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"Leave the room, sir," said Luttrell, im- | the warning that was given was very slight, periously; and the man, cowed and crestfallen, and uttered in no unkindness. closed the door and withdrew.
As though to carry corroboration to the sailor's warning, a fierce blast struck the window at the moment, making the old woodwork rattle, and threatening to smash it in, while the dark sky grew darker, and seemed to blend with the leaden-coloured sea.
"He's out on the rocks, watching the sea." "Call him in here. I want to speak to him. What are you doing here, sir? I told you to leave this." This stern speech was addressed to Hennesy, who, with evident signs of sorrow on his face, stood half hid beside the door.
"Very well, sir," was the answer.
"Take the big yawl, and any crew you please. Whenever all is ready come up here for your orders."
"I want you to go over to Westport, Maher," and then, when the boat had rounded the said Luttrell to a hard-featured, weather-point of land, and could be no more seen, from beaten man of about fifty, who now stood wet a little loopholed slit in the tower above him, and dripping at the door. Luttrell watched her course. Even with his naked eye he could mark the sheets of spray as they broke over the bow and flew across her, and see how the strong mast bent like a whip, although she was reduced to her very shortest sail, and was standing under a double-reefed mainsail and a small storm-jib. Not another boat, not another sail of any kind, was to be seen; and there seemed something heroically daring in that little barque, that one dark speck, as it rose and plunged, seen and lost alternately in the rolling sea.
"Very well, sir," said the man, and retired. "Where's Master Harry, Molly?" cried Luttrell, advancing into the passage that led towards the kitchen.
"I was hopin' your honour wouldn't turn me out after nine years' sarvice, when I never did or said one word to displaze you."
It was only when he tried to look through the telescope and found that his hand shook so much that he could not fix the object, that he himself knew how agitated he was. He drew his hand across his brow and found it clammy with a profuse and cold perspiration. By this time it was so dark that he had to grope his way down the narrow stairs to his room below. He called for Molly. "Who was that you were talking to? I heard a strange voice without there."
"Away with you-be off-I have no time to parley with fellows like you. Come in here, Harry," and he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder, and led him into his room. "I'm sending a boat over to Westport, would you like to go in her?"
"Old Moriarty, the pilot, your honour; I “Wouldn't I?” said the boy, as his eyes brought him in out of the wet to dry himflashed wildly.
The day-a dark and stormy one-was drawing to a close as the yawl got under weigh. She was manned by a stout crew of five hardy islanders; for although Maher had selected but three to accompany him, Tim Hennesy volunteered, and, indeed, jumped on board as the boat sheered off, without leave asked or given. Luttrell had parted with his boy in his habitual impassive way—reminded him that he was under Tom Maher's orders, equally on shore as on board-that he trusted to hear a good account of him on his return, and then said a cold "good-bye," and turned away.
A wild cry, half yell, half cheer, broke from the fishermen on the shore; a squall had struck the boat just as she got under weigh, and though she lay over, reeling under the shock, she righted nobly again, and stood out boldly to sea.
At first from the window of his lonely room,
When Harry, who rarely had so long an interview with his father, left the room, he felt a sort of relief to think it was over; he had been neither punished nor scolded; even
"Send him in here to me," said Luttrell, who, throwing a root of oak on the fire, sat down with his back to the door, and where no light should fall upon his face.
"It's blowing fresh, Moriarty," said he, with an affected ease of manner, as the old man entered and stood nigh to the door.
"More than fresh, your honour. It's blowin' hard."
“You say that because you haven't been at sea these five-and-twenty years; but it's not blowing as it blew the night I came up from Clew, no, nor the day that we rounded Tory Island."
"Maybe not; but it's not at its worst yet," said the old fellow, who was ill-pleased at the sneer at his seamanship.
"I don't know what the fellows here think of such weather, but a crew of Norway fisher
men-ay, or a set of Deal boatmen-would ally in his time of trouble; for as he gazed laugh at it."
and gazed, his eyes would grow dim with tears, and his heavy heart would sigh, as though to bursting.
"Listen to that now, then," said the other, "and it's no laughing matter;" and as he spoke a fierce gust of wind tore past, carrying the spray in great sheets, and striking against the walls and windows with a clap like thunder. "That was a squall to try any boat!"
"I'm not frightened, sir; but I'd not send a child out in it, just for- He stopped and tried to fall back behind the door. "Just for what?" said Luttrell, with a calm and even gentle voice-"just for what?" "How do I know, your honour. I was saying more than I could tell."
