allowed to form an estimate of their pretensions: to their intimacy I was indebted for many an agreeable hour, and when my professional duties summoned me from their society, I felt as if duty was about to create a chasm in my enjoyments, which it could not and which it has not filled up. I have seen those amiable and interesting creatures under every aspect, where the opposition of their characters would display itself the most forcibly; but never in the tender offices of fraternal affection could its traces be observed, and in no situation have I beheld them where a closer union seemed to take place than in the temple of the deity. There, the same deep devotion, the same abstraction from sublunary considerations, and the same ardour of silent and reverential prayer, warmed in their hearts and glowed on their lips. Heaven alone appeared to occupy them, and while struck by the profound sensibility of inward homage which their attitude evinced, a stranger could never recognise the dissimilarity which existed in common life. And yet, with this dissimilarity, never were there two females between whom the stream of reciprocal confidence flowed in a more equable tide they were the confidants of their mutual sorrows, and if one had a tale of love to whisper to some sympathising friend, the bosom of her sister would afford her the most acceptable repository. : tune. As I was witness to some of the pleasures of their youthful years, I omitted no opportunity of making those inquiries which were necessary to inform me of their subsequent forWhen I was called away from C, the attachment of Sir Everard de Courcy, and Rosa D-, had long given subject of conversation to the evening coteries. Sir Everard was enthusiastic in all his feelings: he was a patriot from principle; a poet from nature; and with all a poet's sensibilities, and yet suffering under the restrictions of a watchful minority. Accident having introduced him to Rosa D, the sympathy of their tastes, and the accordance of their feelings, quickly induced a passion, which further intimacy served to kindle into a deep and quenchless flame. When Rosa's feelings became once engaged, they were so deeply and consumingly; she lived but for them, and they entered into every action of her life. During the first months of their acquaintance time flew on with a rapidity L. 38. 1. which they heeded not, and delivering themselves up to the exquisite and maddening intoxication of first, pure, ardent, holy love, they gave no thought to any thing but to the fulness and luxury of that love. However, in the circulation of report, Sir Everard de Courcy's friends were made acquainted with the circumstances. His immediate marriage was a thing which did not coincide either with their plans or wishes, and, accordingly, before he had time to make a counter-arrangement, he found himself obliged to join a regiment which was embarking for India, and in which a commission had been procured for him. So sudden were the preparations for his equipment and new life, that he was not permitted an opportunity of bidding Rosa adieu, or of assuring her of his fidelity and truth. Weeks, and months, and years passed away, and Rosa heard not from him. She had seen his name gazetted; she had been informed that the regiment sailed; but from Sir Everard de Courcy no explanation came. This was "the unkindest cut of all;" the damask withered from her cheek, the brightness from her eye. She took no pleasure in the things that were wont to gladden her; her sister's assiduities became painful; her temper was not what it had been; her strength could no longer support her to a promenade on the sunny beach, where she had often walked in love and happiness, and, in a few short months, the maidens of the village were strewing fragile flowers on the simple grave of Rosa D. It was a fine evening in autumn, six years after the period of my visit, and not as many weeks since the tomb had closed above my lovely and too loving friend, and this once happy, but now disconsolate family, were sitting in an apartment that was formerly gay and bright, but now had all the semblance of sadness and death. They were engaged with some desultory topic to divert their dear recollections, when they were interrupted by a knocking at the hall door. The door was flung open, and before they could have had leisure to compose themselves, Sir Everard de Courcy stood before them. He gazed into their faces, and there he traced the lineaments of sorrow: he looked for his Rosa, and the responsive tear informed him where he should find her. His own tale was quickly told. When, on his return to his own family, be found that circumstances would compel his voyage to India, and that it would be impossible to procure an interview previous to his departure, he addressed letters, flowing wiih affection, and ardent in pledges of fidelity, to Rosa. When arrived at his destination, he allowed no ship to sail without bearing a packet for her; and yet, to his astonishment, none brought him a reply. These letters either had miscarried or been intercepted; and he now learned the confirmation of his most desponding fears, at the moment that he was at liberty to realize the promises of their youthful love. This intelligence pressed upon him with a power which few could have anticipated. Disgusted with the world, he partially renounced it: he made an offering of its pleasures to his early affections; and, rejecting every attempt to bring him into society, he spent the succeeding years of his life in ameliorating the condition of his tenantry, and in the exercise of constant piety. In this manner his time glided on for some years, until, on a placid evening in June, a house-maid, who had been in the family from her infancy, wildly rushing into the kitchen, exclaimed :— "Oh! Pat, Pat, sich a thing as I sean! Sure an' sartin there's some great misfortune comen on us, entirely. Mavourneen, I'll never get the betther of the fright of it." “Arragh, be aisy, ooman," says Pat, “an tell us what's the matther, that you're ravin at sich a rate?" Pat having succeeded in bringing her to reason, she affirmed, that, as she went down to the old castle to wash some clothes, she was astonished by the appearance of a lady, sumptuously dressed, who sat upon a rock, with her hair hanging loosely round her, and weeping bitterly. She approached, but the lady heeded her not, but, drying her eyes, she leaned against the ruin, and commenced the following lamentation, in Irish, every word of which she recollected. THE BENSHEE'S KEEN. Why weep I wildly here? And why shall the sad cold tear, Upspring from Donogh's airy daughter, Oh! why must grief and woe Be in the breath Of the calm still voice that murmur's now? Why weep I wildly here? I see the sable pall, Spread in the chief's high hall: In life's young dawn snatched from us; Shine forth amid the night; I see the best That Erin blessed Wither beneath the tempest's blight. The song and the tale made a deep impression on those to whom they were recounted, who, with little hesitation, pronounced the lady to be the Banshee, a female spirit, attendant on the family, and who must have come to warn it of some approaching calamity. Although they did not conceive that they were called upon to inform their master, who laughed at such fancies, they, nevertheless, were impressed with a conviction of some coming evil, and their fears were by no means lessened, when, as the clock sounded twelve, they heard the same wild chant repeated outside the windows of their master's bed-room. Surely," said the maid servant, "there must be some. thing dreadful. Pat, see, is all right above?" Pat accordingly hastened to his master's apartment, and there, indeed, did he find the most ominous predictions of his mind but too sadly verified. The wax taper was burning on his table, the curtains were drawn round his bed, and he himself was kneeling before a crucifix, with his hands crossed on his breast, and in an attitude of fervent prayer. The servant drew near to him, but involuntarily shuddered, when he |