"And they want me to smother this quick fire which will not die, and they want me to break the blooming almond."

"Oh! holy Marys, ye who can change our tears to flowers, quickly bend your ear to my grief.

"Give me Vincent, and happy and smiling we will come to see you together.

"It is so little to you, oh beautiful saints of gold, to move my father's heart."

But alas! though the prayer is heard, it is not answered as human love would wish. Mireio grows dizzy, the church seems to widen, paradise to open, and in the splendour of eternal stars, she sees the three lovely Marys bending towards her their radiant aspect.

"White in the transparent air, the three bright Marys were descending from Heaven. One pressed an alabaster vase to her bosom, like the shepherd-lighting moon in the clear nights, was her heavenly brow.

"The second let her yellow hair float in the wind, and modestly stepped with a palm in her hand; the third, still young, concealed a little her brown face with her white veil; and her dark eyes shone more than diamonds."

With gentle looks and smiles of love, the three Marys comfort the sick and mourning girl.

"Oh maiden," they say, "great is thy faith; but how heavy to us is thy prayer! Deluded girl, thou wantest to drink from the springs of pure love. Deluded one, before death thou wantest to prove the strong life that transports us in God himself! When hast thou seen happiness on earth?"

And to soften the bitter pang of death and separation, the three Marys tell Mireio through what sorrows and tribulations they, the holy penitent, the companions of our Lord, and mothers of apostles, reached the kingdom of Heaven. Her faith becomes deeper, her heart grows calm as she hears them.

"Farewell, Mireio,' say the Marys, 'the hour flies; we see life tremble in thy body as a lamp that will soon be extinguished. Before the soul leaves it, let us go sisters, in haste let us go, towards the beautiful heights let us go before her.

"Roses, a robe of snow let us prepare for her; a virgin and a martyr of love, the young girl is going to die. Blossom, ve celestial paths; ye holy lights of empyreum spread before Mireio.""

Mireio has been missed and followed. Her parents and Vincent are on her track; when they reach the Saintes she is dying. The church has a terraced roof that overlooks the sea; there they bear her that she may breathe the cool breeze of evening. They sing the hymn which the Saintes love, but Mireio sinks faster and faster. She points to the sea. perceive the white limit of earth and sky; but she sees a mysterious barge gliding towards her.

Others only

"The poor child is delirious; in the reddening ocean we only see the sinking sun.

"Yes, yes, it is they,' says the sick girl, 'my eye deceives me not. Oh! miracle of God, their boat is coming here.'

"But as a white daisy that has scarcely blossomed ere the sun consumes it, so does she turn pale, and Vincent, terror in his soul, kneeling by his beloved, commends her to our Lady, and to all the saints of Paradise.

"They had lit the wax lights. In violet stole the priest

brings the heavenly bread and cools her burning lips. Then he gave her extreme unction; he anointed her with the holy chrism, in seven parts of her body, according to Catholic rites.

"All was calm then; the oremus of the priest alone was heard. On the wall the dying day shed a yellow light, and the sea with beautiful waves broke slowly on the beach with a long moan.

"Kneeling, her tender lover, her father, and her mother now and then uttered a deep broken sob. 'Come,' said Mireio, the parting is nigh; come let our hands meet, for the halo grows brighter on the brow of the Marys.'

Her parents break into lamentations, and Vincent exclaims:

"Oh thou, the Pearl of Provence, thou, the sun of my youth! shall it be said that so soon I must behold thee cold in the sweat of death! shall it be said, oh ye saints, that you will have seen her dying, and embrace your sacred threshold in vain!'

"Then the young girl answered with a low voice, 'Oh! my poor Vincent, what is before thy eyes? Death, that word which deceives thee; what is it? a mist that melts away with the tolling of the bell, a dream that wakens at the close of night.

"No, I die not; with a light foot I step into the barge; farewell, farewell; we are already out at sea-the sea, the beautiful moving plain is the path to Paradise, for the blue of space meets all around the bitter deep.'

In that ecstatic dream Mireio dies. Nine days they mourn the lost one, nine days the Saintins sing the hymns the three Marys love.

"Saintins,' says Vincent, 'bury me in her grave. There oh my beauty! in my ear thou shalt tell me of thy Marys. There, oh sea storms, cover us with shells!

