An Old Ulster Tale Re-told.

THE TEEHEN TBAGEDY,

£boPT two miles from the city of Derry, a ] o ng tbe winding stream ,of the Foyle, is Prehen, the seat of the Knoxes. It is one of the most beautiful and pictusesque spots in the north of Ireland; for it is thickly wooded, and covers a very wide tract, descending to the river, and almost hiding from view the quiet road along the liver which runs from Derry to Strabane. jlie view of Preben from the Donegal side is particularly attractive, for the ancient trees are here seen to overhang the T ery stream with their dark shade. The louse of Captain Knox, the present owner, } s a plain, square, substantial building, standing within a hundred yards of the river, and almost entirely shrouded by trees. Here the Knoxes have resided for many generations. They are descendants of that Andrew Knox, bishop of Naphoe— himself a relative of John Enox, the re . former—who from 1610 to 1632 held such kindly and conciliatory relations with the early founders of Presbyterianism in "JJlster. And here, or within a few miles of it, occurred' a hundred and ten years ago, a most melancholy tragedy, which cast a gloom over the place which seems never to have left it. It was said after the time of the tragedy that the sun would never shine on Prehen, nor the cock ever crow in its woods. I refer to the murder of Miss Enox, a young and most beauti ful girl, by John Macnaughtan, a gentle man of good family and high connexion, and an intimate friend of the Knoxes. The father of Macnaughtan resided ai Benvarden, near Bally money, in County Antrim, and was grandson of Shane Dhu, or Black John Macnaughtan, who was kinsman to the first Earl of Antrim, and be came his principal agent in the manage ment of his estates. The Rev. George Hill remarks concerning the family 'The Macnaughtans claim a long line of ancestors, not a few of whom were illustrious in their generations; and there is scarcely a period of the written or legendary history of Ireland and Scotland in which this name, iD some form, does not appear.' The fathei of Macnaughtan was a highly popular and respected magistrate of County Anti-ire He died young, leaving his son about six years of age and entitled to an estate worth about £500 a-year. The date of the boy's birth was about 1722. He was sent at an early age to the Eaphoe Diocesan School, and afterwards received a thoroughly liberal education in Trinity College, Dublin, of which he became a graduate. Both at school and at college he displayed an unfortunate propensity for gambling which never forsook him till it had launched him into ruin. He be came of age while at college; took posses sion of his estates ; received the entrance , into good society-ulfQJigh Lord Mas sereene; won large sumll °* money both in Englandand in Ireland among professional gamesters; but ultimately lost more than hehad won, aris waf obliged, while still very young, to \^ part of his estates and mortgage oP* remainder to pay off his gambling debts. His connexion with Lord Mas sereene enabled him to retrieve his affairs • bjvinarrying the sister of Lady Massereene ' who was daughter of the Very Rev. Dean Daniel; but the marriage was only brought about by a solemn engagement on - his part that he would play no more. He kept his engagement for two years; but then succeeded in persuading his wife to absolve him from his oath; and he re turned to the gaming-table with new zesi but with worse luck than before. His ex travagances involved him in new diffi culties ; but at length, one night as he was returning home, some sheriffs officers endeavoured to arrest him at his own door, when he gave a most determined re si: i,/; -Je> aQd excited a tumult, which brought his young wife to the window (she had just been confined about a fortnight before); and the fright of this scene oc casioned her death. The young husband was inconsolable, for he loved his wife dearly; but at length he returned to the gay world, plunged into play once more, and found himself reduced to the deepest distress. Lord Massereene procured for him the appointment of collector of taxes for the county of Coleraine, at a salary of £200 a-year, which, added to his now curtailed income from. his property, might have afforded a very comfortable existence. Mr. Workman, who had married his sister, became his security in a bond of £2.000. During the next two years he held the office and resided in Coleraine ; but Macnaughtan' appointment was not of long duration. He continued to play, and embezzled £800 of the public money. Of course, the loss of his place followed, and his estate was sequestered to make good the deficiency in bis accounts. It was at this period, when he was almost an outcast from society, that Andrew Knox, Esq., of Prehen, Member for the County of Donegal, in the old Irish Parliament, who had known Macnaughtan from a child, in an evil hour invited him to his house, and made him one of the family till something should turn up. The family thjn insisted of Mr. Knox, his wife, a son J iteen years old, and a daughter abou: lift' m—a lively and amiable girl, • '^oiu - ses3ed a large fortune in her own v, 4*^) r'jaae ien<i of her father. Mac- XtL ?^iitan i ameiijly conceived the idea of marrying. iftt'oung lady, who was very veil inelia to his suit; but he found that she vli take no step what ever without liis.ither's consent. He 'resolved then to*;e his proposal to the father, but Mr. |?sx e'isolutely rejected it; and then 3 vnaughtan begged his teyjsOthing of the matter to fchelSmii^,l^- as £fe7¥;w what he had done ivas improper, and v jged ;o be saved the '. +ification of 'exposure. Mr. Knox • isuspectingly consented, aui the wily mest gave his most solomn v ssu:> uces %$ he would think of it no more But *»-<"- .„ thing he did was to assure m Ver father had w eni-1 Ihg^ i a • *"' aid mo<ri ■ fchat *t fa^WP r -asi* -d tliat n 0 mentlon of aould be made to any one—not even to er—fora year,,not only on account of er youth, but on account of the unsettled ate of his affairs. He requested tbe Dune girl not to betray him—for he ,uld not deny himself the pleasure of lline her-as her father might be so m* that he would cancel the engage ,nt altogether- The yemng lady fe o this snare, an* received** addresse

