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certain it is, that they evinced no more desire to talked of, thought that those who used bad assist Mr. Shameall in his researches than was words must best understand their meaning; shown by turning him out of his situation. For and the newspapers did all in their power to tunately, Mr. Shameall had some property, show that the schoolmaster's arithmetic was and so eager where his exertions in the pursuit the best; and that he had been tried, like the of knowledge, that he appealed to some other sheep in the fable, with the wolf for his judge, gentlemen, connected with the legal profession, and the fox for his accuser and witness; and for a solution of the difficulty.

men began to ask what right those who were Although, unlike the sorcerer of the old of no use had to meddle with useful people, castle, the dean and chapter could not burn the and what right people had to be punished for reverend Speakout Shameall, they did their giving information respecting stolen goods or best to show their sense of the impropriety of misappropriated property. And the dean and a schoolmaster studying any arithmetic but chapter grieved much because they could not that of his employers. They called him an make a martyr of Mr. Shameall; but public atheist, they prosecuted and persecuted him opinion said, that if anybody deserved that in every way possible ; but they forgot both honour, it was the party of respectable gentlethe character of the man and the times they | men who had robbed poor boys, and then lived in. Mr. Shameall was a good and a sought to stifle information by persecuting the learned man, and people who heard atheism / only man who dared to speak on their behalf.

THE COUNTESS. PEOPLE who visit a picture gallery for no discover the key in the mind or life of the indiother purpose than to wile away an hour or vidual painter.” two of time that they know not how else to Then, after all, what a “ palace of thought” employ, will, generally, find little amusement is a portrait gallery-what memories may it in the contemplation of walls hung round with not stir within us—what feelings re-awakena series of portraits only; half-lengths, three-| what substance will not fancy give to those enquarters, or whole-lengths, are equally incapable chanting deceptions, which, by the painter's art, of giving to the mere idler the transient enjoyment of a few bright and cheerful thoughts.

“ Bring the long-buried dead to life again.” The painted canvas, which transmits to us, it | Inferior as portraiture usually ranks in commay be, all we can learn of the forms and linea parison with other branches of art, viewed ments of past greatness and goodness is alto historically it is superior to all. But an edugether inadequate to rouse with its “mute cated mind is required to appreciate its value eloquence," or to charm with its smiles. Nor in this sense, and to understand the records of is it alone the person represented gazing upon which the painted figure remains as the symbol us, perhaps, in silence and solitude, from his or type. quaint and richly-gilded frame, that seems to Now, just to apply these observations, supaddress the spectator ; we see, or ought to see, | pose I introduce the reader into an apartment the artist through his work; for, says Mrs. devoted entirely to portraits: we will enter, Jameson, “almost every picture (which is the for example, the Van Dyck room, as it is geneproduction of mind) has an individual cha rally called, in Windsor Castle. A rare painter racter reflecting the predominant temperament was Van Dyck at all times, but especially —nay, sometimes, the occasional mood of the so ere multiplicity of business made him someartist, its creator. Even portrait painters, what careless, and compelled him to call in the renowned for their exact adherence to nature, assistance of those who were far inferior to will be found to have stamped upon their por himself. Well, as we walk round the aparttraits a general and distinguishing character. ment, the eye and the thoughts are naturally There is, beside the physiognomy of the indivi- | most engrossed by the portraits of Charles I. dual represented, the physiognomy, if I may so and his family, both grouped and singly, and express myself, of the picture; selected at once the mind becomes absorbed in the long and meby the mere connoisseur as a distinction of lancholy story of the “ royal martyr." There is manner, style, execution, but of which the a“ half-length" of his queen, Henrietta Maria, reflecting and philosophical observer might a true daughter of “ Henri Quatre," a “ lively,

VOL. I. N. S.

