And Cuculain said: "O Fardia, I believe thee not. Full well dost thou remember. Beneath the same rug we slept, and sat together at the feast, and side by side we went into the red battle. Together we consumed cities, and drave away captives. Together we practised feats of arms before the warriorqueen, grieving when either got any hurt. Together we kept back the streaming foe in the day of disaster, when the battle-torrent roared over us, either guarding the other more than himself."

Then beneath his lowering brows the hot tears burst forth from the eyes of the son of Daman, and fell continuously from his beard, and he answered with a voice most stern, but that held within it a piteous tone, like a vessel in which the careless eye sees not the hidden flaw, but at a touch, lo, it is broken, so sounded the stern voice of the warrior.

"Go back now, O Cuculain, to thy pleasant Dûn-Dûn Dalgan upon the sea. Go back now, for I would not slay thee, and rule over Murthemney and the rough headland of thy sires, and Meave will not waste thy territory or injure aught that is thine. And care no more for the Red Branch, for they have forsaken thee, and given thee over to destruction, who have conspired against thee, trusting in thy great heart that thou wouldst be slain on the marches of the province, holding the gates of the north against thy foes, for Hound is thy name, and Royal Hound thy nature. Therefore go back, O Cuculain, and save thy young life; return now to thy infant son and thy sweet bride. Go back, O Cuculain, for sweet is life, the life of the warrior, and very dark and sorrowful and empty is the grave."

"I will not go back, O Fardia Mac Daman, but here on the marches, while there is blood in my veins, and while reason, like a king rebelled against but unsubdued, holds the sov

ders of thy nation, though forsaken and alone. My people have indeed abandoned me, and conspired for my destruction; but there is no power in Erin to dissolve my knightship to the son of Nessa, and my kinship with the Crave Rue. Though they hate me, yet cannot I eject this love out of my heart. And not the kings only and the might of the Crave Rue, but the women and the young children of Ulla are under my protection, and all the unwarlike tribes, and this the sacred soil of Ulla upon which I stand. And this, too, well I know, that no power in the earth or in the air can keep the Red Branch my foe for ever, and that loud and deep will be their sorrow when the red pyre flames beneath me. And seek not to terrify me with death, O son of Daman, of yore, too, our minds did not agree, for dark and sorrowful death is not but a passage to the land of the ever young, the Tiernanōg. There shall I see the Tuatha face to face, and there the heroic sons of Milith and himself, a mighty shade, and there all the noblest of the earth. There hatred and scorn are not known, nor the rupturing of friendships, but sweet love rules over all."

"Go back, O Cuculain, go back now again, for I would not slay thee. Think no more of the son of Nessa and the Red Branch, than whom the race of Milith hath produced nought fiercer or more baleful. Rooted out and cast down shall be the Red Branch in this foray, whether thou, O Cuculain, survivest or art slain. Go back, O son of Sualtam, return to thy own Dûn. Once, indeed, thou wast obedient to me and served me, and polished my armour, and tied up my spears, submissive to my commands. Therefore go back; add not thy blood to the bloody stream."

"Revilest thou my nation, O son of Daman. Talk no more now, but prepare thyself for battle and for death. I will not obey thee or retire before thee, nor shalt thou at all dishonour me, as thou hast most foully dishonoured thyself. This, indeed, I well know, that I shall be slain at the ford when my strength has passed away, or my mind is overthrown; but by thee, O son of Daman, I shall not meet my death. Once, indeed, I was subservient to thee, because I was younger than thee. Therefore was I then as a servant unto thee, but not now; and which of us twain shall die I know, and it is thou, O Fardia, son of

Therewith then they fought, and Cuculain had no weapon save only his colg, for the gæ

The Moors and the Fens. In 1860 Too Much Alone appeared, which was very favourably received by the critical press. It is a thoroughly good novel, with a well conceived and well wrought-out story; and from its ability a successful career was predicted for the writer. After this, volume succeeded volume in rapid succession, until Mrs. Riddell is now the author of about twenty different novels, the reception of which by the press and the reading public has justified the early anticipations of her success in this field of literature. In 1857 Miss Cowan married J. H. Riddell, grandson of Luke Riddell, Esq., Winson Green House, Staffordshire. Her earlier works had appeared under the pseudonym of "F. G. Trafford," but after the appearance of George Geith of Fen Court in 1864-a story which fully established her literary reputation, and which the Athenæum called an "excellent novel, powerfully and carefully written"-she has used her marital name. Besides those above mentioned, we may notice what are considered as among the best of Mrs. Riddell's works-City and Suburb (1861), Maxwell Drewitt (1865), Phemie Keller (1866), Far above Rubies (1867), A Life's Assize (1870) -from which we quote; Mortomley's Estate (1874), Above Suspicion (1875), and a very readable novel entitled Her Mother's Darling (1877). In 1867 Mrs. Riddell became coproprietor and editor of the St. James's Magazine, and she has also contributed to the pages of Once a Week (in which appeared The Race for Wealth), Illustrated London News, London Society, &c. &c.]

