Englishman who sat beside him-told him of the loss of the man's treasure, and as he felt that if Sullivan knew any thing about it, he might be wrought upon by pity more successfully than by threats, to make a disclosure, he described, in the most emphatic terms of which he was capable, the misery of the poor Englishman, and the irretrievable ruin to him which must attend the loss. "I'd have stopped you, sir," said Sullivan, "only that I know it is not polite to interrupt a gentleman when he is spakein, and it was a delight to myself, and to Mary too," he added, turning towards his wife, "to hear you talkin'; your father's son every inch of you, and like him, the friend of one in distress. But though I hardly took the least notice of the man on the coach, and knew no more than my ould gran'mother that's dead-God rest her sowl-that he had a pocket-book at all, yet I can tell where it is, for I'm sure it's the same, and you may get it, an' take it home with you, just by walkin' another mile or two; an' I'll show you the way "Indeed!" said O'Neill, very much delighted, "how is this?" "There's not one in the glen would lay a finger on you, more than on his own brother," said Sullivan emphatically, "if you only tell them who you are, and most o' them will know it without tellin'." "I cannot tell why it is, Sullivan," said O'Neill," that you speak of me and my family so kindly, and seem to think your neighbours would do the same. I know my father has some mountain property in this quarter, but I had hardly thought he was known here." "Indeed, but he is, sir," said Sullivan, "and I'll tell you how; it's about ten years ago, when you were a young boy, that an uncle of mine, an ould man with a large family, that lives on your father's piece of mountain, had a quarrel with a great gentleman who came to shoot on the ground, and trampled down his little garden, that he went into after the birds. Well, sir, it was only the next year that the ground was out of lase, and the gentleman bore such a spite to my poor ould uncle, that he wanted to bid over him, to take the ground from him, and offered to build a shootin' lodge upon it; but your father, like a raal gentleman, wouldn't desert the poor man, but renewed his lase, and the ould man lives there still, with his childer settled about him, instead of bein' May God bless your father for it, and his son that comes afther him." "Thank you, Sullivan,' thank you," said O'Neill; and, with tears in his eyes, he shook hands with him at parting, though, had he reflected for a moment, he might have recollected that the man was at the time a fugitive from the vengeance of the laws which he had violated. "Why then, that's just what I'm goin' to tell you," said Sullivan. "There was a sister's son of mine on the look-out for me yester-driven off, an' scattered about the wide world. day morning, at the place we changed horses, a little before I got down. I had a raison for not wishin' him to join me till I got into the fields, so I made him a sign to wait a little, and then follow me; and it was when he was crossin' the road, a few minutes after I left the coach, that he found a black pocket-book lyin' upon it, an' showed it to me when he overtook me; but I had never seen notes before, like them that was in it, an' we didn't know what to make of them, for we don't read. I advised him to take the book to the priest that lives at the chapel about a couple of miles down here below, and so he's gone to him this mornin', for he was out on a station yesterday, and wasn't at home the whole day." In less than an hour, O'Neill, guided by Sullivan, was at the house of the priest, a good tempered old man, whose manner to Sullivan was that of condescending despotism, and to O'Neill, when he learned who he was, that of extreme deference and politeness. He readily placed the pocket-book in his hands, commenting on the honesty of the finder and of Sullivan, and their good conduct in bringing it to him, and hinting at the reward to which they were entitled, which O'Neill promised should not be forgotten. It was an hour or two past noon, when O'Neill, after a repast of potatoes, and milk, and eggs, in Sullivan's cabin, was joyfully preparing to turn back towards the village he had left in the morning, when the danger occurred to him of travelling along so lonely a road with so much money in his pocket, and he asked Sullivan whether he thought it would be quite safe. "Sure you needn't go over the mountain at all," said Sullivan. If you keep along the glen, it isn't more than a quarter of a mile longer, and it'll bring you out on the high road." "Yes," said O'Neill, "but is the glen less dangerous than the mountain?" Thank Heaven, one does not always reflect. O'Neill