determinations, whatever they might be, should meet hereafter with no interruption from her. She expressed herself quite willing for his sake, to forego all the prospects her folly had suggested: indeed, the mother's love had taken possession of the heart, and expelled all ambitious dreams for ever.

This reconciliation, unexpected as it was, especially after the failure of his friend, delighted Cleveland. In one moment to be elevated from the depth of despair to a feeling of joy, had twice that day occurred to him. He had confessed his love to her who was most dear, and had experienced the fondest return. He had the forgiveness of his mother, and was the happiest of the happy. On leaving Dover Street-for however anxious he was to remain, his engagement the following morning prevented his staying longer-he encountered in the anti-room his charming young friend and companion, Miss Avondale, who, with much solemnity, desired permission to attend him to the library, and on obtaining it, followed him there. He observed she was pale as death, that anxiety pervaded every feature, and he guessed she had by some means acquired a knowledge of that fatal secret, which on the next morning would be divulged, and which must terminate in some dread event.

TALES OF THE PARISH WAKE.

No. I.

MICKKY MAGRATH.

CHAPTER I.

"Oh! Kilkenny is a fair place, and shines where it stands."

Old Song.

KILKENNY, famed in song and story;-Kilkenny, celebrated for the blackness and polishability of its marble;-Kilkenny, whose coal marvellously displays such an original aversion to smoke, and whose waters manifest so amiable a repugnancy to mud;-and to sum up all, as Murtoch Delaney sings,

"In this City there's fire without smoking,
For a penny you'll buy fifty eggs,

And then there's such wit without joking,
And rabbits without any legs."

-for the last clause we make no confirmation-Kilkenny is beautifully and romantically situated on the river Nore, which runs nearly through the centre of the town. From the Dublin road as he enters by Windgap Hill, the view is enchanting to a stranger on a calm summer's evening. The day-coach arrives from Dublin about 6 P. M. Lifted far above the town, he first catches a glimpse of the magnificent and princely residence of "the Chief Butler of Ireland," so ancient, and connected with so many historical associations! Its lofty round towers and battlements-its grandeur-its imposing size-and, above all, its situation, which seems to suspend it fearfully from the height of a hundred feet over the river, and which looks as if supported by a wall that rises perpendicularly almost from the river's brink-the eye taking in no slope or eminence-obtains all a stranger's wonderall the lover of nature's rapture and delight. The view further on comprises the town, the glance first resting on the principal bridge-then the churches at either side of the river-the Tholsel -and lastly, far in the distance, St. Canice Cathedral, with its picturesque round tower beside it. This, with the house and tree tops, and a partial view of a rookery near the castle, forms the coup d'œil of Kilkenny, as seen from Windgap Hill.

Before you enter the suburbs coming from Dublin, the eye is now arrested by a few fashionable cottages on each side of the road, at unequal distances, festooned and trellissed in a tasteful

manner, with gardens before them neatly laid out. At the time we speak of no such buildings were in being; but one nicelythatched-freshly-whitewashed cottage always enticed the passer's gaze and claimed his regards, from its superior air of cleanliness and the trim proportions of its miniature parterre. Where now stands some ivy-mantled villa, there once smiled apart from all others in unpretendiug neatness, the little mansion to which we are about to call the reader's attention, or, more properly speaking, the inmates of which we are desirous of directing his observations to.

'Twas on the 16th of March, 1811-12-or 13,-"I like to be particular in dates"-the eve of the feast of Ireland's tutelar saint, that Mrs. Glindon and her grand-daughter Ellen, about four o'clock in the afternoon, might be seen seated in the neat little garden before their cottage door, upon two wooden stools, at work; the old woman knitting, with spectacles on nose, and intent upon turning the heel of a black lamb's-wool stocking; and Ellen not quite so busily employed in finishing a collar of a new pattern.

The old woman was as near sixty as we can possibly discern: and although at that waining period of life, showed still a round and ruddy appearance, her whole countenance denoting health and contentment. Like females at her time of life, in those parts of Ireland, she wore a huge high-caul cap, under which her hair was completely thrown back from the forehead, the grey locks thus evading detection without the intervenient agency of disguising front or false curl. Her petticoat was black stuff, her gown printed calico-the latter being open in front and turned up at the corners as far as the waist, showed nearly the whole of the petticoat; and a large white dimity pocket, well puffed out with various articles of domestic use, swept the ground as she moved on her seat. Upon her neck she wore an India silk 'kerchief.