NOT PROVEN.

66

A LIFE'S ASSIZE."1)

(FROM [Andrew Hardell, having murdered Kenneth Challerson in self-defence, has been placed on his trial for the crime in Dumfries. He has pleaded "not guilty" to the charge, and Mr. Dunbar, his counsel, has just finished his address to the jury.]

After him came the judge.

Every point in the prisoner's favour was rehearsed; every sentence repeated which could bear on his innocence; "but," added Lord Glanlorn

"Confound him!" thought Mr. Dunbar; "there he goes again;" while the advocatedepute adjusted his wig and pulled up his

1 By permission of the authoress.

gown, and smiled to himself at the sound of that ominous conjunction.

Word upon word, line upon line, the judge piled up against the prisoner. He showed how every presumption in the case went to support the idea of his guilt. They had the evidence of two witnesses to the fact of a button being missing from the prisoner's coat. There was no reason to doubt the truthfulness of Euphemia Stewart's testimony, and she distinctly swore that not merely a button was gone, but also that a piece of cloth had gone with it. The jury would bear in mind that no such rent had been discovered in any coat worn by the prisoner, but he would not have them place too much importance on this circumstance, since the question involved really was, had the prisoner three suits of tweed or only two? He had ample time and opportunity for disposing of one suit between the hour of his leaving New Abbey and that of his arrival at Kirkcudbright. He had a lonely shore; the darkness of night; the absence of any company; all in his favour. One circumstance, however, that looked like innocence, must not be overlooked, namely, that he had not changed his original route, but went straight forward to Kirkcudbright, as though no murder had been committed. On the other hand, the jury would bear in mind they had not in this case to deal with a criminal of the ordinary type, but with a highly-educated and clever man, possessed evidently of a mind capable of weighing consequences and calculating possibilities; and this consideration, also, should have considerable weight with them in deciding the exact amount of credence which they ought to attach to the evidence of the witness Anthony Hardell.

He (the judge) did not consider that witness had given his evidence in a satisfactory manner. He was evidently biassed by his friendship for the accused. He was labouring under considerable excitement, and had fenced off important questions with more cleverness than straightforwardness.

If the jury believed the bulk of the evidence which had been that day given, they could scarcely fail to arrive at the conclusion that the prisoner had first betrayed the confidence of a man who trusted too much in his honour, and then murdered that man.

Whether the blow were dealt in passion or in cool blood, whether it terminated a quarrel or were given treacherously, was not the matter for them to consider.

The real question for them to decide was whe

ther Kenneth Challerson was murdered, and, if so, whether the panel were his murderer.

And Lord Glanlorn looked as though he thought the jury ought to deliver their verdict without leaving the box.

The jury, however, apparently arrived at a different conclusion, for after a little whispering among themselves, and putting together of heads, they retired to consult.

Then came a time, when, like Agag, the prisoner said to himself, "Surely the bitterness of death is past."

He knew it had all gone against him; already he seemed to be like one clean forgotten, one for whom the world's pleasures and prizes were but as the memory of a dream.

What he might have done-oh, God! what he might have done, but for this awful misfortune. He saw himself a successful preacher, a happy husband, the father of children, a respected and useful member of society—that was the might-have-been of his life-and this was the reality.

A felon's dock in a far country-with the evening shadows stealing down-not a friendly face near him, and fifteen men in an adjoining room deciding whether or not he should hang by the neck till he was dead.

He sat in the dock, with his hands clasped, and his head bowed-his eyes were so misty with tears that he could not see the scene distinctly--but he had a confused memory afterwards of observing the judges leave the bench, and perceiving the counsel break up into knots and talking with the sheriffs and such of the spectators as had seats assigned to them in the boxes near the bench.

He knew they were speaking about him. Well-well, let the future bring what it might, he thought vaguely, it could never bring an hour of such intense misery-such utter loneliness as that. He was an interesting speculation to those people, nothing more. He felt very bitter against them all-unjustly bitter, for there were many there who, even believing him guilty, pitied him exceedingly.

After a minute or two his own advocate came over to speak to him,—told him not to despair yet, to keep up for a little while longer.

Then he too went away, and the darkness deepened. Candles were brought into court -dips that guttered down and made long wicks-and soon after the judges returned and resumed their seats, and the jury trooped back into their places, and there was a great silence for a moment.

Instinctively the prisoner rose to meet his doom. The faces of the jury looked in the fitful light, pale and stern and just-inexorably just. You might have heard a pin drop in court when, in answer to the judge's question, the foreman said

"We find a verdict of NoT PROVEN."

