS OF NO II.: THE UNTENANTED GRAVES. CHAPTERS, V., VI., VII., VIII, IX. A PORTRAIT NEWLY CLEANED-MADAME DE POMPADOUR. BY PERCY FITZGERALD. SUMMER WANDERINGS. BY THOMAS IRWIN. A VISIT TO THE VALLEY OF WYOMING. RAMBLING SPECULATIONS ON SCIENTIFIC FACTS. GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY. REVIEW-APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA. BY PROFESSOR ROBERTSON. THE PRAYER OF FATHER DOMINICK. BY MARY. A ROUNDABOUT PAPER. NOTICES. The Editor of the HIBERNIAN MAGAZINE will pay respectful attention to all contributions forwarded to him for perusal, but he cannot undertake to return unaccepted MSS. Literary communications to be addressed to the Editor at the Office of the HIBERNIAN MAGAZINE, 3 Crow Street, Dame Street, Dublin; and letters on business to John F. Fowler, to whom all money orders are to be made payable. TIM CROAK took his pipe from his waistcoat pocket, and running round the elm tree, rubbed a match against a brown stone at its root. "Doctor", he called out, keeping the trunk of the tree between him and the lady, while he sucked the dhudeen spasmodically, "if you want to see the run, ride up fair and aisy to the whitethorn bush on the top of Knockclough. You can go through Mr. Purcell's avenue; an' you may take your time, as they're goin' to dhraw the new cover first". Tim Croak, who was in a disturbed state of mind, having tendered this piece of advice with a calmness which was evidently forced, fingered his long wattle, and hurried away in a sling trot, as usual. "I think, doctor", Miss Evans observed, "it would be a good plan. There is a magnificent view from Knockclough". Miss Evans has not been on Knockclough Hill for some years, but she remembers it very well. The last time was on a St. John's eve, when they went up to see the bonfires. That was the evening they met the pale young schoolmaster whose hair was gray. She asked Brian Purcell was the schoolmaster a poet, he looked so dreamy and unhappy. "I don't know", said Brian, "but I believe I could tell you why his hair is gray". Doctor Forbis has signified his readiness to accompany her. Miss Evans has bowed to the evangelical old lady, who looks round anxiously for her nephew, hoping that he will see Miss Evans to the gate. Miss Evans is conscious that both herself and Doctor Forbisor rather Doctor Forbis's remarkable mare-attract a good deal of attention. She sees her other admirer become frantic again—a crowd of sportsmen spurring hastily outside the limits of the figure of eight to which he confines himself while the fit lasts. And though last, not least, Miss Evans sees Captain Dawson leave the marquis's side and VOL. I. THIRD SERIES. 10 canter across the lawn to the gate, which he holds open for them. Miss Evans holds out her hand, and the captain presses it sorrowfully. Ye powers, how beautiful she is! Captain Dawson rides slowly back to his post, considerably damaged. Miss Evans saw the effect her parting look had produced, and the smile of triumph was in her eyes and on her lips; yet her thoughts went back to that St. John's eve. She replied to the doctor's commonplace remarks about the weather without understanding them, and did not even evince any extraordinary interest when he showed her Matt Hazlitt's old gander, the same that beat the old fox to which Tim Croak alluded a while ago, in a fair fight, which was supposed to have lasted three hours and a half. "And the devil's own old fox he is-begging your pardon, Miss Evans", observed Doctor Forbis, remembering the many doleful stories he was every day hearing from one or other of his patients concerning reynard's predatory habits- said doleful stories being meant as apologies for the non-appearance of certain feathered bipeds, which, if it were not for the fox, would gladden the heart of Mrs. Forbis, and chase the cloud from the brow of Mrs. Forbis's maid-ofall-work, and have a brightening effect upon the Forbis household generally. "The devil's own old fox", muttered Doctor Forbis, shaking his head severely and solemnly, as he thought of a certain basket in which there should have been a fat turkey, but, when the lid was raised, was found to contain only six heads of cabbage and a hank of onions. Doctor Forbis consoled himself with a pinch of snuff, and rode on in silence. Miss Evans could not get St. John's eve, and the bonfires, and the poor schoolmaster out of her head. Here was the very spot the schoolmaster handed Brian the manuscript, and went away without speaking. Higher up she sees the smooth rock upon which they sat while Brian read the story. "Hallo!" shouts Doctor Forbis. Miss Evans looks round, and sees Brian Purcell walking away as if he had not recognized them. He turns round now, and waves his hand to the doctor. But the doctor beckons to him with his whip, and Brian has nothing for it but to come and join them. He shakes hands with the doctor, and raises his hat to Miss Evans, whose horse becomes restive. "Why are you not mounted?" inquires the doctor, pointing down towards the assembled foxhunters. "Well", Brian replied, "I do n't care for it unless I can keep my place; and I have sold the only good horse I had to Captain Dawson". Miss Evans, on hearing this name, turns quickly round and fixes her penetrating look upon him. But he is quite unmoved-has not even glanced towards her; and her horse becomes restive again. "I wonder what's delaying them”, said the doctor. "It wants five minutes to eleven yet", said Brian, referring to his watch. "Begging your pardon", observed the doctor, with his severe look, begging your pardon, Mr. Purcell, 't is three minutes and a half past eleven". "Probably you are right, doctor". "Probably I am right? Positively I am right, you mean". The doctor's faith in his own watch was not to be shaken. With his eyes fixed on the dial, he continued: "Are-you-not-standing-by my side?" "Yes", replied Brian. "Are we not in juxtaposition?" "We are". "Well, as sure as you and I are in juxtaposition, it is nowHere the doctor paused until the second hand had moved five seconds: "It is now, at this identical moment"-waiting for the hand to move three seconds more- "five minutes past eleven". And the doctor returned his watch to his pocket with a look indicating that the question was settled beyond further controversy. "And by the way, doctor, there they go". The scarlet coats were seen moving from the lawn towards the rere of Grindem Hall. They caught a glimpse of them again crossing a narrow field, after which hounds, horses, and horsemen were concealed from them by a wood-except the "bosheen* men", among whom was Mr. Oliver Grindem, who might be seen stealing away through open gates and bye-roads towards Thubbermore. Now their attention was attracted to Tim Croak, who came running up the glen, through the furze, towards his own domicile near the fox-earth. "Are we to see any more of the hunt?" Miss Evans asked. "Oh! yes", replied Brian; "it is merely as a matter of form they go through the new cover. We shall have them up in this direction immediately". Soon the pack, followed closely by the whole field-the "bosheen men" excepted-issued from the wood and turned directly towards Coolbawn. But Miss Evans could not help paying more attention to Tim Croak's movements than to anything else. Tim wound up through the furze from the bottom of the glen, never altering his pace till he reached his own door. He remained in the house for a few minutes, and then appeared again. Down through the furze and up the opposite side of the glen went Tim Croak, having stopped for a moment at a clump of brushwood near the bottom. On through the fern along the side of the hill, then across two or three small fields, then through a thick plantation, on to the bank of the river-and now, apparently for the first time that day, Tim Croak begins to walk. Miss Evans remarks that he is taking the path to the cottage-the same that Brian "Bosheen" or "boreen", a bye-road. |