might be the cat, or Trounce the terrier, after the rats-poor Trounce! who was always getting punished for "scraping the roofs off after the Why it must be Trounce, bastes of rats, which he couldn't let alone.'

for now he was smelling at the chimney-top.

"Alice! Alice Dizney!"

"Hark! That could not be Trounce-he never got beyond the bowwow of recognition."

"Alice Dizney, come to the chimney-gap, agra! It's I, the Bocher, darlint! and the new moon a cushla! both together, me and the moon, I mean. Come, hav'n't I made a sweep of myself for your sake? Oh, you must get up, that you must; sure a troop of soldiers, bad luck to them, could get down this big chimley-stay-put your fut in where the beam was tuck out to splice the gate. There, now your other fut, where we drew the wasps' nest from, afore you war born-there! down Now I'll hand you my crutch, My jewel of a climber you are. Now you're in the free and take a fast grip of the cross of it-there! air again, jewel, God be praised! and not the first that escaped from lock and key, yet carried a cross with them. Augh, we're all born with a cross, only no one sees it for us at our birth; hope makes many a father and mother blind. Now, no fear of being obsarved-look at the eye the moon has to you, my darlint-how she slidders behind the No danger, moony lady! no dread; Stiff cloud for fear you'd be seen. Tom's waiting for me at the Red Gap. When the cat's away, the mice may play; so the boys and girls have their own little crawneens-their small taste of loves to mind, whin his back's turned. Now we're on the ground, and I must help you, and you must get on as hard as you can after me, hot fut. And when you come to my cabin, just put your ear to the place in the door that has a lock of straw thrust into it; and it's discoorsing your father I'll be about what consarns you to know; and when you hear me, say twice that's a clinker!' and strike my crutch in the earth, knock, and

"

"I can't do that, Daddy;" interrupted Alice, "I cannot play the listener, nor be a spy on my own father."

"Get out with your nonsense, it's what consarns you."

"I cannot help that."

"After the way he's threated you!--you've not the spirit of a beancrake."

"I must respect myself."

"But it consarns, Miss Ally, it consarns William Neale."

Alice trembled violently, and her heart beat audibly against her bosom, yet she hardly paused ere she replied-" Still, I cannot-will not listen!"

"I've as great a mind as ever I had in my life to let go anchor, and turn ye adrift, ye obstinate fay-male, that you are! and I getting every thing so handy for a purty play of my own!"

The Bocher continued grumbling, yet admiring her inflexibility of purpose; at last he exclaimed-"Well, then, go to the far corner, under shadow of the wall, stay there till I open the door, and turn Fangs out. You'll do that, will you ?-and then come and knock with a lump of a stone at the door.-Will you do that, itself?

To this Alice consented, and after parting with the Bocher, she once more took her way down Red-Gap Lane, while he proceeded by a shorter path, and at a quicker rate to his dwelling. She stationed her

self at "the far corner under shadow of the wall," and though the wind was high, and the night stormy, she could hear that a storm raged within, as well as without the rude habitation; during the pauses of the outer blasts she could hear, sometimes the Bocher's loud and scornful laugh, sometimes her father's declamation. Suddenly, Fangs was sent forth, with the direction, "Look out, boy-have 'em out, Fangs!" The door was shut to, the discussion re-commenced, and Alice, without knowing why, knocked, at first gently, and then more loudly, at the door, trusting implicitly to the Bocher's directions and kindly feeling; she heard a stir within the cabin, and to her astonishment, when the door was open, she stood alone with the Wise-man; and, both exhausted and surprised, sank down upon her old seat beneath the window.

"And so you got out, did you, Miss Ally? Augh! I said stone walls wouldn't keep you in, that I did;-and now, I suppose what you're after is your batchelor, wild Willy Neale,-you're ready for him, I'll go bail for that! and little care for your ould father-Augh! it's the way with you all-the way with you all!-ready to leave him-ready to leave him!" How was poor Alice's astonishment increased at this strange address! "No, Daddy," she replied, "I will never give my hand to a man I so perfectly hate, as the man my father would have me marry-but dearly, dearly as I love William Neale, I will never make my father childless for his dear sake;-until he turns me out starving upon the world, I will never leave him ;-nor will I marry without his leave."

"Hush!" muttered the Bocher, "look at Fangs' ears-how they prick! -those I knew war coming are come,-and now," he continued, whispering in her ear, "you must listen and no thanks to you, so get in there,-down behind the hurdle-be asy, will ye?-there's shoals of room-make room for your own child, Tom!-now we'll do."

