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choose between the pair, the outer man of one indicating a highwayman in good circumstances, while the wretchedness of the other betrayed, "in faded eye and hollow cheek," all the misery and privations attendant on an outlaw's life.

Great was the surprise on the part of Mr. Doolan that his personal appearance had not sufficiently guaranteed his respectability; but, to be mistaken for a rebel, seemed to him the unkindest cut of all; and he was proceeding to detail his attachment to church and state, and his utility as a citizen, when Hacket interrupted him.

"Nay," said the outlaw, with a bitter smile, "you wrong this worthy gentleman by the question. He has ever been a loyal subject; and I have no doubt, with a little practice, will make an excellent hangman. I am the traitor!

!"

"Thou!" exclaimed the lord of Castle Aylmer; "poor wretch! And was it for one like you that I have lost five minutes of a joyous evening? Off with him to the next guard-house; but, hold! hunger is written on his face, and let the starved villain have his supper first.” "Arrah, then, upon my conscience!" exclaimed the finisher of the law, "on that head ye'r honour may make yourself quite asy. If ye had only seen his performance on the lawn, ye would have supposed that, in the provision way, he would not have wanted anything for another fortnight."

"Reginald Aylmer," and the outlaw's eye kindled like the flickering of an expiring lamp,-" was I always, think ye, the fangless lion that I am? How often was Dan Hacket hunted, over bog and mountain, like a beast of prey?—who burned his cabin?-whose myrmidons savagely abused his wife?-who, when the grave closed upon her shame, turned her homeless orphans on the world? I look him in the face-thou art the man!"

"Remove the ruffian!" exclaimed the owner of the mansion, as the flush of rage coloured his pale face.

"Not for a minute; listen calmly, I won't delay you long. Guess ye what is the happiest hour in human life?—it is to recall past injuries to mind, when the long-delayed means of vengeance at last are within the wronged one's reach. Did my burning passion for revenge ever cool?-never, Reginald Aylmer! Mind ye St. Stephen's day?”

"Ay, faith!" returned the old gentleman; "and with good reason too. As I waited beside the fox-cover, to see the red rascal break it, a musket-bullet grazed my hunting-cap."

"This eye," said the outlaw, "glanced along the barrel whence it came, and this finger pressed the trigger when the mark was covered. But I came not to bandy past grievances; will you promise me present protection and a future provision?"

"Well," observed the hangman, as he elevated his eyes to the ceiling, expressive of profound astonishment, "the villanous impidence of some people bates Banagher. Why, ye thief of the world! is it for taking a curl off his honour's wig that ye expect provision and protection? Arrah! the curse of Cromwell attind ye night and day! I suppose, if ye drove an ounce of lead through the squire's skull, you would have expected to have been made a person of trust like me, or, at laste, a captain in the milishay."

"Mr. Aylmer," continued the outcast, "time presses; you are anxious to see your baby heir obtain his father's name, and, though

it may seem weakness, I feel rather queer with the hangman at my elbow. Who was the last night's leader?"

"Emmett !" responded a dozen voices.

"There was another; ay, and one more formidable than the wild young man you mention."

"Yes," returned one of the company, "we know that well; and, strange enough, who that arch-traitor is, remains to this moment a mystery."

"What would you give to know him—see him,—have him in your power,―ay, in this very room ?" said the outlaw, carelessly. "Are you the man?" exclaimed several voices.

"Oh, no; Heaven help me, I was born a peasant, educated for a priest, and had not grace enough to take to the profession. He is a gentleman; and while I was a wanderer among the mountains, he flaunted it with the proudest in the land."

"It is marvellous!" returned the old host. "Well, should I agree to your terms, how long will you require to produce this most mysterious rebel ?"

"Ten minutes-or merely a trifle longer."

"Agreed. We'll wait your return here."

"I won't delay you long. Come, Tim, I'll introduce ye to your first customer, and with the assistance of our friends here," he pointed to the yeomen, "five of ye will feel little trouble in securing a tired man."

He said. His companions gladly assented to undertake a profitable job. Mr. Doolan was delighted to find that his opening essay would be tried upon a gentleman. Reginald Aylmer gloried in the thought, that, through his agency, one dreaded by the executive, and wrapped in impenetrable mystery, should be brought to justice.

Five minutes passed: every eye was turned on the clock upon the mantel-piece; and five more were added to the number. Five minutes more elapsed; a shuffling of feet was heard; the doors of the dinner-hall flew open; six men had left it, and seven re-entered. The seventh was the expected prisoner.