"Yes; but let me hear it. What was the reason that you supposed-why do you think I did it?"
"Not a boat like the large yawl!" "If it didn't throw two tons of water aboard of her my name isn't Moriarty."
"Master Harry is enjoying it, I'm certain," said Luttrell, trying to seem at ease. "Well! It's too much for a child," said the know that I am desolate!" A pang shot old man, sorrowfully. through him at this that made him grasp his And you are frightened by a night like heart with his hand to suppress the agony.
Deceived and even lured on to frankness by the insinuating softness of his manner, the old man answered: "Well it was just your honour's pride, the ould Luttrell pride, that said, 'We'll never send a man where we won't go ourselves,' and it was out of that you'd risk your child's life!"
The leaden gray of morning began to break at last, and the wind seemed somewhat to abate, although the sea still rolled in such enormous waves, and the spray rose over the rocks and fell in showers over the shingle before the windows. Luttrell strained his eyes through the half-murky light, but could descry nothing like a sail seaward. He mounted the stairs of the tower, and stationing himself at the loopholed window, gazed long aud earnestly at the sea. Nothing but waves-a wild, disordered stretch of rolling water-whose rocking motion almost at last made his head reel.
The wind had greatly abated, and the sea also gone down, but there was still the heavy roll and the deafening crash upon the shore that follow a storm. "The hurricane is passing westward," muttered Luttrell; "it has done its work here!" And a bitter scorn curled his lips as he spoke. He was calling upon his pride to sustain him. It was a hollow
As the day wore on and the hour came when he was habitually about, he strolled down to the beach, pretending to pick up shells, or gather sea anemones, as he was wont. The fishermen saluted him respectfully as he passed, and his heart throbbed painfully as he saw, or fancied he saw, a something of compassionate meaning in their faces. "Do they believe, can they think that it is all over, and that I am childless?" thought he. "Do they
He rallied after a minute or so, and walked on. He had just reached the summit of the little bay, when a sort of cheer or cry from those behind startled him. He turned and saw that the fishermen were gathered in a group upon one of the rocks, all looking and pointing seaward; with seeming indolence of gait, while his anxiety was almost suffocating him, he lounged lazily towards them.
"What are the fellows looking at?" said he to the old pilot, who, with some difficulty, had just scrambled down from the rock.
"A large lugger, your honour, coming up broad?"
"And is a fishing-boat so strange a thing in these waters?"
"She's out of the fishin' grounds altogether, your honour; for she's one of the Westport boats. I know her by the dip of her bowsprit."
"And if she is, what does it signify to us?" asked Luttrell, sternly.
"Only that she's bearin' up for the island, your honour, and it's not often one of them comes here."
"She has the half-black, half-white ensign, | cheer, that made every heart bound, "I see your honour." Master Harry; he's steerin'!"
"So he is!" shouted another; "he's settin' up on the weather gunwale, and his head bare too. I see his hair flyin' wild about him." "Go up and tell the master."
"Your own flag at the peak,” said the pilot. "More of their insolence, I suppose," said Luttrell; "because they have a hamper or a parcel on board for me, perhaps."
"I don't think it's that, sir," said the other moodily.
"What is it, then?" cried he harshly. ""Tis, maybe, your honour, that they have some news of " he was going to say "Master Harry," but the ghastly paleness of Luttrell's face appalled and stopped him. y?"
"News of what did you say?
"Faix, I'm afeerd; I never spoke to him in my life."
"Will you, Owen Riley?"
"Sorra step I'll go; he turned me out of the place for saying that the cobble wanted a coat of pitch, and she sank under me after. Let ould Moriarty go."
"So I will. "Tis good news I'll have to
"Of the big yawl, sir; they maybe saw her bring him, and that never hurt the messenger.” at sea." And so saying the old pilot hastened, as fast as his strength would permit, to the house.
The door was open, and he passed in. He sought for Molly in the kitchen, but poor Molly was away on the beach, following the course the lugger seemed to take, and hoping to be up at the point she might select to anchor at. The old man drew cautiously nigh Luttrell's door, and tapped at it respectfully.
"Who's there? Come in; come in at once," cried Luttrell in a harsh voice. "What have you to say? Say it out."
""Tis to tell your honour that Master Harry——”
"What of him? What of him?" screamed Luttrell; and he seized the old man by the shoulders and shook him violently.
