'My father," said Adolph, may have dreams of greatness, even as you say. But much may be forgiven him who claims that wild youth, A. Von der Decken, as his only son. Read this" and with these words he placed in Isaac's hands the commission and appointment to the embassy. Isaac rubbed his eyes, looked from the paper to the youth again and again, and at last said "And hast thou come to revenge thyself for the injury I have done thee? I know," continued he bitterly, "the punishment that awaits a Jew who dares to imprison a noble. But you shall have gold-much gold and jewels. Bring me not to the torture." You have wronged us both," said Adolph. I have come to ask pardon for my only crime against you. I loved your daughter, and would have stolen her from her home. For this I have stooped to the trick which has deceived you for this I forged the letter which you believed was from Le Brun for this I suffered the indignity of a prison-and for this I now kneel and ask your forgiveness. The old man stood like a statuehe looked from one to the other as they both knelt before him. He passed his hand across his brow, and seemed laboring to understand all he had heard then, gradually recollecting, he said "You come not, then, in anger, Sir Baron ?" "I come in shame and sorrow," replied Von der Decken. "It is true, I might not have sued for your forgiveness so eagerly did I consult my own feelings only; but"-and here he turned towards Rachel, whose look met his own beamingwith love and tenderness, and he stopped. Father," said she," say you forgive him and me say we are pardoned— speak, I beseech you." "I do," said the old man, with an effort" I do." And then, slowly raising himself from his chair, with clasped hands lifted above his head, he said— "God of my fathers! do I live to hear and see this! Can a Christian be merciful to a Jew ?" He then raised them both, and said : "Sir Baron, you said you loved my daughter." 66 Dearer than life I love her." "Then she is yours." LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF IRISH LIFE. THOUGH SO many distinguished authors of the present day have devoted their talents to describing the habits and feelings of the Irish, there is, perhaps, no class of writers whose works exhibit greater variety, or who have infringed each so little on the province chosen by the others. It is almost as easy to know the works of Miss Edgeworth, Carleton, Banim, Lady Morgan, and, though last not least, Mrs. Hall, from each other, as it is to distinguish between the styles of Hudibras and Paradise Lost. They have, each, their peculiar merits and peculiar faults: with these, however, it is not now our busi Adolph stood for a second, unable to speak, and then clasped his beloved bride to his bosom, while she whispered in his ear "Alles was recht ist ness to meddle. It is at all times a most invidious kind of praise that extols one author at the expense of another; and Mrs. Hall's high character as an Irish writer, is so long established, and so generally admitted, that it could not add to her fame to depreciate her cotemporaries. There are, however, one or two characteristics which distinguish her works from those of several other writers on Irish subjects, which we cannot avoid remarking. One is the total absence of all appearance of party prejudice, or, what on the stage would be termed "political clap-traps," from everything she Lights and Shadows of Irish Life. By Mrs. S. C. Hall, author of "The Buccaneer," ," "Uncle Horace," "Sketches of Irish Character," &c. 3 vols. small - non satis est risu diducere rictum 66 has published. It has become so much ine humour—they would not be Irish the fashion to associate the term Irish without them—but then they are so with certain principles in politics, that brought forward as not to interfere many who affix it to their books seem with the interest of the plot. She to consider it indispensable to make knows the value of the precept them the vehicle of violent political sentiments of the same stamp. Just as the title “ Irish members” is assumed and while, in every tale, there is exclusively by the section of our repre enough to amuse, there is still more sentatives who profess liberal opinions, to love and admire. the epithet “national” is selected by authors who choose to purchase the The best illustration of our remarks, and, indeed, the surest means of securing approval of one portion of their countrymen by exhibiting a bigoted hos- the reader's praise for the subject of our criticism, is to extract some of their tility to the other. No one can read the works of Banim or Lady Morgan, contents from the volumes before us. not to mention any more recent and They are a collection of tales and more violent, without being painfully sketches, some of which, as the preface sensible of this. From this fault ali informs us, have appeared in print Mrs. Hall's writings are perfectly free. before ; but their merits are such as She has no party objects in view ; she amply to entitle them to a republicacan