Alice felt that the Bocher had thrust her into a sort of half den, whose entrance was perfectly concealed by a couple of hurdles, upon which sundry fowls roosted ;--nor was her sense of comfort increased by finding herself pressed against her father, who was puffing and blowing in a way peculiar to himself whenever he laboured under any strong excitement. Neither, however, had time to remonstrate upon the unpleasantness of their situations, for the door was quickly opened, and as quickly they heard the voice of Ellen and her lover Mike.

"And so," grumbled Mike, "I hear that a friend has turned up for William Neale, and that if he's not come back, he's coming; and if that's true, what's to 'come of me?"

"Come of you!" replied the Bocher, "I tould you that ever so long ago, no good, that's what'll come of you.'

"You're not fair to us, Daddy," chimed in Nelly, "you got at Mike's sacret through the black art—and I wouldn't say but you used it!"

"To be sure I used it; and uses everything else that's pleasing to me!" interrupted the Bocher. "And is it for a pack of ignoramuses like you to talk of the black art; take care that the evil tongue of you, Nelly, don't shrivel up in your big mouth-take care of that, I tell you. Ah, you needn't try for your scapular round your neck, we all turn to religion, when we think it can sarve our turn; do ye mind last night how you snoogered it with Stiff Tom for a necklace of coral bades ?"

"There!" exclaimed the jealous Mike, "I knew she was more thick with Tom Dizney than she ought to be, pursuadin me it was a daughterly love she had for him!"

"Me!-is it me!-you'd even the like of that too!" exclaimed Ellen, in an indignant voice. "Me!-the poor ould doting man-I passes a joke with him now and then, and I own to the bades, Daddy,-and what's more, I'll own that I took 'em for fear Miss Ally 'ud get um." "And the kiss that went with 'em ?"

"Wisht, Daddy, wisht!" interrupted Ellen. "Mike, don't bother, now don't; I'll take my oath, if you like, that sorra a kiss I ever gave the ould torment. Augh! I'd as soon kiss my grandfather, who's been in his grave these ten years.'

Alice felt her father wince, and she was glad the wind was howling outside, for he gave a tremendous puff which might have betrayed them, and she was too much of a woman not to enjoy the scene.

"I'll finish Tom Dizney, or you must finish with him, I tell you that, Miss Ellen," said Mike gruffly; "but what brought us here, as you know, was about this wild William's return."

Alice's heart beat quickly, and had she been more at ease, she could not have failed to admire the manner in which, by judicious questioning, the Bocher forced Mike to confess his share in the burning, and also to exculpate William Neale from having had anything to do with it. It was curious to observe how he worked at one moment upon the superstition and at the next upon the interested feelings of his visitors; missing no point; suffering no word to escape that bore upon his object, showing Dizney how falsely William had been accused. Ellen's loquacity too surely betrayed her share in the conspiracy, and all for the love she bore the handsome, but ruffian-looking raparee, whom she loved and FEARED; Stiff Tom puffed like a grampus; the overjoyed Alice pressed closer and closer to her father's side; and at last nature, beautiful nature, had its way, for she felt his arm pass round her waist, and she was positive that she also felt what was still dearer, a father's, a stern father's tear of affection drop upon her hand! Something said by the cunning Bocher re-awoke Mike's jealousy, and Ellen offered, wicked that she was, to swear against ever speaking "to that ould baste Dizney again." This was more than Stiff Tom could endure; he burst through the hurdles, and levelled a most eloquent torrent, rich in all the singular epithets of Irish abuse, at the jilting village intriguante, who had assisted in the formation of so much mischief. Mike was paralyzed at his sudden appearance; Ellen's overwrought feelings found vent in tears, at first, but afterwards she commenced a display of feminine eloquence, directed chiefly against the Bocher, which might shame many of the Billingsgate professors of the art. When, however, as if the earth yawned forth human beings, Alice and William Neale stood together in the Sheeling, and when Dizney, who had not been aware of this other concealment effected in the Bocher's mysterious den, saw the person whom his conduct and suspicions had so desperately wronged, turned abruptly to him and exclaimed-" Neale, if you want to see my daughter, you know where my house is-go with her there," the Bocher could contain himself no longer; he whirled his crutch high i' the air, shouting and hurraing, so that the white pigeon, frightened and displeased at her master's proceedings, again nestled in the bosom of the now happy Alice. As she passed, supported by her lover, into the open air, she turned to look at the half-profligate, half-foolish girl, whom she had once so much loved. She extended her hand towards her in token of for