that evening restored to the Englishman his money and peace of mind, and succeeded in convincing him that he had not been robbed. By means of his father's interest, he succeeded also in getting Sullivan out of his trouble, and became a frequent visiter to the wild district where he lived; and at this day, the influence of O'Neill in the glen is second only to that of the priest, and much greater than that of the law. From the New Monthly Magazine. SYBIL'S LETTER. The wax was superfine-its hue vermilion." Life flowing, like a stream, away; And heart becoming cold as clay; And silent music of my heart, Byron. I hear a voice-I feel a thrill A sound that comes, and will not partA long, low murmuring-It should be Thy spirit's shadow over me. And then a dark pervading sense Of something near-yet still removed,― A wild creation-so intense, Of something long since seen, and loved,— A strange revival of some scene That scarce could be—yet must have been. Till reason fade with memory,- There was a time when, for one hour In childhood, we were doomed to part, But when you grew a man, you swore They should not sever heart from heart; The spring of youth has left my brow, Autumn is here-and where art thou? And then you told me we should tread Sweet foreign shores, and climes, together; And press the wild flowers for a bed, And make a pillow of the heather; Oh! on a foreign shore I've sleptDream'd-turn'd to find thee-woke and wept. Then, too, when pleasure grew to tears, And music's spell was round us stealing, Should wake a deeper, holier feeling,- Thou bad'st that I should wear, until From Blackwood's Magazine. VERNAL INVOCATION. BY DELTA. I. Φ. COME hither, come hither, and view the face On the budded elms the birds are singing; The voice of the streamlet is fresh and loud; II. Haste out of doors-from the pastoral mount The isles of ocean thine eye may countFrom coast to coast, and from town to town, You can see the white sails gleaming down, Like monstrous water-birds, which fling III. Why tarry at home?-the swarms of air Venture again on the light to peep, IV. Come hasten, come hither, and you shall see V. Come hasten ye out-the reviving year The cricketers cheer, and the balls rebound- vr. Come hasten ye hither-our garden bowers The gilly-flower raises its stem on high, And peeps on heaven with its pinky eye; Primroses, an iris-hued multitude, "Woo the bland airs, and in turn are wooed; While the wall-flower threatens, with bursting bud, To darken its blossoms with winter's blood. VII. that morning at Sea Vale Cottage, which condescending attention on her part had been hitherto delayed by his report of Miss Aboyne's increased indisposition, and her inability to receive visits. That cause of exclusion having ceased to exist, however, he could no longer decline for Millicent the proffered courtesy. His own private reasons for wishing it could be. altogether avoided he did not perhaps analyse Come here, come hither, and mark how swell very curiously; or rather he assured himself, The fruit-buds of the jargonelle; On its yet but leaflet greening boughs See, the gooseberry-bushes their riches show; With my grateful coolness on harvest days." Come along, come along, and guess with me How fair and how fruitful the year shall be! VIII. Look into the pasture grounds o'er the pale, IX. Out upon in-door cares! Rejoice In the thrill of Nature's bewitching voice! From the sward beneath, and the boughs above, Come the scent of flowers, and the sounds of love; Then haste thee hither, and join thy voice With a world's, which shouts, "Rejoice, rejoice!" that solely for Millicent's sake, who would in truth gladly have dispensed with the visit, he was thus considerately reluctant. But now Lady Octavia was predetermined; she would go that morning-she would go directly-and Mr. Vernon must escort and introduce her. And before he had well got through two or three not very neatly-turned sentences expressive of his sense of her Ladyship's kindness, and so on, he found himself with his noble and lovely charge at the entrance of Millicent's little cottage. In another minute, Nora (who, to Vernon's horror and dismay, presented herself with a brown coarse wrapper, tucked up sleeves, and blue coddled arms evidently fresh from the suds) had thrown open the door of the small parlour where Millicent was sitting at work; and Vernon's ruffled feelings were not smoothed to complacency by his quick nervous glance at the nature of her occupation, which was that of dividing, and folding with neat arrangement, certain lengths and squares of coarse dark household napery. Colouring and confusedly, without raising his eyes to the countenances of either of the fair ladies, he hurried through the ceremory of introduction; but