"Good Saintins, I trust in you. Do as I bid you. For sorrow like this, tears are not enough. In the soft sand dig one bed for us both; raise a heap of stones above us, that the waves may never divide us."

Does Vincent die, and did the Saintins bury him with his Mireio? The poet does not tell us so; the poem closes with the lover's lament, and with the holy hymn of the Saintins to the three beautiful patron saints of their island, rising above it, as thoughts of heaven should ever rise above the storm of human passion.

We need not go beyond this fine poem, the noblest effort of the Provençal school. But will that school live? There are sceptics who doubt it,-not manybut they exist. It matters little; such attempts are the honour of the race amongst which they spring, and an enduring lesson to all lookers-on. They may fail; but the generosity, the chivalrous effort in favour of the forgotten, the despised and the weak, can never be wasted. Many a lost cause is nobler than the victorions one, and whatever fate may await, not the Provençal poets of to-day whose renown is won, but their successors, this national attempt will certainly be remembered as one of the most earnest and remarkable endeavours a subject people ever made to recover a long-lost literature. Had they consulted the wise ones of this world ere they began, we all know what the answer would have been. But they asked not for advice, and they did well. The task was hard, but what is there that will, patience, and genius, cannot accomplish?

THE RAPPAREE.

A HISTORICAL SKETCH. BY WILLIAM CARLETON.

CHAPTER IV.

PATCHY'S Connection with the Rapparees was closer and more confidential than our readers have yet been enabled to guess at. The duties which he discharged towards them were various and important. In the first place, from the trust which was placed in him by the military, he always became acquainted with the projected movements of every party who, upon any information received as to their places of concealment, had been appointed to capture them. In consequence of this knowledge on his part, he was always able, by despatching some trustworthy scout to their place of rendezvous for the time being, to anticipate and defeat the movements of the military. Again, he acted as a setter for them, which he did by traversing the country and ferreting out such circumstances as enabled him to mark the houses of persons who were known to be in possession of large sums of money, plate, and other valuables. In such cases he contrived to examine the peculiar structure of the buildings, their strongest and weakest points of defence, together with the number and description of arms that were kept for the safety of their property. If he could tamper with and corrupt a servant, it was so much gained, and the latter was always certain to receive a portion of the plunder. Again, he acted as a poacher, in which capacity he procured considerable quantities of ammunition powder, through the officers of the barracks, to whom he disposed of the game, declining in most cases to receive anything but powder for it. In order to prevent suspicion, he assured them that he was the worst shot, as a sportsman, that ever levelled a gun-that for one hare, or partridge, or grouse, he brought down, he missed twenty, and that it was a sin and a shame to think of the loads of powder he wasted. This custom of military officers exchanging powder for game, supplied by poachers at their barracks or other stations, has been practised within our own memory, and to our own knowledge. In addition to all this, worthy Patchy frequently hung about public inns, ale-houses and other places of entertainment, especially for travellers and wayfarers, into whose circumstances and motions he pried with equal success and ability. On these occasions he was always accompanied by a smart, active lad, who passed for his son, and to whom was entrusted the task of communicating to the nearest rendezvous of the Rapparees the intelligence he had gained.

Such is an accurate description of the character of Patchy Baccah, who, although he took no part in the actual robberies and other outrages perpetrated by the Rapparees, was yet one of the most useful and accomplished vagabonds among them. He always knew their haunts, even for a week or fortnight to come, unless when some information against them, or an occasional pursuit by the military, occasioned them to make a sudden change in the plan of their operations.

At the period of which we write-towards the close of King Charles the Second's reign-Ireland was covered with a vast quantity of wood and forest, which has altogether disappeared. The roads, too, were bad and few in number. In general they were paved with large, broad, solid stones, somewhat greater in size than a quartern loaf; and what was still more extraordinary, the principle of selecting the most perfect level was either then unknown, or purposely disregarded. It has been asserted, but with what truth we will not undertake to say, that they were run "up one hill, and down another," in order that the traveller- at a time when the country swarmed with the wildest and most ferocious banditti, murderers, wood-kerns, and other licentious profligates of the period-might have an opportunity of surveying the road before him, and the country about him, to ascertain from this point of elevation what the prospects of danger, or the chances of flight and safety, might be. This argument, however, is of a piece with