imagining le that she was only secretly ft ' Other's intentions; and was '•■ * a Qcce'rt«. r some time, to read over the mony with him, in presen n named Hamilton, kissic 9 'oot I srchangeably with him. , ,',' ■ 'a^to e-'A.. promise; but she ooitt! -„? a^ded- J^ovided my father shall i Sent/ B.WO. afterwards he tried to pei '!;/ ' de &<?r 'it"t she was actually marriec 3D4 Press f er to *ive wtih him as his v, c *. Bat |c refused. Shortly after, M K'ox Jlnt on a visit to Mr. Wray, of Axis, ™ istance of seventy miles. Macflup :u accompanied her part of the wa, a till pressed her upon her duties as- and even attempted to use forcp 'he indignantly re sented his 1 never forgave him. Thi? war -oint in the unhappy aflVir. to Mr. Wray's; he foliowf go to her friend's house. .as so deeply affected i by what ha. ' «at her young friend, Miss Wray A 'aer depression of spirits, indiieeuafc* to disclose the whole matter; and IV>. Wray, the very next day, being concerned for the safety of his friend's child, sent her back to Prehen with a letter (ommunicating the whole facts of the case. Macnaughtai, knowing that Mr. Knox would now be undeceived as to the charac ter of his conduct, then resolved to claim the heiress by law, in virtue of the sup posed contract between them, and to set all her friends at defiance. He accor dingly went down to Sligo to sco Mr. James Knox. uncle of the young lady, and made him acquainted with his pretensions. '$&*%■ nc.l e at once set off to P?ehen, buFfc a n*s ari>ival that Miss Knox had ale •' .told all to her father. It was deeme '.visable that she should leave Prehen res'de, at least for the present, witi uncle in Sligo. Mac naughtan, w f always made aware of her movers through some of the peasar/£S ut t, fii followed her to Sligo, in company l,i his uncle, Alderman M'Manus, c -Ifcondonderry; but her friends woolrnol allow her to appear in public whenceJ| beard of his arrival. He also, at>, .'l, me time published an advertisemen ™. newspapers claiming her as his v. { c frequented all the public places: own, and encountered, in a public ' J onQ Magill, Esq., a friend of the family, who called him a scoundreJ duel followed, the circutnste' (rhich reflect no credit on Mac for, knowing that his opponei iend the evening with a friend . y drank freely, he sat at his it Magill also was tcv, sleep, wr his return, that hie might fig ore he slept. AccorJl ingly, wht o'clock in the morninfg, Magill re' -ome inebriated, Mufc naughtan c -d him to an immedialte encounter. stepped ont at j)WTce into the \ i pistols; ands-'at the first disclar ank as hej?fas, Magill was fortuiai | 'igh tq^send a bullet through toe . % 'il^opponent, a little below the ctM§ wounded man re turned toDe f on a Utter, and seemed gratified by result of the duel, .as ii tended to ra~ i m j n the estimation of the peasantr.. Meanwhile, Mr. Knox ytook proceec .