ever he asks, and get me the letter."-" Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin' them before my face for fourpence a-piece." "Go back, you scoundrel! or I'll horsewhip you; and if you're longer than an hour, I'll have you ducked in the horsepond!" Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived, two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each, from a parcel of them that lay before him on the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served. "I'm come for that letther," said Andy.-"I'll attend to you by-and-by." "The masther's in a hurry."-"Let him wait till his hurry's over." "He'll murther me if I'm not back soon."- "I'm glad to hear it." While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for despatch, Andy's eye caught the heap of letters that lay on the counter; so, while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap; and, having effected that, waited patiently enough until it was the great man's pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master. Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattle along the road homeward as fast as his hack could carry him. He came into the squire's presence, his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and holding three letters over his head, while he said "Look at that!" he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the squire, saying, "Well! if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honour the worth o' your money, any how!" THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. BY THE AUTHOR OF HEADLONG HALL." OLD Farmer Wall, of Manor Hall, His station he took, but in vain did he look Though the farmers all, save Farmer Wall, Then home he went, sore discontent, And many an oath he swore, And he kicked up rows with his children and spouse, Next market-day, he drove away No bidder he found, and he stood astound At the close of the market-day, When the market was done, and the chapmen were gone Each man his several way. He stalked by his load along the road; His face with wrath was red: His arms he tossed, like a goodman crossed His face was red, and fierce was his tread, These words he spoke just under an oak Seven hundred winters old; And he straight was aware of a man sitting there The roots rose high o'er the green-sward dry, And the grass around was green, Save just the space of the stranger's place, All scorched was the spot, as gipsy-pot The grass was marred, the roots were charred, The stranger up-sprung: to the farmer he flung And he said, "I see well, thou hast corn to sell, The twain in a trice agreed on the price; The stranger his earnest paid, And with horses and wain to come for the grain His own appointment made. The farmer cracked his whip, and tracked His way right merrily on: He struck up a song, as he trudged along, His children fair he danced in the air; He kissed his wife; he seized a knife, The faggots burned, the porkling turned And an odour arose, that was sweet in the nose He twirled at the pin, he entered in, He sate down at the board; The pig he blessed, when he saw it well dressed, And the humming ale out-poured. The friar laughed, the friar quaffed, The farmer told how his corn he had sold The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed, "Oh, helpless elf! 'tis the fiend himself To whom thou hast made thy sale!" The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught; "Oh, slave of pelf! 'tis the devil himself And sure as the day, he'll fetch thee away, The farmer gave vent to a loud lament, Their relish for pig and ale was flown; The horses were black: on their dewy track More dark and grim, in face and limb, As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain, On the stranger's face was a sly grimace, And slily he leered, as his hand up-reared Where, bright and fresh, through a silver mesh, The farmer held out his right hand stout, His eye was set on the silver net; His thoughts were in fearful strife; And, swift as thought, the stranger caught And at once the twain and the loaded wain The gable-end wall of Manor Hall The wife gave a cry that rent the sky But she held the purse fast, and a glance she cast 'Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman grey, And the gold was good and true; Which made her declare, that "his dealings were fair, To give the devil his due." She wore the black pall for Farmer Wall, From her fond embraces riven: But she won the vows of a younger spouse Now, farmers, beware what oaths you swear And, with good heed, the moral a-read, And if by mishap you fall in the trap,- TERENCE O'SHAUGHNESSY'S FIRST ATTEMPT BY THE AUTHOR OF "STORIES OF WATERLOO." YES-here I am, Terence O'Shaughnessy, an honest major of foot, five feet eleven and a half, and forty-one, if I only live till Michaelmas. Kicked upon the world before the down had blackened on my chin, Fortune and I have been wrestling from the cradle ;-and yet I had little to tempt the jade's malevolence. The youngest son of an excellent gentleman, who, with an ill-paid rental of twelve hundred pounds, kept his wife in Bath, and his hounds in Tipperary, my patrimony would have scarcely purchased tools for a highwayman, when in my tenth year my father's sister sent for me to Roundwood; for, hearing that I was regularly going to the devil, she had determined to redeem me, if she could. My aunt Honor was the widow of a captain of dragoons, who got his quietus in the Low Countries some years before I saw the light. His relict had, in compliment to the memory of her departed lord, eschewed matrimony, and, like a Christian woman, devoted her few and evil days to cards and religion. She was a true specimen of an Irish dowager. Her means were small, her temper short. She was stiff as a ramrod, and proud as a field-marshal. To her, my education and future settlement in life were entirely confided, as one brief month deprived me of both parents. My mother died in a state of insolvency, greatly regretted by every body in Bath to whom she was indebted; and before her disconsolate husband had time to overlook a moiety of the card claims transmitted for his liquidation, he broke his neck in attempting to leap the pound-wall of Oranmore, for a bet of a rump and dozen. Of course he was waked, and buried like a gentleman,— every thing sold off by the creditors-my brothers sent to school-and I left to the tender mercy and sole management of the widow of Captain O'Finn. My aunt's guardianship continued seven years, and at the expiration of that time I was weary of her thrall, and she tired of my tutelage. I was now at an age when some walk of life must be selected and pursued. For any honest avocation I had, as it was universally admitted, neither abilities nor inclination. What was to be done? and how was I to be disposed of? A short deliberation showed that there was but one path for me to follow, and I was handed over to that refugium peccatorum, the army, and placed as a volunteer in a regiment just raised, with a promise from the colonel that I should be promoted to the first ensigncy that became vacant. Great was our mutual joy when Mrs. O'Finn and I were about to part company. I took an affectionate leave of all my kindred and acquaintances, and even, in the fulness of my heart, shook hands with the schoolmaster, though in boyhood I had devoted him to the infernal gods for his wanton barbarity. But my tenderest parting was reserved for my next-door neighbour, the belle among the village beauties, and presumptive heiress to the virtues and estates of Quartermaster Mac Gawly. Biddy Mac Gawly was a year younger than myself; and, to do her D |