us the minute the note was due, canted all we had at half price, and turned us to starve upon the world; now, I could bear that, but there's one thing

"That's twice you spoke about that one thing," said Connor, somewhat sharply, for he felt hurt at the obstinacy of the other, in continuing a subject so distressing to him; "but," he continued, in a milder tone, "tell me, Bartle, for goodness' sake, what it is, an' let us put an end to the discoorse. I'm sure it must be unpleasant to both of us."

"It doesnt signify," replied the young man, in a desponding voiceshe's gone; it's all over wid me there; I'm a beggar-I'm a beggar.”

66

Bartle," said Connor, taking his hand, "you're too much down-hearted, come to us, but first go to my father; I know you'll find it hard to deal with him. Never mind that, whatever he offers you, close wid him, an' take my word for it that my mother and I between us, will make you up dacent wages; an' sorry I am that it's come to this with you, poor fellow."

Bartle's cheek grew pale as ashes; he wrung Connor's hand with all his force, and fixed an unshrinking eye on him as he replied

"Thank you, Connor, now-but I hope I'll live to thank you betther yet, and if I do, you need'nt thank me for

any return Ï may make you or yours. I will close wid your father, an' take whatsomever he'll offer me; for Connor," and he wrung his hand again ;"Connor O'Donovan I hav'nt a house or home this day, nor a place under God's canopy where to lay my head, except upon the damp floor of my father's naked cabin. Think of that, Connor, an' think if I can forget it; still," he added, "you'll see Connor Connor you'll see how I'll forgive it."

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It's a credit to yourself to spake as you do," replied Connor; "call this way, an' let me know what's done, an' I hope, Bartle, you an' I will have some pleasant days together."

"Ay, an' pleasant nights too, I hope," replied the other; "to be sure I'll call; but if you take my advice, you'd tie a hankerchy about your head: it's mad hot, an' enough to give one a faver bareheaded.

Having made this last observation, he leaped across a small drain that bounded the meadow, and proceeded up the fields to Fardorougha's house.

Bartle Flanagan was a young man, about five feet six in height, but of a

remarkably compact and athletic form. His complexion was dark, but his countenance open, and his features well set and regular. Indeed, his whole appearance might be termed bland and prepossessing. If he ever appeared to disadvantage it was whilst under the influence of resentment, during which his face became pale as death, nay, almost livid, and, as his brows were strong and black, the contrast between them and his complexion, changed the whole expression of his countenance into that of a person whose enmity a prudent man would avoid. He was not quarrelsome, however, nor subject to any impetuous bursts of passion;his resentments, if he retained any, were either dead or silent, or at all events, so well regulated that his acquaintances looked upon him as a young fellow of a good-humoured and friendly disposition. It is true, a hint had gone abroad that on one or two occasions he was found deficient in courage, but, as the circumstances referred to were rather unimportant, his conduct by many was attributed rather to good sense and a disinclination to quarrel on frivolous grounds, than to positive cowardice. Such he was, and such he is, now that he has entered upon the humble drama of our story.

On arriving at Fardorougha's house, he found that worthy man at dinner, upon a cold bone of bacon and potatoes. He had only a few minutes before returned from the residence of the County Treasurer, with whom he went to lodge, among other sums, that which was so iniquitously wrung from the ruin of the Flanagans. It would be wrong to say that he felt in any degree embarrassed on looking into the face of one whom he had so oppressively injured. The recovery of his usurious debts, no matter how merciless the process, he considered only as an act of strict justice to himself, for his conscience having long ago outgrown the perception of his own inhumanity, now only felt compunction when death or the occasional insolvency of a security defeated his rapacity.

When Bartle eutered, Fardorougha and he surveyed each other with perfect coolness for nearly half a minute, during which time neither uttered a word. The silence was first broken by Honora, who put forward a chair, and asked Flanagan to sit down.

"Sit down, Bartle," said she, "sit down, boy; an' how is all the family?" "Deed, can't complain," replied

Bartle, "as time goes; an' how are you, Fardorougha? although I need'nt , you're takin' care of number one, any how."

I'm middlin', Bartle, middlin'; as well as a man can be that has his heart broke every day in the year strivin' to come by his own, an' can't do it; but I'm a fool, an' ever was-sarvin' others an' ruinin' myself."