^ s j n the Ecclesiastical >^prt of Lon x derry—first to prove the contrac^fl n : mage, and then to set it aside by rr'' a statute lately passed, which renew ;d such contracts ipso facto void if ei(y"'" of the parties were under age. But tacnaughtan defeated his design by.i eping Hamilton, the only witness ofjtho contract, out of the way. The case yi then taken to the Court of Delegates L Armagh, where Hamilton was compiled to appear; and Mr. Knox at length jucceeded in setting aside the contract, pd obtaining £500 damages. In the conse of these proceedings, Mac naughtan'wrote a threatening letter to one of thejudges of the court; and if we are to belive the rumours, lay in wait to have hint m rdered when he came on circuit; bit the judge escaped by taking another riai. The result of these pro ceedings jvasthat Macnaughten, unable to pay tie damages, fied to England, where hejesorted to his old habits as a means off laintaining himself. During his absene le was kept fully aw are of Miss Knox's nivements by correspondents at Prehen afl Derry. The peasantry took the deepjst interest in his fortunes, as they considered him wrongfully de prived of Ihe wife of his romantic and enduring flection. Having learned from Ireland th^ Miss Knox, in company with her motheiand her aunt, Miss Angel Knox, had gone ti drink the waters at Swadd ling Bars.lnear Enniskillen, he set out from London and reached Ireland in ten days, traveling by Scotland. When he approached Enniskillen he left his horses and guided and entered the town on foot, disguised jb a sailor, in a short white wig, a checked] shirt, and a kind of loose coat tied round his middle by a rope. Next morning ie started off with a guide to Swaddlinj Bars, and hired a lodging in a poor cabiji on the skirts of a wood, bor dering Oii the public walks to the wells. He lurked in this wood all day watching for an opportunity of seeing Miss Knox ; and he siid afterwards he did see her several tines, and was once very near her for abovs ten minutes, when she was almost aione; but he did not approach her. If can never be known what was his objbet in coming to this place in disguise. The peasantry believed —and belie vi still—that it was his ardent affec tion for her that drew him fascinated to the spot. Others imagined that his object was to carry her off: but it must be remembered that he had neither horse, carriage, nor accomplice to carry out such a bold design. Others still believe that his design was to shoot her. The circum stances that led to his discovery at this place have been adduced as presumptive evidence to this effect. For on the fourth morning after he took up his abode in the cabin, le went oat for a little, leaving be hind him a shirt with a considerable 'quantity of powder and shot tied up in the sleeve. The poor woman who kept the cabin was so alarmed by the discovery, imagining that he was a highway robber, that she went at once to the Bishop of Kil- Imok who was then at the wells, and dis ' covered all to him. The Bishop at once offered a reward for his arrest, but Mae naughtan went privately to his lordship anddiscovered himself, greatly to his lord ship's amazement and the terror ot Miss Knox and her friends, who were im mediately informed of the event. Ihe result was iM the ladies went to Florence Court, the seat of Lord Mountflorence

