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fully followed my advice. All bewildered and choking, eyes, ears, nose, and mouth filled with black mud and decayed vegetable matter, I felt myself beaten down to the bottom, and gave myself up for lost; but a strong hand was thrust into my collar, and in another instant I was pulled up the bank, with the light of twenty lanterns all flashing on me, as the men ran up to each side to see the fun, and half deafened as I was by the roar of waters in my ears, I could hear the smothered laughter which the appearance of Walsh and myself created.

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Wisp down these two gentlemen, some of you,” said the Minor, and take care how you go over the dykes, or one of you will be putting his bayonet through a comrade. Walsh, I'll push on, and you and your guide-can follow when you're clean and comfortable."

That would have been a very long time, indeed, and so, very crest-fallen, I got under weigh, and with my clothes heavy as lead, and the water spurting out at every step, proceeded by the side of the dripping captain, whose only regret seemed to be that he had wet his pistols. I could not but help thinking of the grey body I had seen so distinctly before my disaster, but I felt I had lost caste by my mishap, and did not venture to make any allusion to it. How my heart beat with a sort of triumph and hope, as a bright flash illuminated the way in front of us, and the silence was broken by the heavy report of a police carbine.

"They have him!" shouted the captain, dashing forward. hundred pounds if we take him alive!"

"A

Bang! bang! bang! Three distinct reports of the singing of the balls as they fly through the night air; shouts of "Stand! or you're dead!"-"Surrender! or we fire!" rising up through the calmness of the night, in that solitary place. How I pant and strain, proud that I was the first to see him, and rush into the group of men in front, just assembled round some lifeless object, and how my senses are startled when a roar of laughter rings through their ranks!

"Be the mortial-frost, captain, Dempsey's shot ould Molloy's grey pony. Oh, murder! we'll be the laugh of the whole country! What the devil bewitched the ould baste to run away

in that fashion from us!"

The Minor and the captain had at first joined in the laugh, but now they looked grave and serious, and an angry "Silence! there," quieted the men who were joking and jeering the quicksighted rifle-man, who had dealt so hardly with the poor quadruped. "Walsh, this is most unlucky. I'm always against the men firing, and now we've woke up the whole townland, and to-morrow -'pon my oath we'll be all laughed out of the place-to shoot Molloy's garron of a pony! He ll petition the Lord Lieutenant, and the parish priest will back him, and get a motion made in the House about it. D-n the thing!" And the Minor groaned savagely. The old campaigner took the matter more quietly. "Molloy had better be quiet," said he. "I know a thing or two which will make that advisable; and, as for the laughing, why if

we get Clune, the Reload on the left! Close up in rear!

laugh will be on our side. In order, there! Don't fire again without word of command! March!" A few minutes, and we were close to the next hamlet, which we surrounded and searched as we had done the first. All the people feigned sleep, though we heard their smothered voices outside. The firing had evidently woke them up, but we could find no trace of Clune. Ditches, gardens, miserable hayricks were pricked and searched in vain; potato-sacks were bayonetted; bags of feathers ripped up and scattered about; thatch, roof, cupboard, and bed, thoroughly examined, but in vain.

After a council of war, which occupied just one minute, it was resolved that we should march-still across the bog-to Drumkeerin, effect a junction with Crofton, and then make a last sweep through the remaining townland-a weary, weary, march. Cold, wet, hungry, and tired, with nothing to cheer me, save a pipe, which a constable kindly offered, and the first "blast" of which made me sick, and a drop of bitter, bad whiskey, I trudged through it all in intense disgust. But time and perseverance will get one over even an Irish bog, and my ears were gladdened at last by the announcement that we were close upon the Cross, and that Captain Crofton's men were close to us in advance of our front.

"Confound me if they've got him, Walsh, after all !" exclaimed the Minor.

"You don't mean to say, Mr. O'Hara, that you've missed your man?" shouted Crofton, as he drew near. "We heard firing and supposed Clune was at bay. What were the shots we heard?"