Mr. Aylmer measured the captive with his eye from head to foot. "Were you present at the last night's outbreak ?”

"I was."

"Are you an accomplice-a fellow-conspirator, a friend of Emmett ?"

"I am."

"Traitor! your name-speak?"

"Probably you will save me that trouble, and announce it to this good company?"

He tore his closed collar open, threw his hat carelessly on the floor, and heedless of the recent addition to Tim Doolan's dignity, he pushed the finisher of the law aside with scanty ceremony. "Am I known, or must I introduce myself?"

Upon the guests the recognition of the disinherited youth appeared astounding; and a loud and painful exclamation broke from every lip; but upon the old gentleman the effect was fatal. He muttered his nephew's name, staggered two paces backwards, and sank upon the floor. The guests sprang forward to raise their fainting host, but life had fled. Reginald Aylmer was a dead man!

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT IN NAPLES, IN 1847.

THE heat, and dust, and exhaustion of the day was over, and a brilliant moon, lighting up the beautiful gulf, tempted us out to the refreshment of its cool translucent waves. On the gigantic masses of lava that protect the light-house at the head of the Mole-hundreds of people of all classes, from the naked fisher-boy, with the image of his patron saint attached to a string roudd his neck, to the elegant and blasé primate or marchese,—are loitering or lying about to enjoy the fresh breeze. There was a boatman bathing his pretty little frightened girl with his own hand-there a troop of frolicsome boys-swimming about and playing all sorts of tricks, surrounding the boats, and popping up their black dripping heads, blowing out water, like dolphins or youthful tritons-sometimes getting a stroke with an oar, and then taking revenge by splashing the water in abundance over the ladies and gentlemen that fill them, or giving loud shrill whistles to show their contempt of the rowers.

Behind us lies the castle of St. Elmo, the high grey walls of the fortress clearly defined against the evening sky glowing in gold and crimson, which tinges also the white walls of the convent of St. Martino, and the olive groves, and the city, rising in terraces above the deep blue sea. We rowed round the mighty dam, which, when complete, is to form so secure an anchoring ground, and for which, enormous blocks of lava are brought from the quarries at Portici, and sunk in the sea; a heavy and fatiguing kind of work that is performed by galley-slaves. Towards the gay shore of St. Lucca are rowing-boats, full of women, to take a sea-bath, and carriages are driving along the quays towards the same point, with company hastening to drink the mineral waters.

Now, from churches far and near, sounds the Ave Maria, followed by drums and fifes, from the numerous barracks of the city. We leave the Castel dell Ovo, with its bustling defences, and its terrible dungeons beneath the sea, in which despots, like Charles of Anjou, have confined innocent children and feeble old men, and passing under a bridge, and by the gardens and palaces where Lucullus and his friends once revelled, enter the Paradise which lies in the semicircle, formed by the rocky reefs of Pizzo-Falcone, and the school of Virgil on the extreme point of the promontory of Pausilippo, and which is never so enchanting as at sun-rise or sun-set.

Where, on the wide earth's surface, could be found another such enchanting combination of rock and foliage and grotto, of air and earth and sea? And now this voluptuous magnificence of vegetation, this overflowing abundance of flowers and leaves and fruits, such waving lines of beauty as those in which Pausilippo, clothed in eternal loveliness and freshness, sinks down gradually to bathe itself and all that it bears in the "happy brimmed sea." And how solemnly rises above, as if to protect it from intrusion, the Cumaldoli mountain, with its stately groups of trees, its convent church and silent monks-until at last the veil of twilight softly sinks down upon it, and the wide bay and the far-stretching hills and villas and palaces, which rise in long terraces, from the Riviera di Chiaja to the commanding castle.

But scarcely has the evening glow faded from the sky, before countless lamps glitter along the shore, and among the green boughs

of trees, and the tangled draperies and wreaths of the vines that clothe the hills to their summit; the palaces and villas are again visible by their long lines of illuminated windows; coloured lamps gleam out to mark the site of little solitary churches and chapelsand the portals of others are encircled with garlands of light. From time to time, from various points, fire-balloons and rockets ascend into the air, to the inexpressible delight of " Young Naples," and our boat floats softly towards one of the Pausilippo grottos, from which come sounds of mingling voices, and the tones of the guitar; and our oars seem to drop showers of golden sparks, as it enters the long line of light sent across the water by the glorious moon.

These Pausilippo grottos are a favourite resort for Neapolitans of the middle class, and a sort of cyclopean kitchen has been formed in them for the preparation of fish, frutti di mare, as they are called, amongst which, oysters, mussels, and medusæ, play a principal part.

