in his father's eyes an excitement at once dead and wild-a vague fire without character, yet stirred by an incomprehensible energy wholly beyond the usual manifestations of thought or suffering. The son on beholding him shuddered, and not for the first time, for he had on one or two occasions before become apprehensive that his father's mind might, if strongly pressed, be worn down by the singular conflict of which it was the scene, to that most frightful of all maladies-insanity. As the old man, however, folded him in his feeble arms, and attempted to express what he felt, the unhappy boy groaned aloud, and felt even in the depth of his cell, a blush of momentary shame suffuse his cheek and brow. His father, notwithstanding the sentence that had been so shortly before passed upon his son-that father, he perceived to be absolutely intoxicated, or to use a more appropriate expression, decidedly drunk." There was less blame, however, to be attached to Fardorougha on this occasion, than Connor imagined. When the old man swooned in the court-house, he was taken by his neighbours to a publichouse, where he lay for some minutes in a state of insensibility. On his recovery he was plied with burnt whiskey, as well to restore his strength and prevent a relapse, as upon the principle that it would enable him to sustain with more firmness the dreadful and shocking destiny which awaited his son.

Actuated by motives of mistaken kindness, they poured between two and three glasses of this fiery cordial down his throat, which, as he had not taken so much during the lapse of thirty years before, soon reduced the feeble old man to the condition in which we have described him when entering the gloomy cell of the prison.

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Father," said Connor, "in the name of heaven above, who or what has put you into this dreadful state, especially when we consider the hard, hard fate that is over us, and upon us?"

"Connor," returned Fardorougha, not perceiving the drift of his question, Connor, my son, I'll hang—hàng him, that's one comfort."

་

"Father dear, I'm sorry to see you in this state on sich a day-sich a black day to us. For your sake I am. What will the world say of it?"

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me.

Connor, I'm in great spirits all out, exceptin' for something that I forget, that-that-li-lies heavy upon That I mayn't sin, but I am-I am, indeed-for now that we've cotch hin, we'll hang the villain up. Ha, ha, ha, it's a pleasant sight to see sich a fellow danglin' from a rope!"

"Father, sit down here, sit down upon this bad and comfortless bed, and keep yourself quiet for a little. Maybe you'll be better soon. Oh, why did you drink, and us in such trouble?"

"I'll not sit down; I'm very well able to stand," said he, tottering across the room. "The villain thought to starve me, Connor, but you heard the sentence that was passed on him today. Where's Honour, from me? she'll be glad whin-whin she hears it, and my son, Connor, will too—but he's, he's where is Connor ?-bring me, bring me to Connor. Ah, avourneen, Honour's heart's breaking for him— 'tany rate, the mother's heart-the mother's heart-she's laid low wid an achin' sorrowful head for her boy."

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Father, for God's sake, will you try and rest a little. If you could sleep, father dear, if you could sleep."

"I'll hang P -e-I'll hang himbut if he gives back my money, I'll not touch him. Who are you?"

"Father dear, I'm Connor, your own son, Connor."

"I'll marry you and Una, then. I'll settle all the villian robbed me of on you, and you'll have every penny of it afther my death. Don't be keepin' me up, I can walk very well; ay, an' I'm in right good spirits. Sure, the money's got, Connor-got back every skilleen of it. Ha, ha, ha, God be praised! God be praised! We've a right to be thankful-the world isn't so bad, afther all."

Father, will you try and rest ?"

'It's not bad, afther all-I won't starve, as I thought I would, now that the arrighad is got back from the villain. Ha, ha, ha, it's great—it's great, Connor, ahagur.”

"What is it, father dear?"

for my heart's low, and your mother's heart's in sorrow, and she's lyin' far from us, an' her boy's not near her, an' her heart's sore, sore, an' her head achin', bekase her boy's far from her, an' she can't come to him!"

The boy, whose noble fortitude was unshaken during the formidable trial it had encountered in the course of that day, now felt overcome by this simple allusion to his mother's love. He threw his arms about his father's neck, and placing his head upon his bosom, wept aloud for many, many minutes.