"He's steerin' the lugger, your honour, and all safe."
A cry, and a wild burst of laughter, broke from the overburdened heart, and Luttrell threw himself across the table and sobbed aloud.
"And if they had, would that give them a right to hoist the Luttrell flag? We are low enough in the world, Heaven knows!" he cried, "but we are not come to that pass yet when every grocer of Westport can carry our crest or our colours." This burst of mock anger was but to cover a rush of real terror; for he was trembling from head to foot, his sight was dimmed, and his brain turning. He felt the coward, too, in his heart, and did not dare to face the old man again. So, turning abruptly away, he went back to the house.
"My fate will soon be decided now," said he, as he tottered into his room and sat down, burying his face in his hands.
The group of fishermen on the rock grew larger and larger, till at last above thirty were clustered on the point all eagerly watching and as earnestly discussing every motion of the lugger. It was soon clear that her course was guided by some one who knew the navigation well, for instead of holding on straight for the bay, where she was to cast anchor, she headed to a point far above it, thus showing that her steersman was aware of the strong shore current that had force enough to sweep her considerably out of her course. Meanwhile they had ample time to discuss her tonnage, her build, her qualities for freight and speed, and her goodness as a sea-boat. "I wonder did she see the yawl?" said one at length, for, with a strange and scarcely accountable terror, none would approach the theme that was uppermost in every heart. The word once uttered all burst in at once, ""Tis with news of her she's come! She saw her 'put in' to Belmullet or to Westport, or she saw her sheltering, perhaps, under the high cliffs of the coast, 'lying-to,' till the gale lightened." None would say more than this. "Hurrah!” cried one at last, with a joyful | O'Malley.
THE IRISH DRAGOON.1
Oh love is the soul of an Irish dragoon,
From the tip of his spur to his bright sabretasche.
This and the following four songs are from Charles
To take off his wine, or to take up his ground; When the bugle may call him, how little he fears, To charge forth in column, and beat the Mounseers
With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche. When the battle is over, he gaily rides back To cheer every soul in the night bivouac―
With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche. Oh! there you may see him in full glory crown'd, As he sits 'mid his friends on the hardly won ground, And hear with what feeling the toast he will give, As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen liveWith his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.
MICKEY FREE'S ANCESTRY.
Air-"Na Guilloch y' Goulen."
Oh! once we were illigint people,
My father was then King of Connaught,
My grand-aunt Viceroy of Tralee; But the Sassenach came, and, signs on it! The devil an acre have we.
The least of us then were all earls,
But, except some turf mould and potatoes,
My grand-aunt was niece to St. Kevin,
And his failins is nothin' to me.
And we still might get on without doctors, If they'd let the ould Island alone;
And if purple men, priests, and tithe-proctors, Were crammed down the great gun of Athlone.
THE "MAN FOR GALWAY."
To drink a toast,
A proctor roast,
Or bailiff as the case is,
To kiss your wife
Or take your life
At ten or fifteen paces; To keep game-cocks-to hunt the fox, To drink in punch the Solway, With debts galore, but fun far more; Oh! that's "the man for Galway." Chorus-With debts, &c.
Like a sailor that's nigh land,
Where even the kisses we steal if we please;
If you don't wash your face,
BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING.
And you've nothing to do but to stand at your ease.
Bad luck to this marching,
Sure it's better bate Christians than kick a baboon;
How neat one must be to be killed by the French! And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a dragoon!
[Archbishop M'Hale has played an impor- | he entered at Maynooth, and after a distin tant part in the political history of Ireland for guished career there was made professor of dogover half a century, and may be regarded as matic theology. After he had held this place the man who next to O'Connell has exercised for eleven years he was raised to episcopal rank, the deepest and most prolonged influence on being appointed coadjutor-bishop of Killala the Roman Catholic population of the country. with the title of the Bishop of Maronia. Though his views are decidedly pronounced During this period his pen was constantly busy. and have been expressed in emphatic language, He wrote a series of letters under the signathe consistency of his career, the independence ture of "Hierophilus," which were mostly of his character, and his strong love of country concerned with controversial questions and have procured for him considerable respect Catholic emancipation. Indeed, during the even among those who most strongly oppose greater part of his life there has scarcely been him. John M'Hale was born as far back as an occasion of public interest on which he has 1791, at Tubbernavine, in Mayo. Having ac- not expressed his views. His letters are required the rudiments of learning in Castlebar, markable for great vigour of style, and it was