v&iioj. wciius juuru. jiuuisKiiieu; near vi& c wells, and placed themselves tinder his c protection. jMacnaughtan immediately i followed, and besought his lordship to ] grant him an interview with the young ] lady on any terms, or in any company; : but his lordship was inexorable, and Mac- ] naughtan only succeeded in obtaining an ' interview with the aunt, who reproached him bitterly Ibr his conduct, while he i argued most passionately and persistently ; that Miss Kncjix was his wife before God and man. He then departed, declaring that he would,! return at once to England. But he only (returned to Enniskillen, re-: suming his djisguise, and wandered round j the country tor a couple of months, in constant comsnunicution with partisans, to ' whom he declared he would have Miss Knox without fail, and would wreak the bloodiest revenge against all who should oppose himi " This all (happened in August or Sep tember, I^6o. He left Enniskillen and returned tfo hide in the woods of Prehen. Mr. KnoxJ received word of his presence, but he seemed to despise it. There was a blacksmith, however, whose wife had nursed Miss Knox, and who always fol lowed h«r abroad as her protector, when she yen tured any distance from home. This man was named David M'Cully. He livec 1 to a great age. and an eminent living | ihysieian of Derry has heard him recount all the circumstances of the bloody ' traged yof 1760.' He was a fearless man, of grea ; size and strength. Near the end of Oc ;ober, knowing that Mr. Knox would )e obliged soon to go to Dublin to attend the Irish Parliament, McNaugh tan re mired to the neighbourhood of Prehen , dressed as a sportsman, assum ing the $ name of Smyth, in company with eight <f>r nine of his tenants, including one poor aimple fellow called George Dunlop, who, 1 perhaps, little knew the serious errancfi. upon which his master was bent. He sulrveyed the road from Prehen lead ing to YDublin with the utmost care, in order tJafind the most convenient place for carryntag off Miss Knox ; and at length pitched uptpn, a place called Cloughean where man^r roads meet, about two miles and a half frotm Strabane, and six or seven miles from P**ehen. On one side of the road there wa|s a dung-hill, and on the other an oak Joank, and a cabin belonging to a pe>ij»ant named Keys. A farmer nameii Colhoun occupies this land at present. Here, early in the morning of thaGlOth of November. 1760, MacNaugh ta/n and his associates lay hid, with a sack flful of fire-arms and a long leathern belt, j which he said was to fasten the young " lady on horseback behind him, if she refused to go willingly. About eleven o'clock in the forenoon word was sent forward by a scout who was planted far down the road that the carriages were approaching. MacNaughtan allowed the first carriage to pass, as it contained only !VTr. James Knox, uncle of the young lady. Half an hour passed and young Mr. Knox, 1 her brother, appeared on horseback with a, servant behind him, also on horseback, bo*hunarmed; andattwentyyardsdistance behind them came the carriage containing Mr. Knox, his wife, daughter, and a t'e f male servant, guarded by the blacksmith : M'Cully, already mentioned, and a man ' named James Love, both well armed, 5 while Mr. Knox had a brace of pistols in k the carriage. As soon as the carriage » approached the cottage,. Macnaughtan ' rushed out with three of his associates, ' and at once stopped it by threatening the ' coachman with instant death. Ha then r went round the horses' heads to the door •of the carriage, that he might secure the f lady; but was encountered by M'Cully. 1 who, while presenting his blunderbuss c at him, was fired at by Macnaughtan and 3 wounded in the head. He snapped his • piece, but it missed fire, and Macnaughtan - then disabled him completely by another > shot; which took effect in the knee and J groin. Meanwhile Mr. Knox tried to fire > at Macnaughtan out of the window, but x the cock of the pistol flying off,;it missed J fire also. Macnaughtan then came to - wards the side of the coach where Miss i Knox sat, fired into it, and lodged five , bullets in the body of the poor un i fortunate young lady. It is said that, on I the first alarm, she threw her arms round i her father's neck to protect him, and so t received the contents of Macnaughtan's t blunderbuss. At the very same moment , he received himself a bullet from James • Love ia the shoulder; but he was only I infuriated by the wound, for he and his i associates then discharged several shots i into the carriage from a distance, not , caring whether .they killed every one in • it. They then walked away with great ; composure through the wood where their . horses were tied, and galloped away i across country out of sight. i Meanwhile young Mr. Knox, who had been unable during this frightful scene to lend the slightest assistance, as he was totally unarmed, galloped off to Strabane for Sir James Caldwell's light horse to pursue the assassins, and a servant was despatched for a surgeon. The poor young lady was taken out of the coach and carried into Key's cabin, where she was laid in such a bed as the place allowed covered with her blood, and praying to be delivered from the intolerable pain of her wounds by death. In a short time Dr. Law arrived from Strabane, and found three wounds in the left side, any one of which was mortal, and two others. She was then carried on a bier to a decent farm house not far distant, where she lan guished for four hours and died in great agonies. The light-horse came ontfrom Strabane within an hour, and separated into two parties, setting off in different directions for the pursuit of the murderers. The peasantry gave them wrong directions ; MacDaughtan pushed in a different direction to that they took, passing back on the Toad to Prehen, as if he intended to escape to Derry. When he had gone about two miles from the scene of the murder, he dismounted, threw the sad dle and bridle into a ditch, -and turned the horse loose into a field; betaking himself for concealment to the hay loft of a farmer named Winslow, where he hoped to be secure till night, when he might escape in the darkness. But one of the parties in pursuit headed by Corporal Callwell, got upon his scent and drove up to the farm house. , The Winslow family denied all knowledge of Macnaugh tan ; and the party were leaving the house when the corporal said to one of his com panions, in the hearing of a countryman who was digging potatoes in a field, that the discoverer would be entitled to a re« „.„,.;! /vf -fiQfVl Ttia MTmfnmiti ;«mma

