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% JPapgine of (general literature. 

Vol. VI. MONTREAL, SEPTEMBER, 1881. No. n. 


Temp. 1691. 

My Maire Bhan ! My Maire Bhan ! 

I’ve come to say “ good bye,” love ; 

To France I sail away, at dawn, 

My fortune there to try, love. 

Tiie cause is lost, astere machree — 

All hope has now departed. 

And Ireland’s gallant chivalrie 
Are scatt’ring, broken-hearted. 

Ah ! pleasant are our Munster vales, 
Encrowned in summer sheen, love — 
But now, no more the summer gales 
Unfold our flag of Green, love ; 

And say, could we remain and see. 

In ruin and dishonour, 

Far o’er those valleys waving free 
The foeman’s bloody banner ? 

No — sweeter ia far lands to roam, 

From Lee’s wild banks and you, love, 
Than live a coward slave at home, 

To plighted vows untrue, love ; 

And better ne’er to clasp thy hand, 

Or view these tresses shining, 

Than ’mong the cravens of the land 
Crouch down, in fetters pining. 

Mavrone, ’tis hard to part from thee, 

My heart’s bright pearl, my own love, 
And wand’ring in a far countrie, 

To leave you sad and lone, love, 

But spring’s young flowers will crown the 

And wreathe the fairy wildwood, 

And Dermidh’s feet will pace again 
The mountains of his childhood. 

Farewell! farewell! mavourneen bawn— 
Time flies — I must away, love ; 

’Twill soon be dawn — ’twill soon be dawn, 
My steed begins to neigh, love 
Farewell ! preserve thy heart as true , 

As changeless as yon river, 

Aud Dermidh will be true to you, 

Afar or near, for ever ! 




CHAPTER XXXV .—{Continued.') 

“ ‘ Baymouth Oct. 10. 

“ ‘ My Dear Mrs. Dexter. — I write to 
you in the utmost distress and anxiety 
in the hope that you may receive this 
before your departure for the south. I 
fear Miss Landelle must return imme- 
diately instead of accompanying you, 
as you mentioned she intended to do. 
Many surprising and most painful things 
have occurred here during the past 
three days. In the first place Mrs. 
Windsor’s house has been broken into, 
and she has been robbed — by whom is 
not positively known, but rumour 
through the town says Monsieur Leonce 
Durand. This is certain, he left Bay- 
mouth very early on the morning fol- 
lowing the theft, and has not since re- 
turned. The police are at present on 
his track. Mrs. Windsor, tyrannical and 
unjust as usual, accused Mademoiselle 
Reine of being accessory to the fact, in 
language so violent that the poor child 
was obliged to leave her house for ever. 
She departed late at night. She was 
seen at the station in company with Mr. 
O’Sullivan. Mr. O’Sullivan took two 
tickets for New York and travelled with 
her. He has not yet returned to throw 
light upon the affair, and, as a matter 
of course, all Baymouth is loudly talk- 
ing. But even Ba}^mouth, noted for its 
evil gossip, talks no scandal of Reine’s 
departure with this gentleman. He is 
one of the exceptionable people who do 



things with impunity it would be ruin 
for any one else to attempt. He has 
undertaken his share in it to befriend 
her — that seems to be tacitly understood 
— as he has often befriended others. 
Eeine is doubtless in New York, and 
does not intend to return. All this you 
had best tell her sister and let her re- 
turn if she sees fit. I say nothing of 
my own feelings, although, loving 
Eeine as I do, you can hardly doubt I 
feel it deeply. Hoping this will reach 
you in time, I remain, my dear Mrs. 
Dexter, yours faithfully. 

“ ‘ Hester Hariott. ’ ” 

There is a brief silence of consterna- 
tion. Mother and son look at each oth- 
er perplexed and distressed, Marie has 
fallen back in her chair with one faint, 
sobbing cry, and does not stir or look up. 
She is a girl of strong will and resolute 
character, but she is moved now as few 
have ever seen her moved. No one 
knows what to say. Frank looks unut- 
terably miserable — his mother unutter- 
ably helpless. 

Marie lifts her face at last. She is 
scarcely whiter than usual. She is not 
crying, but“ there is an expression in 
her eyes that frightens Frank. 

“ I must start for Bay mouth by the 
next train. Will you kindly see to 
everything, Mr. Frank ? I must not 
lose a moment. If I had been there 
this would have never happened. ” 

They do not understand her, but they 
ask no questions. She scarcely speaks 
another word to either. She goes to 
her room, and has on her hat and trav- 
elling dress when Frank comes to tell 
her they may start. The journey will 
be but of a few hours. They will 
reach Baymouth a little after dark. 

Frank goes with her. She hardly 
speaks the whole way, except to give 
brief answers to his anxious enquiries 
about her comfort. She sits erect, look- 
ing perfectly colourless, but a determin- 
ed expression setting the lips and hard- 
ening the brown, steadfast eyes. He 
has often noticed that peculiar look of 
self-will and resolution around Marie 
Landelle’s mouth and chin — it has given 
character to the whole face — but he has 
never seen it so strongly marked as 

They reach Baymouth. The October 

night, chill and starry, has fallen, lights 
gleam from the great range of the 
Windsor Mills. As Frank is about to 
give the order to the Stone House, she 
abruptly checks him. 

“ No, not there,” she says. “ Mr. 
Dexter, where am I most likely to see 
your cousin, Mr. Longworth, at this 
hour ? At his office, or at home ?” 

“ It is nearly eight,” Frank returns, 
looking at his watch. “ Not at his home 
certainly ; he rarely spends his evenings 
there. Either at the office, at Miss 
Hariott’s or at the Stone House.” 

“ Let us try the office first,” she says, 
and the young man gives the order and 
they are driven to the Phenix building. 
It too is in a state of immense illumina- 
tion. Dexter gets out, goes in and re- 
turns almost immediately. 

“ Longworth is here, Mile. Marie ; I 
will take you up to his room.” 

She pulls the veil she wears over her 
face, and follows Frank up a long flight 
of stairs and into the room sacred to 
O’Sullivan. Frank taps at another door 
and Longworth’s voice calls come 

“ It is I, Larry,” he says, and Long- 
worth turns around from his writing 
and looks at him. “ Miss Landelle is 
here — has just arrived and wishes to see 
you. Mademoiselle, I will wait for you 
in the hack.” 

She puts back her veil and advances. 
Longworth rises, something of sur- 
prise, something of sternness, a great 
deal of coldness in his manner. He is 
unconscious of it. If he has thought of 
the elder sister at all, it is to be sorry for 
her, and yet the deep anger and resent- 
ment he feels shows itself in his manner 
even to her. 

“ Sit down,” he says and places a 
chair. “ I suppose Miss Hariott’s letter 
reached Mrs. Dexter, and that is why 
you are here. She told me she had 
written. It is rather a pity your 
pleasure trip should be cut short by 
these untoward events.” 

There is a touch of sarcasm in his 
tone. He is character reader enough to 
know that Miss Marie Landelle has a 
tolerably strong share of selfishness, and 
will feel any misfortune that touches 
her own comfort, keenly. But she feels 
this far more than he is disposed to give 
her credit for. 



“ Mr. Longworth,” she ssys earnest- 
ly, “ why has Peine gone ?” 

“ Miss Landelle, need you ask ? Did 
not Miss Hariott write explicitly 
enough ? Because Monsieur committed 
the robbery, and she was present at the 

“ Present at the time ? Do you mean 
to say Peine aided him in robbing 
Madame Windsor ?” 

“ Mademoiselle, these questions are 
very painful. You oblige me to tell the 
truth. Yes.” 

“ My grandmother believes this ?” 

“ She does.” 

“You believe this, Mr. Longworth ?” 
“ I have no alternative, Miss Lan- 

She is still for a while, silently look- 
ing at him as if trying to read him as 
she sits there, impassive, inflexible, cold- 
ly stern before her. 

“ Monsieur,” she says, leaning forward, 
the flood of gas-light falling on her 
beautiful, colourless face, “ will you an- 
swer me a question ? You asked my 
sister to man y you — did you love her 
the least in the world ?” 

“ I decline to answer the question, 
Miss Landelle.” 

“You need not,” she says, contemp- 
tuously ; “ you could not love any one. 
But surely, without love, you might 
have trusted her. What had she done 
to be thought a thief?” 

“ Perhaps you will inquire next, 
mademoiselle, by what right we stigma- 
tize your friend and hers by that oppro- 
brious epithet — why we dare brand 
Durand as a robber ?” 

“No,” she says, sudden, profound 
emotion in her tone ; “ no I know too 
well what was his motive and tempta- 
tion. But that you should doubt Peine 
— believe her guilty of crime — yes, that 
indeed bewilders me. How could any 
one look in her face and believe her 
guilty of any wrong ?” 

“ Mademoiselle we learn as we grow 
older ‘ how fair an outside falsehood 
hath your sister stands condemned out 
of her own mouth.” 

“ What did she confess ?” 

“ By her silence, by her refusal and 
inability to answer the questions that 
she was with him when he committed 
this robbery.” 

Marie still sits and looks at him, a 

touch of scorn in her faee that reminds 
him of Peine. 

“ But surely, monsieur, a thief would 
not stick at a lie. If she could steal, or 
aid a thief, she could tell falsehoods to 
screen her crime. And yet you say she 
preferred standing silent to speaking 

“ I do not pretend to understand a 
lady’s motives,” Longworth says im- 
patiently ; “ at least she would not be- 
tray her lover.” 

“ Peine would betray no one. She 
was true as truth itself — who should 
know better than I ? But monsieur, par- 
don my curiosity : why do you say her 
lover ?” 

“ Her husband, then, if you prefer it. 
Her secret of course is no secret to 

He says it with a passionate gesture 
that shows her the pain this self-possess- 
ed man is suffering, in spite of himself. 
She listens and watches him, and a light 
breaks slowly over her face. 

“His wife !” she repeats, “ Peine the 
wife of Leonce ! Oh ! Mon Dieu /” what 
a strange idea ! Monsieur, J beg of you, 
tell me why you think this ? Surely she 
has never said anything that could 
make you think so extraordinary a 
thing. For the whole world Peine 
would not tell a falsehood.” 

“ And this would be a falsehood ?” 

“ The falsest of falsehoods.” 

“ And yet I heard his own lips pro- 
claim it, heard him call her his wife. I 
charged her with it and she did not 

“ She did not! Oh ! my sister, even I 
have not known half your goodness. Mr. 
Longworth, there is a terrible mistake 
here which I alone can clear. Tell me 
the exact words, if you remember them, 
that Leonce spoke — for indeed I cannot 
understand how he ever could have 
called her his wife.” 

“ I remember them well,” Longworth 
sternly answers, “ they were words not 
easily forgotten. It was the night of 
the theatricals — you remember it — the 
place Miss Hariott’s garden. He was 
excited that night — you probably re- 
member that also, for I saw you were 
annoyed — and consequently off guard. 
The words were these — ( I will not go. 
I had the right to come, I have the 
right to stay. I will not go and leave 



my wife to be made love to by another 
man. Could anything be plainer ?” 

“ And you heard no more — not 
Eeine’s reply ?” 

“ I heard no more ; I wished to hear 
no more. The following evening I 
sought out your sister, upraided her 
with her falsity, and told her what I had 

“ And she V” Marie asks, clasping her 
hands, “ what said she ?” 

“ Not one word. Let me do your 
sister this justice, mademoiselle; when 
she is found out she never attempts fu- 
tile vindication. She accepts discovery 
and does not add to treachery by lies.” 

“ Oh !” Marie says, bitterly, “ you are 
indeed without pity or mercy— you are 
indeed a stern and cruel man. My lit- 
tle one ! my little one ! what have I not 
made you suffer — what shame, what 
pain, what humiliation. And Leonce 
too ! Ah, ! Eeine has paid dearly for the 
keeping of a secret.” 

“ Secrets are like firebrands, made- 
moiselle, we can’t expect to carry them 
about and go unscorched. But in your 
commiseration for your sister, are you 
not talking a little wildly, Miss Lan- 
delle ? If a wife weaves her plot to win 
an inheritance, and fools men into mak- 
ing her offers of marriage ” 

“ Monsieur, be silent! You have said 
enough. Eeine Landelle is no man’s 
wife ; she is pure, and true, and inno- 
cent of all wrong as an angel.” 

