Ten mice immediately fell dead to the floor in the presence of the bard, who then proceeded, in consideration of his dereliction of duty, to satirize Irusan, King of the Cats of Erinn (!) who resided in the cave of Cnodbha, now Knowth, near Slane, on the banks of the Boyne, but with less fatal effect. Although a feline sovereign, Irusan was not so sensitive as to be "done to death" by any votary of the muses, even by the ollamh-laureate of Erinn himself, so, with an unmistakeable prescience of the writer who was destined in longafter ages to be the historian of the Irish bards, he intelligently laid a velvety and jewelled forepaw on the side of his royal nose, and, in the vernacular, curtly but significantly rejoined-" Walker !" As a matter of course the potentiality of these incantations was supposed to consist in the acrimonious measure, more or less, in which they were couched. But as even our most puerile nursery stories, "Jack the Giant Killer," and "Puss in Boots," and "Reynard the Fox," for examples, have now-a-days become the study of the scholar, and been discovered to be "small Pompeiis of ancient manners, fossiled strata of bygone Arabian, Icelandic, or Persian antiquities," who can affirm aught to the contrary but that the Irish bards of, we fear to say how many hundred years ago, may not have be-rhymed rats from their haunts in strains such as those to which the mouse-love of the hymencally-disposed froggy who would go a-courting whether his mother would let him or no hearkened, arrectis auribus, in latter times, and that a rollicking bourdon akin to the familiar refrain,

"With your rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,"

may not have once awakened the echoes of Tara and Emania?

As late as the year 1776 it is on record that the Rev. John O'Mulconry, a clergyman of the Established Church, and curate of Kilrush, in the county of Clare, being descended from a family of hereditary satirists and poets, successfully exorcised the rats which infested the cemetery of Kilferagh Church, near Kilkee, in that county, in such prodigious swarms that no interment could take place there without some unpleasant contretemps, it being moreover affirmed that of a newly-in

humed corpse, nothing but the bones remained after one day. After their sentence of banishment the rats migrated, to the very considerable bewilderment and terror of those who chanced to encounter them en route, to a sandy level known as Querin Head, on the Clare side of the Shannon, and distant about five miles from Kilferagh, where they speedily founded a burrow, and for a time citizenized themselves peaceably. This interval of relaxation from mischief, if cheering, was short. Carnivorous, granivorous, and piscivorous, they yet considered themselves "nowhere" if not omnivorous, and so serious became their depredations, not only upon the nets of the fishermen in the neighbourhood but upon their craft moored in the cove, that at length a regular battue was organised by the peasantry for their extermination. But

"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft agley."

Upon the eventful day big with their fate, the first surprise over, they rat-fully, and with a determination worthy of a better cause, stood at bay, and proved themselves in the end such dangerous foes, that the assailants, although upwards of a hundred in number, and armed with almost every description of weapon from a needle to an anchor-stock, calling to memory probably the Hellenic axiom propounded by Demosthenes, and so well rendered into English by Sam Butler in "Hudibras”—

"For he that runs may fight again,

Which he can never do that's slain-"

thought discretion the better part of valour, and actually ingloriously retreated, leaving the rats, happily diminished in numbers, it is true, but still overwhelming in their strength, masters of the field, of which some of their descendants retain possession to the present day, It must not be inferred, nevertheless, that professional rat-annihilators are by any means extinct. There are still to be found soi-distant successors of the old rhymers, who will undertake, when satisfactorily subsidized, to exorcise the entire rat population of a house or ship, in which, strange to say, they are in general successful, thanks rather to the oil of rhodium than any occult agency, but only, however, to colonize them ad libitum elsewhere.

Sir Philip Sidney, the friend and patron of Spenser and the cotemporary of Shakspeare, in his "Defence of Poesie," alludes to the possibility of a person being driven by a poet's rhymes to hang himself, as Bubonax did, or being rhymed to death as was said to be effected in Ireland. That "master mocker of mankind," Dean Swift, quoting this passage in his ironical "Advice to a Young Poet," remarks: "Truly, to our honour be it spoken, that power in a great measure continues with us to this day." In this first year of the seventh decade of the nineteenth century, may we not truthfully hazard a similar assertion?

1861.]

THE KING OF THULE.

BY CAVIARE.

A DREAM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

"We are but fools

to vainly struggle

With that eternal mercy which protects us."
-FORD'S Lover's Melancholy.