giveness but sinners cannot forgive like those who are sinned againstthough Ellen afterwards bitterly regretted the opportunity she had lost, when crossing the broad Atlantic with the runaway Mike, she counted over ten golden guineas which her generous foster sister had begged from "her fortune" to bestow upon her. Stiff Tom bestowed his Dublin pumps, when they arrived, on his new son-in-law; got a stout walking-stick, and took again to his old coat fastened as usual at his throat by a wooden skewer, a sure sign that his courting days were over; but I very much doubt if any of the party of whom I have written enjoyed more real happiness to the end of their days than the "wise man"-"the fairy man' ”—“ The Bocher of Red-Gap Lane.”

THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLEMAGNE.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

[In the cathedral at Aix-la-Chapelle we were shown (among other relics) the ivory hunting-horn of Charlemagne. It was massive and heavy; and our guide, who attempted to sound it, only succeeded in producing a faint, lugubrious sound, which was anything but cheering. On the belt to which the horn was suspended, the words "Mein! Ein!" are repeatedly engraved; and though an intelligent German assured me those words (taken together) had no meaning, I have persisted in the poetical license of supposing they answer to our " mine own."]

SOUND not the Horn!-the guarded relic keep:
A faithful sharer of its master's sleep,
His life it gladden'd-to his life belong'd,-
Pause-ere thy lip the royal dead hath wrong'd.
Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand;"
Its desolate note, the shrine wherein we stand!
Not such the sound it gave in days of yore,
When that rich belt, a monarch's bosom wore,-
Not such the sound! Far over hill and dell
It waked the echoes with triumphant swell!
Heard midst the rushing of the torrent's fall,
From castled crag to roofless, ruin'd hall;—
Down the ravine's precipitous descent,

Through the wild forest's rustling boughs it went ;-
Upon the lake's blue bosom linger'd, fond,
And faintly answer'd from the hills beyond.

Pause!-the free winds that joyous blast have borne-
Dead is the hunter!-silent be the horn!

Sound not the horn! Bethink thee of the day
When to the chase an Emperor led the way,
In all the pride of manhood's noblest prime,
Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time;
Life's pulses throbbing in his eager breast,-
Glad, active, vigorous,-who is now at rest!
He gazes round him with his eagle eye,
Leaps the dark rocks that frown against the sky;

Grasps his long spear, and curbs his panting steed
(Whose nerves still quiver with his headlong speed);
At the wild cry of danger smiles in scorn,
And firmly sounds the long re-echo'd horn!
Ah! let no touch the ivory tube profane

Which drank the breath of living Charlemagne !
Let not like blast by meaner lips be blown,
But by the hunter's side the horn lay down.

"Mein Ein!" The words endure. And dream we now, Not of the hunter's strength or forest bough,

But woman's love! Her offering, this, perchance,-
This, granted to each stranger's casual glance,-
This, gazed upon with coldly curious eyes,

Was given with blushes, and received with sighs!
We see her not;-no mournful angel stands
To guard her love-gift from our careless hands;
But fancy brings a vision to our view-

A woman's form-the trusted and the true,→
The strong to suffer, and the weak to dare,—
Patient to watch, and careless of her care,-
Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile,
And with her whole heart's welcome in her smile ;-
Even such I see. Her maidens, too, are there,
And wake, with chorus sweet, some native air.
But though her proud heart holds her country dear,
And though she loves those happy songs to hear,
She bids the tale be hush'd, the harp be still,

For one faint blast that dies along the hill.

Up, up she springs, her young head backward thrown,— "He comes! my hunter comes !-Mine own-mine own!" She loves, and she is loved-her gift is worn!'Tis fancy, all;-and yet-lay down the horn!

Love-life-what are ye ?-since to love and live
No surer record to our times can give!
Low lies the hero now, whose spoken name
Could fire with glory, or with love inflame;
Low lies the arm of might, the form of pride,
And dim tradition dreameth by his side.
Desolate stand those painted palace-halls,
And gradual ruin mines the massy walls,

Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome guest,
And loudly rang the beaker and the jest ;
While here, within this chapel's narrow bound,
Whose frozen silence startles to the sound
Of stranger voices ringing through the air,
Or faintly echoes superstition's prayer:-
Where, from the window, narrow-arch'd and high,
Whose jealous bars shut out the free blue sky,
There glimmers down, with various-painted ray,
A prison'd portion of God's glorious day;
Where never comes the breezy breath of morn,-
Here, mighty hunter, feebly wakes thy horn!