THE VOW.

A LEGEND OF BALLINDERRY.

"Mortal! to thy bidding bowed,
From my mansion in the cloud,
Which the breath of twilight builds,
And the summer sun-set gilds,
Though thy quest may be forbidden,
On a star-beam I have ridden,
To thine adjuration bowed,

Mortal, be thy wish avowed."

66

BYRON.

Our readers in general cannot but have some idea of the principal features which characterise a wake amongst the lower classes of our countrymen, and the unimposing customs by which they, as they imagine, pay respect to " departed worth"customs which, we are glad to perceive, are being fast done away with, indeed almost entirely abolished. Intemperance, that great bane to the happiness of Irishmen and insurmountable barrier to improvement, was the greatest obstacle to the discontinuance of such unholy practises as carousing and revelling, at that, which should be a sad office. To the minister of Providence, who effected the great moral revolution-whose soulinspiring influence acted like a talisman-to him vast praise is due; and to him are we indebted for the great change to improvement which is every day making such rapid strides among our countrymen, and being the means of those customs being done away with, which, in many cases, only tended to breed dissension and discord amongst those who were their most anxious upholders. But as our prescribed limits will not permit us to enter more into detail on a subject, to pursue which, must be alike gratifying to each and every one of us, and as we are digressing from our original subject, we will draw the veil for the present, and proceed with our tale.

Never had the villagers of Ballinderry a sadder office to perform than attending the funeral procession, and seeing to their last home the remains of the widow O'Grady; nor never was there any one so universally regretted as she to whom they were paying the last rites of respect, and who was now no more. As the processsion slowly wended its way along to the little churchyard, many a eulogium was passed on the late widow, and many a regret expressed for her loss.

Mrs. O'Grady was the proprietor of a small shop in the village of Ballinderry, by means of which she was enabled to live in comparative comfort. She had secured to herself nearly the entire custom of the village, and, for one on so small a scale, did an ample share of business. A few years after her marriage she had the mis fortune to lose her husband, and was left, as she designated herself, "a poor lone woman," with nothing but her own industry, and the little shop we have already mentioned, to push her way through life. When the time for mourning for the loss she had sustained in the death of her husband had passed, she began to think of the expediency of again seeking a protector and companion at the altar of Hymen: and it was not that she had not enough of suitors for her hand, that she was disappointed; but her ambition soared too high, and prevented her accepting those who were in a sphere of life that would form an equal match for her: like many others, she

refused offers the like of which she never after. wards got; and when her charms and powers of fascination had fled, she would try and console herself with the forlorn hope that yet remained, and cast a longing, "lingering look behind."

Mrs. O'Grady was possessed of a great many personal accomplishments-a description of which we are not about to inflict on our readers; suffice it to say, she was fat, fair and forty," together with being possessed of a lively and vivacious disposition, good feeling and hospitality towards her neighbours, and humane and generous to those who required her assistance. At the period at which we write, she had given up all former ideas of ever getting married a second time; and, in common parlance, she might be said to be at the wrong side of seventy. All her youthful vivacity and liveliness were gone; she was old and decrepid, on account of which she retired from businesss; and it is quite probable, had she not, business would shortly have retired from her, on account of her old age, and total incapacity to carry it on any longer. With her neighbours she was a universal favourite, and, on account of the high opinion they entertained of her intuitive knowledge, they invariably consulted her in cases of sickness that required superior judgment and penetration. Many a time and oft" would she amuse a whole group of listeners from the neighbouring cottages, of a winter's night round her own fireside, with her store of wild tales and traditions, and make some of her most fearless and sturdy looking hearers almost afraid to go home; and when they would, they would imagine they beheld an apparition about to start from behind every hedge or tree they left behind such an impression would her tales leave on their imagi nations. It was a dark and dreary winter's night, as a number of the villagers were assembled together in the cottage which was so often enlivened by the presence of Mrs. O'Grady. It was not in anticipation of hearing any of her wild tales and legends: no, for she was now no more; she with whom they had spent so many pleasant evenings lay stretched in the cold and dreamless sleep of death. There was a general gloom and sorrow depicted on every countenance, for the irretrievable loss they had suffered in the death of her, who during life, by her kindness and affability, had alleviated the sufferings of so many of her neighbours when in affliction. But they determined that even in death they would pay her that respect she so well merited through life, and that at the wake, for which they were now assembled, they would drown all sorrrow, and that pleasantry and good humour should reign around.