We found here parties of twenty and thirty people, the women and girls very gaily attired, sitting round a well-supplied supper table, while the peaceful waters played almost to their feet; at another was a party of Swiss officers tossing-at another priests, talking politics, and cards and the tarantella, and the sounds of song and guitar, made up a festive confusion of noises to which the cry of the boatmen round the landing-place, and the professional moan of beggars, whom nobody thought of driving away, and the dash of the waves and oars, served as an accompaniment.

We sat till past midnight, enjoying the delicious air, to say nothing of the pure unadulterated wine, and the "fruits of the sea,"-and rowed hack beneath the starry sky, singing joyous or plaintive songs, which were honoured, I beg to observe, with more than one "Bravo" and "Bene" from fair lips. The apartments of the palace were still brilliantly illuminated, and from far and near resounded in a plaintive minor key, the parting salutation of "felicessima notte" of one homeless lazzaroni to another a "most happy night" which is to be passed, as all their nights are, upon the soft couch of a flag-stone.

ENGLAND'S FAM E.

BY G. LINNEUS BANKS.

YES! I will speak of England's fame,
Sweet spot of freedom on the earth;
The light of whose untarnished name
Sheds glory round the humblest birth.
Within her strong expansive arms

Fair Science rears a golden shrine;
And where's the foreign maid whose charms
Can vie, dear soil, with those of thine?
Yes! I will speak of England's fame,
Blest spot of valour and renown!
And laud each gallant one whose name
To us has brought her glory down.
No dearer boon my heart would crave,
When death shall pillow this my head,
Than on thy shore to find a grave,

And slumber with thy honoured dead.

THE TUILERIES,

ITS HISTORICAL AND ROMANTIC ASSOCIATIONS.

THE Tuileries! How many historical associations are connected with this palace! What a variety of character, incident, and scene, rushes into the mind at the bare mention of its name! There the great drama of life has been played with admirable stage-effect; sometimes dazzling the mind with its superb grandeur, at others debasing it by its grovelling meanness. The drama commenced with cruelty, and ended with cowardice. The first scene of Catherine de Medicis was afflicting from its atrocity-the last of Louis Philippe was pitiable from its pusillanimity. But, in all these exhibitions, where there is little to admire, much to condemn, and more, perhaps, that we really ought to despise, we may observe the reflex of the character and intelligence of the times in which they respectively took place. Each and all have their peculiar impress.

Place yourself for a few moments on the Place du Carrousel, and let your eye range along the façade of the Tuileries, which fronts you. Never mind its exterior-its architectural beauty that is worthy in every respect of a separate study; but, just awaken your memory, and let it range through the interior of that noble pile, which has witnessed so much beauty and grandeur, so much spirit and heroism, and, we must say, so much meanness and duplicity, as its temporary occupants; and, if your imagination is not excessively dull, you will have ranged before your mind's eye a sort of historical tableau, which you may study with pleasure and advantage, as your will or fancy may direct you.

But, first, of the spot on which you stand-the Place du Carrousel. Its name implies its origin. It was here that Louis XIV., that pompous poodle, who played his part in the parade and pageantry of his times to perfection,-gave a grand feast to his court, in commemoration of some victory or other gained by his army, which cost, according to Dulaure, fifty thousand pounds of our money. This carrousel was characteristic of the wasteful extravagance, and the hollow splendour, of the grande monarque. It was like driving a nail, if we may be allowed the expression, into the coffin of the monarchy.

We may, perhaps, be pardoned for mentioning that the Tuileries is not an old palace, when compared with many others in Europe; its foundation does not stretch farther back than 1564. But there was an Hôtel des Tuileries,* built by one Nicolas de Neuville, of whom Francis I. purchased it for his mother, Louisa of Savoy, who left the Palais de Tournelles (the Place Royale) to reside there. She was the first royal personage who lived on that spot. The foundation of the Tuileries was laid in the time of Catherine de Medicis,

*Part of the ground on which the palace of the Tuileries now stands, was, in the fourteenth century, called La Sablonière, or the sandpits, as appears by documents of that age. There was a tile-work established there, from which it derived its name. The first time it is called the Tuileries is in an ordonnance of Charles VI., issued in 1416, in which it is commanded that all the slaughter-houses of Paris be removed out of the city, to the neighbourhood of the Tuileries-SaintHonoré, on the banks of the Seine, beyond the ditches of the Louvre.

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