be national without being politi. first volume, “ 'The Groves of Blarney," tion, The tale which occupies the cally bigoted; she can shew herself has since its publication been adapted the friend of Ireland without being the to the stage ; but is too long to enemy of England : and can exert her talents to inform and interest her attempt its abridgement, so as to give readers without pandering to their any idea of its real beauties , in our limited party prejudices. Her sole object tract, at random, from the chapter of space. We will make an exseems to be, in truth, what it professes to be, “ To make the character Ruins,” in vol. ii. We do not select it as the best sketch in the volume ; of the Irish more extensively known and better understood to excite a but it is a good specimen of the author's generous sympathy for their sufferings, old man whose sole delight is to restore style. It is part of the tale told by an a kind indulgence towards their faults, the crumbling monuments of by-gone and a just appreciation of their virtues." days. Like Old Mortality,” he wanAnother characteristic which dis. ders, lonely and desolate, from ruin to tinguishes Mrs. Hall's writings is, ruin, replacing the tottering stones and that she always dwells on the foibles patching up holes in the old walls. of her countrymen rather as subjects His head is always bare, though, to of sympathy than of ridicule her use the language of his own forcible characters are calculated to interest metaphor, “ the four winds of heaven our feelings, and not merely to excite have been blowin' upon it for these our laughter. The time is, indeed, sixty years, till they have hardly left a now past, when the unnatural absur. grey, biair to cover it.” dities of Teagues or O'Blunders can wanderer's name is Clooney Blaney. We have seldom met anything more pass for genuine pictures of Irishmen ; and we now seldom find an Irish pathetic than the picture he draws of character introduced in a tale merely what had passed in the scene of his to amuse by his extravagance and youth. His former patron, Terence discharge the humble task of the O'Toole, of Mount Brandon, he desbuffoon in an old play. Miss Edge- born in Ireland, and that's sayin' u cribes as “the handsomest man ever worth set the example ; and modern authors can generally find something bould word,” high-spirited and generous too solemn for ridicule in the strength loved by the other. to an excess, feared by his own sex and of feeling that distinguishes the Irish left him”“ a power of lands and a power His father had peasant, and the forcible, though, per of debts,” and his reckless generosity haps, uncouth language in which Irish metaphor expresses it. But still it is continues to increase the latter, at the too common an error to sacrifice the expense of the former. After sketching interest of a story for the sake of his character, the old man proceeds : introducing too much that is ludicrous. “ These were his young days, and, I This Mrs. Hall never does. Her suppose, he thought they could never sketches contain many scenes of genu- have an end; and, to be sure, every one The poor in the counthry thought it high time for him to marry, but he did not think so himself, for his eye was set on a farmer's daughter on the estate, a young and beautiful girl, who loved him as no one ever loved him before or since. She proved that by bearing shame for his sake; and, God knows, the memory of that poor girl's love is tould by the ould people of Connemara to this day, the same as they'd tell of a ghost to warn their daughters from danger. Her father was a could, proud man, of an ancient family, and she was his only dote, and proud he was of the admiration bestowed upon her by high and low; though little he thought what was to follow: but when it was made plain to him, he said no hard word to her, but he took her hand and walked her out of their house, and took the key out of the door, and nine straws out of the thatch, and he left her weeping in a neighbour's house, and went up to the Mount, which was thronged with company, and walked straight into the hall, where they were at their wine afther dinner; and the masther never saw him till he stood at the foot of his table, white as a sheet, and his teeth chattering. And the ould man laid the key of the farm and the nine straws upon the table without a word; and, having done that, he knelt down on his bended knees, and he riz his long lean arms above his white : head, and he cursed Terence O'Toole with a curse that came slow and heavy from his lips, and that no one in all that grand company had power to stop and when he had finished his cursing, he turned his back upon them all and stalked right away, without another word or a sigh. It struck the masther, that if he acted so, he might ill use the poor girl, upon whom his heart had been so set; and as soon as he could he got away to see after her. He heard that she had been taken suddenly in her trouble in a neighbour's house, and that now she had