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Husth, Connor, husth, asthore-what makes you cry? Sure, all 'ill be right now that we've got back the money. Eh? Ha, ha, ha, it's great luck, Connor, isn't it great? An' you'll have it, you an' Una, afther my death-for I won't starve for e'er a one o' yees."

"Father, father, I wish you would rest."

"Well, I will, avick, I will-bring me to bed-you'll sleep in your own bed to-night. Your poor mother's head hasn't been off o' the place where your own lay, Connor. No, indeed; her heart's low-it's breakin', breakin' -but she won't let any body make your bed but herself. Oh, the mother's love, Connor-that mother's lovethat mother's love-but, Connor ·

Well, father, dear ?"

"Isn't there something wrong, avick? isn't there something not right, somehow ?"

This question occasioned the son to feel as if his heart would literally burst to pieces, especially when he considered the circumstances under which the old man put it. Indeed there was something so transcendantly appalling in his intoxication, and in the wild but affecting tone of his conversation, that when joined to his pallid and spectral appearance, it gave a character, for the time being, of a mood that struck the heart with an image more frightful than that of madness itself.

Wrong, father!" he replied, "all's wrong, and I can't understand it. It's well for you that you don't know the doom that's upon us now, for I feel how it would bring you down, and how it will, too. It will kill you, my father -it will kill you."

"Connor, come home, avick, come home-I'm tired at any rate-come home to your mother-come, for her sake I know I'm not at home, an' she'll not rest till I bring you safe back to her. Come now, I'll have no put offs-you must come, I say-I ordher

"Some foolish friends," said he, "have given my father liquor, an' it has got into his head-indeed it overcame him the more, as I never remember him to taste a drop of spirits during his life before. I can see nobody now an' him in this state; but if they wish me well, let them take care of him, and leave him safe at his own house, and tell them I'll be glad if I can see them to-morrow, or any other time."

With considerable difficulty Far dorougha was removed from Connor, whom he clung to with all his strength, attempting also to drag him away. He then wept bitterly, because he declined

to

accompany him home, that he might comfort his mother, and enjoy the imagined recovery of his money from Pe, and the conviction which he believed they had just succeeded in getting against that notorious defaulter.

After they had departed, Connor sat down upon his hard pallet, and, supporting his head with his hand, saw, for the first time, in all its magnitude and horror, the death to which he found himself now doomed. The excitement occasioned by his trial, and his increasing firmness, as it darkened on through all its stages to the final sentence, now had in a considerable degree abandoned him, and left his heart, at present more accessible to natural weakness than it had been, to the power of his own affections. The image of his early-loved Una had seldom since his arrest been out of his imagination. Her youth, her beauty, her wild but natural grace, and the flashing glances of her dark enthusiastic eye, when joined to her tenderness and boundless affection for him

self-all caused his heart to quiver with

deadly anguish through every fibre. This produced a transition to Flanagan the contemplation of whose perfidious vengeance made him spring from his seat in a paroxysm of indignant but intense hatred, so utterly furious that the swelling tempest which it sent through his veins caused him to reel with absolute giddiness.

"Great God!" he exclaimed, " you are just, and will this be suffered ?"

He then thought of his parents, and the fiery mood of his mind changed to one of melancholy and sorrow. He looked back upon his aged father's enduring struggle-upon the battle of the old man's heart against the accursed vice which had swayed its impulses so long on the protracted conflict between the two energies, which, like contending armies in the field, had now left little but ruin and desolation behind them. His heart, when he brought all these things near him, expanded, and like a bird, folded its wings about the grey-haired martyr, to the love he bore him. But his mother-the caressing, the proud, the affectionate, whose heart, in the vivid tenderness of hope for her beloved boy, had shaped out his path in life, as that on which she could brood with the fondness of a loving and delighted spirit-that mother's image, and the idea of her sorrows prostrated his whole strength, like that of a stricken infant, to the earth.

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Mother, mother," he exclaimed, "when I think of what you reared me for, and what I am, this night, how can my heart do otherwise than break, as well on your account as my own, and for all that love us! Oh! what will become of you, my blessed mother! Hard does it go with you that you're not about your pride, as you used to call me, now that I'm in this trouble, in this fate that is soon to cut me down from your loving arms! The thought of you is dear to my heart, dear, dearer, dearer than that of any than my own Una. What will become of her, too, and the old man? Oh, why, why is it that the death I am to suffer is to fall so heavily on them that love me best ?"

