BRADY'S FOUR ACRES OF BOG.

BY FELIX M'CABE.

I.

THE PHILLIPSES.

HAVE you ever made a tour through the south of Ireland, or, on leaving the Lakes of Killarney, returned to Dublin via Limerick, Killaloe, per steamer to Athlone? The journey by rail takes five or six hours less time, but the scenery along the banks of Loch Derg will fully repay you for taking the more circuitous route. It is from this lake that Ireland's most majestic river (Shannon) takes its rise, and close to it is the once famous palace of Brien Boru, King of Munster; very little now remains of the palace of Kincora. Time has laid its wasting hands on what man has constructed, but not so with the noble river which glides softly past this historic spot.

Time writes no wrinkle on its azure brow.

The wild ash still decorates its sloping bank; the aged willow casts its shadow over its still waters; the same fountains pay their tribute as in days of yore, as they rush with great force from their rocky beds, and playfully wind round the huge sides of the Clare mountains, to be received into the wide span of waters below.

Yes, reader, the scenery is something grand, and can be seen in all its native beauty from the deck of the company's steamer. In passing the Clare mountains, the sun lights up their wild rocky sides, and reflects to the eye a golden tinge from the heather and broom, which grow there with unabated sway. As we proceed higher up we get into another province; here the scenery is wilder still, but not so picturesque. See that curious old brick building, with its spacious lawn running in gentle slopes down to the water side! That is Fairy Lawn, the seat of the Phillipses from time immemorial. The present proprietor is Digby Phillips, Esq., late M.P. for the county, now an invalid, and requiring the use of a Bath-chair, by which he is propelled from one end of his spacious lawn to the other, as he looks vacantly out on the lake which moves gently before him.

Digby Phillips is a tall, fine-looking man, his hair is now quite grey, and he tells his man Fogerty" to go easy," placing his trembling hand on the cushion of his chair, and saying, with a soft, irresolute voice:

"You forget, Fogerty, what Doctor Sharp said, that I was not to take violent exercise.'

"All right, yer honor; I'll take care, yer honor. Bedad, it is not myself that would do anything contrary to Doctor Sharp." "Yes, Fogerty, I am not the man I used to be in lifetime."

your father's "True, for yer honor," replied Fogerty; "but now, yer honor,' said Fogerty, pulling out a very large and primitive-shaped watch, "the time is just up to the minit."

"Very well, Fogerty, very well," said the old gentleman, as he laid listlessly back in his chair.

Digby Phillips succeeded to a very considerable property on the death of his father, William Windham Phillips, and for several years added much to its value. He also succeeded his father as member for the county without opposition, for who would think of opposing a Phillips of Fairy Lawn? His father was returned after the Emancipation Bill, and Digby was not opposed for several years at least, not until that great crisis which had the effect of shaking the old landed proprietors of Ireland, and which made it difficult, with a poor tenantry and little capital, to stave off the storm, which was a mere forerunner of the "great tidal wave" predicted to sweep all from the soil. About this time, a London stockbroker bought some land in the neighbourhood, and, after a short residence, disputed Digby's right to represent the county in parliament. After a very hard fight of it, the old member was returned by a very close majority; but Digby Phillips no sooner reached London than he found his opponent had lodged a petition against him. The election was declared null and void after three weeks' investigation; and both candidates repaired to the scene of action to fight the battle over again. The London gentleman, with no little confidence in what the Americans call "the almighty dollar," vaunted before the impoverished peasantry, with whom, Heaven knows, it was at the time in very limited circulation, her Majesty's image on a gold medallion, and forgot that it was not the only road to an Irishman's heart; but Digby Phillips appealed to their sympathies, to their nationality, and to their creed, and was again elected by a much larger majority, which left no doubt on his opponent's mind that he was the man. These two elections and petition were ruinous to Digby Phillips; his property was now mortgaged to the very last shilling.

He continued to represent the county for some few years until the general election, when it first dawned upon him that he was to be opposed by his old friends. This was a great blow to Mr. Phillips; he called on his colleague, Lord Lovestock, and was informed that they could not go in harness as heretofore. The Rev. Mr. Maloney heard Mr. Phillips's loud complaint, but made no promise of support. In great mental anguish he repaired to

his residence; and next morning, as he walked about his grounds, he found a notice on his front gate, signed by most of his old supporters, warning the people not to promise their votes to any one, as their old member (Mr. Phillips) had deceived them; that he was a toady to government; that he sought office from the hated Whigs, and would sell his birthright for a mess of porridge; a weathercock in politics; in fact, a man without principle. An hour after he had read this notice he was found a few yards from his gate in a fit of apoplexy.

It is now six months from that occurrence. We see him enter his front door, and as he entered through one door we see a lady and gentleman pass out through another. The lady is young, and trips along the closely-cut grass with a firm, light step. She turns back as the gentleman, who is walking quite close to her, stumbles.

"What is the matter, Arthur?"

"Nothing, only those confounded croquet irons," replied the gentleman.

The gentleman again kicks up a hoop.

"Well, Arthur," said the young lady, laughing, "I declare I ought to go in for mamma's spectacles."

Her companion made no reply to this observation, but, in gloomy mood, walked along until they came to the stile leading out of the paddock.

"Now, Arthur," said the young lady, with a sweet smile, "I shall say good-bye, as I have seen you off the premises."

