land—the object being to ruin the latter with his landlord, the government, and his mistress, at one and the same time. In the course of his plottings, the village schoolmaster (Finigan) becomes possessed of some information of importance, and writes a characteristic but anonymous letter to Burke. The anonymous letter, however, has the rather unusual appendage of the writer's name, and an interview takes place between them, of which the following extract is a sample. fortunate than Alexander, have discovered for them- | induces to carry on their trade upon McMahon's selves new worlds by their investigations of the old. But this is not all. The pleasant tales which delighted us in childhood have been subjected to somewhat the same process, and our opinions, like children's toys, have been so often picked to pieces to see what they are made of, that they sometimes do not fit as well as they have done. The three one-eyed Calenders, the beautiful Princess Balbadour, and all our dear and early friends of the Arabian Nights, come out with strange and unfamiliar names, and cease to be what they have been. Whittington's cat (the very mouser that we loved) turns out to be nothing more romantic than the catta, or vessel, which brought the London (or Persian) merchant rich treasures from afar; and not even Mrs. Crowe's "Night Side of Nature," can bring us to anything like a creditable belief in ghosts. Surely, surely we may be permitted to regret some of our loves that were old, and to exclaim, "Turn again, Whittington," for we feel that in his cat we had once a property, and that we have lost something which was our own. In this state of feeling it is delightful to meet with a writer who, without making claim to any other magic save that of his own keen observation and imaginative power, places before us a tale of so much interest as that of the "Emigrants of Ahadarra." The name of William Carleton is of itself enough to ensure our attention and respect, and the story now before us is well worthy of his reputation. It was wisely said by Napoleon, that "a man to lead the people must be of the people," and in the delineation of Irish character, Mr. Carleton has all the advantages derived from his intimate knowledge of the home life of the peasant acquired at the period of early youth. It is his great merit that, partaking largely of their sympathies and feelings, he yet depicts their vices and their follies with sturdy indedendence and with an unflinching hand. He knows the people well, and with him most assuredly "knowledge is power." The conventional Irishmen, the Sir Lucius O'Triggers, and "Sprigs of Shillelah," are not revived by him, nor does he ever commit the mistake of making men of earnest purpose, and wild excitability, (merely because they are Irishmen,) commit a blunder when they propose a crime. With a sense of the ludicrous we believe unsurpassed, he never sacrifices to feeble sentimentalities, or forced drollery, the interest which belongs of right to the pleadings of nature and of truth. The story of the Emigrants of Ahadarra is one of great and continued interest. Bryan McMalion, a young farmer of good character, is attached to Kathleen Kavanagh, the lovely daughter of a neighbouring agriculturist. The lease of his farm, on which he had laid out much capital, has expired, but his landlord has promised to renew it, and all things seem to favour the union of the lovers. Hyacinth, (or Hycy) Burke, however, a young man of indifferent morals, and somewhat larger means, is determined to prevent the marriage; and for this purpose intrigues with some illicit distillers, whom he On riding up to the school, Hycy, as he approached the door, heard his own name repeated by at least two dozen voices. "Here's a gentleman, masther." "It's Misther Hycy Burke, sir." "It is, bedad, sir, Hycy the sportheen-' "Him that rides the races, masther." 66 Ay, and he has on top-boots and buckskins, an' as gran' as a gintleman-" Is this "Silence!" said Finigan, "Silence, I say! proper scholastic decorum in the presence of a stranger? Industry and taciturnity, you reptiles, or castigation shall result. Here, Paddy Sparable," he added, rising up, "here, you nailrod, assume my office, and rule the establishment until I return; and, mark me, as the son of a nailor, sirra, I expect that you'll rule them wid a rod of iron-ha, ha, ha!” "Ay, but Paddy Pancake's here to-day, sir, an' he's able to welt me; so that it's only leathered I'd get, sir, if you plase." "But have you no officers? Call in aid, I ordher Mackleswig there, two polis, an' get Pancake down— you. Can't you make Sam Scaddhan and Phiddher flatten him-if he should prove contumacious during my absence. Pancake, mark me, obedience is your cue, or if not the castigator; that's your alternative; there it is, freshly cut, ripe and ready-and you are not to be will catch it. Whish-h-h, silence, I say! How do you told, at this time o' day, what portion of your