crowns a year, and his majesty has just appointed me to the command of one of his frigates; here is a prospect after your own heart. But seriously, your grace, we have both had happiness; you the illusion, and I the pleasure of giving rise to it. Let us part friends, for a tete-à-tete of a whole month must have exhausted your love, as it has mine. Adieu then, Madam, and, should we ever meet again, let us promise to laugh heartily at this folly of our youth, a folly which has nevertheless its moral tendency. In one month I brought you to sacrifice rank, title, and fortune, to one whom you thought obscure and without station. Acknowledge that you have played well your partlet that serve you as an example-and thank heaven that I am happily unable to abuse or receive your offers; for I pronounced my vows of knight of Malta, before the death of my elder brother."

"Count," cried Rita, pale as death, after a moment's silence, "your conduct is most infamous, a cowardice unworthy of a gentleman."

"Why! good heavens, your grace, our old marshal has played well his part, and his ducal coronet still sits upright and firm on his venerable head; and on the other hand, Madam, does not all this occur between persons of the same rank?"

"Count de Vandrez," answered Rita, with a broken accent, that ill accorded with her affected calmness, "you grieve me sorely, but, unhappily for you, you alone shall know it, for I will deny every thing, as the world has told you, my reputation is immaculate, and you are known as a conceited man.' 99

"But," said the count, "if I mistake not, the result for all the world will be, a man laden with the favours of a lovely woman, for I have witness."

Witness," cried Rita, with a scornful smile.

"Witness, Madam. The old chevalier de Lupine, who for the last month has condemned himself to an imprisonment in the old lantern, has not lost a single syllable of our conversation; he has heard it all through the door which communicates with this room. Guemeneé liked his mistress too well to have neglected his securities."

"Good heavens !" exclaimed the duchess, shuddering, and then rising from the ground, her cheeks empurpled, and eyes flashing with indignation. "I suppose, my lord, this cruel farce has lasted long enough; you have long since forgotten the respect which is due to a woman, and to a woman of my rank. I know not, Sir, whether you be or be not the count de Vandrez; that which I do know is that I found you here alone, suffering, and unhappy; and if the profound compassion which I felt for misfortune, be it feigned or real, ought to be punished as a crime, I am punished; and if the love in which I am involuntarily involved for a being whom I thought friendless, and without support on earth, be still a crime deserving of the most cruel sufferings, I endure these sufferings, for I have loved you, Henry," said Rita, weeping in spite of herself, "I have loved you with all' the compassion which your wretchedness inspired; I have loved you with all the hope which I anticipated of rendering you the happiest of men. Loved Henry, alas! too truly loved." Henry appeared affected.

"And when I came to offer you my fortune, my hand,

my title,

thinking you poor and obscure, when I so loved you, when I love you so much still, for I feel that I love thee still," she murmured, convulsively throwing herself at his kness. "I love thee still, for what thou hast just related to me ought to have destroyed me on the spot, but 'tis thy voice which speaks it, and I love that voice too well to die by it. Believe me then, Henry, believe my love. I will swear to love thee ever. I have willed thee no harm, but would sacrifice every thing to thee; do then love me, Henry."

Her eyes were filled with tears, and she kissed his hands with ardent devotion. A single tear burst through the long eyelashes of Henry; his heart heaved with compassion; and he leant forwards towards Rita. At this moment a stifled laugh was heard behind the tapestry. Henry alone heard it; and, ashamed of his emotion, he resumed his composure.

“Arise, Madam la duchesse," said he ; "but tell me what is there in this to cause so much despair? We have loved for a whole month; our caprice is at an end, and I now say to you, what you have already perhaps said to others, silence and adieu."

"Believe it not, 'tis a horrible calumny," cried Rita, horrified and alarmed. "Believe it not Henry ;" and she dragged herself forward on

her knees.

At this moment the hangings which surrounded the apartment were suddenly raised, and displayed to the stupefied duchess a large company of men and women agitated by bursts of laughter and crying, "Bravo, bravo, bravo, count de Vandrez; you have won your bet; the plan is unique."

The duchess having by this time raised herself, repulsed the count with violence, appearing endowed at this moment with a supernatural force. She sprang towards the door and disappeared before any of the company could oppose themselves to her flight.

"Wretch that I am! she will destroy herself," exclaimed Henry, darting forwards in pursuit of Rita.

"Destroy herself for such a trifle! pshaw, she knows life too well," said the duke of St. Owen, as he prevented Henry from escaping. "Ladies assist me," he said, addressing himself to six pretty women who stood around the table. "In truth I hardly knew him again; this poor count de Vandrez, what would the marshal say?"

"The lesson is perhaps a little too severe, and then if I were truly her first love," thought Henry, in one of his returns of vanity, remembering the extreme tenderness of Rita.

"Bah!" cried he, "I have too much modesty, after all, to give myself the honour of a discovery;" then, recovering his usual gaiety, he added, "On the other hand, they are right; we are always the first, but, like kings, the first of the baptismal name, but then there are so many Henries that even there's a risk." Then, addressing the chevalier de Lepine, he said, "Chevalier, you can tell Guemeneé that I have loyally won his mistress."

"Truly, thou hast well won me," said the most charming creature possible, taking Henry's arm.

"You shall relate all that to him at table, Lelia," cried the chevalier. "Now to supper."

"Supper, supper," was responded by a din of voices.

THE FAMILY OF O'BORE;

A FAIRY TALE.

BY P. E. BYRNE.

"Fairyland was the dream of the world when awaking
From the second long slumber of darkness and dread,
When even Superstition began to be taking
Some tinges of beauty and light ere she fled."