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elegant, wilful French woman," who could jester of the profligate court of the second rush through a storm of bullets to save a Charles; the latter, a lyrio poet, of exquisite favourite poodle, and command the captain taste and feeling, and a lively but decorous wit. of the ship to blow the vessel up, with all on And nearly opposite these, if our memory serves board, rather than strike his colours to the us, is Lucy Percy, Countess of Carlisle, whom “ Roundhead” fleet that pursued her. Van Waller panegyrises, in some elegant verses, Dyck has dressed her in white satin, and has albeit her intrigues are said to have greatly beautifully represented those bright eyes and perplexed the king's affairs, and vexed him. graceful airs which so fascinated her husband, This, then, is one of the uses to be made of and influenced his fortunes. What a noble portraiture; each individal example constitutes composition is that of Lady Digby, wife of Sir a page of history, when the person represented Kenelm Digby, with all its allegorical allu has established a claim to become a portion of sions to some real or fictitious action of her life, it. If this be not the case, still something may whose mysteries have never yet been revealed be learned from the attributes with which the to us; a picture of which, Hazlitt says, “it painter will invest his subject; for as Mrs. would be next to impossible to perform an Jameson remarks, "Could Sir Joshua Reynolds unbecoming action while it hung in the room." have painted a vixen without giving her a There, too, stand two young boys together, touch of sentiment? Would not Sir Thomas brothers-George Villiers, Duke of Bucking Lawrence have given refinement to a cookham, who fell by the dagger of Felton, in the maid?” The picture indicates the artist's streets of Portsmouth; and Lord Francis Vil- | mind. liers, remarkable for his accomplishments and | Which of the ornaments of our modern feextraordinary beauty of person, who was slain male aristocracy was the model of Mr. Parris's during the civil wars, at the early age of "Countess" we have not been able to ascertain ; nineteen. “He stood," says Clarendon, “under and it is most probable that, did we know, an oak-tree, with his back against it, defending there might be no remarkable history to relate himself, scorning to ask quarter, and his ene concerning her. All that can be said of the mies barbarously refusing to give it, till, with work is, that it represents, in very elegant nine wounds in his beautiful face and body, he style, a lady belonging to the class which, in our was slain.” Then, again, in one picture, we | own day, more than in times past, find their find two individuals attached to the court of the chief happiness in other matters than political first Charles-Killigrew, one of the monarch's strife and turmoil. The pencil of this artist is pages, and Carew, a gentleman of the privy | always graceful in female portraiture, but his chamber; the former, afterwards the licensed | exhibited pictures are few in number.



O! where snared ye that bonnie, bonnie bird !

0! where wiled ye that winsome fairy ? I fear it was where nae ear heard,

And far frae the shrine o' guid Saint Mary.

I didna snare this bonnie, bonnie bird,

Nor try ony wiles wi' this winsome fairy; But won her heart where the angels heard,

In the shadowy glen o'guid Saint Mary.

As life I love my bonnie, bonnie bird,

Its plume shall never be ruffled sairly;
Till the day o' doom will I keep my word,

An' cherish my bonnie bird late an' early.
0! whence rings out that merry, merry peal!

An' o! but the song is chorus'd rarely !
It is, it is the bonnie, bonnie bird,

An' three sma' voices piping early.
For, he didna snare the bonnie, bonnie bird,

Nor work ony guile wi' the winsome fairy;
Bet made her his ain, where the angels heard,
At the holy shrine o' bless'd Saint Mary, ·

FRANCIS Bennoch.

0! what want ye wi' sic a bonnie bird ?

I fear me its plume ye will ruffle sairly, Or bring it low to the lone kirk-yard,

Where the flowers o' grace are planted early. 1852.