"Oh! some of the men fired at an object in the dark, and it turned out to be nothing after all." The men tittered. "At least, only an old pony that had got out on the bog," added the Minor, with evident annoyance.

"It was good practice for the men, at all events," said Walsh. "Let us halt at the cross, and rest the men before we take our last cast homewards."

The Cross of Drumkeerin consisted of a huge stone shaft, about ten feet high, with a long slab placed across it, and a short, up-right block to complete the cross. It stood on a small elevation of rock, covered with thick moss, which afforded a dry resting-place, and around it some blocks of granite pierced the soil, and gave additional accommodation to the weary traveller. All around for miles lay a wide expanse of bog marshland, and heath-covered wastes as level and flat as the palm of one's hand, so that a person standing at the foot of the cross commanded the view in every direction. The men sat down in various directions, lighted their pipes, examined the state of their arms and pouches, or wrung their wet clothes, and now and then peered into the dark to get a glimpse of their two comrades and the prisoner, who were momentarily expected, while the magistrate and the two police officers sat apart, conversing over the plan of the forthcoming operation, in which I did not find anything to interest me;

I therefore went close up, to the foot of the cross, and amused myself by trying to make out the forms of the rude hieroglyphs carved on its base. My eye wandered upwards. Was I again deceived? I looked, but could scarcely believe my senses. Projecting over the edge of the transverse arm of the cross lay something, the outline of which I could mark distinctly against the sky, which was gradually lightening up with the approaching day. To my eyes it appeared like the outline of an arm and leg. I rubbed my eyes. Was I dreaming? No! Surely and palpably there the object was, lying flat on the arm of the cross, at full length, as if a man were stretched out on his face. I was too much astonished, and, at the same time, too much afraid of a second fracas to shout out, but looked down towards the men in order to see if I could make them understand that I wished them to come to me. No one regarded me, however, so I slowly drew back, with my eyes riveted on the spot. There could be no doubt now. As I retreated backwards, I distinctly saw a white face slowly project itself over the ledge, and I knew that a human being was gazing down on me. Instinctively I felt it was Clune the murderer, and, losing all control over myself, I burst upon the Minor and the officers with a yell of "Look! look! look! there's a man on the top of the Cross!" As I uttered it, my foot slipped, and I went rolling down the mound just as a bullet whistled past in the space my head would have occupied, and struck Captain Walsh's arm. The desperate ruffian, at one bound, leaped from the cross to the ground, dashed aside a bayonet-thrust with his left hand, and, with the other, discharged his second barrel at Mr. Crofton, and, sending a ball through his shoulder, struck out right and left, freeing himself from the startled men, who scarcely comprehended the scene, rushed out upon the bog with the strength and speed of a race-horse; but strong limbs and untiring lungs were after him.

"Damn the villain!" snarled the Minor, between his teeth. "He nearly did for the lad and you, Crofton; but we'll have him at last. Hark! there's more of their confounded firing."

And so, indeed, there was. The flashes here and there lighted up the figures of the police as they dropped on one knee to steady their aim.

"Oh! by Jove, the idiots will lose him again if they stop to throw away powder on him! Hurry on, Walsh! hurry on, for God's sake! Don't mind the arm yet! Run! run!"

Three more flashes on the distant marsh-a faint report followed by two nearly simultaneous-and presently a shout and a cheer!

“Bravo! bravo!" puffed out the Captain. "Mr. Clune has run his last race.”

In a few minutes more we came up with the men, and breaking through the circle I found myself face to face with Clune. He was a man of middle size, but admirably formed—his features good-large expressive mouth, oval face, nose long and welldefined-but his eyes!-cold, grey, and glittering-with a huge

black pupil,-I never before or since saw anything in a human being's head so like the eyes of a wild beast. He was handcuffed already, and the attitude in which he stood showed the enormous development of his muscles. A stream of blood was flowing down his left leg, but though not able to rest upon it from the pain, he was busy launching out the most terrible imprecations on all around, and seemed regardless of his awful condition.

