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Vol. VI. MONTREAL, JULY, 1881 . No. 9. 


GOD SAVE OLD IRELAND. 


BY REV. T. AMBROSE BUTLER. 


How fondly now, how proudly now, the exiles’ bosoms swell 
With thoughts of scenes of loveliness, by lake and hill and dell ! — 

With mem’ries of the sunny hours that faded so away, 

Like golden light that gleams awhile at dawning hour of day ! 

And tear-drops glisten in the eyes of gallant men and true — 

The forest-oak, like fragile flower, oft bears the morning dew — 

Oh, Native Isle ! — the heart distills such tribute tears for thee ! — 

God save old Ireland ! — struggling Ireland ! — Ireland o’er the sea ! 

How bravely now, how nobly now, the few and fearless stand — 

The struggling sons in Freedom’s van who work for mother-land ! 

Who dares the dungeon face the steel and mount the scaffold high, 
Ay, ready now, like men of old, to bravely fight or die — 

Oh ! truly shall their mem’ries live ; — their gallant deeds be told, 

And Allen’s name shine through the years a burnished lamp of gold ; 
And Celtic mothers pray to heav’n their sons as brave may be ! 

God save old Ireland ! — struggling; Ireland ! — Ireland o’er the sea ! 

Oh, may the swan-like dying notes of Erin’s martyr’d braves 
Be wafted' far and move the hearts of those beyond the waves — 

The shattered Celts whose discord dire has dimm’d our glorious Green, — 
May all unite in Larkin’s name ! Let women chant his caoine ! 

Oh ! let those hands that .brush aside the noble soldier’s tear 
Be stretch’d to those who vow revenge beside O’Brien’s bier ! 

Swear, swear, you’ll struggle side by side to make your country free ! 
God save old Ireland ! — struggling Ireland ! — Ireland o’er the sea ! 


THE ORPHANS; 

OR, 

THE HEIR OF LONGWORTH. 
CHAPTER XXX. 

BY THE GARDEN WALL. 

“ Mother,” says Frank Dexter, “I 
want to ask a favour.” 

It is the morning following the thea 
tricals, and Mr. Dexter has made the 


earliest of morning calls upon his moth- 
er. They have the little sunshiny par- 
lour all to themselves ; Mrs. Dexter oc- 
cupies a rocking-chair, and is swaying 
to and fro, a placid smile on her face as 
she watches her tall son. That young 
gentleman roams restlessly about, pick- 
ing up books and throwing them away, 
sitting down suddenly and getting up 
abruptly. 

Something beyond doubt is preying 


376 


THE HARP. 


on Mr. Dexter’s mind. The very tiniest 
of tiny matrons is Mrs. Dexter, and pro- 
portionately proud of her six foot son — 
a gentle little soul, more used to asking 
then grantingfavours, more accustomed 
to obeying than being obeyed. One of 
the docile sort of little women who 
always mind their men folks, whether 
as fathers, husbands, or sons, and who 
do as they are bidden, like good grown- 
up children, all their lives.” 

“ Yes, Franky dear,” says Mrs. Dex- 
ter folding two mites of hands on her 
lap ; “ only please sit down, dear. You 
make me nervous, fidgeting about so. 
What is it ?” 

“ You are going to Boston this after- 
noon, mother?” 

“ Yes, dear. As I return to Georgia 
so soon, I must go to Boston at once, if 
I go at all. I really must go, you know 
dear, having so many friends there, and 
coming north so seldom. And then I 
have such a quantity of shopping.” 

“ How long do you propose staying 
in Boston ?” 

“ Well, two or three days, or a week. 
Certainly not longer. Your poor dear 
uncle hates being left alone, and you 
have annoyed him very much, Franky 
dear, by your prolonged absence this 
summer. He says there is no gratitude 
or natural feeling left in the world — 
young men are all selfish and head- 
strong alike. You really should be care- 
ful, Frank dear, it will not do to arouse 
him, and there is so much at stake. 
More than once have I caught him talk- 
ing to Lawyer Chapman about Laur- 
ence Longworth ” 

“Never mind about that, mother,” 
cuts in Frank, impatiently, striding up 
and down once more ; “ I’ll make that 
all right before long. I shall be home 
for good in less than a fortnight. 
Mother,” he comes back abruptly and 
sits down beside her, “ I wish you would 
ask Miss Landelle to go with you to 
Boston.” 

“Yes, dear?” says Mrs. Dexter, in- 
terrogatively, but more placidly if pos- 
sible than before, . “ Miss Landelle ? I 
will if you say so. What a pretty crea- 
ture she is — the prettiest I think I ever 
saw.” 

“ Do you really ?” Frank cries, and 
all his honest face flushes and brightens 
“ Thank you, little mother. Yes, she is 


beautiful as an angel, and as sweet and 
as good. You will love her, mother — 
No one can know her and help it — so 
will my uncle ” 

“ Your uncle, Franky dear !” says 
Mrs. Dexter, opening her innocent little 
eyes ; “ he doesn’t know her you know, 
and is not likely to, so how can he, you 
know ?” 

Frank laughs. He has a subtle plan 
in his head of which the trip to Boston 
is only the initial step, but he is not dis- 
posed to take his mother into his confi- 
dence at present. Old James Long- 
worth is certainly in the pitiably be- 
nighted state of not knowing Marie 
Landelle at present, but out of that 
depth of darkness his nephew proposes 
to rescue him. 

“ Would she like to come, do you 
think?” inquires the lady. “I should 
like to take her very much. There is 
always a sort of distinction in chaperon- 
ing a new beauty — people take so much 
notice of one, and gentlemen are so 
very attentive, and then I dislike travel- 
ling alone. I shall be pleased to take 
her, Frank, if you really think she will 
be pleased to go.” 

“ Mother mine,” Mr- Dexter cries, 
“ my conviction is, that you are without 
exception the most charming little 
woman in the world. Like to go ? I 
am certain of it — I have it from her own 
lips — I — in fact I asked her yesterday, 
and she said she would be delighted.” 

“ Oh ! You did. Well then, Franky 
dear, nothing remains but to obtain Mrs. 
Windsor’s consent. I presume she will 
not object?” 

“ I don’t see why she should. You 
will put it to her, mother, as a personal 
favour to yourself. Say you have taken 
such a fancy to Miss Marie — which will 
be true, won’t it ? And that she is look- 
ing pale — which is true also — and needs 
a change , and that you will prize her 
company so highly, and all that. You 
know what to say — women always do. 
And, mother, suggest to Miss Landelle 
that as you may remain a week, and 
will be out a great deal, shopping and 
making calls all day, and going to thea- 
tres and places in the evening, she had 
better take a box.” 

“ But, Franky dear, we are not going 
to theatres and places. We shall have 
no one to take us.” 


THE HARP. 


377 


“ Oh yes, you will. You need not 
say anything about it, but I will be 
there. Just let it appear in a vague 
way that your friends will take you. 
The yacht is to be launched to-morrow 
morning, and will go at once to Boston. 
I shall not remain to go in her, but will 
follow you to-morrow afternoon by train. 
Then, of course, I can take you both 
everywhere, and make things pleasant 
for you in Boston. And at the end of 
the week, when the yacht is ready and 
there, perhaps we can persuade Miss 
Landelle to take a little trip with us to 
the Isle of Shoals and the coast of 
Maine, and so on. But you need not 
mention this. Just put your things on, 
like the dearest and most docile of little 
mothers, and trot around at once, and 
ask Dane Windsor for the loan of her 
granddaughter ?” 

He lifts her bodily out of her chair as 
though she were five instead of fifty, 
and kisses her heartily with a crushing 
hug. 

“ Beally, Franky dear,” expostulates 
the good lady, settling her hair with 
both hands, “ what a great boy you are. 
Well, as you say there is no time to lose 
so I will dress and go at once. But if 
M.rs. Windsor should say no ” 

“ You must not let her,” cries Frank, 
in alarm. “ I insist upon it, mother. 
Under pain of m} T dire and deep dis- 
pleasure, do not take no for an answer. 
I know how eloquent you can be when 
you like, and in that eloquence I place 
my trust now. Put it to her strongly — 
as an immense personal favour — no one 
can refuse you when you put it strong^.” 

“ Beally,” says Mrs. Dexter, with a 
pleased simper, “ how you do go on. I 
certainly have a command of language 
— that I have always been told, even 
from my earliest infancy. I daresay 
Mrs. Windsor will not object for a 
week.” 

“ Say nothing of the yacht or of me,” 
pursues this artful plotter; “ Do not so 
much as mention our names. How run 
away, madre mia, and don’t be long. I 
will wait for you here.” 

Mrs. Dexter dutifully departs, and 
Frank smiles to himself with satisfac- 
tion as he paces up and down. New and 
strong resolve is written in Mr. Dexter’s 
ingenious countenance. He has waited 
and been patient, until waiting and pa- 


tience have ceased to be virtues. He 
will speak, but not here. Marie will 
accompany his mother to Boston ; dur- 
ing their stay in that centre of civiliza- 
tion and intellect he will devote himself 
to her amusement and pleasure. The 
hours shall fly, winged with every new 
excitement. Then there shall be a din- 
ner on board the yacht, in a cabin served 
up regardless of everything but beauty, 
luxury, and delight. 

After the dinner it will not be diffi- 
cult to persuade her to join in that 
charming trial trip to the Isle of Shoals. 
He has told her of the wild and rugged 
beauty of the coast of Maine, and she 
will brave a little sea-sickness for the 
sake of the pieturesque. And then, 
what more natural than to persuade her 
to return with his mother to Georgia, 
and in his own “ancestral halls” he 
will lay his hand and heart at her feet, 
and implore her to remain, queen and 
lady paramount, in that sunny southern 
land for ever. Is she likely to say no ? 
Is Mrs. Windsor likely to object? 

Frank’s face grows luminous with 
love and delight as he builds these en- 
chanting air castles, and then, all in a 
moment there rises before him the im- 
age of Durand as he saw him last night, 
sitting beside her, holding her hands in 
his, speaking impassioned words, gazing 
at her with impassioned eyes, handsome 
and picturesque as the most romantic 
girl’s fancy could desire, in his Faulh- 
land dress, and the roseate visions tum- 
ble into the dust. 

Marie Landelle is not a romantic girl 
he more than suspects. She is too 
beautiful herself to overmuch prize 
beauty in a man; but even she cannot 
be altogether insensible to the dark 
charm of that face. Nothing could be 
more tame and spiritless, and unemo- 
tional than her rendering of Julia, ex- 
cept in that one particular scene where 
she renounces him. That she certainly 
did with relish. Frank is jealous : but 
even in his jealousy he has to own she 
gives him no cause. She has avoided 
Durand ever since his coming, in the 
most pronounced manner. To all out- 
ward seeming Longworth has much 
more cause for suspicion than he ; and 
yet there is a prophetic instinct in love 
that tells him it is not so, that Durand 
is Marie’s lover, or has been, not Beine’s. 


THE HARP. 


£78 


Mrs. Dexter descends, and Mr. Dexter 
clears from his manly brow the traces 
of moody thought, and escorts her to 
within a short distance of the Stone 
House. He lets her enter alone; it is 
his diplomatic desire not to appear in 
the, matter at all. 

“Don’t make your call too long, 
mother,” he says, at parting: “I will 
hang around here until you come.” 

Mrs. Dexter promises of course, but 
the call is nearly an hour for all that, 
and Frank is faming with repressed 
impatience before she comes. 

“Well?” he says feverishly, the in- 
stant she appears. 

“ Well dear,” answers smiling Mrs. 
Dexter, “ it is all right. Mrs. Windsor 
objected a little at first at the shortness 
of the notice, but she has agreed to let 
her go.” 

Her son’s face grows radiant once 
more. 

“Ah ! I knew your eloquence would 
move a heart of flint, little mother. And 
Marie — Miss Landelle — what did she 
say ?” 

“ Miss Landelle is a very quiet young 
lady, dear. She never says much ; but 
she smiled and looked pleased, and said 
she would like to visit Boston very much, 
if grandmamma was perfectly willing. 
So it is all settled, my dear boy, and I 
expect to enjoy my trip ever so much 
more with so charming a companion.” 

“ Yes, that is a matter of course. Did 
— did any one speak of me ?” 

“ Mrs. Windsor asked if you were to 
be of the party, and I said, oh, dear, 
no! you wer’n’t coming with me — you 
had to stay and get your yacht launch- 
ed. I never made the least allusion to 
your following to-morrow, Frank,” says 
his mother with a diplomatic smile, and 
her head very much on one side, like an 
artful little canary. “ I daresay Miss 
Marie will not like Boston any the less 
for your being the one to show it to her.” 

It is quite evident that, as far as his 
mother goes, Frank’s course of love is 
likely to run smooth. Ho one in the 
world is quite good enough for her boy, 
of course, but Mrs. Windsor’s grand- 
daughter approaches as near her ideal 
as it is in young lady nature to come. 
She is a great beauty, she will be a 
great heiress, her manners are simply 
perfection — even old uncle Longworth 


can find no flaw here. And uncle Long 
worth has been heard to say he wished 
the boy would marry, and bring a wife 
home before he died. 

Heine is not at home during Mrs. 
Dexter’s call, and when she comes home 
an hour or so later is surprised to find 
Marie and Catherine busily engaged in 
packing a trunk. She pauses in the 
doorway to gaze and wonder. 

“Why are you doing this, Marie? 
What are you about with that trunk? 
Where are you going?” 

“ I do not think I will mind that pink 
silk, Catherine. I am not likely to need 
it. Oh ! is it you, Petite — wtnt did you 
say ? Yes, I am packing. I think that 
will do, Catherine; you may go, and 
thanks, very much.” 

The woman departs, and Marie, on 
her knees, rests her arms on her trunk 
and looks at her sister. 

“Come in and shut the door, Petite. 
I am going away for a week, and oh ! 
little sister, how glad I am for even that 
reprieve. Since Leonce came my life 
has been miserable. To get away even 
for a few days is happiness unspeak- 
able.” 

Heine stands looking at her without a 
word, her dark, solemn eyes seeming 
darker and more solemn even than 
usual. 

“Why stand there silent?” Marie 
goes on, in a low, concentrated tone. 
“Why do you not begin? Why not 
tell me it is not right, that it is my 
duty to stay, and so on ? Why do. you 
stand there and look at me like a sphinx ? 
Why do you not speak ?” 

“ I have nothing to say. What does 
it matter whetherl speak or am silent ? 
You will do as you please. Where are 
you going ?” 

“ To Boston.” 

“ With whom ?” 

“Mrs. Dexter.” 

And as Marie speaks the name her 
lovely upraised eyes flash defiance. 
Heine’s lip curls. 

“ Soit / And with her son, of course ?” 
“ There is no of course. No, we go 
alone ; Mr. Frank remains to look after 
his yacht.” 

“ When did Madame Dexter ask you ? 

“ This morning — an hour ago.” 

“ Why did she ask you ?” 

“ When did she ask you — why did 


THE HARP. 


379 


she ask you?” Marie breaks into one of 
her faint laughs. “ You go on like the 
catechism, Petite. She asked me, she 
was good enough to say, because she 
had taken a great fancy to me, and 
thought my companionship would en- 
hance the pleasure of her trip. Now, 
Petite, excuse me, we go at two, and it 
is half-past twelve already.” 

“Marie, I am not going to remon- 
strate — it is of no use. I am not going 
to talk of right or wrong — you do not 
care. But I will talk of prudence. I 
wonder you are not afraid.” 

Marie throws back her head with a 
gesture of disdain. “ Of whom ? Of 
what? I am not afraid. There are 
some nature’s that can only be kept in 
subjection by letting them see we defy 
them. Let Leonce speak if he dares — 
he knows the penalty.” 

“ Yes, he knows it well ; we talked it 
over last night; and, Marie, there is 
that within him of which I am afraid. 
On his guard he may be while you are 
here — ” 

“Ah, yes, greatly on his guard,” 
Marie interrupts, with scorn , “as he 
was on his guard last night, for exam- 
ple.” 

“ Last night’s excitement is not likely 
to occur again. I say he may be on his 
guard ; but go, and with Frank Dexter’s 
mother — to be joined later, no doubt, b}’ 
the son — and I will not answer for the 
consequences. You know how utterly 
reckless he can be when he likes. I 
only say. this — take care !” 

“Thanks, Petite. I shall take excel- 
lent care, be very sure,” says Marie, go- 
ing on with her packing. “ If Leonce 
is inclined to be unreasonable you must 
talk to him. I really require a change ; 
I lose appetite and colour. His coming 
has worried me and made me nervous ; 
it would be inhumanly selfish in him to 
object, but Leonce is selfish or nothing. 
I shall go, that is fixed as fate ; so clear 
that overcast face, little croaker, and 
say no more about it.” 

The look of decision that sets some- 
times the pretty mouth and chin of 
Marie Landelle sets and hardens it now. 
Peine looks at her for a moment, then 
resolutely closes her kps, and without a 
ord quits the room. 

Still the sisters part friends. In her 
art Reine loves Marie far too dearly 


and deeply to let a shadow of anger or 
reproach mar even a brief farewell. She 
kisses her again and again with a 
strange, trembling passion of tenderness 
that is deepened and intensified by some 
nameless foreboding. 

“ I will do what I can,” she says, 

“ with Leonce. How much I shall miss 
you, oh ! sister beloved. Take care, I 
entreat, and do not, do not fail to return 
at the end of the week. Let nothing 
tempt you to linger longer.” 

“Certainly not, dear Petite; why 
should I ? Make Leonce go before I 
come back, if you can. It will be best 
for all. Tell him I will write to him, 
and forgive his coming when he is fairly 
gone.” 

So they part. Reine stands and watch- 
es the carriage out of sight, still with 
that dull foreboding in her mind of evil 
to come. 

“ Is she altogether heartless, I won- 
der?” she thinks, in spite of herself. 

“ Nothing good will come of this jour- 
ney, I feel that. And last night Leonce 
promised to go. Who is to tell what he 
will do now ?” 

But when, a few hours later, as she 
walks purposely in the direction of Mrs. 
Longwortb’s, and meets him, and tells 
him in rather a tremulous voice, he 
takes it very quietly. His dark face 
pales a little, and there is a quick flash 
at the sound of Mrs. Dexter’s name. 
Beyond that no token of emotion. 

“ So,” he says, “ she is gone, and with 
Monsieur Dexter’s mother. When does 
Monsieur Dexter propose joining them, 
for he is still here ?” 

“ Not at all. How unkind you are, 

Leonce ! as if Marie ” 

He smiles. 

“Marie can do no wrong — you and I 
know that, Petite. Did she leave no 
message for me ?” 

“None — except a message you will 
not care to hear.” 

“ Still I will hear it.” 

“ She bade me tell you, then, to leave 
Baymouth — you know why, and that 
when you are fairly gone she will cor- 
respond with you, and try to forgive 
you for having come.” 

“ Ah ! she will correspond with me 
and try to forgive me,” repeats Durand 
and laughs. “ That at least is kind ; but 
Marie is an angel of kindness in all 


THE HARP. 


380 


things. For so much condescension I 
am indeed grateful.” 

“ And yon will go ?” 

“ No, Petite, 1 will not. If my stay- 
ing annoys you I regret it; for believe 
me, my little one, I would not willingly 
give you annoyance. I will remain un- 
til Marie jeturns. Who can tell when 
we may meet again ? Not until the 
grandmother dies, and the future is 
secure — and she looks as if she might 
live for ever, that stately grandmamma, 
I must speak one parting word to Marie 

— then indeed ” 

Peine sighs resignedly. It is of no 
use contesting the point. Durand and 
Marie will go on their own way with 
very little heed to her counsel. 

“ You may as well say your parting 
word now then, Leonce,” she says reso- 
lutely, “for this is the very last tete-a- 
tete we will have. As long as you stay 
in Bay mouth, I shall remain strictly in 
the house. I should not have met you 
to-day, but it was necessary you should 
hear of Marie’s departure first from me. 
Now I shall say adieu, and meet you no 
more.” 

“Monsieur Longworth commands 
this?” 

“ That is my affair. My grandmother 
forbids it, people talk and that is enough. 
You know how I abhor everything clan- 
destine. Go or stay as you please, I 
will trouble myself about it no more.” 
“ Petite,” he says, with real feeling, 
“ You are my good angel now and al- 
ways. I ought not to have come. But 
I swear to you that when Marie returns 
I will go. I will be patient and wait, 
although it seems almost impossible, 
and she is so cold — heavens, so cold. 
Adieu, my little sister, and a thousand 
thanks for all your goodness.” 

He kisses the hands he holds. At the 
moment a man passes along the opposite 
pavement — Mr. Longworth is on his 
way to dinner: He lifts his hat, and 

passes rapidly on. 

Peine flushes with vexation and draws 
away her hands. 

“ Leonce, we are in the street, how 
can you forget yourself. Monsieur 
Longworth saw us.” 

“ Well, Petite,” Durand says, coolly, 
“ and what then. A brother may kiss 
his sister’s hand. Mr. Longworth is on 


his way to dinner and will favour me 
with more languid grand seigneur airs 
than ever. He does me the honour to 
be jealous, Peine. Ma foi, I appear to 
be a cause of jealousy to more than one 
gentleman in your little country town.” 

Peine leaves him abruptly and goes 
home, feeling vexed with Leonce for his 
salute, with Longworth for having seen 
it, with Marie for her departure, with 
herself for no particular reason — with 
all the world, in fact. But she is too 
generous and frank-hearted for moods 
and fancies, and sits down to the piano 
and plays away her vapours. Presently 
it grows too dark, and then she rises, 
takes a shawl, and hurries away to her 
favourite twilight seat on the garden 
wall. 

She sits a very long time, her hands 
clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed dream- 
ily on the water, and thinks. Five 
months scarcely have passed since she 
came to this place, and how much has 
haj^pened — more than in all her life be- 
fore. She was unhappy at first, but 
that has worn away. Leonce frets her ; 
but that is only a passing annoyance, 
nothing deep. 

A subtle sense of happiness has come 
to her of late ; she accepts it without 
caring to analyze its nature too closely. 
Her grandmother has grown more kind 
and tolerant since her engagement — 
perhaps it is that. She likes Miss Hariott 
more than likes her. It is always good, 
nnd restful and comfortable to be with 
her. A red woman f iend is such a true 
ana satisfactory thing. She likes Bay- 
mouth— dull but not dreary, monotonous 
but not wearisome. And then there is 
Mr. Longworth. She pauses in her 
musing with a smile and a faint blush. 
Yes, there is always Mr. Longworth. It 
is well, after all, to have one’s future 
husband chosen for one — one can take 
him and feel that self-will and sentiment 
— dangerous things always — have noth- 
ing to do with it. Yes, certainly it is 
well — they manage these things best 
in France, there can be no doubt. 

Mr. Longworth is very good — he is a 
husband one can be proud of, he has a 
generous and noble heart, he is not mer- 
cenary, or he would be Madame Wind- 
sor’s heir to-day, and she and her sister 
toiling in London for a scanty living. 
How very handsome and gallant he 


THE HARP. 


381 


looked last night in the scarlet and gold 
of an English officer. 