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(Communicated by Mrs. S. C. Hall.) DEAR AUNT,-My good mistress has had an | you think she said ? Why,“ poor fellow !” invitation to a place they call it by the name again. To be sure, thoughts are thoughts, and of CRANLEY HURST: that is, the invitation we had as good, may-be, forget the thought of did not come from her cousin, but from her | many a thought we do think. That same cousin's brother's wife, who was gone to keep evening she stood opposite the glass : “Ellen," house for her cousin during what she called she says, “ I look very old.” “ There's a power “her LITTLE ELECTION.” My mistress said, of amiability in your face, ma'am," I answers, she had never been at “ Cranley Hurst" since " and you've a fine head-piece." It's true for she was a girl, and she had heard that her me, and I thought I had got over the age cousin, the Hon. Francis Cranley (who, for beautifully; but I had not; she turned to at it some cause or another, had shut himself up, | again-"I look very old, Ellen." when a fine young gentleman, all as one as a “God bless you, ma'am, age is a beauty to hermit), had been routed like a hare out of its

many." form, by his little sister-in-law, who pounced “Not to me." down upon him, now and again, like a “ There's twenty opinions about the one hawk, scareing and tearing and domineering | thing." wherever she went. My poor mistress was a “ But I am old.” long time what they call temporizing, whether “ More of that to you, ma'am, dear.” she would go or not, when I am sure it was “Do you wish me to be old ?” to her surprise she got a letter from the “I wish you, with all my heart and soul, to Honourable Francis himself. “He says," says grow old," I says, and from my heart I spoke, she," that it's the first invitation he has given and she felt it; but, seeing she was melanto any living creature to pass the threshold of choly, I thought to rouse her a bit. “ Indeed, Cranley Hurst for five-and-twenty years; and ma'am, I never saw you better in my life (that he hopes I will give his sister-in-law, Mrs. was true); you're as heavy again as you were James Cranley, the pleasure to receive me, and when I first had the blessing of looking in yer that he himself would be happy to see me in sweet face, and sure your eyes are as bright the old place once more."

as diamonds (that was a bit of a stretch), and “Poor fellow !" sighed my mistress. Aunt, there's thousands of dimples in your cheeks dear, could you tell me why my mistress sighed this minute" (that was another). “ poor fellow," folded up the letter, and laid a “There, there," she says, smiling ner calm rose I had just brought her from Covent- smile, “ you will not have me old.” garden upon it ?--where, darling aunt (only “Oh, the Holies forbid !" I said again, “it's think how it raised my spirits), I saw as good I that will have you old--but not yet.as thirty Irishwomen, sitting on what we She took up wonderful after that. Sure we would call pratee baskets, shelling peas for all like a taste of the flattery; some wish it the quality, and working away at the real addressed to their head-some to their heartMunster Irish, as if they had never left the some to their great families, taking their pride quays of Cork. She put the rose on the letter out of blood, so thick, you could cut it with a as if, in her thoughts, one had something to knife--some (musheroons, I call them) to their do with the other, and, resting her elbow on wealth--more to their beauty, which, though the table, shaded her face with her hand ; | dead and buried to the world, is alive to them. after a time, a very long time, I came back Aunt, dear, all like it : somehow, the thing to into the room, and she was sitting the same know is, when and how to give it. Well, my way. “Wouldn't you like a turn in the park, mistress bought a new bonnet, and such elema'am," I said ; "for a wonder, it's neither an gant caps, and altogether took a turn for the east wind nor a pour of rain ?” So she gazed best. She was amused, too, at the notion of a up in my face, with that kind of mazed look little election, which I wondered at; seeing she which people have when you talk to them, I was so timid in general." and their thoughts are in deep sea or land "I'll engage Cranley Hurst is a fine, strong graves-or, may-be, in the ETERNITY, to which house, ma'am," I made bold to say. they go before the spirit's time. And what do I “Oh, no; it's a long, rambling, wandering