the skill and wisdom which constructed such roads. At all events, be the roads as they might, there is no doubt that the surface of Ireland at that time was extensively covered with many thick and dense forests, which no longer exista circumstance which accounts for the difficulty of capturing those Tories and Rapparees, as well as for the long reign of terror which they inflicted on the country. Be this as it may, Patchy directed his steps towards the Newry, as it was then called, and having arrived at a farmer's house not far from the road, he resolved to claim the hospitality of the family, and remain there until dusk. He accordingly entered the house, which was rather a comfortable one, but found only a middle-aged woman and a couple of little girls within. The woman was in tears, and seemed full of sorrow, but the children were evidently too young to understand the cause of her grief. She sat upon a chair at the far side of the fire-place, having her apron thrown over her left shoulder, and her face towards the door. In this position she rocked herself to and fro, as is the custom of Irish women when in a state of affliction, and every now and then she sobbed and wiped her eyes with the apron which she had thus disposed for the purpose.

"Daicent woman," said Patchy, "what's the matther wid you that you seem in sich affliction? I hope you have lost none of your family? but even if you have, you know its the fate of nature, and we must submit."

"Loss!" she replied. "Oh, thin, it's we that had the bitther loss-three of the best friends we ever had." "Chiernah!" exclaimed Patchy, "three, is it? Why, God he knows, a body 'ud think that one ought to be enough."

into byre. They're gone, and we'll never see hilt or hair of them; and now we'll have nothing for it but the black wather to kitchen our bit, let alone the loss of the butther that we had to make up the rent. Wurra, wurra, what 'll become of us?"

"Faith, good woman," replied Patchy, "that's a bad business; and who do you suspect for them? Who do you think took them ?"

"Who?" she replied; "why, who but the Rapparees."

"The Rapparees! faith and you must have given them offence some way; bekaise it's a rare thing for them to come down upon the likes o' you so severely as that. It's the rich Prodestants that they always harry. I tell you then to your face, that you must have provoked them some way, or they'd never lay a finger upon either you or yours."

"It wasn't my fault," she replied; "I argued strongly wid Darby about it; but when that terrible Captain of theirs was laid up a cripple-havin' lost the use of his limbs-Darby thought he'd never recover, and that he might skulk out of his bargain wid him."

"What bargain was that ?”

"Why, you see the Rapparee entered into an agreement with the people of the country, especially the farmers, that if they'd pay him so much a year he'd undertake to keep them harmless. If they lost cattle or any other property he bound himself either to recover it for them, or make up the loss from his own pocket. In the mean time, while he was ill and a helpless cripple, the devil tempted Darby, whose heart is too much in the airighad (money), to break his agreement, and keep back what he promised to pay yearly for his protection."

"Phew!" exclaimed Patchy: "then you may whistle for your cows. Devil resave the hair o' them ever you'll see. Your nagerly husband, thinkin' the Captain 'ud never recover, and knowin besides that he was ill and in want, went and desarted him in the day of his trouble; but now he is well, and has twiist the power over the country he ever had, and the devil a man that ever broke his agreement wid him, when in the day of his distress, but will sup sorrow for his conduct, and the devil pity every treacherous and beggarly rascal that did so. They say it was few that did it, and so much the betther for them that was honest and faithful to him; but wo betide the nagers that treated him as your beggarly scoundrel of a husband did. Devil a thing I heard this month o' Sundays that has pleased me more than the loss of the same cows; but in the mane time, I didn't care I had something to ait. There's a vacancy in my stomach that's anything but agreeable or pleasant, and I don't care how soon it was filled up." "Well, honest man," replied the woman, "although you don't seem to feel much compassion for our loss, still, they say, its our duty to return good for evil; so if I have time to toss you up a rasher before Darby comes in, I will; but if he catches you at it, the house won't hould him. Whisper, accushla! he's a miser and a skrew, and I believe in my sowl that if his salvation was on the one hand, and a brass farden on the other,

VOL. I.

wid his choice of either, he'd secure the brass farden."

"God help you wid him, poor woman!" exclaimed Patchy; it was a black day you ever seen the keowt; but still an all, get us the rasher, and we'll bear the consequences if he comes."

