"Sich foreknowledge doesn't come for nothing, Honor. I've had it an' felt it hangin' over me this many a long day, that I'd come to starvation yit; an' I see if you force me to do as you wish, that it 'ill happen. I'm as sure of it as that I stand before you; I'm an unfortunate man wid sich a fate before me; an yet I'd shed my blood for my boy-I would, an' he ought to know I would; but he wouldn't ax me to starve for him-would you, Connor, avick machree, would you ax your father to starve? I'm unhappy-unhappy-an' my heart's breakin'."

The old man's voice failed him as he uttered the last words; for the conIflict which he felt evidently convulsed his whole frame. He wiped his eyes, and again sitting down he wept bitterly and in silence, for many minutes. A look of surprise, compassion, and deep distress passed between Connor and his mother. The latter also was very much affected, and said,

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Fardorougha dear, maybe I spake sometimes to cross to you; but if I do, God above knows it's not that I bear you ill will, but bekase I'm throubled about poor Connor. But I hope I won't spake angry to you agin; at all evints if I do, remimber it's only the mother pladin' for her son-the only son an' child that God was plased to sind her."

Father," added Connor, also deeply moved, "don't distress yourself about me-dont, father dear. Let things take their chance, but come or go what will, any good fortune that might happen me wouldn't be sweet if it came by givin' you a sore heart."

At this moment the barking of the dog gave notice of approaching footsteps; and in a few moments the careless whistle of Bartle Flanagan was heard within a few yards of the door.

"This is Bartle," said Connor; "maybe, father, his answer may throw some light upon the business. At any rate, as there's no secret in it, we'll all hear what news he brings us."

He had scarcely concluded when the latch was lifted, but Bartle could

Let the boy get his supper first," said Honor; "Bartle, you must be starved wid the hunger."

"Faith I'm middlin' well I thank you that same way," replied Bartle; divil a one o' me but's as ripe for my supper as a July cherry; an' wid the blessin' o' heaven upon my enday vours I'll soon show you what good execution is."

A deep groan from Fardorougha gave back a fearful echo to the truth of this formidable annunciation.

"Aren't you well, Fardorougha,” asked Bartle.

"Throth I'm not, Bartle; never was more uncomfortable in my life."

Flanagan immediately commenced his supper, which consisted of flammery and new milk-a luxury among the lower ranks which might create envy in an epicure. As he advanced in the work of destruction, the grey eye of Fardorougha, which followed every spoonful that entered his mouth, scintillated like that of a cat when rubbed down the back, though from a directly opposite feeling. He turned and twisted on the chair, aud looked from his wife to his son, then turned up his eyes, and appeared to feel as if a dagger entered his heart with every additional dig of Bartle's spoon into the flummery. The son and wife smiled at each other; for they could enjoy those petty sufferings of Fardorougha with a great deal of good hu

Bartle," said Connor, smiling, “my father and mother knows all about it an' about your going to Una with the letter. I have no secrets from them."

Hoot toot! That's a horse of another colour; but you wouldn't have me, widout knowin' as much, to go to betray trust. In the mane time I may as well finish my supper before I begin to tell you what-som-ever I happen to know about it."

"Well, but Bartle, what else? short an' sweet, man.”

Whin I wint to the Bodagh's," said Bartle, "it was wid great schamin' an' throuble I got a sight of Miss Una at all, in regard of—(hiccup)—in regard of her not knowin' that there was any sich message for her (hiccup.) But happenin' to know Sally Laffan, I made bould to go into the kitchen to ax, you know, how was her aunt's family up in Skelgy, when who should I find before me in it but Sally an' Miss Una-(hiccup). (Saver of earth this night! from Fardorougha.) Of coorse I shuck hands wid her-wid Sally I mane; an' Sally,' says I, I was sent in wid a message from the master to you; he's in the haggard an' wants you.' So, begad, ou (hiccup) out she goes, an' the coast bein' clear, Miss Una,' says I, here's a scrape of a letther from Misther Connor O'Donovan; read it, and if you can write him an answer, do; if you haven't time say whatever you have to say by me.' She go(hiccup) she got all colours when I handed it to her; an' run away, sayin' to me, wait for a while, an' don't go till I see you.' In a minute or two Sally comes in agin as mad as the dickens wid me; the curse o' the crows an you,' says she, 'why did you make me run a fool's erran' for no rason. The masther wasn't in the haggard, an' didn't want me good or

bad.'