a babby on her bosom. Well, to be sure, he ordered everything for her, like a lady, and went home, consoling himself for the sin, and thinking all the good he would do for her and for every one else; and how he'd get her proud father over. But, before the morning broke, he was waked by the small cry of a babby under his window, and he called up the ould housekeeper, for his heart mistrusted, and she took it in; and there was a taste of a note from the grandfather pinned on its breast; and when he read the note (no one ever saw that scrap from that day to this) he flew to the cabin she'd been in, and there was the woe of the world; for the ould man had first stole away the babby, coaxed the stupid woman that had charge of it to let him have it to show its father, come back in no time, and, while the nurse slept, rolled his poor, feeble, helpless girl up in a blanket, as she lay, and carried her, God knows where. Well, to be sure, O'Toole roused the counthry, and for that the snow lay deep on the ground, they tracked the ould man's steps to the border of the broad lake, and there, lady, the mark of the feet ended; but the ice of the water was broken and destroyed at the edge, and under it——" "Good God!' I exclaimed, petrified with horror. "Ay, sure enough, lady, the proud ould man had buried his own and his child's dishonour under that ice! The gentleman took no pains to hide his sorrow; and the monument to her memory was put up of beautiful white marble; and some talked of her end, but more talked of O'Toole's generosity." The old man then describes, in simple but pathetic language, the effect of this incident in changing the character of the gay and generous O'Toole. To drown recollection, he goes into parliament, and marries a sake of her money. weakly, conceited little lady," for the At length, he loses an election, gets wounded in a duel, and ruin stares him in the face. 66 "Where is your mistress?" said the masther to the ould housekeeper, and she handing him a drink of whey. My lady's in her own room, very bad with the narvous disorder,' replied the ould woman. And my sons, where are they?'— My Indeed, then, they are just amusing themselves with shooting each other, now the election is over.' This is not wine whey?' said the poor gentleman. grief, no sir; but it's good two-milk,' she made answer: Sorra a drop of wine in the cellars; and the devil of a marchant has sent in an execution, over eleven hundred, for his bill, and no one here strong enough for to keep it out; only I oughtn't to be telling you the throuble, my darlint masther, while the wakeness is on you.' She might well think of the wakeness, and he almost fainting. Where's the boy ?' said he again, and by the boy' he meant me. 'He's below,' she said, 'afther hiding some of the plate under the turf rick, for fear of them vagabonds seeing it.' Send him up,' says the masther; and though I'd the run of the house all my life, it was the first time I was ever had up before him. He called me to his bedside, he put his hand upon my head, and looked for full five minutes in my face; he then sighed from the deep of his heart, and turned upon the bed. May I go, your honor?' I said. Aye,' he made answer, 'do; why should you not go, poor boy? Those I trusted in are all gone.' Maybe your honor would let me try to turn the luck by staying,' I made answer. He held his hand over the side of the bed; I fell on my knees and kissed it, and I never left him from that day till the day of his death. "The old man, overcome by the full gush of remembrance, laid his head on his hands, and continued silent for some minutes. "The young gentlemen (he had but two) were fine, proud, wilful boys; that on the tip-top of an English education had been learnt what faults their father had done; and, indeed, they did pretty much the same themselves, only in a different way, siding with their mother against him; and she had none of that love for her husband which makes people cling to the throuble sooner than lave the throubled. She soon took herself and her children off to England, to her relations, poor wake lady! The best property that could be sould, was sould; and at last, if it was'nt for the tenants who had been made over with the land to the new proprietors, the house of Mount Brandon would have been badly kept; but they were ever and always sending a pig, or a sheep, or something on the sly, to the housekeeper, who knew they were for the masther's use, and he none the wiser. Oh! it's untould what I've seen him suffer trying, in his grey-headed years, to swallow the pride; and when, at last, we found that some, though they knew he had nothing but his body to give, wanted that to rot in a jail, we were night and day on the watch to keep them out. And one night the masther says, in his strange way, It's a fine clear night, and I should like to walk to the ruin by the side of the monument.' I could'nt tell you how his health was gone, and his strength along with it everything but his pride! And the ould housekeeper