He then returned to his bed, but the cold and dreary images of death and ruin haunted his imagination, until the night was far spent, when at length he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

By the sympathy expressed at his trial, our readers may easily conceive the profound sorrow which was felt for hin, in the district where he was

As

known, from the moment the knowledge of his sentence had gone abroad among the people. This was much strengthened by that which, whether in man or woman, never fails to create an amiable prejudice in its favour-I mean youth and personal beauty. His whole previous character was now canvassed with a mournful lenity that brought out his virtues into beautiful relief; and the fate of the affectionate son was deplored no less than that of the youthful, but rash and inconsiderate lover. Neither was the father without his share of compassion, for they could not forget that, despite of all his penury and extortion, the old man's heart had been fixed, with a strong but uncouth affection upon his amiable and only boy. It was, however, when they thought of his mother, in whose heart of hearts he had been enshrined as the idol of her whole affection, that their spirits became truly touched. Many a mother assumed in her own person, by the force of imagination, the sinking woman's misery, and poured forth, in unavailing tears, the undeniable proofs of the sincerity with which she participated in Honour's bereavement. for Flanagan, a deadly weight of odium, such as is peculiar to the Informer in Ireland, fell upon both him and his. Nor was this all. Aided by that sagacity which is so conspicuous in Irishmen, when a vindictive or hostile feeling is excited among them, they depicted Flanagan's character with an accuracy and truth astonishingly correct and intuitive. Numerous were the instances of cowardice, treachery, and revenge remembered against him, by those who had been his close and early companions, not one of which would have ever occurred to them, were it not that their minds had been thrown back upon the scrutiny by the melancholy fate in which he had involved the unhappy Connor O'Donovan. Had he been a mere ordinary witness in the matter, he would have experienced little of this boiling indignation at their hands; but first to participate in the guilt, and afterwards, for the sake of the reward, or from a worse and more flagitious motive, to turn upon him, and become his accuser, even to the taking away of the young man's life-to stag against his companion and accomplice this was looked upon as a crime ten thousand times more black and damnable than that for which the unhappy culprit had been consigned to so shameful a death.

But, alas, of what avail was all this sympathy and indignation to the unfortunate youth himself, or to those most deeply interested in his fate? Would not the very love and sorrow felt towards her son fall upon his mother's heart with a heavier weight of bitterness and agony? Would not his Una's soul be wounded on that account with a sharper and more deadly pang of despair and misery. It would, indeed, be difficult to say whether the house of Bodagh Buie or that of Fardorougha was then in the deeper sorrow. On the morning of Connor's trial Una arose at an earlier hour than usual, and it was observed when she sat at breakfast, that her cheek was at one moment pale as death, and again flushed and feverish. These symptoms were first perceived by her affectionate brother, who, on witnessing the mistakes she made in pouring out the tea, exchanged a glance with his parents, and afterwards asked her to allow him to take her place. She laid down the teapot, and looking him mournfully in the face, attempted to smile at a request so unusual.

"Una dear," said he, "you must allow me. There is no necessity for attempting to conceal what you feel we all know it-and if we did not, the fact of your having filled the sugarbowl instead of the tea-cup would soon discover it."

She said nothing, but looked at him again, as if she scarcely comprehended what he said. A glance, however, at the sugar-bowl convinced her that she was incapable of performing the usual duties of the breakfast table. Hitherto

she had not raised her eyes to her father or mother's face, nor spoken to them as had been her wont, when meeting at that strictly domestic meal. The unrestrained sobbings of the mother now aroused her for the first time, and on looking up, she saw her father wiping away the big tears from his

eyes.

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Una, avourneen," said the worthy man, "let John make tay for us-for, God help you, you can't do it. Don't fret, achora machree, don't, don't, Una; as God is over me, I'd give all I'm worth to save him, for your sake."

She looked at her father, and smiled again; but that smile cut him to the heart.