the calm sweet tone of Millicent's voice encouraged him to look up, and when the natural grace and lady-like self-possession with which she received her beautiful visiter, relieved him in part from the uncomfortable feelings which Lady Octavia's courteous ease and amiable prévenance also contri buted to dispel, he found himself in a few minutes conversing with his fair companions with tolerable composure. Still his restless eyes glanced ever and anon at the coarse unhemmed towels, and then at the direction of Lady Octavia's eyes-and from her to Millicent, and again from Millicent to the titled beauty. Beautiful indeed the latter was at all times, but strikingly so at that moment. Lady Octavia had too much good taste, and too much confidence in the unassisted effect of her own charms, ever to overload them with fashionable frippery. Her costume that morning was a plain white muslin robe, setting off to the best advantage the perfect symmetry of a figure, about which a large India shawl had been carelessly wrapped, and was now suffered to fall in picturesque drapery off one shoulder. A large straw hat, tied loosely with a broad green ribbon, also fell back as she seated herself, so as to leave nearly uncovered a bright profusion of auburn hair, beautifully disarranged by the fresh morning wind, which had bloom of her young cheek, and a more sparkalso communicated a richer glow to the peach ling vivacity to her laughing eyes. Vernon saw that Miss Aboyne's eyes were riveted admiringly on her lovely guest. His, but the moment before, had been drawing an involun tary comparison between the youthful beauty and his own sweet Millicent; and if, on one hand, he was too forcibly struck with the contrast of the opening and the waning rose-of the sheltered blossom, and the storm-beat flower-he observed also, with affectionate pride, that the interesting and intellectual loveliness of Miss Aboyne, her simple dignity and natural elegance, lost nothing by the closest comparison with the brilliant graces and perfect finish of the Lady Octavia. With what extraordinary celerity will thoughts, deductions, conclusions, and endless trains of ideas and images succeed each other on the magic lantern of the mind! Vernon's mental mirror still reflected a confused and misty portraiture; that of the Lady Octavia presented far more definite and well-arranged conceptions. On her way to the cottage, she had been weighing interiorly the comparative amusement to be derived from patronising Miss Aboyne, or breaking her heart-but her judgment rather inclined from the scale of patronage. In London, or in a full and fashionable neighbourhood, it might have been played off à merveille, with high credit to the protecting power: but what could be done in that way at Sea Vale? It would be more in character with that sweet seclusion to get up the other entertainment, which, with good management, might be wrought into a very pretty romance of real life, and last out the whole term of exile, leaving the catastrophe to follow-for lady Octavia's feelings were modelled much after the dramatic taste of our Gallic neighbours, which interdicts murder on the stage. "However," resolved the candid schemer, "I will see this Miss Aboyne before I make up my mind." And the brief test of a few minutes' intercourse with the unsuspecting Millicent, sufficed to settle her ladyship's plan of operations. She felt, almost at the first introduction, that Miss Aboyne would not be patronised -so set herself to work, with a clear conscience, on the other experiment. "What a sweet cottage you live in, Miss Aboyne!" observed Lady Octavia, after a little desultory conversation, during which she had been taking a critical survey through her glass of the little parlour and all within it. "What a sweet cottage!" she exclaimed, rising to complete her examination. "So neat! and so small and pretty! Do you know, Mr. Vernon," turning to Horace, "I quite adore it, it puts me so in mind of dear Falkland; it's so like our poultry woman's cottage in the park!" Vernon coloured and fidgetted; but Millicent said smilingly, that she was indeed partial to her little home, and gratified that its unpretending prettiness had excited a pleasing association in Lady Octavia's mind. "But do you really live here all alone, with only that old woman!" inquired her ladyship, with a sweet expression of condoling interest, just sufficing to make it doubtful whether her impertinence were intentional, or artlessly indiscreet. "How very odd-that is, I mean how very delightful and I dare say you have always something to do some useful work or other-so superior to fashionable, trifling occupations! Do, pray, go on with that you was about when we came in, my dear Miss