Meddle. You do!

Cool. Yes, where are your witnesses?

[Exit.

Meddle. Ah-damme! I'm done at' last!

[Exit.

ORIGIN OF "THE SHAUGHRAUN."

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

"George, it is five o'clock! Let us get away from the course before the crowd of carriages encumber the road. Recollect, we must reach Dublin by half-past six."

We were at Punchestown races, and I was announced to play the same evening in the "Colleen Bawn" at the Theatre Royal, Dublin.

She can do it," said George D, as he fondly patted the sleek coat of his mare, a splendid specimen of an Irish hunter, from whose quarters he had just slipped the rug. "I'll bet three pounds to one we are in College Green at six twenty."

"I'd like to take that, yer honour," said a low, sweet voice, that seemed to come from under the animal.

"Ha! is that yourself, Jack," said George, as he jumped into the dog-cart and gathered up the reins. "Do you think the mare cannot do it? You ought to know her better! She brought us down this morning in eighty-five minutes, and the whip never left the socket." "Then she'll not go back in three hours this night, barrin' she goes by rail," said the man, rising from the stooping posture and standing back as he looked at the beast's near foreleg.

He was a lithe boy of some twenty years, dressed in a ragged scarlet coat, and an old black hunting cap, the cast-off suit of some whipper-in. One leg boasted a top-boot, on which a rusty spur was tied about his heel with a "taste of cord." On the other leg was the remainder of a Wellington boot. His breeches were like Joseph's coat of many colours; waistcoat and shirt he had none. The attire, pulled anyway about him, could not conceal one of those model shapes that Ireland alone contributes to the light cavalry of the English army. Broad in the shoulders, thin in the flank, his frame is what is vulgarly called "herring-gutted;" very long in the arms; the hips, when seen in profile, were broad, but

Under a

shock of brown hair a broad beaming face defied delineation, for the features were constantly on the move. A mouth vigorous, large, full of gleaming teeth, seemed shrewd and mischievous, over which two blue eyes, under long, black brows, were like limpid wells of good nature and fun.

"What's the matter with her leg, Jack?"

""Tisn't in the leg, yer honour, it's in the near fore fut. I watched her favourin' this whole day, and more betoken, it's hot as blazes round the coronet. I'm afeard, Master George, the crature has a touch o' the vickular."

"A touch of the navicular! Pooh! A touch of your grandmother! What do you know about it?"

"I know why the gintleman wants to get back to Dublin so airly, God bless him," he added, touching his ragged cap. "Wasn't I in the gallery of the Royal last Saturday, and I seen him fish the 'Colleen Bawn' out of the water. Whoo! It bates Banagher! Gorra, but I'd like to have a"-here he made a plunge at the earth, and turning what is called “a wheel," bounded lightly on his feet with a yell. The mare sprang on one side, and rose into the air, while George uttered a volley of imprecations upon my admirer's voluble athletics.

I threw the fellow half a sovereign, and the look of amazement and the parting gleam of gratitude that he shared between the coin and me was worth the money.

"Confound the fool!" said my companion, as the animal plunged forward. "I nearly broke a trace. So! Jenny, so! What's the matter with you?" The mare was cantering, and he tried to shape her down to a trot.

"That was a queer figure,” said I.

"He is well known about here," replied George D--; "he's called Cantering Jack. There's not a fair or a race or a wedding, or any other public or private 'divarsion,' at which Jack is not to be found. Two years ago he rode this mare for me. (So, Jenny.) She was entered for the stakes, a steeplechase, and won me five hundred pounds. The scoundrel rides like a monkey, and has the light hand of a child."

"Why is he called Cantering Jack?"

"He lives under a hedge, and when he spies a carriage full of 'grandees,' Jack unstrings his fiddle, receives them with a wild dance, and will follow the carriage for miles, never failing to get sixpence sooner or later from

the party. I have known him to run behind a dog-cart for twelve or fifteen miles, and never turn a hair or lose breath."

By this time we had left the main road to avoid the vehicles, and had entered a side lane by which George D- assured me the distance to Dublin was nearly a mile shorter than by the highway. After pursuing these lanes for nearly twenty minutes, the mare that had never settled down to a square trot, began to show the cause of her uneasiness. George brought her to a standstill, and after resting her a minute, started her at a walk. There remained no doubt the animal was lame. He got down to examine the leg, while I held the reins. After a few moments he went a score of yards ahead, and asked me to drive her gently toward him. I did so, and he leaped up beside me.

the craythur might not last. You are not angry, sir, bekase I kep an eye on ye,” said he, apologizing to George for his presence.