Yes, decidedly he is handsome, and of 
a fine presence— clever, too, which is 
best of all — man is nothing if not intel- 
lectual. It does not so much signify in 
women — it is not expected of them; 
people who ought to know say they are 
better without too much mind, but men 
— oh ! a man should be strong and brave 
gentle and tender, upright and generous, 
and true of heart. All this M. Long- 
worth is, she knows ; has she not had 
proof of it ? How grateful, for example 
is that blind girl ; how well Miss Hariott 
likes him — Miss Hariott incapable of 
liking anything selfish, or sordid, or 
mean. 

How her haughty grandmother seeks 
and respects his opinion — her proud, 
imperious grandmother, who tolerates 
no advice nor interference from any one 
else. How strange that he should have 
had a grand passion for that passee 
Madame Sheldon. JDo men really out- 
live and forget such things as that ? He 
has told her he loves her, and he is a 
man of truth. That faint flush rises 
again as she recalls his looks, his words, 
the fire in the eyes that have gazed on 
her. They are extremely handsome 
eyes, and perhaps most handsome when 
anger as well as love flashes from them. 

If she could only tell him all — but 
for the present that is hopeless, and he 
has promised to trust her. What is af- 
fection without trust, firm abiding faith 
and trust through all things. He must 
wait yet a little longer, and believe in 
her despite appearances, and meantime 
she is happy, and Baymouth is pleasant, 
and eighteen a delightful age, and love — 
Well, love, of course, “ the very best 
thing in all the world.'’ 

She wraps her shawl a little closer 
around her, for these September nights 
have a ring of sharpness, and watches a 
belated moon making its way through 
windy clouds up to the centre of the sky. 

But Beine is neither lonely nor sad; 
All her presentiments and vexations are 
gone with the dead day, and she sings 
as she sits. And presently a step — a 
step she knows — come down the path 
behind her ; but, though a new gladness 
comes into her eyes, she does not look 
round, but sings softly on. 

The step ceases, he is beside her; he 


has heard her song, but he does not 
speak. She turns and looks up, and to 
the day of her death never forgets the 
look his face wears. The smile fades 
from her lips, the gladness from her 
eyes ; her singing ceases. She sits erect 
and gazes at him in consternation. 

‘•'What is it?” she asks, with a gasp. 

“ Yery little,” he answers. His voice 
is low and stern, his face fixed and in- 
flexible. “ V ery little, perhaps, in your 
eyes. Only this — I overheard you last 
night,” 

For a moment she does not know what 
he means. Then it flashes upon her, 
and her face blanches. 

“You mean ” she says, in a terri- 

fied voice. 

u I mean your interview with Mon- 
sieur Leonce Durand in Miss Hariott’s 
garden last night, I did not go out 
eavesdropping. I went out honestly 
enough to smoke, but I chanced to over- 
hear. I heard him claim the right to be 
with you. I heard him call you his 
wife !” 

She utters a low, frightened cry, and 
turns from him and covers her face. 

“ Don’t be afraid,” he says, a touch of 
scorn in his tone; “I am not going to 
hurt you. 1 am not even going to re- 
proach you. There is not much to be 
said between you and me ; but, great 
heaven, how I have been deceived in 
you ! I stand and look at you and am 
stunned by it, I thought I knew some- 
thing of women and men ; I thought, in 
my besotted self-conceit, I could read 
the soul in the face. I looked in yours 
that day on the deck of the ship and 
thought I saw a brave, frank, fearless 
heart, shining out of tender and truth- 
ful, and beautiful eyes. And the end is 
this !” 

She does not speak a word. She sits 
like one stunned by a blow so sudden, 
so cruel so crushing, that it deadens 
feeling and speech. 

“ Your motive for what you have 
done,” he goes rapidly on, “ is not so 
difficult to understand. You know that 
whatever shadow of chance you stood 
unmarried, you stood no shadow of 
chance married, and married to a 
Frenchman. You were naturally am- 
bitious to obtain your rightful inheri- 
tance, and for the sake of that inheri- 
tance you have plotted, and schemed, 


3^2 


THE HARP. 


and duped us all. You played your part, 
as Lydia Languish very well last night 
but you shine far more brilliantly off 
the stage than on. You knew how to 
make your very perversity, your petu 
lance, bewitching. Your very pride and 
defiance held a curious charm. You 
kept me off, and knew that in doing it j 
you lured me on. You were the furthest 
possible from my ideal woman, and yet 
you captivated me with your very faults. 

< I believed in you with as trusting a 
simplicity as the rawest and most un- 
licked cub of twenty. I was all the 
more eager to win you because you 
seemed so hard to win. It was a well 
played game ; but your husband, with a 
man’s natural impatience for his wife, 
comes before your plans are matured 
and spoils all. Once before a woman 
deceived me, a girl younger even than 
you ; but I was a hot-headed boy then, 
and her task was easy. Now, in man’s 
maturity, with the average of man’s 
judgment in most things, you have done 
it again, with a skill and cleverness no 
one can admire more than I do. Laura 
Longworth was only weak and empty- 
headed ; you are heartless, treacherous, 
and false to the core !” 

She has not spoken or stirred — he has 
given her no chance to speak ; but if he 
had it would have been the same. If 
her life were the forfeit she could not 
save it by uttering a sound. He turns 
with these last harsh and merciless 
words, and so leaves her. 

Six days have passed. It is a bleak 
afternoon early in October. In Mrs. 

M indsor’s pretty sitting room a fire 
burns cozily, and casts its red gleams 
between the crimson-silk window cur- 
tains. In a great armchair before this 
fire, wrapped in a large fleecy white 
shawl, Mrs. Windsor sits. 

She is not alone ; her younger grand- 
daughter is sitting by the window look- 
ing out. It is not owing to any special 
pleasure Mrs. Windsor takes in her 
younger granddaughter’s society that 
she has her here, but the cold in her 
head, and the perfect tempest of sneezes 
that now and then convulse her, have 
flown to her visual organs. With eyes 
weak and watering one cannot amuse 
one’s self with a book, and to sit here 
all day alone, and unable to read, is not 
to be thought of. Heine, then, is here 


to read to her ; but grandmamma had 
had sufficient unto the day of fiction, 
and the sorrows of heroes and heroines ; 
vexations of her own are beginning to 
absorb her. 

“ That will do,” she says, pettishly. 
“ Ring for Jane; this lemonade is cold.” 
Heine rises and obeys. The bleak 
light of the overcast afternoon falls full 
upon her face as she does so, and Mrs. 
Windsor is struck by the change in it. 
More than once during the past week 
that change has surprised her. A great 
change is there, but it is so subtle that 
she can hardly tell in what it consists. 

She does not sing, she does not play, 
she does not talk, she does not smile. 
She never goes out, she loses flesh and 
appetite daily, she comes slowly when 
she is bidden, and goes wearily when 
she is dismissed, with little more of vi- 
tality than an automaton might show. 

“ Heine,” her grandmother says, and 
says it not unkindly, yet with more of 
curiosity than kindness, “ what is the 
matter with you ? You go gliding about 
the house like some small gray ghost. 
Are you not well ?” 

“I am very well, madame.” 

She resumes her seat. Jane appears 
with a fresh and steaming pitcher of 
lemonade, and departs. The young girl 
listlessly takes up her book. 

“ Shall I go on, madame ?” 

“ No, I’m tired of it ; paying atten- 
tion makes my head ache. But you may 
as well remain. I expect a person who 
owes me a sum of money ; he will be 
here directly, and he will want you to 
write him a receipt. Stay until he 
comes.” 

She leans back and closes her eyes. 
She is a trifle curious still concerning 
the change in her granddaughter, but 
she will inquire no further. Can it be 
her sister’s absence ? Nonsense ! they 
seem fond of each other, but to fret over 
a week’s separation would be ridiculous 
indeed. The house seems desolate with- 
out Marie’s fair, bright face — she is as- 
tonished and vexed at the way she miss- 
es her. 

Then Longworth is absent, too, has 
been absent for five days ; and what is 
remarkable, was with Heine in the gar- 
den the night before his departure, and 
yet left without stepping in. This is 
not like Laurence. She opens her eyes 


THE HARP. 


383 


and glances at the motionless gray 
figure at the window. 

“ Beine,” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“ Did Laurence Longworth tell you 
that night last week where he was go- 
ing next morning?” 

“ He did not, madame.” 

“ Hid he tell you he was going at 
all ?» J * * 

“ Ho, madame.” 

“ Hid he not even bid you good-bye ?” 
“ Hot even that.” 

“ Curious !” says Mrs. Windsor, and 
knits her brows. “ Why then did he 
come ? What did he say ?” 

“ I cannot remember all he said, 
madame. Certainly not a word about 
going away the next morning.” 
t Mrs. Windsor turns upon her a keen, 
sidelong, suspicious look. She is an odd 
mixture of frankness and reticence, this 
youthful relative of hers. If she has 
made up her mind to be silent it will be 
a difficult matter indeed to induce her 
to speak. One of her most reticeut 
moods is evidently upon her now. 

“Can they have quarrelled?” she 
muses. “ I thought only sentimental 
simpletons in love quarrelled. And this 
young woman is not a sentimental sim- 
pleton. And if they have quarrelled, 
what have they quarrelled about’? I 
will know at once, and woe betide this 
girl if she has played Laurence Long- 
worth false !” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Mrs. Windsor’s meditations are doomed 
to be cut short. After a few more rest- 
less imaginations she closes her eyes 
once more, and this time drops into a 
dose. Beine throws aside the novel 
with a tired sigh, and takes apathetical- 
ly enough another book. It is a book 
that never leaves Mrs. Windsor’s room 
—it lies beside the ponderous family 
Bible, is rarely opened by its owner. It 
is a copy of the “ Imitation,” beautifully 
bound, and on the fly-leaf, in a large, 
free hand, is written — 

“ To the best of Mothers — on her 
birthday.— From her affectionate son. 

“ George.” 

Beine looks at the faded words long. 
This is the^ dashing brother George, 
of whom she has so often heard her 


mother speak; the handsome, clever, 
high-spirited son grandmamma loved 
with all the love one heart ever held, 
whose memory is more to her still than 
all the world beside. She has learned 
why Longworth has won so close a 
place to that memory , she wonders if 
George Windsor really looked like that 
— tall, fair, broad-shouldered, strong. 
Her mother was tall and slim, with a 
thin, fretted face, a weak, querulous 
voice, and tearful, pale blue eyes. Poor 
mamma ! always ailing and unhappy 
always making every one about her un- 
happy too. No, George Windsor could 
never have been like mamma ; he had 
bright eyes and a sunny smile — she had 
heard him described often. 

And in the midst of all his youth and 
beauty, and strong young manhood, he 
had been struck down doing a good and 
noble deed. Ho wonder grandmamma 
was cold, and stern, and unloving. 
Who would care to love in a world 
where the word was only another 
name for misery Love was of heaven, 
a plant from paradise, never intended to 
bloom and blossom in the desert here 
below ! 

She opens the book at random — it is 
a book beloved always, and well known. 
A marker is between the leaves at the 
chapter called, “ The King’s Highway 
of the Holy Cross,” and Beine begins to 
read. 

“ Sometimes thou shalt be left by God, 
other times thou shalt be afflicted by 
thy neighbour, and what is more, thou 
shalt often be a trouble to thyself. 

“ For God would have thee to suffer 
tribulations without comfort, and wholly 
to subject thyself to him, and to become 
more humbly by tribulation. 

“ Host thou think to escape that which 
no mortal could ever avoid !” 

She can read no more; she closes the 
book, replaces it, folds her arms on the 
table, and lays her face down upon 
them : — 

“ For God would have thee to suffer 
tribulation without comfort, and become 
more humble by tribulation.” 

Yes, yes. Oh! yes, she has been 
proud, and self-willed, and rebellious, 
and her punishment has fallen. Her 
pride is humbled to the very dust , she 
has been stabbed to the heart in the 
hour of exultation. She has lost what 




THE HARP. 


she was learning to hold so dear; she is 
despised where she was beginning to 
seek for approbation, scorned where 
she most wished to be highly held. 

She does not blame Longworth — he 
has acted hastily and rashly ; all the 
same, she could not have explained if he 
had come in calmest moderation to ask 
that explanation. How strange he 
should so have overheard. Is there a 
fate, a Nemesis, in these things? She 
does not blame him ; she only feels 
crushed, stunned, benumbed, left strand- 
ed on some barren rock, the land of 
promise gone for ever, with a drearily 
aching heart, and a sense of loss and 
loneliness for ever with her. 

Six days have passed since that moon- 
light night by the vgarden wall, when 
she had sat with hidden face and list- 
ened to Longworth’s bitter, scathing 
words. He has gone the next day, Marie 
is gone, and Miss Hariott, by some fata- 
lity, is absent for a few days with some 
country friends. She has not once stir- 
red outside the gates, she has not once 
seen Durand during this interval. She 
has said nothing of her broken engage- 
ment. When Longworth comes back 
he will tell her grandmother; he must 
tell. She does not know what the re- 
sult will be — she does not care. Noth- 
ing worse can happen than has happen- 
ed already. 

She lies still for a long time. She has 
slept very little last night, and in the 
silence and warmth of the room she 
drops half asleep now. A loud knock 
at the house-door startles her into wake- 
fullness. She sits upright, and Cather- 
ine opens the parlour door, and announ- 
ces “ Mr. Martin.” 

Mr. Martin, a bluff, elderly man, comes 
in, and Heine goes over and gently 
awakes her grandmother, annd tells her 
her expected visitor has come. 

“ Well, ma’am,” says Mr. Martin, in a 
hearty voice, “ here I am up to time, 
and with the money down on the nail. 
Fifteen hundred and fifty pounds, that’s 
the amount, ma’am, ain’t it? Here’s 
the cash all correct and proper ; count 
it over — countit over !” 

“ Heine,” Mrs. Windsor say, languid- 
ly, “ count it, please, and then write out 
Mr. Martin’s receipt.” 

Reine obeys. She counts over the 
roll of notes carefully, finds the amount 


right, produces pen and paper, and 
makes out a receipt for Mrs. Windsor to 
sign. 

“ Take this money upstairs,” says 
Mrs. Windsor, “and lock it in the cabi- 
net in my bedroom. Here is the key.” 

“ And when you’ve locked it up, 
young lady,” interposes Mr. Martin, 
with refreshing frankness, “ I would 
advise you to take a turn in the fresh 
air. One of my girls fainted yesterday, 
and she didn’t iook a mite paler doing 
it than you do now.” 

“Yes, go,” her grandmother says, 
coldly, and looking annoyed. “ The 
heat of this room makes you look wretch- 
ed. Lock the cabinet and leave the key 
on my dressing table.” 

“Ay, ay, look out for the key,” says 
bluff Mr. Martin ; “ can’t be too particu- 
lar about money. It’s a sight easier 
to lose always than to find. Nobody 
hadn’t ought to keep money in the 
house anyhow.” 

“ There is not the slightest danger,” 
answers Mrs. Windsor, still very coldly; 
“ burglars are almost unknown in Bay- 
mouth, and I keep no one in my house 
whose honesty I cannot implicitly 
trust.” 

Heine leaves the room and goes slow- 
ly to her grandmother’s bedchamber. 
The cabit mentioned is a frail but very 
handsome Japanese affair of ebony, in- 
laid with pearl and silver. She places 
the roll of notes in one of the drawers, 
locks it, and lays the key, as directed, 
on the dressing-table. As she descends 
the stairs again, she encounters Cathe- 
rine with a letter. 

“ For you, Miss Heine,” the woman 
says, and hands it to her. “Law, miss 
how white you do look. Quite faintly 
like, I declare. Ain’t you well?” 

For Heine, not Marie, is the favourite 
of the household now. Time has told, 
and though Miss Landelle is as lavish 
of sweet smiles and gentle words as ever, 
it has been discovered that she is selfish 
and exacting, and not at all particular 
as to how much oi how little trouble she 
may give those who attend her. 

“ She can’t even put on her own 
clothes, she’s that helpless,” says Cath- 
erine, indignantly, “ nor so much as 
button her boots or her gloves, but it’s 
please, Catherine, here, and thanks, 
Catherine, there, Catherine, do this, and 


THE HARP. 


Catherine, fetch that, and Catherine, go 
for ’tother, from morning till night. She 
don’t mind, bless you, how often she 
rings her bell and brings you upstairs 
to ask you where’s the pins that are 
lying on the table before her eyes, or 
how her back hair looks, or her over- 
skirt sets. It don’t tire her legs, you 
know. But Miss Eeine can do things 
for herself, and find things, and has a 
little feeling, and would do without 
what she wanted sooner than make you 
fly up again before you got right down. 
Miss Marie’s pretty as a picture, and 
smiles sweet, I don’t deny, and never 
says a cross word, but give me Miss 
Eeine for my money, after all.” 

“ I am quite well, thank you, Cathe- 
rine,” Eeine answers and takes her 
letter. 

It is from Marie — the first she has 
received. She goes out, sits down in the 
stone porch, opens it eagerly, and 
reads — 

Boston, October 3, 18 — 

“ Chere Petite, — When you receive 
this, I shall be (as heroines say when 
they elope) far away. I am not going 
to elope, but neither am I going back 
as soon as I had intended. Mr. Frank 
insists on our making a trial trip in the 
famous yacht, and pleads so piteously 
for my company that it would be cruel 
to refuse. His mother, and a very 
charming young lady of this city, form 
the rest cf the party. We visit the Isle 
of Shoals, and will look at some coast 
scenery for a few day, not, probably, 
more than a week, for I know, in spite 
of all Mr. Frank’s reasoning, that I shall 
be sea-sick. It is doubtful, however, if 
I shall return even at the close of this 
excursion, for Mrs. Dexter urges both 
Miss Lee (the Boston lady) and myself 
to accompany her to Georgia for a 
month. Miss Lee has consented, and 
Mrs. Dexter has written to grandmam- 
ma for me. I hope she may say yes, 
for I shall like it extremely. Has Leonce 
gone ? If not he may as well make up 
his mind to go. He will certainly gain 
nothing by remaining. You may show 
him this letter if you see fit. Adieu, 
Petite. With your devoted Mr. Long- 
worth by your side, your bosom friend, 
Miss Hariott, close by, you will hardly 
miss, even if she goes to Georgia, your 
own “ Marie.” 


385 


The letter drops in Heine’s lap, her 
hands clasp with a wild gesture. 

“ Oh, heavens j” she says, and sits 
looking at it, a sort of horror in her 
eyes. “ Gone ! and in the yacht with 
him, and to his home in Georgia to be 
absent so long. Oh, how shall I tell 
Leonce this ?” 

As if her thought had evoked him, 
she sees through the trees, stripped and 
wind blown, Durand himself approach- 
ing the gate at the moment. Can he be 
ccmingin? She rises, and runs down 
the path, and meets him just as he lays 
his hand on the gate. 

“I could endure it no longer,” he 
says ; “I made up my mind to brave 
the dragon, and go to the house to see 
you. For a week I have been waiting 
and looking for you in vain. Where 
have you been ? What is the matter ? 
You look wretched, Petite ; have you 
been ill ?” 

She does not answer. She stands 
looking at him, the gate closed between, 
her face grayish pale in the dull even- 
ing light, blank terror looking at him 
out of her eyes. 

Ls it anything about Marie ?” he 
demands, quickly. “ Is she coming 
back ? Have you heard from her ? Is 
that a letter ? Let me see it.” 

He reaches over and takes it our of 
her hand before she can prevent it. 

“ Leonce,” she exclaims, in a terrified 
voice, “ let me tell you first. Do not 
read the letter. Oh ! Leonce, do not be 
angry with her! Indeed, indeed &he 
means no harm.” 

He turns from her, and reads the let 
ter slowly, finishes it, and reads it again. 
The afternoon has worn to evening, and 
it is nearly dark now, but Eeine can see 
the look of deadly pallor she knows on- 
ly too well blanch his face, sees a gleam 
dark and fierce, and well remembered 
come into his eyes. Bat his manner 
does not change , he turns to her quiet- 
ly, and hands it back. 

“ Allons /” he says, “ so she has gone. 
Well, I am not surprised. I half expect- 
ed as much from the first. If she finds 
the South pleasant, as how can she oth- 
erwise in the society of Mrs. Dexter, it 
is probable she will not return for the 
winter. She likes warmth ; Georgia will 
suit her much better than Baymouth 
and a long northern winter.” 


986 


THE HARP. 


“ Leonce ” 

“ You are not looking well, Petite,” 
he interrupts, “ and Mr. Longworth is 
away. Has the one anything to do with 
the other ?” 

“ Listen, Leonce ” 

“ No, Petite. Let us talk and think 
of you a little. Some one should think 
of you, for you never had a habit of 
thinking of yourself. You are looking 
ill, and I fear you are not happy. I 
think, too, that Monsieur Longworth is 
jealous of me, and that my presence here 
may be the cause of your unhappiness. 
It shall be the cause no longer. I go 
to-morrow.” 

His face keeps its settled pallor, his 
eyes their dark and dangerous gleam, 
but his voice is low, and quieter, if pos- 
sible than usual. She stands looking at 
him in mute fear. 

“ 1 ought never to have come. I know 
that Monsieur Longworth thinks I am 
or have been yeur lover. Undeceive 
him, Petite, when he returns — tell him 
the truth. You may trust him. He loves 
you — in a cold and unsatisfactory fash- 
ion, it may be, but after his light. He 
will keep the secret, never fear, and 
then for you all will go on velvet. I 
will not detain you, little one, lest the 
terrible grandmamma should miss you 
and make a storm. Whom have we 
here ?” 

He draws back. The house door opens, 
but it is only Mr. Martin going home. 

“ You ought to haVe a shawl, miss,” 
saj’s the old farmer. “It is turning chilly 
and you’ll catch cold. Don’t forget to 
look after the money. I hope you locked 
it up all safe ?” 

Heine bows silently. As he opens the 
gate, he catches sight of Durand, and 
eyes him keenly. “ Sho !” thought the 
Yankee farmer; “ I didn’t know she’d 
got her beau, or I’d have been more 
careful speaking of the money. Nobody 
knows who to trust.” 

“ Who is that?” asks Durand. 

“ A man who has been paying grand- 
mamma some money !” 

“ A large sum ?” 

£ Fifteen hundred pounds.” 

“ I wish I had it,” Durand says, with 
a short laugh. “I went to Monaco be- 
fore I came to America, and won enough 
to keep me ever since. But I am a beg- 


gar once more, and Monaco is incon' 
veniently far off.” 

“ I can lend you, Leonce,” Heine says, 
eagerly, taking out her purse. “ Madame 
Windsor paid me my quarterly — how 
shall I call it? — salary — allowance — 
what you will — yesterday. I do not 
want it. Pray take it!” 

“ Thanks, Petite — it is like you; but, 
no, I will not take it. Keep it for your 
poor ones. The terrible grandmamma 
is liberal at least, is she ?” 

“ Most liberal indeed, if money were 
all.” 

“ I wonder she likes to keep such 
large sums in the house. It is rather 
lonely here too.” 

“ She does not think fifteen hundred 
pounds a large sum. She generally 
keeps enough for the current expenses 
each month in her room, and there are 
no robbers in Baymouth.” 