Aboyne. I would not interrupt you for the world-and it would really amuse me: do go on-it's delightful to see people so clever and notable. I should like to learn," and running to the table, Lady Oe tavia drew a chair close to it, and set herself to as grave and curious an inspection of the coarse manufacture Millicent had been employed in, as if each towel had been an ancient manu. script, and every stitch a hieroglyphic or a Greek character. "Your Ladyship will scarcely find any thing in my homely work worthy the condescending attention you are pleased to bestow on it," quietly remarked Miss Aboyne, in whose character want of penetration was by no means the concomitant of simplicity, and whose sense of the ludicrous was keen enough to have excited a laugh at the solemn absurdity of her fair visiter's caprice, if good manners had not restricted to a smile the outward indication of her feelings. "Ah! now I know what this is—I remember all about it," triumphantly exclaimed lady Oc tavia, looking up from the object of her exami nation, on which, however, one rosy palm remained emphatically out-spread. "This is hackaback, or shackaback, or some such thing -the same sort of stuff mamma gives for pinafores to our school at Falkland. I wish I was half so clever and industrious as you are, Miss Aboyne, but I am afraid Mr. Vernon could tell you I am a sad trifling creature." "Miss Aboyne's general avocations differ less from your ladyship's than those she has selected for this morning's amusement," said Vernon, with an ill conceived irritability that tingled to his very finger ends; and nervously starting from his chair, he went towards Millicent's music-stand, and partly to prove his petulant assertion, as well as to draw Lady Octavia's attention from the hated work-table, he requested her to look over some manuscript Italian music which he hurriedly extracted from the pile. His request drew forth an exclamation of surprise from her ladyship, as, approaching the music stand, and taking the of fered sheet, she cried, "Italian!—you sing Italian, then, Miss Aboyne? I suppose Mr. Vernon has been your teacher." Millicent looked towards Horace with arch meaning in her eyes; but taking the reply to himself, and speaking with generous warmth, and a countenance glowing with grateful acknow ledgment, he said, "No, indeed!-your ladyship does me too much honour; I am indebted to Miss Aboyne, and to one who was equally beloved and respected by her and by myself, for all my knowledge of Italian-for every ac quisition I most value-for more than I ever can repay." There was a general pause. Lady Octavia wished she could have retracted a question which had excited feelings of a very different nature from those she designed to insinuate, and had drawn from Vernon so spirited an avowal of them. But the slight inadvertence led, at least, to one satisfactory conclusion. Vernon's honourable warmth and affectionate allusion to her beloved father, touched the spring of deepest emotion in Millicent's bosom, and subverted in a moment the outwork of calm self-possession, which had maintained itself so successfully, and, in truth, so easily, against the oblique aim of Lady Octavia's puny missiles; and the deep flush that now mantled her before-colourless cheek, and the tears that swam in her dove-like eyes, were evidence unquestionable that Miss Aboyne had a heart, and one not altogether organized of "impenetrable stuff." very busy now providing for our future household comforts. But I will allow, such work as mine was yesterday is not ornamental to a sitting-room; you shall not find the little parlour so disgraced again, dear Horace." The sweetness of the answer was irresistible; but though it made Vernon heartily ashamed of the weakness which laid him open to such paltry annoyance as that he had just made cause of complaint to Millicent, it could not immediately tranquillize his irritable mood, or charm him into forgetfulness of those tormenting thoughts and comparisons Lady Octavia had been too successful in exciting. Yet was he so sensible of their unworthiness, that he hated himself for the involuntary and unsus To do Lady Octavia Falkland justice, however, she did not meditate actual murder, on or off the stage, or any thing, indeed, but a little harmless temporary sport with the happiness of the two persons so long and solemnly contracted. She merely designed to assert the omnipotence of her own charms, by convincing Miss Aboyne that she had it in her power to make Vernon faithless to his early vows; and, with regard to Vernon himself, she only intend-pected treason, and his heart smote him more ed to give him a clear insight of the disadvantages which must attend his union with Miss Aboyne, and a