sort of place, Ellen ; all odd windows and odd “ Bradshaw," I thought it must be diverting; gables-all odd and old.” So I said that I'd go people bought it so fast at the railway stations; bail his honour her cousin's faction (his people, and you see it sticking out of the pockets of I meant) would keep off the other party, at elec the little scutty coats, that are all the fashion, tion times, when they break in, and knock every and out of the bags the ladies nurse like thing to bits; and I told her how my father babbies on their laps, and which they spend remembered when the Kilconnel boys broke months of their time on, to make them look as into Kilmurray-house, and the master canvas if made of odds and ends of carpet—which, sing-destroying, right and left-burning and indeed, they do. I asked my mistress if she murdering every one that was not of their way would not like to have " Bradshaw;" it must of thinking, and shouting over their ashes for be such pleasant reading. So, with the same liberty and freedom of election. That was the quiet smile with which she does everything, time, when knowing that more of the Kilconnel she bought it, and gave it to me, sayingboys were forced to come over the Crag-road “There it is, Ellen; I hope you may underwhere no road was ever made, only all bog stand it." I was a little hurt, and made anthe Kilmurray men laid wait for them, and swer—" Thank you kindly, ma'am ; nothing snared them into a gamekeeper's lodge, making puzzles me upon the print but foreign lanbelieve it was a whiskey-still—just a place guages, or may-be, Latin." And as we were where they had plenty of the mountain dew going down to Cranley Hurst, I fixed my which (bad luck to it) is a wonderful strength mistress in the first class, and myself opposite ener of sin, and kept them there drinking and her, with a rale carpet-bag on my lap, and my dancing until the election was over; and, then, “ Bradshaw” in my hand. leaving the Kilconnel boys sleeping, the Kil “ You may read if you like, Ellen," said my murray men disappeared in the night. When mistress—the smile twinkling in her eyes the poor fellows staggered out in the rising (I'm sure her eyes were mighty soft and sly sun, and found how it was, they grew very when she was young). “Thank you ma'aın," I savage, and just fair and easy burnt the lodge. answered, “one of my mother's second cousins And may-be murderings and destructions did | married a • Bradshaw,' and may-be I'd find not grow out of that; and lawsuits—and per something about his family here." A gentlesecutions—that made men of two attorneys, man stared at me over his Bradshaw-and a who never had cross or coin to bless themselves mighty pert little old lady, who was reading with before the burning of Crag-road-lodge! her “ Bradshaw," let down her glass, and asked

My mistress says, they manage things more me when I left Ireland. [Aunt, dear, how quietly here. I can't say whether or not I'm did she know I was Irish:] I looked and glad of it; for I like a bit of a spree now and looked at one page—and then at another-leaf then, to keep the life in me—for the English after leaf-it was about trains, and going and are wonderful quiet; you might as well travel coming—and figures in, and figures out-all with a lot of dummies, as with them; and the marked and crossed and starred-up trains, suspicious looks they cast on you, if you only down trains, and Sunday trains-without a speak civil to them, or look twice their way; bit of sense. the ladies rowling themselves up in shawls, in “ When will our train arrive at Cranley the corners of the railway carriage, and keep Station ?” asked my lady, after I had been ing their eyes fixed, as if it was a sin to be going across, and along, and about, and over, civil. I travel with my mistress, FIRST CLASS “ Bradshaw" for an hour or two-I was so (aunt, dear, let all the people know that, bothered, I could not tell which. coming from mass, Sunday morning)-so I see " It was written as a penance for poor their ways; and the gentlemen bury their travelling sinners," I answered, in a whisper, noses in a mighty perplexing sort of paper for I did not want to let on I could'nt undercovered, book called “Bradshaw," or in a stand it; she did not hear me, and asked the newspaper, which they read to themselves, and question again. keep to themselves, never offering to lend the “I can read both running hand and print, "news" to any one, only shifting it into their ma'am,” I said ; " but none of my family had pockets, as if they could get more out of it a turn for figures, and this looks mighty like there. They scramble in and out of the car what my brother got a prize for—they called riages, without ever moving their hats, or it by the name of all-gib-raa." offering to help the ladies out or in. The My mistress sometimes looks very provoking truth is, they're a good people, but uncommon --and that's the truth–I can hardly think her surly, or uncommon shy. And as to that book, the same at one time that she is at another.

The little pert lady thrust her “ Bradshaw” into her bag, and snapt the clasp--then turning round to the gentleman, she snapt him“Do you understand Bradshaw, sir.” “Noa," he drawled out, “ not exactly-I heard of a gentleman once who did, but im-me-diate-ly after he became insane!”

