This interesting remain, which is situated immediately after the entrance into the island by a causeway, indicates, in the simplicity of its form, and architectural features, a very early antiquity; but we have not been able to discover any historical notice of the period of its foundation. The south door is embellished with a very curious piece of ancient sculpture, representing the Saviour on the cross, and a person on his knees, with his hands elevated, praying to him.

In this church was buried Sir James Melville, supposed to be a descendant of the famous Knight of the same name, who was secretary to Mary Queen of Scots, and author of the memoirs that pass under his name. The monument of the former, which is of freestone, and placed in an arch on the north side of the altar, is, according to Harris, "thus set out. Over a scutcheon of arms, the supporters of which are two birds, the rest being defaced, you have this line, viz:

Branston and Wright

Oh! who to bitter thoughts and wasting cares would hearken,
So long as youth's bright blossoms bloom?
Who, in the fairy halls of youth and hope, would darken
A sunny brow by shades of gloom?

Joy stands, and smiles, and beckons with alluring finger,
On all the pathways life discloses,

And ever as a cross-road bids the pilgrim linger,

She crowns him with her wreath of roses.

The stream-the meadow stream-still bubbles fresh and sprightly;

Still blushes all the dell with flowers;

The moon-the vestal moon-is beaming now as brightly As when she silvered Eden's bowers.

The wine the chaliced wine-still sheds its purple splen

dour

On souls that droop in grief's eclipse;

And in the rosy glen is still as sweet and tender
The kiss from pure affection's lips;

And still, as twilight dies, the mourner's heart rejoices,
Forgetting pain, and even despair,

As warbling through the grove the never-silent voices
Of nightingales enchant the air.

Oh earth! how fair thou art, while youth is yet in blossom!
How bright, how lovely is thy brow!

Oh, may this bounding heart be withered in my bosom
When I shall love thee less than now.

CLARI

"Why so?" he demanded.

"I don't know," she returned; "there is something on my mind like a load that I can't shake off."

"Hooh! nonsense, Ellen; sure I'll be back afore day; an' if you're afeard to stay alone, I'll send Molly Horan over to sleep in the corner."

"I'm not afeard," Mick; I know God is strong, an' I never seen any thing worse than myself; but there's something over me very weighty."

After a few moment's pause, Michael replied, " Ellen, dear, I'd willingly stay if I could, but you know I promised to help my cousin Peter; you wouldn't want me to be worse than my word."

"I'd be sorry to do it, Mick; but, any way, this night work is bad. I wish you didn't promise."

"There's no help for spilt milk, Ellen, an' sure its no harm for a man to strive to make the best of his crop, an' no price for the corn now."

"Sure his no worse off nor another, an' he might be content."

Maybe if you had five or six childer, you wouldn't take it so quite" (quiet).

Its agin the law, an' you'll not say, Mick, that's right.” Its a bad law, Ellen, that keeps a man from making the best of his crop."

"That may be-I can't say to the contrary; but, Mick, dear, its the law of the land, an' ought not to be broke."

"The ould misthress is comin out in you there," said Michael, laughing. "She did'nt know of what shifts poor people is often put to."

She knew it was wrong to break the law," replied

Ellen.

"But sure it's no sin to trick a guager, Ellen. The misthress was a good woman, but she couldn't know every thing."

She knew what was right and what was wrong, an' we'd not go astray if we minded her bidding," said Ellen, gravely.

Well, Ellen, acushla, we'll mind it agin; I can't help it this turn; the time is come I must be goin, benaght lahth (blessing be with you). I'll send Molly over ;" and taking a tender leave of his wife, the young man hurried out of the house.

