"You need not give me this advice, James: I tell you Tom Hardwick is nothing to me."

"Farewell, Emily," he murmured, wringing her hands. "You know not the value of the heart you have rejected; the spirit you have broken. Be assured that few men love as I have loved. I would have guarded you in my bosom; shielded you from harm; warded from you unhappiness. May the husband you shall choose, cherish you as I would have done. Farewell."

༣༠༧ ཨཱ

She burst into tears, and laid her head upon his shoulder, as formerly. But the passionate embrace that would once have rewarded her was withheld now-with violence to his own feelings, but still withheld. He knew now she did not love him at least with a love fit to mate with such as his.

"Farewell, Emily," he repeated, as he raised her gently up, when the paroxysm of her emotion was over; and with another wring of the hand, he was gone.

to

James Ailsa quitted the immediate neighbourhood of the house, but he continued, scarcely conscious of what he was about, pace the plantations around it. His misery was g great; far greater than those can form any idea of, who have not gone through a similar ordeal. In the full sunshine of his love, he had once thanked the Almighty for bestowing upon us the power to taste of such unutterable bliss: he might now be grateful to the same all-merciful Being, that He gives us strength to support and survive its contrast.

The events of the last few days had been a severe trial to him, but what were they compared with that night's interview, when the conviction that she had never loved him forced itself upon his soul? He pressed his brow upon the rough bark of the trees; he walked hither and thither without aim the weather was uncared for in his agony of mind; the hours also elapsed unheeded. But at length he was drenched to the skin, and began slowly to make his way home. The church clock was striking twelve as he reached Mr. Winninton's door.

n'at

He knocked gently, but it was unanswered; and in looking up at the house, no light was to be seen: the curtains were drawn closely before the windows, and total silence prevailed. Everything seemed to intimate that the family and servants were in bed; and he, unwilling to disturb them, and caring little, in his present frame of mind, what became of him, retraced his steps and walked about till morning. Soon after twelve, the rain had ceased, but the wind continued boisterously high. His body shivered and shook with cold, but it remained uncared for.

It was about half-past seven in the morning when he again stood at the surgeon's door, and at the same moment a horse was heard advancing at a brisk trot from round the corner. Mechanically Ailsa turned his eyes towards the sound, waiting to see who came in sight.

It was Mr. Tom Hardwick, booted and spurred, and trimly dressed. He was going to the steeple-chase, full of congratulation that the wretched night had turned out so fine a morning. He saw James Ailsa standing there, and looked full at him, but did not condescend to speak. A gesture of contempt, not noticeable perhaps by one uninterested, but strangely conspicuous to Ailsa, escaped him. Drawing his back proudly in, and his

head up with unsuppressed triumph, he averted his eyes from his outwitted rival and rode on.

"I wish to God he may break his back!" uttered Ailsa, as he looked after him, stung almost into madness by his haughty glance, and consciously triumphant bearing."

Tom Hardwick, followed by his groom, continued his way to the Crown and Thistle, an inn situated about two miles from Ebury, and close to the ground marked out for the steeple-chase. Here he found some friends awaiting him, and more were assembling, steeple-chasers like himself, those to be engaged in the day's contest having agreed to breakfast there, with a select assemblage of supporters.

This steeple-chase had been a long-looked-for event in Ebury, not only by Mr. Tom Hardwick and his sporting cronies, but by the village in general. Everybody had something staked on the great event, from the old squire's cool thousand, to Miss Emily Bell's pair of gloves. But the interest it excited, above that of all other steeple-chases, past or to come, was caused by the dangerous nature of the ground to be run over. None, save men deep in their cups, as had been the case in this affair, would have been so wild as to fix upon it. Five horses were to run, their owners to ride. Six men had been at the convivial meeting, whence the scheme had its origin, but one, young Gaunt, had in the mean time gone to London, and was now lying there dangerously ill. Many a one, after surveying the ground, turned away, with a shrug of the shoulders, wondering if the parties were already tired of life. Earl Dunnely, the old lord-lieutenant of the county, and father of Viscount Chiselem, came in haste from one of his distant seats, to endeavour to prevail on his son to renounce the danger. But the young sporting blades thought it looked very fine to persist in their contempt for the danger, and would listen to nobody.