Durand’s eyes lift and fix for a mo 
ment on the room that is grandmam 
ma’s He knows it, for Heine once point 
ed it out, and her own and Marie’s. 

“ But tell me of yourself,” she says. 
“ Oh, Leonce, do not follow Marie. You 
may trust her indeed. She is angry 
with, but cares nothing for Frank Dex- 
ter. It is because she is angry that she 
goes. You know Marie — she is not 
easily aroused. It is the sweetest tem- 
per in the world; but when aroused — ” 

“ Implacable. Do I not know it ? How 
am I to follow her ? She gives no ad- 
dress, and I have no money. I must go 
to New York and join my people — the 
opera season approaches. Have no fears 
for me, m' amour — take care of yourself. 
Tell Monsieur Longworth — it will be 
best.” 

“ I cannot. I have promised Marie.” 

“ Break your promise. Think of 
yourself Do not sacrifice your life to 
her selfishness. She would not for you, 
believe me. You lbve her well, but love 
her wisely. Do not let Monsieur Long- 
worth make you unhappy by thinking 
I am your lover. Petite, may I ask you 
— am I not your brother ? — do you love 
this cold, stern, proud Monsieur Long- 
worth ?” 

She turns her face from him in the 
dim gloaming, and he sees a spasm of 
pain cross it. 

‘‘Ah, I see. I wonder if he knows 
what a heart of gold he has won. Petite 


THE HARP. 


S87 


1 am going. Who knows when or how 
we may meet again ? Say you forgive 
me before I go.” 

“ Forgive you, my brother ?” 

“For coming. I should not have 
come, I have brought you nothing but 
trouble. All the amends I can make is 
to go, and return no more. Return I 
never will — that I swear ! Petite Peine, 
.adieu !” 

“Leonce, Leonce,” she cries, in an 
agony, “ you mean something ! Oh, 
what is it?” 

“I mean nothing, dear Petite, but 
farewell. Once more adieu !” 

He leans forward, and salutes her in 
his familiar French fashion on both 
cheeks. Her eyes are full of tears Some- 
thing in his face, in his eyes as they look 
at her, chills and terrifies her. 

“Leonce,” she says again, but he is 
gone. 

Once he looks back to wave his hand 
and smile farewell. She stands and 
watches the slight, active figure until he 
turns the corner and is gone. 

The darkness has fallen. She is con- 
scious for the first time how bleakly 
cold it is. A high wind sweeps around 
her, a few drops of rain fall from the 
overcast sky. Chilled in the wet and 
windy darkness, she turns with a shiver 
and goes back to the house. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

TWO IN THE MORNING. 

Mrs. Windsor’s influenza is worse, 
Reine discovers, when she re-enters the 
parlour, and Mrs. Windsor’s temper 
suffers in proportion. The paroxysms 
of sneezing are incessant now ; there 
appears to be nothing for it but bed be- 
times, and a mustard footbath, warm 
gruel, and a fresh supply of hot lemon- 
ade. All these remedies with the help 
of Jane and Catherine, are attainable. 
The, lady is helped to her chamber, is 
placed in bed, the nightlight turned 
down to a minute point, the door is 
closed, and she is left to repose. 

Reine returns below. 

“It is barely eight o’clock, and there 
is a long evening before her. How shall 
she spend it ? If she were in the mood 
for music, music is out of the question, 
with 'grandmamma invalided above. 
There are book-, but she reads a great 


deal, and even books grow wearisome. 
“ Of the making of many books there 
is no end, and much learning is a weari- 
ness of the flesh.” Everything is a 
weariness; there are good things in the 
world, but they do not last — nothing 
lasts but the disappointments, the sin, 
the suffering, the heartbreak. They go 
on for ever. 

Shall she go and see Miss Hariott ? 
Catherine has just informed her that 
Candace has informed her that Miss 
Hariott has returned. She has missed 
her friend unutterably, her strong com- 
mon sense, her quick, over-ready sym- 
pathy for all troubles great and little. 
Her troubles are not little, Reine thinks ; 
they are very great and real, and even 
Miss Hariott is powerless to help her. 

Still, it will be something only to look 
into her brave, frank eyes, to feel the 
strong, cordial clasp of her hand, to hear 
her cheerful, cosy gossip, to sit in that 
comfortable ingle nook which Long- 
worth talks of so often and likes so well. 

She goes to the window and looks out 
at the night — black, pouring, windy. 
But she is not afraid of a little rough 
weather, and the long hours here alone 
will be simply intolerable. Yes, she will 
go. She gets her waterproof and rub- 
bers, pulls the hood over her head, takes 
an umbrella, looks into the kitchen to 
tell them, and starts forth into the wet 
and windy darkness. The distance is 
not long ; she knows the road well ; ten 
minutes brisK walking will bring her to 
the cottage, and does. 

Yes, Miss Hariott is at home. The 
light from her windows streams forth 
cheerily into the bleak wet street. 
Reine rings, half smiling to think how 
surprised her friend will be, and Can- 
dace admits her. 

“ Lawful sakes 1” Candace begins ; 
but her misstress’s voice from the half- 
open sitting-room door, breaks in — 

“If that’s the post-man, Candace, 
don’t stand taking there ; fetch me my 
letters instantly.” 

It isn’t the postman, Miss Hester, 
honey,” says Candace ; “ it’s Miss Reme 
come to see you through all the pourin’ 
rain. Lor, chile, how wet you is !” 

Instantly Miss Hariott is in the hall, 
indignant remonstrance in face and tone 
struggling with gratified affection. 

“You ridiculous child to come out 


388 


THE HARP 


such a night ; but it is awfully good of 
you to come ! You will get your death 
of cold ; but I am delighted to see you 
just the same. Take these wet things, 
Candace, and fetch in a nice hot cup of 
tea, and some of those cakes that smell 
so good baking out there. Come in, you 
mermaid, you Undine, and tell me what 
drove you out such a night. I wonder 
what Mrs. Windsor was thinking of to 
let you.” 

“ She did not let me. She is ill in bed 
with cold, and knows nothing about it.” 
“ You’re a self-willed little minx, and 
like to have your own wicked way. Sit 
down here and put your teet to the fire. 
This is Larry’s chair, but you may have 
it; it is all one now. He is away, Marie 
is away, grandmamma is in bed, and all 
the cats being out of sight, this misbe- 
haved mouse does as she likes with im- 
punity. Now, child, it does me good to 
sit and look at you. What a little dear 
you are to come and see me so soon. 
Have you really missed me ?” 

“ More than I can say, madam e. It 
has been the longest and loneliest week 
I ever spent in my life.” 

“ Well, that is natural enough. Your 
sister is gone, and you are wonderfully 
fond of that pretty sister ; I ongworth 
is gone, and you are wonderfully — no, I 
won’t say it. Has anybody else gone ?” 

“ Somebody is going,” Eeine says, 
drearily ; “he came to say goad* bye 
poor fellow, just at nightfall.” 

“ You mean that handsome little Mon- 
sieur Durand. Well — I ought to be 
sorry because you are sorry ; but, to tell 
the truth, I am not.” 

“You don’t like Leonce — poor Leonce! 
And yet I do not see why. He has his 
faults, many and great, but he is so gen- 
tle, so tender-hearted, so really good in 
spite of all. And you know nothing of 
him — why should you dislike him, Miss 
Hariott ?” 

“ I do not dislike him. I do not like 
him. I do not trust him. You love 
him, little Queen, very dearly.” 

(To be Continued.') 


Wickedness can be seen through the 
thickest fog, but virtue has to have an 
electric light turned on before it will be 
recognised by the world. 


CANADIAN ESSAYS. 


DENIS FLORENCE McCARTHY. 

BY JOSEPH K. FORAN. 

McCarthy, was not only one of the most 
original, but even the sweetest poet of 
the Nation. His style differs from that 
of Davis, of Mangan, of Williams, of 
Fergusson, of Duffy; in fact he has a 
style peculiar to himself. Of his life we 
know but little. He yet lives, at a ripe 
old age, to enjoy the beauties of that 
Bay of Dublin, which he so well des- 
cribed and to peacefully and calmly “hus- 
band out life’s taper to the close.” We 
find his name often made mention of, by 
the Young Irelanders, and above all the 
men of the Nation, when telling of their 
excursions into the country every year 
and when speaking of their literary 
meetings in the city. But only as a 
poet is McCarthy known to the world. 
He seldom and perhaps never wrote, 
save in verse, for the press. Knowing 
so little of his actual life, and only hav- 
ing a knowledge of him through his 
beautiful poetic productions, we will be 
obliged to confine ourselves to a short 
reference to the principal poems he 
wrote, and to the tracing out of a few 
of the endless gems of thought which 
he so well expressed. 

McCarthy’s poem of the “ Bell-Foun- 
der,” is a production unique in the 
English language. A few passages from 
it will suffice to give a faint idea of the 
rhythm and strength of expression and 
depth of feeling nobleness of sentiment 
contained in that versified reproduction 
of a story well known to our readers. 
In the opening lines, when the poet 
desires to go, away to Italy to there 
take up his story which must end in 
Erin — he begs Ireland to excuse him 
for thus leaving her for a while — and 
the reader will judge for himself of the 
power of that introduction. 

“ 0 Erin! Thou desolate mother, the heart 
in thy bosom is sore, 

And wringing thy hands in despair thou dost 
roam round a plague-stricken shore ? 

Thy children are dying or flying, thy great 
ones are laid in the dust. 

And those who survive are divided and those 
who control are uujust — 

Wilt thou blame me, dear mother, if turn- 
ing mine eyes from these horrors away — 

1 lookthro’the night of our wretchedness back 
to some bright vanished day ?” 


THE HARP. 


589 


Thus he runs on, until he has ex- 
plained his reason for leaving Ireland 
to take up a story in Italy and having 
done so, he opens as follows his first 
picture of the land of vine. 

S£ In that land where the heaven tinted pencil 
giveth shape to the splendor of dreams.” 

He tells of Paolo the youg Campanero 
and of his love for Francesca and of 
their bethrothal and marriage. In that 
portion of the poem the sentiments, ex- 
pressed and the ideas displayed are 
simply magnificent. 

Then we come to the making of the 
Bells for the Church of our Lady and 
the well painted scenes in the workshop 
and the blessing of the bells. Thus 
does he describe the entry into the 
Church with the new bells. 

Xi Now they enter and now more divinely the 
saints’ painted effigies smile, 

Now the acolytes bearing lit tapers move 
solemnly down thro’ the aisle ; 

Now the thurifer swings the rich censer and 
the white curling vapor up-floats. 

And hangs round the deep pealing organ and 
blends with the tremulous notes.” 

The ceremony of the blessing is de- 
scribed and then the chime is suspended 
on high. 

£ ‘ Toll, toll ! with rapid vibration, with a 
melody silvery and strong, 

The bells from the sound-shaking belfry 
are singing their first maiden song, 
Rapid, more rapid the clapper, resounds to 
the rounds of the bells 
Far and more far o’er the valley the inter- 
twined melody swells, &c.” 

Thus on does he describe, until that 
fatal hour when — 

u Feuds fell like a plague upon Florence and 
rage from without and within ; 

Peace turned her mild eyes from the havoc 
and Mercy grew deaf in the din — 

Fear strengthened the Dovewings of Hap- 
piness tremblingly borne on the gale, 
And the Angel Security vanished as the 
War demon sweep o’er the vale.” 

The Bells are taken away from the 
tower and the old man’s children are 
killed on the field and his wife 
Francesca dies of a broken heart. The 
pictures of these misfortunes drawn by 
the poet are very beautiful. At last he 
says : 

“ As the smith in the dark sullen smithy 
striketh quick on the anvil below, 

Thus fate on the heart of the old man struck 
rapidly blow after blow.” 

In a rage of despair Paolo resolves to 


fly from Florence and to seek thro’ the 
world for his bells. The journey of the 
old man through Italy is splendidly 
described — 

“ He sees not the blue waves of Bair nor 
Ischia’s summits of brown, 

He sees but the tall Campanile that rise o’er 
each far gleaming town.” 

His heart set upon the finding of his 
bells, he seeks a vessel bound for Spain 
and there he finds that : 

“ A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he 
enters as one in a dream, 

Fair winds and full purple sails brought him 
soon to the Shannon’s soft stream, 

’T was an evening that Florence might envy, 
so light was the lemon-hued air, 

As it lay on lone Scattery’s Island or lit the 
green mountains of Clare.” 

The old man sees not the beautiful 
scenery described by the poet, he 
only watches the towers of the churches. 
At last Limerick spreads out beneath 
them and Saint Mary’s square tower 
arises in the distance. The old man 
listens and finally a peal of melody rings 
from the tower. He hears in it the call 
of his bells that ask of their father to 
never again leave them — 

“ ’Tis granted— he smiles— his eye closes — 
the breath from his white lips has fled, 
The father has gone to his children — the old 
Campanero isdead !” 

Were it possible we would desire to 
place the whole of this poem before the 
public. The chant to labor in the first 
part the description of the happy and 
unhappy scenes that surround the life 
of the Bell Founder and the numberless 
magnificent passages that are contained 
in those four pages, would serve, even 
I had McCarthy never written another 
1 poem to place him amongst the first of 
I those who strove to woo the muses in 
the language of the Saxon. But if the 
language used by McCarthy is that of 
the Saxon the sentiments expressed are 
those ot the Celt. 

Another of McCarthy’s exquisite 
poems is his “ Alice and Una.” Of this 
we can give but two stanzas — it is of 
great length and beauty and would carry 
us beyond our space. However in the 
following lines the reader may form an 
idea of masterly rhyme employed by the 
poet — 

“ Ah ! the pleasant time has vanished, e’er 
our wretched bodings banished, 

All the graceful spirit people, children of the 
earth and sea, 


390 


THE HARP. 


Whom in days, now dim and olden, when the 
world was fresh and gclden ; 

Every mortal could behold in haunted rath 
and tower and tree ; 

They have vanished, they are banished ; 
Ah ! how sad the tale for thee — 

Lonely Ciemaneigh 1” 

“'Still we have a new romance in fire ships 
thro’ the tame seas glancing, 

And the snorting and the prancing of the 
mighty engine-steed ; 

Still Astolpho— like we wander, thro’ the 
boundless azure yonder, 

Realizing what seems fonder than the magic 
tales we read, 

Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the 
fancy all is freed, 

Wilder far indeed !” 

To one more of McCarthy's lengthier 
poems we must refer and give a 
couple of samples of the 
style. It would never do to pass 
over the “Foray ot Con O’Donnell.” 
Like Scott’s “Lady of the Lake” or 
“ Lay of the Last Minstrel.” M ;Carthy’s 
“ Foray of Con O’Donnell ” is a splen- 
did description of the times when the 
clans were at eternal war and when 
love, hatred, jealousy, affection, courage 
and a thousand sentiments at once filled 
the souls of the chiefs. 

He describes a bard singing in the 
hall of Con O’Donnell the chief of a Clan. 
The bard praises the wife, the steed and 
hound of Mac John and swears their 
equals are not on Irish soil. The blood 
of Con is heated with wine, and his pas- 
sions are alive and in a fit of rage he 
takes away with him his clansmen, and 
descends at night upon the castle of 
MacJohn. They snatch the wife from 
her husband’s arms, they lead away the 
hound and steed and sack the castle 
from tower to base. 

When the bard tries to describe the 
wife of MacJohn she merely sings : — 

“ If lovers listen to my lay, 

Description is but thrown away : 

If lovers read this antique tale, 

What need 1 speak of red or pale ? 

The fairest form, the brightest eye, 

Are simply those for which they sigh : 
The truest picture is but faint, 

To what a lover’s heart can paint.” 

Thus did the wicked bard excite the 
feelings of his chief — till on o’er 
Antrim's hills was seen to march “ The 
strong small powerful force of Con.” 
But if an Irish Chief is hasty, he has a 
heart, and noble and better feelings 
these soon return. On his way home 


with the spoils Con stops on Benbragh’s 
heights and sees his own castle and 
fields of Tirhugh beneath him. He 
asks himself how would he feel if on 
reaching home his place was destroyed, 
his wife away, his castle despoiled by 
robber bands and the old noble gener- 
ous sentiment arises and Con thus 
speaks : — 

“ Fidelity a crime is found, 

Or else why chain this faithful hound ; 
Obedience, too, a crime must be, 

Or else this steed were roaming free ; 

And woman’s love the worst of sins, 

Or Anne were queen of Antrim’s Glynnes !” 

He returns the hound and the steed 
and then turning to MacJohn and Anne 
he cries — 

“ Thine is the outward perfect form, 

Thine, too, the subtler inner life, 

The love that doth that bright shape warm 
Take back, MacJohn, they peerless wife I” 

“ MacJohn I stretch to yours and you, 

This hand beneath God’s blessed sun. — ■ 
And for the wrong that I might do ; 

Forgive the wrong that I have done : 

Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs, 

If thus would join her severed Chiefs /” 

There is yet another splendid, but 
very long poem entitled “The Yoyage 
St Brendan.” We cannot even now go 
into a synopsis of the subject, but we 
will give a single extract to show the 
style of verse and the choice of lan- 
guage — speaking of the midnight sky ; 

“ What earthly temple such a roof can 
boast ? 

What flickering lamp with the rich star-light 
vies ; 

When the round moon rests, like a Sacred- 
Host, 

Upon the Azure altar of the skies ?” 

Of McCarthy’s shorter poems his 
ballads and lyrics are very unique and 
touching. His translations are really* 
fine ; but none of his productions are 
equal to those in which the poet’s soul 
seems to flow, those poems on subjects 
upon which the writer loved to dwell and 
which had for him the peculiar attrac- 
tion of home and home associations. 
Amongst this class we might mention 
his “Kate of Kenmare.” In this lyric 
the versification is different from that 
heretofore made use of in any other of 
his poems. 

“ Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and 
gladness, 

Where the pure soul looks out and the heart 
loves to shine ; 


THE HARP. 


391 


And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of 
sadness, 

Have I worshipped in silence and felt them 
divine ; 

But Hope in its gleamings, or love in its 
dream ings, 

INe’er fashioned a being so faultless and fair, 
lAs the lily-checked beauty, the rose of the 
1 Haughty, 

The fawn of the valley, sweek Kate of 
1 Kenmare 1” 

Another of those exquisite ballads is 
M Shanganah.” In this again the poet 
changes his form of verse. One would 
almost imagine that his store was with- 
out bounds, so numerous are his styles 
of composition. Thus does he open the 
“ Yale of Shanganah.” 

“ When I have knelt in the temple of duty, 
Worshipping honor and valor and beauty ; 
When, like a brave man, in fearless resis- 
tence, 

I’ve fought the good fight on the field of 
existence ; 

When a home I have won in the conflict of 
labor, 

With truth for my armor and Thought for 
my sabre. 

Be that home, a calm home where my old 
age may rally, 

A home full of peace in a sweet pleasant 
valley ! 

Sweetest of vales is the vale of Shanganah ! 
Brightest of vales is the vale of Shanganah ! 
May the accents of love, like the droppings 
of manna, 

Fall soft on my heart, in the vale of 
Shanganah !” 

It is unnecessary to cite from the 
“ Pillar Towers of Ireland.” Who, that 
has ever read Irish poetry, has not 
learned those lines by heart ? Again 
his lyric entitled “ The Bemembrance,” 
is also too well known to here fill space 
by citations, therefrom. And surely all 
those who have seen the ballads of Ire- 
land, must remember “ The Clan of 
MacCaura. 

“ Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy 
rank, 

By the dark eyed Ibernian and light-hearted 
Frank — 

Andycur Ancestors wandered obscure and 
unknown, 

By the smooth Guadalquivir and sunny 
Garonne — 

E’er Venice had wedded the sea, or enroll’d, 
the name of her Doge in her proud book of 
gold f 

When their glory was all to come on like the 
morrow. 

There were Chieftains and Kings of the Clan 
of MacCaura !” 


McCarthy wrote a series called “ Na- 
tional songs.” Of these we have good 
specimens in his “ Price of Freedom,” 
— “Voice and Pen;” — “New-Year’s 
Songs ;” — “ The Living Land — “ A 
Mystery;” — “God bless the Turk — - 
“A Voice in the Desert / ’—and his grand 
tribute to the great O’Connell in his 
lament for “The dead Tribune.” To 
form an idea of the spirit infused into 
those National songs by the bard we 
will justgivea couple of stanzas from his 
poem. “ The Kemonstrance ” and with 
these lines we will close the number of 
quotations that almost fill up this essay. 

“ Bless the dear old verdant land ! 

Brother wert thou born of it ? 

As thy shadow, life doth stand. 

Twining round its rosy band ; 

Did an Irish mother’s hand 
Guide thee in the morn of it? 

Did thy father’s mild command 
Teach thee love or scorn of it ? 

“ Thou who tread’st its fertile breast — 
Dost thou feel a glow for it ? 

Thou of all its charms possess’d — 

Living on its first and best — 

Art thou but a thankless guest— 

Ora traitor foe for it ? 

If thou lovest, where the test ? 

Woulds’t thou strike a blow for it?” 

For this essay we cannot justly claim 
any originality. It consists of nothing 
more than a reproduction of a number of 
verses written by a poet, — a number of 
verses which lose much of their strength 
through the impossibility of our, here, 
presenting the reader with the full 
poems. But as we have often repeated, 
we only hope that these pages may 
draw attention to the poems of Denis 
Florence McCarthy, and serve to create 
a deMre amongst a few, at least, of 
learning from his published works — 
the numbers of which are really too 
scarce— -how truly poetic were some of 
the Bards of the Nation ! Perchance 
there are not more than four or five 
copies of McCarthy’s “Lyrics and 
Ballads,” on this side of the Atlantic ; 
and having the happiness of being able to 
come upon a number we think it just to 
give the public a slight idea, at least, of 
how many beautiful poems this man 
has written and which are as yet com- 
paratively unknown. 

Green Park, Aylmer, P.Q. 


THE HARP. 


592 


CHIT-CHAT. 


— We live in a great age. Hew 
crimes are being invented every dajL 
Nor is the British government, that 
quintessence ot red-tape-ism ! — behind 
hand in the march of invention. 
It is in the “ Sister Isle ” that she has 
made the latest find. The warrant for 
Mr. Hodnett’s arrest charges him with 
having “ feloniously assaulted a dwell- 
ing house ” ! Now, what in the name 
of common sense does this mean ? 
Irishmen are ’cute fellows, but Mr. 
Hodnett must have been the cutest of the 
cute to “assault a dwelling house.” How 
did he do it ? Hid he go behind its back 
like a cowardly English garotter, and 
putting his arm round its neck before 
it knew he was there, draw its necker- 
chief tight round its neck and strangle 
it ? Or did he call it names unbecom- 
ing a gentleman, and then black its 
eyes ? Or did he give it a “ punch i 
th’ye-ad,” or a “ purr-i-th’guts ” like a 
genuine English wife-beater ? which ? 