The Minor was quite right. Clune was running slick away from the men who stopped to fire at him, when, in an evil hour for himself, he nearly ran into the arms of the constables, who were coming over with their prisoner to the rendezvous, and had quickened their pace on hearing the shots. Taking out his remaining pistol, he fired at the first man and missed-the second barrel did not go off, but he broke away from them, and was making off like a deer, when one of the constables, taking a steady aim, shot him through the calf of the leg, and he fell to the ground foaming with rage.

"Clune," said the Minor, "you lost your last chance by firing on the police. You'll be hung, as sure as I live."

"O'Hara; I'd die happy only for the thought that I spared your life and that of your cursed spy here three times this blessed night," was the reply.

My story is now soon told. It appeared that Clune was in the very first house we searched, but that warned of our approach he was on the alert, and got out into the garden ere the police surrounded the house.

When the Minor walked along the hedge, Clune was hiding in a thick bush, and "the muzzle of my pistol was within a foot of your head," said he, "but I spared your life, though I felt you'd run me down at last."

Uncertain as to the movements of the police, he had started across the country for the very place where we had made our rendezvous-a favourite resort of his, as he could get a good view from it-when we came across him at the big dyke, into which I fell. He had concealed himself here by plunging in and holding on by the side, so that his head only was above water, with one pistol in his mouth and the other in his hand; and the Minor, lantern and all, had almost stepped over his head. Clune thought he was observed, and had tightened his finger on the trigger, when O'Hara turned away, and thus saved his life.

He then made for the cross; by the exercise of great activity had got into his usual place upon it, and lay down to watch, when he heard the approach of our men and the well-known accents of the Minor close to him. He soon discovered they were not aware of his whereabouts, and his heart beat high with hope, when my wandering eye detected the outline of his figure, which he could not compress sufficiently not to overlap the ledge of the cross, and his fate was sealed.

He was hanged at Carrick within a month; and I made a vow I would never again, if I could help it, spend a night with the Irish Police.

AN ELIZABETHAN PEPYS.

ROBERT CARY, Earl of Monmouth, seems in many respects to have been the prototype of the celebrated Pepys. His lordship's autobiography lacks the quaintness of Lord Braybrooke's hero, and certainly Cary's tastes were not so general as those of Pepys, who in addition to a rigid eye to his own interests found leisure to cultivate the pleasures of the drama, to frequent balls, and to keep company with the fashionable and the gay; but still there are so many points of resemblance that the admirers of Pepys will find much in Cary that is calculated to throw amusing light on the history of the times. His career is that of a pure unmitigated time-server, one determined to achieve court preferment at whatever cost of dignity or self-respect-promotion being the pole-star of his life, and self-aggrandizement his only glory. He makes no secret as to the idols whom he served, or as to the degradation which their worship involved, nor does he seek to assume the office of historian in the larger sense of the term, but his position is such that he cannot tell his own story without furnishing numerous incidental illustrations of the characters of his regal contemporaries, and as incidental information of this kind is always more truthful (because more unguarded) than direct narrative, Lord Monmouth's contributions to historical literature are of no mean value.

Cary's Memoirs were first published from the original MS. by his descendant, the Earl of Cork and Orrery, who with rather questionable taste, modernised both style and orthography. After being for a long time scarce, an edition, containing many valuable notes, was published in Edinburgh forty-five years ago, since which time, the work has not been much known, except among antiquaries.

Cary was the son of Sir Robert Cary, afterwards Lord Hunsdon, who held office in the Court of Elizabeth, so that in respect of Court life, our author was literally "to the matter born." At the outset of his career, he endeavoured to attract the attention of the virgin queen by his style of living. "I lived in Court," says he, "had small means of my friends, yet God so blessed me that I was ever able to keep company with the best. In all triumphs, I was one; either at tilt, tourney, or barriers; in masque or balls. I kept men and horses far above my rank, and so continued a long time." It does not appear that Cary had, like Pepys, any innate love of pleasure, and accordingly, he did not maintain similar style when he came to obtain office. At the beginning he simply affected splendour as part of his stock-in-trade. His bidding for employment was not unobserved, and his first royal commission was a message to King James, relative to the infamous execution of his mother, the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots.

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