It is possible that some of my readers may, from my description, though a brief one, recognise the old English country house which I shall here introduce under the name of Kesteven Grange.

So far I shall disclose that it stands at no great distance from a forest of ancient cockney celebrity; indeed some of the upper windows command a peep or two into glades and groves, which might induce one to suppose that many more than the real number of miles lie twixt the Grange and the huge city, whereas, I believe, on a clear day, to an eye as yet undimned by years or unwedded to spectacles, the cupola of St. Paul's, perhaps its cross, is actually visible from the leads of the house.

Well! stand where it will, Kesteven Grange is a beautiful old place. I defy the most fastidious being in Christendom, or one however blind to the charms of art, or fascinations of nature, to drive up that grand old avenue of elms, and step out upon that square of green turf before that clematis-clustered porch, and not be struck, if not enraptured, with the picturesque mass of building he then beholds.

How well I remember the first time I saw it! It was on an autumnal evening-the sun was setting-long shadows lay upon the broad gravel approach; the Virginian creeper glowed with its crimson tints; the gilded sun-dial sparkled, and the letters of the quaint inscription over the door

"Through this wide opening gate,

None come too early, none return too late;" came out all the more distinctly for having the porch thrown into deep shade behind them.

The architecture is simple-a perfect specimen of its kind; but it is the complete harmony of proportion and of colour, which delights the lover of beautiful things. The red, perhaps once too fiery, has been mellowed by years, and stained by storms; and one may pick out as many greys and browns in the mass of brick-work, as in a portrait of Vandyke. The climbing plants too have grown luxuriantly, but have been clipped and trimmed with such consummate taste, that they twist about the gables and stone ornaments without hiding them, just as if a master-hand had cast only a loose garland or two over each. The inside of the house does not belie the first impression of the exterior.

But

I am not going to describe it. I must remember that my reader does not know Kesteven, or at any rate has not loved, as I have, its inhabitants, for thirty years back. Alas! some have gone down that avenue for the last time, and will never again leave the churchyard at the end of it; and I have a theory that acquaintance with, and love for, the inhabitants, goes a great way towards begetting admiration for the home they dwell

G

in. I do not think one can thoroughly love, without admiring some one thing or place in or about the objects of affection, and which has been consecrated and hallowed by constant contact with them, and which has thereby, as it were, borrowed a physiognomy essentially theirs.

When I paid my first visit to Kesteven Grange, its owner was, I please so to name him, Mr. John Bellairs-Jack Bellairs, as he was called by those sufficiently intimate to be familiar. There were but a few, however, left, who had this privilege, for Mr. Bellairs was then considerably past seventy, and he was one of those men who had a very distinctly defined notion of the respect which age has a right to exact from such as are less advanced upon the road of life. Poor Mr. Bellairs! he would scarcely have tolerated the uncourteous freeand-easy usages of the present day. I do not think, however, that they would have penetrated within Kesteven Grange, as long as he was there. I really do not remember an instance of sons or daughters ever failing to rise from their seats when Mr. Bellairs entered the room, yet no father, or master, could be more thoroughly loved, as well as respected, by all about him. You could not know him, especially in his own house, without experiencing a mixed feeling of admiration and affection which it would be difficult to define. There was a tenderness of manner, a warmth of heart, a ready good humour; above all, there was an evident sympathy and a patient ear, whether for a tale of sorrow or joy, that went straight to one's own heart. Poor dear Mr. Bellairs! What a thorough-bred old gentleman he was! I loved him when I was a boy, from the very moment, I well remember it, that discovering something had gone wrong between my father and me, he went straight to the proper quarter, unsolicited by me, and set all to rights, as he only could, in a moment. What an extra holiday it was for me when I packed up my portmanteau, and set out for Kesteven. As a boy I did so often, but when I had left school and become a member of Merton College, Oxford, my visits were more frequent, and longer too.