Ellen had been brought up about an old lady who resided near the house of her parents, and was, therefore, superior in education and manner to most girls in her station. On the death of her mistress, she was possessed of a few pounds, and having been, for some time, attached to Michael Cooper, they were married. Michael was far inferior to his wife in point of information. He rented a snug cabin, with a few acres of land; but a handsome face and good humour were much greater recommendations in the eyes of an inexperienced girl, and after nearly a year's trial, she did not repent her choice. They were seldom separated, until he was, a short time previous to this period led to assist some of his friends in the process of illicit distillation, and his wife's remonstrances generally silenced in the manner above related.

were

"The blessin of God about all here," said Molly Horan, on raising the latch of the door, soon after Michael's departure.

Ellen was sitting where he had left her, one hand supporting her head, and traces of tears were visible on the long dark lashes that shaded her brilliant eyes. She started on hearing the woman's voice, and endeavoured to appear cheerful; but Molly was not so easily imposed on.

"Sure, alanna," she said, "ye needn't let throuble come near ye; the masther (the mother of God save 'im) wont be long out."

I wouldn't wish it, Molly."

Faix a hagar, it'd be queer-many's the place a man must go from day-light tal night."

"I dont care a pin, only for the place he's gone to, Molly."

"An' sure, avourneen, he's as well there as in his own dacent house (God bless it), an' lashins of fun he'll have wi' the boys. Louersha hene, but a still-house is the pleasant place!"

"But, Molly, it is not right to be going against the law." Molly had, on entering, seated herself in the chimneycorner, her knees nearly touching her chin, charged her dudeen (short pipe), and was puffing away with great perseverance; she now took it from her mouth, and giving Ellen a look of unqualified amazement, exclaimed: Chrish chriestha er in, agin the law! Well, but that bates Banagher any way! Sure it's no sin to make a dhrop of potteen. Och hone! God forbid! there's plenty on our poor sowls widout that."

It was in vain that Ellen endeavoured to explain that a breach of the law was wrong. Molly's ideas of breaking the law were different-she affirmed, that "if a body didn't murder, or rob, or steal, they needn't care for all the polis (police) in the world."

Ellen ceased to speak on the subject; but commending her husband to the protection of the Divine Being, in whom she firmly trusted, at the usual hour went to bed, but not to sleep, thinking every sound was Michael's approach, until the light of a spring morning shone through her chamber; then, overcome by watching, she sank into an uneasy slumber.

After having dispatched Molly Horan to his wife, Michael pursued his way to the still-house. He was sincerely attached to Ellen, but thought her opinions of the law too strict; yet, though delighting in the scenes that usually go forward at those places, he would have staid at home to gratify her, were it not for the promise he had given his cousin, and that his assistance was necessary on that night; but he determined that this was the last time he would go to such a place. While immersed in these reflections, he arrived at the water's edge; the still-house was situated on an island not far from the shore of a large lake, nearly surrounded by mountains. Michael put his fingers in his mouth, and whistling loudly, was presently answered by a corresponding whistle; he replied; and a boat put off from the island, but so cautiously that the dash of the oars could scarcely be heard even when close to the shore. In a low voice he made himself known, and then entering the frail bark, was ferried over in profound silence.

The fresh night breeze was impregnated by the effluvia of fermenting grains that were strewed around the stillhouse, a miserable cabin with scarcely any covering, and in which, on that night, a number of persons were congre gated, as the spirits were to be conveyed to the main land before the morning light.

The murky glare of a large turf fire threw an unearthly shade on the countenances of the men who were, some standing, some sitting, and others recumbent around it, most of them in that state of inebriation denominated halfseas-over, one party smoking, another with a pack of cards so much soiled as made it difficult to distinguish spades from diamonds, or clubs from hearts, playing at "five and ten," on their knees; while a third set were attending to the process of distillation.

Michael was made ample amends for the silence of the boatmen, by the universal roar of "Ceade mille phaultha that burst forth on his entrance.

"An' what kep ye so long?" cried one.

"Och! what knowledge ye want; sure his wife couldn't part 'im, ye fool," replied another.

"Its happy fur them has a purty wife," said a third. "Let t'yer bother! roared an old man, who was busied A strong affirmation of assent.

about the still. "Mick, boy, come here, and take this; it'll keep the cowld aff yer heart; there's a hard win (wind) on the lough the night;" and he filled a large vessel with the warm liquid, first putting it to his own lips, adding, "Here's confusion to all guagers and polis!"