diately pointed to the hayloft, and the corporal and a soldier named Reid boldly ascended the ladder, though they knew Macnaughtan must be armed, and the place was so dark that they could see nothing in it. As soon as he saw them he fired at them without speaking a word but missed them ; they then fired into the darkness ; he fired again, but most probably at his own head, for the fire had marked his ear, the ball having dropped out without doing any damage. They then rushed upon him with their swords, and he surrendered without resistance. Thus, he was a prisoner in about two hours from the time he shot Miss. Knox M'Dougall and M'Caroll, and his asso ciates escaped and were never found. But George Dunlop was arrested at Ballyboggy near Benvarden. Macnaughtan was conveyed on a car to Lifford Jail, where, at Mr. Knox's request; he was guarded by a party of the light-horse that had taken him. He bore his confinement calmly and bravely though he still vowed vengance against the Knoxes. and seemed very anxious for the cure of his wounds, though he must i have known how short a time he would survive them. He was tried along with Dunlop by a Special Commission at Lif ford on Friday, the 11th December, 1760. He was brought into court on a bed, dressed in a white flannel waistcoat with black buttons, a party-colored woollen night-cap, a crape about his shoulders, and a beard that had been growing Mince his imprisonment. He appeared perfectly composed,' and defended himself with uncommon ability and eloquence, such as drew tears from the spectators. He de clared he had no intention to kill anybody, much less Miss Knox, whom he loved as well as man ever loved a woman; but that, feeling himself wounded, he did not know what he was doing; declaring that he did not fire at the coach till Love lodged the shot in his shoulder. Both prisoners were found guilty and sentenced to death. Macnaughtan made an in effectual attempt to save the life of Dun lop, saying that ho was a poor,, simple fellow, one of his tenants, who did what he did under his influence and by his direction. Thepeope of the country, all the while regarded Macnaughtan with the greatest sympathy. They knew nothing of the history of his connexion with the Knox • family. They only knew that he had made a bold, but unfortunate, attempc to get posession. of a wife whom he tenderly loved. No person could, therefore, be pro cured to erect the gallows; and he must , have been executed upon atree, but for Mr. James Knox, the uncle of the murdered ; lady, who, with a party of gentlemen, '< erected a gallows. Neither could a smith , be found to knock off the fetters from the . prisoner's limbs, when he was brought - over from his room in the prison to the place of execution; and if one of those who had refused had not been compelled [ by the light-horsemen to do it he must have been executed in his fetters, contrary ! to the law. Even the hangman had to be r brought all the way from Cavan. ! Macnaughtan was very weak when he > came to the foot of the gallows. He was i supported by two attendants. He showed his regard for Miss Knox by appearing in i mourning; the cap that covered his face j was bound, with black, his jacket was i trimmed with blank, and had black jet buttons with large buckles on his shoes. I The Protestant clergyman of Strabane x attended him. He said the anticipation r af death was more dreadful than the 3 reality. On ascending the ladder ho ad justed the rope round his neck with his 3 own hands, and then, going up to the 1 topmost round, that he might give himseli s a heavier fall, he exerted all his remaining i strength to throw himself off. He fell; r but the rope broke, and he lay gasping on 1 the ground. The immense crowd gave a j termendous shout, and opened a lane for t him to escape. But, as soon as he re \ covered breath, he rose up and ascended . the ladder once more, with the rope oi 3 G-eorge Dunlop round his neck; and, 3 having been thrown off by the executioner, . he died "without a struggle. The broken i halter was then repaired; and ten minutes L after Macnaughtan died, Dunlop was > executed. The heads of both were cut off, i and their bodies, with their heads, were t buried in one grave behind the Church oi j Strabane. Thus perished miserably John Mac ? naughtan, the friend and correspondent oi j Lord Massereene and Lord Antrim. It i has always been a question of difficult i solution whether he designed to murder : the lady he professed to love. The • peasantry believe he intended to shoot the father ; but I can see nothing improbable in his intention to murder the young lady [ herself. If he found that abduction was i impossible, owing to the armed resistance i offered to his designs, is there anything '. more probable .than that he intended— i whether he loved her or not—to make it impossible that any other man should ever possess her ? But the matter cannot now be settled. "What a melancholy fate followed this poor young lady ! For a hundred years her portrait was to be seen in one of the rooms of Prehen House ; but mysteriously, within ten or eleven years past, it disap peared and the present owner could never 1 discover it by search or inquiry. Those who have seen the portrait say it wa3 the likeness of a really beautiful girl. Macnaughtan died without issue, and the Benvarden property was sold and passed out of the family. He had a younger brother, who was the founder of the Ballyboggy branch of the family. The Macnaughtans of Bushmills are des cended from an uncle of the unfortunate Macnaughtan. WWW—^——W—W A summer episode as evolved by little Johnny.—Last summer our dog Towser was a lying in the sun a trine to sleep, trat the flies was that bad he cuddent, cos he had to catch ' em, and bime by a bee lit on his hed, and was a working about like the dog was hisn. Towser, he hel his hed still and when the bee was close to his nose, Towser winked at me, like he said, you see, what this duffer is a doin, he thinks I' m a lilly of the valley wich issent open yet, but you just wait till I blossom and you will see some fun; and sure enough Towser opened his mouth very'slo so as not to frighten the bee, and the "bee went inside Towser's mouth. Then Towser he shet his eyes dreamy and his mouthx too, and had begun to make a smile when the bee stung him, and you never see a lilly of the valley ack «o in 6Y your life.