The timid but good-natured woman prepared the rasher with all possible expedition, and Patchy was just sitting down to do it ample justice, when in walks the miser himself, with a small withered face, and sharp, piercing little eyes, in which gleamed an expression of fierceness and distraction, resulting from the loss he had sustained, and his evident want of success in fiuding any trace or intelligence of his cattle. He first fastened an angry glance upon Patchy, and then upon his wife.

"What's this, Peggy?" said he; "is it wastin' my hard-earned substance in this manner you are, upon such a lame runagate as this? Dhamno orth! (damnation on you) do you think I can stand. by and look at sich extravagance as this, especially as I'm fairly starved wid hunger myself. Begone out o' this, you devil's lumenther (a lame person); I must have my dinner;"—and as he spoke, he was about to seize the wooden trencher-for delf was almost unknown among the farmers of that remote period-upon which Patchy's rashers were smoking.

"Aisy, my good neighbour," said Patchy, gripping it firmly; "will you make a wager?"

"A wager! what wager?—no I won't."

"Bekaise," proceeded Patchy, "I'll hould fifty to one, and that's long odds, that a morsel of that same rasher will never pass between your yellow tusks; and I'll double that again, that if you don't sit down there and behave yourself like a quiet, daicent, and hospitable man, as you are not, I'll show you three inches of your own tongue by way of novelty and amusement to yourself; so keep a calm sugh, my ould codger, until I finish my male's mait. Do you undherstand anything by that ?"

The old miser sat down, and placing his withered face upon his withered palms, sighed and groaned as if his very heart would break.

"Ay!" he exclaimed, "robbed, every way robbed, -first by a foolish wife, and again by these thieving Rapparees. Oh my three beautiful cows, the likes o' them wasn't in the parish, in the county, in the kingdom, and the landlord comin' down on us for the rent. Oh chierna, what 'il become of us! It's it that's the black business."

In the mean time, honest Patchy was bolting the rashers with a humorous expression of countenance which was irresistible when contrasted with the vindictive glare which the miser, from time to time, turned upon him. Whenever he caught the old fellow's eye, he gave him a comic wink and a nod which, in the state of his mind at the time, nearly drove him furious.

"Well," said he, "what's this your name is ?— Darby, Darby Soolaghan :-well, Darby, upon my reputaytion as an honest man, I have ett many a good rasher in my day, but the likes of this never went dow r

Y

the red lane (throat); and it's luck and grace your daicent woman of a wife will have for helpin the poor baccah to these two pounds of it, not forgettin' the fine farrel of arran (bread) that she put along wid it. Did you rear and feed the pigs yourself, Darby?"

"Carry on," replied Darby, looking furiously at the wife; 66 carry on, but she'll hear of it."

"Well now," said Patchy, who had nearly despatched the rasher, "weren't you a peunrious old scoundrel — ay, and a hard-hearted one to boot-to take advantage of the Captain's illness, and refuse to pay your engagement to him? I now ax you a question: Is this the first time your cattle were taken from you ?-auswer me the truth."

"Well, no, it is not; but anyhow I'll never see them again I know, and then we're ruined. But this is Shane Bearnah's doins; he's as great a thief of cows and horses as Cahir na Cappul himself, oh cbiernah!"

"Dhomno orth, you yellow disciple, will you give over your gruntin and groanin," exclaimed Patchy: answer me directly. Is this the second time your cows were taken ?"

66

"It is blessed Father, what will become of us?" "And when they were taken first, did you get them back ?"

66

"I did, I did, bekaise I then paid my agreement.' "Then the Captain kept his word wid you 2" "He did indeed; when he heerd of it, they were back wid me in forty-eight hours."

"And you broke your word wid him-refused to stand by him when he was sick, and not able to act for himself. The devil's cure to you then, and that's my compassion for you. You skamin ould sinner, do you think I don't know you well? Doesn't the wide world know you, and that you're as great a scrub as your wife's a daicent woman? Why didn't you pay what you promised to pay? answer me that!"

--

"I hadn't it, I couldn't afford it."

