The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1846-01-13 00:00:00

at the spacious

merchant brought no reply,
nought only the surly direct

Ano-
ion of a

as the fittest entrance for one of her
therefore, the poor fainting
f work. Even there,
reeted her,

, no kindly

rudely offer(
as not until r

received

ier weary

an hour had

insolent functionary,

mself at leisure

u;) stairs that she waited•the
and her daughters, to inspect the
labours. Before accompanying

e illustrious personages, we

shoo

)f the ages

correct

ye the s

vants are

" Yes; I will tell the gentlefolks, as they pass by, that
I have a grandmother at home who is very old by ailing,
and that we have no food to eat. Oh, they are very gene-
rous—are the rich people, for they are Christians, you
know, grandmam ; and does not Scripture say, ' He that
giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord ?' "
" My poor, poor child ! my poor Jane !"
The girl was very simple—so simple indeed as to ima-
gine that she had but to utter, in sincere and appealing
tones, a true and moving tale to gain compassion, and,
what was of more consequence to her, relief. The old
woman, though simple enough in her way, was wiser on
that point than her granddaughter. She had seen a little
of the-world, and knew that the Christianity of the rich is
too often, like the working• man's best garment, worn only
looked to great disadvantage, I on Sundays.
Miss Smith and

" My poor Jane, do you suppose that the gentlefolks
will listen to you ?"
" Yes, grandmam ; why not ? I shall tell them that
you are old and hungry."
" Does it snow now, Jenny bird ?"
" No, grandmam : it is quite fine, and I shan't feel the
cold, I walk so fast, you know."
" You shall go to Itookfield. God will protect my
darling. Fetch me that box, and give me the key from my
pocket."

' Yes, grandmsm. Oh, bow good you are to let me go."

" Not io beg, my child ; yOu shan't beg yet. I've
,ometbing left in this box that will keep the wolf from the

door a little longer, and who knowsbut what-but there,"
added the old woman, checking herself, and speaking be-
low her breath, " best to say nothing of him. Poor
Richard, we shall see you no more till we meet in Hea-
ven."

She drew forth a chain from a box—a gold wedding

ring, which, if we judge from the interest with which she
surveyed it, she prized highly. The girl had hastily at-
tired herself in shawl and bonnet,—both greatly the worse
for wear, as the saying is, and offering bat slight protec-
tion from the severity of the season.

" Take that to the pawnshop at Rookfield, and ask them
to lend you ten shillings upon it. Mind you don't lose it,
and see that you bring the ticket and the money safe home,"
said the old woman, placing the chain, carefully wrapped
in paper, into the girl's hand.
Cheerily, cheerily, Jane departed on her mission.
Blithe as the summer lark—light and agile as the skipping
fawn—shaking her glossy curls as she ran—her cheeks
glowing with the exercise. She sang like a delighted bird
pouring forth rich notes, all the richer for that they were
wild and lacked the culture that would have fitted them
for the ear of refinement. Onward and onward. Eight
miles were accomplished. She was at Rookfield.
She entered the pawnbroker's shop boldly, for she was
not ashamed of honest poverty, and felt, perhaps, like many
others who have sought, under temporary need, the same
accommodation, that it is better to borrow money of a
tradesman (not an usurer) in the way of business, than to
ask a loan from a friend. The shopkeeper, after many
questions, and much impertinence, for he saw the girl was
poor, and, in his own opinion, he was an individual of
great importance himself, consented to take the ring, but
would only lend half the sum demanded.
" Five shillings, and if you don't redeem it I shall lose
by it," said the man, with as much apparent sincerity as
if he spoke the truth.
" Well then, five shillings," sighed Jane.

The ticket was made oui.' The money was paid, and
Jane left the shop. It was a great disappointment tahave
got only five shillings for the ring. It would not last long,
husband it as best they might. She was strongly tempted
to beg. Would her grandmother be angry ? It was mar-
ket-day at Rookfield, and there were many well-dressed
people walking in the streets—ladies with smiling, happy
faces—some of them leading by the band little girls,
younger than herself, who were snugly wrapped up in furs
and pelisses. Then these ladies were buying at the shops
—not mere necessaries, but luxuries and dainties—toys for
their children, ornaments for their houses, fruits and pre-
serves for family enjoyment.
" Ah," thought Jane," those ladies who have so much
money to spend will not refuse to help me. I won't show
them the five shillings—but no—no," and she hastily
ed herself, " I have five shillings, and that, as
grandmam says, will keep the wolf from the door. There
are poor folks here who perhaps have not got a penny—let
them get alms from those who are disposed to give. If I
e to beg, I should only wrong such as have neither
nor food."