The grand-daughter requires a more particular description. Ellen Glindon might have attained her seventeenth year, but looked rather more. She was indescribably lovely; her beauty being of that kind which owes all its loveliness to expression more than feature. Her eyes were large and hazel, and their dark lashes drooping gave a tone of devotion to a face, whose ruling character denoted pensiveness. Her mouth, somewhat large, was full and pliant, its least movement betraying some new significancy-a peculiarity attaching itself to beauties of the southern climes, and rarely met with even in our Island, which has some pretension to Spanish origin. Her nose was small and undeveloped like a child's, giving her whole face when asleep or in calm repose, an almost infantine appearance. Her forehead was low, but not wanting in breadth; and her rich brown hair in its luxuriance, nearly veiled her face when she stooped over her work. An acute observer might have detected irresolution in the lower part of the face; but the open brow and eyes set far apart, must have

suggested forecast in reflection, and energy in mental endeavour. In figure she was below the middle height, inclining to fullness; but her limbs were gracefully rounded, while her shoulders, bosom, and bending_neck, exhibited proportions of the most beautiful symmetry. The cheek was colourless, but whether paleness was habitual or the result of recent malady, we cannot here aver. Her dress was simple: it consisted of a gown or robe of fancy cotton closely fitted to the throat, falling in loose gathers over the bust, and uniting at the waist by a plain ribbon band. A single row of white cornelian beads, less white than the snowy skin they laced, encircled her neck.

A silence of several minutes had elapsed when a long and deepdrawn sigh from Ellen, made the old woman look up from her work. She gazed at her attentively for some time over her spectacles, the young girl being quite unconscious of the scrutiny she had caused; and at length said,

"Ellen, what on earth is the matter with you?-what ails you, child?"

"What ails me, mother!" (so she always called her) "nothing!" "Indeed, an' there does though!-you're as pale as death, and look so mounful as if you were going to cry."

"And indeed, mother, I wish from my heart I could cry.-I feel a beating at the back of my head as if a weight was pressing against it—and I'm sure crying would relieve me."

'Eyah! child, that's more o' your nonsense-at the back o' your head, indeed!-I'll engage you heard some more bad accounts of Mickky in town this mornin'; and that's what's fretting you— so it is."

No, mother, I did not," replied Ellen, again sighing heavily; "but I had such a dream about him last night-such a horrid dream-I did'nt like to mention it before:" and she dropt her work in her lap, and put both her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out some hideous phantom.

"A dhream-only a dhream," said granny-who, although she believed as firmly in dreams as a Japannese, saw the policy of laughing off Ellen's fears, who seemed seriously affrighted: "only a dhream," she repeated: "arrah, whisht with you, child-and don't give way to such foolish notions-I wondher what Father. Murphy 'id say, if he knew you believed in such raumaush as

dhreams."

"Oh! mother, I know I'm very wrong; but my feelingsGod help me!-overpower me. I'll try and not think about it

any more.'

"Do, alanna!" and the old woman drew her stool closer to Ellen; "and now tell us what you heard about Mickky to-day?— I know its something that way-like a good girl-tell us?" "I didn't hear any thing about him that could make me uneasy, I told you before," answered Ellen, somewhat pettishly.

"And didn't he promise to meet you in John-street this mornin'?"

"Yes! he did yesterday-but he left word with Anty, to tell me that he couldn't see me till this evening-because he was obliged to call the band all together, and arrange the tunes they have to play to-night-so he left word he'd come here this evening."

"Ah! then, 'pon my word, Master Mickky Magrath, that's not the way Jack Glindon's daughter deserves to be thrated," said the grandmother, as she plied her needles quicker; “and if I had my way of thinkin', I know what I know.'

"But mother," said Ellen, appealing in his behalf; "you know he couldn't help it-the boys wanted him."

"The boys wanted him," repeated granny in an angry tone of voice, and accelerating her speed; "the boys wanted him, did they?-ah! then I'd like to know what business the honest man, Jimmy Magrath-the honest and dacent man's son, has to societate with sich thrash-they wanted him, indeed! ay! faix did they! they wanted his pocket strings and his purse, so they did-and sich a set of pickpockets-night-walkers and vagabonds-fellows without as mooch as shoe leather to their feet, or wool to their back. But Mickky Magrath is a lost, lost boy-sthrollin' and padrowlin,' ever sence his father died-God be merciful to him! -about the sthreets with his hands in his pockets, doin' no mortal good, and his ould omadhawn 'iv a mother as mooch to blame as the boy himself-for Mickky is a good-hearted well-intentioned crathur as ever dhrew the breath-only bad company, my dear, 'd spile the Pope himself, sure it would. Eyah! eyah! if Jimmy Magrath was alive this blessed and holy day, and seed his son demanin' himself as he is in this manner, 't would break the very heart in his body, so it would-for Jimmy doated alive on the boy, and 'id lay down his very life for his four bones, so he would

and now Mickky is naither good for King nor Counthry-nor his God naither-and 'twould be much more creditabler for him to go list, and take a gun on his showldhers, than galavantin' and dhrinkin' from mornin' till night, with no one to guide and direct him in what he should do, but such rapscallions as Matty Brian and-"

"Oh! mother, don't mention that man's name," said Ellen, almost startled from her seat at the sound; "'tis that bad, bad man that's the ruin of poor Mickky-I can't bear to look at him or hear his name-and worlds upon worlds I'd give for Mickky to give up his acquaintance."

"There 's worse than Matty Brian about him, Eileen avich," -replied Mrs. Glindon quietly, who loved a little argument for talk's sake, and had now got into the channel-" there 's worse