— Once upon a time so goes the fable 
(all fables were once upon a time) 
mighty preparations for war were going 
on at Athens. Everybody — or at least 
everybody, who was anybody (for we 
opine there were nobodies in Athens as 
elsewhere) was busy. Only Diogenes, 
as became a philosopher and the “ no- 
bodies,” had nothing to do. To keep 
up appearances — even philosophers and 
nob.odies are strong on “appearances ” 
he began to roll his tub. What are you 
doing ? asked the passers by. Cannot 
you see ? answered the philosopher. 
“Yes; clear enough but what are you 
doing it for?” “Preparing for war ” 
answered the philosopher, and round 
went the tub. Had he told the truth he 
would have said he was “ saving appear- 
ances.” We have great respect for Lord 
Lieutenants and very little for Diogenes, 
philosopher-fool as he was, but in this 
case of “assaulting a dwelling house” 
we are inclined to suspect that he-of- 
Dublin was not one whit less a liar than 
he-of-Athens. The philosopher-fool of 
Athens in the interests of war, rolls his tub, 
the philosopher- fool of Dublin in the in- 
terests of the Coercion Act, arrests a man 
for “ assaulting a dwelling house.” Both are 
nobodies, have nothing to do, and are 


ashamed of it ; both must keep up ap- 
pearances ; the one does so by rolling 
his tub, the other by arresting innocent 
men for “ assaulting a dwelling house.” 
“ Both pretend to do it in the interests of 
peace. “ Yive la humbug ” ! 

— Old Father Antic — the Law is a 
strange personage, and no where more 
antic than in that Cinderella of the na- 
tions, “the Sister Isle.” We thought we 
were prepared for all sorts of queer 
things from “Justices English,” but this 
imprisoning of a man for “assaulting a 
dwelling house ” takes us from behind. 
We don’t understand it — we cannot. It 
looks to us more like the up-stream 
wolf reproaching the down- stream 
lamb for riling the water on him, than 
a grave warrant after Coke and Little- 
ton signed with all the regalia and para- 
phernalia of a Lord Lieutenant. 


— What are the Land League doing 
to be guilty of so grave a crime. Let 
them look to their laurels, or we shall 
have to give them up. “ If I be drunk, 
I’ll be drunk with those that have the 
fear of God, and not with drunken 
knaves ” quoth Slender. 

— Citizen Gambettahas been making 
a speech on education which leaves him 
in a strange plight. He said-— 

“ We have no dogmas, no creeds, no 
catechism to acquire or to propagate.” 

Yery well; so much the worse for 
Gambetta. 

A man with no dogmas, no creeds, no 
catechism is simply a nuisance, a nonen- 
tity a dotard. As well have no brains as 
no dogma. Even an ass has dogma. 
Thistles are his dogma ; not a 
very exalted one but still dogma. 
And the possession of this dogma 
is proof that he has brains. “No 
brains no dogma” ; “no dogma no 
brains,” are converse propositions equal- 
ly true. In proclaiming then his absence 
from dogma Citizen Gambetta the great 
tribune of the people has only pro- 
claimed his absence of brains ; not a 
very exalted or delectable position truly. 

— Gambetta is evidently no psycholo- 
gist ; your demagogue seldom is. If he 
will study the animal kingdom he will 
find that the larger the brain, the .more 


THE HARP. 


•>93 


the dogma. The polipod has only one 
dogma and no brain. His dogma is a 
full stomach. The sponges have only 
one dogma and no brain. Their dogma 
is lippets ana young oysters. When we 
come to the elephant we find many 
dogmas and much brain. Citizen Gam- 
betta has put himself down below the 
sponges. 


— But we are not quite as certain as 
Citizen Gambetta appears to be, that he 
has no dogma. Proudhon made the 
French Republic an act of faith, thereby 
only substituting one dogma — the di vine 
right of republics — for another — the 
divine right of kings. We suspect 
Citizen G-ambetta’s conduct differs 
little from that of Proudhon in 
this affair of education. He is 
merely substituting the divine 
right of Citizen Gambetta in educational 
matters, for the divine right of the 
Church. It remains to be seen whether 
the voice of the people will long tolerate 
this substitution of Priapus for the God 
of the Christians. We know well what 
Citizen Gambetta alludes to when he 
speaks of dogmas and catechisms. But 
before sneering at those whose lives are 
ruled by such things, he should first of 
all see whether he himself is altogether 
free from them. The pot should never 
call the kettle bad names until it is well 
assured that its own coppers are clean. 
Our French tribune of the people deems 
universal suffrage infallible. Now what 
is this but a dogma ? He professes “no 
God” “ no religion ” : what are these 
but dogmas. No very exalted ones 
certainly, but still dogmas. 


— A shocking tragedy has lately oc- 
curred in Preston, England. A man 
named Eccleston interfered to protect a 
woman who was being beaten b} T two 
roughs, when the two men set upon him 
knocked him down and literally kicked 
him to death with their iron shod clogs. 
The jury refused to return a verdict of 
wilful murder against the two men. 
Surely this English crime of kicking to 
death, was more deserving of Kilmain- 
ham Jail, than that curiously Irish one 
of “ feloniously assaulting a dwelling 
house.” Will the Lord Lieutenant of 
Ireland take a note of this. 


— We live in a gushing age ; and 
strange to say your money making 
Yankee is your most eloquent of 
“ gushers.” There must be something 
passing strange in the Russian jewels if 
the following from an American pen be 
not gush. 

“ The splendour of their tints is deli- 
cious intoxication to the eye. The soul 
of all the fiery roses of Persia lives in 
their rubies ; the freshness of all green 
sward, whether in Alpine valley or in 
English lawn, in their emeralds ; the 
bloom of all Southern seas in their neck- 
laces of pearl .” 

Surely this is gush ! 

. — Or is it another case of Evolu- 
tion. With such splendours as these 
the Russian jewels must certainly have 
levelled up, (and that pretty rapidly) 
through “ the battle of life ” and “ the 
survival of the fittest,” not indeed from 
the ape, but from the roses, and lawns 
and southern seas and harvest moons.-— 
Wonderful Russian jewels ! transcendant 
in your splendours as in your origin ! 
You are more exalted than man, who 
has only come up from the ape. 

— But we fear, our American writer 
has done an injustice to the Russian 
jewels. It is never well to praise too 
much if only for the disappointment of 
the thing. We dare wager a bark-canoe 
against a scoop-out, that Xenophon’s 
Cyrus and the veritable Cyrus were 
widely different personages ; and that, 
if we could but see the real original, we 
should laugh him to scorn as against 
Xenophon’s hero. Herein lies our ob- 
jection to panegyrics and Panegyrists. 
They are all gush and therefore disap- 
pointing. It is all very well, if you are 
not acquainted with the individual 
panegyrized, and are never likely to be ; 
but if you know the man, or become 
acquainted with him afterwards, your 
giant becomes a dwarf, and you visit 
the anger, which ought to be bestowed 
upon the guilty Panegyrist, upon the 
innocent panegyrized. 

— It will be with some such feelingV.s 
this, we feel sure, that the next visitor 
to the Russian jewels will view them. 
They will prove most disappointing. 
The soul of all the fiery roses of Persia, 


394 


THE HARP. 


the freshness of all the velvet swards 
of Swiss and English lawns, the bloom 
of Southern seas, the essence of a thous- 
and harvest moons will be found to be 
only gush — the trick of the author, not 
the truthfulness of the historian, in 
other words nothing but moonshine, and 
the offended visitor, if of a lively tem- 
perament will be inclined to kick (me- 
taphorically of course) the unfortunate 
Russian jewels (which after all are only 
jewels) and to visit upon them, that 
virtuous indignation which ought if all 
men got their own to be expended on the 
— well ! lying scribe. 


— Are we improving ? Whilst the 
19th Century as embodied in the “ So- 
ciety for the prevention of cruelty to 
animals ” raises a statue to the horse 
and writes under it 

Justice — Humanity — Compassion 
it allows its pauper populations to shiver 
and hunger in the cold, and to be shelt- 
ered in houses which for order and 
cleanliness are not to be compared with 
her pig-stys. Is this levelling up or 
levelling down ? Which ? 


— Buckshot Forster ! This is a hard 
name, but the world is given to hard 
names. It takes its descriptions like 
its prescriptions in homeopathic doses 
— very small but very strong and very 
drastic. “Buckshot Forster” is a 
pillule of many and important and 
powerful ingredients. In a very small 
space it means many things. It is the 
political “ credo ” of English govern- 
ment of Ireland. I believe in a deeply 
religious and high minded people goad- 
ed to desperation by great and acknow- 
ledged bad government and in thous- 
ands of bayonets called by a pious 
euphuism police; and in this acknow- 
ledged bad government sustained and 
maintained by these thousands of 
bayonets; found face to face with 
this deeply religious and high minded 
people goaded to desperation by bad 
government; and I firmly believe in 
the order to fire (given by this acknow- 
ledged bad government) to these thous- 
ands of bayonets by a pious euphuism 
called police, upon this deeply religious 
and high minded people goaded to des- 
peration ; and that this fire shall be not 


with bullets, which would only wound 
one man for each bayonet, but with 
buckshot which will rip and tear and 
riddle by the fifties, so that this deeply 
religious and high minded people shall 
be shot off from this earth, and the land 
and the fatness thereof preserved for 
alien rowdies and carpet baggers. 

Yerily a respectable “Credo” for 
any civilized government ! 


— The teacher who cannot teach with- 
out flogging is not fit to be a teacher. 
And so with governments — the govern- 
ment which cannot rule without buck- 
shot and bayonets is not fit to rule. It 
should step down and out. 


— How differently they do things in 
England. The Liverpool police are not 
allowed to carry staves. If they are 
attacked by ruffians, they have nothing 
else for it, but to fight it out with their 
fists. A policeman’s staff is considered 
too dangerous a weapon to be used 
against English freemen, albeit they 
be ruffians withal ; and ruffians of the 
worst stripe. England is merciful even 
to her ruffians. Hot so in Ireland. The 
Irish policeman is a soldier in drill, in 
accoutrements, and in weapons. Ilis staff 
is superseded by a bayonet, and he is 
ordered to load not with blank cartridge, 
not with bullet, but with buck-shot 
withal. And this not at ruffians but at 
starving men and women and children 
goaded to desperation by famine and 
bad government. Let the Irishman rest 
and be thankful. 


— Mr. Forster is an intelligent, fair- 
minded, humane and tender hearted 
gentleman in England , a Quaker in re- 
ligion and a truly liberal man in politics. 
In Ireland he looses his head and be- 
comes a fool. His buck-shot is a proof 
of this. His list of “ outi ages ” another. 
When a man and especially a statesman 
has to eat his own words, it is to say 
the least of it, a pitiable, not to say, a 
nauseating sight. Mr. Forster has had 
to acknowledge that many of his 
“ outrages ” were not traceable to the 
Land League ; that the majority of 
them were not “outrages” at all, but 
very harmless things, bre iking no bones, 
injuring no one ; and that in many 


THE HARP. 


395 


instances the same offence was reported 
in four or five different ways, thus 
making in the report four or five dif- 
ferent “ outrages.” If Mr. Forster asks 
the Irish Constabulary for “ outrages,” 
he may rest assured he will get them. 
Men who will obey the order to load 
with buckshot, will be • capable 
of the far less crime of inventing “ out- 
rages.” Did Mr. Forster think of this, 
when he asked for “ outrages ” ? 


— Mr. Foster in Irelan 1 reminds us 
of Hood’s bullock driver, who when 
advised to “ try conciliation, my good 
man,” drove his goad deep into the 
bullock’s flesh, exclaiming “ There! I’ve 
conziliated im.” 

H. B. 


CARDINAL MANNING ON THE 
LAND QUESTION. 


A letter addressed by his Eminence 
Cardinal Manning to Earl Gray in the 
year 1868 has been reprinted. It 
contains some remarkable passages. 
The Cardinal writes — 

“ In England the traditions of centu- 
ries, the steady growth of our mature 
social order, the ripening of our agri- 
culture and industry, the even distribu- 
tion and increase of wealth, have re- 
duced the relation of landlord and ten- 
ant to a fixed, though it be an unwritten 
law, by which th$ rights of both are 
protected. Our land custums may be 
enforced in the courts and thereby have 
the force of law. English landlords, as 
a rule live on their estate. Their lands 
are their homes. English tenants are 
protected by the mightiest power that 
ever ruled a Christian country — a 
power which controls the Legislature, 
dictates the law, and guides even the 
sovereignty of the Crown the force of a 
vigilant, watclifuls ubiquitous public 
opinion. But in Ireland none of these 
things are so. In one-fourth of Ireland 
there are land laws, or rather land cus- 
toms, which protect the tenant. In 
three-fourths of Ireland there are neither 
laws nor customs. The tenants are 
tenants-at-will. Over a vast part of 
Ireland the landlords are absentees. The 


mitigating and restraining influences of 
the lords of the soil which in England 
and in every civilized country do more 
to correct the excesses of agents, specu- 
lators and traffickers, and to temper 
legal rights with equity and moderation 
are hardly to be found. . . . The ten- 
ant-at-will may be put out fo~‘ any cause 
not only for non-payment of rent, or 
waste of land or bad farming, or breach 
of covenant, if such can be supposed to 
exist, all of which would bear a color of 
justice, but for the personal advantage of 
the landlords arising from the tenants’ 
improvements, for political influence, 
for caprice, for any passing reason or no 
reason, assigned or not assignable which 
can arise in minds conscious of absolute 
and irresponsible power. ... If 
the events which had passed in Ireland 
since 1810 had passed in England, the 
public opinion of the latter country 
would have imperiously compelled the 
Legislature to turn our land customs 
into Acts of Parliament, If any sensi- 
ble proportion of the people of Englis'h 
counties were to be seen moving down 
upon the Thames for embarkation to 
America, and dropping by the roadside 
from hunger and, fever, and it had been 
heard by the -wayside that they were 
tenants-at-will, evicted for any cause 
whatsoever, the public opinion of the 
country would have risen to render im- 
possible the repetition of such absolute 
and irresponsible exercise of legal rights. 
If five millions, i.e., one fourth of' the 
British people, had either emigrated in 
a mass by reason of discontent, misery, 
or eviction, or had died by fever and by 
famine since the year 1848, the whole 
land system of England would have been 
modified so as to render the return of 
such a national danger impossible for 
ever. But both these suppositions have 
been verified in Ireland. It is precisely 
because these suppositions have been 
verified in Ireland that we are now face 
to face with a most dangerous agita- 
tion. The\‘e is now, a loud and bitter 
cry against landlordism, and the due 
distinction between bad and good land- 
lords is often disregarded : but it is un- 
principled extortion and the anti-na- 
tional attitude of a large proportion of 
Irish landowners. The late Lord Derby 
had the truth and courage to charge the 
Irish landlords with insatiable avarice, 


? g6 


THE HARP. 


and so notorious was this spirit of 
avarice, that Walker, the compiler of 
the best of dictionaries, defined the word 
rack rent to mean the rent usually ex- 
torted by Irish landlords from their 
tenants.” 

His Eminence in another fine passage 
showed how the conduct of England 
was condemned by the whole world. 
He wrote : — 

“I have talked freely for many years 
with men of most countries in Europe. 
I have found everywhere a profound 
sympathy with Ireland in no way flat- 
tering to England. Our insularity 
keeps these things from our ears, and 
we therefore soothe ourselves with the 
motion of our own superiority to other 
men. But such an abuse of the rights 
of property is without parallel, at least 
in this century, on the continent of 
Europe. Our self-respect should lead us 
to give up the illusion that our office in 
the civilized world is to teach the na- 
tions how to live.” 

Finally, the Cardinal, or as he then 
was, the Archbishop, thus sums up 
what the Land Question is — 1 

“ It may be thought that I have 
ventured to speak upon a subject which 
is be} r ond my capacity and my duty. 
But I have done so from the profound 
conviction that the deepest and sorest 
cause of the discontent and unrest of 
Ireland is the Land Question. I am 
day by day in contact with an impover- 
ished race driven from home by the 
Land Question. I see it daily in the 
destitution of my flock. The religious 
inequality does indeed keenly wound 
and excite the Irish people. Peace and 
goodwill cam never reign in Ireland 
until every stigma is effaced from the 
Catholic Church of Faith, and the gall- 
ing injustice of religious inequality shall 
be redressed. This, indeed, is true. 
But the Land Question, as we call it, by 
a somewhat heartless euphemism means 
hunger, thirst, nakedness, notice to quit, 
labor spent in vain, the toil labor spent 
in vain, the toil of years seized upon, 
the breaking up of homes, the miseries, 
sicknesses, deaths of parents, children, 
wives, the despair and wildness which 
spring up in the hearts of the poor 
when legal force, like a sharp harrow, 


goes over the most sensitive and vital 
rights of mankind. All this is contained 
in the Land Question.” 

It would be impossible to sum up the 
Land Question in language more truth- 
ful, eloquent, and just than that used 
more than twelve years ago by the 
illustrious Cardinal of Westminster. 

MEMOIRS OF LUCIEN BONA- 
P ARTE. 

Prince or Canino. 

(' Written by Himself.) 

The interesting memoirs of the only 
uncrowned and by far the ablest of Na- 
poleon’s brothers, which were published 
in 1836, contain on the Union and on 
Ireland most interesting details and 
prophetic words. 

I give the following extract from his 
deeply interesting work : — 

“ THE UNION. 

“ A conquered province is ruled by 
the victorious nation according to cer- 
tain rules, or it is united to that power 
and becomes an integral part of it. 

“ As long as it is treated as a conquer- 
ed country, it is evident that its inter- 
ests should be sacrificed to those of the 
conquerors — 1 Vce victis.' 1 

“ Good policy, then, is to employ 
both force and moderation in the legis- 
lative measures in what the vanquished 
have no part except in obedience. The 
conquerors are magnanimous when they 
leave the vanquished people some ot 
those vague forms of nationality which 
the vanity of the conquered race fondly 
cling to, though a mere illusion. 

“ Such was the state of Ireland before 
the Union ; a careful ‘ survillance’ and 
watchful suspicion were the inevitable 
consequences. 

“ The oppression of six millions of 
Irish Catholics ” (the writer overrates 
consideiably the population at that 
time), “forced to pay tithes to the Pro- 
testant Church, seemed relatively just ; 
it was a tribute to the religion of the 
conquerors. 

“This religious subjection of the 
majority to the Church of the minority 
was the consequence of the political 
power. One of these forces rested on 
the other, one was perhaps necessary 


THE HARP. 


397 


for the other, and if so, in a political 
point of view, it was pardonable. 

“ The Irish, were not only conquered 
but expropriated j their land was divid- 
ed among the Protestants. The priests 
were deprived of their titles, as the 
landowners were of their estates. A 
conquest; carried to such terrible mea- 
sures must necessarily have left the 
most bitter animosity ; that horrible 
abuse of victory could not be so soon 
forgotten. 

“ The oppressor having no right to 
support him, was for a long time to 
depend only on the sword, in keeping 
under the yoke those whom he had 
plundered, in giving to the victorious 
Church, the tithes of the vanquished 
one, was consistent. 

“ It was the logic of the strong. But 
the conquered and ruined population 
showed its discontent by alarming 
troubles, tried to be turned to account 
by foreign enemies, and the victorious 
nation than in its own interest deter- 
mined to treat those they oppressed as 
brothers ! They would free them, and 
incorporate them in the nation, not to 
have to combat them. Nothing better, 
unless the thing should prove a failure, 
if everything is done, absolutely every- 
thing , to gain over the affection of those 
new brothers ; if ihe land confiscated 
and the tithes of the land are given to 
those to whom they belong ; or, at least 
(as Mr. Grey said in the House of Com- 
mons on the 14th February), the union 
of sentiments, interests and hearts be- 
tween the people of the two countries 
is established, and that the union is not 
limited to one of the two Legislative 
Chambers. But if the moral reconcili- 
ation cannot be established, no matter 
from what side it is made impossible , the 
project is a failure — the incorporation 
of the conquered province, instead of 
being a measure of public safety, may 
become a fatal one, by introducing a 
foreign influence into the state, by 
thoinru* ) 1 1 ‘-to 1 of a hostile element 
into the political body. 

“ The influence of the Irish element 
into the British Parliament has not been 
foreseen, nor justly appreciated. 

******* 

“ I do not say that it was possible to 
give the land and the tithes to the 


former owners ; time is often stronger 
than justice ; but as the state reason 
( raison d'etat ), good or bad , was an 
obstacle for repairing all the wrongs, 
why not continue to govern the country 
as in the past, as it could not receive 
satisfaction ? 

“ Why, above all, admit a deputation 
from that dissatisfied country to take 
part in the supreme power of the British 
nation ? 

“ The great majority of the Irish 
people were opposed to the English 
aristocracy, to which the majority of 
those who oppressed them be'onged. 
The representatives of the people should 
be either faithless to the religious 
and political sentiments of their 
electors, or enemies of the British 
Constitution, and particularly of that 
class in possession of what ought to 
belong to them. 

“ The help of these members in the 
British chambers, if they could forget 
injustice, confiscations, the intolerance of 
conquest, and the reconciliation of both 
parties would have been a wise measure, 
but if they had not forgotten, if the 
moral reconciliation did not exist, it 
would have been better to wait longer, 
and it would have been a hundred times 
better for England to leave the Irish 
Parliament in the island, than to be ex- 
posed to find one day the legislative 
scales in London ruled by the represen- 
tatives of Ireland. 

vj/ vj/ vj/ vj/ ^ 

“ After so many years England has in 
her bosom the wound she gave Ireland ; 
to cure that wound the wisdom of her 
great legislators is at fault. She strikes 
in quite a different way from what is 
her object — those who have the same 
interest become divided. 

“ But when heaven punishes, what 
signifies the most skilful policy. 

*J> *J> v!> vL* 

*y» '•Jn 

“ For the honour of humanity, may 
justice and tolerance bring a useful 
result, and make Pitt’s great measure 
his highest title and glory.” 

The above was evidently written by 
the eminent statesman at the time of the 
Union, or soon after. How true much 
of it is to day ! 

J. P. L. 


39§ 


THE HARP. 


SISTER MIRENE. 

AN EPISODE OF THE SYRIAN MASSACRE. 

On a calm autumnal morning two 
young girls of twelve or thirteen years 
of age amused themselves in a large 
garden under the eyes of their parents, 
who sat upon a wide terrace which was 
reached from the garden by an ample 
flight of stone steps ornamented with 
flowers and creeping plants. 

One of the girls had long and lustrous 
blue eyes, hair the colour of ripe oranges 
and complexion of the most delicate rose 
and ivory. The other was a decided 
brunette brown hair, brown eyes, a small 
brown hand, brown skin and brown 
eye-brows strongly arched. 

Both tvere dressed in white but in 
totally different fashions. She of the 
blue eyes wore a puffed overskirt lace 
sleeves, and a light and plain bodice. 
She of the brown hair and complexion 
wore a tunic of brocaded silk, a gauze 
fichu, a cashmere scarf tied round her 
waist - , muslin pantaloons gathered round 
the ankles with gold circlets and satin 
slippers relieved with coral. Two 
luxuriant tresses spangled with sequins 
encircled her head, whilst bracleets of 
an uncouth pattern ornamented her 
delicate wrists. 