Nelly's Dream.

BY JOHN BLAOKMAN. n a lone village among the Suvrey hills, Vhere Mo!e meanders, sire of many rills, i cott« ge stood —a simple thatched abode, l few brief paces from the public road. ?here Nelly dwelt, ere men began to dream )f modern wonders, and the power of steam ; Uid there upgrew this rosy village maid, \ s fresh as roses redd'ning in the shade, Without a wish beyond the hills to roam. \.nd leave the comforts of her village home. Chere Nelly pass'd her earliest, happiest years, Mid rural scenes, a stranger yet to tears, kve those which happy childhood ever sheds, Which purify as dews on violet beds, 3r those refreshiag, gentle April rains Which glisten on the sward of English plains. Ehere life was joy till Nelly's mother died, And other hands" the cotiage wants supplied. Then out to service active Nelly went, With step reluctant, but with air content, For s c had learnt that li-o is full of change, And felt that God would shield her at the Grange." The cottage too had lost its native charms, There was no mother with her outs'; retch'd arms, To press poor Nelly closer to her breast, For she had pass'd to her immortal rest. She said her prayers at early morn and night, And did her duty as though in Heaven's sight, Her new found mistress too, was good and kind. And Nelly's years and wishes bore in mind, And pleased was she with confidence to trace, An honest purpose in the poor girl's face, While Nelly strove and daily credit won, And shard eve's pleasure's when her work was dene, All things went well and peaceful for a time, And pleasant as the mellow evening cbime. Till Ne'ly thought her mother could not rest, She'd seen her mother in her dreams, disfcress'd, For evils wrought she had not been forgiven, And could not live the angel life of heaven, As dark clouds sometimes gather up between The bleak, brown hills, and shade the valleys green, Then slowly break away across the plain, And scatter earthward partial drops of rain, So Nelly's face, now rounded with a smile, Would now be paled by inward grief awhile. Her mistress saw with'curious eye, the change And wonder'd at her moods and deem'd them strange.-' ''■'- With step less light she moved about the house And slower paced the meads to call the cows ; Her mistress saw the changfl, and oft would try, To learn the grief express'd in gait and eye, The latent meaning of her heart's unrest, ' ?et nothing glean'd by all her woidy quest. In Bnmmer evenings, Nelly oft would, stray, Among the meadows, strow'n with new mow'r hay, And pluck wild rose 3 from the hedgerows -wild1 For she was nature's simple loving child. She'd train (he lupins up the leafy bower, And bind the tendrils of some broken newer, Or watch the sunbeams less'ning down thf west, Between the clouds uproll'd in crimson reßt. One eve, o'er wearied, while the fragrant air Play'd with tli6 sweet flowers, peeping here and there, And sparrows chirp'd about the cottage eaves. Poor Nelly, wearied, slept beneath the leaves. And dream'd of glorious regions far away, Of vernal skies, and flowers that ne'er decay, Of starry thrones beyond the bounds of time, And waters flowing with a silver chime. That dream so gorgeous, I could not pretend, Its features bright with my poor verse to blend; Nor do I know, if spirits far from pain E'er come to visit earthly friends again ; Tet somo sweet influence Nelly's spirit cheer'd, And in her dream her mother's form appear'd Her face no longer bore the lines of care, But flowers from Eden, such as angels wear, Of wondrous beauty wreath'd her radiant brow, '' My Nelly, dear," she «aid "I'm happy now." The lovely vision pasa'd and Nelly's face, Now beauteous in the setting sun's embrace — Was more than lovely, as she struggling cried " My mother, stay, my counseller and guide— I've miss'd thee, O' my mother," then she woke, And scarce was concious of the words she spoke. She now believes that dream,so brief and blest, Was sent from Hearen to give her spirit rest, To chase her fears, her darklingdoubts destroy, And shed around her health, and peace, and joy-

Varieties.

'Well, my son, you have got into grammar, hare you ?' said a proud sire to his thickest chip the other night. 1 Let me hear you compare some adjec tives.'— Chip: « All right, dad. Lit tle, less, least; big, bigger, beast; mow, more, most ' —Proud sire: 'Hold on, sir; that's not right; you ' —Chip: ' Toe, tore, toast; snow, snore, snout; go, gore, gout; row, roar, rout.' —Proud sire: ' I say, those adj ' —Chip : ' Drink, drank, drunk; stink, stank, stunk; chink, chank, chunk ' —Proud sire: 'You in fernal little fool! What in thunder ' —Chip: ' G-ood, better, best; wood, wetter, wet; bad, wusser, worst; bile, biler, bilerbust; sew, sewer, sup ; pew, door, pupouch; ho ge-mini! dad ! 0 0-O-WP—The outraged parent had broken into the recitation with, a boot-jack.

A CiiBVEB Watch.—A certain man has a watch which he says has gained enough to pay for itself in six months.

Che following characteristic story is related of Carlyle:—Doubts have arisen from certain passages in his writings aa to his religious belief, Mr. James Pott-, the secretary of a certain London religious society, which shall be nameless, was imtrncted to write and ask " the philosopher " if he would kindly satisfy his numerous admirers upon the point. Carlyle replied that "he wag neither a Pan theist nor yet a Pott-theist." So much for asking questions.

John [Thomas (writing to his sweetheart) : "Do you happen to know if there's such a thing as a 'k' in Lancashire, Mr. Buggies ?" Mr. Buggies : "Of course there is." John Thomas : "Ah! so I thought. ■ But I didn't exactly know -whereabouts to put it." (Mr. Bugcles volunteers no further information), ExAGaEEATION.—A good elder of a church, who was given to extravagant exag geration, was at last called to account for his offence in that respect, and admonished not to give way to that besetting sin in future. The good old man received the admonition meekly, and said, "I know how prone I am to the fault, my brethren, and it has given me tortures of pain, and night after night I hare shed barrels of tears over it." The meeting adjourned in silence.