"Bartle," said Mrs. Donovan, "are you unwell, dear; you look as pale as death. Let me get you a drink of fresh milk."

If he's weak," said Fardorougha, an' he looks weak, a drink of fresh wather 'ud be betther for him; ever an' always a drink of wather for a weak man, or a weak woman aither; it recovers them sooner."

*Thank you, kindly, Mrs. Donovan, an' I'm oblaged to you, Fardorougha, for the wather; but I'm not a bit weak; it's only the heat o' the day ails me-for sure enough it's broilin' weather."

"'Deed it is,” replied Honor, "killin'

weather to them that has to be out undher it."

"Ifits good for nothin' else, it's good for the hay-makin'," observed Fardorongha.

I'm tould, Misther Donovan," said Bartle," that you want a sarvint man ; now, if you do, I want a place, an' you see I'm comin' to you to look for one."

"Heaven above, Bartle," exclaimed Honor, “what do you mane? is it one of Dan Flanagan's sons goin' to sarvice ?"

*Not one, but all o' them," replied the other, coolly, "an' his daughters, too, Mrs. Donovan; but it's all the way o the world. If Misther Donovan 'I hire me, I'll thank him."

"Don't be Mistherin me, Bartle; Misther them that has manes an' substance," returned Donovan.

"Oh God forgive you, Fordorongha," exclaimed his honest and humane wife, "God forgive you! Bartle, from my heart, from the core o' my heart I pity you, my poor boy. An' is it to this Fardorougha you've brought them? Oh Savour o' the world!"

She fixed her eyes upon the victim of her husband's extortion, and in an instant they were filled with tears. "What did I do," said the latter, "but strive to recover my own. How could I afford to lose forty pounds? An' I was tould for sartin that your father knew Grehan was goin' to Ame

riky when he got him to go security. Whisht Honor, you're as foolish a woman as riz this day; hav'nt you your sins to cry for?"

"God knows I have, Fardorougha, an' more than my own to cry for."

"I dar say you did hear as much," said Bartle, quietly replying to the observation of Fardorougha respecting his father; "but you know it's a folly to talk about spilt milk. If you want a sarvint I'll hire; for, as I said a while agone, I want a place, an' except wid you I dont know where to get one."

"If you come to me," observed the other, "you must go to your duty, an' obsarve the fast days-but not the holydays."

Sarvints isn't oblaged to obsarve them,” replied Bartle.

"But I always put it in the bargain," returned the other.

"As to that," said Bartle, "I dont much mind it. Sure it'll be for the good o' my sowl, any way. But, what wages will you be givin'?"

"Thirty shillins every half-year;— that's three pounds,-sixty shillins ayear. A great deal o' money.-I'm sure I dunna where it's to come from."

It's very little for a year's hard labour," replied Bartle; "but little as it is, Fardorougha, owin' to what has happened betwixt us, believe me-an' you may believe me-I'm right glad to take it."

"Well, but Bartle, you know there's fifteen shillins of the ould account still due, an' you must allow it out o' your wages; if you dont, it's no bargain."

Bartle's face became livid; but he was perfectly cool;-indeed so much so that he smiled at this last condition of Fardorougha. It was a smile, however, at once so ghastly, dark, and frightful, that, by any person capable of tracing the secret workings of some deadly passion on the countenance, its purport could not have been mistaken.

you

"God knows, Fardorougha, might let that pass,-considher that you've been hard enough upon us."

"God knows I say the same," observed Honor. "Is it the last drop o' the heart's blood you want to squeeze out, Fardorougha?"

open on me, Honor, as if I was a rogue! If I hadn't that boy below to provide for, an' settle in the world, what 'ud I care about money? It's for his sake I look afther my right."

I'll allow the money," said Bartle. Fardorougha's right; it's due, an I'll pay him-ay will I, Fardorougha, settle wid you to the last farden, or beyant it, if you like."

"I wouldn't take a farden beyant it, in the shape of debt. Them that's deceut enough to make a present-may, for that's a horse of another colour." "When will I come home?" enquired Bartle.

"You may stay at home, now that you're here," said the other. "An' in the mane time, go an' help Connor to put that hay in lap-cocks. Anything you want to bring here you can bring afther your day's work to-night."

Did you ate your dinner, Bartle," said Honor; "bekase if you didn't I'll get you something."

"It's not to this time o' day he'd be widout his dinner, I suppose," observed his new master.