"Well, Maurice," said one of the villagers who was seated at the fireside smoking, and who had almost attained the climax of inebriation, "begorra there wasn't the like of her far or near the Lord rest her soul to glory; but sure there's no use in fretting; she's gone to a better world; and it's you that ought to be sorry enough for her, for old friendship's sake."

Maurice O'Niell, to whom the speaker was addressing himself on the inestimable worth of the departed widow, was one of her greatest admirers, and even at one time sought her hand in marriage,

but was rejected; nevertheless, that did not prevent him from joining in the universal regret, and being present at the wake, as he had long since forgotten the loss he suffered in not being a successful suitor. It was about an hour after midnight; the room which an hour ago was the scene of such revelry and carousing, was now silent as the lifeless corpse that lay extended on the bed of death. A few candles that were dimly burning on little deal table in the centre of the floor shed their lurid light across the room; all the villagers had gone to their respective homes, and not a living being remained in the room but O'Niell. He was seated before the fire, indulging in a deep reverie of thought and soliloquising on his future prospects. "Surely," said he, "the rich man must lead a pleasant and jovial life; every thing that he wishes he has at his command; no melancholy cares torture his brain; all his desires are satisfied, and misfortune keeps from his door. But not so with the poor: troubles and misfortunes are for ever crowding round him, and happiness is to him a thing unknown. Were I even possessed of a small farm, and a few hundred pounds, I would then be satisfied and contented, and deem myself happy; but I fear such happiness is for ever denied me.'

"Hold!" said a stern and unearthly voice from behind him; "repining mortal, the happiness you seek is not denied you; your desires shall be gratified, and happiness is now within your reach."

At the first sound of the voice, O'Niell was struck with terror and astonishment, as he knew all his companions had gone home, and not a living soul remained in the room but himself. He looked wildly around, and, to his utter amazement, beheld the form of a human being standing behind him, and looking on him with fiendish delight; his grim and unearthly appearance so completely overcame him, that for a few moments he could not speak.

"Monster! fiend! or whatever else thou art," said he, when he had recovered in some measure from the shock he had received, "in the name of—" "For one moment hold, I beseech you," cried the stranger, interrupting O'Niell; "do not give utterance to a single word until you hear me, or else you may be the cause of not obtaining that happiness you so ardently seek for. Thou art, indeed, a favoured mortal, and it rests only with yourself to be happy. Barter your soul to him who stands before you; swear allegiance to me; register a vow that you will remain faithful, and you shall ride rampant while you live!"

O'Niell sat listening in silent wonder to the proposals the stranger made to him.

"No!" said he at length-" demon, false one, no, I never will sell the peace of my soul for a few years' enjoyment: I will remain poor as I am; and I command you in the name of Heaven to be gone, or "

Before he could finish the sentence, the unearthly features of the stranger scowled and became hideously distorted; and in a few moments he was surrounded with a thick vapour and slowly vanished, uttering curses on him he thought to make his dupe. Many a time did O'Niell recount the adventures of that fearful night, and as often would some of his unbelieving companions insinuate that it was only a dream. Be that as it may, Maurice O'Niell never while he lived forgot the widow O'Grady's

wake.

G. H.

LINES WRITTEN IN DULEEK CHURCH-YARD.
When last the summer flowers wore bright,
I wandered here with spirits light,
For by my side were those I loved,
And gaily 'mong the tombs we roved,
And thoughtless read each grey tomb-stone,
For slept there none that we had known.
Two noble boys and two fair girls,
With blooming cheeks 'neath shining curls,
With joyous laugh, and sparkling eyes,
Bright and blue as the summer skies;
Our joy was sweet that summer's day,
And I am here-but where are they?
They made the light of one bright hearth,
With morning's sport and evening's mirth;
Their fathers and their mother's joys
Were those fair girls and merry boys;
Their joy is hush'd on that lone hearth,
Their light for ever quenched on earth.
In the far distant busy scene