Viscount Chiselem's Daylight, Honourable Charles Easthope's The Tartar, Mr. T. Hardwick's Fire-and-fly, Mr. Prynn's Brown John, Captain Flannagan's Cut-and-come-again, Of these horses, The Tartar was the favourite, and most bets were laid on him-except with the ladies. They, according to custom, only saw the merits of the horses through the attractions of their riders, and their betting was free enough upon the gentlemen favourites, these being, very generally, Lord Chiselem and Mr. Tom Hardwick. Emily Bell's gloves were of course red-hot upon Fire-and-fly.

III.

EVERYBODY had gone to the steeple-chase, man, woman, and child; not a soul was left at home to take care of the village, which might have run away with itself without hinderance. Even Miss Emily Bell, in spite of her disgrace, had been conveyed thither by her parents.

One exception there was, James Ailsa; but he was in no mood for steeple-chases. His preparations for leaving Ebury were completed; he was in haste to depart; and only waited the return of Mr. Winninton from the scene of the day's sport.

They were coming back at last, not one or two only, but in groups. Ailsa had been watching for them at the door a long while, and he stood and watched them still. A horseman clattered past, riding as if for his life. It was the butler at the Hall. Following close upon him, came

another; and this proved to be young Chewton, the lawyer's son. He

saw Ailsa, and pulled up.

"Have you been there, Ailsa? I did not see you."

"No."

"This is a horrible thing, is it not?"

"Has there been any accident?" demanded Ailsa.

"Good Heavens! have you not heard? Tom Hardwick's killed." Ailsa, strong man that he was, shook in every limb.

and leaned against the door-post for support.

"Is he dead ?" he gasped.

He drew back,

"He was not dead when I left," replied young Chewton, "but they say he cannot survive the night. His back is broken."

Ailsa shuddered: as if something supernatural were creeping over him.

"Why Ailsa, the news has startled you indeed! you are as white as a corpse.

There was no reply.

"One would think you were going to faint," continued Mr. Chewton. "Can't you speak? Are you insensible?"

At that moment he was, to all outward things. A prayer was ascending from his heart to the throne of Heaven for forgiveness of the sinful wish he had that morning uttered as Hardwick passed him, and which had been so strangely fulfilled.

"By the way, Easthope has got his arm broken or leg; I forget which," resumed Chewton,

"You forget which !"

"I really do. Minor accidents are lost sight of before such a calamity as Hardwick's. The poor horses, for instance, nobody has cast a thought towards them. Chiselem was thrown twice, and got stunned; and Flannagan was flung into Beech Pond. I don't know whether he's out yet." "But Tom Hardwick !" uttered Ailsa, incapable of listening to any other topic; "I would sacrifice my own life to save his."

"What a vain wish!" exclaimed Chewton. "By the way, have you heard that Gaunt's dead?"

"Gaunt! was he there?"

66

'No, no; news came this morning to the Manor House. He died in town."

Oh, goodness me! there never was such a steeple-chase before!" squeaked little Tuck, Mr. Winninton's new apprentice. "Mamma need not have said I shouldn't go, for fear I should get a liking for them. I'll never go to another. It's dreadful. You should have heard Tom Hardwick's groans. If you please, sir, can they set a broken back?"

"Not exactly," said young Chewton, answering for Ailsa, as he rode

away.

Master Tuck was right. There never had been such a steeple-chase before, at least in the recollection of Ebury. Lord Chiselem was thrown, and picked up insensible, Mr. Easthope's shoulder was dislocated, and Tom Hardwick's back was broken. Two of the horses were killed, one was lamed, and another had disappeared altogether.

"Well," exclaimed Mr. Winninton, throwing himself back in his easy

66

chair, after perusing a flowing account of the steeple-chase in one of the local papers, men are greater fools than they are generally taken for, to risk a rush into eternity every time they venture at these insane steeple-chases."