"Amin!" was the general response, while Michael drank off a good part of the contents, then reached the vessel to another, who finished it, and, with a hearty smack, declared it was mild as new milk.

During the next two hours, the vessel was frequently replenished, and the scene of blasphemy and ribaldry that accompanied the carouse, was too disgusting for detail.

Michael was usually a sober man; but the uncontroverted proposition that "evil communication corrupts good manners" was exemplified in him; he was soon in a state, if not of total drunkenness, certainly of carelessness as to what he did.

The hour of midnight had some time passed over, when one of the elder and more seasoned members of the party exclaimed, "Come, come, boys, let t'yer drinkin; its time to work; some of the spirits ought to be on land afore this; the polis might be stirrin, comin on day." "To wid the polis," replied another; "what div we care for them? The darn't show their nose. We'd smash their daylight out. Let them come now-we're ready." Asy, a hagar, asy," said the first, with a sneer; brag was a good dog; may be if they were hard by ye'd sing another song. Come, boys, its better be sure nor sarry; get some of the vesshels to the boat."

66

"Never heed, Thady," responded the other; "the guager has more sense nor to come near uz. I'd brain the first man that put a foot on the island. Time enough to be goin' yet."

However, the more sober of the party thought Thady was right, and began to remove some kegs to the boat. The first load was safely landed on the opposite shore, and two men remained to convey it away. The boat returned for another freight during a general confusion within the still house, some singing, others talking loudly, and another set swearing at them to quit their blather, an' mind their business. In the midst of this babel, a man from the outside rushed in, exclaiming in a voice of terror, "The polis! the polis! Be all that's lovely, they're about the house!"

In an instant there was a dead silence; every one seemed paralyzed, and the man who was to have performed such feats a short time previous, slunk into a corner behind some sacks. However, the consternation was but momentary; it was determined to resist; the door was made fast with sacks, and whatever they could heap against it. But the assailing party were too strong; the house was forced, and, as the police were entering, one of them was knocked on the head by some person near the door; he fell, and never spoke again. This so enraged his comrades, that a general massacre would have followed, had not the officer used all his influence to prevent it; and finally the greater part of the distillers were made prisoners-when daylight appeared, conveyed to the main-land, and from thence to the jail of the county town.

66

Molly! Molly! are you there?" cried Ellen, starting from a disturbed sleep, when the morning was far advanced.

"I'm here, a-lanna, sure I wouldn't leave ye," replied Molly, going to the bed-side.

66

Is Mick come back? Is it far in the day?"

"He didn't come yet dear; I doubt it's breakfast-time." Molly, he said he'd be in before day; I dread something happen'd him.”

"What makes ye say that, acushla; maybe they could'nt get the licher (liquor) all to land in time."

"There's that over me I can't shake off, Molly, I'm sure something happened."

"Lord betune uz an' harm! Don't say the likes of that, dear; sure God is strong."

I know it, Molly, an' my dependence is on Him; only for that, what I feel now would kill me. Och! I wish Mick would be said by me, an' not go any more to the still-house."

"Ah, then, dear, while a man is on the world he must be neighbourly; and, wid the help of God, sorra hap'orth 'ill happen t'im. Come down, an' take yer breakfast; he'll be back in no time."

"God send!" was Ellen's reply, as she accompanied Molly to the kitchen, and sat down to breakfast, of which she scarcely tasted a morsel.

Before the meal was finished, a neighbouring woman entered, and seating herself in the corner, after the usual salutation, began: "Well, any way its happy fur them wasn't in the island last night."

"What happened?" interrupted Ellen, scarcely able to articulate.

"Is id what happened?" continued the woman; "an' is that all ye know of id? Sure myself thought that every one hard id be this."

"Tell me, tell me at once," exclaimed Ellen, while she trembled exceedingly, and became pale as death. "Whats over her?" said the woman, appealing to Molly. "She's all through-other."

