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the poor whipper-in for so many a hard day's run, fell utterly exhausted to the earth; and its unfortunate rider lay under it, in raging helplessness.
Biddy had stood by the dairy door, transfixed in a trance of despair, and marking almost the whole appalling extent of her lover's progress, when she was aroused by the approach of an old woman, who came towards her, with hurried yet enfeebled steps; and as she approached she called out: “Biddy Keenahan, Biddy Keenahan, you didn't give him the philthur ? say you didn't, girl ;
-don't daare to tell me that you did - ruination and misery is on us all if Lanty tasted the drug-spake, spake! why don't you ?— Did he drink it—did he drink it?”—and with these words the trembling hag shook Biddy into sensation, and she answered, “He did, he did, Peg Morrin.”
“Thin the doom is upon us all -- or how could I ever let you take, or yourself come to take the wrong pouther -a pouther that would drive an elephant mad! Bow down your head, misfortnate crathur-the curse is comin' over us !”
The poor girl, choking with emotions of terror that now reached their climax, fell into a fit of violent hysterics. Servants and others rushed in from various quarters, alarmed by sundry reports of evil. Lanty was brought back towards the house, raging mad. As his hapless sweetheart recovered her senses, they were shocked once more by the hoarse screaming of his voice, which, even
in those heart-rending tones she recognised as his. The persons about her had straggled out when she recovered from the fit, in newly-excited curiosity, to witness the maniac's approach:-seizing the moment when she could unobstructedly escape, poor Biddy, driven beyond endurance by her mental agony, and the fierce denunciation of the fortune-teller pursuing her like a blade of fire, rushed to the river's edge, and flinging herself from the little quay where she had landed the preceding night so full of hope and happiness, sought to quench in the river's depths, her burning misery and remorse. Tom Fagan the miller, coming up in his cot that morning, with some sacks of flour for the Grange, found its progress suddenly stopped on one of the shallows by a heavy substance looking white on the sand bank. On moving it with his pole, the body of poor Biddy Keenahan rose to the surface ; and a number of people running along the river's edge, in too tardy search, explained to him the previous horrors of the morning.
Lanty, after undergoing for two or three days, excruciating tortures, in confirmed and outrageous madness, was led, as a faint chance of recovery, by some wellmeaning theorist, to see the dead body of his sweetheart, laid out in her shroud, and ready for the grave. This, as was expected, produced a fierce shock and frightful crisis. Lanty recovered from insanity. But, with a hideous burst of laughter heralding the change, he instantly sunk into incurable idiocy, and so remained till
the day of his death. From what motive I have never been able to learn (perhaps in the hope that the sufferer might forget even his own identity with the transactions it involved) the country folk dropped the habit of calling Lanty by his own name ; and changed it into that of John King, by which he was always afterwards known. He wandered about after a while, harmlessly and unobstructed, haunting the scenes of this terrible catastrophe, or straggling through the streets of the neighbouring town : a living lesson of the danger of forcing the development of even good passions; and proving the axiom of Molly Fagan the miller's wife, that “ Thrue love should be let to run its coorse.”
FROM THE ITALIAN.
BY SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART.
UNGRATEFUL Love! that scornful fiest away,
SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT OF THE HONORABLE
MISS * # , BY C. R. LESLIE, R.A.
I. Patrician Beauty! I bethink me well Of the Land's glory while I gaze on thee ;For lips and eyes like thine first wrought the spell That made us what we are—the Brave, the Free; And bade Earth bow to England's chivalry !O who would dare be recreant to his name, His God, his sovereign, and his ancestry,–
Who could be dead to love and honour's flame, Were such a form as this the bright reward of fame!
II. Then fear not, England, an opposing world, So long as Beauty fires the warrior's breast ! And when the Lion-banner is unfurled, To fling its awful shadow o'er the’ opprest ; And when thy red lance quivers in the rest, Be “ Home and Beauty !” still the charging cry!Winged by that living word, thy meteor crest
Shall flash confusion on the foeman's eye,-One pulse, one passion felt,—to do, or else to die!