corpus do, Mr. Burke? I am proud of a visit from you, sir; perhaps you would light down and examine a class. My Greeks are all absent, to-day; but I've a beautiful Maro! Do try them, Mr. Hycy; if they don't do class of Romans in the fourth book of Virgil-immortal Dido's death in a truly congenial spirit, I'm no classic. Of one thing I can assure, that they ought; for I pledge my reputation it is not the first time however, was but natural; for it is now well known I've made them practise the Irish cry over it. This, to the larned that if Dido herself was not a fair Hibernian, she at least spoke excellent Irish. Ah, Mr. Hycy," he added, with a grin, "the birch is the only pathetic switch growing! Will you come in, sir?” would have the goodness to come out for a little;" and No, thank you, Mr. Finigan; but perhaps you as he spoke he nodded towards the public-house. "I know the boys will be quiet until you return.” "If they don't," replied Finigan, "the alternative is gintlemen. Sparable, do you keep a faithful journal of in no shape enigmatical. Mark what I've already said, the delinquents, and observe that there are offices of importance in this world besides flagellating erudition in reptiles like you." ance, and joined Hyey on his way to the public-house. He then looked about him with an air of vast importHaving ordered in the worthy pedagogue's favourite beverage, not forgetting something of the same kind for himself, he addressed Finigan. # We shall not pursue the story further. The plot which Burke had designed thrives well, and McMahon, ruined in circumstances, and disgraced by the sup position that he had received a bribe, determines on taking his family with him to America. Heartbroken as he was, discarded by his mistress and mistrusted by his acquaintances, he yet finds consolation in the untiring affection of his sister Dora, and to her he turns for comfort and support. She, however, poor girl, has her own sorrows, almost too heavy for her to bear. The following interview between her and James Kavanagh, will explain their nature and their cause :— . . . From the moment that the decision (to emigrate), was come to, a deep gloom settled upon the family; even Dora, notwithstanding her affectionate disposition and high spirit, had her own sorrows to contend with sorrows known only to her brother Bryan, whose heart bled for her. This, by the rest of the family, was imputed to the natural regret she felt, in common with themselves, at leaving the old places for ever; with this difference, to be sure, they imagined that she felt the separation more acutely than they did. Still as the period for their departure approached, there was not one of the family, notwithstanding what she felt herself, who laboured so incessantly to soothe and sustain the spirits of her father, who was fast sinking under the prospect of being "for ever removed," as he said, from "the place his heart had grown into." She was, in fact, the general consoler of the family; and yet her eye scarcely ever met that of her brother, that a tear did not tremble in it, and she felt disposed to burst out into an agony of unrestrained grief. It was one evening in the week previous to their departure, that she was on her return from Ballymacan, when, on passing a bend of the road, between Carriglass and Fenton's farm, she met the cause of the sorrow which oppressed her, in the handsome person of James Kavanagh, to whom she had been for more than a year and a half deeply and devotedly attached, but without the knowledge of any individual living, save her lover himself, and her brother Bryan. On seeing him, she naturally started, but it was a start of pleasure, and she felt her cheek flush, and again get pale, and her heart palpitated, then was still a moment, and again resumed its tumultuous pulsations. "Blessed be God, my darling Dora, that I've met you at last," said James: "in Heaven's name how did it happen that we haven't met for such a length of time?" "I am sure that's more than I can tell," replied Dora, "or rather, it's what you and I both know the cause of too well." Ah, poor Dora! he exclaimed, "for your sake I don't wish to spake at all about it; it left me many a sore heart when I thought of you." Dora's naturally pale cheek mantled, and her eyes deepened with a beautiful severity, as she hastily turned them on him and said, "What do you mane, James?" "About poor Bryan's conduct at the election," he replied, "and that fifty-pound note; and may hell consume it and him that tempted him with it!" "Do you forget," she said, "that you're spaking to his sister that knows the falsehood of it all? and how dare you, in my presence, attempt to say or think that Bryan M Mahon would or could do a mane or dishonest act? I'm afeard, James, there's a kind of low suspicion in your family that's not right; and I have my reasons for thinking so. I fear there's a want of true generosity among you, and if I could be sure of it, I