Of cities' toil where I had been,
I did not dream that in that home
The blight of death could ever come,
And glad I turned my weary feet

To that gay home, that sweet retreat.
Oh! glad I neared the cottage door;
Methought 'twas hush'd as ne'er before:
The woodbine trail'd along the ground,
No flowers did bloom as erst around,
No joyous voices met mine ear-
Oh! where are ye? for I am here.
I raised the latch with trembling hand;
I saw no beauteous, merry band;
I did not know the aged two,

So changed with woe, that met my view;
The tears had worn each once hale cheek-
I gazed, I gasped, but could not speak.
They tottered from their lonely seat;
They strove to smile-they strove to greet;
They hung upon my neck and wept;
"You miss the merry ones!" they said;
"You do yes weep, for they are dead!"
And then they told that one by one
Their flowers drooped, till all were gone ;
That how upon the last cold grave
The little flowers could not wave
Ere its sad depth was ope'd once more,
When it received the lovely four.
And how in sickness, and ere death,
My name had burdened each dear breath;
And how they talked of coming days,
When I would sing again my lays,
And here I sing, and tear drops lave
Their mem'ry by their silent grave.

When last the summer flowers were bright,
Ye skipped those tombs with hearts so light,
I could not speer, nor yet could ye,
Into such dark futurity:

And I, that witnessed then your bloom,
Now read your names upon this tomb.
And here I charge thee, old green tower,
When winter-laden storms shall lower,
And by thy ivied sides shall rave,
Shelter, I charge thee, this new grave;
For oft have they that 'neath it rest
Gazed on their tomb from thy old crest.

CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD

In all living bodies, not two minute for us to dissect, we find that there is a vital and highly nourishing fluid distributed all over the body, and penetrating into the intimate structure of every part, on the presence of which life in a great measure depends. This fluid is the blood.

The blood in man is of a beautiful rich crimson colour; it is not so however in all living creatures, for in many, at the lower end of the scale, it is white or colourless. In the mammalia, birds, reptiles, and fishes, it is red; and in the other classes of animals, with a few exceptions, it is colourless. Hence arose the mistake, which was so long committed, of supposing the lower classes to be altogether destitute of a circulation. Its colour varies also in different parts of the body. In the minute vessels, which are like hairs, and hence called capillaries, it is colourless, because into these the red globules are too large to penetrate; in the arteries it is vermilion; in the veins of a strong crimson purple; and at the right side of the heart it is almost black. It feels thick and unctuous between the fingers, and has a slightly saline taste. In regard to its heat, it varies; in some creatures being warm, and in others cold; in man, its heat near the heart is 98° by Fahrenheit's thermometer.

When examined by the microscope, blood is seen to be composed of an infinity of red globules, of extremely minute size, floating in a thin transparent yellowish fluid; and when drawn into a cup, these parts spontaneously separate; the red globules coagulating into a firm elastic clot, while the serum (so called from resembling whey) becomes clear and of a yellow colour. The clot is principally composed of an animal matter called fibrin, which is the principal constituent of the muscles. The red colour is not a necessary quality of this substance, for it can be washed out, leaving the fibrn almost white: it depends, according to some chemists, on a small quantity of iron which exists in the blood, and according to others, on a peculiar colouring principle, different from anything existing eles where. The serum consists of water, holding in solution many salts, of which the two most plentiful are common salt and phosphate of lime, which forms more than half the weight of the bones. The description of the bloodglobules has occupied a number of clever and patient investigators, but the results they have arrived at are by no means satisfactory.

The proportion of the fluid to the solid part of the blood is nearly that of four to one, yet from this small quantity of solid matter the wants of all the various parts of the body are supplied. It is generally believed now, that the component parts of all the different solids and fluids of the body exist already formed in the blood, and that, in course of its distribution, these are merely separated from it, and arranged in new combination.

For the purpose of sending the blood all over the body, there are a set of tubes everywhere distributed, which are called the arteries; and to drive the blood through them, there is an organ similar in its action to a syringe, which is called the heart. The blood having been poured into the great artery, goes through branches up to the head, and down to the lower part of the body, where its minute or capillary terminations end in veins. Those from the lower part of the body from an inferior great vein; those from the upper a superior; and the two veins terminate separately in a bag called the auricle. The auricle is consantly full of blood, which flows to it through the veins in an equable stream; so that whenever the emptied ventricle dilates, the blood from

the auricle rushes in, and distends it for a renewed contraction.