"Don't stop to explain," he replied testily. "My friend must reach Dublin in fifty minutes. You know every foot of the road and every quadruped in the county. Can it be done? Can you 'beg, borrow, or steal' a horse that will carry him to town?"

Jack ran his fingers under his ragged cap to scratch his head.

'Well, to be sure," said he, after a moment's hesitation, "there's only one chance." "Make it a certainty, Jack," I cried, "and I'll give you a five-pound note."

I did not like to add my anxiety to his annoyance, so I held my tongue, and began to measure anxiously the distance to the theatre, and the dismal consequences of arriving late. The lord-lieutenant had given a "command" on that night, and that means he was coming in state, with his court, in gala uniform, and escorted by a troop of cavalry. On such occasions all Dublin turns out, and every available seat in the theatre is filled. I recollected the j'ai failli attendre of Louis XIV., and felt proportionately uncomfortable. The brave beast struggled with her pain, but at last, and rather suddenly, as if she had concealed its acuteness, she broke down to a walk. Darkness had set in, and the last milestone said sixteen miles still lay between us and the city. We were miles from the turnpike, where I might have picked up some conveyance, or found a good-natured party returning home, who would give me a lift. I looked at my watch-it wanted twelve minutes to six.

"Could I hire a horse from one of the farmers in the neighbourhood? Do you know where we are? Who lives near this place?"

"I have no idea," replied my companion, so dejectedly I had not the heart to exhibit my despair. Darkness was increasing, and the first drops of rain began to patter on the leaves above us. "I do not know where we are or what to do. I'm fairly at my wit's end."

The hedge that topped the bank skirting the road was divided above our heads, and a dark form bounded across the ditch, and Cantering Jack alighted beside us.

"Long life to your honours. I was afraid

to say nor else to do, we lighted cigars and waited.

The condemned felon on the morning of his execution, listening for the approaching footsteps of his executioner, never strained his ears more anxiously than we stretched ours. Hope wanted four footsteps. Fear dreaded two. Hark! Minute after minute passed and seemed like hours. Hark! patter! patter! brush! a pause-a gate swings opens and closes to.

"He has found a horse!” cried George. "If he had been alone he would have vaulted that gate and never stopped to open it. Here he comes!"

Up the lane he came, leading a horse by the forelock.

"Quick, now, for the love o' God. Slip the harness on him; gi' me the headstall; aisy wid them breechings, he is lively wid his heels."

While Jack and I clothed the horse, the mare standing patiently by and thankfully quiet, George D-- took out one of the lamps to light our labours.

"Good heavens, Jack! why I cannot be deceived. It is Mal"

"Whisht, if ye please, sir. I made an oath to meself I'd land his honour there in Dublin before Misther Lavey would dhrop the flag to the fiddlers, and begorra I'll be good as the word."

George stood agape as Jack ran the light dog-cart shafts over the flanks of the horse, who shivered as he was tucked in and buckled to. Seizing the reins, Jack leaped to the driver's seat, and I sprang up beside him.

"Whew!" he uttered a low whistle, and the

[Miss Browne is one of the most remarkable examples of the victories which perseverance and strength of will can achieve over great physical and social obstacles. She was born in Stranorlar, county Donegal, on January 16, 1816. An attack of small-pox deprived her of eyesight in infancy, but as she grew up she managed to teach herself and to get others to teach her, and she had at an early age intimate acquaintance with the chief masters of English literature. Her father was but a village postmaster, and she had to seek for a means of livelihood for herself. She began by sending a poem to the Irish Penny Journal, which was accepted. She next succeeded in obtaining admission to the Athenæum, Hood's Magazine, the Keepsake, and other periodicals. The editor of the first-named journal proved a warm friend of the struggling young poetess, and did much to call public attention to her works. In 1844 she ventured on the publication of a collection of her poems, under the title The Star of Atteghei, the Vision of Schwartz, and other Poems.

Miss Browne left Ireland in 1847, and has since resided either in Edinburgh or London. She has also written Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems; Legends of Ulster; The Ericksons, a tale; The Hidden Sin, a novel (1866); and a sort of autobiography, entitled My Share in the World (1862). She enjoys a small pension from the civil list bestowed upon her by the late Sir Robert Peel. The poems of Miss Browne deserve attention altogether apart from the personal circumstances of the authoress. They are lucid in style, smooth in rhythm, and full of picturesque imagery.]

THE RETURNING JANISSARY.