You're very right, Fardorougha," rejoined Bartle; I'm thankful to you, ma'am, I did ate my dinner."

"Well, you'll get a rake in the barn, Bartle," said his master; "an' now tramp down to Connor, an' I'll see how you'll handle yourselves, both o' you, from this till night."

Bartle accordingly proceeded to. wards the meadow, and Fardorougha, as was his custom, throwing his great coat loosely about his shoulders, the arms dangling on each side of hin, proceeded to another part of his farm. Flanagan's step, on his way to join Connor, was slow and meditative. The kindness of the son and mother touched him; for the line between their disposition and Fardorougha's was too strong and clear to allow the slightest suspicion of their participation in the spirit which regulated his life. The father, however, had just declared that his anxiety to accumulate money arose from a wish to settle his son independently in life; and Flanagan was too slightly acquainted with human character to see through this flimsy apology for extortion. He took it for granted that Fardorougha spoke truth, and his resolution received a bias from the impression, which, however, his better nature determined to subdue. In this uncertain state of mind he turned about almost instinctively, to look in the direction which Fardo

rougha had taken, and as he observed his diminutive figure creeping along with his great coat about him, he felt that the very sight of the man who had broken up their hearth and scattered them on the world, filled his heart with a deep and deadly animosity that occasioned him to pause as a person would do who finds himself unexpectedly upon the brink of a precipice.

Connor, on seeing him enter the meadow with the rake, knew at once that the terms had been concluded between them; and the excellent young man's heart was deeply moved at the destitution which forced Flanagan to seek for service with the very individual who had occasioned it.

"I see, Bartle," said he, "you have agreed." "But

"We have," replied Bartle. if there had been any other place to be got in the parish (an' indeed only for the state I'm in)—I wouldn't have hired myself to him for nothing, or for next to nothing, as I have done."

Why, what did he promise ?" "Three pounds a year, an' out o' that I'm to pay him fifteen shillins that my father owes him still."

"Close enough, Bartle, but dont be cast down; I'll undertake that my mother an' I will double it,-an' as for the fifteen shillins I'll pay them out o' my own pocket-when I get money. I needn't tell you that we're all kept upon the tight crib, and that little cash goes far with us; for all that we'll do what I promise, go as it may."

"It's more than I ought to expect, Connor; but yourself and your mother, all the counthry would put their hands undher both your feets."

"I would give a great dale, Bartle, that my poor father had a little of the feelin' that's in my mother's heart; but it's his way, Bartle, an' you know he's my father, an' has been kinder to me than to any livin' creature on this earth. I never got a harsh word om him yet. An' if he kept me stintelin many things that I was entitled to as well as other persons like me, still, Bartle, he loves me, an' I cant but feel great affection for him, love the money as he may."

This was spoken with much seriousness of manner, not unmingled with somewhat of regret, if not of sorrow. Bartle fixed his eye upon the fine face of his companion, with a look in which there was a character of compassion. His countenance, however, while he

gazed on him, maintained its natural colour, it was not pale."

"I am sorry, Connor," said he slowly, "I am sorry that I hired wid your father."

"An' I'm glad of it," replied the other: “why should you be sorry ?"

Bartle made no answer for some time, but looked into the ground, as if he had not heard him.

"Why should you be sorry, Bartle?" Nearly a minute elapsed before his abstraction was broken. "What's that?" said he at length: "What were you asking me?"

You said you were sorry?" "Oh ay!" returned the other, interrupting him; but I didn't mind what I was sayin': 'twas thinkin' o' somethin' else I was-of home, Bartle, an' what we're brought to; but the best way's to dhrop all discoorse about that for

ever."

"You'll be my friend if you do," said Connor.

"I will, then," replied Bartle: "we'll change it. Connor, were you ever in love?"

O'Donovan turned quickly about, and, with a keen glance at Bartle, replied,

:

Why, I dont know I believe I might, once or so."

"I am," said Flanagan bitterly; "I am, Connor."

"An' who's the happy crature, will you tell us ?"

“No,” returned the other; "but if there's a wish that I'd make against my worst enemy, 'twould be, that he might love a girl above his manes; or if he was her aquil, or even near her aquil, that he might be brought”— he paused, but immediately proceeded, "Well, no matter; I am indeed, Con

a

nor; "you know the ould proverb, faint heart; however, settin' the purty crature aside, whoever she is, I think if we divided ourselves you to that side, an' me to this-we'd get this hay lapp'd in half the time; or do you take which side you plase.”