It was during one of them that the peculiar circumstance I am about to relate occurred. We were assembled for Christmas, and a large merry party we were. Kesteven was a place, par excellence, for such doings; the Grange lent itself so remarkably to the style of old English hospitality, which Mr. Bellairs, especially at this season of the year, gloried in displaying. Success certainly crowned every effort. The fine old hall, with its huge fire-place, where the Christmas log blazed from an early hour deep into the night; the gallery, down the whole length of which the boar's head, bedeckt with bays and rosemary, was carried along to the dining-room, and where, later in the evening, the Lord of Misrule reigned paramount-they were pictures at all times, but on these occasions, supereminently So. It was no joke to dance Sir Roger de Coverley, from the top to the bottom, over that polished floor. There was a tradition of a laundry-maid-all the servants were admitted on those evenings,-proceeding

straight from the dance to her early work, falling into her tub from positive exhaustion, and being only just dragged out in time by a fellow-servant, to escape an untimely death in soap suds. The gathering I am particularly about to mention, was more than usually

merry.

Captain John Bellairs, or as many called him, and I among them, "Young Jack," had just returned from India with his regiment, without, as one might judge from his looks, having experienced any very great inconvenience from the much-abused climate. A handsomer young fellow one could see nowhere, and, as I fancied then, and have known since, some one else was quite of my opinion. I do not mean his sister Fanny, nor Lucy either, though they were well aware-who could fail to be?-and justly proud of their brother's good looks; they might have been of their own, but they were not, dear, good, modest girls; but, although they did not know it, they were matches in beauty for Young Jack." I can see it now, and what a picture it was, those four coming down that gallery together, backed, as it were, and set off by the crimson damask curtains and ebony furniture; old Mr. Bellairs slightly bending for support on his gold-headed cane, hanging with the other arm on Young Jack's," the silvered head and black curling locks contrasting with each other; Fanny and Lucy tripping by their side, like fawns, and shaking those sunny brown ringlets, as they laughed and moved along. It was a match for that exquisite "Gainsborough," hanging in the blue drawingroom, representing Mr. Bellairs's father, and those two famous beauties of the day, his sisters, playing at battle-door.

We had a merry week of it that year, certainly; games of all sorts and dates brought the whole party together every night. Mr. Bellairs had a curious old volume ever at hand-a Dissertation on Christmas Pastimes and into its dark-lettered pages he dived daily for something new for the "young ones." The house was full, and neighbours, in addition, flocked to it in goodly numbers. There was always a late supper, and I confess the exertions of the preceding hours often seemed to have sharpened all our appetites. One night a pie, from a receipt discovered of course by Mr. Bellairs, and almost mediæval in date, proved highly attractive. How the old gentleman laughed when a lady from the other end of the table sent up her plate for one little bit of the pie every one was praising, and the old circular dish could produce nothing more than the drumstick of a chicken. We all know how a glass of water, from being upset itself, upset a ministry and gave peace to exhausted France; so results, scarcely less important, certainly not to those immediately concerned, may be equally traced to this pic. At any rate I had been imprudently, perhaps greedily, seduced into eating on when hunger had been satisfied, an error which no man should ever commit if he betake himself to bed speedily after, as I did; and I tossed about all night in consequence, dreaming and waking alternately every five minutes. I know not what I did not dream of; I know I did

dream of Fanny, but I say nothing about that. Fanny is a wife now, with grown-up daughters, almost, no not quite, as pretty as herself, and if I dreamt of her then or since, what is that now to Fanny or to me? The dream I am going to relate was my last. I had faintly opened my eyes not very long before, and fancied Ï distinguished a streak of light through the shutter, which bespoke returning day. It was a morning dream therefore, and morning dreams, do they not come true? I saw this long streak of light across the carpet; I heard a faint chirp of early birds, but my head turned back drowsily on the pillow, and I was sound asleep again in a minute. How long this sleep lasted I knew not. When next I awoke there was no doubt about the daylight. The sun was up and streaming into my room to shame me. The servant had evidently been in, for a jug of hot water smoked upon the washing-table. The shutters were unclosed, and other preparations for my toilet perfected, and yet I had slept through them all. Was this heaviness the effect of undigested pie or of the absorbing nature of my dream?

For the dream, here it is!