tell you now that, whatever it might cost me, I'd never-But what am I sayin'? That's past." "Past! oh, why do you spake that way, Dora dear?" "It's no matter what I may suffer myself," she replied,-"no matter at all about that: but wanst and for all, I tell you that, let what may happen, I'm not the girl to go into a family that have treated my dear brother as yours has done; your sister's conduct has been very harsh and cruel to the man she was to be married to.' My sister, Dora, never did anything but what was right." "Well, then, let her go marry the Pope, with reverence be it spoken, for I don't know any other husband that's fit for her. I'd like to see the girl that never did anything wrong; it's a sight I never saw yet, I know."" "Dora dear," replied her lover, "I don't blame you for being angry: I know that such a load of disgrace upon any family is enough to put one past their temper. I don't care about that, however," he proceeded; "if he had betrayed his church and his country ten times over, an' got five hundred pounds instead of fifty, it wouldn't prevent me from making you my wife." Her eyes almost emitted fire at this unconsciously offensive language of Kavanagh. She calmed herself, however, and assumed a manner that was cool and cutingly ironical. Wouldn't you, indeed?" she replied: "dear me ! I have a right to be proud of that. And so you'd be mane enough to marry into a family blackened by disgrace? I thought you had some decent pride, James." "But you have done nothing wrong, Dora," he replied; "you're free from any blame of that kind." "I've done nothing wrong, havn't I?" she returned. 'Ay, a thousand things; for, thank God, I'm not infallible, like your sister. Haven't I supported my brother in everything he did? And I tell you that if I had been in his place, I'd just a' done what he did. What do you think o' me, now?" 66 "Why, that every word you say, and every lively look-ay, or angry, if you like-that you give, makes me love you more and more; an', plaise God, my dear Dora, I hope soon to see you my own darlin' wife." "That's by no manes a certain affair, James; an' don't rely upon it. Before ever I become your wife, Kathleen must change her conduct to my brother." "'Deed, and I'm afeard that she'll never do, Dora." "Then the sorra a ring you'll ever put on me while there's breath in my body." "Why, didn't she give him three months to clear himself?" "Did she indeed? And do you think that any young man of spirit would pay attention to such a stilted piece of pride as that? It was her business to send for him face to face, and to say, 'Bryan McMahon, I never knew you or one of your family to tell a lie or do a dishonest or disgraceful act,'"-and here, as she spoke, the tears of that ancient integrity and hereditary pride, which are more precious relics in a family than the costliest jewels that ever sparkled to the sun, sprang from her eyes,- -"and now Bryan M'Mahon, I ax no man's word but your own--I ax no other evidence but your own; I put it, then, to your conscience-to that honour that has never yet been tarnished by any of your family, I say, I put it to yourself here, face to face with the girl that loves you, and answer me as you are in the presence of God: did you do what they charge you with? Did you do wrong knowingly and deliberately, and against your conscience?" The animated sparkle of her face was so delightful and fascinating, that her lover attempted to press her to his bosom, but she would not suffer it. "Behave, now!" she said firmly; "sorra bit-no," she proceeded, "and whilst all the world was against him, running him down, and blackenin' him, was she ever the girl to stand up behind his back and defend him, like a hem-defend him, I say, as a girl that loved him ought, and as a generous girl would?" "But how could she when she believed him to be wrong?" 66 Why did she believe him to be wrong upon mere hearsay? And granting that he was wrong, do you think, now, if you had done what they say he did (and they lie that say it), an' that I heard the world down upon you for your first slip-do you think, I say, that I'd not defend you out of clane contrariness, and to vex them? Ay, would I!" "I know, darlin', that you'd do everything that's generous an' right: but, setting this affair aside, my dear Dora, what are you and I to do?" "I don't know what we're to do," she replied; "it's useless for you to ax me from my father now, for he wouldn't give me to you-sorra bit." "But you'll give me yourself, Dora, darling?" "Not without his consent-no, nor with it, as the families stand at this moment; for I tell you again that the sorra ring ever you'll put on me till your sister sends for my brother, axes his pardon, and makes up to him as she ought to do. Oh why, James dear, should she be so harsh upon him?" she said, softening at once; "she is so good, and so faultless, after all!