Bartle," said the impatient lover, "pass all that over for the present, an' let us know the answer if she sent any."

"Sent any! be my sowl she did so; afther readin' your letther an' findin' that she could depind on me, she said that for fear of any remarks bein' made about my waitin', espishially as I live at present in this family, it would be better she thought to answer it by word o' mouth. 'Tell him,' said sbe, that I didn't think he wa— (hiccup) (Queen o' heaven!) was so dull an' ignorant o' the customs of the country, as not to know that whin young people want to see one another they stay from mass wid an expectation that'-begad I disremimber exactly her own words; but it was as much as to say that she staid

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Why, she'll meet you on next Thursday night, God willin', in the same place; an' whin I axed her where, she said you knew it yourself." "An' is that all ?"

"No it's not all; she sed it 'ud better to mention the thing to her father. Afther thinkin' it over she says, 'as your father has the na-(hiccup) (Saints above!) name of bein' so rich, she doesn't know if a friend 'ud interfere but his consint might be got; an' that's all I have to say about it, barrin' that she's a very purty girl, an' I'd advise you not to be too sure of her yet Bartle. So now I'm for the barn-Good night Far-(hiccup) (at my cost, you do it!) Fardorougha."

He rose and procceded to his sleeping place in the barn, whither Connor, who was struck by his manner, accompanied him.

"Bartle," said O'Donovan, “did you take any thing since I saw you last ?"

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Only share of two naggins wid my brother Antony at Peggy Finigan's." "I noticed it upon you," observed Connor; "but I don't think they did." "An' if they did, too, it's not high thrason I hope."

"No; but Bartle, I'm oblaged to you. You've acted as a friend to me, an' I won't forget it to you."

"Dar Deah, an' I'm so much oblaged to you, Connor, that I'll remimber your employin' me in this the longest day I have to live. But Cou

nor ?"

"Why," replied Connor, "what do you mane, Bartle? I thought you wor with your brother at laste you tould me so."

Flanagan started on hearing this. "Wid my brother," said he-why, I-I-what else could I tell you? he was along wid the boys when I met them."

- Took a sup on account o' what's expected!-an' what's the manin' o' that, Bartle ?"

"Why, what would it mane-butbut your marriage?"

"An' thundher an' fury," exclaimed Connor, his eye gleaming; "did you go to betray trust, an' mintion Una's name an' mine, afther what I tould you." "Don't be foolish, Connor," replied Flanagan; " is it mad you'd have me to be? I said there was something expected soon, that 'ud surprise them; and when they axed me what it was honour bright! I gave them a knowin' wink, but said nothin'. Eh! was that breakin' trust? Arrah, be my sowl, Connor, you don't trate me well by the words you spoke this blessed minute."

"An' how does it come, Bartle, my boy, that you had one story last night, an' another to-day."

* Faix, very aisily, bekase I forget what I sed last night-for sure enough I was more cut than you thought-but didn't I keep it well in before the ould couple?"

You did fairly enough; I grant that but the moment you got into the barn a blind man could see it."

"Bekase I didn't care a button wanst I escaped from the eye of your father; any how, bad luck to it for whisky; I have a murdherin big heddick all day afther it."

It help'd it, I'll engage; if you take my advice, it's a custom you won't larn."

"I have a good dale to throuble me, Connor; you know I have; an' what we are brought down to now; I have more nor you'd believe to think of; as much, any way, as 'ill make this box an' steel useful, I hope, when I'm frettin."

