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The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn. "Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze

On the broad meadows and the quiet stream, To watch in silence while the evening rays

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam! Cooler the breezes play around my brow;

I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"


The bleak wind whistles, snow showers, far and near, My beautiful, my beautiful! that standest meekly


Drift without echo to the whitening ground; Autumn hath passed away, and cold and drear

With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye!

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged

Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound. Yet still that prayer ascends:—“Oh! laughingly My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high, I may not mount on thee again!-thou'rt sold, my


Arab steed!

And the roof rings with voices glad and loud;
Spare me awhile, lift up my drooping brow!
I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"

The spring is come again-the joyful spring! Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread;

The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing

The child of earth is numbered with the dead! "Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,

Beaming all readily through the lattice-pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,
Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow;
Why didst thou linger?-thou art happier now!"


When first, beloved, in vanished hours

The blind man sought thy hand to gain, They said thy cheek was bright as flowers New freshened by the summer's rain. The beauty which made them rejoice

My darkened eyes might never see; But well I knew thy gentle voice,

And that was all in all to me.

At length, as years rolled swiftly on,
They talked to me of time's decay,
Of roses from thy soft cheek gone,
Of ebon tresses turned to grey.
I heard them, but I heeded not;

The withering change I could not see; Thy voice still cheered my darkened lot,

And that was all in all to me.

Thy check may lose its blushing hue,
Thy brow less beautiful may be,
But oh, the voice which first I knew,
Still keeps the same sweet tone to me.

And still, beloved, till life grows cold,
We'll wander 'neath the genial sky,
And only know that we are old

By counting happy hours gone by;

Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind;

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold;

Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell!- thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold!

Farewell! Those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,

To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger's home;

Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed prepare:

That silky mane I braided once, must be another's


The morning sun shall dawn again-but never more with thee

Shall I gallop o'er the desert paths where we were wont to be

Evening shall darken on the earth; and, o'er the sandy plain,

Some other steed, with slower pace, shall bear me home again.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;

And when I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I startling wake, to feel thou'rt sold! my Arab steed.

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,

And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,

Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting vein!


Will they ill use thee?-if I thought-but no,- And sitting down by the green well, I'll pause, it cannot be; and sadly think, Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet "Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last so free;I saw him drink."

And yet if haply when thou'rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn,

I could not live a day, and know that we should

meet no more;

Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return? "Return!”—alas! my Arab steed! what will thy They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong

master do,

When thou, that wast his all of joy, hast vanished They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved
from his view?
too long.

When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and
through the gathering tears
Thy bright form for a moment, like the false
mirage, appears?

When last I saw thee drink!-Away! the fevered dream is o'er!

[Mr. Walsh was well known as a keen but moderate politician, a sound lawyer, and a profound judge; but it will be new to most people that he was in early life an ardent littérateur.

Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?

Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied Thus-thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains!

foot, alone,

Where, with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for hast borne me on; his pains.


John Edward Walsh was the son of the Rev. Dr. Walsh, vicar of Finglass, and was born in the parish of his father on November 12, 1816. He had a distinguished career in college, and was one of the most prominent members of the College Historical Society. He was called to the bar in 1839. For some years, however, he had scarcely any practice, and thus was afforded leisure for literary exertion. He produced a work on the duties of justices of the peace, which became a textbook. In the Dublin University Magazine he found a medium for articles on subjects of more general interest; and his sketches of Irish life in the olden time are among the most interesting articles in the earlier years of the periodical. Those essays were collected, and published in 1847 under the title Ireland Sixty Years Ago. The work is very entertaining, and gives an excellent idea of the strange manners and customs of our countrymen about the time when Castlereagh was passing the Union, and Sir Jonah Barrington was collecting the materials for his memoirs. It

'Tis false! 'tis false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!

BORN 1816 DIED 1869.

has passed through several editions, and its title, owing to the lapse of time, has had to undergo an alteration. It is now known as Ireland Ninety Years Ago.

