It was a beautiful summer afternoon, and I started in a little poney chaise, my own peculiar property, to dine with a young friend in Kilboge. After dinner I asked her to take a drive, and, leaving my servant behind me, proceeded on the old road by St. Johnstown. I remember that evening well: never am I likely to forget it. Every thing was fresh from the recent rain, and the rich beams of the sinking sun glanced beautifully through the tall trees of the park. When we came near the bend in the road, I jumped from the carriage, and begged my companion to hold the reins for a few minutes, on pretence of examining whether the road was better further on. I would not pause nor think, but hurried forward in a tumult of expectation, and, on looking up as I turned the angle of the road, I discovered in all its quiet loveliness the beautiful chapel of St. John. The sight was sombre and melancholy, and might in some degree account for O'Connor's agitation. Perhaps in this spot his wife, so harshly used, so earnestly regretted, might be laid,-perhaps some fatal superstition (in those days I was incredulous enough to laugh at the superstition of others), some vengeful prophecy, might be connected with it. But no, I could not believe that such weakness had any influence on the mind of my kinsman: at all events, I was resolved they should have no influence upon mine. I managed with some difficulty to climb over the low wall which separated the churchyard from the road, and was making my way through the crowded graves to read the inscription on a tall tombstone which attracted me by its superior novelty and freshness. As I passed the gable for this purpose, I stopped and looked in at the windows: I screamed aloud and held by the mouldering ruin for support; for there, leaning against an ancient tomb, his hands crossed upon his breast, and his eyes heavily and mournfully fixed on me, stood O'Connor himself! I was petrified with horror, and felt it impossible to withdraw myself from the gaze. While I still held by the window, and panted with surprise and dread, I saw him move slowly towards the tombstone which had attracted my attention. I watched him with eyes starting from their sockets-he seemed to float rather than to walk, for I heard no tread, and there was something in his whole apeearance which struck cold into my heart; yet it was HE-in this I could not be mistaken. He touched the tomb for a moment, and slowly looked round as if to take leave of the now sinking sun; his glance rested for some minutes upon me, and so awful and solemn was the look that I could not summon courage to address him, and confess my disobedience to his commands. I now heard the cheerful voice of my companion, who had grown tired of being left alone, and who had come to seek me. I looked round, and turning again the next instant I perceived O'Connor had left the spot. I gazed carefully in every direction, but no where I see him. I was perplexed and shocked, but no thought of any thing supernatural entered into my head. Emboldened by the presence of my companion, I now adwanced to the tomb, still in hopes of seeing my offended friend, and on looking to the slab saw a place left vacant for another name, and above it was written, "Sacred to the memory of Ellen, wife of Charles O'Connor, who died at Castle Connor the 4th of July, 18—, aged twenty-three." This, then, was the grave of the unfortunate and forsaken lady, of whom I had heard my mother speak when I was a little child, and describe as a model of beauty and grace. I shuddered as I thought of the shock my imprudence must have inflicted on the feelings of the self-upbraiding husband, and, trembling and agitated, I hurried from the place. As we remounted the little pony chaise, my looks attracted the observation of my kind lighthearted companion. "Why, Mary," she said, "your cheek is so pale, and your eye so wild, one would swear you had seen a Fetch or a Banshee in that old chapel." I made no answer to this, but tried to laugh. The laugh choked me, and when the liveliness and jeers of my companion had no effect, she also became silent, and we reached her father's house without uttering a word. It was too late for me to proceed to Castle Connor, and I stayed all night, and shared the apartment of my friend. I could not sleep-I could not think of any thing, but what I had seen in the churchyard of St. John. An awful fear crept gradually into my heart—a fear of something that I dared not allow my mind to dwell upon. The words uttered in playfulness by my companion preyed upon me the long night through, and even the morning's light could not dispel the horrid conviction that had settled upon my soul, that I had actually seen a DWELLER IN THE WORLD OF SPIRITS! Nothing that I could think of could shake this idea from my mind, and I hurried home to Castle Connor as soon as I possibly could, dreading I know not what, and anxious above all things to obtain pardon from my kinsman. He had not yet arrived, and I concluded, that he had perhaps gone back from Saint Johnstown to the county town to settle some business, and that he would undoubtedly be home to dinner. I looked out from time to time from the drawingroom window, which commanded a view of the avenue by which he must arrive; but instead of him, I saw an old woman come slowly up the walk, with whom I had often entered into conversation, though many of the common people looked upon her as a witch. I went down to her by way of passing the time till my relation should arrive. "Good morning, Miss Mary," she said, as I approached ; "an' a brave time of it we shall have at the wakin: it's many's the mile I would walk to be at the laying-out of O'Connor.”—“ Eily! woman!" I exclaimed, what do you mean by such foreboding?" Is it me you're maning?