'Nonsense! Let me go there's no such thing. Who ever heard of a ghost playing the bagpipes? Zounds! I say, loose me, woman!" cried the sergeant, struggling hard to liberate himself. But while he spoke, a figure enveloped from head to foot in a white sheet, and producing a variety of unmusical sounds from a set of pipes, appeared at the door of the inner room.

"The ghost!-the ghost!-Tim Hogan's ghost!' shouted the terrified people, who, without waiting to see more, rushed pell-mell, screaming, swearing, praying, and tumbling over stools and tables to make their

escape.

In the mêlée the sergeant contrived to be one of the first out of the barn, and, without stopping to muster his men, took to his heels, and never cried 'halt' till he had reached his quarters, leaving his party to follow him at their own discretion.

The wake-house being thus summarily cleared, no one would venture to return to it during the night; the following morning, however, a few of the boldest villagers summoned courage to revisit the scene of the preceding night's adventure; but great was their surprise on discovering the unruly piper lying quietly, with his pipes beside him, precisely as he had been disposed by the persons who had laid him out. Nothing appeared to have been touched except the bottle of whisky, and that had been drained to the bottom. Upon hearing which, Biddy Mulachy was heard to exclaim,

'Ah! then I wouldn't doubt poor Tim; dead or alive, he's not the boy to leave his liquor behind him.'

Notwithstanding the frightful stories that circulated through the parish of the appearance of the piper's ghost, and the disappearance of the whisky at the wake, poor Tim was in due time put quietly under the sod in the little church-yard of Ardrossan, with his favourite instrument at his feet, and a full bottle of choice potteen at his head.

Some days after these occurrences the military party, with Sergeant Flint, quitted Ardrossan, and then Dermott O'Rourke, who had privately withdrawn from the neighbourhood, returned to the village, and explained the mystery of the ghost. He said that, in the confusion which took place on the unexpected entrance of the soldiers, he had, unperceived by any one except Norah Conolly (now Mrs. O'Rourke), slipped into the room where the piper was laid; but finding there no means of escape, and being hard pressed, he crept cautiously under the boards which supported the dead body; after a while he ventured to crawl out, and discovered the bottle of whisky, which he tasted so frequently that he became ready for any devilry. In this humour a droll thought struck him of masquerading in the character of the dead piper. With the help of the winnowing sheet and the bag-pipes, he succeeded, as we have seen, in raising a beautiful ruction amongst the villagers, and in effectually frightening away his unwelcome friend, the sergeant.

The truth of Dermott's story was, however, stoutly denied by the majority of those who had been at the wake. Ashamed of being alarmed so ridiculously, they maintained that they could not be mistaken, and that the appearance they had seen on that memorable night was no other than the genuine ghost of Tim Hogan, the piper.

AZENOR THE PALE.

BY LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.

IN the year 1400, Ives, or Iwen, Lord of Kermorvan, married the heiress of the house of Kergroadez, whose name was Azénor. The legends of Cornouaille recount that the young lady had bestowed her affections on a younger son of the family of Mezléan, who was poor, and intended for the church. Her relations opposed the inclination of the lovers, and forced her to marry Iwen, whose alliance they were anxious to secure, on account of his power and wealth.

The vanity of their ambition, and the defeat of their projects, are illustrated in the following melancholy ballad, well known in Bretagne, and extant in the dialect of Cornouaille. The castles of Kermorvan and Kergroadez still exist: the latter was rebuilt in the seventeenth century. The fountain may yet be seen where Az ́nor the Pale sat to weave her garlands for 'son doux clerc de Mezléan.' The house of Mezléan is in ruins; one portal alone remains, defended by a battlemented gallery with machicoulis, and a few walls overgrown with wallflower.

The bard concludes his lay by stating that it was composed in the Chateau du Hénan, which is a few leagues from Kemperlé in Basse Cornouaille, and that a lady (perhaps one of the daughters of the Sire de Guer, to whom the chateau must then have belonged) had written it from his dictation. In descending the pretty river Aven to gain the open sea, this feudal tower may be observed on the right bank. It is light, graceful, and beautifully ornamented with stonework in the best taste of the fourteenth century.

PART I.

They've promised Azénor the Pale,
But not to him she loves so well;
The wedding-day they soon may hail,

But who the tale of love shall tell?

The bridegroom comes with pomp and glee,
The Clerk of Mezlean is not he!

The little Azénor one day

Beside a fountain sat alone;

The robe was silk of yellow gay,

And near her flowers of broom were strown,

Bright golden flowers, a wreath to make
For her young Clerk of Mezlean's sake.

She sat and wove her garland there,
When, on a fiery charger white,
Sir Iwen pass'd that fountain fair,
And saw her beauty with delight.
A furtive glance he cast, and cried,
'That maid alone shall be my bride.'

Oh! many on thy bidding wait; But they will come, fond youth, too late!" 'My little maiden, tell me, pray,

What news this letter brings to me?'Oh! how should I, dear mistress, say? Unseal it, Azénor, and see.'