He regards her frowning; doubt, 
anger, distrust in his free. 

“ What do you mean ? Am I not to 
believe what my own ears hear, what 
my own eyes see ?” 

“ If your ears tell you she is false — no! 
if your eyes that she is not what she 
elaims to be — no ! a hundred times no ! 
I tell you she is no man’s wife, and I 
think she has reason to rejoice she will < 
never be yours.” 

“Enough of this mystery !” Long- 
worth exclaims, rising in angry 
impatience. “Speak out the whole 
truth, or do not speak at all. Where 
then — who then, is the wife Durand 
spoke of?” 

“She is here! I am Leonce Durand’s 
most wretched wife !” 

“ You !” he stands stunned : he looks 
at her in blank silence. “ You ! Made- 
moiselle Marie.” 

“Iam not Mademoiselle Marie — I 
have decieved you all. I own it now, 
when it is too late. I came to this place 
Leonce Durand’s wife, and, as you say, 
for the sake of an inheritance, denied 

He sits suddenly down. His face still 
keeps that stunned look of utter amaze, 
but with it mingles a flush of swift, half 
incredulous hope. 

“ If you only say this,” he begins, “ to 
vindicate your sister ” 

“ Bah ! that is not like your custom- 
ary sound sense, Mr. Longworth. Am I 
likely to do that ? Eeine is of the kind 
to make sacrifices, to be faithful to death 
through all things — not I. You are 
glad that I have told you this — yes, I 
see you are, and when all is explained, 
and you can doubt no longer, you will 
cease to doubt. You will even be ready 
to forgive her for having been falsely 
accused and condemned, and condescend 
to take her back. But, monsieur, if I 
know my sister, she will not come back. 
Faith ceases to be a virtue where all is 
open and clear. If you believe in her, 
and trust her, because doubt has become 
impossible, where is your merit as a 
lover and a friend ? Eeine will not re- 
turn to you. She is proud, and you have 
humbled her to the very dust. In spite 
of you, I can see that you love her, and 
will lament her, and I am glad of it. 
Yes, monsieur, I say to your face — I am 
glad of it. You do not deserve her, you 
never did. She is an angel of goodnebS, 
and fidelity, and truth— and you are — 
what are you, Monsieur Longworth ? 
What is the man who accuses and hunt« 
down a helpless girl — the girl he has 
asked to be his wife ? Do you suffer ? 
Well I am glad of that too ; you deserve 
to suffer. Listen, and I will tell you 
all the truth — the truth which Eeine 
knew, and which she might have told, 
and so saved herself. But she would 
not, for a promise bound her. She 
loved me and Leonce, and was true to 
us. Listen here !” 

It is evident Marie can speak when 
she chooses, habitually silent as she is. 
All her languor, all her indolent grace 
of manner are swept away, and her 
words flow forth in a stemless torrent. 
Deep excitement burns in her steadfast 
eyew, her hands are tightly clasped in 



her lap, two spots of colour gleam 
feverishly on her checks. 

For Longworth, he sits mute and 
stricken, like a man who listens to his 
own sentence of doom. 

“ You know this much of our history, 
Mr. Longworth, that I lived with my 
father in London, and Reine went when 
a child to our Aunt Denise Durand in 
Rouen. She and Leonce grew up to- 
gether, she loving him with an innocent, 
admiring, sisterly affection. He at the 
age of seventeen, taking it into his 
foolish boy’s head that he was in love 
with her. It was nonsense, ol course, 
and she laughed at him, and in a fit of 
pique he left home and came over to 
pay his first visit to us, to my father.” 

She pauses for a moment with a wist- 
ful, saddened look, as if the memory of 
that first meeting arose before her re- 

For Longworth there comes to him 
another memory — the memory of the 
scene by the garden wall, where he ask- 
ed Reine that imperious question. 
“ Was Durand ever your lover?” And 
the low, earnest voice that answered, 
and that he refused to believe : “It was 
only fancy — he was but a boy — he was 
too young to be any one’s lover.” 

Even then she had been true as truth; 
and he — well, he had always heard 
whom the gods wish to destroy they 
first make mad. The madness of com- 
ing destruction must have been upon 
him ; he can understand his besotted 
folly in no other way. 

“ I am not going into details in this 
story I am forced to tell you,” Marie 
goes slowly on. “ Leonce’s visit lasted 
all that winter, and when he returned 
to Rouen he was my lover, not poor 
Petite’s. It was our first meeting, for 
though I had visited Rouen once or 
twice, Leonce had always been absent. 
We did not meet very often after that, 
but we corresponded regularly. I liked 
him always. I was never a romantic 
girl, but his handsome face won my 
fancy from the first, and no one has 
ever supplanted him to this day. 

“ Well, our lives and years went on. 
Aunt Denise wished Leonce to become 
a lawyer, but dry studies were never to 
his taste. He had a voice and a face 
that all the world told him might make 
a fortune, and he was ready enough to 

believe the pleasant flattery. He went 
to Paris and studied for the operatic 
stage; he urged Reine to study likewise 
for the same profession. And, as you 
know, for a time she did. He made his 
first appearance and was successful. 
But success spoilt some natures. Leonce 
in its sunshine developed traits that 
nearly broke his Mother’s heart. He 
became by slow degrees, but surely, a 
gambler, until at last he almost entirely 
gave up the stage for the table of the 
croupier. He was always at Baden, and 
Homburg, and Monaco — when he was 
not, he was in London with us. My 
Aunt Denise knew it, Reine knew it — 
the fact of his gambling, I mean ; but 
they loved him, and hoped for him, and 
held their peace. Neither my father 
nor I knew anything of it; it is all I 
can say in my own defence. His 
pockets were always full of money, he 
was invariably dressed in the most ele- 
gant fashion, and we thought he made 
all his money in his profession. We 
were engaged, but secretly. Papa was 
ambitious for me, and thought I might 
do better than marry a mere singer, 
and we felt instinctively that neither 
Aunt Denise nor Reine would approve. 
So we met often and held our peace and 
were quite happy, but there was one 
drawback — Leonce was inclined to be 

“ Our house was well filled with ar- 
tists of all kinds, and men of a much 
higher social grade. And I — well, 
monsieur, I did not often appear, but I 
was held as a sort of belle, made much 
of accordingly, and Leonce grew at 
times moodily jealous. He never had 
any cause, that I will say ; I cared for 
him only, and he knew it. Still the 
jealousy was there, and we quarrelled 
and parted, and met again and made up, 
after the usual foolish fashion of lovers. 

“ Then came the time when Aunt 
Denise died, and the war began. 
Leonce went away among the first, and 
I learned at last in misery and sicken- 
ing fear, how dear he was to me, and 
how miserable I would be without him. 
Months passed, and although he was a 
prisoner he was safe and well, and I 
resolved with my whole heart that when 
we met again he should have no grounds 
for jealousy from me, that I would be 
all the most exacting lover would re* 

47 2 


quire. Before he came, the last great 
and sad change in the lives of Reine 
and myself had taken place — our father 
died. And dying his wish was that we 
should come here. It was the duty of 
our mother’s mother, he said to provide 
for her granddaughters. I thought so too. 
My life had been one of poverty and 
work. I longed for a life of luxury and 
ease. It was my right to have it, since 
my grandmother was so wealthy a 
woman. Stern and hard she might be — 
how stern and hard, poor ailing mamma 
often told us. But I did not fear ; the stake 
was worth the venture. We would go, 
and surely, for very shame she would 
not turn her daughter’s children from 
the door. 

“ You see, I did not do justice to 
Madame Windsor’s strength of charac 
ter. But for you, Mr. Longworth, she 
would have done even that. I had 
written a letter of farewell to Leonce, 
and we had made all our pieparations 
for departure, when he suddenly ap- 

“ He opposed my determination by 
every argument and entreaty he could 
urge. Wealth was very well, but there 
were things in the world better than 
wealth. Forcing ourselves, as we were 
about to do, upon a relative who scorned 
and despised us, what, could we expect 
but a life of misery ? 

“ Reine joined him ; her repugnance to 
the project was invincible from the first. 
But my resolution — my obstinacy, 
Leonce called it — was not to be shaken, 
and he grew so passionately excited and 
enraged at my persistence, that to ap- 
pease him, I promised to grant the de- 
sire of his heart and marry him secret- 
ly before I left London. 

“ He had urged it before, but I would 
never listen. I liked my lover, but I 
disliked the thought of a husband with 
power to control and command me. 
Still I knew Leonce well enough in his 
jealous temper, to be very sure that 
this was the only way to prevent his 
accompanying us across the ocean, and 
ruining all our plans. I made two 
stipulations: the first, that Reine should 
not know until I saw fit to tell her; the 
second — a solemn one — this, that no 
matter how long we should be obliged 
to stay apart, he would not follow us, 
but would trust me and be content to 

know that I was bound to him irrevoca- 
bly, and wait. 

“ He pledged himself to both ; he 
would have pledged himself to anything 
to make me his wife. We were marri- 
ed on the day we left London for Liver- 
pool. I went out early in the morning 
and was quietly married unknown to 
Reine. He returned with me home, saw 
after our luggage, drove with us to the 
station ; and we both shook hands with 
him there, and so parted. He pleaded 
to accompany us to Liverpool, but I 
would not consent. 

“ The captain of the Hesperia was my 
father’s friend ; for my father’s sake he 
promised to meet us at the Liverpool 
terminus, and take charge of us until 
we landed at Hew York. 

.“And now, monsieur, I come to 
Reine’s share in my most unfortunate 
secret. On the day but one before we 
landed, I confessed to her all, my secret 
marriage and Leonce’s promise. She 
listened in wonder and the deepest re- 



Longworth stared at Miss Landelle in 
silent amazement, as she continued — 

“ 4 Marie,’ she said, ‘ he will not keep 
his word. He is unstable as water. 
When you least think it, he wi 111 grow 
tired waiting, follow you, and overthrow 
all your plans. I know him well; 
neither promise nor principle will bind 
him where his love and jealousy stand 
in the way.’ 

“ She said truly; she did know him 
well. Then she in turn became confi 
dential, and told me he was a confirmed 

“ ‘ If I had only told you before,’ she 
said, with deepest regret and self-re- 
proach, ‘ this fatal marriage might never 
have taken place ; but Leonce is so dear 
to me, that even to you I hated to speak 
of his faults. If I had only dreamed of 
this I might have saved you.’ 

“ But regrets were too late. I looked 
forward, too, with hope ; if all turned 
out as I believed, and our grandmother 
made us her heiresses, the temptation 
to gamble would be removed. As the 
husband of a rich wife, gambling hells 
would surely offer no attraction. I 



bound Reine to secrecy, and how well 
she has kept my secret, at what cost 
to herself, you, Mr. Longworth, 

“We landed, of that, and our coming 
here, you know all. On that very first 
evening, Madame Windsor coldly and 
sternly informed us that you were her 
heir, that our being allowed to come to 
her house at all was your doing. You 
may imagine how pleasant such intelli- 
gence was to us both, to me chiefly, al- 
though Reine resented it most bitterly. 
Still I did not despair ; we were here, 
that was a great point gained. I felt 
grateful to you for what you had done. 
It would go hard with me I thought, if 
I could not induce our grandmother 
eventually to change her mind, and 
alter that unjust will. Then, monsieur, 
arose our second dilemma — you wished 
to marry one of us. We were ordered 
peremptorily to accept, when you saw 
fit to propose, under pain of immediate 
expulsion. Reine was brave for herself, 
but she trembled for me. She loves me, 
monsieur, as few sisters love. Can you 
wonder we both hoped she, not I ; would 
be the one selected. From the first al- 
most, I felt sure of it. I could see she 
attracted you in spite of yourself. Her 
very hauteur and dislike of you seemed 
to draw you on. That dislike at the 
first was very sincere, but, she was too 
just of judgment and generous of heart 
for it to last. It faded little by little, 
and something else came in its place. 
When you did speak, Mr Longworth, 
when you did ask her to be your wife, 
she could say yes with a readiness that 
I think surprised even herself.” 

Longworth lies back in his chair, his 
arms folded, his brows knit, his eyes 
fixed, at first sternly on her face, fixed 
now moodily on the floor. He can re- 
call that night and understand for the 
first time the words that surprised him 
then ■ 

“ Since it had to be one of us I am 
glad I am the one.” 