and myself went along with him, and he romanced so much, as he went, that I thought the throuble had turned his brain. He sat down on an ancient stone, as this might be, and he says I remember the very words 6 Boy,' says he, the time will be, and that not long off, when what little respect belongs to ould families and ould ruins will be done away intirely; and the world will hear tell of ould customs and the like, but they will look round upon the earth for them in vain-they will be clean gone! If I had my life to begin over again, I'd take delight in restoring ་ all them things. No wonder I should have sympathy with rains-I, who have ruined and am ruined.' "Sir,' says the ould housekeeper, who was hard of hearing, and stupid when she did hear Sir,' said she, 'sure Michelawn and the boys might mend the ruins up of this ould chapel, if it's any fancy for it ye have,' So he looked at me, and smiled a sort of smile, could and chilly, without anything happy in it-like the smile you see sometimes on the lips of a corpse when the mouth falls a little-a gasping smile. Sir,' keeps on the ould silly crayther, 'come away home, for it is not safe for you to be anything like out of the house, which you hav'nt been for many a long month before.' True,' said he, true-just let me look here;' and he turned to where the little monument stood, to the poor girl's remembrance, and he laid his hand on the marble urn, which was at the top, and drew it back on a suddent, as if he had not thought it would have been so could. He then rooted with his stick among the buttercups and daisies that grew about it; and, with a quick thought, flung off his hat, and fell on his knees upon the grass. As he fell so, four men, vagabonds of the law, sprung upon him. Whether he felt their hould or not is between him and heaven; but this I know, that when I looked in his face, as they held him up off the grasshe was dead! "And that was the end of the most beautiful and accomplished Irishman of the last century?' said I. "It was his end, God help us! and the murdering villains kept possession of his body for debt. The neighbouring gentry would'nt suffer it, and offered to pay the money; but his ould tenants would not hear of that. They rose to a man, over the estates that once belonged to him and his; bolted the limbs of the law out of possession, and gave the masther the finest funeral the counthry had seen for fifty years. There was a hard fight betwixt them and the constables, when the body was moving; but they bet them off-and then, whew! who'd follow them to the Connemara hills?' "What became of his sons?' not one stone Brandon.' "Did'nt he call me boy,' and give me his hand to kiss? and don't I do pilgrimage through the world for the sins of my father and my mother? The poor girl's baby was the only child who loved him!'" In the character of O'Toole, some of our elder readers, who can recall the memory of "old times," inay recognize a strong resemblance to the fate of a gentleman who died, some time since, in France. He was one of the last and best of the Irish gentry of the old school, who still retained over his tenantry that extraordinary influence almost peculiar to feudal authority.The leading incidents of his career, except the circumstances of his death, were very similar to those which the old man tells of his former master, and might have suggested to the authoress the subject of her tale. 66 But it is in the description of her own sex that Mrs. Hall particularly excels. The finer and gentler feelings of the female heart she paints with a truth and delicacy that is strikingly beautiful. The character of Moyna Roden, in the story of Harry O'Reardon," is as exquisite a delineation of the constancy and purity of a woman's affection as we have met with. There is none of the desolate melancholy and wild devotion which distinguish the sketch of Clooney Blaney, but there is a meekness and firmness exhibited by the gentle and lovely victim of another's pride, that is even affecting. Some idea of Moyna's character may be gathered from the leading incidents of the tale. Harry O'Reardon is a poor Irish farmer, to whom his ancestors have bequeathed their pride, without the means of supporting it. To avoid the shame of " demeaning himself among his own people," he goes to Dublin to seek his fortune. Moyna is his inferior in rank, being the daughter of a tailor, and, though they are devotedly attached to each other, O'Reardon's mother is too proud to suffer them to be united. His coolness and courage interest a gentleman in Dublin for him, who procures him a situation in a merchant's office. This his false pride induces him, after a time, to resign. He then goes to Liverpool, where accident again procures him a situation, connected with the steam-packets. Moyna is, at the same time, in Liverpool, a servant in a gentleman's family. Both rise rapidly in the esteem of their employers. Harry has almost forgotten his pride, more and they are on the point of being heard nothing of Harry. |