this very night. We are more likely to find the inmates of the Prior gathered together at that time than during the busy hours of day. Some pretence may easily be devised for obtaining an interview, and then we may pounce upon our culprit at a moment least expected."

"Do not be too sure," said Humphrey, "the twists and turns of that old building may afford the means of giving you the slip if you do not take every precaution."

"You will have recourse to no unnecessary violence ?" said Mr. Marsdale.

"No, no; have no fears on that score. Sir Algernon Trevillers will soon see that resistance is unavailing, and will, no doubt, be ready to reveal the spot of his Jesuit brother's concealment."

"You may have some difficulty with the women," rejoined Mr. Merris. "They will not sit tamely by and see their kinsman carried off withou using their utmost ingenuity to prevent it."

"Neither cunning nor wailing can have any effect," added Mr. Sandford, "my myrmidons are of tough materials, and not quickly drawn aside from their duty, particularly by such puny impediments as those to which you allude. Mark my words: this time to-morrow will see our artful traitor snugly caged within the walls of Bodmin jail."

Alice heard with dismay the above conversation. The decisive tone in which Mr. Sandford uttered the last sentence grieved her to the heart. She hastily withdrew, and shutting herself up in her own apartment, pondered with surprise and indignation at the cruel arrangements made to entrap Sir Algernon's unfortunate brother. It was the first time she had heard that such a person existed her dear Urcella had never mentioned him; but this she could easily account for, and perfectly forgave her for this reserve; all she had now to think about was, whether there was any possible means of thwarting the plans of Mr. Sandford, by giving the family notice of their impending danger. It was a daring and dangerous scheme, but such was her agitation, and so worked up were her feelings, that she was determined to make the attempt whatever the consequences might be. How this was to be effected was a matter of extreme difficulty. There was no one at Tregona who could be trusted on so important an errand. The general sentiments of Mr. Marsdale's household were strongly bent towards those of their master, and would be more likely to betray than render assistance. Still she would not give it up, but turned over in her mind every possible means she could suggest to accomplish her hazardous undertaking: at length she came to the resolution of writing a few mysterious lines, and hurrying herself with them to Mrs. Trenchard's cottage, and forwarding them from thence by Jannett, the old woman's granddaughter. Having thus made up her mind what to do, she lost no time in putting her plan into execution. The evening was already far advanced, and not a moment to be lost. It was a long time since Alice had been to Mrs. Trenchard's cottage: it had become almost a forbidden spot, since it was supposed to serve as a channel of communication between herself and the daughter of Sir Algernon. On approaching the place, she

could not help observing that the pathway had lost much of its usual trim appearance, a certain look of its not having been trodden of late, gave her apprehensions that those she was seeking were no longer there; and so it proved to be, for on reaching the cottage all was closed, and its inmates were gone! Greatly disappointed at this discovery, she ran her eyes despondingly over the deserted building, not knowing what to do. She had already exceeded the time of her usual evening stroll; and should her father unhappily discover the cause of her absence, would he ever forgive her? To know that his docile and obedient daughter was striving to foil the ends of justice, by preventing the arrest of a suspected criminal, would entail consequences she dared not think of. What was then to be done? Should she give it up altogether and hasten back? No-she could not do that. The recollection of her dear Urcella's devoted attachment to her family, and the distress that would overwhelm her should Mr. Sandford's scheme succeed, (for she would not believe her dear father had done more than reluctantly acquiesce) combined to urge her on to make a further attempt; and this was no other than go herself and leave the notice. This plan was accompanied with a thousand risks and difficulties. Alice had never been at the Priory, but she knew the direction in which it lay by its being surrounded by a clump of cedars which, though they concealed the building from the eye, marked the spot where it stood. This group of noble trees, so often pointed out to her by Mr. Treverbyn, when he was expatiating on the beauties of the landscape, now appeared in a straight line before her, and taking them as her landmark, pushed forward, resting her hopes upon the poor chance of overtaking some safe hand to whom she might confide her anonymous billet. The path she was following was a lonely one and she began to despair of meeting a human being. Still she hurried onwards. Field after field, copse after copse were passed, yet the tall cedars seemed as far off as ever. Her thinly-clad feet were already suffering from the rough stones, which her haste gave her little leisure to avoid.