66

For the love of God, tell me what you know, an' dont kill me out," cried Ellen.

"They say,” replied the woman, "that the guager an' the polis cum on them in the still-house last night; there was three men kilt, an' the polis tuk an' put them all in jail the day."

She had scarcely uttered the last word, when Ellen fell to the ground in a state of insensibility; and Molly, clapping her hands, set up the Irish cry.

"Sanwell dhe er in!" exclaimed the woman, "what's over ye's all ?"

But she gained no information from Molly, who continued to clap her hands, and cry, "Wirra strua! wirra strua! God look down on ye poor sowl lyin there!"

"Faix its very quare," said the other. "Any way, Molly, we ought to rise her up, afeard she die on't."

"True for ye, Shusy; sorra one of me knows what I'm doin. The mother of God help her this day!"

And while endeavouring to restore animation, they still continued to talk.

“A-then, Molly, dear, what's over her at all that makes her this way."

"Musha, then, shure ids no wonder, Shusy, an' Mick Cooper to be in the still-house last night, an' six kilt." "Ids three I toul ye, Molly; an' ye say Mick was makin' a drop of potteen?"

"I didn't say no sich a thing; but a body might go to give a hand to a friend. I dread poor Mick's gone to jail, or he'd be home afore this."

"Ne'er a doubt of it, Molly; every individual, only two or three that run away, was tuk up."

"An' them that's kilt," said Molly; "sure there's no good to take them."

"Wirra, wirra! what news ye tell uz!" replied Shusy. "No doubt the corner (coroner) 'ill sit on them the day, an' we'll hear all about id."

In some time, poor Ellen revived, and notwithstanding all the women's efforts to dissuade her, set out to learn the fate of her husband; and Molly, whose curiosity was aroused to the highest pitch, accompanied her.

They then learned the true state of the case, which was even more terrible to the afflicted wife than her worst fears had anticipated.

The policeman was killed, and one of his companions swore positively that Michael Cooper gave the blows that deprived him of life. He was, therefore, to be tried for the murder at the ensuing assizes. However, as Cooper solemnly affirmed he had not any missile in his hand, nor was he near the door at the time the blows were given, which some of the men could corroborate, his friends entertained sanguine hopes of his acquittal; and poor Ellen, though suffering great anxiety, at times felt a hope that all I would end well.

The lady by whom she had been brought up had early instilled the duty of submission to the Divine will; and though, in this instance, the trial was a severe one, yet the good seed produced some fruit, and she was enabled to bear with a degree of fortitude which excited Molly's admiration, who used to say to her cronies, that "sorra one of her ever seen the peel (equal) of Mick Cooper's wife for a fine sodger (soldier), an' has sich dependence out of God; sure she ought to win."

In a short time after the murder the trial came on, and the event showed the futility of human hopes. The prosecution was sustained with great pertinacity; the witness

repeatedly swearing he could not possibly be mistaken as to the identity of the prisoner.

Poor Michael's appearance and manner interested a crowded audience; and, therefore, when after a considerable interval, the verdict guilty was returned, a general murmur of compassion ran through the court, which was succeeded by a breathless silence, while the awful sentence of death and dissection was pronounced by the Judge with a faultering tongue and glistening eye. Then a shriek so heart-rending burst forth from under the dock as appalled the stoutest, and added to the general sympathy.

It was poor Ellen; she had, with a strong effort, controlled her feelings until the termination of her earthly hopes; then her anguish became too great for endurance; with this cry of despair she sank senseless into the arms of the bystanders, and was borne out of court to the house of a friend, where, after a tedious interval, animation returned, which was quickly followed by the birth of a stillborn child; fever and delirium succeeded, and for a long time the widowed wife and childless mother remained on the confines of eternity,

Michael suffered the extreme penalty of the law with great firmness; he had heard the tale of his wife's sufferings, from which at that period it was hourly expected she would be released. He expressed a hope of being reunited to her in a better world, and, to the last, solemnly protested his innocence of the crime for which he was about to pay the forfeit-warned his hearers to avoid bad company, saying, though he blessed God he was not guilty of murder; yet, had he taken his wife's advice, and refrained from going to the still-house, he should not then be in that awful situation.