She was too innocently frank even to 
hide that. The admission was not, as 
he had flattered himself, because she 
cared for him more than she knew, but 
immediate exposure and expulsion 
would have followed his choice of 

“You asked her to, marry you ; she 

consented,” pursues Marie, “and all 
went well. I am not here to betray my 
sister’s heart. You do not deserve to 
see it , but you are man enough, and 
vain enough, to know well she was 
learning to care for you, to honour you, 
to trust in you, to be proud of you with 
all her warm, generous heart. 

“ Then came Leonce, and from the 
first moment he appeared you know 
how well you requited that trust. 
You doubted her from the instant you 
saw him. She told you he was her 
brother. Did you believe her ? Why, 
on that very first day, you taxed her 
with falsity on the way home — deny it 
if you can ! She confessed nothing to 
me ; no, you had become more to her 
than her own sister ; she confessed 
nothing, but I could read her trouble in 
her face. 

“You took the ring off her finger — 
you remember that ring with its motto . 

‘ Silent and True.’ Yes, I see you do 
— and held it as the token of her broken 
faith to you. Monsieur Leonce bought 
that ring for me as a sort of pledge of 
his own fidelity, I suppose, and when I 
flung it from me in scorn and anger, she 
picked it up and wore it home, thinking 
no evil. He had broken his promise to 
me and I was not to be appeased. I re- 
fused to hear him, I refused to see him, 
I refused to accept his ring, to reply to 
his letters. He threatened to betray 
me to Madame Windsor. I bade him 
do so, and told him quietly that 
never while I lived would I see or speak 
to him after. He knew me well 
enough to be very sure I would keep 
my word, and that certainly alone held 
him silent. 

“ I defied him, and went on my way 
heedless of him, all the love I ever felt 
seeming to die out in the intensity of 
my contempt. And Reine, trying to be 
true to us both, loving us both, suffered 
daily, hourly misery. Hating secrets 
with her whole heart, she yet had to 
bear the brunt of ours. You suspected 
her, and never spared her — that, too, 
she had to bear. She was forced to 
meet Leonce in my stead, to answer his 
letters, to keep him quiet. But why go 
on ? What you heard that night in 
Miss Harriott’s garden you can under- 
stand now. I was the wife he meant — 
Mr. Dexter, presume, the lover he re 



ferred to. That Reinc bore your taunts 
— and I am sure you can be very merci- 
less, monsieur — in silence, is but an 
added proof of her heroic fidelity. I 
was gone, I had fled in my selfish cruel- 
ty to escape for a little from Leonce. 

“ That, I suppose, was the last drop 
in his cup of bitterness and jealousy. 
His money was gone, he desired to fol- 
low and wreak what vengeance I cannot 
tell ; and, reckless and desperate, enter- 
ed Madame Windsor’s house and stole 
her money. Reine may have discovered 
him, I do not know. It may very 
easily have been so. While the crime 
broke her heart, was she likely to betray 
the brother she loved. Oh ! my little 
sister, my Reine, my Reine! what you 
must have endured standing before 
your pitiless judges and cast off with 
scorn and insult! In night and stealth, 
like a guilty creature, she had to fly, 
and the good God only knows what is 
her fate. Oh ! Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! 
it breaks my heart only to think of 

She covers her face with her hands, 
and weeps passionately aloud. Long- 
worth starts to his feet, goaded by her 
tears and reproaches, by the far more 
maddening reproaches of his own heart, 
almost beyond endurance. 

“ For heaven’s sake, stop!” he says, 
hoarsely, “ I cannot stand this ! I have 

been a c d fool, and you have been 

from the first to the last one of the 
most utterly selfish, and heartless wo- 
men that ever drew breath !” 

“I know it! I know it!” she says, 
between her sobs; “ no need to tell me 
that. In blaming you I do not spare 
myself, but what will all our self-re- 
proach avail to help her whose heart 
we have broken.” 

He walks up and down the room. His 
face is startlingly pale, his eyes are full 
of remorse, and pain, and shame, but his 
habitual self-control does not desert him. 
He stops at last, suddenly, before her. 

“ What do you mean to do ?” he cold- 
ly asks. 

She lifts her head and faces him. Her 
tears have ceased, she looks composed 
and resolute once more. 

“ To go from here to my grandmother, 
and confess to her what I have confessed 
to you.” 

“ What good will that do ?” he de- 

mands almost roughly. “ By bringing 
ruin on yourself will you remove ruin 
from her? is it what she would counsel 
you to do, do you think, if she were 
here ?” 

“ No, ah, no ! She did not know what 
selfishness meant. She would tell me 
to be silent, since by speaking I coula[ 
not help her.” 

“ Then do as she would have you do. 
You have thought of yourself long 
enough — think of others a little now. 
If you are thrust out homeless and 
penniless, will it add to your sister’s hap- 
piness ? Greater evil cannot befall her 
than has already, unless you too are 
spurned and cast adrift.” 

“ As I may be in any case,” Marie 
says, sadly. 

“ No, I do not think so- I have seen 
Mrs- Windsor ; she bears you no malice. 
You played your part so well that you 
deceived even her sharp eyes. She 
gives you credit for detesting Durand. 
She is prepared to overlook your being 
the sister of Reine, and the connection 
of a robber. You were always her 
favorite, as you are doubtless aware; for 
your own comfort you need fear noth- 

“ Mr. Longworth, you appear to relish 
the saying of bitter things. I am not 
quiet so craven as you think me. I am 
ready to speak and take the penalty. At 
least I can remove the stigma from my 
sister’s name ” 

“ Can you ? Permit me to doubt it. 
You may add it to your own, but re- 
move it from hers — that is not so easy. 
No, Mademoiselle, there is nothing for it 
but to accept destiny as it stands. Your 
sister has kept your secret, and paid the 
price to the last farthing. All you can 
do is to go home and enjoy the comfort 
of Mrs. Windsor’s eminently comfort- 
able house, and bear what your con- 
science may say to you, with what 
equanimity you can. Your story is safe 
with me. I will take the liberty of in- 
forming Mrs. Windsor and Miss Hariott 
that I am convinced of Mademoiselle 
Reine’s truth and innocence — beyond 
this I will not go.” 

She rises silently. He holds the door 
open and they go down stairs. Frank 
is impatiently kicking his heels in the 
chill darkness; the hack still waits, and 
Mr. Dexter springs forward with ala- 



crity and hands her in. Longworth 
stands bareheaded, the light of the car- 
riage lamps falling on his face, and as 
Frank looks at him he stares. 

“ Good gracious, Larry, what is the 
matter ? You look like a sheeted ghost, 
.old boy. What is it — liver — bile — too 
many hot buckwheats for breakfast, or 
too much ink and paper all day — 
hey ?” 

Long worth shakes him off impatient- 

“ Don’t be a fool, Dexter. Tell Mrs. 
Windsor I will call upon her to-morrow.” 
he says to Marie. 

Then Frank jumps in beside her, the 
carriage rolls away and Longworth is 
left standing in the darkness alone. 



Mr. Frank Dexter, during the three- 
quarters of an hour or so that he stands 
waiting outside the Phenix building, has 
time for rumination, and this rumina- 
tion is not of an agreeable character. 
The events of the aiternoon have tran- 
spired in such rapid succession, as after 
a manner to take his breath away, and 
leave no feeling very elear, except one 
of puzzled disapprobation. 

But now he has time and opportunity 
to think. Has Durand really robbed 
Mrs. Windsor, and has Reine been 
forced to fly as his accomplice in guilt ? 
That she is his accomplice, Frank never 
for a second imagines — that even Du- 
rand should have been capable of so low 
a crime staggers him. He does not like 
the fellow; he never has, but still Durand 
has the culture, the manners, and the 
instincts of a gentleman. There must 
be some mistake — a gambler he may be, 
a burglar surely not. 

And yet #hy that look of white con- 
sternation on Marie’s face, if she thinks 
him innocent? And what does she want 
of Longworth ? Why go to him before 
going to her grandmother ? What are 
they talking of now ? He looks up with 
a frown at the lighted windows. Why 
does she prefer consulting and confiding 
in Longworth to confiding in him ? He 
has ceased to be jealous of his cousin. 
Longworth’s indifference to Marie and 
her beauty ever since the first few days, 
has been patent to all the world. Then 

there is the trip South ; he has made 
certain of that, and now his best laid 
plans are going “ aglee ,” and Georgia 
seems farther off than ever. 

Confound Durand ! If he wanted to 
commit robbery why could he not have 
waited another week ? By that time 
they would have been at the family 
homestead ; he would have put his fate 
to the touch and won or lost all. 

He walks up and down, irritated and 
impatient, pulling out his watch every 
few minutes to frown at the slow mo- 
ments. How long they are — the affairs 
of the nation might have been settled in 
half the time. What can she be saying 
to Longworth ? He has worked himself 
into a fever of petulance, when at last 
they appear, and the sight of his cousin’s 
face, almost livid in the gas-light, 
startles him. He speaks once or twice 
during the drive to the Stone House. It 
is doubtful if she hears, it is certain she 
does not answer. But as the carriage 
stops before the gloomygarden and still 
more gloomy house, she leans forward 
and lays one hand upon his arm. 

“Mr. Dexter,” she says, a slight 
tremor in her voice, “ I have a favour 
to ask of you. It is this . Do not come 
here any more.” 

“ Miss Landelle ” 

“ You are going South with your 
mother,” she says, quickly; “to-morrow 
is the day you were to start. As a 
favor to me, Mr. Frank, leave here to- 
morrow by the early train, and go with 
Madame Dexter, as you had proposed. 
I know that she is anxious to get home ; 
do not disappoint her. As a favour to 
me, Monsieur Frank.” 

“ There are few favours I could think 
of refusing you, mademoiselle — will you 
pardon me if I beg you not to insist up- 
on this. There is something I must 
say to you, Frank hurries on, in an agi- 
tated voice, “ which I meant to say to 
you when you had seen my uncle and 
my home. But perhaps you will still 
come ” 

“ No,” she interrupts, “ I will never 
now. I ought never to have thought of 
going at all. Oh, how much misery it 
might have saved if I had not.” 

“ Then I cannot leave to-morrow,” 
Frank says, decisively. “ Before we 
part, I must speak and you must answer. 
You know — you must know why I have 



spent this summer here, when duty so 
often called me away. I shall not leave 
Baymouth again until I know when and 
how, if ever, I am to return.” 

There is a firmness in the young man’s 
tone, in his face, which even in the ob- 
scurity she recognises. She makes a 
gesture as though she would wring her 

“ Oh !” she says under her breath, de- 
spair in her voice. “ This too must be 
met and borne. This too I have deserv- 
ed. “ Mr. Dexter !” she cries, and clasps 
her hands and loolfs at him, “ 1 have 
not been just or generous with you — I 
ask you to be both with me. Go away 
and say nothing. Oh, believe me, it 
will be better — and do not come back. 
I have no right to ask this — to ask any- 
thing ; but you have always been kind 
and a friend to me. Show yourself a 
friend to the last — go to-morrow and let 
us see each other no more.” 

He leans a little forward to look in 
her face. His own is perfectly pale— 
his eyes are full of dark, swift terror. 
The hack is standing still at the iron 
gate. The driver is stoically, at his 
horses’ heads, wandering what his fares 
can be about. 

“ Does this mean,” he says, “ that you 
answer before I ask ? — that you antici- 
pate my question and refuse ? Does it 
mean that when I ask you to be my wife 
you will say no ?” 

“ Oh!” she says, and shrinks from 
him as though he had struck her, “ I 
asked you to be generous, and this — this 
is what you say.” 

“ If generosity means silence, then 
you certainly have no right to ask it,” 
Dexter responds, that ring of new-born 
manliness and resolution in his tone ; 
“ and I certainly shall not comply. I 
have spent this summer here because 
you were* here, and I could not go. You 
know that well. From the first mo- 
ment I stood and looked at you in 
Mrs. Windsor’s parlour my whole life 
was shaped so far as a woman can mar 
a man. This too you know. I do not 
say you have encouraged me. I only 
know you have been kind — fatally kind, 
if you really mean the cruel words you 
have just spoken. I have not been pre- 
sumptious or premature ; 1 hoped, but 
also feared ; 1 have given you time. But 
there is a limit to ail things. I can wait 

no longer. I must know whether I am 
to hope or despair, and that before we 
part to night.” 