The evening now began to close in, and the distant trees to lose their sharp outline against the darkening sky, everything bespoke the rapid approach of nightfall. Alice was ready to sink with fatigue. She halted a moment to take breath, when the sound of a horse's foot caught her ear; she looked hastily right and left, and however desirous she had before been for the approach of some human being, a feeling of alarm now came over her, as her eyes fell upon a horseman descending the hill, as seeming to wish to join the path she was following. The seclusion of the spot, the advanced time of the evening, contributed to increase her uneasiness, but it was of short duration, for on passing her by, he took no further notice than by making her a slight obeisance.

"Now or never!" said Alice to herself. "If I let this chance escape me, all is lost; I cannot possibly proceed any further," and encouraged by the respectful demeanor of the stranger, she boldly called after him to stop; and begged him to deliver, without loss of time, a sealed paper into the hands of the master of the Priory.

"I am bound in that direction," said a staid, middle-aged man, "and will execute your command most willingly." He then dismounted, and received the billet; and was on the point of resuming his seat, when he gave a scrutinizing glance at the fair messenger, and observing her fatigued and worn-out appearance, begged to know whether he could further assist her. "If my poor palfrey," said he, "can be of any use, I beg most respectfully to offer it. It is a docile animal, and so well used to the ways that lead to and from the Priory, that when its services shall no longer be required, it need only be left to itself to ensure its return to its usual shelter."

Alice, who at any other time, or under any other circumstances, would have recoiled with dismay at the idea of availing herself of such an offer made by a total stranger, felt at this moment actually grateful for the boon, and in a few seconds she was mounted, and making her way home; this she soon accomplished, and following the instructions of the benevolent stranger, she alighted from her horse, and turning its head towards the direction it had come, left it to find its way back as best it could.

Alice entered the house without being perceived by any one, and hastily gaining her apartment, flung herself on her bed in a state of complete exhaustion. When she had somewhat recovered from her excitement and fatigue, she began to ponder over the results of her arduous exertions. Successful or unsuccessful, she had done her best to save her dear Urcella and the good people of the Priory from their impending fate. And the joy it would occasion, was quite sufficient to repay her for all her trouble. As she was thus soothing her agitated mind, the steps of her father were heard to approach.

"Alice, are you here?" said Mr. Marsdale, reproachfully. "I have been seeking you in every direction. Where have you been?" then suddenly observing her recumbent position, his affection for his dear child banished every other feeling but that of anxiety; and taking her by the hand, inquired if she was ill.

"I shall be better soon," replied his daughter; "a little quiet will relieve my aching head."

"And you shall have it," said her fond and unsuspecting father. "I will see that no one shall disturb you, and imprinting a kiss on the burning brow of his daughter, he left her to that repose which he little dreamt she so seriously needed.

(TO BE

CONTINUED.)

THE "LAST OF THE BARDS"

"The Irish I admire,

And still cleave to that lyre,
As our muse's mother;
And think till I expire

Apollo's such another."-DRAYTON: Polyalbion.

DARK though the mists be which time casts around our early history-dim and shadowy though our traditions of the ancient days-yet, however far back we go in the records of old Erin, even to the days of Druid lore, we find traces of high musical civilization, remnants of rhymed chronicles of bard and poet, and hear the same "voice of nations" that had paid tribute to her learning and sanctity, amidst mediæval darkness and gloom.

When we recall the historical pictures of the past, when we let the mind go back, through the long centuries, to the kingly meetings of Tara and Emania, there rises before us at council board and in festive hall the venerable form of the bard, like a messenger of peace amid the warrior nobles, taking his place in the very shadow of royalty, next to princes of the monarch's line, leaning on his golden-stringed clarseagha, with long beard flowing over his chest, and clothed with the many-coloured vesture, which was inferior to that only allotted to men of royal lineage to wear.