I shut the book-oh aunt, I would not be that, you know, for all the books that ever were shut and opened. What should I do without my senses?

Of all the ancient places you ever heard tell of, Cranley Hurst is the quarest I ever saw. When you think you are at the far end of the building, it begins again--rooms upon rooms-shut up for ages—and passages leading to nothing, and nothing leading to passages and a broad terrace looking over such a beautiful bog, and a pathway under the terrace to Cranley-marsh (that's English for bog). I often go that path, thinking of the waste lands of my own poor country. Oh, aunt, to see the great innocent frogs, the very moral* of the Irish ones, and lizards, turning and wriggling among the bullrushes; and between the floating islands of green, plashy weeds, that veil the deep pools, you see fish floating round the great grey stones, which, my mistress says, the Romans flung into Cranley-marsh to make a bridge. You should hear my mistress talk of it-she has such fine English.

" Although it's a flat,” she says, “I like it better than any mountain I ever saw. Such a combination of rich colour-such orchis—such shades and masses of iris—such floats of rushcotton-such banks of forget-me-nots—such ferns—and, in the spring, such piles of golden blossoming furze : the peat, so dark and intense, forms a rich contrast to the vegetation; and the Roman stones,' piled here and there into low pyramids, have a grey, solemn effect, and afford shelter to numerous migratory birds, who feed abundantly upon the insects that hover, like metallic vapours, over the deepest pools.” Them were her very words.

The reception, I must tell you, we got at Cranley Hurst, seemed to me mighty cool—I felt my mistress tremble as she leaned on me; but there was neither master nor mistress at the door to welcome her. The servants were there, to be sure, to carry the things to her rooms; but she paused in the long, low hall, that was furnished like a parlour, to look at one picture, then at another; and while she stood before one of a very dark, sorrowful lady - a little pale, wizen'd

woman stole out of a room in the distance, and shading her eyes with one hand, while she

leaned with the other on a cross-headed stick, | she crept, rather than walked, towards my mistress. Her arms were only little bones, wrapt in shrivelled skin, and deep ruffles fell from her elbows. She was more of a shadow than a substance—so very small—so over and above little—that if I had seen her at the Well of Sweet Waters on Midsummer-eve, I would have crossed myself, knowing she was one of the yood people. She would have been a fair go-by-the-ground, but for her high-heeled shoes; and, daylight as it was, I did not like the looks of her. The nearer she came, the more wild and bright her eyes glistened; and the lace borders of her cap flew back from her small sallow features. Though I could not help watching the withered woman, I tried to go close to my mistress; but when I made the least motion, she waved her stick, and her eyes flashed so, that I was rooted to the floor at once. She stole over the floor, and the silence was increased by her presence. Aunt, dear, you know I hate silence; and this hung like a weight on my heart, and gathered over us like clouds-suffocating. At last she came close to me; the border of her cap flapped against my hand, but, to save my life, I could not move. Her eyes were on me; they were everywhere at once. She crept round to my mistress, rested her hands on the cross of her stick, and stared at her; her eyes flashing, not like soft summer lightning, but like what we once watched darting into the very heart of the fine ould tower of Castle Connel.

When my lady looked down from the picture, she saw the withered woman.

“Old Maud !” she cried. And, Oh! what sorrow there was in them two words !

“ The soul outlives the body," said the woman, in a crackling voice-not loud-but sharp and dry, "and the voice outlives the beauty. They said the fair Cicely Cranley was coming, and I laughed at them. No; they said Mistress Bingham was coming that was it—and I said it must be Miss Cicely; for Mistress Bingham had never entered the door of Cranley Hurst since she broke faith with her cousin."

“Hush, Maud!” said my poor mistress, turning from the witch, who faced round, and would look at her ; " there—keep back. Ellen, keep her back-her mind is gone."

“But not her memory,” screamed the hag, striking her stick upon the floor. “I mind the open window—and the ropy ladder—and my young master's misery when the hawk

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