"That's a lie, Darby, every one knows you're wealthy, and how you get your wealth, by sellin' out provisions ou dear summers at three prices to the poor; but listen -pay me up your arrears to the Captain before I lave the house, aud although I never laid my eyes upon him or one of his men, I'll undertake, through my acquaintance wid a relation of his, that your cows will be in your own byre widin a few days at least; and this I engage not for your sake, but for the sake of your daicent, kind-hearted wife, and your innocent childre there. How many have you of them, Mrs. Soolaghan?" he enquired from the good woman.

"Troth, nine o' them; but there's none in the house at present barrin these two little girleens,—the rest, poor things, is all huntin' afther the cows."

"There's no use in that,” replied Patchy. "If Shane Bernah has got them, no one but the Captain can have them brought back to you.*

* Shane Bernah was one of the chief men in the Great

Rapparees' gang. His department was the stealing of cows and horses, and every description of the more important

"However, pay attention to what I said, and maybe it'll be betther for you all."

"That is, give away a sartinty for an unsartinty: I'm not the fool to do it," replied Darby, "what do you know about them? Ay, indeed, give my money to you, a vagabone lamenther, that may never show his face to us again; oh catch me at it!"

A long altercation took place between him and his wife, who, aided by Patchy, at length succeeded in prevailing upon him to entrust the arrears of his black mail to the latter, who having secured it in his pocket, said with a grin :

"Now, you devil's limb of a miser, how do you know whether you'll ever lay eye on either cows or money again?"

"I'll hunt you through the kingdom, or I will," replied Darby, perfectly appalled at the threat; "I'll send the sogers afther you, and swear that you're a Rapparee in disguise."

"Well, you ould sinner," said Patchy, "for the sake of your wife and family, I'll do what I can for you; but it's now between the two lights,† and I must be goin'. In the manetime, thank you, Mrs. Soolaghan for your kindness to the poor Baccah. I hope you'll have no occasion to be sorry for it. Good bye, ma'am, and good bye to you, you ungrateful ould schemer; may be I'll do betther for you than you desarve." "For God's sake do," replied the wife; "for if you have betrayed us, or taken us in, little you know the life I'll lead on account of it."

Patchy then took his leave of them, and departed on his more important mission.

The night set in very dark, and Patchy resumed his journey along the road, which at that time led by a rather circuitous route to the town of Newry. Having gone forward a few miles, he struck off the highway by one of those old unfrequented paths, which the slight improvements in roadmaking that were even then beginning to appear, had caused to be abandoned. There were few houses, as he proceeded, around or near him; the country was very much covered with wood, and had altogether, even in daylight, a solitary and deso

domestic animals; but, indeed, his thefts were principally confined to the former, as being the most lucrative, and the more easily conveyed from one part of the kingdom to another. He was second only, as a thief of this description, to the celebrated Cahir na Coppul, or Charles Dempsey, whe was born near Ballybrittas, in the Queen's County. Shane Bernah has no distinct biography as Cahir na Coppul (Charles of the Horses) has; but his local celebrity, and the tradi tions of his exploits in various parts of the North of Ireland, are perhaps equal to those of his great rival and cotempo. rary. Caves, and isolated spots of green pasture, in the recesses of some of the Northern mountains, are still pointed out as Shane Bernah's Stables, or, in other words, as the localities in which he used to conceal his stolen horses. One of those is to be found in that long range called the Sliebeer Mountains, which separate a portion of Tyrone and Mona ghan from each other. It is said of Shane Bernah that he was born without teeth; but that he could, notwithstanding the want of them, bite a piece out of a thin plate of iron with as little difficulty as if it had been gingerbread.

A common expression tor twilight.