There was nothing to tell me where I was, I mean in what country, but I suddenly seemed to stand in the middle of a wide and lofty room. Not a bit of furniture was in it-it bore the appearance of having been dismantled to the utmost, and long abandoned by all former inhabitants. A heavy chain that had once been gilt, blackened now with dirt and covered with cobwebs, hung down from the centre of the ceiling; but the chandelier which had probably been attached to it in the days of bygone splendour, and had scattered brilliancy over groups of beauty and revelry, was wanting. The colours and gilding of the ceiling were faded and stained, but enough remained unhurt to prove a master-hand had guided the brush that had originally laid them on. Here and there a most exquisite group, fresh by comparison, attracted my attention, and I fancied, as I gazed, that the Orlando had furnished the subject of the painter's beautiful conceptions; the cornice was, in parts, still very perfect. The side walls had been hung with silk or velvet, arranged in panels; these were bare now, but there was still clinging to a nail a bit of the material, whatever it had been, which, no doubt, had fluttered since its pride in many a cold blast that must have penetrated through the neighbouring window; for, although several of the panes were stuffed up, many were broken, cracked and empty, affording every entrance for rain, wind, and dust. I saw this so vividly in my dream that, while I was dressing I could not help thinking a great deal about it all. In the course of the day, however, there were so many other things to occupy one's thoughts, that the dream was forgotten, and, I dare say, would never have recurred to me, had I not, two nights after, seemed a second time to stand within this same room. This time the illusion, or whatever one may call it, lasted longer, and the effect was more intense, for I seemed to walk about, curiously examining many of the beautiful remains. There were some sculptured garlands of fruits and flowers,

interspersed with the most exquisite "amorini," and which hanging, as if suspended from the cornice, formed frames to the now empty panels; these were chipped and broken, and in places wholly gone. I wandered about, looking carefully into every detail, for I have rather a taste that way, and the gallery at Kesteven, the boast of our own Gibbons, which had lately been renovated, had called up all my old enthusiasm. One bit especially struck me; it was more prominent than the rest, and seemed to court particular attention. As I went up close to it, and handled a pomegranate represented with consummate art, as bursting from excess of ripeness, a sudden whining noise struck upon my ear, and in a second the pannel at my side flew up, and disclosed a flight of steps. Had I slept a moment longer, I am sure I must have sprung down these steps, but alas! I started in my sleep and awoke. The fictitious move of the spring had scared sleep. I was sitting up in the old damask bed, in the octagon chamber at Kesteven. I rubbed my eyes and strained them, but instead of a mysterious stone staircase, I was staring at the quilted applegreen satin coverlet.

All that day my dream haunted me. This second time I could not shake it off. Was this to be wondered at? I had seen all so distinctly, in such minute detail, as my present description after many years, proves I think. I was moody, pré-occupé the whole morning. Fanny more than once asked me why I was so stupid. She attacked me again and again, and to escape persecution, I promised to solve the mystery of my sudden fit of dulness the next day. The idea of making a drawing of the scene as the best kind of description, had come into my head, and I brought it down the next afternoon. Fanny quizzed and laughed till her bright eyes over-brimmed with tears of fun.

In a day or two the time of my happy visit was up. My college was to meet the following week, and I had to go home for a day or two previous to my return to Oxford. On opening my desk on the morning of my departure, to put away some letters, I found my drawing. Oh! that wicked little witch-her fingers had been at work-there were two figures now: a lady covered from head to foot with a veil, was going down the steps, supported by another figure in a cloak. I could not mistake for whom the latter was intended. How I was quizzed; how I was laughed at. The next time I dined there, there were some pomegranates in sugar, placed at dessert opposite to me, which Fanny "knew I was very fond of." Gradually, however, it was all forgotten; jokes are like favourites in that way, and have their day, and during succeeding visits to Kesteven Grange, not an allusion was made to the lady or the stone stairs.

About eight years after my dream I left England. My poor father had been dead three years, and I was my own master. I had never been further than Paris, and I panted to wander amidst the glories of nature and art in the sunny land of Italy. I spent two years there. I was of an age to enjoy all, and I did so most thoroughly. I dreamed again, with my senses awake and my eyes

open. Ah! Is not that fair land one prolonged dream from the moment one sets foot within it. Genoa, proud city, with her marble palaces, her villas, and orangegroves, sloping down from her lovely hills to that blue

sea!

my

Verona, with her mediæval tombs, and Venice, matchless, indescribable! I think I cared most for these three cities; and yet, Florence! Sienna ! Rome! However, in the three first I lingered longest, if that be proof of preference, and Venice I visited a second time. It was there, and then, that I received a letter, which made me feel the more decidedly how long I had been away from home. My eldest sister was at Vienna with her husband and first child; when I had left her, she was unmarried. They wished me to join them, and travel England-wards together. I longed to see Mary, and old college crony, Philip; so I wrote by return of post to say I would shortly be with them. I felt I must give one more week to Venice, and I did. How quickly it went by! It was with a somewhat melancholy feeling, then, that I fixed my day of departure. Reluctantly enough I bade the faithful Luigi have all ready for the next day at noon. I had settled to go by water to Trieste, and on to Vienna by that beautiful road through Styria. I went, of course, to my bankers in the morning; came home, and dined early, determined to devote the evening of a very sultry day to a last stroll among my favourite haunts, when, as I knew, a cloudless moon would shed her mellowing light over those unrivalled masses of architecture, and long shadows would be creeping round them on the ground. I knew my way about well enough. A dark street or alley fascinated rather than checked me. I could always get out again speedily-you do not go far in Venice without seeing a church, and there was scarcely one with which I was not, both inside and out, familiar. I had ordered Beppo to be at St. Mark's steps, as soon as the sun should sink, and I was soon in his gondola, floating about, and looking my last, as I thought, on Venice. She had never appeared to me more lovely. Beppo, too, hummed his barcarolle in a better key than usual, or his voice was clearer. At last I ordered him to land me. Night was come, the air was so cool, the moon so bright, St. Mark's-square so thronged, and so animated! I almost fancied, at every step, I should see an Armenian. I sat and eat my ice; in a fit of over-wrought generosity gave the "cantatrice" a coin that made her stare, and, at last, I jumped up from my seat, determined to linger no longer, but to return to my hotel. This was in rather a distant and out of the way quarter. It was kept by two brothers, who were Venetians to the back-bone, and it had been purposely chosen by me to avoid mere travelling acquaintances, whom I did not care to see, and whom I was sure to meet at the greater inns. I walked along, giving myself up to a delicious reverie. I soon discovered that my feet had wandered scarcely less than my thoughts, for, on suddenly stopping and looking before me, I found I was in a street as I fancied quite new to me; certainly a large building I did not at all remember was at my side. The appear

ance of the street was rather suspicious, only one bad lamp threw a faint glimmer across it, and the houses were of a very common sort. One is obliged to be particular, sometimes, in Italian towns; but no adventure attended by danger had I ever yet had, during my two years residence, and I did not see why my last night in Venice should be an exception to this rule. So I determined not to retrace my steps, and I walked on. I had arrived at the further extremity, and was in the act of turning the corner, when I heard the most piercing shriek. That voice was a woman's,-I was sure of that. I did not quite make out from which side it had come. I listened for it to be repeated, but in vain. I experienced a sudden and indescribable sensation-a strong feeling of curiosity seized me. Here I thought is an adventure at last,-better late than never. I was debating with myself how I should act, what I should do ; and had proceeded a yard or two to my left, when I fancied I heard footsteps. I kuelt down, and held my ear to the ground; I could now clearly make out, that three or four persons were approaching me, and that one was violently forced onward, or dragged along, for there was an occasional halt, succeeded by the sounds of struggling and slipping. I was determined to know what this meant: but what was I to do? I generally carried at night a pistol in my pocket, and involuntarily my hand went in search of it under my coat, and then I remembered having locked it up in its travelling case that afternoon. There was no time for more thought or delay. The steps grew more and more distinct, though from the dark state of the street I as yet saw no one; the darkness however favoured my plan, and I crept as close as I could to the side wall. My heart beat quickly with expectation. In a minute or two this was so far satisfied that the figures of two men passed within a couple of yards of me, now push. ing, now dragging a third person, wrapped up in a large cloak. They came so close to me that I could hear a kind of stifled groan, or noise rather, as it sounded, of choking. I guessed the unfortunate person was now gagged in some way, probably as a precaution after the scream which I had so lately heard. Had I given way to the impulse of the moment, I should have rushed upon the group, but, happily, I could check what would have been an act of madness, and an useless attempt at rescue, so I suffered them to pass on a few yards, and then got up quietly from the ground, determined at all hazards to follow. There was neither danger nor difficulty in this, so long as they kept in the same street, which was now only lighted up here and there by the reflection of the moonlight on a casement or a door. I crept on, halting if they did, and keeping an equal distance. Suddenly the noise of their feet, by which I had been chiefly guided, ceased, and the black mass of shadow, thrown on the broken pavement, was gone. I stepped along stealthily, but I came to no crossing street. I felt certain, therefore, they must have entered some house on my side, but I had heard no noise of an opening nor of a shutting door. I went cautiously on, and came to an old gateway-the gate was half decayed,