Thoughts akin to these passed rapidly through the

mind, and she determined ►.o-return home without delay,
lest her grandmam should grow uneasy at her long aby
sence. And, in the act of increasing her pace, she felt for
her money, which, folded in paper, she had thrust into her
bosom, to assure herself that it was safe. Alas, alas! it
was gone ! The ticket was also gone.
They were gone. With ashy face and palpitating heart,
she felt and felt again. They were gone. Overpowered
by her misfortune, the sat down upon a door-step, and
wept in agony. The house to which the doorstep belonged
was evidently the habitation of a wealthy individual. It
was situated in the aristocratic quarter of Rookfield.
Moreover, it was exactly fronting the Church, whose ta-
per spire pointed, like the clergyman's Sabbath finger,
upward; and which, being thus set, evert.on week days,
before the eyes of those who dwelt in this and the adjoin-
ing houses, could not but revive in their minds each morn-
ing, and every hour of the days of labour, those lessons
which bad sunk so deep into their hearts therein, on the
preceding day of rest and worship. Not that the owner of
the house in question could be supposed to need such ad-
monition,—for he—the proprietor of the doorstep upon
which poor Jenny sat and wept—was the clergymen. Op-.
portunely, or otherwise, it happened that at this critical
time the reverend gentleman, who had been summoned
half an hour before to attend the bedside of a dying man,
returned home, accompanied by a friend who had joined
him on the way.

" What—wftat—what is this ?" exclaimed the clergy-
ointing with his gold-headed cane to the weeping
4 child crying on my doorstep. Really, how in-
! The old cry. I dare say. Eh,

that 's it, eh ?"
' replied the reverend gentleman's

Fisher ? Want, hunger—
" I shouldn't wonder,'
companion, with a shrug
" Come—come—speak out, child," cried tha pastor
`• Didn't you hear me ask what was the matter ? Do you
know who I am, eh? I am a clergyman and a magistrate I
Do you hear that ? I allow no beggar in Rookfield. I
send them all to prison. • What, you an't frightened—
an't you ?"

Certainly Jane Foster, although she had risen hastily
and was wiping her eyes, was not in the least alarmed.
She curtseyed to the gentlemen, and was in the act of

moving away.
" Stop—stop—net so fast. I asked you what was the
matter ? She does look faint,—does she not, Fisher?"
said the clergyman.
" Y-e-s, 1 think she does, a lit—tie," replied Fisher.
And if she did, there was nothing extraordinary in the
circumstance, for she had walked a long distance, and had
not broken her fast since the previous day, and then she
bad dined off potatoes.
" I feel confident that this is a case of imposition,"
whispered the clergyman to his companion, with a singu-
lar inattention to his foregone remark ; " I'll unmask it.
Now, my little maid," .he added aloud, " what is your
name, and where do you come from ?"

The girl replied to each of his queries.
" And what—l ask you for the third time—what do you
on my door-step?"
" As if she were following the Hindoo method of sitting
in dharna' " said Fisher, who had been a traveller.
" I—l didn't mean any harm, sir," replied. Jane,
bursting afresh into tears. " I have lost five shillings ;
my grandmother sent me to pawn a ring, and I have lost
the money."
The clergyman looked his friend solemnly in the face.
" To pawn, to pawn!" he exclaimed, giving to each sylla-
ble its due impressive enunciation. The vice of the lower
classes is abominable—to pawn !"
The shock was too immense for the reverend gentleman
to contend against. He waved his hand, saying, " There,
get away, child, get away ;" and walked into the house,
followed by his friend.
Jane hurriedly left that neighbourhood. No good, she

thought, could come from such a vicinity. But what was
she to do ? She must beg now, and haply she might meet
with those who imputed to the lower orders something
which was not " vice." It was-with a heavy heart that,
turning out of the street in which the clergyman lived,
she stood where the ladies passed home from the market,
and looked in t'leir faces with eager, hungry eyes. It be-
gan to snow just at this time. Timid and ashamed, she
watched an opportunity to make her first appeal. But every
ne was in such haste to get home, now that snow was
Hinz, that her supplicating attitude, and pale, attenuated
ticed, and gained only a cold, un-
Ah, it was sad for the poor girl to