IN Erin's isle, some centuries ago,

Fairies were very num'rous; and, at dawn Of morn, it was not difficult to know

Where they, the night before, amid the lawn, Had "tripp'd it on the light fantastic toe,"

For there you'd find an emerald circle drawnThe spot where hand-in-hand they'd danced around Some fairy bush, or flower of fairy ground.

This circle, too, was gen'rally espied

Described around the haunted founts, where they Their secret revels used to hold, what tide

The pale moon lighted their fantastic play;

Woe to the miserable wight that tried

The myst❜ries of their gambol to survey. There was a power in every fairy spring To work the pleasure of the fairy king.

One sprinkle of it, if they don't belie it,

Could make the young and beautiful grow old,

And wither in a moment, at his "fiat!"

And then again, aged granies, we are told,

Have been transformed into sweet things to sigh at,
The lovely have been made a hundred-fold

More lovely-and the ugly had a treat

Of asses' heads, boars' tusks, and cloven feet.

But here 'tis only justice unto him-
The majesty of Elfland-to declare

Such favours were not the effect of whim,
Upon the part of th' Emperor of air,

Being in general the very trim

Best suited to the wights ordained to wear;

According to their several merits-good

And evil meeting the reward they should.

This truth, I think, was never shown more clear
Than in the fact the following tale relates,
Which happened-let me see, about the year
A.D.-but I am very bad at dates-

And so I may as well omit it here,

For fear of a mistake;-the book which states
That, and such small particulars, odd rot it!
When coming from the country, I forgot it.

ZARACH.

We'll never heed the date-now for the place, There is in Erin's emerald isle-that book! I wish I had it by me now to trace

The very spot, but you had better look In your own copy, for 'twould take more space Than probably my readers could well brook, Were I to send off for the document,

Besides, I might not get it if I sent.

It makes small difference-" Once upon a time,"
Somewhere, in Ireland, was a fairy well,
Famed for rewarding good and punishing crime,
Because of an occurrence which befel
Thereat and then the people of my rhyme

Whose story I am just about to tell.
This well was in a wild romantic glade,
Bestrewed with flowers and overhung with shade.
And not far from it stood a mansion, where
Resided an old knight, Sir Brian O'Bore,
Whose pedigree, he was wont to declare,
Could be traced to the very year before
St. Patrick came with his "God save all here!"
And his grand ancestor, king Phelimore,
Was said to be the first that had demanded
That bright apostle's blessing when he landed.
Unhappily our knight was rather poor,

He had been a wild fellow in his day, A devil among the girls, you may be sure, And, which was worse, addicted to high play; At last he took a wife, by way of cure,

A little of the spit-fire too, they say. But she died, luckily, after three years, Leaving two infant daughters, "pretty dears!" The first had been named Norah, but the second (Who was called Sheelah, after the mamma) Rather the prettier of the two was reckoned, (No very great eulogium, by the La!)

And was a favourite with her till death beckon'd
Her off, and only left them their papa,
Who loved them both alike, but hardly tarried
A year, until a second wife he married.

She was in beauty, and in temper too
(Which latter is of far more consequence),
Vastly superior to the lady who

Preceded her; in proof of her good sense,
She used to bear with what but very few
Could listen to, without taking offence-
The old knight's constant hobby to dilate
On the perfections of his former mate.

She was, by his account, an angel-" quite
Unlike yourself, my dear," said he, the brute!
Was it his wish to break her heart outright?
"Tis hardly credible-yet he did do't!
For she was not made for enduring slight,
But deeply felt unkindness-though still mute!
She died conjuring him, with tears, to mind
A little daughter that she left behind.

Two wives, both dead! three daughters, all alive! (The youngest was christened Kathleen, by the way), Sir Brian thought it time for him to arrive

At a fixed resolution, come what may,

Not to be tempted any more to wive,

Three bantlings being enough, alack-a-day!
The dear old man might have dispensed with any
I have but one-as Burns said-one too many!

And he was poor, which made it harder still
For him to educate them as he ought;

He had at least, if not the means, the will,

And sundry books and samplers for them bought,
And hired a governess for them, until

He got them very tolerably taught:
But Kathleen prov'd the aptest of the three,
The tutoress labour'd ineffectually

Through learning's paths the elder twain to lead.
She taught them both, however, how to dance
And sing, and even prevailed on them to read
Sometimes the last new novel or romance.
Of other literature they took no heed,

Except "The latest Fashions, just from France;"
For each esteemed it an offence most shocking
To wear the slightest tinge of a blue-stocking.
But Kathleen loved the page of history,

And the wild, lays which Erin's minstrels sung,
Ere sorrow mingled with her melody,

Or the high harp of Tara was unstrung! She studied, too, with care, her geography, And read the grammar of the Latin tongue; Also a book on cookery, and a "Tale Of Faërie," and a work on brewing ale. She even embroidered, in her hours of leisure, The story of "The Children in the Wood;" And, though its excellence we may not measure With Linwood's magic needle-work, 'twas goodA fact which I record here with much pleasure; I think she also worked "Red Riding-Hood." She read an epic poem then, and soon Afterwards wrote "A Sonnet" To the Moon!

She was indeed a clever little maid,

But yet small praise from those she loved could find. Her sisters hated her. They were afraid

That the rare talents of her opening mind
Might one day throw their charms into the shade;
And so they snubbed her, and were even inclined
Sometimes to beat her. They had grown so bold
That even by birch they could not be controll'd!
In fact no means could be contrived to make
Or one or t'other-as you'll shortly see-
The archness of their ways at all forsake,

So obstinately bent were they to be
Just what they ought not; if I don't mistake,
"Twas when the eldest was but nineteen, she

Told her papa she "did not care a fig
About him, and that he was an old prig."