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but to raise your hand over this unlucky criminal before he goes -if, indeed, a blessing can be of any benefit to a Sassanagh and a traitor.'

"Peace, peace, you wild desperadoes,' cried the priest, waving his thin white hand: 'What are you about, or who is this on whom you appear about to perpetrate an unjustifiable outrage? Unbind the wretched man, whoever he is, this instant, and let him depart in peace.'

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"He is Lancelot Wolfe,' replied the rebels. He ran away from New Ross. He led the yeomen to the destruction of Marcus Sinnott's house and property, and the murder of Mosy Devereux.'

"As far as Marcus Sinnott is concerned,' said the young woman, 'I am warranted in saying, that he is forgiven. May God forgive us all, even as I, on the part of my family, forgive Lanty Wolfe."

"The old woman, who until she heard her daughter's voice, did not recognize her person, stumbled forward, and grasped the maiden in her mangled arms. 'Oh, Mary, Mary, a suilish ma chree.* Are you alive, and safe from the villainous troopers? Och a chorra, it's not in you to have the black heart for your fellow-creature; and it would be the thousand pities to send such a brave young bouchal as Lanty Wolfe to keep company with the ugly worms, down in a dark and bloody grave.'

"He shall not die,' emphatically cried the noble-hearted girl.

"You have no authority in such matters, Miss Sinnott,' said the rebel captain. He is a traitor and a spy; and as such, by our regulations, must necessarily suffer execution.'

"You are a liar!' again cried Wolfe. 'I am a deserter, for the reasons I have before stated; but I am not a traitor, nor a spy.'

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"Even if you were,' said the good priest, you shall not be injured. The spilling of human blood, even on the battle-field, is terrible; but to commit murder under other circumstances is utterly unpardonable. Set the man at liberty this moment, or I shall curse you in the name of the living God! Loose the man, and let him depart this instant.'

"At a signal from Captain Mogue na Scaltough, a darklooking rebel approached, and, with a huge clasp-knife, cut the hempen cords with which the arms of poor Wolfe were pinioned, the handkerchief was removed from his face, and the captain told him that he was at liberty to go.

"No,' said father Esmonde; the day is breaking, and it

Suilish ma chrec.-Light of my eyes.

would be unsafe for him to expose himself to the risk of being taken as a rebel. The neighbourhood is beleaguered with the king's troops, and it was the knowledge of this fact that induced me to visit this desolate retreat of outlawed men, as I considered it a safer refuge for Mary Sinnott than my own residence, to which I had at first conveyed her. I am going away now. To you, men, I am sorry to refuse the meed of my approbation; I cannot look favourably on your cause, whilst your actions tend so much to cruelty and revenge. But remember my command; if still the priest who loves you, and feels for you, and would lay down his life for your welfare, has any hold on your affections or respect-remember, I say, do not treat this poor young man unkindly. No matter what may be his creed; whether Protestant or Catholic,-he is your brother, and entitled not only to your mercy, but to your charity and commiseration. Your creed knows no distinction of persons in the lessons of universal good will which it never ceases to inculcate; therefore, if you value my blessing, and hope for mercy from on High, be yourselves merciful.'

"So saying, and after shaking hands cordially with Wolfe, and the two females, and again recommending all three to the care and protection of the insurgents, the kind-hearted old priest, with a tear standing in his eyes, took his departure through the grey haze of the morning twilight.

"On the evening of the next day, a scout arrived with intelligence of the overwhelming defeat of the insurgent host, at New Ross. I will not stop to tell the consternation and frantic disappointment of the insurgents of the cave. All I will say is, that when the night had become sufficiently dark to favour their flight, the cavern was evacuated; the rebels marching in a body to join some party or other of their discomfited associates, carrying with them, for protection, the females, whilst Lancelot Wolfe, without being able to effect a reconciliation with his mistress, shaped his course northwards, towards the borders of the Queen's county, where some of his mother's people resided, in respectable circumstances.

"Shortly before dawn, on the next night but one, our wanderer arrived, helpless and weary, under the walls of the vast old castle of Ballyadams, in the Queen's County. At a little distance from these ruins stood the substantial homestead of a wealthy Protestant farmer,-a near relative of his mother's family. Here he determined to claim refuge until the termination of the troubles, and until such times as his friends might be able to procure his pardon from government. But he judged it more prudent to defer his visit until the following evening, as his appearing so suddenly, and at such an unseason

able hour, might endanger his safety. Accordingly, he sought the shelter of an immense mass of weeds and briars, which raised itself at the base of the ruin; here, in hunger, and with a heavy heart, he laid down his aching head for repose. He slept soundly for several hours."

"It was well the ghost of Shawn-na-Feecha did not discover his retreat," said Nicholas O'Loghlen, playfully. "If it did, he might not have escaped so well as he did from the rebels in the Wexford cavern."