The persons, who kept watch from 
the terrace, as dissimilar in dress and 
appearance as the children, were a 
young man, a young woman, whose 
dress and accent bespoke their frankish 
origin and an old man with a flowing 
beard as white as his turban. This old 
man reclined on a heap of cushions ; his 
two companions sat on chairs of sandal 
wood. Between them was a low table 
crowded with sherbets a la neige, con- 
serves of fruits and sweetmeats of roses, 
which had the smell and color of those 
joyous flowers, narjileh filled with 
tombaki and microscopic cups holding 
not an infusion but a decoction of coffee. 

The terrace, the garden and the house 
were situated at the outskirts of a city, 
which appeared* to be bathed in a flood 
of golden light so much did its shining 
domes, its sparkling cupolas, its level 
roofs turned into flower gardens, its 
white mosques’s its minarets like needle 
spires, the sculpture of its dentelled 
walls sparkle, change colours and above 


all dazzle the eye that attempted to 
rest upon it for any time. This city 
was Damascus, the marvelous Queen of 
the East. 

As to the persons of whom we have 
just spoken the old man was called 
Amrou, the young brunette Radjieda 
and her blond friend Gabrielle. The 
Franks were Mr. and Mrs. Herbelin, 
Grabrielle’s parents, and the owners of 
one of the largest commercial houses in 
Damascus. They were at the moment 
the guests ofNad-ji-eda’s grandfather the 
Turk. Amrou - ben- Soliman, whose 
residence was separated from theirs only 
by a street remarkable for its narrowness 
even in a city whose streets were none 
of the widest. 

This venerable old man, these beauti- 
ful children, this young mother, and her 
loving husband formed a striking pic- 
ture, a little too simple perhaps for the 
beautiful landscape that lay before 
them. This landscape it would be im- 
possible to describe. It contained all 
that is spoken of as beautiful in Scrip- 
ture. The cedars of Lebanon, the 
cypresses of Sion, the palm trees of 
Cades, tl e roses of Jericho, the olives of 
Olivet, the grapes of Engaddi, the 
sweetness of the pome-granate, the rich 
perfumes of balsam of myrrh and of 
cinnamon all appeared to have met to- 
gether in that beautiful piece. Without 
leaving their seats, Amrou’s guests 
could see a vast undulating plain whose 
outward extremities were bounded by a 
chain of mountains covered with snow. 
On this plain could be seen groups of 
peasants leading well laden asses carry- 
ing douzah water melons legumes and 
fruits to the city ; young girls closely 
veiled gracefully leading small arab 
horses : sultanas carried on litters 
screened with silk curtains : bare-footed 
camel drivers armed with long 
sticks : fellahs, who tilled the fields with 
superb indolence. 

Amrou’s house was a veritable oriental 
palace. Exteriorly its walls were hidden 
under a most gaudy colouring, shocking 
indeed to the European eye, but which 
harmonized perfectly under a sun of fire 
and a sky of lapsis-lazuli. The doors 
wide open, the window blinds thrown 
back — a. grave infraction of oriental 
etiquette — allowed* the interior to bo 
easily seen. The large well aired rooms 


THE HARP. 


399 


were nearly all paved in mosaics. 
Circular divans were the only furniture. 
On the inner walls, as white as though 
they had been plastered with moulten 
silver were fret- works arabesques and 
enterlacings in pale lakes, soft blues 
and tender rose lined amidst which 
could be deciphered arab inscriptions 
traced in carmine. Generally these in- 
scriptions were taken from the Koran, 
but it appeared that Amrou held this 
production m of the pretended prophet in 
little esteem, as he had substituted for 
them in places, soft verses from the 
poems of Saadi and Ferdoussi and other 
arab poets of less renown. 

In most of the rooms jets of water fell 
back into basins of green marble, and 
these leaping waters cooled the air also 
on the terrace, the greater part of which 
was covei ed with vases of flowers. A 
light breeze shook the snow white petals 
of the citron the orange and the Arabian 
jassemine, whose clambering boughs 
had all the appearance of enormous 
reptiles. 

A hedge of giant cactuses enclosed the 
garden. The pebbles of the walks shone 
like silver nodules. The borderings of 
the garden beds were of the plant henna, 
that herb with which the beauties of 
Syria delight to color the tips of their 
fingers ; a strange custom which they 
appear to have received from the savage 
caraibes. 

I repeat it ; it was a charming autumn 
morning. The sky an azure blue fringed 
on the horizon with rose coloured and 
lilac clouds. The whole air alive with 
song. The camel drivers as they goad- 
ed on their patient drudges drew forth 
an accompinment of tinkling bells: 
large birds skimmed the air passing 
and repassing from the heights of 
Mount Lebanon to the minarets of the 
city mosques. The young children sang 
outdn soft cadeuce their morning prayers 
to Allah and to Mahomet : invisible 
sultanas joined their voices to the sweet 
sound of the gazla, or arab guitar. 

Whilst Amrou entertained his guests, 
the young girls amused themselves 
under the shade of a grove of plane 
trees, palms and turpentine trees. They 
had just made a small altar of moss and 
leaves, and stood before it admiring and 
criticizing it. The miniature tabernacle 
had been decked with the flowers of the 


orange, of the aloe, of the pomegranate, 
of lilies of Iran, of Damascus roses, of 
nopals with their highly grazed leaves 
and of the tamerine. Upon it was a 
small ivory crucifix, and a statuette of 
the Blessed Virgin. 

“Is that well? Gabrielle!” asked the 
little dame with brown locks, as she 
inserted a garland of jasmine. 

“ Yes, it is all we can do at present. 
But indeed it is neither cross nor 
statue that ought to occupy the throne 
of the tabernacle.” 

“ Neither cross nor statute ? What 
should it be then?” 

“If I told you Nad-ji-eda — you would 
not believe me.” 

“ Certainly I should. Can you doubt 
it ?” 

“ But it is such a great mystery.” 
“Never mind — tell it to me.” 

“ Well then ; it is God who should be 
upon our altar, for it is God, who comes 
to rest there.” 

“What! God himself?” “ Does your 
God come down on earth ?” exclaimed 
Nad-ji-eda elevating still more her arch- 
ed eyebrows. 

“Yes; Nada dear!” “the God of 
Heaven, Jesus made man, loves to be 
exposed to the adoration of the faithful, 
and to listen to their requests.” 

“ And each one sees, this God Jesus ?” 
“ They recognise him with the eyes of 
faith under the merciful veil of the 
consecrated species. Have you forgotten 
what I have so frequently explained 
to you ” — asked Gabrielle with a slight 
shade of impatience. 

“ Oh yes ! the sacred species — so at 
least you say.” 

“7 say ; no ; not I, it is God, who 
says it. “ This is my body.” 

“ I believe it — I belie ^e it with all my 
heart,” murmured the young Arab in a 
dreamy preoccupied tone, as she raised 
her eyes to Heaven in an ecstatic gaze. 
“ And when the Lord comes down,, 
what do you do, Gabrielle ? 

“ Then all heads bow, all hearts are 
raised to God — they pray.” 

“ And then ?” 

“ How — then ? they still pray — pray 
until the service is over.” 

“ And when the office terminates ?” 

“ Well then, they go home,” 

“ Ah ! you are not telling me all, 
Gabrielle. Do they make you swear to 


400 


THE HARP. 


keep secret the mysteries of your re- 
ligion ?” 

“To keep secret ?” asked G-abrielle 
in astonishment. 

“Yes. I see nothing surprising in 
that. Do not the Druses conceal their 
religious books and even their mosques 
as much as they can ? Do they not 
6wear never to reveal the mysteries of 
their religion to any one? And the 
Ackals, who are the best instructed of the 
Druses, are they not obliged to keep 
this oath at the risk of their lives ?” 

“ That shows the falsity of their 
doctrine. We Catholics are obliged to 
confess our faith whenever questioned 
and as far as we can to extend the 
worship of our God.” 

“ Then why do you not tell me all ?” 
“ All what?” 

“ All the ceremonies which take place 
in the presence of the Saviour Jesus. 

Do you not burn perfumes in silver 
perfuming pans held by silver chains, 
and which the Imans swing about to 
scatter the sweet sented smoke which 
ascends to the altar ?” 

“Yes ; but it is the altar boys who 
swing the censers not the priests.” 

“And does notan invisible music a 
thousand times sweeter than the guitar 
swell through the vaults of the mosque ?” 
“ Church you mean. Yes that is the 
organ.” 

“ And does not your Iman speak to 
God in the name of the people in an un- 
known tongue which is neither Arabic 
nor English nor French ?” 

“Very true. Our Priest prays in 
Latin. But who has taught you these 
things so well ?” 

_ “No one has taught me them Gab- 
rielle. I have seen them.” 

“You have been in a Catholic 
Church ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Where ? At Damascus ?” 

“ No ; not at Damascus,” said Nad-ji- 
eda shaking her head. 

“ At Beyrout or Saint Jean-d’Acre ? 

“ Neither the one nor the other.” 

“ But where was it then ? Tell me. 
Did your grandfather or your nurse 
Sulema, take you ?” 

“ My grandfather and my nurse were 
both ignorant that I went there. I was 
alone with strangers.” 

“Alone. You who go out only on a 


litter, and who are condemned by 
custom to so severe a seclusion ? You 
astonish me.” 

“ And yet it is so, and if I have never 
mentioned it to you before it is because 
it is connected with an incident which I 
am bound to keep secret. 

“ Why ?” 

“ Because it concerns the Ackals.” 

“ What a great mystery !” said Gab- 
rielle laughing. “Be careful not to be- 
tray it, Nada ; that would be to expose 
yourself to all the fury of your god 
Hackem. 

“Hackem is not my god, and you 
know well that he cannot be anybody’s 
god,” replied Nad-ji-eda softly. But the 
Ackals. — 

“'Well — the Ackals.” 

“ Bevenge themselves on those who 
reveal the secrets of their doctrine.” 

“ So you told me just now, and I 
believe it, but what astonishes me is, 
that you put so little confidence in your 
friend ; you think I would betray your 
confidence.” 

“ Oh Gabrielle can you think that ?” 
cried Nad-ji-eda tenderly embracing 
her companion. 

“ I have every right to think so, since 
you do not “tell me all” to use your own 
expression.” 

“ It is because — well it is not very in- 
teresting.” 

“Never mind.” 

“ It would be very long.” 

“ I have plenty of time to listen. 
Mama will not go home for half an hour 
at least.” 

“ But I do not want my grandfather 
or my nurse to hear.” 

“Your grandfather is smoking his 
nargileh ; Sulema is in her room read- 
ing the Koran or counting the beads of 
her tesbir ; (musuiman rosary) both 
have entirely forgotten you.” 

“Well I will risk it; but you must 
keep it secret.” 

“ As mute as a mouse,” said Gabrielle 
sitting down on a footstool of saDdal 
wood and beginning her embroidery. 

Nad ji-eda, who from her Arab 
education knew as little how to embroi- 
der as to sit upon a chair, threw herself 
upon the grass and began her narrative 
playing with the corals of her slippers 
to occupy her little indolent hands. 
“You know, said she, that I was born 


THE HARP. 


401 


at Esbaya in the mountains and that I 
was scarcely four years old when my 
mother died.” 

“Yes Hada, and it was then that 
Amrou, father of your poor mother 
brought you to his house.” 

“ Exactly. My father, who had cer- 
tain plans for me was glad to confide 
me to my grandfather, and I arrived ac- 
cordingly at Damascus under the charge 
of Sulema.” 

“ I am sorry to interrupt the first 
words of your narrative ; but it will 
not appear sufficiently clear to me un- 
less you explain to me why your father 
Djelaib, who is a zealous follower of 
Hackem, if not a fanatic, was glad to 
trust his only child to Sheik Amrou, 
who is what they call in Europo a free 
thinker. This grandfather of yours 
believes nothing. He shakes his head 
when you speak of Mahomet, he lights 
his chibouque with pages of the Koran ; 
he loses no opportunity of heaping ridi- 
cule upon the impostor Hackem, and if 
he bows his head when the Muezzin 
cries La Allah ila Allah from the tops of 
the minarets, it is only because he does 
not wish to brave to its face the custom 
of his country.” 

“ All which does not prove, that my 
good grand papa believes nothing re- 
plied Mad-ji-eda, if like me you have 
heard him speak of the divine Issa.” 

“Of Jesus? what Hada, does your 
grandfather believe in the divinity of 
J esus ? Oh I rejoice with all my heart. 
But that explains less than ever, why a 
Druse as exalted as your father has 
chosen you such a guardian.” 

“ Because my father wishes at any 
price to make a wise woman of his 
daughter. He intends to initiate her 
into the sect of the Ackals who admit 
some women to their rite. But he in- 
tends something still greater as you 
will see. How no one was more fit than 
my grandfather to take care of my 
education, since he knows many lan- 
guages and almost all sciences. And it is 
to this circumstance I owe not only the 
happiness of not being a little ignorant 
girl like all other arab girls, but also 
the much greater happiness of having 
for a friend a fervent Catholic, who 
makes it her duty to instruct me in the 
mysteries of her holy religion.” 

“ To the great displeasure of Sulema” 


said G-abrielle laughing. It appears, 
that this zealous musulman understand’s 
us, and looks upon me with no favour- 
able eye. But continue.” 

“ Up to the age of eleven, I did not 
return to the mountains. I learnt suc- 
cessively of the birth of two or three 
sisters, for I forgot to tell you that my 
father had contracted a second marriage 
shortly after the death of ray mother. I 
had the pleasure of seeing my good 
father several times. On different oc- 
casions he came to pass some weeks in 
Damascus, and on each occasion was 
delighted to see my diligence and pro- 
gress, and encourage me to make it 
even greater if possible. Last summer, 
after your father had rented the house 
next to us, my grandfather said to me 
one day in a sorrowful and faultering 
voice, ‘ We must part, my little one.’ 

“ ‘ Must part ?’ I cried with anxiety. 

“ ‘ Why so ?’ 

“ 1 Because your father wishes to take 
you to the mountains.” 

“ * For always ?’ 

“ £ Oh no j for some months only ; but 
it will appear to me very long.’ 

“ £ And to me also said I embracing 
him.’ 

“ This news caused a singular sensa- 
tion in my heart which was neither all 
joy nor all sorrow, but a confused mix- 
ture of both. If the idea of leaving my 
grandfather disturbed me, I rejoiced to 
think that I should return to my father’s 
family and should see again that majes- 
tic Lebanon, which had been my birth- 
place. 

“ I left about the beginning of June 
and did not return until the middle of 
October. My father’s wife received me 
kindly and my little- sisters appeared 
delighted to make my acquaintance. I 
did not feel lonesome at Esbaya 
though I must confess that there could 
hardly be a rougher or more sombre 
habitation. 

“ It is a city — is it not ?” interrupted 
Gabrielle. 

“ Only an important village — that is 
all. It contains about 500 houses at the 
foot of Djebel-el-Cheik — old man’s 
mountain — whose top is always covered 
with snow. My father’s house was by 
no means elegant, and was far from 
being like my grandfather’s palace. 
Fancy a flat roofed, square building 


402 


THE HARP. 


without that purple screen which the 
vine with its luxuriant tendrons creep- 
ing to the roof gives to our houses in 
Damascus. The roof was the onty part 
of the house which had any appearance 
of beauty. It was covered with earth 
grown over with grass and formed a 
hanging garden in which everything 
flourishd from the myrtle and laurel 
roses to rhododendrons and humble 
violets. 

“Though my father was Sheik, he lived 
as simply as the neighbouring Druses. 
What appeared strange to me was to 
see my sisters and their mother djing 
household work, a thing that no woman 
with any fortune would do in Damascus. 
In my father’s house no one ever men- 
tioned the name of Allah nor of 
Mahomet, neither did they pray at the 
sound of the Muezzin nor read the 
Koran. At this I was greatly astonish- 
ed because 1 did not know at that time 
that the Druses had a religion of their 
own. 

“One day under rather strange circum- 
stances, I heard them pronounce the 
word Hackem, a name I have so often 
heard since. I was jflaying with my 
sisters in the street — for we had no 
court, nor garden, when a very old 
woman, stooping and leaning on a stick 
and walking with difficulty, turned out 
of a neighbouring street and came 
straight towards us. She was dressed 
all in black, and the long horns of her 
brass tantou (metal ornament in a shape 
of a crescent which the Druse women 
wear on their heads) shook above her 
small wrinkled face in a jaunty manner. 

“ ‘ Who is that poor woman ? asked 
I of my sisters. 

“ ‘She is not a poor woman,’ answered 
they in a low voice, not unmixed with 
fear : ‘ she is a rich influential woman, 
much venerated.’ 

“ ‘She is a priestess ?’ A priestess ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes ; that is what they call her. 
She is inspired and predestined. Our 
god Hackem has taken her under his 
protection ; has clothed her with his 
spirit and has given her his knowl- 


“ The poor children could not tell me 
any more, nor explain it any clearer : 
but my grandfather, whom I have asked 
about it since, has explained it more 
fully. It appears that the Druses have 


always admitted women to their mystic 
meetings; they give them the title of 
priestess, and require great respect for 
them ; they allow them to instruct, and 
claim that they have the power of 
prophecy. 

“Meantime the priestess had come op- 
posite us. She raised her veil, which 
she threw back, showing us the wrinkled 
face of a woman of eighty years, which 
inspired respect rather ihan confidence. 

“My sisters devoutly pressed the hem 
of her black robe, and then ran to call 
their mother. Not only did she come 
but my father also, who was smoking 
his chibouque upon the flat roof hasetned 
to descend. It was to him the old wo- 
man with the tan tour addressed herself. 

“ ‘Djela-ib,’ said she, pointing towards 
me with her withered and wrinkled 
hand — ‘ is this the child ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Set-Nefie.’ 

“ ‘ I recognised her at first sight al- 
though the aliledj has blossomed seven 
times since you took her to Damascus. 
She has all the signs of predestination, 
and I do not deceive myself in saying 
that Hackem has destined her to suc- 
ceed me. Mayl live to see her imitiated 
into the sect of the Ackals, and capable 
of prophesying in her turn. Has she 
any knowledge as yet of our religion.” 

“ ‘Well — no; ’ said my father hesitat- 
ing. ‘Her grandfather has instructed 
her only in the profane sciences.’ 

“ The little priestess shook her head 
indignantly, and her brass tan tour shook 
right and left. 

“ ‘At least, said she, you have not left 
her ignerant of the designs of Hackem 
upon her ?’ 

“ ‘The designs of Hackem ?’ stammer- 
ed my father — ‘ no ; that is to say — yes 
— I — she is still very young as you see.” 
“ ‘ I see, Djela-ib, that you respond 
very badly to the confidence we have 
placed in you. This child will be taken 
from you, if you do not take more care 
of her religious education.’ 

“ ‘Come here, young girl, and listen to 
me. I must tell you what your father 
has thought proper to be silent to you 
about ; I know not why. Know then 
that the day you were born Hackem 
speaking by my mouth, declared that 
he chose you for his priestess and pro- 
phetess, to announce his worships and 
interpret his oracles. Kejoice then^ 


THE HARP. 


4°J 


young woman ; it is you who have to 
succeed me.’ 

“ There is nothing very much to 
rejoice in, thought I to myself as I eyed 
this strange little woman as she hasten- 
ed away cl i pity clop.” 

“ My step-mother returned into the 
house, my father re-ascended to the 
terrace, my sisters and I began again 
our play and there was no more said at 
the time of this incident. But a short 
time after father said to me. 

T hope Nad-ji-eda, that you have 
not forgotten the words of the pristess. 

“ ‘No ; certainly : they w8re strange 
enough to print them on my memory. 

“ ‘Very well. You see now why I am 
so anxious that you should be so well 
instructed. In some weeks I shall take 
you back to Damascus and as you ought 
to be happy and proud of the part that 
is destined for you, I am sure that you 
will study with more zeal than ever 
after what has passed. Meanwhile the 
priestess wishes that you should devote 
yourself seriously to your religious 
duties, and she thinks that you shou.d 
assist at the most important of our 
ceremonies, the reception of an Ackal. 
This will take place to-morrow ; and 
you must therefore be ready to leave at 
day break.’ 

H. B. 

{To be Continued.') 


EOMANCE OF IRISH HISTORY. 


GODFREY OF TYRCONNELL. 

I have remarked that the Irish chiefs 
may be said to have fought each other 
with one hand, while they fought the 
English with the other. Illustrating this 
state of things, I may refer to the story of 
Godfrey, King of Tyrconnell, as glorious 
a character as ever adorned the page of 
history. For years the Normans had 
striven in vain to gain a foothold in 
Tyrconnell. Elsewhere — in Connaught, 
in Munster, throughout all Leinster, and 
in southern Ulster — they could betimes 
assert their away, either by dint of arms 
or by insidious diplomatic strategy. 

But never could they overreach the 
wary and martial Cinel-Connal, from 
whom more than once the Norman 
armies had suffered overthrow. At 
length the Lord- Justice Maurice Fitz- 


gerald felt that this hitherto invulner- 
able fortress of native Irish power in 
the northwest had become a formidable 
standing peril to the entire English 
colony, and it was accordingly resolved 
that the whole strength of the Anglo- 
Norman force in Ireland should be put 
forth in one grand expedition. The lord- 
justice decided that he himself would 
lead and command in person. 

At this time Tyrconnell was ruled by 
a prince who was the soul of chivalric 
bravery, wise in the council, and daring 
in the field — Godfrey O’Donnell. The 
lord-justice, while assembling his forces, 
employed the time, moreover, in skil- 
fully diplomatizing, playing the insidi- 
ous game which in every century most 
largely helped the Anglo-Norman in- 
terest in Ii eland, settingup rivalries, 
and inciting hostilities amongst the 
Irish princes. Having, as he thought 
not only cut off Godfrey from all chance 
of alliance or support from his fellow- 
princes of the north and west, but 
environed him with their active hostili- 
ty, Fitzgerald marched on Tyrconnell. 

His army moved with all the pomp 
and panoply of Norman pride. Lords, 
earls, knights and esquires from every 
Norman castle or settlement in the 
land had rallied at the summons of the 
king’s representative. Godfrey, isolated 
though he found himself, was nothing 
daunted by the tremendous odds which 
he knew were against him — he was, in 
fact one of the most skilful captains of 
the age — and he relied implicitly on the 
unconquerable bravery of his clansmen. 
Both armies met at Credan-Kille, in the 
north of Sligo. 