late aspect. The wild and rugged outline of the old road, now choked up, as it was, by weeds, and almost covered with rank grass and brambles, was however quite familiar to him, and he advanced into the lonely region before him with more ease and speed than might have been expected. We should have said that a portion of the ground through which this ran, had been recently cultivated, so that, in point of fact, it was impossible for a stranger to imagine for a moment that a road, no matter how rude, had ever traversed that direction at all. It was no easy task then to know from what part of the new highway the turn across the fields towards it should be made, especially at night. To a stranger the matter was an impossibility, for in consequence of the district through which it ran having been scarcely ever inhabited, the very recollection of it had been nearly forgotten. In the meantime Patchy struggled on, not certainly without a good deal of difficulty, until he had advanced about four miles, when the wood became denser, and the path still more indistinct and difficult. He now knew that he had not much farther to go, and after losing some time in searching about, he came upon a rope, by which, through many intricate and apparently inaccessible passages, he was enabled to reach a thick and impervious mass of underwood, so closely woven together, that it took some minutes to find the private passage. Having found it, he went on, slightly stooping until he reached a large clump of immense fern, through which he made his way by putting it aside with his hands. Immediately behind this was an opening to a cavern, into which he at once entered. He now knew his position, and proceeded accordingly. Having advanced about ten yards or so, he turned by a sharp angle that led to the right, and having followed this about six or eight yards more, he found it diverged to the left, when he saw a dim light in the distance. Thus it happened, that from the angular and indirect nature of the entrance, it was impossible that any light, however brilliant, in the centre of the cavern, could be seen until the individual approaching it had come into a right line with it. This, however Patchy had not yet done. The first light visible was not the real one. the contrary, it was ingeniously placed there for the purpose of throwing the shadow of the person advancing across the platform adjoining the innermost recess of the cavern, which was the occasional rendezvous of the Rapparees, when planning their operations in that part of the country. So strictly vigilant were these men at their meetings here, and indeed everywhere else, that a sentinel was always placed to watch the platform in question, and the moment a shadow was seen, a challenge was given to the intruder. Patchy had not made more than three or four steps when his person became distinctly visible, and in an instant a voice called out, in stern significant tones, that could not be misunderstood, "Who comes here?" and a man immediately started forward with a loaded blunderbuss in his hand.

On

"A friend to the friends of my country," replied Patchy; "be aisy will you? it's Patchy that's in it." "It's the voice of Patchy, but you must advance

and show yourself; we must read your face Patchy, for fear there might be no more of Patchy than his tongue about you."

"Ah, Quee Harry, is it you," said Patchy, advancing and shaking hands with him; then entering the inner cavern, he proceeded-"That's your plan, comrades; keep a sharp look-out, and reason good you should! You have the wealth of the country, the government and the sogers on watch for you; so you see, as I said, you must have both your eyes and your ears about you. Well, and are you all safe? none of you hanged yet, I hope ?"

"Not one, Patchy, nor no danger of it; we'll turn a corner on them at the long run."

"So you will, plaise God; sure it's all for the good of the country that you're actin' as you're doin'. May the Lord reward you, and keep you from that worst and roughest of all blackguard weeds, by name-hemp. But where's the captain? I don't see him here; all's right wid him I hope ?"

"All's right, Patchy; he is out to-night to meet a gentleman on the new road that intends to lend him two or three hundred pounds. He-the gentleman I mane— is to have three sogers wid him for protection; but that doesn't signify much, bekaise the captain has Shane Bernah, James Butler, and strong John M'Pherson,* all well armed, along wid him, and if there was three sogers more against them, it 'ud make little differ. Here Patchy, wont you have a gauliogue of the cratur to warm your heart afther your dark and ugly journey ?"

"I think I ought," said Patchy, "and, in truth, a dark and ugly journey it is; so here's wishin' us all long life and good health, and that none of us may ever swallow lead or see his own funeral! Chiernah ! but that's the stuff, and it bought for three times less than nothin'."

The bottle was then sent about, but with great moderation, for drunkenness, when thrice repeated, was followed by expulsion from the gang. It is singular to reflect upon the strange perversion and involution of moral feeling by which this desperate and terrible confraternity was regulated. The three great principles of their lawless existence, were such as would reflect honour upon the most refined associations, and the most intellectual institutions of modern civilization. These were, first, sobriety, secondly, a resolution to avoid the shedding of human blood, and thirdly, a solemn promise never to insult or offer outrage to woman, but in every instance to protect her. Yet upon the basis of principles involving so much that was noble and lofty in morality, was erected such a superstructure of theft and robbery as Ireland never saw either before the period we write of or since.

The present meeting was an annual one; and such was the alarmed state of the country, and so frequent were the attempts made to disperse or rather secure this celebrated and terrible gang, but above all their leader, that they felt it would not be safe to meet, except on great or

*These are real characters, and were part of his gang.