-But I suppose that's the raison of it-she does not know what it is to do anything that's not right." "Dora," said her lover, 66 'don't be harsh on Kath leen; you don't know what she's sufferin; Dora, her heart's broke-broke!" The tears were already upon Dora's cheeks, and her lover, too, was silent for a moment. "She has," resumed the warm-hearted girl, "neither brother nor sister that loves her, or can love her, better than I do, after all." "But in our case, darling, what's to be done?" he asked, drawing her gently towards him. "I'll tell you, then, what I'd recommend you to do," she replied; "spake to my brother Bryan, and be guided by him. I must go now-it's quite dusk." There was a moment's pause, after which she bade her lover a hasty good night, and hurried home. EDITOR'S POSTSCRIPT. From our Writing-Desk. In these inconceivable and incomprehensible times, which have come upon us as suddenly as showers are popu larly supposed to do in the weeping month of which this Day of Fools is the commencement; in these stirring times, when wonders come treading on the heels of wonders, till we cease to feel surprise at anything; when kings slip off their thrones, and are lost to sight in the dim obscurity of private life, or pitch constitutions ready cut and dried out of the window, to be scrambled for by the murmuring masses below, even as we have beheld charitably disposed practical jokers distribute red-hot halfpence from a fire-shovel to small boys in the street, (boys and masses both running the risk of burnt fingers for their pains ;) in these eventful days on which we have stumbled, so to speak, we feel sure that our loyal subjects, our amiable and enlightened Public, must rejoice to learn that we are still undeposed, still able and willing to watch over their interests, and cater for their instruction and amusement. For, gentle Readers, be it known unto you that editors have been at a premium of late. As citizen kings have gone down, and their princely progeny fallen below par, (pa,) as a punster, which be it observed we do not consider ourselves, would say, so, in an inverse ratio, But we, faitheditors are looking up, and poets is riz. ful to our Sharpe, have steadily resisted the temptation of acquiring small fame by adding our own pericranium to the list of "Heads of the People" broken in Trafalgar Square by the ruthless staves of indiscriminating policemen. And yet such individuals as A 26 and B It would be to anticipate the interest of the dénoue-47 ought to have respect for men of letters, unless, inment, were we to point out the rather amusing Hiberni- deed, they confuse them with their natural enemy, the anism in the title to our tale; we shall only add our “homo trium literarum.”1 Neither have we betaken best thanks to the publishers of the Parlour Novelist ourselves, like a certain brother editor, to the city of the for introducing it to us. It was the favourite project barricades, to fraternize with Liberty in a blouse, and of the enterprising Constable to offer literature to the see the fun. But as, instead of availing ourselves of public at so cheap a rate that the "book on the cot- any of these openings for "a nice young man,” we have tage window should become as necessary to its in- remained at home to attend to our own affairs, let us mates as the chair by the cottage fire." The pub-prove that we have not relinquished these highly desirable opportunities for nothing, and enter upon business. lishers of the Parlour Novelist seem determined to carry out this principle to its utmost extent. We wish them heartily success, and for ourselves only hope that they will continue to supply their readers with tales which in interest and beauty may equal that of the Emigrants of Ahadarra. ANSWER TO CHARADE. YES, Beauty's blush is fair to see, The veriest wORM that crawls would be And linked with sweet humility, Like GLOW WORM through the shades of night. Οιδιπους. In the first place, then, S. M. has not made April fools of us, and we have much pleasure in introducing our readers to the "Story of a Family," by the authoress of the "Maiden Aunt." We also feel sure that they will be glad to perceive the name of Miss Pardoe amongst our contributors, and to learn that our pages are for the future to be occasionally enriched by the productions of her graceful pen. Of our Steel Engravings we need say nothing; we leave them to speak for themselves. We have more good things yet in store for our readers; of what they are to consist, the enlightened members of society who are sufficiently alive to their own interest to invest a shilling in the May part will become aware. A word to one of our fair correspondents. We did not know till she did us the favour of writing to us, that Xantippe was an Irish woman; such is, however, the only hypothesis by which we can account for her sending us a letter to inquire the fate of her contributions, and carefully concealing both her own real appellation and the names of the articles in the fate of which she is interested. |