sympat

ising stare

see so many fellow-Christians, not one of whom was dis-
posed to lend to their Maker an unstateable fraction of the
wealth He had bestowed upon them. It is true that she
had not yet petitioned with her tongue,—but her eyes, her
checks, her pinched limbs and bare attire, what eloquent
tongues they bad ! How impressive their oratory ! But
it was a week day, and Charity was a theme for Sundays.
Once in seven days, the rich folks of Rookfield conde-
scended to call the poor their brethren.
Faster fell the snow. The girl's bonnet and shawl were

white as the roofs of the houses. She shivered and her
teeth chattered. The marrow of her bones was chilled.
She had addressed five or six individuals, non. of whom
deigned a reply, or recognised her existence by so much as
a shake of the head, or other mute rejection► of her suit.
" Only a penny,—'tis for my grandmother ; I have lost
five shillings, and we have nothing to eat at home."
Faster fell the snow, and those who were thus entreated
walked faster on the way.

water."

He that piveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord. In-
asmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these my
brethren, ye did it not to me. Holy words, accredited by
those who turned a deaf ear to the petition of the shiver-
be'— id..

ing beggar git..
Upwards of two hours did Jane stand, exposed to the
thickly-falling snow, and suffering the severest privation
from the combined effects of cold and hunger. And dur-
ing all that time she got angry and even abusive words,
deprecating looks, and threats of Bridewell, but not one
halfpenny, not one.
And now the day was so far advanced that the night
would soon close in. It still snowed fast—fast. The
cold was extreme. As she hurried along the pavement,
she caught frequent sights of rousing fires in grates, and
happy people warming themselves thereby. The cold was
in her limbs, and in her heart. She must hasten home,
lest her poor grandmother should die with fright because
of her long absence. Yet once more she would beg—yet
once more, for her aged relation's sake, she would beg.
A sailor, rather an uncommon personage in Rookfield,
approached. She raised her hands in supplication, her
pale face, streaming with tears, and her supplicating atti-
tude, attracted the worthy tar's attention. She told her
story, and the humane seaman drew from his pocket a
leathern purse, and placed five shillings in her hand, say-
ing that he gave it her for the sake of hii mother, who was
also an old woman, and whom he was hurrying to meet,
after a long—long absence—if she were still alive—if she
were still alive. He should have a child too, he said, but
he thought she was dead,—he didn't know.
Oh, joy—oh, light-hearted joy ! Heaping uncounted
blessings upon the head of the generous son of Neptune,
our happy Jane set her face homeward in good earnest.
She was on the moor now ; but soaked to the skin by
the penetrating snow, and chilled almost beyond the
power of her slight, enfeebled frame to bear. At every
step she took, her strength grew less and less. The snow
fell now so fas.t and thick, that objects at a trifling distance
were obscured, and her little feet sank deeper every in-
stant.
Oh—to die upon that lonely moor—how horrible ! To
sit frantically down, and—as she remembered to have
heard it told that people had so perished—to heap the
snow wildly round her, and build herself a frightful
tomb therewith ! Were such to be her end, through the
long hours of that bitter winter's night, how would her
old grandmother rave in mad despair, and call vainly
upon heaven to aid her darling child !
Thicker and faster—thicker and faster yet. No sky,
no horizon, no object on which to rest the eye, but all one
waste of snow, that made the eye-balls ache to look upon.
Faster and faster yet, and feebler and feebler grew her
steps. A dizziness came over her—a strange sensation
spread around her heart. She could not hold out much
longer. She felt herself sinking—Yet one more struggle

for her young life.
A chirp, as of a little bird, sounded in her ear. It was
close beside her—a robin—a winter robin.
The moor was, in summer, particularly barren, even
for a moor. There was not a tree for a bird to perch
Only a few shrubs, and they were now hidden by

upon
the snow

Chirp,—chirp.
It was only a simple robin,—but God alone knows how
greatly its presence cheered our little maiden. battling

against the storm on that shelterless and dreary moor.
What trifling circumstances infusetnew life into the de-
spond;ng breast I The Scotch warrior gleaned new vigour
'rom watching the efforts of a spider. ',lung° Park,
Then resigned to die in the African desert, beheld a tiny
reed lifting its obscure head to the heaven that encloseth
lithe world, and felt that God, who planted that humble
ezetation there, and did nat withdraw from it his sus-
ut sent the breeze to fan it, and the rain to
t,—would succour the child of his own likeness

LEGEND OF CAIRN-THIERNA

(Prom the Dublin University Magazine.)

