who had been all for some time puzzled at the absence of him who was proverbial as "Best foot on the flure, First stick in the fight." "There's the murderer of Mat Dolan, boys," cried the woman, as some ten or twelve yards off she recognized Johnny, who was conspicuous enough, wearing his shirt like a herald's tabard, as in his haste he had drawn it on at Hell-kettle. With a yell that might have scared the devil, thirty athletic fellows sprang forward at full speed after Evans, who wisely never stayed to remonstrate, but made one pair of heels serve, where the hands of Briareus, had he possessed as many, would not have availed him. He arrived at Mrs. Donovan's door before his pursuers; he raised the latch, but it gave not waythe bar was drawn within; and, had his strength been equal to it, further flight was become impracticable. Turning with his back to the door, there stood Johnny like a lion at bay, uttering no word, since he well knew words would not prevail against the fury of his foes. Forward with wild cries and loud imprecations rushed the foremost of his pursuers, and Evan's life was not worth one moment's purchase. A dozen sticks already clattered like hail upon his guard and on the wall over his head, when the door suddenly opening inwards, back tumbled Johnny, and into the space he thus left vacant stepped a gaunt figure, naked to the waist, pale, and marked with a stream of blood yet flowing from the temple. With wild cries the mob pressed back. "It's a ghost!-it's Dolan's ghost!" shouted twenty voices, above all of which was heard that of the presumed spirit, crying in good Irish, "That's a lie, boys; it's Mat Dolan himself! able and willing to make a ghost of the first man that lifts a hand agin Johnny Evans, who bate me at Hell-kettle like a man, and brought me here on his back like a brother." "Was it a true fight, Mat ?" demanded one or two of the foremost, recovering confidence enough to approach Dolan, who, faint from the exertion he had made, was now resting his head against the doorpost. A pause, and the silence of death followed. began to darken as they drew close to Dolan. The brows of the men pended on the reply of his antagonist, who already seemed lapsed into insensibility. "Answer, Mat Dolan!" he cried impressively, "for the love of Heaven answer me-was it a true fight?" The voice appeared to rouse the fainting man. He raised himself in the doorway, and stretched his right hand towards Evans, exclaiming, "True as the cross, by the blessed Virgin!" and, as he spoke, fell back into the arms of his friends. Evans was now safe. Half a dozen of the soberest of the party escorted him down to the police station, where they knew he would be secure; and Dolan's friends, bearing him with them on a car, departed, without an attempt at riot or retaliation. This chance took place sixteen years ago; but since that day there never was a fair at Dunlavin that the orangeman Evans was not the guest of Dolan, nor is there a fair-night at Donard that Mat Dolan does not pass under the humble roof of Johnny Evans. I give the tale as it occurred, having always looked upon it as an event creditable to the parties, both of whom are alive and well, or were a year ago; for it is little more since Evans, now nigh sixty years old, walked me off my legs on a day's grousing over Church-mountain, and through Oram's-hole, carrying my kit into the bargain. Adieu. It will be a long day ere I forget the pool of "Hell-kettle," or the angels in whose company I first stood by its bubbling brim. THE DEW-DROP AND THE ROSE. A DEW-DROP fell on a Rose's breast, Deep in her cup he fell, And there he lay in tranquil rest And deem'd he'd ever dwell. She hid him in her leaves so bright, O'er him she watched till morning light, The young Dew-drop enamour'd grew, And blush'd the neighb'ring flowers. The rose's treasured guest was there, She had no doubt, distrust, or care, And now the Drop said to his Rose, Thy perfumed leaves, my love, unclose,— The Rose obey'd; domestic, kind, And full of tenderness, She deem'd none dearer he could find, Or e'er could love her less. A lovely Sunbeam, gay and warm, Came rambling down that way; She mark'd the glittering Dew-drop's form, He saw the fair intruder glide, Fondly and vainly, maidens bright, The faithless men ye kindly cherish: For spite of love's most hallow'd plight, Their fleeting vows like "dew-drops" perish. THE LOVE-MERCHANT. A FABLE. Ir was not until after I had written the following fable that the similarity of its point to that of the beautiful song, "Who'll buy my love-knots ?" occurred to me. I am aware that my case may be thought to resemble his, who, when accused of having borrowed his thoughts from the immortal Bard of Avon, replied, "It is no fault of mine that Shakspeare and myself should have had the same ideas." Nevertheless, I venture to assert that my humble muse is not more indebted to that of the "Modern Anacreon" for the conception of this fable, than is the midnight lamp for its glimmering rays to the glorious orb of day. It was entirely suggested by a "fresco" painting, still existing on the walls of a house in Pompeii; and if my readers could have watched, as I did, the process of removing the envious "lapilli" which had concealed it for so many ages, they would, I think, allow for the impression it was likely to produce, and acquit me of plagiarism. The painting represents the figure of an old man, with a long white beard and flowing garments. Before him stands a large cage, or basket, containing several imprisoned "amorini," one of whom he has raised from it, and is holding forth by the wings, to attract the attention of a group of females. On the foreground lie a pair of compasses, and a mathematical figure described on a tablet. THE LOVE-MERCHANT. O'ER Cupid and his quiver'd band For 'twas a subject of debate To which he owed his tranquil state. (Spite of the virtue rules confer) Of that self-styled philosopher. This stumbling-block was love of gold, Which led him to conclude "twas vain As to such mode of speculation, Which he by some strange arts had won Nor did the miser Chronos stop Now Loves, though always in demand, (I write of very ancient days-) I hear some blooming reader say, At their tenth "lustrum" men may cease* May offer up their prayers for peace, But, when they once have raised on high Nay, frown not, fair one, for 'tis true Though, mark, I do not write of you. Goddess of Courtesy forefend That ought by me should e'er be penn'd 'Gainst one whose charms of form and face Yield only to her mental grace! I write (perhaps my muse is rash) Of those to whom, like Lady * Horace seems to have thought fifty a very proper age for retiring from the field of amorous warfare. "Desine, dulcium Mater særva Cupidinum, Circa lustra decem flectere mollibus Jam durum imperiis," In a previous ode he had already declared his intention of reposing on his laurels. "Vixi puellis nuper idoneus, Et militavi non sine gloria. Nunc arma, defunctumque bello A certain character is given, But who contrive to be "received," Because the mates they fit for heaven Are either patient or-deceived; And I assert as my conviction, Without much fear of contradiction, That such will oft defer the age For quitting Love's seductive "stage," Till Death, whose "management is certain," Cuts short the "farce," and " drops the curtain.', But let us turn from this digression To Chronos in his new profession. First, I declare," the sage began, "That I'll not serve one single man Until each lady in the crowd, Who may to purchase be inclined, To choose a Cupid to her mind. Yet, though you're young and handsome all, Your lovers always to your mind. As thus he spoke, a cage he shook, When, such was the imploring look Of each poor pris'ner, as in turn He flutter'd to the close-barr'd side, And, whilst the poorer deeply sighed |