She lays the letter on her knees,

She scarcely dares the seal to break, And scarce the fatal words she sees

For tears that drown her snowy cheek! If this he writes be true,' she cries, 'Even while I read the news he dies!'

Down the steep stair amazed she went

'What mean these spits, the small and great? What mean these fires? For what intent

Come all the ringers to our gate?

The ringers and the pages all

Come trooping from Kermorvan's hall!'

"Though nothing may to-night hetide,
To-morrow thou wilt be a bride.'-
If I must be a bride so soon,

"Twere well betimes I sought my bed,
And when I rise to-morrow's noon,
'Tis to be buried-but not wed!'

PART III.

Next morning to her chamber lone
The little maiden softly hied,
Straight to the window is she gone,
And thus in falt'ring tones she cried:
'Lady, afar upon the way

A cloud of dust the air divides,
And horsemen prance all proud and gay,
And at their head Sir Iwen rides.
Oh! that his neck were broke in twain,
Spite of his gear and gallant train!
His snow-white courser deck'd with gold,
His cloak with many a velvet fold,
His harness and his housings bright,
And all his pomp of squire and knight !"—

'Accurst the hour that brings him here!
My curse be on them each and all!
My father, mother, once so dear,
On ye the heaviest shall fall!

Oh! never have I heard it sung

That happy were the fond and young—
Oh! never in this world of woe

Their hearts' desire may lovers know!"

PART IV.

How pale was Azénor that day

As she to church pursued her way!

And as by Mezléan she pass'd,

She turn'd her head, and spoke in haste:

'Oh, husband, let me enter there—
But for one moment grant my prayer!'-

To-day, to-day, I tell thee, no:
To-morrow, if it please thee, go.'

Poor Azénor in secret wept,

And none was near to soothe her pain; Her little maiden near her crept,

'Oh! mistress dear, this grief restrain, Good heaven has sure reward in store, Then dry thine eyes and weep no more.'

But Azénor shed many a tear,

Even as she stood the altar nigh, And those beyond the door might hear Within her sobs of agony.

Approach, my child, this ring shall be
A pledge of happiness for thee.'

'The task is hard-oh! ask it not,
How wretched is my wayward lot!
Will not my tears of anguish move-
I wed a man I cannot love!'-

'Hold, Azénor, 'tis sin and shame,
You wed a man of noble name,
Silver and gold are his I ween,
And Mezléan's clerk is poor and mean.'

'With love like ours could we be poor,
Though forced to beg from door to door!'

PART V.

To Kermorven the bride is come:
Her husband's mother hail'd her home.
'Alas!' she said, in tones of woe,

Where is my bed, good mother, show.''I'll lead thee there, fair daughter mineThe black knight's chamber joins to thine.'

Then on her knees she fell, her hair
Flow'd wildly o'er her shoulders fair,
Cast broken-hearted on the ground,
She murmur'd forth with piteous sound,
'My God! my God! forsake me not—
Have pity on my hapless lot!'

"

Now, by the Virgin, lady fair,
And by the sacred Trinity,

Such taunts a bridegroom ill may bear,
Thou know'st no widower am I.'--

'Not yet, but soon thou shalt-now hold-
Take thou my bridal robe so brave,
It cost full thirty crowns of gold,

And that my maiden true shall have.

'For I have giv'n her care and pain,
And many letters bear did she-
Letters, alas! all lost and vain,

Between my own dear love and me!

'This mantle new my mother made,
That to the priests I give, to say
The masses that my soul shall aid,
And wash at length my sins away.
My cross and chaplet take, I pray,
In mem'ry of thy bridal day.'

Why toll the bells so low and dread?
Why hush'd is all the village glee?
Young Azénor the bride is dead,

Her head upon her husband's knee!

Near Pont-Aven, in Hénan's hall,
His harp the bard in sorrow strung,
To teach this mournful tale to all,
And be for ever said and sung.

The old lord's minstrel touch'd the chords,
And a fair lady wrote the words.

The name of kloer, or clerks, is given in Britanny to young men who are studying in order to enter the ecclesiastic state. The term exactly corresponds with that of the Welsh kler, and may be recognized as the same as the low Latin clerus, applied to learned men. It was given in early times to a minstrel or inferior bard, and a poet or écolier-poëte.

The Breton kloer belong in general to the class of peasants or small farmers. At Leon, Kemper, and Vannes, they are most to be met with. They arrive in troops from distant parts of the country, in their peculiar and singular costume, wearing their long hair, and distinguished by their rustic naïveté and their accent. They are generally very young, and live together in the outskirts of the towns in the simplest manner, not being usually supplied with very extensive funds.

In summer they return to their villages, but their sojourn in the towns has always an effect on their minds, which rarely fails to alter their manners, and few escape a sentimental attachment which only serves to render them unhappy, as it is incompatible with their future prospects. It happens not unfrequently that, overcome by their feelings, they renounce the career they had intended to embrace, and throwing aside their books, return 'to busy life again.' But much oftener the church triumphs, and the scholar poet pours forth all his heart in verse, and confides his sentiments to his muse alone.