As the years went on business began to come in on Mr. Walsh, and in the end he was one of the most largely employed counsel at the equity bar. Legal occupation excluded literary activity; and from this time forward his career belongs no longer to the literary chronicler. Suffice it to say, that in 1857 he became a queen's counsel; in 1866, attorney-general; and towards the close of the same year was raised to the bench as Master of the Rolls. In his new position he acquired the reputation of being an excellent judge; and, still in the prime of life, he had the right to look forward to many years' enjoyment of his dignified position. But while returning from a continental tour he was suddenly taken ill in Paris, and after a few days' suffering passed away on Oct. 17, 1869, in his fiftysecond year. This sudden termination to the promising career of a man so universally respected and so deeply liked caused regret among all classes. For some time before his death he had been contemplating a biography of Lord-chancellor Clare; but he had not got beyond the collection of the materials.]


(FROM "IRELAND NINETY YEARS AGO.") Abduction, or forcibly carrying off heiresses, was another of those crying evils which formerly afflicted Ireland; but it was an outrage so agreeable to the spirit of the times, and so congenial to the ardent and romantic character of the natives, that it was considered an achievement creditable to the man, and a matter of boast and exultation to the woman. From the time that the King of Leinster abducted the frail Dervogle, and royalty set an example of carrying off ladies, it was a constant practice. When once it went abroad that a woman in any station in life had money, she became the immediate object of some enterprising fellow, who readily collected about him adherents to assist in his attempt. No gentleman or farmer felt himself safe who had a daughter entitled to a fortune; she was sure to be carried off with or without her consent, and he lived in a constant state of alarm till she was happily disposed of in marriage. It was generally the wildest, most "devil-may-care" fellow who undertook the enterprise, and unfortunately such a character was found to have most attractions in the eyes of a young and romantic girl.

On the Derry side of the Foyle, and about two miles from the city, is Prehen, the seat of the Knoxes. It is highly wooded, and covers a considerable tract, descending to the river, and overhanging the broad expanse of water in this place with its dark shade. The circumstance which marked its ancient owners with affliction is of such a character as to correspond with the gloom that pervades its aspect; and no traveller passes it without many reflections on the sad event which happened there.

John M'Naghtan was a native of Derry. His father was an opulent merchant, and gave his son all the advantages of a most liberal education. He graduated in Trinity College, Dublin; but having inherited from his uncle a large estate, which precluded the necessity of engaging in any profession, he commenced a career of dissipation, then too common in Ireland. He married early, but his extravagance soon involved him in such distress that he was arrested by the sheriff in his own parlour for a considerable debt, in the presence of his pregnant wife. The shock was fatal.

1 By permission of Messrs. M. H. Gill & Son, Dublin.

She was seized with premature labour, and both wife and child perished. Being a man of address and ability, he was appointed to a lucrative situation in the revenue by the then Irish government, and in the course of his duty contracted an intimacy with the family of Mr. Knox, of Prehen, whose daughter, a lovely and amiable girl, was entitled to a large fortune, independent of her father. To her M'Naghtan paid assiduous court, and as she was too young at the time to marry, he obtained a promise from her to become his bride in two years. When the circumstance was made known to her father, he interdicted it in the most decided manner, and forbade M'Naghtan's visits to his house. This was represented as so injurious to M'Naghtan's character, that the good-natured old man was persuaded again to permit his intimacy with his family, under the express stipulation that he should think no more of his daughter. One day the lovers found themselves alone, with no companion but a little boy, when M'Naghtan took from his pocket a prayer-book, and read himself the marriage ceremony, prevailing on Miss Knox to answer the responses, which she did, adding to each, "provided my father consent." Of this ceremony M'Naghtan immediately availed himself; and, when he next met her at the house of a mutual friend, openly claimed her as his wife. Again he was forbidden the house by the indignant father. He then published an advertisement in all the newspapers, declaring the young lady was married to him. By a process, however, in the spiritual court, the pretended marriage was entirely set aside.

