boil a chicken, and make coffee for Friar O'Sullivan, who would undertake-"

"Aye," interrupted O'Leary, eagerly, "and who can toss up an omelette, and fry a bit of fish on maigre days, your honor, and was taught by Fra Denis himself, who has a mighty pretty taste that way. Och! I'll engage we'll table your honor well. Here, Moriagh ma chree, throw me the keys of the friary."

As he spoke, O'Leary rapped at a little blind window in the wall, which was instantly opened, and discovered at once the interior of his kitchen, and an old woman employed in carding. "That's my Girleen," said O'Leary, taking a bunch of keys from her, and opening a door opposite to that which led from the road to the chauntry. The host and his new lodger proceeded across a sort of grass-grown court, surrounded by a range of cloister, still' in high preservation, and bent their steps towards the friary. An old, and ap

parently very feeble eagle, with a leather collar round his leg, and fastened by a chain to a fragment of the ruin, attracted the stranger's attention. O'Leary paused also, clasped his hands, and sighed, exclaiming,

"You are not long for this world, my Cumhal honey, and leaves your bit of food for the sparrows, my poor bird, that daren't come near you oncet, my king of the mountains."

"He looks very sick, and I think dying."

Its

"Oh! musha, the pity of him! He's ould and desolate like myself. twenty years and more since he came home to me in Dunkerron; and when he came in, with his looks all on fire, as he was wont after being out all day, Terence, my ould lad, says he, for that's a way he had of calling me, that's he that brought me the eagle, Sir, he that had the eye of the eagle, and the spirit of an eagle; Terence, my old lad, I

have brought you another pet, says he. Do you mind, your honor, marking the word another, and maning himself to be one, the sowl! Have you, my lord, says I, for though he was then left to perish by his own kin,, and was sharing my bit and sup,, in the wilds of Kerry, I always called him my lord, as he was, or would have been; and did so that day 'bove all others, for he had scarcely a skreed of his ould red jacket left on him; and called him my lord, in regard of the jacket. Have you, my lord, says I; and Terence, says he, you'll be kind to this eaglet, (and it was fluttering on his left arm, with its blue bill and golden eye) you will be kind to it for my sake, and I'll tell you why, Terence, says he, leaning his right arm on mine, and looking with his smile, his mother's smile in my face. The bird has been driven from its papoor rent's nest, says he, I found it fluttering on a bare rock exposed and perishing.

For it is the nature of the eagle to chase away its young, when unable to supply its own wants. For want, Terence, says he, may overcome even a parent's love. The tears stood in his eyes as he spoke, for it was his own story, plaze your honor, and it wasn't with a dry cheek I heard him. And yet, says he, cheering up and placing the fine young eaglet on the ground, the eagle is a noble bird, Terence, and even this poor fellow may yet soar high; though it isn't under a parent's wing he'll imp his flight. Them were his words if I was dying, and that was great speaking for a boy of twelve years old. But he had Homer and Ossian at his finger's ends, to say nothing of Don Bellianus of Greece, the seven wise maisters, and Plae racca na Rourke."*

While O'Leary was giving this history, the Commodore seem'd shaken by some

* The celebrated song of the Irish bard, humourously translated by Dean Swift.

deep feeling, which, however, was unobserved by O'Leary, whose attention was wholly occupied in striving to make the bird feed, while he described its first appearance under his roof. At last, by a powerful effort, shaking off his emotion, and giving a firm and indifferent tone to his voice, the Commodore asked, " of whom do you speak, O'Leary?"

"Of whom do I speak, your honor?" said O'Leary, raising his head loftily; "it's of the Honorable de Montenay Fitzadelm I speak, that would have been Marquis of Dunore if he were in it the day, the only son and heir of Walter Baron Fitzadelm: it's of your father's nephew I speak, my lord," said O'Leary, with inveteracy, and raising his voice, "his only nephew, Sir; and such a nephew! and nothing to be got by it but a poor bit of a title in distant reversion! not a scrubal in money at the time, not a cantred of land then; it was