light became shaded, as Owen declared he had never scen Cormac since he had left home that evening. 'And Brian Mulcrone, is he missing too?' was his enquiry in return.

"Neither Brian nor Una have been seen since that unlucky night,' replied Aileen's mother. I met his wife on the Peek when I went up there on a station, she was on one the same time, for the good of Brian and the boy too, but the child is not a bit the better for it any way; he has one foot in his grave already.'

It was too true; the young child faded gradually away, and at length fell asleep in the arms of that fond mother who had carried him up the stony ascent of Croagh Patrick, and performed all its weary penances for his sake. They knew not for some time afterwards that he had departed, for like a flower gradually closing its petals at the approach of evening, so gradually and imperceptibly his young life contracted its little span.

Mrs. Mulcrone procured the attendance of the priest at the funeral, and subsequently the celebration of a mass; but the long absence of her husband, whose labour had been the principal support of the family, together with the expenses of the wake, rendered her unable to remunerate the minister for his trouble.

Father Barret called several times for the payment of his dues, but finding his visits unavailing, he seized in part liquidation of the debt, the only blankets in the poor woman's possession. Mrs. Mulcrone entreated him not to leave her young children destitute of nightly covering, but found that he was totally regardless of her earnest persuasions; at length she became so exasperated that she knelt down upon the high road as he departed, and prayed that he might never reach home in safety.

It was a wicked prayer, but the coincidence caused it

to be remembered. As Father Barret rode home that evening, his horse stumbled against a stone, which was but partially concealed by a shallow mountain-stream, which flowed across the bridle-way. The priest was thrown with considerable violence against a rocky bank, his head was severely wounded, and he was carried home in a state of insensibility. He lingered for two days but never spoke again. To this hour, the peasants of our neighbourhood narrate with horror the widow's curse, and the death of the priest of Knoc-na-orna. They invariably connect them as cause and effect, but on this point it is not for me to judge.

It is time to close these trifling records of Glencarra. Simple as they are, they have been a source of pleasure to me, causing me to re-visit, although but in fancy, a place which must be ever dear to memory. Little remains to be detailed. Few events of importance checquered the waveless, yet calm and peaceful current of time which bore the family of Glencarra towards eternity. For them it seemed as if the lines of Gray had been indited :

"Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes ne'er had learned to stray.
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way."

In the same peaceful tranquillity, the days of Moran and his wife glided by, and at length they followed Norah; rejoicing in the hope of a blessed immortality, and invoking blessings on those who had made the gospel of Christ accessible to them, by presenting its glad tidings in their native language.

During a long course of years, the fate of Cormac, Brien, and Una na gruig oir (of the golden hair,) remained involved in mysterious obscurity. At length, in the winter of 1842—3, (I think it was in the month

of December,) some men working in a bog in the vicinity of Killala, discovered three human bodies, which had evidently lain there for many years, although the well-known antiseptic properties of our bogs, had preserved them from decay; even their habiliments, though changed in colour, yet remained entire. One of the bodies was that of a peasant girl, the others had apparently been soldiers, but their brass ornaments were so tarnished, and the colour of their uniforms so altered, that it was impossible to determine to what service they had belonged. Hessians and Frenchmen, Hanoverians and Britons, had all traversed the country around during the excited period of rebellion, and none could tell which of these had here bowed to death; yet it was remembered that on the night of their disappearance, both Cormac Dhu and Brien had worn uniforms which the French had distributed among the rebel party.

Beneath the cold, clear sunshine, on the moorland, an inquest was held. It was an impressive scene, gentlemen and peasants grouping around the exhumed remains of those who had lived with the past generation, yet whose forms still wore the appearance of the prime of life. They were laid side by side; the dark, stern soldiers in the habiliments of war, their brown, strongly marked features still retaining traces of the daring determination which had filled their minds at the time of their unexpected fall,-and their young companion, the peasant girl, whose long golden tresses hung heavily down over the green turf.

The coroner's inquest was soon terminated, and a verdict was given, 'Found dead: supposed to have perished during the rebellion of 98.' The occurrence appeared in all the public journals of the time, and was then forgotten; for most of those who had known CorJULY, 1846.

F

mac had passed away, and the few survivors did not hear of the circumstances, until after a re-interment had taken place. Nearly half a century had passed between death and exhumation; how few had been left 'to recognize the remains.

What a flying vision, what a passing scene does this world appear, when we look back upon its vanished years. Even as I trace the mingled lights and shades which cross my path, the rapidity of their flight overwhelms me, and I feel the nothingness of things so transitory. They were here, and they are gone! They are as they had never been. When shall we learn to employ life aright; to seize the fleeting moments as they fly, and stamp them with a value worthy of beings who are about to pass from mortality into an unchanging, and eternal scene.

There are few greater fields of usefulness than those which present themselves in our own country, or, it may be, our sister country. With feeble pen I have endeavoured to pourtray that which I have seen and known, yet I have failed to convey an idea of the spiritual darkness which enwraps my people. The superstitions of fifty years ago are the superstitions of the day, years have worn but few away from a neglected peasantry, tenacious of everything that has descended from the olden time. At the moment on which I write,-in June 1846,-there are hundreds within ten miles of the place which I have designated Glencarra, who have never seen the Book of Life, nor even heard that it exists: yes, even many who know not that the Lord Jesus ever appeared on earth, and others who are ignorant of the mode or cause of his death. A weekly attendance on a service in the Latin language, and a half-yearly confession to a priesthood drawn from

themselves, constitutes their religion,-a number of superstitious legends, their creed. It is not their fault; they have never had the opportunity of knowing better; nature has gifted them with quickness, intelligence, and a desire for information; but poverty and the priests combine to keep them in ignorance.

There are now half a million of people in Ireland, who are utterly ignorant of the English language. These surely require missionaries as much as the distant inhabitants of India or New Zealand, and three Bible-readers may be sent forth for less expense than one could be employed in those distant regions: it would appear then a wisdom of benevolence, that home wants should be first supplied.* The glad welcome which readers receive can scarcely be imagined by those who have not witnessed the eager curiosity with which the impassioned children of nature listen to any book in their beloved language. I, at least, have never seen any eagerness to be compared with theirs under such circumstances.

There are also two millions and a half of Irish peasants who are more or less acquainted with the English tongue; of these, few have sufficiently mastered it to be able to comprehend more than conversational phrases, and all would receive in their native language truths, which they would otherwise reject. Among these may the Gospel soon be spread abroad, until it may be said of Erin, "The people that sat in darkness saw a great light, and upon them that sat in the shadow of death hath a great light shined !" Then, indeed, shall "the wilderness blossom as a rose," and the wild mountain-districts become a garden of the Lord.

The salary of an Irish Reader seldom exceeds thirty pounds a year.