"It's a bargain," said Bartle; "I don't care a trawneen: I'll stay where I am, thin, an' do you go beyant: let us hurry, too, for, if I'm not mistaken, its too sultry to be long without rain; the sky, too, is gettin' dark."

"I obsarved as much myself," said Connor; "an' that was what made me spake."

Both then continued their labour with redoubled energy, nor ceased for a moment until the task was exccuted, and the business of the day concluded.

Flanagan's observation was indeed correct, as to the change in the day and the appearance of the sky. From the hour of five o'clock the darkness gradually deepened, until a dead black shadow, fearfully still and solemn, wrapped the whole horizon. The sun had altogether disappeared, and nothing was visible in the sky but one unbroken mass of darkness, unrelieved even by a single pile of clouds. The animals, where they could, had betaken themselves to shelter; the fowls of the air sought the covert of the hedges, and ceased their songs; the larks fled from the mid heaven; and occasionally might be seen a straggling bee hurrying. homewards, careless of the flowers which tempted him in his path, and only anxious to reach his hive before the deluge should overtake him. The stillness indeed was awful, as was the gloomy veil which darkened the face of nature, and filled the mind with that ominous terror which presses upon the heart like a consciousness of guilt. In such a time, and under the aspect of a sky so much resembling the pall of death, there is neither mirth nor laughter, but that individuality of apprehension, which, whilst it throws the conscience in upon its own records, and suspends conversation, yet draws man to his fellows, as if mere contiguity were a safeguard against danger.

The conversation between the two young men, as they returned from their labour, was short but expressive.

"Bartle," said Connor, "are you afeard of thundher? The rason I ax," he added, "is, bekase your face is as white as a sheet."

66

I have it from my mother," replied Flanagan; "but at all evints such an

first meetin' that I an' her I'm goin' to ever had."

"Thighum, Thighum, I undherstand," said Flanagan: "well, I'll stay at home; but, sure it's no harm to wish you success-an' that, Connor is more than I'll ever have where I wish for it most."

This closed their dialogue, and both entered Fardorougha's house in silence,

Up until twilight the darkness of the dull and heavy sky was unbroken ; but towards the west there was seen a streak whose colour could not be deter mined as that of blood or fire. By its angry look, it seemed as if the sky in that quarter were about to burst forth in one awful sweep of conflagration. Connor observed it, and very correctly anticipated the nature and consequences of its appearance; but what will not youthful love dare and overcome? With an undismayed heart he set forward on his journey, which we leave him to pursue, and beg permis sion, meanwhile, to transport the reader to a scene distant about two miles farther towards the inland part of the country,

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It is not our custom to notice our periodical contemporaries; but it would be a custom most "honored in the breach," that should withhold a Conservative journal from welcoming to the field a confederate so vigorous and promising as The Church of England Quarterly Review." Nor should we, where so many able and intelligent papers and periodicals deserve the highest praise for their active efficiency in the righteous common cause, think it fitting to pay such a tribute to this first demonstration of one, but for the paramount importance of the ground taken up by our new ally.

The enemies of the Constitution have in nothing so clearly manifested that evil wisdom which has been attributed to the "children of this world," as in their assaults upon the Church. Their opponents have ably met these iniquitous assailants, as well they might, on constitutional ground-they have worsted them in every question of legal or equitable principle-they have chased them out of each "refuge

1837.

of lies," and exposed them through every artifice. But broadly and deeply as the Church is based in constitutional right and expediency, she has a nobler claim on the Conservative mind of England. The Church of England is not a political institution, built up for the mere purpose of maintaining certain corporate rights, privileges, and immunities-or even for the strong support and strength it has ever so nobly yielded to the proud structure of our civil rights,-it derives its best claim to our love as individuals, and to our adherence as British Conservatives, from the fact, that it is the Church of Christ, built upon the Rock of Ages. In proportion as this sound basis is lost sight of, force incalculabie is abandoned, and we struggle on the quicksands of expediency.— This, also, has been felt through the ranks of our opponents, and has marked their recent evolutions. While infidelity legislates for the Church, an antichristian casuistry labours to detrude the word of redemption from