"But this was a particularly insane one," rejoined his gentle sister, who had invariably a kind and excusing word for everybody in the village, old maid though they all called her. "And I think the authorities should have interfered beforehand, and not have allowed these poor, thoughtless lads to risk their necks."

But the authorities had not done so, and the "thoughtless lads" had to reap the consequences of their own temerity.

[In Ireland, it is said, the fairies have power to punish those who intrude upon their haunts, and that they disappear altogether when their dwellings are encroached on by the homes and habitations of man.]

In many a silent moonlit dell
The fairy people used to dwell,
But none so gay as those erewhile
Who made their home in Erin's isle.
On sweet Killarney's flower-clad hills,
Or down by Mallow's gurgling rills,
Or where sweet Shannon's waters roam,
Be sure the fairies made their home.

The bright, the mystic Elfin band
There made their home in Erin's land.

They dwelt where voice was never heard
Save whispering wind, or warbling bird;
And ah! that was a rueful day

When herdsman led his kine that

For if within the fairies' ring

way,

His wandering flock he'd chance to bring,

In danger's path 'twas his, to roam,

Who crush'd the flowers of the fairies' home!

Such mystic powers that Elfin band
Possess'd of old, in Erin's land.

But now, where stood those lovely dells,
many a busy household dwells;

How

The mystic, dream-like, fairy past
Was all too pure, too bright to last.
"Tis thus in life-can age restore
Youth's beauteous fairy scenes of yore?
No! but in dreams again we roam
Those sunny realms, the fairies' home!

There only meet that gentle band
That bless'd
young Erin's sunny
land!

AMERICAN AUTHORSHIP.

BY SIR NATHANIEL.

No I.-WASHINGTON IRVING.

FEW, it may be reasonably affirmed, will demur to the judgment which assigns to Mr. Washington Irving the most distinguished place in American literature. Meaning thereby, not the distinction of incomparable genius in general, nor of pre-eminent superiority in any special department of authorship; but-without present reference to his personal or intrinsic claims, however great-the distinction of extrinsic, popular renown, the external evidence of long-established and worldwide recognition. Wherever America is known to have a literature at all, she is known to rejoice in one Geoffrey Crayon, Gent., as its representative. If an unreading alderman presiding at a public dinner wished to couple with a toast in honour of that literature the name of its most distinguished scion, Washington Irving's, we presume, is the name he would fix on; not, perhaps, that the alderman may have read that author much, but that he has read his brother authors less, or not at all, and, in short, proposes the toast in an easy, conventional, matter-of-fact way, as paying a compliment the legitimacy of which will be impeached by no compotator at the civic board. The alderman's private opinion, he being no great things" as a student and critic in the belles lettres, may be valued at zero; but his post-prandial proposition, as the mouthpiece of public opinion, as the symbol or exponent by which society rates a name now to be toasted with all the honours, is of prime significance. There may be American writers who, either in the range, or the depth, of literary power, or in both combined, are actually the superiors of the author of "Rip Van Winkle" and the "History of New York." He may yield in picturesque reality to Fenimore Cooper-in dramatic animation to Brockden Brown-in meditative calmness to Cullen Bryantto Longfellow in philosophic aspiration-to Holmes in epigrammatic ease-to Emerson in independent thought to Melville in graphic intensity-to Edgar Poe in witching fancy-to Mayo in lively eccentricity to Prescott in accurate erudition-to Hawthorne in subtle insight-to Mitchell in tender sentiment. He may, or he may not, do all this, or part of it. But, notwithstanding, his position remains, either way, at the top of the tree. Thitherwards he was elevated years ago, by popular acclamation, when as yet he stood almost alone in transatlantic literature; and thence there has been little disposition to thrust him down, in favour of the many rivals who have since sprung up, and multiplied, and covered the land. Mrs. Beecher Stowe is of course infinitely more popular for the nonce, or, indeed,

It may be for years, and it may

be for ever;

but, recurring to that distinction which is traditional, conventional, and thus far "well-ordered in all things and sure," Washington Irving holds it in possession, and that is nine points of the law.

In effect, he is already installed on the shelf as a classic. His sweet, smooth, translucent style, makes him worthy to be known, and pleasant