"Thank you, Katty," said the gentleman, "it is very kind of you to come so far with me; but there is one comfort, you shall not be troubled with me again."

The young lady seemed piqued at this ceremony. She was about wishing good-bye to a young gentleman that she had known for years, and one whom she looked upon as a brother. She would say good-bye in her own sprightly manner, but never asked herself could she forget him.

"You seem in a very singular humour, Arthur," said she. "You know I have always considered you like Frank" (a brother).

The young lady made an effort to get her hand away, but Arthur drawing her a little closer to him:

"Yes, Katty," said he; "but " Arthur was about to say something, and struggled hard with his conscience as to what course he should pursue, and finished the sentence not as he intended. "But you know, Katty, you are very young, and by the time I return

Nonsense, Arthur," said the young lady, interrupting him,

her bright blue eyes flashing with indignation. "I am as old for a woman as you are for a man, and if I

The next instant she was off in the direction of her father's house, leaving Arthur to watch her graceful form as she disappeared in the shrubbery. He remained for some time rivetted to the spot. He asked himself, should he go into the house and see her once more. No; he might say something that would be madness for a man in his position, going to face the world with only a few pounds in his pocket.

Arthur had a hard struggle to come to that conclusion. He knew he was no longer the owner of Boydsville. The property was sold immediately after his father's death, through circumstances with which he was in no way connected, and over which he had no control. He sold his little goods and chattels in order to pay any outstanding bills there might be, and, though he was well aware that at Fairy Lawn his altered circumstances made no difference, that he was free to go and come as he liked, still his delicate sense of honour would not allow him to say anything to the young lady, who just disappeared through the shrubbery, which might not be said in the presence of her father or mother. We don't wish our readers to consider Arthur a "milksop;" he merely declined to take advantage of the hospitality of Fairy Lawn in betraying the confidence so generously placed in him. A delicate sense of honour, such as his, may, perhaps, be rare at the present day; people will say, "it is all very well in theory, but not suited to practice." The unscrupulous man will often distance his more scrupulous neighbour, just as the diffident is set aside to allow the bombast, or charlatan, to stand out in bold relief. If it is a rare commodity, it is peculiar to no class. If we probe deep enough, it will shine out more frequently under the garb of poverty than under the ermine of wealth and nobility.

Arthur Fosbery, now sick at heart, turned away from the stile, having bid farewell to Fairy Lawn and its inmates for ever, and walked in the direction of Carra, which town he was to leave the following morning for Dublin, on his way to London. He was well acquainted with the short cut through the bog; every inch of the country had been traversed by him over and over again. Here was the rustic bridge where Fogerty, the man-servant at the lawn, waited now and then with his basket of refreshment, when he and Frank Phillips were on their fishing excursions. Yes; there were many things here to remind him of bygone days. He entered Ballydy Bog and passed along the shadow of the large mound of turf, when he was aroused from his reverie by a large black retriever bounding up to him, and placing his two fore paws on his waistcoat; the dog barked with delight, and jumped all

round him. "Down, Pluto-down," said Arthur. The animal now crept up to him and placed his noble head on his knee, while his placid grey eyes looked into the face of his late master in hope of some further recognition. Arthur stroked the head so extended to him, and, sitting on the nearest hillock, drew the animal close to his side: after a little pause, he gave a long, languid look at the noble animal before him, and exclaimed: "You old sinner, I ought to have shot you, but it can't be done now. Go home, Pluto," said Arthur, as he stood up to proceed on his journey-"go home, I say, at once." Wherein the dog moved slowly along in the direction of Fairy Lawn, where, we may say, he was a great favourite with his young mistress, Miss Katty Phillips, to whom he was presented by the young gentleman, Mr. Arthur Fosbery. Could we see him now, as he parted company with his favourite dog! Don't fancy, reader, that it was any great trial for him to do so; but Arthur's feelings had been pent up for some time. The man was gaining the upper hand of the boy; his proud spirit would not allow him even to think that he should give way to his feelings, and be what he considered a fool. This spirit was backed up by a firm determination; but the last straw will often break the camel's back. Such was the case with Arthur Fosbery. Who can tell what passed through the mind of that young man, now in his twentieth year, the last of his race, leaving his native country; without a profession, with very scanty means, leaving the home of his forefathers, their property now in the hands of strangers, which he was led to call his own-he a Fosbery of Boydsville, an outcast in the haunts of his childhood. Don't wonder if you see the tears struggling to get exit, while with firmly pressed lips and clenched hands he tries to battle with his own feelings.

Our great men are sometimes distinguished for their little deeds. It is by looking closely into their minor actions that we can get a fair insight to their character. Arthur Fosbery was a great favourite at Dunhurst College, which he left some six months ago. All the small boys, both English and Irish, looked up to him as their champion. He held his own, without showing (what we very often see at public schools, one boy despotic, all the rest obedient) any symptoms of his superiority. He was only a few days at college when he got a severe reprimand for his Greek Testament. Being a new comer, there was a regular comment on how he "dropped in for it." Arthur made no acquaintances as yet. Some said he was a prig, others that he was a cad, &c. &c. Such was the conversation in the recreation-ground as Arthur passed a group of boys. One, a fair-haired lad, about Arthur's age and size, stood out before the rest, and called out as he passed: