by her terror, she stood still, looking on the ghost, as she believed it. The phantom, for such it must have been, almost imperceptibly drew out from the window, and seemed apparently to float in the air over the river, for a few seconds, until it vanished from her sight. A short time after, the servant was found in a state of insensibility; and on her recovery, the relation of the circumstance which she gave, not indeed without some exaggerations, caused that part of the castle to be avoided as unholy premises, and haunted ground. In a short time after, in the latter end of September, an account reached the O'Sullivan family, of the approach of the Earl of Ormond to Cork, and that he was to make his entry into the city that evening. Accordingly, old Mr. Sullivan and his brother set out, though late in the day, to meet the chieftain at Cork, and reached the city about an hour before the Lord Lieutenant's arrival. The streets were thronged with people. The citizens appeared every where in holiday costume; and the entire appearance of the town with the shops closed, and the mechanics idle, denoted that some unusual occurrence was to take place. Banners were seen gaily flaunting and floating from the city walls; from Shandon eastle; and the other elevated towers; and breasting mounds that here and there flanked the straight and feeble line of the city wall, and that seemed sullenly to overhang and threaten, as much as to defend the narrow dwarfish and gloomy streets, with their dusky and misshapen heaps of buildings, which lay in very insecure repose, within the dubious protection of their enclosure.* At length the loud thunder of the cannon announced to the anxious and expecting citizens, the Earl's approach. His entry was made in a truly splendid manner. The whole civic body, the nobility and clergy of the town and neighbourhood went out to meet him, and received him into the city, with all those ceremonies and honours usually conferred on royalty or its representative. Notwithstanding that the Earl's previous life had rendered him unpopular, yet, coming for the avowed purpose of making a peace, he was welcomed with the warmest demonstrations of joy. The merry peals of the bells of the different churches proclaimed his entrance, and they continued sending forth their joyful sounds on the occasion. But the most magnificent spectacle exhibited for the evening, was Shandon Castle brilliantly illuminated, and looking from its proud eminence like a glorious beacon light over the city. Our travellers made enquiries after the object of their journey, and discovered that he had continued his route homewards; so that having no idle curiosity to gratify by sojourning in the city, and impelled by no very powerful sympathy in the bustling and tumultuous rejoicings, that welcomed the depu

* Not a single vestige now remains of either the towers or the wall, their very site and direction are fast falling away from our memories. The Wide Street Commissioners have very properly and remorselessly driven "the ploughshare of ruin" through most of the antiquated rubbish that choaked and poisoned the city, and amongst the rest, through that huge grim and melancholy mole, the Cork "Heart of Mid Lothian," (we must be pardoned the making so appropriate a bull,) ycleped the old city goal; while it stood frowning over the citizens, with its lofty archway yawning, as if to devour them, it looked not unlike the personification of the demon of guilt and despair turned into stone, it was so enormously dark and heavy. The gigantic spectre has been laid, and every object around begins to look open and cheerful, under the levelling and equalizing system pursued by those staunch radicals, the worshipful Commissioners above named. Half their business however is not yet done.-ED.

ty's arrival, their own hearts besides being weighed, down by the domestic afflic tion, that had urged them to their cheerless journey, they proceeded forthwith to the country. On their return home, they heard that Father O'Mahony had been sent for by the chieftain, and that he was now some hours gone, and not yet returned. On their arrival being announced the next day at the castle, messengers came off immediately, by command of McCarthy, for Mr. O'Sullivan, his brother, and nephew. They were all three, locked up with the chieftain and the clergyman for several hours, and whatever may have passed between them, nothing was ever known to transpire. No further steps were taken to unravel this unhappy affair. Her father, who was too old to bear up against so severe a stroke, did not long survive the misfortune.

It was upon a mild clear evening, in the middle of the month of September, and about two years after the singular and unhappy occurrence at the castle of Carrigadrohid, that a stranger wrapped in a large dark coloured cloak, well mounted, but seemingly fatigued, rode up to a small hut not many yards distant from Carrigadrohid bridge. The rider dismounted, and advanced to the door of the cabin. It was neat and comfortable, and the wooden tables, and the utensils which lay on them, evinced more attention to cleanliness, than is usually found in the abodes of the peasantry. A low small loft, which came out midway in the cabin, contained a quantity of fine turf, with branches and boughs of trees, barkless and well dried, formed into two heaps, also apparently intended for fuel. There were two round seats or seeshtheens, made of twisted straw, near the clean open hearth, on which sat a pair of rosy looking children; the elder a little boy about six years, applying dry sticks, some probably of those on the loft, to the brightly burning fire, and the other a little girl, a year perhaps younger, attempting to render assistance in the same employment. A fine young woman, the mother of the children, was occupied in arranging some matters at one of the tables, when she turned round suddenly at perceiving the shadow of a man fall along the floor.