In the course of these proceedings M‘Naghtan wrote a threatening letter to one of the judges of the court of delegates, and, it was said, lay in wait to have him murdered when he came on circuit, but fortunately missed him in consequence of the judges taking a different road. The result was, that M‘Naghtan was obliged to fly to England. But here his whole mind was bent on obtaining possession of his wife; so at all hazards he returned, and lay concealed in the woods of Prehen. Warning of this circumstance had been communicated to her father, but he seemed to despise it. There was, however, a blacksmith, whose wife had nursed Miss Knox, and he, with the known attachment of such a connection in Ireland, always followed his foster-daughter, as her protector, whenever she ventured abroad.

To detach his daughter from this unfor

tunate connection, Mr. Knox resolved to leave | immediately pointed to a hay-loft, and the the country, and introduce her to the society of the metropolis; and in the beginning of November, 1761, prepared to set out for Dublin. M'Naghtan and a party of his friends having intimation of his intention, repaired to a cabin a little distance from the road, with a sack full of fire-arms. From hence one of the party was despatched to the house of an old woman who lived by the way-side, under the pretence of buying some yarn, to wait for the coming up of Mr. Knox's carriage. When it did arrive, the woman pointed it out, named the travellers it contained, and described the position in which they sat. They were Mr. Knox, his wife, his daughter, and a maid-servant. It was attended by but one servant, and the smith before mentioned. The scout immediately ran before, and communicated to M'Naghtan the information he received. The carriage was instantly surrounded by him and three other men. M'Naghtan and one of his accomplices fired at the smith, whom they did not kill, but totally disabled. The blinds were now close drawn, that the persons inside might not be recognized. M‘Naghtan rode up to it, and either by accident or design discharged a heavily-loaded blunderbuss into it at random. A shriek was heard inside. The blind was let down, and Mr. Knox discharged his pistol at the assassin. At the same moment another was fired from behind a stack of turf, by the servant who had concealed himself there. Both the shots took effect in the body of M'Naghtan. He was, however, held on his horse by his associates, who rode off with him. The carriage was then examined. Miss Knox was found dead, weltering in her blood. On the first alarm she had thrown her arms about her father's neck to protect him, and so received the contents of the murderer's firearms. Five balls of the blunderbuss had entered her body, leaving the other three persons in the carriage with her unhurt and untouched by this random shot.

corporal running up a ladder, burst open the door, and discovered M'Naghtan lying in the hay. Notwithstanding his miserably wounded state, he made a desperate resistance, but was ultimately taken and lodged in Lifford gaol. Some of his accomplices were arrested soon after. They were tried before a special commission at Lifford, and one of them received as king's evidence. M'Naghtan was brought into court wrapped in a blanket, and laid on a table in the dock, not being able to support himself in any other position. Notwithstanding acute pain and exceeding debility, he defended himself with astonishing energy and acuteness. A singular trait of Irish feeling occurred in the course of the trial. One of his followers implicated in the outrage, named Dunlap, was a faithful and attached fellow, and his master evinced more anxiety to save his life than his own. As a means of doing so, he disclaimed all knowledge of his person: "Oh, master dear," said the poor fellow in the dock, "is this the way you are going to disown me after all?"

On the day of execution M'Naghtan was so weak as to be supported in the arms of attendants. He evinced the last testimony of his regard to the unfortunate young lady he had murdered, of whom he was passionately fond, and whom he mourned as his wife. The cap which covered his face was bound with black, his jacket was trimmed with black, having jet buttons, and he wore large black buckles in his shoes. When lifted up the ladder, he exerted all his remaining strength to throw himself off, and with such force that the rope broke, and he fell gasping to the ground. As he was a man of daring enterprise and profuse bounty, he was highly popular, and the crowd made a lane for him to escape, and attempted to assist him. He fiercely declined their aid, declaring, in a manner characteristic of the impetuous pride of his nature, that "he would not live to be pointed at as the half-hanged man." He called to his follower, Dunlap, for the rope which was round his neck, the knot of which was slipped and placed round his own. Again he was assisted up the ladder, and collecting all his energies, he flung himself off, and died without a struggle. His unfortunate but faithful follower stood by wringing his hands as he witnessed the sufferings of his dear master, and earnestly desired that his own execution might be hastened, that he might soon follow him and die by the same rope.