The words come in one impetuous out- 
break — there is more in his heart a 
thousand times more than he ever can 
utter. All his life seems to hang in the 
balance ; a word from her is to turn the 
scale. The incongruity of time and 
place never strikes him — an out-burst of 
love in a hack,, smelling of stablings, 
and mouldy cushions, a prosaic cabby 
stamping about the horses’ heads to keep 
himself warm while he waits. 

Marie sits quiet still, her fingers lock- 
ed tightly in her lap ; a look of mute 
misery on her face. 

“ I am a wretch !” she says, “ a sel- 
fish, heartless wretch. Your cousin said 
so and he was right. Through me his 
life has been spoiled, shame and suffer- 
ing have fallen on my sister. And now 
you — you accuse me of encouraging you, 
and leading you on ; and perhaps you 
are right. But I did not mean to do it — 
I did not think at all. Do I ever think 
of any one but myself? It was pleasant 
and I liked it, I liked you, and so I 
drifted on, and never cared whether you 
were hurt or not. If you knew me as I 
am, you would despise me — you would 
turn from me with contempt — you 
would ask the vilest woman in this 
town to be your wife sooner than me.” 

“ Will you be my wife ?” he steadily 

“No, never! Ah, heaven! it is a 
crime to sit and hear you say *uch 
words at all !” 

“ Think again,” he says. “ You re- 
fuse now 1 do not know why, but one 

day ” 

“ Never, I tell you !” she cries out; 
‘never! never! It is impossible. Mon 
sieur Frank, if you have any mercy 
or pity for me, let us part here. Do not 
say one word more. I thought 
to spare myself, but to-morrow I will 
write to you and tell you all. M/hat 
right have I to be spared ? And when 
you know all you will hate and scorn 
me, but not one tithe as much as l will 
scorn myself. I have done wrong to 
many since I came here, but I have 
done most wrong of all to you.” 

She opens the carriage door and de- 
scends. He follows her in gloomy 
silence up the avenue, and waits while 



she knocks. As the key is turning in the 
lock he speaks for the first time. 

“ You say you will write to me to- 
morrow ?” he says, moodily. “ Will 
you keep your word ?” 

“ Yes, I will keep it.” 

“ And after that when may I come 
and see you ?” 

“ Never as long as you live. You 
will not want to come. Good-night, 
monsieur, and adieu !” 

He sees her go in, then turns, springs 
into the cab, and drives to Mrs. Long- 
worth’s. His state of mind is desperate. 
He has feared, but he has hoped. He 
has had no thought of final rejection. 
And what is this talk of crime, and 
guilt, and wrong? The bare thought of 
such things in connection with her is 
sacrilege. Hoes she refer to Durand 
and his robbery ? He does not care for 
that. But no, there is some other mean- 
ing — some mole hill, no doubt, magnifi- 
ed into a mountain. And he must wait 
until to-morrow, until her note comes to 
clear up the mystery. 

Mr. Dexter spends a supremely miser- 
able and sleepless night. He goes to 
bed and flounces about, makes up his 
mind with a groan that sleep is impossi 
ble, gets up and paces to and fro in true 
melodramatic fashion. What will that 
note contain ? What secret can she have 
to tell him ? Will it turn out to be some 
foolish girl’s trifle, or will it really be 
strong enough to hold them asunder ? 
That, he decides to his own satisfaction, 
is utterly, wildly, absurdly impossible. 
This is soothing, and he returns, flings 
himself on his couch, and finally, as the 
gray dawn is breaking, falls asleep, and 
does not awake until breakfast time. 

He finds Mrs. Longworth’s numerous 
and select family assembled, absorbing 
the matutinal coffee and beefsteaks, and 
Mr. Beckwith lays down his knife and 
fork, and eyes the new comer with stern 

“ Mrs. Longworth, ma’am,” says Mr. 
Beckwith, “I believe this gentleman 
occupies the room immediately above 
mine." Either he is consigned to some 
other quarter of this mansion before 
another night falls, or blood will be 
spilled within these walls. Young man, 
may I inquire if you committed a mur- 
der before you returned to this house? 
or what other ghastly deed preyed upon 

your conscience to the exclusion of 
slumber? That you should be a nuisance 
to yourself, is nothing — that you should 
be a nuisance to Mrs. Beckwith and my- 
self, is everything. What, sir, did you 
mean by tramping up and down your 
apartment like an escaped candidate for 
a strait-jacket? Answer me that!” 
“Very sorry,” Frank mutters, rather 
ungraciously. “ Didn’t know I disturb- 
ed anybody. Couldn’t sleep.” 

“ No, sir, you couldn’t sleep,” retorts 
Mr. Beckwith sternly. “ What is more, 
you couldn’t let Mrs.’ Beckwith sleep ; 
what is still more, you couldn’t let Mrs. 
Beckwith’s husband sleep. If you have 
any regard for your carpets, Mrs. Long- 
worth, you will request this young man 
to find some other establishment where- 
in to practice nocturnal gymnastics. If 
you have any regard for me, ma’am, 
you will administer to him a few bottles 
of Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup to- 
night before he retires. Look at him ! 
Does not that lean and haggard visage 
bespeak a guilty conscience and a short 
allowance of sleep.” 

All eyes turn on Frank, who scowls 
and carves the steak as though he had 
got Mr. Beckwith on his plate, and were 
dissecting him. He certainly looks 
pale, as if he had had a bad night ; and 
so too, does another member of the 
party, whom Mr. Beckwith is not 
quite so ready to handle. Longworth 
looks as though he had scarcely fared 
better in the matter of repose than his 
young kinsman, and he is the first to 
rise and leave the table. 

“ O’Sullivan back yet, Longworth?” 
is as far as Mr. Beckwith dare go with 
this gentleman ; but there is a malicious 
twinkle in his eye as he asks the ques- 
tion. Is it not the talk of the town 
that Mile. Heine Landelle has been 
turned out of her grandmother’s house 
for abetting its robbery, that she has 
fled to New York and that O’Sullivan, 
with his customary easy-going good- 
nature, has allowed himself to be im- 
posed upon by her sham distress, and 
has gone with her ? Further than this, 
scandal — even the scandal of a country 
town — goeth not. As Miss Hariott has 
said, Mr. O’Sullivan is one of these ex- 
ceptional people who can do with impu- 
nity what would be the ruin of an- 



“ Just like him !” is the Vehmgericht 
of Baymouth ; “ a good-natured fool that 
any woman can twist around her 

Longworth’s negation is curt, and 
there is a look in his eyes as he faces 
Mr. Beckwith that makes that gentle- 
man cough apologetically, and discreet- 
ly retire. He goes on his way, and the 
first person he encounters when he 
enters the office is Mr. O’Sullivan. It is 
in the editor’s room they meet, and 
Longworth turns for a moment ol that 
same livid paleness of last night. The 
two men stand and confront each other, 
and in O’Sullivan’s eyes the fiery light 
of indignation burns. He is not a hand- 
some man — that you have been told — 
nor a dignified man ; but as he turns 
and confronts his chief, there is both 
manliness and dignity, beyond dispute, 
in his bearing. Longworth speaks. 

“ O’Sullivan,” he says, “ where is 
she ?” 

“ Maybe you’ll tell me by what right 
you ask,” O’ Sullivan answers, contemp- 

“ I know of none.” 

“ By the right of a man who has 
wronged her beyond reparation, and yet 
whose only desire is to repair, as far as 
he may, that wrong. By the right of a 
man who has insulted the woman he 
should have protected and trusted 
through all things, and whose whole life 
will not be long enough to atone for 
that insult. I have been a fool, O’Sulli- 

“ Oh, upon me faith, ye have ?” inter- 
polates O’Sullivan, bitterly. 

“ A scoundrel — anything you like. 
Nothing you can say can add to the re- 
morse and shame I feel. I have not 
even a right to thank you for what you 
have done, but from my soul I do. 
Mine have been the doings of a dastard 
— yours of a true and honourable 

He holds out his hand ; but O’ Sulli- 
van draws back, for the first time in his 
life, from the grasp of his friend. 

“ I have a word or two to say to ye 
Mr. Longworth. When I have said it, 
it may be you will feel as little like 
friendly hand-shaking as I do now. You 
say well you have no right to thank me. 
I want none of your thanks ; I wouldn’t 
lift a finger, at this minute, to save your 

life. You have forfeited all rights you 
ever had so far as Heine Landelle is 
concerned ; and it does me good to be 
able to tell you, this fine morning, that 
to your dying day you will never regain 

Longworth sits down without a word, 
leans his elbow upon his desk and his 
face in his hands. 

“ You talk of atonement,” goes on 
O’Sullivan contemptuously. “ You talk 
of reparation ! Upon my life, it’s a 
mighty fine opinion you must have of 
yourself to think that whenever you 
choose you can make up to her — that 
you have only to say a few flowery 
words and she will be ready to forget 
and forgive. If you think so it is little 
you know the same young lady. You’re 
a proud man, Mr. Longworth, but you 
don’t monopolize all the pride of the 
world ; and the day you go to make 
your apologies, my word for it, you’ll 
meet your match. It’s a long score the 
same mademoiselle has to settle with 
you. You couldn’t even tell her you 
were in love with her, because she 
wasn’t in love with you. No, faith, 
such humiliation wouldn’t suit your loft- 
iness at all. You couldn’t stoop to con- 
quer, stooping wouldn’t agree with a 
gentleman of so high a stomach. But 
you could ask her to marry you, because 
my lady Windsor set her flinty old heart 
on it. You took her when she said yes, 
because she dare not say no, satisfied you 
had nothing to do but make her fall in 
love with you at your leisure. And 
then this fine popinjay of a Frenchman 
comes on the carpet, with his superfine 
airs and graces, and because she knew 
him all her life, and was his sister in a 
way, and they have secrets between 
them that she won't betray, you lose 
your head, and make a fool, aye, and a 
rascal of yourself, with jealousy. On 
my word it’s a thousand pities she 
didn’t make a general confession to you 
of her whole life, seeing the fine way 
you took to win her confidence. And 
all the while any one not as blind as a 
bat, or a mole, could see it was the other 
one he was mad about, and poor Ma’am- 
selle Heine — God help her between ye 
— only trying to keep the peace. Well, 
well, tis idle talking. You have lost 
her and you deserve it, and I wouldn’t 
wish my worst enemy a greater punish- 



ment. For if ever there was a heart, 
true and faithful, pure and good, that 
heart is Eeine Landelle’s.” 

O’Sullivan pauses, not for lack of in- 
dignant words, but for sheer want of 
breath. And still Longworth sits, his 
face hidden, and says nothing. What is 
there to say? He is hearing the truth, 
and it matters little if O’Sullivan’s lips 
speak aloud the silent cry of conscience 
and despair. He listens, and feels no 
more inclined to resent what he listens 
to, than if some old, white-haired mother 
stood here in this man’s place reproach- 
ing him. Once only he looks up and 
speaks, no anger, a touch of weary won- 
der alone in his tone. 

“ What ! O’Sullivan !” he says. “ Were 
you her lover too ?” 

“ And if I had been,” cries O’Sullivan, 
fiercely, “ my word it's another sort of 
lover I’d have been than you. I’d have 
trusted the girl I was going to make my 
wife ; I’d not have been the first to make 
out a case against her and hunt her 
down. Oh, faith ! it’s to a fine market 
you have driven your pigs, Mr. Long- 
worth, and it’s yourself is the lucky man 
all out this blessed morning!” 

“ O’Sullivan, let this end. I will 
listen to no more. You have a right to 
speak, but even your right has its limit. 
Will you tell me where she is ?” 

“ You maj" take your oath I’ll not !” 
“ She is safe and well, at least?” 

“ A good deal safer and better than 
you ever tried to make her, and that 
same’s not saying much.” 

“ Will you tell me how she is provided 
for ? Come, O’Sullivan, try and be mer- 
ciful. I have been her enemy, you her 
friend — you can afford to be generous. 
Where is she, and what is she going to 

Something of what Longworth feels 
and suffers is in his face and voice, and 
the O’Sullivan has an extremely tender 

He can imagine what it must be like 
to have won and lost Eeine Landellc. 