But the arteries are not a set of rigid tubes; they are dilatable, and highly elastic. Hence, at, the moment when the ventricle contracts, the blood which is forced into them distends them, increasing their diameter, and producing the feeling communicated to the fingers placed over them, which is called the pulse. The number of the pulse is therefore the number of contractions which the heart is making in a minute. And at the moment when the ventricle dilates, the artery, having the distending force taken off, contracts on its contents. It would now drive part of the blood back again into the ventricle, were it not for a valve placed in the artery at its origin, which shuts down the moment the pressure comes on it backward, so that the force of the elastictiy of the artery is expended in propelling the blood forward, not in an equable stream, but in successive waves. Hence, when an artery is cut, the blood does not flow from it evenly, as is seen when a vein at the bend of the arm is opened, but in jets. Again, when the ventricle contracts to throw its blood into the aorta, it would throw back an equal portion into the auricle, were not a valve placed there also, which shuts the The valves are moment the ventricle contracts. named from their situation, the first being the aortic, and the second the auriculo-ventricular.

If the blood could be constantly circulated in the But in passing through the circulation, it acquires same state, this simple apparatus would suffice. the parts through which it passes, and it is requisite certain impurities, derived from the wearing out of that these should be got rid of, before it is permitted to make another circuit. For this purpose it is brought into contact with the air in the lungs, so as to be purified, and be changed from the dark purple colour which it acquires in its passage over the body, and be brought back again to its original scarlet.

In man and all warm-blooded animals, there are two distinct hearts-one for the Inngs, and one for the system-a pulmonary and a systemic heart-one for the purple blood, and one for the scarlet. They are united together so as to form one organ, that they may take up little room, and act simultaneously-the one contracting and dilating at the same time exactly as the other; but still they are quite separate in their cavities, having no communication between them, except the circuitous one round through the lungs. In man, the pulmonary heart is placed to the right, and rather in front-the systemic one to the left, and

rather behind.

the aorta, or great artery, of the system; on the Rising from the centre of the base of the heart is left side of this is the pulmonary artery, or that for carrying the impure blood to the lungs, and on the right side is the great vein of the head and upper extremities Below, the great vein of the lower part of the body passes up to enter the right auricle. The pulmonary veins are two on each side, bringing the blood from the two lungs into the left auricle.

The outside of the heart is covered with a smooth

Осса

shining membrane, which enables it to glide in a bag in which it is placed, called the pericardium. This bag is lined with the same membrane which covers the surface of the heart, so that both surfaces being moistened constantly by a watery exhalation, the friction may be lessened almost to nothing. sionally the water becomes collected in considerable quantity, causing dropsy of the pericardium, and sometimes the inside of the bag becomes inflamed, and the two surfaces grow together-an unnatural state, which, if it do not produce death at the time, generally brings on disease of the heart at an after period, by reason of the impediment which it gives to its

ERNESTA DI CASTELLANI.

It was a lovely evening; the sun was setting over Florence with that splendour which belongs only to Italian skies, and was pouring a flood of light through the crimson drapery that shadowed the window, near which sat leaning on its marble balcony, the lovely Lady Ernesta di Castellani; a soft breeze, bearing with it the perfume of the orange blossom and myrtle, raised with its light breath the ringlets from her cheek as she murmured.

"Will he not come, dearest, dearest Edward!" "He is come, my own sweet Ernesta," said Lord Edward Howard, springing lightly from the terrace into the room; "he is come, and craves pardon for his unwilling delay."

"And he shall have it too," said the blushing girl, as the young officer fondly clasped her in his arms. "You are not later than the appointed hour, but time passed heavily as I was alone."

It were difficult to imagine two beings more favored by nature, than those who now stood beneath the walls of that lofty palace.