It was the evening of a brilliant day in the autumn of
1592. The sun had sunk behind the purple range
of Nagle's Mountains, and his parting rays yet lin-
gered, sending a stream of light along the Awbeg, that,
reflected by the mirror-like waters, shed effulgent through
the valley, and gilded the tall keep and battlements of
the stately Castletown-Roche. The air was heavy with
the heat of the day; but, at intervals, the sighing of
the evening breeze awoke the slumber of the wide old
woods stretched to the water's side. It was a sweet
and tranquil hour, when the mind, undisturbed by
external objectq, looks into itself, and, like a glassy lake,
unruffled by the wind, gives back the images, with fide-
lity, by which it is surrounded. In a tastefully-erected
Gothic summer-house, within view of the graceful river,
since celebrated in Spencer's song, sate Lord Roche and
his lady. They listened to the sounds of glee and youth-
ful merriment which rung from the turrets; yet, as the
laughter came upon their ears, a cloud of anxiety seemed
to darken the brow of the nobleman, and he hurriedly
brushed away the tear that had fallen on
_his cheek.

" My dearest Lord," said the lady, " wherefore this de-
pression of heart ? All nature smiles around us. Be-
hold those lovely flowers vieing with the stars in bright-
ness.
.See the sparkling river hastening to an eternity of

Lord Roche shuddered, and cried—
" Speak not of it, Eleanor—spare me !"

The lady looked up amazed— -
" What means this, dear Maurice? I know that
some secret woe hangs heavy at your heart. Confide
in me, my husband, and if I cannot soften the grief
which preys on you, permit me at least to share it."
" Oh, Eleanor, ask not this," replied her lord; "seek
not to unlock a secret which conceals unspeakable woe.
I alone am the depository—you shall know it too soon—
alas! too soon."

Mournfully repeating the last words, the noble would
have risen ; but gently laying her fairy fingers on his
doublet, the lady restrained him.
" Maurice," she exclaimed with tenderness, "since I
left my father's halls at Ashby, and sailed the sea with
thee,l have ever studied to bear myself towards you as a
fond wife should."

'The noble pressed her band to his lips with fondness.
" When leagured by the kern, I never blenched ;
when taken by the gallowglass I cried boldly till you
came to the rescue. At thy bidding I braided my hair
with pearls, and wore my brocade stuffs at the court of
the lord deputy, though I fain would content me in this
castle of thine. But why recur to these thoughts ? I ask
—nay, I demand your confidence, dear husband. The
wife should be to man as the ivy round the tree, clinging
the closer when the wind blows keenest."

Lord Roche rose to his stately height, and clasped his
fair wife to his breast.

"Faithfully and fondly, dearest Eleanor, hast thou
ever comported thyself to me," he replied ; " and, did
evil of mortal kind haunt me, to none would I confide
it more readily than to thee, or from none would I gain
clearer counsel, or sager advice, to help me through the
strait, be it ever so sorely beset. Alas ! no kern or gal-
lowglass threatens our fortunes now. Would that it
were so ! My men-at-arms and gallant knights would
soon scatter them like chaff before the wind." _ _

" Nay, then, I must know the secret that robs thy
bosom of its rest.''

"Well, Eleanor, be it so. I tell thee most unwillingly,
for nought earthly can avert the decrees of fate, and to
heaven we commit our child."