This was the recognition of music and song, long ago, in Ireland; before Mahomet had spread the religion of the Crescent at the point of the sword, before many of the great nationalities of to-day had being; before Saxon had set foot in Britain, before Rodolph of Hapsburg had founded the Austrian dynasty, or Venice "inscribed the names of her Doges in her books of gold." In fact, it is hard to say where, in the storied annals of our race, we find this enthusiastic taste for music, and appreciation of its power displayed in Ireland. It was there when the Druid lit the Baal-fire on hill-top and watch-tower. It was there when the Celtic Abaris sailed to Italy, six hundred years before Christ, and knelt at the feet of Pythagoras. It was there where Ollamh Fodhla made those laws which have handed down his name as one of the world's wisest. It was there when he who "made the Consul Otius tremble" fell amid the snows of the Alps. It was there when St. Patrick came, cross in hand, to plant the new faith, when the idol fell before the advancing wood, as Dagon fell of old before the Ark of God. It was there, in fine, when Dubtach, the Arch-filea of Leogaire, leaving the temple of false deities, tuned his regenerated harp to the praises of the true"Aosar." And this taste, or rather passion, is still inherent in our land and race, though, alas! our people's home-songs are oftener those of sorrow than of joy.

A strange page of our history is that which tells of the bardic civilization of Ireland when other lands "lay in darkness and the shadow;" and though most, if not all, of our early story is hidden and obscured in the shadow-land of fable, resting solely on the slender basis of olden traditions of the pre-historic time, it is most interesting to go back in spirit to those

olden days, when the Druid watched by the celestial fire, or gazed at the silent stars shining in the dream-world of the sky-when the Brehon sat in his stone chair of justice, when the bhardagh shouted the war-song in the battle-fields of contending clans, or chanted prayerful hymns by the seashore, to the echo of the sounding waves.

With the creed of our ancestors was connected their music and poetry, and their worship was one singularly pure. They adored a great Spirit that pervaded all things, and stood revealed in all. They saw His beauty mirrored in the blue sea, His glory streaming on mountain top and over the green fields, and felt His power in the storm and thunder. By-and-bye the primitive purity of the old belief was alloyed, gradually a new phase appeared; a new system was developed. When they saw the sun in all his mid-day majesty and splendour, they confounded the material with the immaterial, the create with the increate; they saw the golden rays stretching out over vale and streamlet, and the rippling wave bending up to the kiss of the yellow beam; they saw the green hills look up to heaven like crowned kings, with a glory of a brighter land encircling their brows; and they knelt in lowly reverence to adore the handiwork of the great Spirit, and called it God. After all, it was a sublime impulse-a proof and a promise of a purer life, the trace of Eden in a gross humanity-that then prompted those patriarchs of our race, as well as their Phoenician forefathers, to single out the object greatest and grandest that comes within mental ken, and fix there the seat, and centre, and principle of Divinity. In later times this high-born belief of theirs became corrupted, and the knife of sacrifice was darkened with human blood. The creed of the Druids became degenerate, and remained so till the altars of Baal "paled their ineffectual fires," and their light went out before the orient beam of Gospel truth.

The Druids were divided into several classes, there were the priests— the guardians of the mysterious faith, the celebrants of the mystic rites, the preachers and the patriarchs of the land. There were the clarsagha, who touched the golden-stringed harps, whose profession was music; the Brehons, the high justiciaries of the kingdom, who studied and administered the law, apportioned the eric of blood, and were "men wise exceedingly in their generation." Lastly, there were the Bhardagh, or bards, who presided over history, poetry, and music, who were the repositories of the wild civilization or the time, the chroniclers of the past, who knew all the traditions of Firbolg, Phoenician, and Tuatha de Danaan. They sang of the princely Tyrian coming over the sea in his white ships, coming from beyond the Pillars of Hercules, the ultima thule of an earlier day, coming to a beautiful Isle, seated, like a queen on her throne, on the bosom of the Atlantic. They sang the deeds of the mighty men that were-chaunted the "Rosg-catha" of battle, and handed down weird legends of antiquity from generation to generation. The bards had many privileges. Their dress was peculiar, their persons sacred, their property inviolate, and their names adorned by the distinctions of mind and the honour of intellectual power. The teachers, the musicians, the poets, the historians of the people, their influence for good or ill, was paramount among the Celts.