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"Unless his being a Sassanagh might have operated in his favour," remarked Hubert Maguire.

"Sassanagh, or no Sassanagh," replied O'Loghlen, "his having carried arms against the Saxon government would have secured to him the eternal enmity of the ferocious Shawn-naFeecha. Whilst living and moving in this world, he was the scourge and foe of Irishmen, and now that he is in worse company, we can hardly hope that he will mend his manners."

"Tis hard to say," resumed the story-teller; "but at all events, nothing disturbed the fugitive's repose until the glorious summer's sun was gilding the broad blue heavens, when he was aroused by a sweet female voice, singing an old Irish ditty, quite close to his place of refuge. He peeped from his covert, and saw a beautiful young woman occupied in milking cows, within a perch of where he lay. As she milked, she amused herself chaunting the sweet old song which had disturbed his slumbers.

"He started up and approached the girl. Do not be alarmed, fair maid,' he said, in his softest tone. "I am in distress, weary,-hungry, and thirsty.-A rebel, too.-Will you let me have a drink of your sweet, hot milk?'

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Aye, with a heart and a half,' generously replied the girl; 'Although, if Adam Hartpoole knew that his daughter stretched her hand to a Popish rebel, I might go eat and drink with the jackdaws in yon old tower."

"Are you then the daughter of Adam Hartpoole?'

"I am.'

"Then,' resumed Wolfe, I have nothing to fear. I am Lancelot Wolfe,-your cousin, and though I have been unfortunately outlawed for my adherence to the revolt of these latter days, I am not so guilty as you may deem me.'

Shawn-na-Feecha.-John of the Pike. This was Sir John Bowen of Ballyadams, who, in the civil wars of 1641 and the subsequent years, made himself so formidable to Irish Catholics, and so remarkable for the vindictive cruelty he exercised in the suppression of insurrection. In some future letter of my "Gleanings," I purpose giving a rich treat to the reader from my reminiscenses of the celebrated Shawn-na-Feecha.

"Some other time,' said the girl, you will tell us your story; but come with me now; breakfast will soon be ready, and if appearances do not mislead, a platter of stirabout and a bowl of milk will not be unacceptable in your present situation. Come on; and seizing him good-naturedly by the arm, she led him to her father's dwelling.

"All that remains to say now is, that Lanty Wolfe was made welcome in the home of his relative. He remained in safety until the troubles were all over, and his pardon procured from the Lord Lieutenant; when, one fine foggy night in September, he rode away from the home of Adam Hartpoole, mounted on the best horse in Adam Hartpoole's stable, and carrying behind him, on Adam Hartpoole's pillion, the blooming Penny, or Penelope, Adam Hartpoole's lovely and only daughter."

"And what became of Mary Sinnott?" asked Nicholas O'Loghlen.

"Another time I will tell you her subsequent history," said the story-teller; "but now, the night is far spent, and I am more disposed to seek the repose of my pillow, than dwell any longer on the horrors and wild adventures of the year of the rebellion."

More than Mr. Wolfe held similar opinions. We all felt pleased with his strange narrative; and expressing our convictions that his father was 66 a man more sinned against than sinning," retired to rest.

LINES.

LET me, unknown, in rustic cell
In some lone valley's bosom dwell,
Where not e'en pilgrims stray;
Where nought but song of summer fly,
Or hum of bee in passing by,

Shall tell the hours of day!

Save when the dawn, with wavering light,
First gives to view the mountain's height,
And time-worn cross that's there:
Then be the convent bell my guide,
Whilst slow I climb the mount's steep side,
And seek the house of prayer :—

The ancient pile, where Time hath thrown
His sable shroud o'er Gothic stone,

Carved by rude hand of old,

To mark the spot of holy cell
Where aged hermit meekly fell,
Struck by the pagan bold.

There let my brow the pavement press,
For ages trod by holiness

And peaceful charity:

There let my wounded heart abide,
Estranged awhile from all beside
Celestial purity.

And when the solemn anthems rise,
Like fragrant incense to the skies,
Be not my accents vain!
May, pitying, to my soul descend,
The God, the Maker, and the friend,
To bid me live again.

Thus blessed my day, may solitude
Be calm; nor grief, nor care, intrude,
Pale spectres, on my way.
May science ope her wondrous page,
Or humbler muse my thoughts engage,
And teach the simple lay.

Secure alike from hope or fear,
Of human smile or human tear,

With power to please or pain.
Forgot by all, remembering none,
Save of the earth but only one,-
Her memory shall remain.

But when that one loved image flies,
What time pale Death hath sealed my eyes,

Oh! let my cold limbs lie

Where the soft earth shall lightly press,
Amidst the valley's loneliness,

Unmarked by mortal eye.

MARIANNE.

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