PiEASANT.—It is pleasant to see a yountj creature come into a tram, seat herself for admiration, look happy for fivaaninutes, and then wake up to the dismal conclusion that there is a long rip in her right glove. Thb Thibd Time. —Sh3 can stand it pretty well once or twice; but when yon spill a saucer of jam into her white muslin lap the third time, things get uncomfortable, and •he works her countenance as if she wasn't born to be aa angel.

Life in Paris.

In a recent letter from Paris io the Few York Tribune, Arsene Boussaye gays: To drive from his mind the fact that he is surrounded by a mere shadow of Government, Marshal MacMahon goes hunting precisely like Louis XVI in the great days of the [Revolution. France, which has counted more than a hundred parties and more than fifty Governments sinje 1789, could easily accustom herself to none at all. Du ring the two weeks in which we have had only the phantom of a ministry, Paris has been gayer than ever. We dine, we sup, we dance, we marry, we eapaiate, we marry again and separate anew. The theatres are crammed; it requires influence to get a stall. Al though the opera has neither men nor. women who can sing, although its dancers are cripples, it is taken by storm four times a week. It is the same way with all places of amusement. It would seem as if Paris had lost the faculty ofstayingathome. We are so perverted by cur thirst of curiosity and gluttony of the forbidden fruit that we no longer care for the fireside —that sweet poetic fireside, sacred to the games of childhood. "What am I say ing? Children no longer play. I have a son ten years of age. He is something of an American, for his mother is a charming woman of Lima. Do you want to know how he amused himself at his lasC holidays ! Listen. t*'ome one said to me, 'Do you know that your son drives the prettiest pair of black horses in the Bois ?' 1 did not believe a word of it, but the next day Madame Alfred Musard, who drives her four-in-hand with the grace of Apollo behind the horses of the Sun said to me, 'I congratulate you. I have just met your son with a cigarette in his mouth driving two spirited horses, like a man.' I should tell you that I have two sons. If the one belongs somewhat to the New World, the other belongs a good deal to the Ancient World. He is the historian of Apelles and Alci biades. He has lived much in Greece, and would probably still be there if he had not come back to Prance to enlist in the army in 1870. This one rides, but does not drive ; so that I had no doubt the one in question was the younger. I called him before my tribunal. ' What does this mean, sir ? They tell me you drive in the Bois two black horses taller than yourself.' ' Yes, sir.' 1 Whose are they ?' 1 Mine.' ' Explain this mystery.' ' 1 bought them dirt-cheap—eight thousand francs —and the dealer threw in a basket-carriage as light as a fea ther.' ' And how did you pay for the horses, Monsieur my son ?' 'Oh the dealer knew you- He has sold horses to you before; he knows he will get his money some day or other.' Thus do ten-year-olds amuse them selves now-a-days. I sent my son back to the College Henri IV—on foot. 1 have told this story to illustrate the state of things in Prance. Children amuse themselves like men, and men amuse themselves like children.

Woman's Chances of Matrimony.

A i/ATE analyzation of marriage statis tics in England by a skillful and patient calculator is of some interest to women of any age. It makes a comparative estimate of what a woman's chances in life are worth, and warns her when she is throwing them away. Say a woman's chances of marriage are a hundred. Between the ages of fifteen and twenty she exhausts fourteen and a half chances. If she is not married at twenty-five, fifty-two more of her chances are cancelled. If thirty finds her in single misery, she has only fifteen and a half chances left out of the hundred. They go slow now, but she has not many left. After thirty-five years she has eleven and a half chances to run on; and here the statistician stops, being particular about his figures. But he giyes the maiden of sixty a grain of comfort by telling her that she has just one-tenth of a chance of marriage out of the round hundred with which she is supposed to have started life at fifteen.

The Most Wonderful Valentine on Record.

i A young lady of this city received on Saturday a box by express. She found in it a beefs heart pierced with a golden arrow of elegant manufacture, set with jewels, and estimated to be worth at least $75. It is probably intended to be used either aa a neck-pin or as an ornament for the hair. There was not the least intimation who is the giver, nor can the lady or her family imagine Who sent it. For the donor of so munificent a gift he shows a strange taste in sending such a remarkable valentine to a lady. A pet dog had the heart for his dinner, but what to do with the pin the lady can hardly deter mine. The gift surely cannot be intended for an insult, and is probebly the result of some odd conceit.— Troy (N. T.) Press.

'The child has since died,' is the laconic remark which a Pennsylvania paper affixes to an account of a twelve-year-old girl who had already mastered logic, rhetoric. geology, botany and the mysteries of mental and moral science.