The last rays of the glorious summer's sun was sinking behind the distant mountains, and glowing with mellowed tint on the ivy-covered walls of a ruined building that stood in the centre of a lonely burial ground. No sound was heard, but the call of the rail from the meadows, and the occasional scream of water-fowl that disported on an adjacent sheet of water.

The path that led from the road to this cemetery was, on this evening, trod by a female, muffled in a large cloak, she walked with slow step and down-cast eyes, entering the abode of death by a breach in the delapidated wall; she knelt by a verdant grave, and her lips poured forth a fervent prayer, the subject of which was only known to the hearer of prayer and her own soul; her bosom heaved, tears coursed each other down a beautiful but pallid face, and throwing herself on the damp grass, she wept long and bitterly.

While thus, as it were, holding communion with departed spirits, a man came up, and regarding her for a moment with a look of intense interest, bent down, touched her arm, and said, in a low voice, "Ellen !" She did not appear to notice this appeal; it was repeated in a more distinct manner, and she replied, " Och! let me alone for a minute; sure I kept up for a long time, an' it'll do me good to be near him now. Och! Mick, dear, dear, why did you leave me alone in the world."

The man brushed a tear from his eye, and said, in a voice choaked by emotion, " Ye're not alone, thanks be to God. Look up, Ellen; don't ye know me?"

This seemed to rouse her; she started up exclaiming, "Mick, dear, are you come to take me ?" and would have fallen to the earth had not Michael (for he it was alive and well) caught her in his arms.

A third person was added to the group; Molly Horan had followed them; by her assistance, Ellen was in some time restored to consciousness, and, in a few words, convinced of the reality of what had the appearance of a supernatural visitation.

When Michael's body, after undergoing the sentence of the law, was taken down, the surgeon of the infirmary, who had known him a long time, caused the remains to be instantly removed, and used all means to resuscitate it, in which he was beyond his most sanguine hopes, successful; but as the man's return to life must be kept secret, he had a coffin, well screwed down, given to his friends with strict orders not to open it, which, as the lower orders have a dread of seeing a mangled corse, there was no danger of their doing.

By the unremitting attention of the surgeon, Michael and his wife (though she was ignorant of his existence) began slowly to recover; and when Ellen was strong enough, she removed to her own house, confident that the disfigured remains of her lamented husband were resting among those of his ancestors.

On the evening that Ellen went to the churchyard, Michael returned to his house. Molly Horan, who had continued to reside with Ellen, was, on his appearance, dreadfully terrified; but, after some time, she recovered her reason. Michael followed his wife to his supposed grave, and the meeting, already related, took place-Molly saying, "Sure Ellen couldn't but win, she had such great courage an' depindence out of God."

As Michael could not publicly remain in the country, they soon emigrated to the New World, and there, amid a blooming offspring, enjoy as much happiness as is the lot of human nature.

W.

Note. The resuscitation of a person who has been executed by hanging, or strangulation, may appear too much out of the ordinary course of things: but there are several instances of such on record, and we have no doubt that others have been restored, of which no account, for obvious reasons, have been given.

DIE BEIDEN MENSCHENGROSSEN, VON

BLUMAUER.

THE TWO SORTS OF HUMAN GREATNESS-BY BLUMAUER.
A Translation.

Twofold is the greatness men inherit :
Each is beautiful to human eyes;
Both are woven in the loom of merit;
Yet how different are the threads and dyes!
One is all in glaring light arrayed,
While the other is relieved by shade.
Sunlike, one for ever flashes noonlight,
Burning by its glow the world it warms;
While the other, like the placid moonlight,
Silently by night its task performs.

One will dazzle with its blinding beam,
But the other's is a twilight gleam.

