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her blushing face. Oh, oh! I see how it is. Settle it between you, and if you please one another, you will please me. "And me, too," added his wife. Bryan in the height of his joy grasped the hands of father and mother, and then went in quest of the hand of the daughter, who, in her confusion, gave him that, and a modest loving look into the bargain.

"Now," said the farmer, "let us hear all that happened to you last night. I am sure that I am glad enough that I had no suspicion of what you intended."

So Bryan began his narrative.

Since last Sunday, at noon, I could not let the haunted house out of my mind for a moment, and all yesterday I was determined not to allow the. night to pass without trying my fortune. I got a couple of candles, a flint, and steel, and tinder, and secured the dark lantern. I also put my old prayer-book in my pocket, and left the house without being suspected immediately after supper. While we were finishing the family prayer, you may be sure that I prayed pretty fervently for a blessing on you all, and protection for myself. When I got to the bawn gate of the old house, I felt my heart beat a little; the deserted place looked so gloomy and ghostly. There were some gleams of moonlight about the chimneys and the edges of the roof, and the bawn near where I stood, was out of the shadow of the building, but everything else under the canopy, and the moon, and stars was all deep shade. I lighted one of my candles, put it into the lantern, and walked to the kitchen door; and you must not think me a coward, if I acknowledge that I was a little daunted by the ring of the nails of my shoes on the pavement. I lifted the latch, and felt some awe, while my eyes were wandering over the dark corners of the big kitchen, half expecting to meet some terrible looking faces glaring at me out of the gloom. The things on the dresser that had any metal in them were all brown with rust; so were the grate and fire irons; and cobwebs were hanging in all the corners, and from the ceiling.

"I passed into the hall, and from that into the front parlour, and that was nearly as gloomy as the kitchen.

The wall-paper was mildewed, and hanging in big flakes, and the floor had a quarter of an inch of dust on it, and shook with every step I made, for the boards were all rotten. The back parlour had a desk in it, and a form, and some chairs. There were rusty bars to the windows, and the night breeze was blowing through broken panes. Well, there was nothing very cheering in all this, but I saw no reason why I should not make myself as comfortable as I could. I searched about and found the remains of a fagot, and bits of boards, and some turf in the kitchen. I swept the old dust off the hearth under the grate; lighted a few sticks, very few at first, as the chimney was so long out of use, drew a little table towards the fire, set my lantern on it, and then knelt down and said my prayers; first sprinkling round the table with holy water. When my night prayers were finished, I read the litanies and a part of the rosary out of the prayer-book. I used to stop and listen every now and then, but nothing I could hear but the wind outside, and the crackling of the sticks in the grate. You may depend that there was an awful lonely feeling all over me, but I felt confident in the power given to my guardian angel against anything that an evil spirit could do.

"So the time wore on between reading, and thinking, and praying; but at last, when I was getting a little drowsy, and leaning my elbows on the table with my head between my hands, a frightful shiver ran through me, and I knew that something not of this world was in the room. I raised my eyes; and there, with nothing between me and it but the table, was the dim appearance of a man looking at me as intently as if he could see through my solid body. His face and clothes had the same appearance as if you were looking at a body through a fine black veil, and his eyes never winked nor turned away, but seemed as if they were fixed on something behind my head. I could not utter a word for a while; but during that short while, I concluded that the appearance was nothing evil, as it seemed to be inside the circle of holy water. So I made an attempt to speak; but the sounds I made were like what I remember hearing long ago from my own lips, when I would be awakening up

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from a frightful dream, just as if my heart was jumping into my mouth, and I could only utter half words. However, what I intended to say was, In the Name of the FATHER, SON, and HOLY GHOST! let me know what is disturbing you.'