The lady resumed her seat by her lord's side, and he
continued—

" At the last parliament of the Pale, I beard much con-
cerning a man learned beyond all others in occult sciences,
and surnamed Nathan the Astrologer. His fame was whis-
pered in the court ; but no one of our lords could induce him
to disclose the secrets of futurity, no matter what guerdon
they offered, for Nathan is rich beyond belief. Impelled
by curiosity to behold the famous soothsayer, I left the
lord deputy's table one afternoon, and strolled by the Lif-
fey's banks in the direction of the ruined preceptory of
the Knights Templars, at Kilmainham—among which, I
understood, Nathan had chosen to reside. The shades of
evening closed over me, ere I left the city's walls, and the
watch-fires cast a lurid blaze upon the distant hills; but
the moon arose, and, as her silver beams fell upon the
proud pile of the Templars, methought I never witnessed
a grander or more solemn spectacle. I had taken a seat
almost unconsciously 9n the prostrate columns of the en-
trance, anti was vefikang my es-es to glance from broken
tower to fallen battlement, my thoughts ever recurring to
thee, dearest, and to oar only child, when the toll of a
bell from the distant city came to mine ear. Its tones,
muffled by distance, were so meet for the hour, that my
feelings kept time to their chiming, and it was not nntil
roused from my reverie by the presence of a stranger,
that I recollected the knell was for a parted soul. The
stranger appeared a man evidently past the prime of life,
for grey locks fell down by the side of features furrowed
by the ploughshare of time. His aquiline nose, black
eyes, and thick lips denoted an eastern origin, to which
the turban on his head added confirmation. For the rest,
he wore the long white mantle of the templus ; •but in-
stead of the heavy, double-edged sword, the terror of the
infidels, wore a light sabre) resplendent with jewels.
' Who art thou that thus intrudest on my privacy ?' de-
manded the stranger. I briefly stated my name—that,
tempted by the beauty of the night, I had prolonged my
walk, and ere I returned, paused to admire the ruins.
I feared the low, base-born feeling of curiosity had
tempted the Lord Roche hither,' said Nathan, for it was
he • but it is well—avoid, curiosity, it is the passion of
vulgar minds. Fate is in the hands of God—he sees what
we should know, and imparts the knowledge duly.' Nay,
forgive me, illustrious sir, if I ask thee to inform me on
one point.' Foolish, foolish man ! what seekest thou ?'
he replied. ' Ask not—know not!' The fate of my boy
—how long to live, and how to die?' Oh, fatal question !
—imprudent curiosity I Slowly and mournfully the as-
trologer repeated the following lines, which tears, like
biting acid, hafe graven on my memory:—

i"Tweity times shall Avonmore
O'er sands her wintry waters pour ;
Twenty times the darksome stream
Shall mirror the bright summer gleam;
Twenty years the youth hath sped,
Another, lo ! the youth is dead!
By water sure, his death must be—
He thus shall fill his destiny.' "

The noble gazed anxiously on his lady as he repeated
these lines ; but though her heart swelled with agony,
her presence of mind never deserted her, and no outward
or visible sign betrayed the maternal solicitude. He con-
tinued—

" The moment the last words of the astrologer died
away in the night breeze, and I had recovered from
the stunning effects of his sad prediction, I found myself
alone. Where Nathan had departed I could not discover,
though for hours I rambled amid the venerable pile, to
ascertain if there was no way of averting the doom. How
desolate felt the tenantless walls, now silent and deserted.
I remembered well, on my first appearing at the Court,
the superb banquet that was given in the hall I wandered
in.that night, sad and heart-broken. Then it blazed with
jewels, and the proud array of chivalry. The hum of
many voices seemed again present at mine .ear ; but all
were dead or banished. I looked on the stalls of the
knights—their seats were vacant, and their banners torn
with ignominy from the scene of their gorgeous blazonry.
The evening had given way to night and, as the dew fell
heavy and cold, I thought of our dear boy's watery grave,
and hurried back, fearful at being alone, "Thenceforth,
as you remarked, life has become a blank to me. I ab-
sented myself from the council on plea of indisposition,
and mingled no more in tilt-yard or banquet. I returned
hither at the close of the session, fearful of presenting
myself sooner, lest it should alarm thee sweet one ; and
oh ! that I should bear such dismal tidings—that, after a
lapse of a few short years, our dear boy must cease to ex-
ist—that his sunny smile will greet us no more—his ac-
cents cease to answer our call—his eyes be closed in death.
What have I done, oh, God ! to draw down such a cala-
mity on our house ?"

"Maurice," said the lady, her voice struggling with
sorrow, " you have told a tale of woe; but who can
vouch for the truth ? Predictions have been often unful-
filled, and this may be a false one."
" Heaven grant it may, dearest. I never thought of