That, a mountain torrent, dashes wildly
Over broken rocks its foaming flood;
This, a rivulet, unseen and mildly
Winds its way among the underwood:
That o'erfloods and desolates the plain— ̧
This refreshes it with dew and rain.

One erects mausoleums proud and lonely,
On the ruins of one-half the earth;
But the other vaunts its trophies only
In the grateful tears of rescued worth:
One engraves its glorious deeds on stone,
But the other in the heart alone.

Trumpet tongues the former's praise are swelling;
Round the thrones of kings it sheds its rays;
But the latter, in the poor man's dwelling,
Finds in nature's blessing all its praise.

One to fortune may owe all its fame;
But the other builds itself a name.

Greatness hailed by harp and acclamation!
Boundless art thou as the vault of heaven;
But to gain thine altitude of station
Unto few of mortal mould is given.
Tranquil greatness! at thy shrine I fall;
Thou alone art in the reach of all.
CLARENCE.

DUBLIN:

Printed and Published by JOHN S. FOLDS, 5, Bachelor's-Walk; Sold by all Booksellers in Ireland.

In Liverpool by Willmer and Smith; in Manchester by Wheeler; in Birmingham by Drake; in Edinburgh by Messrs. Chambers and R. Grant and Son, in Glasgow by Niven, Jun. and in London by Joseph Robins, Bride Court, Fleet street.

NATIONAL BIOGRAPHY-No. IX.

VALENTINE GREATRACKS.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE DUBLIN PENNY JOURNAL,

SIR-Mr. Valentine Greatracks, who is represented in the above woodcut, as engaged in the act of curing a poor blind boy by the simple process of stroaking the part afflicted, is, in my opinion, worthy of being placed in one of the niches of your gallery of Irish characters. The extraordinary cures he performed-the irreproachable character which he bore-the number of distinguished individuals that gave testimony to his healing powers-and the apparently inadequate means which he employed to effect his purposes-all induce me to consider him as an uncommon person; and, without at all desiring to ascribe miraculous gifts to the individual, we must be brought to the conclusion that changes can be produced in the human frame through causes which are not dreamt of in our philosophy. There lies before me a tract published in the year 1666, entitled "A brief Account of Mr. Valentine Greatracks, and Divers of the Strange Cures by him Performed, written by himself, in a Letter addressed to the Hon. Robert Boyle; whereunto are annexed the Testimonials of several eminent and worthy Persons of the Chief Matters of Facts therein Related."

This autobiography, which occupies 42 small quarto pages, I shall attempt to contract, so as to give the readers of the PENNY JOURNAL a short account of the man and his performances.

"I was born the 14th of February, 1628, and was son of William Greatracks, of Affane, in the county of Waterford, who died while I was an infant. My mother was daughter of Sir Edward Harris, Knight, one of his Majesty's Justices of the King's Bench. She was a virtuous and discreet woman, an excellent neighbour, and a most indulgent and, at the same time, provident parent, who took care of my education, and sent me to the free-school of Lismore, erected by the charity of the late Earl of Cork. There I made some proficiency in learning, and was designed for the college, but was prevented by the breaking out of the rebellion in Ireland, from whence I was forced to fly, and took refuge with my uncle, Mr. E. Harris, who looked after my studies, and perfected me in humanity and divinity. On arriving at man's estate, finding that my mother's means were too small to maintain me along with her other children, I determined to return to Ireland, and there either regain my estate, or lose my life. My poor country was at that time in a deplorable state; for I saw differences that to me seemed unnatural, and I resolved not to intermeddle therein till the mist of confusion was over. I retired to the Castle of Cappoquin, where I spent a year's time in contemplation, and saw so much of the madness of the world that my life became a burthen to me, and my soul was as weary of this habitation of clay as ever a galley slave was weary of his oar." Mr. Greatracks goes on to describe, in a very feeling way (in which he exhibits the sentiments of a true patriot and a Christian), the state of Ireland