"Well, there came a mild expression over the face, and I began to get a knowledge of what I am going to tell you now; but I heard no sound and his lips never moved. How I felt and understood what he communicated, I cannot explain. It seemed as if I was carried out of myself, and that there was a strain on my seeing and hearing, and that my soul was suspended in the air with a feeling of cold and terror on it, and it wishing to get back again into the comfortable home of the body. In that state, I saw poeple, and things, and places, and could tell what the people thought or wished to say to me, just as I could hear my own whisper; and all the time, what I saw and heard seemed a part of my. self, or as if everything was passing within my mind like a moving show. This is the substance of the vision, or whatever it was.

"For a week before your father's death he had been very much troubled in his mind. The thought of having beggared so many struggling people was tormenting him, and at last, through God's grace, he formed a strong resolution of restoring all that he had got by too high a rate of interest, and of giving assistance to everyone that had come to poverty by his means, or to their children, if themselves had been called away. At the very moment when the fit seized him, he was beginning a list of all the people whom he had injured. For the sincerity of his resolution, and the sincerity of his sorrow before death, he escaped the torments of the damned, but his soul was not to know rest till all possible reparation should be made to his victims. Out of this arose the disturbance ten years before at the old house, and its speedy desertion. All that had ventured to sit up were more or less drunk every one, and none had sufficient courage or presence of mind to address the ghost. The hoard was behind the wainscot in a recess in the back parlour, and a book containing the names of his former debtors and his dealings with them in another recess near it. A panel of the wood

work was the door of each, and they were opened by pressing round bits of wood about the size of a small button, and no one could, except by the merest chance, find the spot where they lay, or distinguish them from the woodwork in which they were set. You are to take possession of the money, and to the best of your ability restore all the ill-got portion to those who have been wronged or treated harshly, or to their children.

"While these things I have mentioned, and the instructions I got were revealed to me, I was under no terror from the sight of the apparition after the first few moments. It was as if my sight and hearing were strengthened and strained in some way. At last, just as if a thick veil fell round my eyes and ears, all was dark and silent. I felt the shiver running over me again, and found the candle burned out, and a streak of gray light across the window. Ah! I would not for any possible advantage to myself, go with my own free will through such a trial again, I felt so chilly, and dispirited, and awed, when all was over. However, I fell on my knees, and returned thanks from the bottom of my heart for being allowed to do some good for my dear friends, and for my own preservation through the sharp trial. The beating of my heart ceased by degrees, and I found my courage gradually returning. Istepped into the other room, and found even in the dim light, the knobs of the presses as if I had been using them for years, everything was so clearly laid before me in the vision or whatever it was. The panels opened, and there lay the gold and notes in one, and the book in the other. I closed them after taking a look, hurried out of the house as fast as I could, staggered home some way, and got a three hours' sleep, and never was a sleep so much wanted.

"You offered to take me as your sonin-law when you thought you were much richer than you will now find yourself to be, after you have returned so much of the hidden treasure to those who have the best right to it; so I must set a greater value on your favour." "Richer or poorer, I would select you out of thousands: you have made us happier, I am sure, than we can express. The soul of my poor father is, I hope, at rest, and

the curse is removed from the old family place."

About half an hour later they were passing through the rooms of the old house. Where the windows were not broken, there was a close unhealthy smell; and the dust disturbed by their feet floated up through the broad slanting sun rays in white volumes. They opened windows and doors, and of course inspected the secret recesses, and spread great joy and excitement among the domestics and labourers on their return. Father and son were diligently employed for a week or two inspecting the book, and returning most of the property found in the

recess to the rightful owners or their heirs. Then it was a work of love to put the old house again in habitable repair, and to prune trees, clip hedges, clean walks, and bring the orchard, and the flower garden, and the kitchen garden into a healthy condition. Bryan's family were brought and settled comfortably on a skirt of the farm. Bryan and Ellen were married, and if themselves and their parents met with after-trials and crosses, it was to prevent them from looking to find heaven on earth, a place where it has never yet been found by any of Adam and Eve's children.

SPRING THOUGHTS.

PRIMROSES beneath the trees,
Fling their scent upon the breeze;
Rooks are calling in the air;
Birds make music ev'rywhere.