-sure there'll be great doin's in the castle soon for isn't his honor on his way to his home, as a gentleman ought to be, to be ullalooed by his own and not by strangers?" "Your words," I said, are terrible: what would you have me to understand? Fath and thruth, just that the church-yard at St. Johnstown will have another dweller: other eyes as well as mine have seen his Fetch.' "Nonsense!" I said, unable to conceal the VOL, III, NO, XVI. 2 c effect produced upon me by her ravings: "have done, Eily, and don't trouble me with your foolish stories-such things may do very well to frighten the ignorant with-but-" Faith, Miss," she interrupted, "there is no but' about the matter: did ye never hear the ould rhymes upon the O'Connors "If an O'Connor touch an O'Connor's grave, Then an O'Connor death shall have." I doubt, Miss, you yourself have been at the chapel of St. John— for as sure as there's a sun in heaven he walked last night." Before I had time to answer the old woman a letter was put into my hand. It may be accountable by some other means, it may be only what they call a wonderful coincidence; but that letter conveyed to me the news of my kinsman's death! He had died the night before, at the very hour I had seen him in the churchyard. I add little more. I was, of course, shocked and terrified at the time. Even now, though many years are past, I cannot think of that horrible moment without a shudder. I sold my property in Ireland, and left it as soon as I was able. I have never heard the young and thoughtless laugh at tales of the Banshee, and the Fetch, without thinking with a thrill of horror of the O'Connor's Grave. KATE OF THE VALE. And see ye the form by yon streamlet reclining, Can never reject the poor penitent's tears. As the rays of the sun o'er the rose-blossom straying, And mercy, sweet maiden, sits smiling on thee. And fraud and despair strew their thorns in his way! Thy reason has left her own flower-bedeck'd dwelling, The wild harp that wends its sweet numbers on high. Uncondemned" be thy crime, may the voice of compassion, By the side of yon streamlet whose cypress o'ershadows The tenant that slumbers that covert within, " Peace, peace to thy ashes, poor Kate of the Vale!" ODDS AND ENDS, FROM THE SCRAP BOOK OF A STUDENT. NO. II. Effects of Refraction.-Captain Scoresby, on his return from his first landing on the east coast of Greenland, at Cape Lister, in lat. 70 deg. 30 min. N., gives the following interesting account of an extraordinary instance of the optical illusion produced by refraction : "It was about 11 P.M.; the night was beautifully fine, and the air quite mild. The atmosphere, in consequence of the warmth, being in a highly refractive state, a great many curious appearances were presented by the land and icebergs. The most extraordinary effect of this state of the atmosphere, however, was the distinct inverted image of a ship in the clear sky, over the middle of a large bay or inlet-the ship itself being entirely beyond the horizon. Appearances of this kind, I have before noticed, but the peculiarities of this were, the perfection of the image, and the distance of the vessel, that it represented. It was so extremely well defined, that when examined by a telescope, made by Dolland, I could distinguish every sail, the general "rig of the ship," and its particular character; inasmuch, that I confidently pronounced it to be my father's ship, the Fame, which it afterwards proved to be though, on comparing notes with my father, I found that our relative position at the time, gave the distance from one another nearly 30 miles, about 17 miles beyond the horizon, and some leagues beyond the limit of direct vision. I was so struck by the peculiarity of the circumstance, that I mentioned it to the officer of the watch, stating my full conviction that the Fame was then cruizing in the neighbourhood.” Invention of Gunpowder.-The invention of gunpowder has been generally attributed to Berthold Schwartz, a Franciscan monk of Cologne, who is said to have discovered this destructive compound, about the year 1380; but a late writer has shewn that it was known to the Arabs more than one hundred years before that period, and gives the following valuable receipt for the making of it, translated from an Arabic manuscript, written in the time of the Crusades of St. Louis, and communicated by the Count Rzevuski to M. Von Hanmer, in the Mines de l'Orient :-" Description of the composition put in cannons, viz:-Saltpetre 10, charcoal 2 drams, sulphur a dram and a half; pound it well, and fill with it, precisely, one-third of the cannon. Cause a rammer of wood to be made, according to the calibre of the cannon's mouth, and introduce it with force. Next put in the bullet, or the (flaming) arrow, and set fire to the powder, contained in the bore of the cannon. It must be perforated to the depth of the touch hole, for if it were perforated lower, it would be not only defective, but destructive to him that fired." Production of Sweetness.-The nitrate of silver (lunar caustic) and the hyposulphate of soda, are two distressingly bitter substances. When a solution of the former, in the state of a pure crytalized oxynitrate, is added to a diluted solution of the latter, the most intense sweetness is produced! Mr. J. F. W. Herschel, to whom we owe this curious experiment, remarks, that the issue of it shows how little we know of the way, in which bodies affect the organs of taste. Sweetness and bitterness, like acidity, seem to depend on no particular principle, but to be regulated by the state of combination, in which the same principles exist at different times. Production of Heat.-If a small piece of tin foil is wrapped in a piece of platinum foil of the same size, and exposed upon charcoal to the action of the blow-pipe, the union of the two metals is accompanied by a rapid whirling, and by an extraordinary brilliancy in the light, which is given out. If the globule thus melted, is allowed to drop into a basin of water, it will remain for some time red-hot at the bottom of it, and the intensity of the heat is so great, that it swells and carries off the glaze of the part of the basin on which it falls. Production of Coloured Glass.-The celebrated Swedish chemist, Assessor Gahn, who first pointed out the use of the blow-pipe in analytical researches, used to show the curious experiment of obtaining, by its aid, iron from a piece of paper. Mr. Sivright, of Meggetland, by the aid of the same instrument, without any addition, obtained a colourless globule of glass, from a stalk of wheatstraw. When barley-straw was used, he obtained a glass of a topaz yellow colour. As straw contains a great deal of silex, the glass thus produced is formed of the silex, and the potash in the Production of Sugar from old Rags.--If a certain quantity of rags, paper, or the sawings of wood are heated with sulphuric acid con |