There came a youth at dawn of day
From the Golden Gate of the proud Serai:-
He came with no gifts of warrior pride,
But the gleam of the good sword by his side,
And an arm that well could wield;
But he came with a form of matchless mould-
Like that by the Delphian shrine of old-
And an eye in whose depth of brightness shone
The light by the Grecian sunset thrown

On the dying Spartan's shield;—
For the days of his boyhood's bonds were o'er,
And he stood as a free-born Greek once more!

Of honour's path and pleasure's bowers,
Go forth in the Spahi's conquering march—
And gold and glory requite thy search,
Till a warrior's death unfold
For thee the gates of Paradise,
And thy welcome beam'd by the Houris' eyes."-
"And where will the yearning memories sleep,
That have fill'd mine exiled years
With a voice of winds in the forest free,
With the sound of the old Ægean Sea,
Through echoing grove and green defile,
On the shores of that unforgotten isle
Which still the light of my mother's smile
To her wanderer's memory wears-
And the voices ever sounding back
From my country's old triumphal track?

The faith that clings with a deathless hold
To the freedom and the fame of old,
Will they rest in a stranger's banner-shade,
Though a conquering flag it be?

Will they joy with its myriad hosts to tread
On a land that once was free?

Take back your gifts," the wanderer said"And leave at last to me

That far land's love-for ye cannot part
His country from the exile's heart!"

They said "Thine isle is a land of slaves;
It gives no galley to the waves--
No cry with the battle's onset blent-
No banner broad on its breezes sent-

No name to the lists of fame;

Thy home still stands by its winding shore,
But thy place by the hearth is known no more;
The evening fire on that hearth shines on,
But the light of thy mother's smile is gone-

For a stranger bears her name—

And, bright though her smile and glance may be, They're not like those that grew dim for thee."

"I know that my country's fame hath found
No rest by her storied streams—
For cold is the chain for ages borne,

And deep is the track its weight hath worn!
The serf hath stood, in his fetters bound,
On hills that were freedom's battle-ground;
And my name is a long-forgotten sound

In the home of my thousand dreams;-
For change hath passed o'er each household face,
And my mother's heart hath a resting-place
Where the years of her weary watch are past
For the step that so vainly comes at last.
But far there shines through the shadowy green
Of the laurels bending there,

One beckoning light-'tis the glancing sheen
Of a Grecian maiden's hair;
Alas, for the clouds that rose between
My gaze and one so fair!
Alas! for many a morning ray

That passed from life's misty hills away!"

So spake the Greek, but the tempter said—

"Why seek'st thou the flowers of summer fled?

The years that have made thy kindred strange Have they not breathed with the breath of change On thine early chosen too?

They have bound the wealth of that flowing hair—
They have crossed the brow with a shade of care;
For thy young and thy glad of heart hath grown
A matron, saddened in glance and tone-

From whose undreaming view
Life's early lights have fallen-and thou
Art a long-forgotten vision now."

There rose a cloud in his clear dark eye, Like the mist of coming tears

Yet it passed in silence, and there came
No after-voice from that perished dream:
But he said "Is it so, my land! Thou hast
No gift for thy wanderer but the past,
And a dream of a gathering trumpet's blast,

And a charge of Grecian spears!
That bright dream's promise ne'er may be-
But the earth hath banners broad and free;
There are gallant barks on the western wave-
And fields where a Greek may find a grave:
With a fearless arm, with a stainless brand,
With a young brow I depart

To seek the hosts of some Christian land-
But I go with an exile's heart. -

Yet, oft when the stranger's fight is done,
And their shouts arise for the battle won,
This heart will dream what its joy might be
Were it won but for Greece and Liberty!"

THE LAST FRIENDS.1

I come to my country, but not with the hope That brightened my youth like the cloud-lighting bow,

For the vigour of soul, that seemed mighty to cope With time and with fortune, hath fled from me

now;

And love, that illumined my wanderings of yore,
Hath perished, and left but a weary regret
For the star that can rise on my midnight no

more

But the hills of my country they welcome me yet!

The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still, When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone

track;

From the wide-spreading deserts and ruins, that fill The lands of old story, they summoned me back; They rose on my dreams through the shades of the West,

They breathed upon sands which the dew never wet,

For the echoes were hushed in the home I loved best

But I knew that the mountains would welcome me yet!

The dust of my kindred is scattered afar

They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave; For serving the strangers through wandering and

war,

The isle of their memory could grant them no

grave.

1 One of the United Irishmen, who lately returned to his country after many years of exile, being asked what had induced him to revisit Ireland when all his friends were gone, answered: "I came back to see the mountains."