A battle, which the Normans describe 
as fiercely and vehemently contested, 
ensued and raged for hours without 
palpable advantage to either side. In 
vain the mail-clad battalions of England 
rushed upon the saffron-kilted Irish 
clansmen ; each time they reeled from 
the shock and fled in bloody rout. In 
vain the cavalry squadrons — long the 
boasted pride of the Normans — headed 
by earls and knights whose names were 
rallying cries in Norman England, swept 
upon the Irish lines. Riderless horses 
alone returned. The lord-justice, in 
wild dismay, saw the proudest army 
ever rallied by Norman power on Irish 
soil being routed and hewn piecemeal 


404 


THE HARP. 


before his eyes. Godfrey, on the other 
hand, the very impersonation of valor, 
was everywhere, cheering his men, 
directing the battle, and dealing destruc- 
tion to the Normans. The gleam of his 
battle-axe or the flash of his sword was 
the sure precursor of death to the 
haughtiest earl or knight that dared to 
confront him. The lord-justice — than 
whom no abler general or soldier served 
the king — ssw that the day was lost if 
he could not save it by some desperate 
effort, and at the worst he had no wish 
to survive the overthrow of the splendid 
army he had led into the field. The 
flower of the Norman nobles had fallen 
under the sword of Godfrey, and him 
the Lord Maurice now sought out, dash- 
ing into the thickest of the fight. The 
two leaders met in single combat. 
Fitzgerald dealt the Tyrconnell chief a 
deadly wound ; but Godfrey, still keep- 
ing his seat, with one blow of his battle- 
axe clove the lord-justice to the earth, 
and the proud baron was carried sense- 
less off the field by his followers. The 
English fled in hopeless confusion, and 
of them the chroniclers tell us there 
was made a slaughter that night’s dark- 
ness alone arrested. The Lord Maurice 
was done with j)omp and power after 
the ruin of that day. He survived his 
dreadful wound for some time. He 
retired into a Franciscan monastery 
which he himself had built and endow- 
ed at Youghal, and there taking the 
habit of a monk, he departed this life 
tranquilly in the bosom of religion. 
Godfrey, meanwhile mortally wounded 
was unable to follow up the great victory 
of Credan-Kille ; but, stricken as he was, 
and with life ebbing fast, he did not dis- 
band till he had demolished the only 
castle the English had dared to raise on 
the soil of Tyrconnell. This being done, 
and the last soldier of England chased 
beyond the frontier line, he gave the 
order for dispersion, and himself was 
borne homewards to die. 

This, however, sad to tell, was the 
moment seized upon by O’Neill, Prince 
of Tyrone to wrest from the Cinel- 
Connal submission to his power. Hear- 
ing that the lion-hearted Godfrey lay 
dying, and while yet the Tyrconnellian 
clans, disbanded and on their homeward 
road, were suffering from their recent 
engagement with the Normans, O’Neill 


sent envoys to the dying prince demand- 
ing hostages in token of submission. 
The envoys, say all the historians, no 
sooner delivered this message than they 
fled for their lives. Hying though God- 
frey was, and broken and wounded as 
were his clansmen by their recent strug- 
gle, the messengers of Tyrowen felt but 
too forcibly the peril of delivering this 
insolent demand. And characteristic- 
ally was it answered by Godfrey. His 
only reply was to order an instantaneous 
muster of all the fighting men of Tyr- 
connell. The army of Tyrowen mean- 
while pressed forward rapidly to strike 
Cinel-Connal, if possible, before the 
available strength, such as it was, could 
be rallied. Nevertheless, they found 
the quickly-reassembled victors of 
Credan-Kille awaiting them. But, alas ! 
sorrowful story ! On the morning of 
the battle Heath had but too plainly 
set his seal upon the brow of the heroic 
Godfrey. As the troops were being drawn 
up in line, read } 7 to march into the field, 
the physicians announced that his last 
moments were at hand ; he had but a 
few hours to live. Godfrey himself re- 
ceived the information with sublime 
composure. Having first received the 
last sacraments of the Church and given 
minute instructions as to the order of 
battle, he directed that he should be laid 
upon the bier which was to have borne 
him to the grave, and that thus he 
should be carried at the head of his 
army on the march. His orders were 
obeyed, and then was witnessed a scene 
for which history has not a parallel. 
The dying king, laid on his bier, was 
borne at the head of his troops into the 
field. After the bier -came the standard 
of Godfrey — on which was emblazoned 
a cross with the words, “ In hoc signo 
vinces ” — and next came the charger of 
the dying king caparisoned as if for 
battle. But Godfrey’s last fight was 
fought. Never more would his battle- 
axe gleam in the front of the combat. 
But as if his presence, living, dead, or 
dying, was still a potential assurance 
of triumph to his people, the Cinel- 
Connal bore down all opposition. Long 
and fiercely, but vainly, the army of Tyr- 
owen contested the field. Around the bier 
of Godfrey his faithful clansmen made 
an adamantine rampart which no foe 
could penetrate. Wherever it was borne 


THE HARP. 


405 


the Tyrconnell phalanx, of which it was 
the heart and centre, swept all before 
them. At length, when the foe was 
flying on all sides, they laid the bier 
upon the ground to tell that the day was 
won. But the face of Godfrey was 
marble pale, and cold, and motionless ! 
All was over ! His heroic spirit had 
departed amidst his people’s shouts' of 
victory. — A. M. Sullivan, M.P . 


TO ERIN. 


I saw thee standing by the shore, 

A broken sceptre at thy feet, 

And raised thy crownless brow in more 
Than mortal anguish to the seat 
Of justice— as tho’ thou hadst sought 
Surcease of agonising thought. 

And spectre-pale thy suffering face, 

And dread the lustre of thine eyes 
That pierced into the night, to trace 
The future in the far-off skies : 
Expectancy in that deep gaze, 

’Tho never came the morning’s rays. 

What hope still holds thy spirit up ! 

And all in ruin lying there. 

For thou hast drained fate’s poisoned cup. 
And felt the fulness of despair : 

Rut God-like is it to be strong 
In bearing undeserved wrong. 

I see in all thy matchless woe — 

The unearthly beauty of my love — 

In vesture robed as white as snow 

With wounds like the red stars above— 
Clear shining thro’ the vesture white 
Out on the seeming-endless night. 

Oh, who thy thoughts shall fathom e’er 
The past or future in thy brain ? 

Thou thinkest with a mother’s care. 
Perhaps, upon thy children slain. 

Or sleeping ’neath the Atlantic tide, 

Or wandering o’er the world so wide. 

Or, haply, of the vanished years — 

Long vanished — since thy life was young, 
Ere thy heart welled unceasing tears— 
When melody was on thy tongue, 

And all thy children round thee came, 

To hear thee tell of Wisdom’s name. 

And when in immemorial woods 
Sweet voices rose to heav’n in praise ; 
When from tliy cloistered solitudes 
The lamp of science shed its rays ; 

And sadly o’er the ocean’s foam 

Thy stranger scholars sought their home. 

Or, haply, of the coming time 
Led slowly upward by the night, 

Thou thinkest with a hope sublime. 

But notin all thy future bright, 

Thou ’It be more lovely than thou’rt now 
With this pale anguish on thy brow. 

D. G. M, 


SOME RESULTS OF THE LAND 
LEAGUE. 


“What has the Land League achieved ?” 
asked Mr. Redmond, M.P., in the cur- 
rent number of Modern Thought. It 
has, he says in effect, absorbed the vari- 
ous local societies which agrarian discon- 
tent had called into an isolated and im- 
potent existence in different parts of 
Ireland, and united north, south, east, 
and west in one vast organization, act- 
ing openly, constitutionally, and with 
all the strength of union. It has taught 
the people to look beyond the three 
“E’s” — which, when they were unor- 
ganized, no one was willing to concede 
to them — to a peasant proprietary, 
which statesmen are now declaring to 
be the only true solution of the ques- 
tion. Within an incredibly short period 
it has made the alteration of the Irish 
land system, which had been a scandal 
for generations, a matter of imperative 
and immediate necessity. 

This latter result alone, argues Mr. 
Redmond, would be more than sufficient 
to justify the existence of the Land 
League. But that body has other claims 
upon the gratitude of its country. The 
Land League it was that first sounded 
the alarm when the shadow of famine 
was spreading over the land. Its lead- 
ers, in turning to America for help when 
their warnings were disregarded by the 
executive at home, achieved the double 
gain of calling forth a noble response 
from that country, and of stimulating 
the attention of the English public and 
the English legislature. When actual 
famine had been escaped, scarcely a less 
danger threatened the Irish peasantry. 
The landlords’ “ Crowbar brigade ” had 
followed in the wake of the famine of 
184U It was only too probable that an 
attempt would be made to repeat history 
and to drive the impoverished people 
from their homes “ to the workhouse, 
the fever-ship, and the ditch-side.” So 
ominous did things look that the Gov- 
ernment endeavored to prevent whole- 
sale evictions by introducing the Com- 
pensation for Disturbance Bill of last 
year. The Government failed to pass 
that measure, and therefore failed 
to protect the tenantry of Ireland. The 
League, on the contrary, by obtaining 
for the tenants large reductions of rent 


406 


THE HARP. 


in every province of Ireland, and by 
everywhere exhorting them to “ keep a 
firm grip of their holding,” saved mil- 
lions to the Irish tenants in the shape of 
redactions of rack-rents, and succeeded, 
where the Government had failed, in 
practically patting an end to evictions. 

It is to be feared that there is more 
truth in Mr. Redmond’s facts than it is 
altogether pleasant to have to acknow- 
ledge. Indeed, if we were entirely 
ignorant of the history of the Land 
League we should hesitate before admit- 
ting that English denunciation of a 
popular movement in Ireland is neces 
sarily just because it is unanimous. W- 
cannot forget that O'Connell in his daye 
was “ the best-abused man alive” ; and 
that the Catholic Association was de- 
clared to be illegal, and was finally sup- 
pressed. Yet to those two forces we 
English Catholics owe Catholic Emanci- 
pation. All the world for yecirs had been 
declaring that the disabilities . under 
which Catholics suffered were iniquitous 
just as all\he world has for generations 
been denouncing the Irish land system. 
But the Catholic Association had to bear 
the charge of being revolutionary, and 
O'Connell was commonly held to be the 
embodiment of “blackguardism.” Many 
of the advocates of emancipation studi- 
ously avoided any word that might be 
constructe d into an expression of sym- 
pathy withO'Connell or his organization, 
just its to-day moderate men, who are 
not alsO'Land Leaguers, think it neces- 
sary while advocating the reform of the 
Irish land laws to be apologetic and 
sometimes denunciatory when referring 
to the sayings and doings of the 
youngest of Irish associations. But time 
works wonders. It is now the fashion, 
both in Parliament and outside, to hold 
up O’Connell to the admiration of his 
successors as a model whose conduct 
ought to put them to shame. Who can 
tell ? Perhaps in these days of greater 
speed the Land League and its leaders 
may not have to wait even half a century 
for political apotheosis.- Weekly Register 

A DEATH THAT LED TO LIFE. 


A leader writer in the Catholic Advo- 
cate recount s the story of a nobleman’s 
conversion ana death in these words : 
“ Dauntless, gallant, brave as a lion, a 


soldier, holding the great post of honor 
as aide-de-camp to her Majesty Queen 
Victoria, the son of the Earl of Long- 
ford and the nephew of the Duke of 
Wellington — the conqueror of Napoleon 
the Great — one evening informed Queen 
Victoria that he was about to become a 
Catholic and wished to resign his com- 
mission. A great favorite at the court, 
a great favorite of the Queen, both the 
Queen and the princesses expostulated. 
He said he was determined, and if leave 
were given him by the authorities of the 
Catholic Church he would become a 
priest. He departed from the palace 
and went to Cardinal Wiseman, under- 
went a course of preliminary instruction, 
sold out all his property for the benefit 
of the poor, went to Rome, was ordained 
and came back a priest of the order of 
Passionists. His death was eminently 
tragic. A beautiful speaker, a man of 
great name, of noble descent, of daunt- 
less chivalry, young, respected in 
palaces and in poorhouses, laboring as 
a missionary labors, deserted by all his 
‘friends and familiars, excluded from his 
family, wearing nothing but his habit 
and sandals and a shirt of hair. In his 
early youth tearing himself away from 
what are called the joys of life he ex- 
hausted himself among the poor. He 
was to preach at the Jesuit Church, a 
magnificent church too, in the city of 
Dublin, one Sunday morning. It was 
crowded to overflowing by the rank and 
elite of the city. He had said Mass that 
very morning in his own church, but 
when the hour came for his sermon, 
Father Paul Mary — the Honorable 
Charles Pakenham — had gone to heaven. 
The cry that broke out from the crowd 
of six thousand was appalling when the 
Jesuit Father in the crystal pulpit an- 
nounced his departure from this world. 
The battle was over. God had called 
the valiant soldier from the field. He 
had won the fight. 

A. woman, from her sex and character, 
has a claim to many things beside 
shelter, food, and clothing. She is not 
less a woman for being wedded ; and 
the man who is fit to be trusted with a 
good wife recollects all which this im- 
plies, and shows himself perpetually 
chivalrous, sweet-spoken, considerate, 
and deferential . 


THE HARP. 


4° 7 



ARCHBISHOP CROKE. 


Ireland’s patriot prelate — sketch of his life. 


The Irish priesthood, which, since the | 
days of St. Patrick to the present time, 
has ever been characterized, not alone 
by apostolic zeal and learning, but by 
the purest and most unyielding patriot- 
ism, has ever produced few members in 
whom those qualities have been present 
in a more eminent degree than in the 
subject of our present sketch — the Most 
Rev. Dr. Croke, Archbishop ot Cashel. 
In point of scholarship and sanctity he 


is everywhere regarded as an ornament 
to the Irish hierarchy, and in that un- 
adulterated and out-spoken patriotism 
which is compatible with — indeed en- 
hances — the most exalted exercise of 
Christianity he yields to none, and is 
equalled in all probability by but one 
member of that illustrious body — that 
Nestor of the Irish Church of our day, 
Archbishop MacHale. 

Archbishop Croke was born near 


408 


THE HARP 


Charleville, Count} 7 Cork, in the latter 
part of the year 1823. The late Very 
Rev. Dr. Croke, P. P. and V. G. Charle- 
ville was his uncle ; the late Very Rev. 
Dean O’Flynn, ofAghada, Cork Harbor, 
was grand uncle, and the celebrated 
Bishop McKenzie of Queenstown, who 
died at a patriarchal age in the last de- 
cade of the last century, was his grand- 
uncle. Many more of his clerical rela- 
tives were among the most prominent, 
zealous, and efficient in the ministry of 
his native diocese within this century. 
One of his uncles, after a distinguished 
classical and legal course at Trinity 
College, was for many years the Colonial 
Attorney-General of Victoria, Australia. 
One of the Archbishop’s brothers rose, 
within a comparitively short period, to 
the highest clerical and social grade in 
San Francisco, Cal., after seven } T ears 
of missionary privations among the no- 
madic Indian tribes of Oregon and 
Washington Territory. He is as highly 
revered to-day in San Francisco along 
the great Pacific Slope as any Irish priest 
who cast his lot in foreign lands within 
the past fifty years* One of his sisters 
reconstructed, physically and religious- 
ly, an old Mercy Convent in Charleville, 
where her uncle had been an esteemed 
pastor for nearly half a century ; and 
having distinguished herself in the mili- 
tary hospitals of the Black Sea waters 
during the Crimean War, established a 
most successful convent of her order at 
New Inn, County Tipperary. Another 
sister, professed in the same religious 
community, emigrated some twenty 
years ago to the Australian continent, 
and founded a most flourishing Mercy 
Convent at Bathurst, New South Wales, 
the pride of the provincial prelates of' 
that promising colony. The observing 
tourist who passes to town from the 
Charleville Railroad Station will cast a 
lingering, mournful look on the beauti- 
ful Italian marble monument in the way- 
side churchyard, raised by the worthy 
people of Charleville to the memory of 
the Archbishop’s lamented brother, Rev. 
William Croke, who promised a bril- 
liant and patriotic career in the ministry 
till he fell a victim to professional duties 
in the celebrated cholera and fever year 
1849. 

Archbishop Croke matriculated as a 
clerical student in the Irish College of 


Paris, when the late Bishop of Kerry, 
Dr. Moriarty, assumed the office of 
dean and vice-president. Dr. McSwee- 
ney, of New York, at that time presi- 
dent of the college, generously shared 
in the paternal solicitude of Dr. Moriar- 
ty, regarding the brilliant promise of 
their young ward, who led his humanity 
rhetoric, philosophy and divinity classes 
till the close of his seventh years’ acade 
mic course. After such protracted 
studies, being still two years short of 
the canonical age for the priesthood, 
though already engaged to the Church 
by sub deaconship, his college superiors, 
his uncle and other clerical friends, 
earnestly recommended him to read a 
supplemental theological and canonical 
course of studies at the celebrated Ro- 
man Jesuit College, under the tutorship 
of Perrone, and the brilliant Passaglia, 
and other eminent professors, till his 
scholastic graduation, with genuine 
doctor’s honors, in July, 1847. Having 
spent a couple of years as professor of 
classics and divinity at Carlow, Ireland, 
and in his old alma mater at Paris, he 
returned to the fever and cholera battle- 
field in his native country, where his 
brother, in his ministerial apostolic 
labors, had succumbed, filling a youth- 
ful martyr’s grave. The young profes- 
sor apparently aspired to equal the 
ministerial zeal and reward of his deep- 
ly lamented brother; but Providence 
who ordered things sweetly, kindly 
spared her child of promise for over 
thirty years to take the national leader- 
ship of the Irish hierarchy and clergy 
in the struggle against their old, power- 
ful, and relentless oppressor. 

After some seven years of zealous, 
brilliant and fruitful ministration as as- 
sistant pastor at Charleville, Middleton, 
and Mallow, he was promoted in 1857 
to the highest responsible office of presi- 
dent of St. Colne an’s College, Fermoy, 
a newly-founded diocesan establishment. 
Hundreds of clergymen in the old land 
and spread through English colonial 
settlements, and many more in the 
United States, can bear witness to the 
fact that within eight or nine years of 
the opening of this educational institu- 
tion its alumni in Maynooth, All Hal- 
low’s and in colleges through the Conti- 
nent were almost universally the fore- 
most students in their respective classes. 


THE HARP. 


409 


Dr. Croke, being rather dangerously 
threatened with sciatica, accepted the 
pastorship and rural deanship of Done- 
rail e, in the northern part of Cork, till 
summoned by the late lamented Holy 
Father to assume the episcopal respon- 
sibilities of Auckland, New Zealand, in 
July, 1870, at the closing of the great 
Vatican Council. 

When leaving Ireland in September 
of that year, and when passing through 
New York and other great States to 
the Pacific Mail steamer from San 
Francisco, where his brother was ad- 
ministrator and vicar-general, very 
many priests and prominent Catholics 
lamented that so brilliant and promising 
a young Irishman should be “ apostoli- 
cally bound,” for the distant land ot 
Macaulay’s poetic travelling artist, who 
is hereafter doomed to a risky posing on 
the broken arch over the classic waters 
of old Father Thames. 

After five years diocesan administra- 
tion, remarkable for financial, intellec- 
tual, and spiritual advancement, Dr. 
Croke was happily preconized in June 
1875, as Archbishop of Cashel and Apos- 
tolic Administrator of Emly, and suc- 
cessor to the late Most Eev. Dr. Patrick 
Leahy, decidedly one of the most learn- 
ed, accomplished, zealous, and patriotic 
bishops of Irish birth or parentage with- 
in this century. 

It will be highly gratifying to many 
of our readers to be reminded that the 
Very Eev. Dr. John Eyan, P. P. and 
Y. G., Bailingarry, Tipperary, very pro- 
bably the most eminent theologian in 
the Irish priesthood after Profs, Murray 
and Neville, and an extremely popular 
pastor and diocesan official in the 
late administration, received an over- 
whelming majority of the votes of his 
♦ brother pastors in the canonical scrutiny 
of Cashel and Emly. However, the 
thoughtful and experienced provincial 
prelates of Munster, knowing the in- 
stinctive humility of Dr. Eyan in assum- 
ing at so comparitively early an age, 
such a responsibilitjq and the transcen- 
dant ability of Dr. Croke for metropoli- 
tan duties, expressed a strong desire for 
the latter’s promotion to the late Holy 
Father, who was a special friend of Dr. 
Croke. This earnest presentation of Dr. 
Croke’s name, having received the en- 
dorsement of the Eoman Consistory in 


solemn council, was duly accepted by 
the Sovereign Pontiff Pius IX., in June, 
1875. As successor to so eminent and 
popular an archbishop as Dr. Leahy, of 
whom any Catholic hierarchy and 
clergy in any nation in Europe would 
be proud, and as the choice of the ma- 
jority of the provincial bishops, though 
not nominated by pastor’s scrutiny, we 
can readily understand that nobody, 
unless gifted with very exceptionable 
talent, zeal, tact, and administrative for- 
titude, could control the elements of 
natural disaffection among so prover- 
bally high-spirited a clergy and people. 

And yet, God be thanked, we find 
that within a few years Archbishop 
Croke has given the very highest satis- 
faction in his difficult administration, 
and has secured for himself an amount 
of affection from priests and people as 
genuine and overflowing as if his pater- 
nal and maternal ancestors had been 
racy of the hills and valleys of Tippera- 
ry since Cormac was ruler and bishop 
of the royal house and cathedral of “ the 
City of Kings.” 

When we remember Archbishop 
Croke’s great oratorical panegyric on 
the centennial aniversary of the Libera- 
tor, a few years ago before the most 
educated Catholic audience ever gath- 
ered within church walls, in old Ireland, 
his grand diocesan demonstration on the 
consecration ot his costly and mag- 
nificent cathedral, worthy of his prede- 
cessors and himself, his untiring energy 
in raising the standard of efficiency of 
his clergy and religious communities, 
powerfully reacting on the educational, 
industrial, and spiritual interests of his 
numerous parochial congregations, from 
Slieve-na-Mon to within shadow of the 
historic walls of old Limerick, we are 
not surprised to find a prelate of his 
bold aspirations, worthy of the great 
public banquet, diocesan address and 
testimonial which awaited him on his 
return from the Eternal City. As his 
peculiarly gifted pen made many soul- 
stirring contributions to the sterling 
columns of the Nation in the days of 
Young Ireland, our readers will gladly 
learn that his powerful pen, his eloquent 
tongue, and large Irish heart are as 
solemnly consecrated to the cause of 
Fatherland, and that he stands to day 
pre-eminently the idol of his people, 


4io 


THE HARP. 


the advocate of national independence, 
and, we might add, the terror of Eng- 
land. 


THE WISE MAN AND 
THE FOOL. 

A TALE OF THE FIRST HALF OF THE 

19TH CENTURY, 

(. From the French. 

CHAPTER I. 

A HARD SHELL PATRIOT. 

■I have long had the idea of writing a 
long-winded treatise to prove to the 
bats that old things are new things and 
that new things are old, and thence to 
conclude logically that after the storm 
comes sunshine, except in the particular 
case of a night-storm, when of course it 
is the moon that reappears and not the 
sun. I was convinced, to use the lan- 
guage of all planners of great things, that 
a work ot this kind was imperatively 
necessary and that a generous and ap- 
preciative public would feel duly grate- 
ful lor the filling up of so great a hiatus. 
I had already pushed my pains-taking 
labours even to the fourth volume, 
when one of my friends, who had had the 
kindness to undertake the revision of my 
manuscript — even to the dotting of my 
i’s, which I have an ugly habit of omitt- 
ing happened to recite to me a little 
epic. Coming as it did at that parti- 
cular moment, recalling events of the 
past and above all touching on ecclesias- 
tical topics, I determined to embody it 
in my narrative. Here it is. 