False Hair in France.

false fcair has given rise to a curiou and interesting trade, in respect of ■which the Continental Herald gives some particulars :—During the first half of tlie present centu,*'-'there was such a slight demand for/ locks that the price of human hair m Erance was only about eight francs the kilo. The enormous increase in the value of the article which has since that time taken place begun with the Empire. Between 1852 and 1863 the price ranged from sixteen to twenty francs the kilo; but when, in the seven following years, the ladies of other countries became smitten with the pas sion for exuberant chevelures, prices rose up by leaps and bounds, ahd dealers in false hair must have made rapid fortunes. The rate per kilo, which was quoted forty francs in 1866, was no less than one hundred and five francs in 1871. This however, is merely the value of the raw material; that of the manufactured article -is much, more considerable. A single chevelure of a common sort can be had for ten francs, but one of clear, pure blonde, of quality decidedly superior, sometimes fetches as much as two thousand francs. Brittany and the Auvergne are the districts in Prance which make the trade in raw hair a speciality, and it is said that the maidens of those provinces, • who were at one time sufficiently un sophisticated to 'sell a head' for a ribbon, a handkerchief, or a piece of flash jewellery, have become sufficiently shrewd to demand most exorbitant sums as the condition of such 'alarming sacrifices.' - • •'

The Ballet Girl's Neatness.

A weiteb says of the ballet girl :—• Like every other inhabitant of the Bealms of Joy she is wonderfully serious and uni formly grumbles. The smile you see at night ia just stereotyped to the occasion, and one warranted to appear before the public only. Watch the stage-door at night and you will see her go in the earliest and come out one of the last. The dress ing accommodation is a lone: narrow room like a loft, furnished with broken looking glasses and ledges adorned with rouge and powder puffs—wretched enough. In not a few theatres during the late severe cold not a vestige of fire was allowed, and the sufferings of this thinly-clad girl must have been intense. Her cleanliness is proverbial. Nobody can compete with the ballet girl in the matter of putting oh a stage dress. From Lady Macbeth with her pasteboard coronet to the chamber maid there is not one actress who is not glad to get a wrinkle from the ballet girl as to the folding of a scarf, adjusting a rose, pinning a ribbon or making up a face; and, to do her justice, nobody knows this fact better than she. This is her especial pride—everything is done by herself. She would as soon think of allowing any body to wash her face as wash, darn or pink her stockings, iron her skirts or trim her wreaths. Most of .these odds and ends she has to find out of her scanty earnings, exclusive of fines for absence at rehearsal or stage waits at night. So she is wonderfully economic. She seems invulnerable to fatigue. A change of dress from a fairy to an Amazon, to "a sailor, to a maid-servant—five, sir, seven or even eight times in a pantomine is she metamorphosed, and not more than a few minutes is allowed for a change—inclusive of some four or five stone flights of stairs. On these occasions, she rates everybody, but notwithstanding, few ever see her really out of temper. Out of the whole of the members of the company she is the most obliging. If Othello wants a piri, or his Desdemona has forgotten to put a button on his shirt, if Pauline bursts a staylace, or Jack the Giant Killer weeps over the loss of toffee, to the ballet girl they respectively fly for succour. In fact, from the 'star' wlw patronizingly addres ses her as my 'dear' to the carpenter who winds her up through the trap-door into eternal joy in the crystalized waterp, the ballet girl is a favourite—always bright and beaming,

Too Old for Kisses.

My uncle Philip, hale old man, Has children by the dozen; Tom, Ned and Jack, and Kate and Ann— How many call me"cousin?" Good boys and girls, the best was Bess; I bore her on my shoulder,, . A little bud of loveliness ''■.[■'. That never should grow older! Her eyes had such a pleading way, They seemod to say " Dont strike me," Then growing bold, another day,. " I mean to make you like me." I like my cousin, early, late, Who liked not little misses : She used to meet me at the gate, Just old enough for kisses! This was, I think, three years ago— } r ) Before I went to college; I learned one thing there—how to row, A healthy sort of knowledge. When I was plucked (we won the race),' And all was at an end there, I thought of Uncle Philip's place, . Arid every country friend there. My cousin met me at'the gate; She looked five, ten years older— A tall young woman, still, sedate, 1< With manners coyer, colder. She gave her hand with stately pride, " Why, what a greeting this is! You used to kiss me." She replied, "lam too old for kisses." I loved, I loved my cousin Bess; She's always in my mind now; '■ .:, ,-vj A full-blown bud of loveliness— *;, The rose of womankind now! She mu«t have suitors j old and young Must bow their headß before her; " Vows must be made and songs be sang By many a mad adorer! But. I must wan her ; she must give To me her youth and beauty; I ' j And I —to love her while I live + WiU:-.be my happy duty. For the will lore me soon or late, And be my bliss of blisses, Will come to meet me at the gate, ' Nor be too old for kisses !m; -j\- ■ ..-■..;,■;■• _ ■■- .a, | ,■-.->■.. t, . ji : -;.., } * <-v mid hs.dvik-0-bsi om ivloi /sMw wlj iimn& }

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