Swallows come from far away,
Lambs in ev'ry field at play,
Hawthorn hedges dress'd in white,

Corncrakes chirp from morn to night.

Meadows bright with golden hue,
Woods are carpeted with blue,
Cattle grazing in the mead,
There a sower sows his seed.

Searching for a rosebud here,
Cuckoo's notes upon the ear,
Fledglings flutter as they sing,
There a bee is on the wing.

Shadows on the mountains cast,
Light appearing then as fast,
Pheasant crying in its flight,
Orchards full of blossoms white.

Life and joy are ev'rywhere;
Lurks a thought of sadness there?
Yes-for grief must linger here;
First a smile and then a tear.

Sunshine hours must pass away,
Flowers cannot bloom alway;

Songs that make the greenwoods ring
Shall we hear them after Spring ?—

Hear the lark who sings above,
Rapturous notes of joy and love-
As I hear sad thoughts take wing;
Heaven is bright, and still 'tis Spring.

MOLIERE AT HOME AND AT THE PLAY.

ANCIENT AND MODERN CONTRASTS.

WE are probably gainers by the low condition of the French drama in the days of Shakespeare. There is a serene and leisurely air stamped on the features of the extant portraits, which induces a suspicion that he would not take more trouble with his mental creations than was absolutely necessary. We know that he unscrupulously borrowed his plots rather than take the trouble of inventing others, and really it is not pleasant to speculate too nicely on the probable results to the British drama, had its relations with its sister in Paris, say from 1580 to 1608, been the same as in our day. Imagine the great dramatist, instead of fashioning in his mind-chambers, and then transferring to paper such masterpieces as Hamlet," "Othello," "Macbeth," and "As you like it," deliberately opening out on his desk, and adapting for the ears of his countrymen, such dramas as "La Dame aux Camelias," "L'Auberge des Adrets," "Bertrand et Raton," or "Les Trois Mousquetaires"! But the idea is too dreadful to be dwelt on. Many a one has nearly died from the recollection of a hairbreadth escape from the edge of a precipice.

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Well, perhaps though Shakespeare copied not from the Parisian drama, the great French comedian and dramatist, Moliere the founder of decent comedy in France, copied from him. His birth occurred in 1620 four years after Shakespeare's death, and the works of the great Englishman were in print before he was able to read his own language. There are several objections however to the supposition of any knowledge of the great Englishman's works by the French dramatist.

From the era of the renaissance the literary portion of French society had begun to imbibe a taste for the classic, and such things as made effective points in the dramas of Shakespeare and his contemporaries, were revolting to their taste, were Gothic and barbarous,-two epithets having the same signification in their "Dictionnaire du Gout," if such a book of reference existed. Murders

perpetrated on the scene, or the sight of a scaffold, were intolerable by their fine perceptions. Le Pays, a precieux of his day, having visited England after the restoration of the Stuarts, could scarcely find words sufficiently strong in which to communicate to his countrymen the heartache he endured at the play in London, or the delight expressed by the ladies at the scenic barbarities.

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"You know," cried he, writing to a friend, “ that it is a rule in our theatre not to exhibit tragic acts to the eyes of the spectators. Our poets who are aware of our delicacy, never ensanguine the scene, nor present murder or violence on the stage. On the contrary, the English poets, in order to gratify the humour and inclination of their audience, make blood flow on the boards, and never fail to adorn their scenes with the most cruel catastrophes. There is not a piece played in which some one is not hung, some one wounded, some one assassinated. And it is at such passages that the women clap their hands, and burst out a laughing."

Saint Amant, who loved the indulgence of smoking and guzzling at taverns, could not endure them on the stage, and he exhausted his eloquence in describing the vulgarities of the English dramas. Here are some lines from his mock heroic piece, "Albion ":

"A king smokes in his chair

While a stutterer holds forth;
One is purblind, another deaf,
And has neither band nor frill:
One, a prey to the toothache,
Astonishes the spectators
With his jaws wrapped up."