It was at the end of the year 1804, in 
the middle of December, during a hard 
frost, keen enough to freeze one’s face, 
Minder a sky grey as steel in the good 
• city of Turin, that the congealed rain 
fell upon the icey pavement with the 
patter of a shower of pins upon a pane 
of glass. But if the temperature of out- 
door Turn was rude, it was mild and 
genial in the large apartment, which 
might have been taken for a warehouse, 
wherein the two brothers Maur and 
Chaffred Malbrouch were finishing their 
•dinner. Both were sufficiently advanc- 
ed in age, though Maur was younger 
than his brother by seven years. At 
the moment of which we write Maur 


wore his hair close-cropped after the 
manner of the G-aul, and was proud of 
it, believing that thereby he made a 
public profession of “ advanced prin- 
ciples.” Formerly he had been court 
physician, and had worn an embroider- 
ed suit and a powdered wig of formid- 
able dimensions. On the day after the 
King quitted Turin, he encased his once 
courtly form in republican costume. As 
to his head it had long been full of those 
new idea’s which are known to have 
flown from the other side of the Alps. 
He did not however care to proclaim 
these ideas from the house-tops, because 
he did not deem it altogether impossible 
that King Victor Emmanuel might 
return ; in which ease, he hoped to re- 
don his broidered suit and powdered 
wig, to keep his new ideas to himself 
and to re-enact the lucrative and honor- 
able role of court physician. 

Chaffred was the opposite of his 
brother. In such horror did he hold 
the new government which had imposed 
itself upon his fatherland, that he had 
gone voluntarily into exile. His sojourn, 
was Rome, where he lavished the 
revenues of the many farms he possess- 
ed in the territory of Bergamo. His 
uprightness and piety were shocked by 
the disgraceful events which had taken 
place under Pius VI., and which menac- 
ed his successor Pius VII. These had 
largely contributed to give Chaffred a 
strong and unshakable aversion for the 
irreligious and revolutionary giddiness 
that governed the times. On meeting 
him you would have thought him the 
halest and gayest old man of the period. 
He had a remarkably fine head sur- 
mounted by grey locks and underlain 
with a superb double chin. His cheeks 
were full and ruddy, his whole person 
robust, lithe and pronounced ; his sight 
was excellent and he still enjoyed ail 
his teeth. 

Chaffred was ignorant of the secret 
errors which infested his brother Maur, 
but laughed heartily at his political 
weaknesses which were visible to the 
naked eye. Unlike Maur, whatever the 
government and whoever the governors 
Chaffred had not changed one iota of 
Piedmontese dress, nor of his Piedmont- 
ese customs. A lorg coat reached to 
his strong and plump calves. His knee 
breeches were held below the knee by 


THE HARP. 


41 1 


large buckles, whilst much larger ones 
adorned his shoes. In his vest pockets 
he carried two beautiful gold watches to 
which were attached two chains enrich- 
ed with agate ornaments symmetric- 
ally arranged. A double frilled shirt 
front crumpled and somewhat stained 
with snuff stood out from his ample 
chest. He did not take snuff as it is 
commonly taken from a snuff-box — by 
no means ; Chaffred was true to the 
customs of his forefathers. He carried 
about him a little mill filled with leaf 
tobacco ; two or three turns of the mill, 
and he drew from the box a good and 
highly prized pinch, well and duly 
ground, very fresh and very fragrant. 
His neck was envelloped by a heavy 
cravat whence issued stiff and straight 
the two ends of a spotless collar after 
the shape of a latin sail ; from his 
shoulders rose a heavy cape of good and 
stout cloth. Chaffred had always despised 
novelties in dress and foreign fashions. 
Hating the modern hat, which of late 
has run into so many and such senseless 
shapes, he wore a three cornered one, 
and a flemish ell of cue. This cue careful- 
ly smoothed and tied up by himself was 
the one great ornament of that most 
reverend white head. Ho took pleasure 
in contemplating it when tied at re- 
gular intervals with black ribbon and 
finished off with a superb bow. This 
well beloved cue shook with severe 
dignity from the old man’s back ; so 
that in Home his usual residence, he 
passed under the name of Signor Club. 

“ Well indeed ” ! said his friends at 
times “ you might dress yourself in 
better form. You should adopt the new 
style.” — 

“ Indeed no !” he would quietly an- 
swer ‘-'I was built on the ancient 
plan.” 

“ But you would lose nothing of your 
dignity in following the modern man- 
ners. The French fashion.” — 

“ Bah !” he would cry out with sup- 
reme contempt — “bah !” would you have 
me dress like a radical ? I have seen 
those fellows. I saw them enter Nice 
and Savoy ; they committed all sorts of 
disgraceful and cowardly acts: killed 
men women and children indiscrimin- 
ately : profaned the holy tabernacles, 
and placed an impure woman upon our 
altars. I saw them on their first entry 


into Turin open houses of debauch, and 
theatres, which were no better. They 
placarded the walls of our loyal city with 
infamous caricatures of our King, 
whilst they guarded him in his palace as 
a prisoner, with cowardly ruffians, who 
disgraced the soldiers uniform. These 
scoundrels pushed their insolence so far 
as to insult our saintly queen Mary 
Clotilde ” — and saying this the old man 
wept — “I have seen all this and you 
expect me to follow the manners and 
customs of the murderers of my coun- 
tiy-” 

“ But at least your cue !” 

“My cue! yes my cue. Long live 
the cue ! My father wore it at Assietta, 
when we left six thousand Frenchmen 
with their bellies to the sun ; Victor 
Emmanuel my King my only King 
wears it this day : Charles Emmanuel 
who is in Borne wears it: I saluted them 
both right loyally at Foligno the other 
day when they came to kiss the feet of 
Pius VII. Oh ! you know not what it 
is to wear a cue” 

Under this name of cue Chaffred un- 
derstood many great and good old things 
— the old credo , the old politics, the old 
probity — the old maxims, and a large 
dose of the old gaiety. 

Meanwhile things went ill for the old 
regime in Turin. For six years this 
subalpin race had fought against the 
hordes of Bepublican France, and had 
at length succumbed to the first Bon- 
aparte. From that moment a French 
garrison of impious obscene unbrididled 
soldiery overran the Sardinian capital. 
Her churches, monasteries, colleges 
and the treasure dedicated to God and 
to his poor became the prey of the god- 
less rabble. Chaffred saw all this, and 
it cut his noble soul to the quick. Ho 
was accustomed every evening to walk 
on the bastion. Ostensibly this was to 
take the air, in reality it was to discuss 
in no measured terms the vile acts of the 
foreign soldiery. One evening, whilst 
the citizens in more than usual numbers* 
were strolling about, there came from 
the bastion of the French citadel the 
fierce blare of many trumpets celebrat- 
ing the triumphs ot the French arms. 
This was too much for Chaffred. Ap- 
proaching one of the royal grenadiers — 
“Lend me your carbine” — said he 
seizing it on the moment he took aim at 


412 


THE HARP. 


the leader of the music and fired. — The 
women fled, children screamed, the men 
gathered in groups, piling up stones and 
brandishing their sticks. Report of the 
affair reached the royal barracks ; the 
soldiers without their officers turned out 
en masse. Shots were fired, men fell 
killed and wounded. Peace was only 
restored by the untiring efforts of both 
commanders. A week passed. One day 
Chaffred received a letter from the 
French Ambassador, requiring his pre- 
sence. The republican received Chaffred 
with a severe air. 

“I hear,” said he, “ that you busy 
yourself daily with inflaming the minds 
of your fellow citizens against the 
French. A report has also come to 
me, which I hope is inexact ; and woe 
to you ! if it is true. I am told that 
you fired a shot on that unfortunate 
affair of last Sunday.” — 

“ Citizen Ambassador,” answered 
Chaffred cooly — “ have you sent for me 
to talk with you, or to undergo an ex- 
amination at you r hands?” 

“ Either the one or the other as it may 
be necessary.” 

“Well then Citizen, if it be the first 
I thank you, if the second I do not re- 
cognize you as my judge !” 

“ Judge or no judge,” cried Ginguene 
in anger, “ I have the right to reproach 
you with your conduct, which gives 
rise to grave s.uspicions. There are too 
many of your kind already. An ex- 
ample must be made before these plots 
obtain their end. You may be thank- 
ful that you have your liberty. You 
prepare a new Sicilian Vespers.” 

“ You are wrong Citizen. The Pied- 
montese respect treaties and the orders 
of their King. Faithful to the Conven- 
tion, popular movements are forbidden. 
Were it otherwise.” — 

“ What ! do you dare to thi eaten me ? 
Remember to whom you speak.” 

“I speak to Citizen Ambassador 
Ginguene,” said the Piedmontese firmly. 

“ Gp!” said the Ambassador. “At 
the first disorder that arises I shall know 
upon whose head to visit the vengeance 
of France.” 

Malbrouch bowed ceremoniously and 
withdrew. On his arrival at home he 
took pen in hand and wrote : — 

“ Citizen Ambassador, in order to 
insult women old men and children the 


more safely your officers brought an 
escort of huzzars on horseback . allow 
me for my personal safety to speak to 
you a little at a distance. Those who con- 
ceived the scene of last Sunday as well 
as those who executed it are cowards. 
You have taken them under your pro- 
tection. If you had a particle of honor 
you would grasp with gratitude the 
hand, that drew the trigger of that 
carbine of which you spoke. But de- 
mocratic bile clouds your sight and 
brain. Know that if superior force has 
put you in possession of our fortress, it 
does not give you the right to despise us. 
It is by deceit you entered the citadel of 
Turin and by violating your word; you 
remain there by violence, we detest the 
liberty you offer us. At the conclusion 
ofour interview, you threatened me with 
a prison. [ believe you are capable of 
anything, and will spare you this last 
act of cowardice, by retireing beyond 
your grasp. You will nevertheless be 
always sensible of my presence. Bo 
not fear for your life. I am not a 
jacobin. Iam a citizen of Turin. 

“ Chaffred Malbrotjch.” 
Two hours after this letter was re- 
ceived, the French gensd’armes entered 
Chaffred’s house. He had been in safety 
an hour and a half. From his refuge 
he wrote to Count Prosper Balbo at 
Paris, and to such good effect, that 
minister Talleyrand moyed either by 
political shame or perhaps by some 
touch of that gentlemanly feeling, of 
which Talleyrand could never wholly 
divest himself thought proper to recall 
Citizen Ambassador Ginguene to Paris. 
As for Chaffred, when Pius VII. invited 
Victor Emmanuel to seek refuge in 
Rome he followed thither carrying in 
his heart an irreconcilable hatred against 
the oppressers of his King and country. 


CHAPTER II. 

In leaving his country Chaffred Mal- 
brouch might have gone to his estate 
at Logne in the territory of Bergamo. 
He could not however bring himself to 
do this, because the cis. alpine republic 
governed that country ; a government 
which he called, the Kingdom of frog- 
do m croaking in the mud, with Napo- 
leon Bonaparte for its king-log. 

But why has he come back from Rome 


THE HARP. 


4i3 


his chosen residence ? The old Pied- 
montese, so intractable in religion and 
in politics, was kind affectionate and 
delicate in his affection for his relations. 
Having left his younger brother at 
Turin, he returned every year to pass 
some weeks with him, ITe was kindly 
received and his political opinions were 
tolerated, at times even flattered, for 
Ohaffred was a widower without child- 
ren. The good old man had taken 
a liking for two little blonde heads, 
which grew every year in his brother’s 
house, and had given it to be understood 
that having no one whereon to place 
his affections, he intended to divide his 
fortune between his two nieces, the 
young Clelie and the still younger 
Clotilde. 

Thus when uncle Chaffred returned 
■evey year on the appointed day, as soon 
as the noise of wheels was heard in the 
courtyard Maur would be found on the 
top step of the doorway, and his little 
nieces flying to the carriage, would cry 
out in chorus “ Welcome Uncle Chaf- 
fred !” They would dance round the 
coachman, seize uncle’s valise, his 
traveling cap, his umbrella and half an 
hour afterwards dinner would smoke on 
the table, and the old man between the 
wine, the warmth of the fire and the 
caresses of his nieces would forget the 
fatigues of his long journey. Next day 
all the inmates of the house from master 
to servants were around him dusting, 
cleaning and arranging the parlour, 
which was intended for him ; they 
divined his every desire, and divining 
it put it into immediate execution. 
They had at their finger ends the old 
man’s little tastes, and prepared them 
accordingly. Thus the “ good little 
uncle ” pampered, and folded up as it 
were in silk paper passed two or three 
weeks in his brother’s family, leading a 
life, the sweetest and calmest imagin- 
able ; very different alas ! from that 
at Eome in his solitary dwelling. 

On of the first duties of uncle Chaffred 
after the bustle of his arrival had sub- 
sided was to call his two nieces to him 
to see how much they had grown. He 
would take their measure very serious- 
ly with his walking stick, and would 
make a mark upon it with his finger, in 
order to compare it with former years ; 
and would pretend that his noices had 


grown downward at least a good finger 
and a half. Thence would arise a grand 
discussion in which the young people 
would prove by most convincing argu- 
ments, that they had grown that much 
taller instead of smaller. Uncle would 
then change ground, and pretend that 
he meant they had grown worse instead 
of smaller. 

“ Who told you that ; uncle ?” 

“ Who? the little angel.” 

“ How can that be ? The little angel 
does not tell lies.” 

“ Well then ! suppose it was the Pope 
that told it to me at Eome;” 

“ That is impossible ” ; cried out 
Chotilde, “ I say a Hail Mary for the 
Pope every day, as you told me to do 
last year.” 

“Then when strong and ample testi- 
mony had been borne by the father of 
these young people as to their good 
conduct, uncle Chaffred would allow 
himself to be persuaded, and would com- 
mence the distribution of his prizes. 
There were dolls dressed as court ladies 
as shepherdesses and as nuns ; fans 
inlaid with mother of pearl, kept in 
ornamental boxes, broaches en mosaique, 
odoves and sweetmeats until it was im- 
possible to say which was the more 
pleased, uncle or nieces. Amongst 
these playthings there were always 
some objects of devotion, beads, scapul- 
aires, a Saint Mary Major framed in 
shells. These holy things were distri- 
buted by Uncle Chaffred with becoming 
seriousness because they had been 
blessed by the Holy Father Pius YII. 

Maur Malbrouch had little love for 
the pious things, but his brother was 
rich, a widower, and very old ; it was 
necessary therefore to be enchanted and 
to let the goodman act as he wished, in 
order that he might remember his 
nieces all the more generously in his 
will. The father smiled when his 
brother took the young people to walk 
with him. On these walks the good 
uncle would speak to them of 
devotion to the Blessed Virgin, . of 
love for the Pope as the representative 
of Christ and head of his church, on the 
modesty so becoming in young girls, 
on charity to the poor, in a word on all 
those subjects which go to make good 
Christians. To still further impress 
those lessons, he would take them to 


4H 


THE HARP. 


the Church of Consolation, and as he 
offered them holy water would say 

“ Pray, my children for the Holy 
Father !” 

But the two nieces did not respond in 
the same manner to the good intentions 
of their uncle. 

“ Do you know ; Maur,” he would say 
on his return — “ do you know it ap- 
pears to me that Clotilde will become 
a good daughter, but the elder/’ — say- 
ing this he would shake his head. 

“Why ! why ! Clelie appears to me 
most gentle and good ; she has the only 
fault of being more spirited and more 
sensible than her sister : she is also 
more witty and lively than Clotilde.” 

“ She says many thing I do not ap- 
prove of. She loves gewgaws and 
nonsense ; she seeks the company of high 
dames amongst whom she struts 
like a peacock ; she has always some 
unkind remark to pass on each one she 
meets : this one is too thin ; that has an 
awkward gait ; this hat is wrong ; this 
platted hair falls without grace : to 
please her one must do this and must do 
that.” 

“ Bah ! I see no harm m all that. 
She is growing into a woman and she is 
putting on the airs of women.” 

“ I do not deny it. But in my opinion 
you take her too much into society. 
Would you believe it ? Although she is 
only fourteen years old, she knows all the 
gossip and scandals of the neighbour- 
hood. She has discussed before me all 
her relations and friends and neigh- 
bours ; and has had her ridicule for 
each.” 

“ What would you have ? Mow-a-days 
there are no children .” 

“ That is only too true. But we ought 
to endeavour to keep her in her own 
sphere. Is it as it should be, to see a 
young girl pass whole hours at a 
window, dressed as a danseuse ? Fancy ; 
she had the face to tell me yesterday, 
that she liked a certain French Officer, 
because he was a true republican ; and 
that she did not like a certain young 
man of the country, because he was 
always taking the part of the King and 
his Queen. 

To these things Maur answered with 
a shrug of his shoulders, exclaiming : 

“ The little political creature ! When 


she is grown up it will be time enough 
to speak of such things.” 

“But ought we not to strike at the root 
of these things ?” The other day, she 
laughed at her sister because she be- 
lieved in miracles. This could not 
have happened if she had not some evil 
companions to give her these ideas of 
modern philosphy.” 

“ Would you have me shut her up ; 
or scold her at every wrong word ? 
Clelie is growing up . it is right that 
she should begin to think for herself. 
So long as she does not exceed the 
bounds of a good education, I do not 
trouble myself with these trifles ; you 
know that I am so constituted.” 

Thus by a torrent of words void of 
reason did Maur escape from his 
brother’s expostulations. 

In the year 1S04 l’abbe Lantere to 
whom he had confided the task of watch- 
ing over his two nieces, thus wrote to 
Chaffred. 

“ My dear friend, I am sorry to say,, 
that your brother is a partizan strongly 
bound up with the republicans of this 
country and those beyond the Alps. We 
can have no hope for him except in 
prayer. Clelie has a fund of religion, 
which ha3 been instilled into her by a 
servant girl, a brave and worthy savoy- 
arde. But the young lady is fickle and 
worldly ; her father has allowed her her 
own way in all things ; she frequents 
the company of certain dangerous 
friends : French books of an evil ten- 
dency have quenched in her every spark 
of faith, and of love for the Church and 
the Holy Father. To make the matter 
worse ; she has a vivid imagination 
and feeds it only with novel reading. 
May God watch over her ! 

“ Clotilde on the contrary appears to 
me as a blessed lamb ; in the midst of 
disorders she sees nothing to scandalize 
her ; more over she has a more exalted 
and better developed spirit than her 
sister; a good sense and kind heart 
which shew themselves every moment. 
A word, a sign, the slightest indication 
suffices to encourage her to do good : 
she is never tired of listening to good 
advice. From the first steps of her life, 
I can easily see the part at which she 
will arrive. Happy the man who shall 
win her for his wife !” 

Chaffred Malbrouch arrived at Turin 


THE HARP. 


415 


some day3 before Pius VII., when he 
passed through that city on his way to 
crown Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of 
the French. 

H. B. 

( To be Continued.') 


TO THE IRISH LAND LEAGUE. 

BY KATE GARDENER. 

“ My police are four fifths of the Irish people, a* 
home and abroad. If he is going to put them all 
into prison, he wiU have to build a prison big enough 
to hold 20,000,000 people.” — Charles Stuart 
Parnell. 

One leagued yeoman hand 
’Gainst armed legion, ten. 

For hearth and home and n enaced land, 
Shoulder to shouldor firnfly stand. 

And calmly, Irish men ! 

’Twere grand for country’s right 
To draw the sword, but then 
’Tis nobler still, in soulful might, 
Sheathing a while the weapon bright, 

To endure, ye Irish men ! 

And God, who made you, filled. 

Copious, to all men’s ken. 

Your hearts will flame-like blood, unchilled 
Since freshly from His hand distilled 
Through veins of Irish men. 

That fine quick flame rose oft 
In matchless valour, when, 

Sworn round in mountain gorge or croft, 
Some grand wild flag dared shine aloft 
For freedom, Irish men ! 

Now sheathe like swords your hearts ; 

Be calm with tongue and pen ; 

While tyrants tread your fields and marts, 
Your moveless will’s the road that parts 
This red sea, Irish men ! 

With fangs all threatening bare 
The lion leaves his den ; 

He’ll turn back halting to his lair 
When once his feet have found the snare, — 
Your Union, Irish men ! 

By martyred Emmet’s fate ; 

By all your wrongs since then 
Of want and scorn, and jealous hate, — 

Of gibbet, exile, dungeon-gate, — 

Be calm, ye Irish men ! 

When one brave leader falls 
Let watchful patriots ten, 

Ur awed by England’s prison walls, 

March to the front where country calls, — 
March, calmly, Irish men ! 

Though robber base and bold, 

Let England tremble then, 

Beneath her red-cross banner’s fold 
Her isle one dungeon-tower to hold 
This host of faithful men ! 


FOR THE YOUNG FOLKS. 


THE WITCHE’S CAT. 

A FAIRY STORY. 

In some weird cave, far distant from 
the abodes of mankind, dwelt an old 
witch. She was the personification of 
all evil and wickedness. Her only com- 
panion in her dismal home was a black, 
tierce looking cat, with green eyes that 
shone with a bright light at night. This 
cat had been found twenty-five years 
ago in the witch’s cave one morning, 
and had ever since lived with her. 

At the time of its first discovery it 
had been of its present size. It had 
never grown. But every day seemed 
to add one shade of deeper green to the 
color of its eyes. 

The witch feasted on children, who 
were wafted to her every month in an 
evil breeze at her command. All 
other breezes of the air had rebelled 
against the evil one ; but the witch’s 
power had as yet held its own. 

For years the good breezes of the air 
fought and struggled with this foul 
agent of the witch, and at least they 
began to hope that their power was 
gaining. 

One day — it was about the witch’s 
dinner-hour — the winds whistled and 
the trees shook, the thunder rolled, and 
the lightning hissed with a fierce swing ; 
two children, a little boy and his sister, 
were lodged in the witch’s cave. The 
winds did not cease when the poor chil- 
dren had come, but howled and whistled 
wildly on. 

The watch’s fire, on which the poor 
children were to be roasted, flickered 
half extinguished while the witch rayed 
and. cursed at the breezes that were 
fighting with the flames. Louder and 
stronger grew the moanings and howl- 
ings in the air, when suddenly, with 
one mighty effort, the children were 
lifted in the air and borne away. 

The witch cursed, swore, and raved. 
The black cat jumped on the burning 
fire, uttering sounds blood-freezing in 
their woful clamor. 

The witch seized her magic staff, 
drew a mystic circle in the centre of the 
cave, and implored all the demons and 
goblins of subterranean kingdoms to aid 
her in tracking the missing children. 


416 


THE HARP. 


The winds whistled on, and the witch 
who felt her power lessening, was boil- 
ing over in paroxysms of rage. 

She seized her cat, placed it before 
her on a rock of the cave, and spoke in 
a voice that seemed to issue from the 
centre of the earth : 

“ Slave of my power, with all-seeing 
eyes, I command thee lead me to where 
the stolen young ones are hidden ! ” 

The cat leaped wildly in the air when 
the witch had finished her command, 
and came to the ground with a deafen- 
ing cry. 

Again it leaped into the air, and again 
it came to the ground with the same 
dreadful shriek. 

Soon after the witch set out with her 
green eyed guide. Then the cat disap- 
peared. The witch came to a babbling 
brook; the lightning hissed, and the 
thunder rolled anew. When the tur- 
moil in the sky was over, the babbling 
brook ran along, and said in dismal 
tones : 

“ Follow me, follow me, follow me !” 