Of what happened after that, Andrew Hardell had no clear recollection. He remembered that the judge said something to him, but of what nature he never could tell. He knew that one of the men who had sat guarding him allowed him to pass out on the side farthest from the trap-door through which he had ascended from the subterranean passage. He felt the cool air blowing on his forehead, and he saw a way cleared for him by the people, who closed up again and followed him out into the street.

There was only one man to wish him joy. "Thank the Lord!" said a voice in his ear; and turning, he saw the face of the waiter from the "King's Arms."

"Take me to some place where I can be quiet," Andrew petitioned, "where nobody will know me;" and thus entreated, the man, under cover of the darkness, led him hurriedly along Buccleugh Street, and down the steps into the lane below, where not a soul was stirring.

"Ye'll be in need of something to eat," said the man, and Andrew thankfully yielded himself to such friendly guidance.

There was only a single feeling uppermost in his mind as he hurried along guided by David Johnstoun, and that was a wondering thankfulness at his deliverance.

As to the future, he was too bewildered to think of it. He was free-the trial was over

-the danger past. As to the actual meaning of the verdict he had not yet quite grasped it. He was spent, and he wanted rest. He was confused, and he needed time to collect his thoughts. He was faint, and he required food. He never could accurately remember what he felt while he walked through the twilight up the narrow streets, except that he was very glad.

He had not yet realized the nature of his hurt; it was not mortal, he knew, and that was then enough for him to comprehend.

Out of the darkness they turned into an inn of the commoner description, where, around a blazing fire, a number of men were gathered drinking and smoking.

A comely, middle-aged woman was in the act of supplying one of her customers with

Instantly she bent her eyes on his companion with a look of curious inquiry, then, without a word, led the way up a narrow staircase and into a bed-room on the first floor.

"Ye'll be quiet enough here," she said, setting the candlestick she carried down on a small round table, and again favouring Andrew Hardell with the same look of irrepressible curiosity she had honoured him with below. "And ye wad like something till eat-what will ye please to have?"

"I will come down wi' ye and see to that," David Johnstoun hurriedly interposed. "Will ye sit, Mr. Hardell, and rest yourself a-bit?" and the pair departed from the room, leaving Andrew alone.

Then all at once there fell upon him such a sense of desolation as I might never hope to put into words; the comprehension of his position dropped down into his heart as a stone drops down into a well, troubling the waters at the bottom. He was not innocent-he knew that; and the sentence pronounced declared as much. Not proven-ay, not proven in law-but

there was not a creature in court-not an inhabitant of Dumfries-not even the waiter from the "King's Arms," the only friend who had stopped to congratulate him that believed he was other than guilty.

--

They had hurried him through the kitchen that he might not be recognized. They had brought him up to this room, not that he might physically be more comfortable, but that mentally he should escape annoyance.

He looked round the apartment, in which no fire blazed cheerfully, which was only lighted by a solitary dip, and contrasted its

of the kitchen below.

He glanced at the bed placed in one corner, at the chest of drawers near the door, at the small round three-legged table where the candle was guttering down and making for itself a long wick with a cross of blackness at the top of the flame; he surveyed the empty grate and the strip of matting, and then his eye, still wandering round the room, fell on the looking-glass. Moved by a sudden impulse, he took up the light, and holding it close to the mirror, beheld his own reflection.

He looked at himself with a bitter smile. He had been, if not handsome, at least wellfavoured. His had been that sort of face which mothers bless as "bonnie," and women admire for its frank, fearless, honest comeliness. He had never boasted chiselled features, nor dreamy, poetic speaking eyes. He had not been beautiful as a dream. In his best days no person could have said of him that he looked as though he had stepped down from the canvas of one of the old masters to walk amongst men-but yet he had been something more than passable, and he had been young.

Now he seemed young no longer; since he stood before a free man, another sculptor than nature had taken chisel and mallet in hand to alter her work. His face was worn, his cheek hollow. There was a drawn expression about his mouth; his eyes were sunk; he had lines across his forehead; his hair was thin, and streaks of gray appeared amidst the brown; his clothes hung upon him, and the hand which held the candlestick looked, reflected in the glass, like the hand of a skeleton. The beauty of his youth was gone, and the hope of his youth with it.

[There are few men, even among the many laborious and brilliant Celtic scholars of the last quarter of a century, who have done more towards the elucidation of Irish history than Mr. John T. Gilbert. He has written the first book on the metropolis of Ireland which could make even a pretence to the dignity of a history; he has told the stories of the various Irish viceroys; and his republication of several old manuscripts has thrown quite a new light on some of the most important and most eagerly discussed passages in Irish annals.

Mr. Gilbert's chief work is his History of Dublin (3 vols. 1854-9). For this he was presented with the gold medal of the Royal Irish Academy-perhaps the highest literary honour that can be conferred by any body in Ireland. The work is full of the most interesting and varied matter. "As illustrating the wide range of subjects treated of," justly observed the president of the Academy in presenting Mr. Gilbert with the medal for his work, "under their respective localities, I may cite the account of the tribe of Mac