St. Amant could not afford to laugh at the farces, nor endure the clowns who, as was then the custom held trials of wit with the audience. St. Evremond in his chapter on tragedies expresses his disgust at the English theatre, in which "could be seen nothing but a confused mass of events without due consideration of time or place, and with no regard to decency or politeness." He acknowledged however that some of the more ancient pieces might be rendered acceptable even to a French audience by necessary retrenchments.

At the period of which we speak, the Italian and Spanish languages were the only foreign ones learned by the upper classes in France. The other European tongues, especially the English, were considered unworthy of study. Moliere understood the two languages mentioned, his wife was acquainted with Italian at least. In the "Parisienne" of Champmèsle she sustained an entirely Italian part, but neither she nor her husband knew a dozen words of English. So Shakespeare remained unpilfered by the French genius.

YOUTH OF MOLIERE.

Jean Baptiste Poquelin who when he took to the stage, added De Molière to his bourgeois appellation, was born in 1620, his grandfather having enjoyed, and his father then enjoying the privileges of calling themselves "Upholsterers to the King." His father intending him for his own business, would have given him but a tradesman's education at the college of Clermont (now that of Louis le Grand), but at the pressing instance of the youth he afterwards allowed him to continue his studies under the Jesuits. Poquelin the elder finding in his son a strong repugnance to the hereditary occupation, determined to make him a lawyer, and with that object in view, sent him to study at the college of Orleans, and later at the Sorbonne.

During the conclusion of his school life he was oftener found at the Hotel Bourgogne than at the Sorbonne, his grandfather having frequently accompanied him during his youth to witness such performances as we have mentioned in a former paper. Being left some money by his mother, he no sooner found himself emancipated from college than he collected some young fellows of good birth and standing, fitted up a booth, announced it as the "Illustrious Theatre," and gave amateur entertainments. He might not so readily have induced

his well-born companions to embrace the profession, had not the King by an ordinance dated 1641, declared that a gentleman did not derogate from his condition by exercising his talents as an actor.

EARLY THEATRICAL STRUGGLES.

Moliere having established his illustrious actors at the Jeu de Paume of the Fosses de Nèsle, gave sundry free representations, during which he and his troupe received much applause. However, his funds being limited, these gratis exhibitions necessarily came to a close, and when the few sous, the then tariff, were paid by the after visiters, they revenged the affront by mercilessly hissing the poor though illustrious amateurs.* Success now appearing at an incalculable distance, it is probable that Moliere began to think of returning to the upholstery rooms or the advocate's office, when the return of the Troupe-Bejart to Paris roused his spirits and confirmed him in his new profession. The head of this family was the Inspector of the Royal Woods and Waters, so it enjoyed a certain official gentility. It consisted of two brothers and two sisters, all distinguished by slight blemishes. James the elder brother stammered a little, Louis had a slight halt, Geneviève was stupid, and Madeleine, the eldest, and the genius of the family, had foxy hair. Some five years before the period in Moliere's life at which we have arrived, Madeleine had attracted the attention of the Baron de Modène, Chamberlain of Gaston D'Orleans (brother of Louis XIII.), a man of some merit, but completely under the dominion of his passions. She bore him a daughter, Françoise, and entertained seemingly well-founded hopes of becoming his wife.

But it was otherwise to be. The Baron, the Duke of Guise, and others in the interest of the worthless Gaston d'Orleans, formed a plot against Cardinal Richelieu, and

* One of the greatest living authorities on stage matters-himself an ex-manager and an ex-performer never surpassed in such characters as Charles the Twelfth and Joseph Surface, has asserted, and who ought to know better, that it is only people who pay, that give hearty applause. "The free admissions," he says, "always observe a dead silence except when they enliven it by a hiss." The biographer of Tyrone Power and of Patrick Sarsfield had experience; Edouard Fournier, our other authority probably had not. leave the matter sub lite.

We

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