Ernesta, the sole daughter of a princely house, was one of whom a fond father might well be proud. Her figure was of the middle size, exquisitely rounded; her brow smooth, open, and noble; her eyes those large dark orbs so peculiarly Italian; and a profusion of silken raven hair contrasted finely with her clear delicate complexion. "Yes, lovely she was, and every motion grace," she had but just attained her sixteenth year, when at a festa given by her father, (the first she had ever appeared at,) she met Lord Howard, a young Englishman, a son of a proud and noble house; he was in his twentieth year, and the regiment in which he held the rank of captain was then

stationed at Florence.

Edward Howard's features wore a majestic beauty and an air of amiable frankness, that might have won a colder heart than that of the gentle Ernesta. His eyes were of a rich deep blue, sparkling at every emotion with a different expression, and his hair had that glancing burnish which varies from brown to gold, in proportion to the light that is cast on it.

From the first moment that he saw Ernesta, he loved her ardently, truly, devotedly, with all the enthusiasm of a young and warm heart's first love. There is an intensity of feeling, a deep devotion of heart in first love, that is never equalled by any after feeling of life: thus felt Lord Howard, and the beautiful Ernesta Castellani was soon seen to return his passion. Six months had swiftly glided away, when Edward's regiment was ordered home, and he now came to acquaint Ernesta with the evil tidings, and to urge her to fly with him, for he well knew the haughty Marchese di Cas tellani would never consent to their union. Poor Ernesta was deeply affected at the thought of his departure; for, strange though it may seem, it had never occurred to her that they must one day part. When she had a little recovered from her surprise, Edward urged her to accede to his wishes.

"And will you not come with me, my own love?" said he; "you know the marchese is inexorable; and Gulio, though my friend, noble and generous as he is, he is but a brother."

"Oh! Edward, dearest, dearest Edward, do not urge me now; you know the strength of my attachment to you, and that I would willingly go with you to the end of the earth; but the blow was so dreadful, so unexpected, that I am almost deprived of all energy."

"Hark! dearest, there is the trumpet-I must away; the morning after to-morrow we sail; and oh! when we meet on to-morrow's eve do not longer hesitate, my own beloved Ernesta, to trust yourself to me, who values your slightest wish more than his own life."

He kissed the pale cheek of the maiden, sprang from the terrace, and quickly disappeared through the grove of orange trees. Ernesta sat pale and motionless where he had left her, but her bursting heart soon found relief in tears. She had not been long alone when her father entered. "In tears, Ernesta! mia what is the matter?" enquired the marchese in a kind tone.

Ernesta thought that this might be the most favourable oppportunity for disclosing her love for Edward disclosed she knew it must be so she related the whole story to her father, who, though his brow darkened once or twice, heard her on the whole with great composure; she did not, however, tell of Edward's proposal of an elopement.

Lord Edward Howard!" said the marchese, when he heard all that the trembling girl could say, "I remember him not-ah, yes! the young Englishman with the bright hair, who won Gulio's heart at the festa by his gallant bearing; and now, Ernesta, when and where did you purpose again to meet this spo30 of yours-tell me truly ?"

"On to-morrow's eve in this room," faltered Ernesta.

"Then I shall meet him myself, and see what can he done;" and thus the conversation ended.

Ernesta retired to her own apartment, with a mind somewhat relieved, but a heart torn with alternate fear and hope. The next evening, Lord Edward Howard entered the saloon in which he had met his gentle Ernesta, with a heart and step rendered light by the noise of inducing his lady love to share his fortunes. On entering the room he perceived the Marchese di Castellani, who was seated at a table apparently absorbed in deep thought; he soon raised his eyes and fixed them on Edward, who remained in the utmost confusion, leaning his hand on the balcony in the same position as when he first sprang into the apartment. He bowed haughtily on the marchese raising his eyes; his salute was returned, and the marchese said

"Lord Edward Howard, I presume?" "The same, signor."

"Well, milord, this is not an unexpected meeting on my part, whatever it may be on yours, for Ernesta has told me all."

Here the young Englishman started, for he thought of the elopement; and as his lips moved as if to speak, the marchese motioned to him to be silent.

66

Explanations are but waste of words, milord, for I thought much on the subject. Your family, though a foreign one, is ancient and noble; of that I am well assured. Now it matters not, but your fortune is not ample, and though I value