despairing glimpse of the superlative felicity in store for the fortunate mortal who should awaken an interest in her own fair bosom. With guarded caution, also, she charitably inclined to indulge him with an experimental taste of la belle passion, such as it might be between sympathetic souls of a superior order; and then, having so far generously enlightened him as to the capabilities of his own heart, to leave him and his betrothed to complete their stupid union in their own dull way, and be "as happy as possible ever afterwards." sharply, when, a few minutes afterwards, Millicent spoke of Lady Octavia's beauty with such unaffected admiration, as testified, had such proof been wanting, how incapable was the genuine humility and nobleness of her nature of envious self-comparison with the youthful loveliness of another. "I never saw such hair as lady Octavia's!-such beautiful hair!" she observed, proceeding with her drawing and her eulogium. "But I have, Milly, and much more beautiful," asserted Vernon, edging his chair nearer to hers; and in a twinkling, before her inquiring look had met the tender meaning in his eyes, he had dexterously removed her close mourning cap, and plucked out Millicent did not again see Vernon till late the comb that fastened up a profusion of the in the morning which succeeded that of Lady finest hair in the world, black and glossy as the Octavia's visit; but she received him then raven's wing, which thus released from confinewith looks that beamed a welcome even more ment, fell in redundant masses over her neck affectionate than that with which they were and shoulders, waving downward almost to ever wont to greet him. His warm tribute to the ground as she sat, and, half shrouding her her dear father's memory, so spontaneously ut- face and figure in its cloud-like beauty, investtered the preceding day in reply to Lady Octa-ed with somewhat of celestial character the via's uncivil observation, had been balm to her heart, and her grateful feelings were ready to overflow at his appearance. But he approached and greeted her with an unusual degree of coldness and constraint, and there was a cloud upon his brow, and an abstractedness in his manner, that quickly and effectually repressed the expression of a sensibility too tender and profound not to be keenly susceptible of the slightest repulse. touching loveliness of a complexion pure and transparent, and almost colourless as alabaster, and eyes of the dark violet's own hue, ("the dim brooding violets of the dell,") now upraised to Vernon with an expression of innocent surprise and not offended feeling. "What a sin it is to hide such hair as this, Milly!" continued her lover lifting aside one of its heavy tresses from her now smiling and blushing face, on which he gazed with a sudFor some time few words passed between den and almost surprised conviction, that his them. Vernon seated himself beside Millicent own Millicent was a thousand times lovelier at the table where she was finishing some pen- than Lady Octavia; and the evidently admir cil sketches, and usefully employed himself in ing fondness with which his looks were fixed cutting up her pencils into shavings, and her upon her, did not lessen the suffusion of her Indian rubber into minute fractions. At last cheek, though it quickly brought tears into "Milly," said he, abruptly, "what can induce her modest eyes, as they fell bashfully under, you to waste your time about such abominable their long black lashes. There is no such coswork as you were employed in when Lady Oc-metic as happiness; no such beautifier as the tavia called yesterday?-and to have it all spread out in your sitting-room too!-such vile, hideous litter!" "My dear Horace!" mildly replied Millicent, looking up from her sketch with an expression of surprise, not unmingled with a more painful feeling" my dear Horace! do you forget that, circumstanced as we are, my time is much more wasted in such an occupation as this, than it was in the homely task you found me engaged in yesterday? You know, Horace," she added, half smiling as she bent again over her drawing, "that Nora and I are Museum -VOL. XIV. consciousness of pleasing, when we wish to please; and never was woman's heart indifferent to the gratification of being even personally pleasing to the object of her affections, whatever some superior-minded disagreeables may pretend to the contrary. Of late, some half-defined idea had possessed itself (she scarce knew how) of Millicent's humble heart, that though she was still dear to Horace, not only for her own sake, but for her father's, and the remembrance of "auld lang syne" she had no longer any personal attractions for him; and she HAD FELT the contrast between herNo. 842 Z |