“She is in New York,” he answers, 
grumblingly, but still conciliated. “ She 
is with a friend of mine, and she is go- 
ing to earn an honest living for herself. 
I promised to tell you nothing, and I 
have told you more than you have a 
right to know.” 

“ Promised her ?” 

“ Who else? It’s little pity or pardon 
she has for you, let me tell you, or ever 
will. She will never forgive you until 
her dying day — those are her words, and 
much good may they do you.” 

frank’s letter. 

Longworth rises as if goaded beyond 
all endurance, and begins striding up 
and down. O’Sullivan stands and 
watches him, grim satisfaction on every 
feature, and yet with a sort of reluctant 
compassion struggling through. 

“ It’s more than you deserve,” he 
says, still grumblingly, “ and very like- 
ly it is little she’ll thank me ; but if 
you’ll write a letter to her, I’ll forward 
it. The greatest criminal, they say, 
ought to get a hearing.” 

“ And have it returned unopen- 
ed ” 

“ Oh !’ says O’Sullivan, contemptuous- 
ly turning away, “ If you take that tone, 
L have no more to say. Faith ! it’s re- 
turn it unopened she ought, and every 
letter you ever write to her, and unless 
I am mistaken in her, it is what she’ll 

“ Stay, O’Sullivan — you are right. If 
it is returned unopened, as you say, it 
will be no more than I deserve. To- 
night you shall have it, and whatever 
the result ” 

He does not finish the sentence, and 
so they part. O’Sullivan goes to his 
work prepared to meet and baffle the 
curiosity of Bay mouth, with extremely 
short and unsatisfactory answers. 

Longworth writes his letter, and finds 
it the most difficult of all the thousands 
he has ever written. It is long, it is 
eloquent ; an impassioned prayer for 
pardon and reconciliation — not at once, 
that is impossible — when time and part- 
ing shall have softened his offences. If 
he had loved her less, he might well 
have been more generous, he tells her ; 
he shows her his heart, as he has never 
humbled himself to show it before. O’- 
Sullivan’s reproaches have not been in 
vain. His pride will never stand be- 
tween them more. He is content to 
wait her own good time, he will notask 
to see her, only he entreats her to let 
him write to her ; total silence will be too 
bitter to bear. 



He does not spare himself ; he merits 
no grace, and owns it; he has deserved 
to lose her for ever ; he can only ac- 
knowledge his sin, and crave par- 

It is a relief to have written. Mr. 
O’Sullivan opens his rather small gray 
eyes as he takes the packet and weighs 
it in his hand. 

“ If ye have any stamps about ye, 
chief,” he remarks, “ I’ll take them, 
I’m not a rich man and cannot afford to 
ruin myself entirely in postage.” 

He addresses the missive with a grim 
sense of the humour of the situation, 
and takes it to the post-office. As he 
enters he meets Frank Dexter hurrying 
out — a small, oblong letter in his hand, 
and a pale, intense expression on his 
face. O’Sullivan looks after him cur- 

“ There is something wrong with 
that young man, and if I’m not greatly 
mistaken Mademoiselle Marie has a 
hand in the business. Upon my life 
there’s no end to the trouble and vexa- 
tion of mind these young women make. 
There’s Longworth’ as line a fellow as 
ever drew the breath of life, but the mo- 
ment he falls in love he loses every 
grain of rhyme and reason. Here is 
young Dexter, a fellow that was full of 
fun and rollicking good humour as an 
Irishman at a wake, and there he goes 
looking as if he had just been measured 
for his own tomb-stone. And here am I. 
Oh ! may I never, if it isn’t true that 
the less we have to do with them, the 
wiser, and better, and happier we’ll 

The oblong, perfumed, pale-pink let- 
ter is from Marie. Frank tears it open 
the moment he is out of the office and 
reads this : 

“ 1 trust you, Mr. Dexter, chiefly be- 
cause I cannot help myself, and a little 
because it is your right. I had hoped 
never to hear the words you spoke last 
night, but they have been spoken, and I 
must answer. I am not Mademoiselle 
Landelle — I am, and have been, for the 
past six months, the wife of Leonce Du- 

Frank is in the street ; people are 
passing, and they turn and look curious- 
ly at the young man who has come to a 
stand-still, staring at the letter he holds, 
with a blanched face and horror in his 

eyes. For a moment he stands stunned, 
paralyzed by the blow he has been 
struck, unheeding the starers who pass 
him. Then some one — he never knows 
who — lays his hand on his arm and 
addresses him. 

He shakes off the hand blindly, 
crushes the letter in his grasp, and hur- 
ries on. 

‘‘ Leonce Durand’s wife ! ” As the 
thought had once struck Longworth 
mute and desperate, so it strikes Frank 
now. Leonce Durand’s wife ! the words 
echo in a dull sort of stupor through 
his mind. All the time he is hurrying 
forward, and when he stops he sees that 
he has left the busy street behind him, 
and has reached a place where he can 
read alone and unobserved. He unfolds 
the letter again and finishes it. 

“ I married Leonce Durand on the 
day I quitted London, and came here 
concealing the fact, because I knew my 
grandmother would not admit within 
her doors a grand-daughter who was the 
wife of a Frenchman. I have no excuse 
to make for that selfish and mercenary 
concealment — it has made Heine its 
victim, and now you. I liked you and 
it pleased me to receive your attentions ; 
my own heart was untouched, and — 
0I1 ! let me own it, so that you may 
despise me as I deserve — I did not care 
whether you suffered or not. But I tell 
you the truth now, and lay myself at 
your mercy. I am sorrier than sorry ; 
but what will that avail ? I deserve no 
forgiveness, I can only hope that when 
you go away you will speedily forget 
one so unworthy as 

“ Marie Durand.” 

There are men who have stood up in 
the dock and listened to their death- 
sentence with far less agony of heart 
than Frank Dexter as. he reads. The 
place is lonely ; he flings himself down 
on the dry, brown October grass, his 
face on his arm, and so lies like a stone. 

A long time passes. The afternoon 
deepens into amber twilight ; this too 
grows gray, and darkness into night. 
The sky has lit its silvery lamps long 
before he lifts his head, and rises slowly, 
feeling chi Ilea and stiff. His face is 
haggard, his eyes red and inflamed. 
No one who knows Frank Dexter would 
recognize that face. 



His first act is to tear the letter into 
minute fragments, and fling them from 
him ; then he turns and walks back to 
the town. But in these hours the sim- 
ple trust, and faith, and all that is 
best in his nature has left him — the 
boy’s heart is gone, to return no more. 


“with empty arms and treasure lost.” 

In her warm, brightly lighted, fav- 
orite sitting-room, a little later, that 
same evening, Mrs. Windsor sits alone. 
It is the first time she has come down 
stairs since the robbery. 

The shock to her nerves has been 
great, the overdose of chloroform has 
injured her; she looks every day of 
her sixty-five years as she sits here. 

Lying in her room alone, all the long, 
silent, lonely day, she has brooded 
over the base ingratitude and thorough 
badness of per younger granddaughter, 
until anger turns to positive hatred. 
And Mrs. Windsor is a thoroughly 
consistent woman — those she hates once 
she hates always. Her likings are few, 
and in most cases slight ; her dislik- 
i-ngs are strong and deep, bitter and 
enduring. Sitting here, the face of a 
Sphinx could hardly look more cold, 
and hard, and gray. It lights up for a 
moment with the customary pleasure as 
Mr. Longworth enters. 

“ It is two whole days since you have 
been here,” she says, “ but I grow a 
very old woman, and must not exact 
attention. Sit down. Do -you know 
that Marie has come ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answers briefly, and un- 
derstands that Marie has kept secret 
her visit to ihe office. Something in 
his face and tone, some subtle change, 
strikes her. She looks at him atten- 

“ What is it, Longworth ? ” she asks. 
“ Is it,” she sits erect with sudden vin- 
dictive eagerness, “ is it that that thief 
Durand has been taken ? ” 

“ I know nothing at all of Durand. I 
have heard nothing ; it is of Reine 1 
have heard — of Reine I have come to 

“ I wish to hear nothing of her, not 
even her name. Of the two, if I had to 
choose between them, I would let the 
villain Durand escape, and punish her.” 

“ Madam, you are injust; we have 
both been injust, and most cruel. Reine 
Landelle is innocent of all wrong, of all 
knowledge, or participation in this 
crime. No better, purer, nobler heart 
than hers beats to-day.” 

“ Who has been telling you this ? ” 
she says, disdainfully. “ What has 
become of your customary practical 
good sense, that you believe it ? Have 
you then been really in love with this 
girl, that you are so eager to find and 
make excuses for her ? I always doubted 
it — what was there you could see 
attractive in her?— but if you talk in 
this way, I shall begin to believe it.” 

“ You may believe it. I have, and 
do love her with all my heart.” 

“ And you believe her innocent? ” 

“ Madam, I know her innocent.” 

“ Who has been talking to you ? ” 
she repeats, leaning forward and trans- 
fixing him with one of her piercing 
glances. “ What absurd invention has 
been made up for your benefit, that in 
the face of her own acknowledgment of 
guilt you hold her guiltless ? ” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mrs. Windsor, 
there was no acknowledgment of guilt. 
She simply bore our insults and unme- 
rited reproaches in silence. I will tell 
you what I believe, if you like. 

“ Durand was the robber, doubtless. 
By some chance he may have heard 
from her that this money was in your 
room. The farmer says, you recollect, 
that Durand was standing with her at 
the gate as he passed through. In all 
innocence she may have told him; and 
Durand, in need of money, and know- 
ing how easily the theft could be ef- 
fected, instantly made up his mind to 
have it. She may have heard the noise 
of his entrance, stolen out and caught 
sight of him. But beyond this, I am 
ready to stake my life she knew 
nothing. And next day, when pitilessly 
accused, she had only to choose between 
silence and the betrayal of the brother 
she loved. She nobly chose silence 

Mrs. Windsor’s short, scornful laugh 
interrupts him. 

“ Brother ! ” she repeats, with infinite 
contempt. “ I fear you have been 
worked too hard in your office, Lau- 
rence, during the absence of your assis- 
tant, and that softening of the brain is 



the consequence. Brother ! ” she laughs 
satirically again. 

Longworth’s face does not change ; 
he waits quietly for a moment, then 
resumes : 

“ She chose silence rather than betray 
the friend, the brother with whom her 
life had been spent, and whom in spite 
of his misdeeds she loved ” 

“ Ah ! ” Mrs. Windsor says, with 
ever increasing scorn. “ Loved ! now 
you draw near the truth.” 

“ Loved,” Longworth goes on, “ but 
not as a lover — of that I have proof. 
From first to last she has been sinned 
against, not sinning. For you who 
never cared for her, who always dis- 
trusted her, some excuse may be found; 
for me who loved her, and while loving 
proved myself her worst enemy, there 
can be none. I will never forgive my- 
self for my dastardly conduct to Reine 
Landelle to my dying day.” 

“ Laurence Longworth, you are a 
fool ! ” exclaims Mrs. Windsor, exas- 
perated for once out of all her cool 
grande dame manner. I know what all 
this means. The man O’Sullivan, the 
companion of that miserable girl’s flight, 
has returned. He is a soft-hearted, soft- 
headed simpleton, and believes every- 
thing she tells him no doubt. He has 
talked to you, he has brought you a 
letter from her, a long and elaborate 
explanation, and you, in love by your 
own showing, and so with half your 
common sense gone, only too willing 
to be duped. Up to to-night I have 
always respected you as a man of 
exceptionally rational mind and un- 
biassed judgment — I find you no better 
than Frank Dexter or any other moon- 
struck boy in love.” 

“ I regret to lose your good opinion, 
madam, but if I must choose between 
its loss and persisting in the greatest 
mistake of my life, then 1 have no 
alternative. I owe her this retraction. 
I must have been mad ; indeed when I 
could look into her truthful and inno- 
cent face and think her capable of 
guilt. Proofs of her innocence, of her 
rare and heroic nobility of character 
have been given me, proofs impossible 
to doubt ; and for the future the aim 
of my life shall be to win if I can, the 
forgiveness of the girl I have so grossly 

He speaks with emotion. With every 
passing hour — with every review of the 
past, he is feeling more and more keenly 
how brutally he has acted, how blinded 
by passion he must have been. Mrs. 
Windsor listens to him, the gray, stony 
look making her stern face rigid, her 
lips closed in one tight, ominous line. 
She still sits silently staring at him for 
a moment after he has ceased — then she 
slowly speaks. 