"I will make the tea myself, father," she replied, "and I won't commit any more mistakes ;" and as she spoke she

unconsciously poured the tea into the slop-bowl.

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Avourneen," said her mother, "let John do it; acushla machree, let him do it."

She then rose, and without uttering a word, passively and silently placed herself on her brother's chair-he having, at the same time, taken that on which she sat.

"Una," said her father, taking her hand, "you must be a good girl, and you must have courage; and whatever happens, my darling, you'll pluck up strength, I hope, and bear it." "I hope so, father," said she, “I hope so.'

"But, avourneen machree," said her mother, "I would rather see you cryin' fifty times over, than smilin' the way you do."

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Mother," said she, "my heart is sore-my heart is sore."

"It is, ahagur machree; and your hand is tremblin' so much that you can't bring the tay-cup to your mouth; but, then, don't smile so sorrowfully,

anein machree."

The warm tears coursed each other down his cheeks as he spoke, and both his parents, on looking at the almost blighted flower before them, wept as if the hand of death had already been upon her.

"You, father, and John are going to his trial," she observed; "for me I like to be alone ;-alone; but when you return to-night, let John break it to me. I'll go now to the garden. I'll walk about to-day-only before you go, John, I want to speak to you."

Calmly and without a tear, she then left the parlour, and proceeded to the garden, where she began to dress and ornament the hive which contained the swarm that Connor had brought back to her on the day their mutual attachment was first disclosed to each other.

"Father," said John, when she was gone," I am afraid that Una's heart is broken, or if not broken, that she won't survive his conviction long-it's breaking fast-for my part, in her present state, I neither will nor can leave her." The affectionate father made no reply, but putting his handkerchief to his eyes, wept, as did her mother, in silent but bitter grief.

I cannot spake about it, nor think of it, John," said he, after some time, but we must do what we can for her."

"If any thing happens her," said the mother, I'd never get over it. Oh marciful Saviour! how could we live widout her!"

"I would rather see her in tears," said John-"I would rather see her in outrageous grief a thousand times, than in the calm but ghastly resolution with which she is bearing herself up against the trial of this day. If he's condemned to death, I'm afraid that either her health or reason will sink under it, and, in that case, God pity her and us, for how, how, as you say, mother, could we afford to lose her? Still let us hope for the best. Father, it's time to prepare; get the car ready. I am going to the garden, to hear what the poor thing has to say to me, but I will be with you soon.'

Her brother found her, as we have said, engaged calmly, and with a melancholy pleasure, in adorning the hive which, on Connor's account, had become her favourite. He was not at all sorry that she had proposed this short interview, for as his hopes of Connor's acquittal were but feeble, if, indeed, he could truly be said to entertain any, he resolved by delicately communicating his apprehensions, to gradually prepare her mind for the worst that might happen.

"OH!" exclaims Cox, when he comes to tell of the death of Charles the First; " Oh, that I could say they were Irishmen that did that abominable fact!" Until very recent times, it was meritorious for the Irish to make little of their own country; and Cox only echoes the public sentiment of those who spoke the English language in Ireland in his day, when he deplores his inability to add another reproach to that mass of contumely which he had already accumulated against his countrymen. To trace the origin and progress of this sentiment, and show the causes which have led to its decline and fall, shall be the object of this paper.

The contempt entertained by a conqueror, merely as such, for those whom he has vanquished, is subject to this limitation, that no man willingly makes little of the difficulties he has himself

Overcome. The natural tendency is rather to exaggerate the power and bravery of a vanquished enemy, and so exalt ourselves. Thus, in the military character of the Irish, given by their early conquerors, we hear nothing likely to detract from the credit of subduing them; their military prowess, for example, is thus dwelt on by De la Marque

"They assailed us often, both in the van and rere, casting their darts with such might, as no haubergeon or coat of mail were of sufficient proof to resist their force, their darts piercing them through both sides and they were so nimble and swift of foot, that like unto stags, they ran over mountains and valleys, whereby we received great annoy and damage."

It might safely be affirmed that, had the early invaders been strong enough to make a complete conquest of the island, as their progenitors had done