Flanagan spoke truth, in assuring Connor that the apology given for his intoxication on the preceding night bad It was fortunate escaped his memory. for him, indeed, that O'Donovan, like all candid and ingenuous persons, was utterly devoid of suspicion, otherwise he might have perceived by the discrepancy in the two accounts, as well as by Flanagan's confusion, that he was a person in whom it might not be prudent to entrust much confidence.

so many mouthy nothings, altogether so much snoring stupidity, so much drowsiness, dreariness, drizzle, froth and fog as we have got in this his last importation from Cloudland, surely no one of woman born before ourself was ever doomed to deal with. We now, for the first time in our life, stumble

on the discovery that there may be less creditable methods of recruiting one's finances than even those which are recorded with reprobation in the columns of the Newgate Calendar. Our opinion of the literary merits of Tieck generally is, as Robert Owen would say, a secret which has hitherto remained hidden from mankind." Be it then, on the 1st of March, 1837, made notorious to all whom it may concern, and also to all whom it may gladden, that for our German friend we cherish the highest imaginable veneration. As a critic we hold him perfect, as a raconteur pluperfect, as a philologist preterpluperfect. That is, he shines, we conceive, in syntax, in story-building, and in the art of twaddling on the belles-lettres. We confess we are proud, proud as a peacock, of being able to bear testimony in his favor thus far. Nothing could give us greater pleasure than the privilege of smoking the pipe of peace with him on all occasions whensoever; unless he would allow us to advance one step further and join him in grinning away his hypochondriacism, of which last article, or rather substantive, his inglorious constitution appears to have laid in a stock by no means as easily transferable as stock in general is.

But Omnia vincit veritatis amor, as Ferdinand Mendez Pinto observes in his Quarto; and candor compels us to repeat that our esteemed friend is, as a poet, an egregious quack. For two hours we have been tugging at these two volumes for two consecutive stanzas that might convey to our mind some shadow of a notion of what it was that the writer fancied himself about, and we are now commencing hour the third in a vain search after the same phantom. We scan the page and blink like an owl over it, our countenance preserving the while that steady expression of stupifiedness which the plodding through Cimmerian poetry is so apt to communicate to the august lineaments of the human face divine. Certes, either he is mysterious beyond the capacity of the children of men, or we are Impenetrability personified.

All that we can gather is that he is delectably miserable. He maintains

almost from first to last one monotonous wail, as mournful and nearly as unvarying as the night-lament of the Whip-Poor-Will in the forests of South America. He simpers and whimpers; and yet, one cannot tell whether he would fain be thought glad

Trifles and things of nothing also exercise prodigious power over him. It is easy to see that, if tempted to "make his quietus," it will be with nothing savager than "a bare bodkin,” and that a yard of packthread will be quite sufficient to aid his efforts at exhibiting a case of suspended animation in his own person. Hotspur complains of being "pestered by a popinjay," but Tieck's patience, like that of Tristram Shandy's uncle, is put to the test by a blue-bottle fly. He is knocked down by a bulrush every half-minute in the day, and reverently kisses the face of his fatherland fourteen hundred and forty times in twelve hours. A dead leaf throws him into convulsions, and at the twittering of a swallow the heart of the poor man batters his ribs with such galvanic violence of percussion that at three yards' distance you suspect the existence of hypertrophy, and are half-disposed to summon a surgeon. Like Gulliver in the hands of the Lilliputians, he is the victim of a million of tiny tormentors, who slay him piecemeal, the ten-thousandth part of an inch at a time. The minuter his calamity, too, the more he suffers. He may exclaim, with the lover in Dryden's play, "My wound is great, because it is so small !" The colossal evils of life he passes over sous silence, as unworthy the notice of a sentimentalist. Like the bronze figure of Atlas, he can stand immovable with a World of Woes upon his shoulders; but a single disaster, particularly if it be very slight, is too tremendous for his equanimity. The last feather, it is said, breaks the horse's back; but Tieck's back is broken by one feather. He is ready to oppose, as our friend Fergusson would say, an “ironbound front," to the overwhelming allurements of an entire parterre, while a simple bouquet brings on an attack of delirium tremens. He can lounge through a flower-garden half-a-mile long, his hands in his pockets, a Peripatetic in appearance and a Stoic at heart; but "dies of one rose in aromatic pain."

Under such circumstances one should