“ Does all this mean, Mr. Longworth, 
that you intend to follow the girl and 
marry her ? ” 

“ There is no such hope for me, ma- 
dame. If there were, the devotion of 
my whole life would be insufficient to 
atone. Through my own folly I haye 
lost her forever.” 

“ Bah ! Keep your fine periods for 
the leaders of the Phenix. I ask you a 
plain question — give me a plain answer : 
Do you mean to marry Reine Lan- 
delle ? ” 

“Wherever and whenever she will do 
me that honour.” 

u In the face of her intimacy with 
the blackleg, gambler, robber, Du- 
rand ? ” 

“ Madame,” Longworth says, with 
difficulty keeping his temper, “ the 
intimacy, as you call it, was that of a 
sister who loves and screens a disrepu- 
table brother.” 

She laughs once more as she listens 
— a short, mirthless, most bitter laugh. 

“ And this is the man I thought wise 
with the wisdom of old age even in 
youth, the man I have trusted, and con- 
sulted, and loved as my own son. At 
one word from this girl he is ready to 
overlook all things and take her back. 
Surely this is besotted madness indeed.” 

Longworth rises. 

“ We had better part, madame,” he 
says, quietly. “ I have deserved to hear 
this from you, but the hearing is none 
the less unpleasant. I have told you we 
were both wrong, that she has been 
most cruelly treated from first to last, 
and that my life shall be spent, so far 
as she will allow me, in reparation,” 

“ One last word, ” she exclaims, 
rising and holding by the back of her 
chair. “ Let us understand one another 
before we part. Am I to believe it is 
your fixed and unalterable determina- 
tion to marry this girl ? ” 


“ It is my fixed and unalterable deter- 
mination ” 

“ Wait one moment. I see you are 
impatient, but I will not detain you 
long. The will I spoke of some months 
ago still stands as it stood then. You 
are my heir — need I say that Reine 
Xiandelle and the man who marries her 
shall never possess a farthing of mine?” 

Longworth bows haughtily. 

“ Do' me the justice, madame, to 
recall that on the occasion you speak 
of I declined your bounty. Permit me 
for myself and my future wife, if she 
ever so far forgives me as to become 
my wife, once more and finally to 
decline it.” 

He moves decisively to the door. She 
still stands and watches him with drear- 
ily angry eyes. 

“ And this is the gratitude of man,” 
she says half to herself. “ I loved him 
almost as I once loved my own son, and 
see how he returns that love.” 

He turns instantly and comes back. 
He offers his hand, but she waves it 

“ For that love I thank you,” he says ; 
“ for the trust and affection with which 
you have honoured me, 1 am most 
grateful. But you must see that no 
alternative remains but to displease 
you. I iiave done, your granddaughter 
a cruel wrong — if she were an utter 
stranger, much less the woman I love, 
it would be my duty to make an atone- 
ment. I am sorry we must part ill 
friends, but if I have to choose between 
you, then I choose her.” 

“ Go ! ” M rs. Windsor cries. “ I wish 
to hear no more. I have been a fool, 
and have received a fool’s reward. If 
the day ever comes when wisdom 
returns to you, you may visit me again, 
and I will try to forgive you. If' it does 
not, this parting shall be forever.” 

“Good-bye, then,” he says; “ for it 
is forever ! ” 

He takes one last glance, half kindly, 
half regretfully, around the pretty 
room, one last look at the stern, impe- 
rious, white-haired woman, whose life 
disappointment has embittered and 
soured, and then the door opens and 
closes, and he is gone. 

“ ‘ Misfortunes comes not in single 
spies, but in battalions.’ ” he quotes, 
grimly, and then a hand is laid upon 

4? 3 

his arm, and he turns to see the pale, 
anxious face of Marie. 

“ Well ? ” she says under her breath. 

“ It was not at all well,” he answer 
briefly: “ she is implacable. How has 
she received you ? ” 

( Conclusion in our next.) 




In our last essay we spoke of the O r sco- 
laidhe Monument” and the new cross of 
Cashel, — we also promised to continue 
a series and speak in future essays of 
the beautiful surroundings of Cashel, of 
the monuments, abbeys, towers and re- 
lics that dot the country around the old 
historic rock. Having, consequently,, 
spoken of the only modern monument 
that aiorns the city, we will now turn 
to the antiquities and relics of the long 
lost past that surround the “ Rock of 
Cashel.” In subject, we will begin by 
giving, in full, the introduction written 
by John Davis White to the volume 
that bears the same title as this essay. 
No person of taste or feeling can see the 
ruined yet noble pile of buildings which 
crowns tne Rock of Cashel without be- 
ing struck with admiration of their 
beauty and grandeur, and although the 
very intelligent and well-informed guide 
who is resident upon the spot, is better 
qualified than most of his class to de- 
scribe its features and tell its story, still 
the visitor is desirous to know more 
than he can give, and it is very often 
asked, where is the History of Cashel 
to be found ? 

“ When I have been asked where was 
the History of Cashel to be found,” says 
Davis White, “ I have answered that 
parts of it are to be found in books 
which are rare and expensive, but that 
a connected History of Cashel has never 
yet been compiled. Having spent the 
best part of my life under the shadow 
of the venerable Rock, and having a 
love for every old stone of the old city. * 
I have long contemplated supplying 
this want. Being fortunate in having 
access to rare Books and Documents, 
which furnish most of the neoessary 
materials for the purpose, and now see- 



in g that the work is not likely to be 
taken in hand by any one of those who 
are better qualified, I enter upon it. 
Diffident enough of my own powers, 
but still with much love for the subject 
and an earnest desire to accomplish cre- 
ditably the task I undertake.” 

The writers from whom I shall make 
extracts often differ in their statements 
.as to matters of history, as well as of 
'Opinion I do not propose to take upon 
myself to decide whose opinions or state- 
ments are correct, but will allow each 
author to speak for himself. Though 
this may, in some instances, cause some 
of the story to be told over twice, still 
I think it far preferable to the too com- 
mon practice of mixing up quotations 
from various authors, changing a word 
or a sentence here and there, and then 
dishonestly appropriating the author- 
ship of the whole. I shall, however, 
in each case, correct any statement 
which I Know to be wrong, and also add 
new matter bearing upon such doubtful 
points ; nevertheless, I shall not alter or 
suppress any statement which I find to 
be well authenti iated, no matter what 
party it may possibly tell against, as it 
is my duty to state the whole truth. I 
would here add, that when I began this 
work 1 was not aware of the magnitude 
or difficulty of it, — I had thought that 
I knew almost everything about Cashel 
and its history. But mine has been the 
fate of every candid student. I have 
now learned how much I do not know, 
and cannot ascertain, and I have to la- 
ment deficiencies which are consequent- 
ly inevitable. Let this confession dis- 
arm hard criticism, and let censors be 
admonished how much easier it is to 
find fault, than to do a thing better one’s 
self. “ If I have done well, and as is 
befitting the story, it is that which I 
desired : but if slenderly and- meanly, 
it is that which I could attain unto.” 
We will now quote from Archdeacon 
‘Cotton, when he made an appeal to the 
public to obtain funds for repairing the 
damage done by the fall of the Castle 
on the Rock, in 1848. We give these 
quotations in order to be able more fully 
to enter upon the subject of these es- 
says. As Mr. White says — we prefer to 
give the quotation in full than to be 
taking extracts here and there from 
them and passing them off as original. 

Nothing in this essay nor in the last can 
be styled original — they comprise mere- 
ly the choice pages of learned authors 
upon the subjects in question, and they 
will serve hereafter to shew how exact 
we have been in each of our remarks 
upon the scenery or history of Ireland. 
In one essay, written some months ago, 
we committed two or three blunders 
which were kindly pointed out to us by 
a friend, and which shewed us most 
clearly that it is far better to be strictly 
exact in each idea or fact stated, than 
to run on at random and perchance per- 
vert the historical truth. These few 
lines of the Rev. Archdeacon will suf- 
fice to shew how truly interesting must 
be the study of those monuments and 
relics of a buried past. With these 
lines will close, and in our succeeding 
essays we will take up the story of Ca- 
shel and all the abbeys and towns of 
historic note that nestle at the foot of 
the old Rock. Perchance there is not in 
Ireland a district so fertile in interest- 
ing buildings than the fertile and ele- 
gant land of Tipperary. Hundreds are 
the glorious memories that cling to its 
soil, and numberless the reminiscenses 
of past glory, the monuments of present 
interest, and the indeces of future suc- 
cess that embellish its arena. It is the 
centre, the focus to which have and still 
concentrate the rays of Ireland’s mag- 
nificence, the reflection of which has 
bathed the land in a sea of glory. 

“ Almost every person who has cast 
his eye over any history of Ireland 
must have felt some degree of interest 
in the far-famed Rock of Cashel ; and 
those who have visited the spot have 
generally found themselves well repaid 
by the view of the venerable ruins, tow- 
ering proudly over the small town, 
which owed its trade and indeed its ex- 
istence, to the religious and regal estab- 
lishments, anciently connected with the 

It is not surprising therefore, that a 
considerable sensation was created 
throughout Ireland about three months 
ago, on seeing in the public papers a 
brief and not very intelligible announce- 
ment, that “ the Rock of Cashel had 

To those persons who are totally un- 
acquainted with the locality of Cashel, 
it may be necessary to state, that the 



real “Rock” is an elevated detached 
mass of stratified limestone, conspicu- 
ous for many miles around, more espe- 
cially in the directions of north and 
west. The tradition of the neighbour- 
hood reports that it was deposited in 
its present bed by Satan, who had bit- 
ten it out of the mountain-range called 
Silabh Bloom (Dr. Cotton is wrong 
here: Silabh Bloom is in the Queen’s 
County, and no way connected with the 
Devil’s Bit), in the northern part of the 
County of Tipperary, at a spot where a 
large gap is still to be seen in the out- 
line of the range, which is eminently 
known as the “ Devil’s Bit.” St. Pat- 
rick, the titular Saint of Cashel, ob- 
serving the fiend flying over with this 
heavy mouthful, compelled him to drop 
it where it now remains, and forthwith 
consecrated it to pious uses. 

It might, perhaps, be thought rather 
unfortunate for the story that the moun- 
tain from which the “ bit ” was filched 
is not composed of limestone. But that 
trifling circumstance was overlooked in 
times when Geology was not so fashion- 
able a study as at present ; and surely, 
whether this change was brought about 
through a power of the Saint, or from 
the natural heat of the carrier’s stomach 
it only makes the miracle the greater, 
and adds dignity to the tradition. 

Upon the Rock has been erected at 
different periods, 1st. A Round Tower, 
which is still entire; 2nd. A small buc 
beautiful, stone-roofed church, of what 
is usually called the Norman style of ar- 
chitecture, built in the early part of the 
twelfth century, by Cormac McCarthy, 
King of Desmond, or South Munster, 
and still familiarly known as “Cormac’s 
Chapel ; ” 3rd. Occupying the whole 
space between those two buildings, and 
as it were embracing them, stands the 
larger church or “Cathedral ” which was 
erected about the year 1169, by Donald 
O’Brien, King of Limerick. The Round 
Tower and Cormac’s Chapel are built of 
brown grist stone, which must have 
been brought from a distance of six or 
seven miles : the “Cathedral” of pointed 
architecture, is composed of the lime- 
stone of the neighbourhood.” 

“There are also upon the Rock the 
remains of another later building, gen- 
eral ly supposed to have been the com- 
mon Hall of the Vicars-Choral, and at a 

small distance from the church on the 
south-west side, stands a curious cross, 
formed of gritstone, judged to be coeval 
with Cormac’s Chapel. 

The ecclesiastical establishment at 
Cashel shared the vicissitudes of fortune 
common to all parts of Ireland, during 
several centuries, in which the old an- 
nalists represent the country as being 
in almost perpetual state of warfare. 
Churches and monasteries were gener- 
ally considered to be the depositories 
of valuable property, and therefore be- 
came special objects of pillage to the 
contending parties. The annals of those 
times are thickly studded with quiet, 
pithy notices, such as, “ the church of 

was plundered “ the monastery 

and church of were burned.” 