"I shall thank you young woman" said the stranger who now advanced a step or two from the door into the hut, but on surveying the features of the fine handsome face now presented fully to his view, stopped short, as though he had forgotten the enquiry he was about to make. Recollecting himself, and drawing his cloak more closely round him, he continued "I shall thank you young woman, to let me know what has become of the family at the castle? "The family at the castle? Lord help you! don't you know what happened, sir?"

Yes-partially" said the stranger, seemingly with emotion, "but what has become of himself, the chieftain, I mean?"

"Oh, he has not been here but a few days since our young lady's death." A stifled groan here broke from the stranger, and he turned to a chair which stood beside him, and sat down.

The young woman looked astonished, and darted on her visitor an anxious and inquisitive glance; but his face was completely shrouded from her scrutiny, by the obscurity of the cabin, and the muffled riding cloak which he wore about him.

Faint surmisings crossed her mind. The voice, she sometimes thought sounded familiar to her; and yet it did not appear to her probable, that she ever before had an opportunity of seeing the gentlemanly person, who now occupied one of her chairs. She was confused, and knew not

what to do. The gentleman was evidently ill, and her hut could furnish him with no better cordial than milk.

'Stop, sir" said she, as if recollecting herself, "I'll run over to Darby Murphy's, and get a drop of something that may be good for you."

"No, no, young, woman, I thank you, but I'm well, quite well," said the stranger rising from the chair," and so you can give me no account where the owner of the castle is at present?".

The young woman who had in the anxiety to go to Darby Murphy's for the cordial, which she supposed would be of service to him, advanced to the door, now enjoyed a partial view of the stranger's countenance, as he stood up, and felt a sudden beating at her heart on beholding it.

"Was it possible? could it be?" thought she, "that the noble looking man before her, and whose mysterious conduct somewhat awed her, was Morty Sullivan?"

"He is in Cork I believe," said she, quite agitated. "In Cork!" repeated the stranger in a louder and fiercer tone, than he had yet used in the conference. Then thanking her for the information, and apologizing for the trouble he had occasioned, he sprung on his horse, that had been leisurely cropping the grass, that grew on the low wall or ditch which stood about two yards in front of the hut, and hastily rode off.

The young woman followed him with her eyes, until he had crossed the bridge, when he rode on at a furious rate, and was soon out of sight.

This visit of the equestrian, Peggy Brian, the young woman of whom he had been making the enquiries, never mentioned but to her husband, who being a relative of the O'Sullivans, judged it most prudent to keep it to themselves, until they heard further. In a few days they had some reason to congratulate themselves for having adopted such a resolution; as an account came of the death of M'Carthy, who was killed in a rencontre with some person unknown. The funeral of the chieftain was attended with great pomp; and his remains were interred in the family vault, in the Abbey of Kilcrea.

Several years after, the death of Captain Morty O'Sullivan,-who had en-' tered into the French army with the chieftains recommendation,—was announced as having taken place, in the battle of

The castle, it is said, has continued ever since these disastrous occurrences, to be visited annually, by the apparition of the last lady of the mansion, and to be accompanied by the sweet and melancholy strains, heard from the bridge of Carrigadrohid, every May Eve.

WHAT IS WISDOM?

I ask'd the sage, when wandering afar
In search of Wisdom's bright and shining star,
What's Wisdom?-He exclaim'd with tearful eye,
"The Fear of God's the Wisdom of the wise

SUGGESTED BY THE ALARMING DROUGHT OF LAST SUMMER.

How parch'd that hill appears, whose lively green

In happier seasons cheer'd the hearts of all!
Along that line of gravel and dry stones,

A brimming streamlet us'd to flow, and spread
Coolness and verdure o'er the happy field.

The hungry cattle scarce can bite so much
Of brown and sapless pasture, as will keep
The spark of life, 'till better days return.
From yonder ridges, toiling peasants hoped
To raise abundance of nutritious roots:

But now,

the distant small and shrivel'd stalks,
A wretched prospect, shew their hopes were vain.
O Heaven! I cried, have mercy on the poor!
Returning, weary from my sultry walk,

How frightful, I imagined, were our state,
If the sweet rain should never fall from heav'n!

The thought still haunted me; and in my sleep

It came again. I drea:n'd the sentence had gone forth,
That, for the sins of men, the earth was curs'd,

And never should be water'd with a shower.

Wide wasting famine had begun to rage:

Fever accompanied; and by his breath
Did many fall, whom hunger still had spar'd.
The cattle shar'd the gen'ral suffering:
Some stagger'd round in search of food and drink;
But failing, soon resign'd their harmless lives:
While others, stung with thirst and raging heat,
Ran bellowing loud and fiercely through the lands.

The dogs were struck with madness, and attack'd
Those whom they used to love. Happy the wretch
Who felt their bites, for phrenzy soon destroy'd
The sense of other woes; death follow'd next,
And closed to him the scene of wretchedness!
Houses and cities now were desolate.

The remnant of mankind had gone to search,

If any where, in caves or clefts of rocks,

A little water may be found, which yet
The scorching sun had not completely dried.

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