The country was soon alarmed, and a reward of five hundred pounds offered for the apprehension of the murderers. A company of light horse scoured the district, and amongst other places were led to search the house of a farmer named Wenslow. The family denied all knowledge of M'Naghtan, and the party were leaving the house when the corporal said to one of his companions, in the hearing of a countryman who was digging potatoes, that the discoverer would be entitled to a reward of three hundred pounds. The countryman



This murder and execution took place on | greatly attached to the unhappy man, de the road between Strabane and Derry; and as the memory of them still lives among the peasantry, the spot is pointed out to passengers, and recalls traits of what Ireland was about one hundred years ago, even in the most civilized county. Abduction was then a common mode of courtship in the north as well as in the south, and a man was deemed a man of spirit if he so effected his marriage. Any fatal accident resulting to resisting friends was considered a venial offence, and the natural effect of their unreasonable obstinacy.

votedly fond of her father, and, with the strongest sense of rectitude and propriety, entangled in an unfortunate engagement from simplicity and inexperience. The gentleman was thirty-eight, a man of the most engaging person, and a model of manly beauty. His manners were soft, gentle, and insinuating, and his disposition naturally generous and humane; but when roused by strong excitement, his passions were most fierce and uncontrollable. His efforts on his trial were not to preserve his life, which became a burden to him after the loss of her he loved, but to save from a like fate a faithful follower, and to exculpate his own memory from a charge of intended cruelty and deliberate murder.

The circumstances and character of the parties in this affair rendered it one of the deepest interest. The young lady was but fifteen, gentle, accomplished, and beautiful,


[Anna Maria Fielding was born in Dublin | produce in a collected form; and thus in 1829 not long after the century had commenced. appeared Mrs. Hall's first work, Sketches of While still an infant she was taken to Ban- Irish Character. The volume met with imnow, in county Wexford, where her maternal mediate and deserved success; for the stories grandfather and grandmother lived. Her were distinguished by fidelity to life, pathos family on the mother's side was of illus- without exaggeration, bright but never illtrious Huguenot descent, tracing back its natured humour, and absolute freedom from lineage partly to French and partly to Swiss political or religious bigotry. Mrs. Hall's sources. In her early home at Bannow the next work was one intended for the young— future authoress drank in the vivid impres- The Chronicles of a Schoolroom-a volume in sions of Irish scenery and life, which she was which, while things are treated with the destined to so finely reproduce afterwards. necessary simplicity, there is a complete abShe lived, as she herself tells us, in a locality sence of the goody-goody tone and wishyrich in the picturesque, and amid a people washy sentiment of so many books with a like whose strong individuality offered abundant purpose. The Buccaneer, published in 1829, materials for the student of character. The was Mrs. Hall's first attempt at a regular young Irish girl was not, however, given any novel. The scene is laid in England, and the lengthened opportunity of studying her coun- time chosen is the protectorate of Oliver try and countrymen; for she was but fifteen Cromwell. The Outlaw, which followed in when she left Ireland and settled in London. 1832, also belonged to the department of the In September, 1824, she was married to Mr. historical novel; the Revolution of 1688 being Samuel Carter Hall. To this event we prob- the period described, and James II. the chief ably owe her accession to the ranks of littéra- character. Though many of the scenes deteurs; and she herself gained through it the scribed in those stories bear a strong impress blessing of a devoted companion, alike in tastes, of truth and give a good idea of the times, in sympathies, and in aims. the passages which will be read with most

Mr. Hall, during the early years of his mar-pleasure are those descriptive of domestic life. ried life, was engaged in the production of an illustrated "annual" called the Amulet; and here Mrs. Hall's first sketches appeared. Those sketches a publisher-much to the astonishment of the young writer, who was modestly unconscious of her own power-offered to

Mrs. Hall was probably more at home in a work which appeared in the interval between the two historical novels. Tales of Woman's Trials is a delightful volume, full of touching stories, told with delicacy, poetic feeling, and truth. Two of the tales are especially beauti

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