It is recorded that Cashel underwent 
one of those frequent visitations from a 
very singular motive. An Earl of Kil- 
dare, in the year 1495, set fire to the 
Cathedral, and coolly gave as his reason 
and justification, that he thought the 
Archbishop was in it at the time. 

Cashel being likewise a regal resi- 
dence and important military position, 
was often exposed to sieges and hostile 
attacks. The Rock, which in some 
parts is naturally almost inaccessible, 
was strongly fortified by art. The walls 
of the Cathedral were thick and solid : 
and at its western end, instead of the 
usual long nave, great western door and 
ornamental windows, there was built a 
massive square guard-tower of great 
height, resembling the fortified castles 
which are common throughout the 
kingdom. The roof was surmounted 
with battlements and a parapet. A few 
windows, of various shapes and irregu- 
larly placed, gave light to the uppe** 
poitions of the building.” 

We will here leave off the quotations 
for the present essay. We have already 
made it too long, — however, we shall 
continue it in the next, as we consider 
it very necessary, in order to attain our 
end, that is a complete description of 
the very historic and interesting monu- 
ments both of Cashel and of the other 
places in Tipperary. As these essays 
may one day or other be presented to 
the public in book form, and as we de- 
sire to make a complete chain, we wish 
to take advantage of every author of 



study whose rare works may fall into 
our possession. 

We hope that these essays will serve 
to interest our Irish readers, and to 
amuse and instruct all those who may 
take and read The Harp. 

Green Park, Aylmer, P.Q. 


— What a strange thing Christian 
charity is ! Christian did I say ? Un- 
christian. We have known men give 
thousands to a public charity, and wo- 
men work night and day for a bazaar, 
who when a poor relation came to their 
house could hardly be civil. As the 
slightest puncture of the fly renders 
the most valuable apple worthless and 
unsaleable, so the wrong intention inva- 
lidates the greatest acts. Christianity 
thou art a jewel ! Charifey-that-is-chari- 
ty, thou art a priceless thing ! The 
bogus article is everywhere. 

— Why do I hate panegyrics? Ho 
I hate great men ? Ho : not great men, 
but great men’s panegyrists. And 
why? Because they are untruthful. 
Let us hold up virtue for admiration and 
emulation by all means ; but let us not 
lower the standard of virtue in order to 
create virtues. As long as the pane- 
gyrist extols one's virtues only, so long is 
he commendable; but when from dearth 
of virtues, he invents them, then is he 
a forger, an utterer of base coin, a 
swindler, and therefore a jail-bird. Pa- 
neygyrist, beware ! 

— “ One’s virtues” forsooth ! How 
long would any panegyric be, that kept 
to one's virtues f At most a few lines, 
a paragraph. Panegyrists, do you see 
how untruthful you have been ? What 
utterers of base coin ? What jail-birds 
in sooth ? Eepent for the past ; amend 
for the future. 

— I know, says the immortal Bishop 
Milner, that it is as usual to magnify 
the merits of the deceased as it is to de- 
tract from them when living, and I very 
much fear that after death we often 
canonize those in our discourse, on 
whom God has decided in a very differ- 
ent manner. 

— George Augustus Sala, in the Illus- 
trated London News, is always chatty, if 
not always instructive. G. A. S. when 
nothing else. Discussing the railway 
question in England, after the Gold 
murder, he thinks the fate of six seated 
coaches with locked doors is sealed. 
Their fate would have been sealed years 
ago had not your Britisher been the 
slow coach he is. But George’s ideas 
are refreshing. “ I am not prepared, he 
gravely tells us, to accept the American 
railway car system in its entirety; but 
I see the practicability of a compromise 
in the adoption of a saloon carriage 
system, lateral doors being abolished 
and there being an end to end commu- 
nication between the saloons through- 
out the trains ! 

— But the good man whilst patroni- 
zingly accepting our system with a mo- 
dification, has “ a difficulty.” A third- 
class passenger, (oh horror) ! “ might 
cooly walk in." This, of course, would 
be a difficulty. For a “ third-class” to 
come between the wind and George Au- 
gustus’ nobility, would be a grave diffi- 
culty. “ Third-class ” avaunt ! 

But George Augustus should be tole- 
rant. If there is no ray serene of com- 
fort and consolation on George’s part, 
there is from the Third classes’ point of 
view. If coppers become at length sil- 
vered by rubbing against shillings, 
surely the poor Third-Class would' be- 
come ennobled by sheer contact with 
George’s nobility. Take heart o’ grace 
then, George, my friend, we pray thee. 
This occasional ■“ coolly walking in of a 
third-class, will serve to “raise the 
masses,” even though you may occa- 
sionally thereby get the scent of the 
commonality in your nostrils, George. 

What a comment on English manners 
is your objection to Third-Class, my 
George ! 

— The London Spectator of July 15th, 
is angry because the Irish members are 
not grateful to Mr. Gladstone for the 
Land B$l. How as on July 16th, the 
Land Bill was yet unpassed, it is hard 
to see what species of gratitude is ne- 
cessary for a favour not yet bestowed. 
The Spectator is surely too far ahead in 
its complaints, and leaves itself open to 



the counter accusation of being alto- 
gether too-too anxious to pick holes in 
the Irish coat. 

— But granted the passage of the Land 
Bill, for we would not stand cn trifles, — 
to whom have the Irish to be grateful ? 
To Mr. Gladstone? Bah — no; to their 
own strong right arms — to the indomit- 
able pluck of her Land League and 
Home Buie members, which has brought 
them face to face with English snob- 
bishness in the House of Commons, and 
English narrow-mindedness in the Press, 
and has brought upon them the intend- 
ed to be opprobrious, but in reality hon- 
ourable nick-name of “ irreconcilibles :” 
— to that wonderful organization, the 
Land League : — to that supreme engine, 
Boycotting: — in a word, to an United 

— To Mr. Gladstone, forsooth ! As 
well attribute it to coal oil or the comet. 
What has Mr. Gladstone done? When 
the strong hand of the law forces the 
unjust holder of property to give it up 
to the lawful owner to whom ought the 
lawful owner to be grateful? To the 
unjust holder? Bah! As well then 
might the Irish members be grateful to 
Mr. Gladstone, as the lawful owner be 
grateful to the unlawful holder for 
giving him his own. You are doting, 
friend Spectator — or dreaming. Feel if 
you have not your night-cap on. 

— Irish irreconcila bles, forsooth ! — 
What reconciliation do Irishmen owe to 
England ? Just such as the lamb owes 
to the wolf. 

“ Englishmen have made great con- 
cessions to Ireland.” Yes, undoubtedly 
great concessions — such concessions as 
the pick-pocket makes to the policeman. 
The robber who has robbed you of mil- 
lions can well afford to throw you a 
handful of coppers now and then in the 
interest of “ great concessions.” Ho you 
call giving a man back his own, great 
concessions ? and that in dribs and drabs, 
too? Yes, brave and supremely honest 
Englishmen — great concessions, truly: 
such concessions as the majesty of the 
law is wont to impose on the buccaneer, 
the highwayman, and the thief ; nothing 
more, nothing less. Though perhaps 

with this difference — the law hangs the 
highwayman, pour encourager les autres 
— you give back your ill-gotten goods, 
and instead of being hanged, ask grati- 
tude, fore ooth ! H. B. 



Oh ! the orator’s voice is a mighty power 
As it echoes from shore to shore — 

And the fearless pen has more sway o’er men 
Than the murderous cannon’s roar 
What burst the chain far o’er the main, 

And brightens the captive’s den? 

’Tis the fearless voice and the pen of power — 
Hurrah ! for the Voice and Pen ! 

Hurrah ! 

Hurrah ! for the Voice and Pen ! 

The tyrant knaves who deny our rights. 

And the cowards who blanch with fear, 
Exclaim with glee, “no arms have ye — 

Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear ! 

Your hills are ours ; with our forts and 

We are masters of mount and glen” — 
Tyrants, beware ! for the arms we bear, 

Are the Voise and the fearless Pen ! 

Hurrah ! 

Hurrah ! for the Voice and Pen ! 

Though your horsemen stand with their bri- 
dles in hand. 

And your sentinels walk around — 

Though your matches flare in the midnight 

And your brazen trumpets sound ; 

Oh ! the orator’s tongue shall be heard 

These listening warrior men, 

And they’ll quickly say, “ why should we 

Our friends of the Voice and Pen?” 
Hurrah ! 

Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen ! 

When the Lord created the earth and sea, 
The stars and the glorious sun, 

The Godhead spoke , and the universe woke, 
And the mighty work was done ! 

Let a word be flung from the orator’s tongue, 
Or a drop from the fearless pen, 

And the chains accursed asunder burst, 
That fettered the minds of men! 

Hurrah ! 

Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen ! 

Oh ! these are the swords with which we 

The arms in which we trust ; 

Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand, 
Which time cannot dim or rust ! 

When these we bore, we triumphed before, 
With these we’ll triumph again — 

And the world will say, “ no power can stay 
The Voice and the fearless Pen!” 

Hurrah ! 

Hurrah ! for the Voice and Pen ! 



J. J. CURRAN, Q.C., L.L.D. 

In perusing the biographical sketches 
of the prominent men of the great ma- 
jority of civilized nations the reader 
cannot fail being struck with the fact 
that a large proportion of the material 
of such sketches are drawn from mili- 
tary achievements or heroic actions 
performed at sea ; at all events from 
deeds of arms which attract atten- 
tion and gain applause. History 
is but a record, in a great measure, of 
the calamities of mankind; the comple 
ment of victory is defeat, and the 
greater the victory for one party, the 
more overpowering the disaster to the 
other. Hence it is that as we turn 
over the pages we discover a slaughter 
here, an earthquake there, further on a 
plague, and misfortune everywhere. If 
there were no calamities there would 
be no history, for who would take the 
trouble of writing about a better har- 
vest than the average, or of recording 
that a certain people were happy as the 
days were long. Canada, of late years 
especially, has been peculiarly fortunate 
in having a dry history, for since 1837 
nothing more sanguinary has occurred 
than two troublesome Fenian raids 
which were not of sufficient importance 
to make many heroes. There is there- 
fore but little interest attaching to 
biographical sketches of Canadians, 
still less romance, and long may it so 

But although there are no thrilling 
episodes in the present history of our 
prominent men there is a good deal of 
instruction and a study of the political 
changes through which the country 
has passed within the last forty years — 
that is to say, since the subject of our 
sketch was born — may enable the 
student to be all the better prepared 
for the still greater changes which are, 
in all probability, to come ; whose 
shadows are even now upon us, and 
whose effects may be felt before the 
rising generation has attained its ma- 

From his undoubted talents — we 
might use the word genius without 
exaggeration — his energy, his elo- 
quence and general ability, it may be* 
safely inferred that Mr. Curran will 
take an active part in future publi 

affairs, even still more so than in the 
past, and assuming such, a short sketch 
of his career may be of interest to the 
readers of the Harp. 

J. J. Curran was ushered into this 
vale of tears on the 22nd of February, 
1842, so that now he is in the full vigor 
of his manhood, drawing dangerously 
near that epoch which Victor Hugo 
characterizes as the old age of youth. 
His father was Charles Curran and his 
mother Sarah Kennedy, both Irish born, 
being among the oldest and most re- 
spected Irish settlers of Montreal. He 
commenced his classic studies with the 
Jesuits, but was educated principally at 
St. Joseph’s College, Ottawa. He was 
one of its most promising students, is 
still proud to claim it as his alma mater , 
and the College, on the other hand, 
is not willing to forget one of the most 
brilliant of the many young men it has 
sent forth to gather honours in a world 
full of competitors. He graduated there 
in 1859, and in March of the same year 
entered as a law student in the office of 
the late lamented Bernard Devlin. He 
also studied under the Honourable T. J. 
J. Loranger, Q.C., afterwards Judge of 
the Supreme Court, and finished his legal 
education under the late Andrew Robert- 
son, Q.C. But Mr. Curran did not all 
the time confine himself to Blackstone 
or Lyttleton upon Coke. He developed 
a taste for literature very early in life 
which has never entirely left him, and 
what was still better for him, speaking 
professionally, he evinced such a de- 
cided oratorical talent that his 
services were in eager demand as a 
political speaker and lecturer. When 
still in his teens he lectured upon 
literary subjects in Montreal, Kingston, 
and other Canadian cities, giving 
signs of future power which at- 
tracted public attention and drew 
forth praise from that prince of 
Canadian orators, Thomas D’Arcy 
McG-ee. Nor was he idle with his pen 
during those years ol legal probation. 
He wrote for several of the papers of 
the day, and rendered himself useful as 
a translator from the French, which 
beautiful language he speaks and writes 
with an ease and fluency extremely 
rare in one not to the manor born. He 
graduated as B.C.L. at McGill College 
in May, 1862, and was admitted to the 



J. J. CURRAN, Q. C., LL.D. 

Bar in March of the year following. He 
practised at the Bar with the usual ups 
and downs, successes and reverses in- 
cidental to the career of a young and 
struggling barrister for a number of 
years, and also like most of his craft, 
with a reputation for eloquence, was 
drawn into the political maelstrom be- 
fore he had fully established a business. 