On, on, over the rocks and shell 
wooden branches, and stumps of rotten 
trees — on over rugged roads the witch 
ursued her course along the babbling 
rook, while the birds of the air were 
darting around her in wild confusion. 
The cat wms far in advance ; whenever 
its feet touched the ground the earth 
seemed to glow and kindle. The witch 
hurried on. At last she saw her cat 
ahead. She rushed forth at a faster 
pace. 

Soon they came to a dark, dark spot. 
Nothing save the green light sparkling 
from the cat’s eyes was visible. The 
witch followed on. They approached a 
rough stone staircase. A caldron near 
the green-eyed cat immediately began 
to fume. The light coming from the 
fire in the heated caldron illuminated 
the scene. In a corner of this horrible 
place were the two children. The little 
girl had fallen asleep upon her brother’s 
knees. As the boy saw the green eyes 
of the cat coming down the steps, and 
the witch’s frame illumined by the 
caldron, following them, he elapsed his 
little hands convulsively and prayed for 
mercy. 

But there was no mercy. The good 
breeze that had borne the children 
from the witch’s home had been con- 


quered at the moment the witch reached 
the babbling brook:, for the goblins to 
whom the witch had appealed exerted 
their power, and the lightning-flash dis- 
pelled the breeze and dropped the chil- 
dren into a cave, which was the witch’s 
deserted home. 

She now seized the boy and his ap- 
parently lifeless sister and took them 
home. The winds whistled on, and the 
air grew oppressive. Still, however, 
the witch proceeded, and finally reach- 
ed her cave. She took the boy and 
laid him upon the fire, and danced in 
glee as she heard his bones crackle. 

She next turned to the girl. But she 
was a corpse. 

The witch and her cat seized the 
roasted body and began tearing it to 
pieces. 

They had nearly finished it all when 
suddenly the green-eyed cat gave a 
woful moan and fell dead. 

The witch dropped the uneaten bones 
and looked at her cat. In another mo- 
ment she, too, uttered a scream and sank 
lifeless upon the floor of the cave. 

The children had eaten the poisonous, 
slimy plants that grew in the cave 
where they had been left. The girl had 
died from the effects, and the poisoned 
flesh of the roasted boy proved fatal to 
the witch and her green-eyed cat. 

The lifeless forms of the two evil ones 
sank deeper and deeper into the ground 
of the cave, and finally were lost sight 
of. In their place sprang up a number 
of deadly plants to mark the scenes of 
their wicked ways. 

The little girl was wafted away by the 
good breeze, triumphant now, and hid- 
den in a distant spot in some pleasant 
grove, where to this day delightful 
breezes play in calm and holy peaceful- 
ness. 


RELY ON YOURSELF, 

It is related of Stephen G-irard that he 
had a favorite clerk, and he always said 
he intended to do well by Ben Lippin- 
cott. So when Ben got to be twenty- 
one he expected to hear the governor 
say something of his future prospects 
and perhaps lend a helping hand in start- 
ing him in the world. But the old fox 
carefully avoided the subject. Ben must- 
ered courage . “ I suppose I am now 


THE HARP. 


4i7 


free, sir,” said he,“ and I thought I 
would say something to you as to my 
course. What do you think I had bet- 
ter do ?” 

“ Yes, yes. I know you are,” said 
the old millionaire, “ and my advice is 
to go and learn the cooper’s trade.” 

This application of ice nearly froze 
Ben out ; but recovering his equilibrium 
he said if Mr. Girard was in earnest he 
would do so. 

“ I am in earnest.” 

And Ben forthwith sought the best 
cooper in Spring Gardens, became an 
apprentice, and in due time conld make 
as good a barrel as the best. He an- 
nounced to old Stephen that he had 
graduated, and was ready to set up in 
business. The old man seemed gratified, 
and immediately ordered three of the 
best barrels he could turn out. Ben 
did his prettiest, and wheeled them up 
to the old man’s counting-room. Old 
Girard pronounced them first-rate, and 
demanded the price. 

“ One dollar each,” said Ben, “ is as 
low as I can live by.” 

“ Cheap enough ! Make out your bill.” 
The bill was made out, and old Step- 
hen settled it with a check for $20,000 
which he accompanied with this little 
moral to the story : 

“ There, take that and invest it in the 
best possible manner ; and if you are 
unfortunate and lose it, you will have a 
good trade to fall back upon, which 
will atford you a good living.” 


HINTS TO PARENTS. 

Few parents realize how much their 
children may be taught at home by de- 
voting a few minutes to the instruction 
of them every day. Let a parent make 
a companion of his child, converse with 
him familiarly, put to him questions, 
answer enquiries, communicate facts, 
the result of his reading or observation 
awaken his curiosity, explain difficulties 
the meaning of things, and all this in 
an easy, playful manner, without seem- 
ing to impose a task, and he will be 
astonished at the progress which will 
be made. The experiment is so simple 
that none need hesitate about its perfor- 
mance. 


THE WORTH OP A GOOD COMPANION. 

A companion that is cheerful, and free 
from scurrilous discourse and free from 
swearing, is worth gold. I love such 
mirth as does not make friends ashamed 
to look upon one another the next morn- 
ing ; nor men that cannot well bear it 
to repent the money they spent when 
then be warmed without such times and 
companions, that to make yourselves 
merry for a little, than a great deal of 
money, for it is the company and not 
the change that makes the feast. 


POUR GOOD HABITS. 

There were four good habits a wise and 
good man earnestly recommended in his 
counsels, and also by his own example 
and which he considered essentially ne- 
cessary for the management of temporal 
concerns ; these are, punctuality, ac- 
curacy, steadiness, and despatch. With- 
out the first of these time is wasted ; 
without the second mistakes the most 
hurtful to our own credit and interest 
and that of others may be committed ; 
without the third nothing can be well 
done , and without the fourth oppor- 
tunities of great advantage are lost 
which it is impossible ts recall. 


What made Michael Davitt a 
Hater op England. — One of the lead- 
ing counsel of England asked Mr. Davitt, 
after his condemnation, why he, who 
had lived so long out of Ireland, should 
be so eager to redress her grievances. 
He replied “When I was three years 
old the roof was taken off my mother’s 
house. We were then placed in an op- 
en cart and taken through the snow to 
a port, where we took ship for America. 
I have never forgotten this, and have 
vowed to devote my life to putting an 
end to a system which subjects others 
to a like fate.” Curiously enough, one 
of the first speeches Mr. Davitt deliver- 
ed on the Land League was from a plat- 
form erected on the exact spot where 
his mother’s house used to stand. 


418 


THE HARP. 


USEFUL HOUSEHOLD RECEIPTS. 


Squash Pie. — Stew the squash with 
a little salt ; rub it through a colander, 
and have it perfectly smooth ; mix the 
squash with sweet milk ; if you have 
cream it will be all the better ; make it 
about as thick as batter, adding the 
yolks of two eggs ; sweeten with pul- 
verized sugar to taste ; flavor with rose- 
water, or with nutmeg ; line a pie dish ; 
fill with squash, and bake for half an 
hour ; if you do not want a pie, make 
fritters, and fry brown, with good 
butter ; when about to serve, sprinkle 
a little sugar on them ; squash does not 
require much sweetening. 

Irish Stew. — Cut some potatoes and 
onions into slices, and put a layer of 
them at the bottom of the sauce pan ; 
add some pieces of mutton with a little 
pepper and salt ; put in more potatoes 
and more chops in the same way, until 
the saucepan is full ; and let it stew very 
slowly until done ; but the potatoes 
should be slightly boiled before they are 
put with the weat, as the water potatoes 
are boiled in is very detrimental to the 
health. 

For Neuralgia. — Steep green horse- 
radish root in cold vinegar, warm the 
liquid slightly, and bathe the parts af- 
fected. 

Foe Constipation. — One ounce of 
senna, the same quantity of peppermint 
leaves, one-half pound figs, all chopped 
fine and mixed with a few spoonfuls of 
molasses. Take a small piece after each 
meal. 

Diphtheria. — Dr. C. R. S. Curtis, of 
Quincy. 111., reports in the Boston Med- 
ical and Surgical Journal the results of 
the local use of a decoction of leaves of 
black walnut in diphtheria. The reme- 
dy was chiefly employed as a gargle or 
applied with a swab to the throat and 
fauces. A poultice of the leaves was 
also resorted to in some instances. Dr. 
Curtis adopted the same remedy in con- 
sequence of the recommendation by 
Prof. Nelaton in malignant pustul. 
The use of the gargle was unattended 
by discomfort, no patient objecting to it. 
Improvement in each instance was rapid, 
the ash-colored spots disappearing; 


Lime Water and Milk. — Experience 
proves that lime water and milk are not 
only food and medicine at an early peri- 
od of life, but also at a later, when the 
functions of digestion and assimilation 
are feeble and easily perverted. A stom- 
ach taxed by gluttony, irritated by im- 
proper food, inflamed by alcohol, enfee- 
bled by disease, or otherwise unfitted 
for its duties — as is shown by the vari- 
ous symptoms attending upon indiges- 
tion, dysgepsia, diarrhea, dysentery and 
fever — will resume its work, and do it 
energetically, on an exclusive diet of 
bread and milk and lime water. A bowl 
of cow’s milk may have four tabic 
spoonfuls of lime water to it with good 
effect. 

Pitch-paper, the same as that used in 
covering roofs, when cut into slips and 
placed in convenient situations under 
carpets and behind sofas and chairs in a 
room will effectually repel the moth 
miller from depositing its eggs. If 
similar strips are placed inside the backs 
and seats of parlor suits they will render 
the furniture moth-proof. 

If a person is on fire, the best way to 
extinguish the flames is to lay the per- 
son down on the floor of the room, and 
throw the tablecloth, rug, or other large 
cloth, over him, and roll him on the 
floor. 

Roast Turkey. — Wash dry and stuff 
with a dressing of dry bread soaked in 
water, pressed out and mixed with salt, 
pepper, thyme, butter and an egg ; sew 
up the turkey snugly, and put in the 
pan with a little water ; roast slowly, 
allowing three hours for a ten-pound 
turkey; when commencing to brown, 
rub over with a little butter to keep the 
skin from blistering : boil giblet in 

water, chop fine and put in gravy. 

Oatmeal and Beef Tea. — This is 
quite useful to give strength to weak 
patients. Take two tablespoonfuls of 
tine oatmeal and make it perfectly 
smooth in two spoonfuls of cold water ; 
pour into this a pint of strong beef tea ; 
boil it eight minutes ; keep stirring 
all the time ; it should be very smooth ; 
if lumpy pass through a sieve. 


FORGET NOT THE FIELD. 

AIR-TEE LAMENTATION OF ATJGHRIM, 


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2 Oh ! could we from death but recover 
Those hearts, as they bounded before, 
In the face of high heav’n to fight over 
That combat for Freedom once more: — 

$ Could the chain for an instaat be riven 
Which Tyranny flung rouud us then. 
Oh ! ’tis not in man, nor in Heaven, 

To let Tyranny bind it again ' 


4 But ’tis past, and tho’ blazon’d in story, 

The name of our Victor may be, 

Accurst is the march of that glory 

Which treads o’er the hearts of the free. 

5 Far dearer the grave or the prison, 

Illumn’d by one patriot name, 

Than the trophies of all who have risen 
On Liberty’s ruins, to fame! 



420 


THE HARP. 


FIRESIDE SPARKS. 


Chemistry recitation : Professor — 
“ What is water ?” Student — “ Water 
is an article used by some as a drink.” 
Professor, interrupting — “ Can you 
name any of its properties ?” Student — 
“ Well, it occasionally rots boots.” 

“ Do bats ever fly in the day time ?” 
asked a teacher of his class in natural 
history. “ Yes sir,” said the boys, con- 
fidently. “ What kind of bats exclaim- 
ed the astonished teacher. “Brickbats !” 
yelled the triumphant boys. 

Pride takes an early start in San 
Francisco. When a lad breaks loose 
from his mother’s apron-strings and 
secures a position at three dollars per 
week, the first thing he does after that 
is to hire a Chinaman to run errands for 
him. 

Ohio is said to be excited because the 
son of a Baptist minister has married 
the daughter of a Jewish rabbi. Any- 
thing that tends to retard the consump- 
tion of pork is certain to create an ex- 
citement in Ohio. — Philadelphia Chron- 
icle Herald. 

A woman returning from market got 
into a South Hill street car, the other 
day, with a basketful of dressed poultry. 
To her the driver, speaking sharply, 
said, “ Fare !” “ No,” said the woman, 
“fowl,” — And everybody cackled.— 
Burlington Hawheye. 

A poor excuse is better than none. 
We hear of a man who justifies his mean- 
ness toward his wife by asserting that 
he and she are one, and therefore by 
refusing to furnish her with money he 
practices the heroic virtue of self-denial. 
— Boston Transcript. 

At a fire in Paris a fireman who was 
about to save a child asked for some- 
thing to protect his eyes. “ Who’s got 
a pair of spectacles ?” he cried. A 
gentleman very politely took from his 
nose a fine pair of Brazilian pebbles, 
wiped them carefully and, handing 
them amiably to the fireman, remarked, 
“ I hardly know whether these are your 
exact number ?” — Figaro. 

During the last session of the court at 
— Wis., Lawyer Blank had been trying 
for two long hours to impress upon the 
minds of the jury the facts of the case. 


Hearing the dinner-bell, he turned to 
the Judge, and said : “Had we better 
adjourn for dinner, or shall I keep right 
on ?” Weary and disgusted, his Honor 
replied, “ Oh, you keep right on, and 
we will go to dinner.” 

Accuracy of expression necessary , 
When you say that a girl’s hair is as 
black as coal it is just as well to specify 
that you do not mean a red hot coal. — 
Washington Republican. 

A stranger in St. Louis, thinking he 
recognized his coat on the back of a 
pedestrian, shouted, “ Stop Thief!” and 
about thirty of the inhabitants suddenly 
disappeared down a side street. 

On hearing a. clergyman remark that 
“the world is full of changes,” Mrs. 
Partington, said she could hardly bring 
her mind to believe it, so little found its 
way into her pocket. 

“ Marriage with a tinge of romance ’ 
is what they call it in Kansas, when the 
old man rides after the couple, and 
shoots the hat oft the bridegroom’s head 
with an army carbine. 

A man in Boston, in his hurry to assist 
a fainting ladj 7- , got a bottle of mueilage 
instead of camphor, and bathed her face 
with it. She was a good deal stuck up 
with his attention. 

An Iowa weekly newspaper having a 
a circulation of 350 copies feels its per- 
fect right to begin an editorial with : 
“ As we advised him last week, Gladstone 
is shaping out anew policy.” 

A fashionably- dressed woman entered 
a drug store the other day, and inform- 
ed the clerk that her husband had over- 
loaded his stomach, and that she desired 
to get an epidemic to relieve him. 

A client says to his wine dealer who 
proposes to sell him a brand of new 
wine : “ Tell me, now, this wine is not 
too heady ?” Wine seller with alacrity; 
“ P,eady ? Why, it’s not even wine !” 
— Figaro. 

“ Have you any nice, fresh, farm- 
house eggs !” inquired a precise old lady 
at a grocery store. “No, ma’am,” re- 
plied the practical clerk, “ but we have 
some very good hen’s eggs.” She took 
three to try. 


THE HARP 


PUNCTUALITY. 


It is astonishing how many people 
there are who neglect punctuality, and 
thousands have failed in life from this 
cause alone ; it is not only a serious vice 
in itself, but it is the fruitful parent of 
many other vices, so that he who be- 
comes the victim of it gets involved in 
toils from which it is almost impossible 
to escape. It makes the merchant waste- 
ful of time ; it saps the business reputa- 
tion of lawyers, and it injures the pros- 
pect of the mechanic, who might other- 
wise rise to fortune ; in a word, there is 
not a profession, not a station in life, 
which is not liable to the canker of the 
destructive habit. It is a fact not always 
remembered, that Napoleon’s great vic- 
tories were won by infusing into his 
subordinates the necessity of punctuali- 
ty to the minute. It was his plan to 
maneuver over large spaces of country, 
so as to render the enemy uncertain 
where he was about to strike a blow 
and then suddenly to concentrate his 
forces and fall with irresistible power or- 
some weak point of the extended lines 
of the foe. The execution of this system 
demanded that each division of the army 
should arrive at the specified time 
punctually; for, if any part failed to 
come up, the battle was lost. It was by 
imitating this plan that the allies finally 
succeeded in overthrowing the emperor. 
The whole Waterloo campaign turned 
on these tactics. AtMt. S^. Jean, Blu- 
cher was punctual, while Grouchy was 
not ; and the result was that Napoleon 
fell and Wellington triumphed. 

In mercantile affairs punctuality is as 
important as in military. Many are the 
instances in which the neglet to renew 
an insurance punctually has led to seri- 
ous loss. With sound policy do the 
banks insist, under the penalty of a 
protest, on the punctual payment of 
notes, for were they to do otherwise, 
commercial transactions would fall into 
inextricable confusion. Many and many 
a time has the failure of one man to 
meet his obligations brought on the 
ruin of a score of others, just as the top- 
pling down in a line of bricks of the 
master brick, causes the fall of all the 
rest. Thousands remain poor all their 
lives, who, if they were more faithful in 
their word, would secure a large run of 


421 

custom, and so make their fortunes. Be 
punctual if you would succeed. 


REVIEWS. 


“ The Story of Ireland,” by Dion Bou- 
cicault. Boston : James R. Osgoode & 
Company. 

This is a neat pamphlet of 24 pages in 
which the eminent actor and dramatist, 
Dion Boucicault in a brief but perspicu- 
ous and forcible manner tells the tale 
of atrocious deeds of spoliation, tyranny 
and bloodshed perpetrated in Ireland by 
England from the advent of the Norman 
filibusters down to the present day 
when the Irish are still struggling 
against the avowed object of their alien 
rulers “ to root them out from the soil.” 

The writer recalls to us in a summary 
but succinct form, the four remarkable 
periods of Irish history : 1. Prior to the 
Norman invasion. 2. From the feudal 
occupation under Henry II. to the Re- 
formation under the Tudors. 3. Pro- 
testant Ascendency, under Elizabeth 
until the rebellion of ’98. 4. From the 

“ Union ” to this year of grace 1881. 
Mr. Boucicault tells how the work of 
confiscation was effected in Ireland by 
three great grabs : the church grab , the 
periodical land grabs and the office grab ; 
and in reading these pages we see once 
more the nefarious designs which 
brought into operation that abominable 
penal code which the celebrated Edmund 
Burke said was “ a complete system, full 
of coherence and consistency, well 
digested and well composed in all its 
parts a machine of wise and elaborate 
contrivance, and as well fitted for the 
oppression, impoverishment, and de- 
gradation of a people, and the debase- 
ment in them of human nature itself, 
as ever proceeded from the perverted 
ingenuity of man.” 

The pamphlet is a stirring effective 
one, and it will certainly, attain its 
object as an indictment of the British 
governing class before the bar of public 
opinion not only in England, but wher- 
! ever the English language is read the 
world over. 


Largest Book Published. — The new 
edition of Webster’s Unabridged Dic- 
tionary, just issued, is believed to be, in 
the quantity of matter it contains, by 
far the largest volume published. It 
now contains about 118,000 words de- 
fined, and nearly 15,000 words and 
meanings not found in any other one 
dictionary. The Biographtcal Diction- 
ary, just added, supplies a want long 
felt by the reader and student, in giv- 
ing the desired information so briefly. 
Never was any one volume so complete 
as an aid in gettiug and education. 


Rest and Comfort to the Suffering. 

Brown’s Householo Panacea, has no 
equal for relieving pain, both internal and 
external. It cures Pain in the Side, Back or 
Bowels, Sore Throat, Rheumatism, Tooth- 
ache, Lumbago, and any kind of a Pain or 
Ache. “ It will most surely quicken the 
Blood and Heal, as its acting power is won- 
derful.” <e Brown’s Household Panacea,” 
being acknowledged as the great Pain Reliev- 
er and of double the strength of any other 
Elixir or Liniment in the world, should be in 
every family handy for use when wanted, “ as 
it really is the best remedy in the world for 
Cramps in the Stomach, and Pains and Aches 
of all kinds,” and is for sale by all Druggists 
at 25 cents a bottle. 


Mothers ! Mothers ! ! Mothers ! ! ! 

Are you disturbed at night and broken of 
your rest by a sick child suffering and crying 
with the excruciating pain of cutting teeth ? 
If so, go at once and get a bottle of MRS. 
WINSLOW’S SOOTHING SYRUP. It will 
relieve the poor little sufferer immediately — 
depend upon it; there is no mistake about it. 
There is not a mother on earth who has ever 
used it, who will not tell you at once that it 
will regulate the bowels, and give rest to the 
mother, and relief and health to the child, 
operating like magic. It is perfectly safe to 
use in all cases, and pleasant to the taste, and 
is the prescription of one of the oldest and 
best female physicians and nurses in the 
United States. Sold everywhere at 25 cents 
a bottle. 


flATHOLIC Men and Women furnished employment. 
W $5 a day. Terms free. T. F. Murphy, Augusta, Me. 

COYLE & LEBLANC, 

ADVOCATES, 

No. 54 ST. JAMES STREET. 
-O.Ticj hours from 9 a. m. to 5 p. m. 


—GRAY’S— 

DENTAL PEARLINE, 

A SANITARY TOOTH WASH. 

Highly recommended for daily use . It whitens the teeth 
destroys parastic growth ; has an excellent tonic effect on 
the gums, and removes all unpleasant odour from the breath 

SOLE MANUFACTURER 

HENRY E. GRAY, CHEMIST, 

144 St. Lawrence Main St. 

MONTREAL. 

Established 1859.) 25c. per Bottle. 

RE-OPENING 

— OF THE — 

ST. LAWRENCE HALL. 

THE ABOVE HOTEL WAS OPENED 
on the 

FIRST OF MAY, 1819. 

by the former Proprietor, so long and 
favorably known throughout Canada, 
the United States and British Empire, 
who has spared no expense in entirely 
RE-FURNISHING the whole house; 
also adding 

ill Modern Improvements, 

which will considerably enhance the al- 
ready enviable popularity of this First- 
class Hotel. 

H. HOGAN, 
Proprietor. 

S. MONTGOMERY, 

Manager. 


VICK’S 

Illustrated Floral Guide 

For 1881 is an Elegant Book of 120 Pages, 
One Colored Flower Plate, and 600 Illustra- 
tions, with Descriptions of the best Flowers 
and Vegetables, and Directions for growing. 
Only 10 cents. In English or German. If 
you afterwards order seeds deduct the 10 

VICK’S SEEDS are the best in the world. 
The Floral Guide will tell how to get and 
grow them. 

Vick’s Flower and Vegetable Garden, 
175 Pages, 6 Colored Plates, 500 Engravings. 
For 50 cents in paper covers; $1.00 in 
elegant cloth. In German or English- 
Vick’s Illustrated Monthly Magazine — 32 
Pages, a Colored Plate in every number and 
many fine Engravings. Price $1.25 a year ; 
Five Copies for $5.00., Specimen Numbers 
sent for 10 cents ; 3 trial copies for 25 cents. 
1*0 ss 

JAMES VICK, Rochester, N. Y.