When Mr, Curran was gradually but 
surely making his way upwards, Mr. 
Cartier (late Sir George) was fighting 

the battle of Liberal-Conservatism with 
the tremendous energy of his nature 
in the Province of Quebec, and in the 
struggle for supremacy kept his glance 
directed towards all points of the com- 
pass in search of efficient political 
allies. The subject of our sketch soon 
fell under his notice ; the Conservative 
Chief was fond of surrounding himself 
with young men of talent — probably 
shrewdly suspecting that if he did not 
capture them the enemy would, and 



from that time to the present, Mr. 
Curran, fortunately or unfortunately for 
himself, has been a firm adherent of 
that party of which he is now one of 
the recognized leaders. We say for- 
tunately or unfortunately after careful 
'Consideration, for it is a positive fact 
that politicians seldom attain to wealth 
however high they may rise to emi- 
nence. By the word politician is here 
meant, not as is too often accepted, the 
mere wire puller or hanger on of a 
party who is rewarded with contracts 
till he became wealthy or with a good fat 
employment until he is satisfied which 
is never, never, but the man of brain 
and education, over whom politics exer- 
cise the same kind of fascination as war 
does over a soldier who is seized with 
what the French call the inspiration of 
the combat. This is the man who 
against his own interests spends his 
time and exerts his eloquence in an 
election contest with the same fervor 
as if a successful result was to bring 
him a fortune instead of a simple run- 
ning down of his nervous system. Such 
a man is J. J. Curran, and such men are 
as necessary in a free country, and will 
ever be as necessary, as is a standing 
army to a military despotism. After 
all it is no ignoble ambition that of as- 
piring to have a hand in the govern- 
ment of one’s native country, and to 
mould its political thought in the 
manner that seems most instrumental 
to its prosperity, its status and its 

In the general election of 1874 Mr. 
Curran was selected to contest Shefford 
County with the Hon.* Lucius Seth 
Huntington, President of the Council 
in the new Liberal Ministry, and really 
the most formidable antagonist he could 
be pitted against at the time. He it 
was who formulated the charges against 
ministers, who denounced the Pacific 
scandal or slander (take your choice 
ladies and gentlemen) in such fierce, 
such scathing and such eloquent lan- 
guage ; who so indignantly demanded 
the Royal Commission and obtained it ; 
who, when it was in session so unspar- 
ingly examined the witnesses and made 
their evidence recoil on the party of 
their sympathies ; who, in a word, put 
forth sj> much power and exhibited so 
much ingenuity as to astonish the whole 

of Canada. It was Mr. Huntington 
more than any other man who was in- 
strumental in overturning the Mac- 
donald Cartier administration, and it 
was Mr. Huntington with all his new 
glory upon him, with all his prestige 
as a Cabinet Minister, and with his 
genuine powers as an orator, that the 
young Montreal barrister was sent to 
measure himself against. He was de- 
feated. He was slaughtered with the 
other innocents of his party; he was 
swept away by the Liberal flood which 
overwhelmed so many of the followers 
of Sir John Macdonald, which hardly 
spared the Chieftain himself, and threw 
Sir George, his colleague, high and dry 
on the shore of hospitable Provencher. 
Nevertheless, considering all the cir- 
cumstances, the defeat was not of such 
a nature as to discourage him ; the ma- 
jority of his opponent was not relatively 
large, and although Mr. Curran has not 
since entered the lists, there is little 
doubt that he will sit in the Dominion 
Parliament before many years roll 
over, perhaps before many months. 
Since that time he has taken an active 
part in political contests on behalf of 
friends of his party. His influence with 
French Canadians is second only to 
that he has among his own country- 
men, with whom his eloquence has 
made him popular, and the facility 
with which he turns round after de- 
livering an oration in his proper 
tongue and goes over the same ground 
in classic French, is truly surprising 
and certainly and naturally gains him 
the applause, if not the votes, of the 
French Canadian portion of his au- 

It must not by any means be inferred 
from what is written that Mr. Curran 
has neglected his law business, though 
of course not having been able to give 
it the close attention he would if keep- 
ing apart from politics. He has, dur- 
ing the past few years, been leading 
counsel in most important cases. His 
management of the series of election 
trials in which Messrs. Devlin and 
Ryan were successively plaintiff and 
defendant, was marked by singular 
ability and sagacity and his legal spar- 
ring with Mr. Devlin — a foeman well 
worthy of his steel— exhibited manifes- 
tations of wit and pointed sarcasm 



which established his reputation in that 
branch of his legal practice. He prac- 
tises in all the courts promiscuously, 
hut it is as a criminal lawyer he has 
achieved the greatest amount of fame 
and success. He defended Gordon, 
against whom there were fifteen in- 
dictments for forgery, and succeeded in 
obtaining his acquittal after three dis- 
tinct trials. After the riots of 187Y, he 
was retained by the United Irish 
Societies of Montreal to defend Sheehan 
charged with the murder of Thomas 
Lett Hackett, on the 12th of July. 
The prosecution against Sheehan failed. 
He made a splendid defence for 
Dunbar Brown, a prominent Orange- 
man, accused of defrauding the Rev- 
enue of large sums of money, and 
were it not that the evidence was 
of so overwhelming a nature would, 
in all probability, have obtained his 
acquittal from the jury. He suc- 
cessfully defended Deery, tried for 
murder in the first degree, some years 
ago, and last year was equally fortunate 
in securing the discharge of Frank 
Alexe at Beauharnois, also on trial 
for murder. But probably the case of 
which he has most reason to feel proud, 
although the fates and the evidence 
were against him, was that of T. F. 
O’Brien, ex-millionaire, accused, con- 
victed and sentenced for forgery at the 
last Assize Courts in Montreal. This 
trial attracted almost universal at- 
tention on account of the position of 
the criminal, and was watched with 
intense interest all over Canada. Mr. 
Curran surpassed himself in the defence. 
He subjected the witnesses for the 
Crown to a cross-examination seldom 
equalled for severity or skill in a Mont- 
real court. He raised points of law 
which the Judge found it difficult to 
disallow and his opponents almost im- 
possible to combat, and he exhibited a 
knowledge of criminal law which sur- 
prised the profession. But it was in his 
address to the jury that he excelled 
himself. It lasted from three to four 
hours and was truly a magnificent effort, 
an effort acknowledged by a unanimous 
public opinion, lay and professional, to 
have surpassed anything ever before 
heard in a Montreal Court of law for 
learning, for legal acumen, for forensip 
display, for close reasoning, for pathos 

and for a rare eloquence which aston- 
ished even those who were prepared to 
witness something grand from one of 
the best speakers in broad Canada. 
O’Brien was found guilty, but another 
laurel was added to the wreath of the 
gifted counsel. 

Mr. Curran’s fame as an orator is not 
confined to Montreal, nor indeed to 
Canada. He delivered an address, by 
request, before the allumni of La Salle 
College, Philadelphia, in 18*73. In 18*78 
he delivered an oration on the occasion 
of the Moore Centenary which was 
freely and favorably commented upon 
by the Irish Catholic press of the 
United States as a masterpiece of poetic 
eloquence, and reproduced in its en- 
tirety by the Dublin Nation, a compe 
tent critic on such literature. He de- 
livered the address at the O’Connell 
Centenary celebration at the Victoria 
Square, Father Murphy, speaking the 
same evening at the Victoria Skating 
Rink on the same subject, and the 
year following he attended a re-union 
of old students of Ottawa College and 
made the speech of the occasion. He 
also delivered an address at the Parnell 
reception in March, 1880, which showed 
that though born and bred in Canada, 
he has not been a negligent reader of 
Irish history and that he is well posted 
on the merits of the great question 
which, let us hope, is now about being 
settled to the satisfaction of the Irish 
tenants, although we must perforce con- 
fess that this is extremely doubtful. In 
fact, since he first took the platform as 
a public speaker the subject of this brief 
sketch has been in constant demand at 
Irish concerts, bazaars, anniversaries, 
centenaries and other national or patri- 
otic occasions ard has never once re- 
fused — though certes, refusal would 
often have been more convenient to 
him than consent — which accounts for 
the fact that to-day he is undoubtedly 
the most popular Irishman in the city 
of Montreal. And here may be the 
proper place to remark that gentlemen 
who interest themselves in getting up 
concerts or lectures for the benefit of 
their societies or for charitable or other 
purposes, do not seem to realize that 
there is any labour or extra trouble in- 
volved on the part of a practised public 
speaker in preparing addresses for 



special purposes. It is very true that 
when you get hold of a speaker like 
Mr. Curran, place him on a platform 
and give him a government or an oppo- 
sition to attack and he will after a 
while warm to the subject and become 
eloquent in spite of himself. But then 
a lecture is altogether different. The 
same latitude and the same platitudes 
are not allowed when dealing with his- 
torical facts as with a rascally political 
party which it is a real pleasure to 
abuse. What enthusiastic Grit will 
hesitate to believe that Sir John 
was prepared to sell Canada to Sir Hugh 
Allan and the Americans for so much 
money when it is told him by a fervid 
political orator, or what dyed in the 
wool lory will not cordially agree with 
the expounder of the gospel according 
to the Toronto Mail or Montreal Ga- 
zette that not only is the Hon. Mr. 
Mackenzie corrupt himself, but that he 
is a steel rail swindler, a Eepublican 
and a hundred other terrible things. 
Even the readiest and clevcrist speakers 
have to prepare their lectures. Grace 
of diction, correctness of expression, 
accuracy of dates, acquaintance with the 
subject, thorough knowledge of contem- 
poraneous history, at least a dash of 
truth , all these and other attributes 
are absolutely necessary to the success- 
ful lecturer, which are altogether 
thrown away on the stump speaker — 
pardon us — the political orator. D’ Arcy 
McGee, man of genius that he was, poet 
as he was, facile and versatile speaker 
as he was, had to prepare his lectures 
with care, as has indeed any man, no 
matter how clever, having the slightest 
regard for his literary reputation. Pre- 
paration requires time, and to a profes- 
sional man time is money, and yet these 
gentlemen referred to do not pause to 
consider this when they ask a local cele- 
brity to give a lecture gratis and when 
— base ingratitude and singular perver- 
sity of human nature, — they import a 
stranger of inferior capacity when pay- 
ment is to be given. Like the 
procedure of those unhappy in- 
dividuals who, when they get a cer- 
tain amount of credit in a store, cut it 
dead and take their custom ever 
after to those business men who 
would not give them a dollar’s worth of 
tick if their own mothers-in-law came 

up out of the grave with the clay in their 
eyes to back their request. It is not so 
much that a man is not a prophet in his 
own country, but that he is expected to 
be a philanthropist and sacrifice his 
business for the benefit of those who 
look abroad when shekels are to be 
disposed of. 

Shortly after his appointment as a 
Queen’s Counsel under the de Boucher- 
ville Government, Mr. Curran was ap- 
pointed Secretary of the Commission 
for the Codification of the Provincial 
Statutes, which office was, however, 
abolished a few months afterwards by 
the Joly Government, before the result 
of their labors could be given to the 
public. On the 28th of June last, at the 
Annual Convocation of the Manhattan 
College, Hew York, held under the 
presidency of His Eminence Cardinal 
McClosky, the degree of LL.I). was con- 
ferred on him, and he thus achieved one 
of the highest honors within the sphere 
of professional acabition. 

As we have observed, Mr. Curran is 
on the sunny side of forty, but also in 
a few more months the shadow— how- 
ever there is no use in jumping into the 
future to meet age or other calamities. 
Carpe diem is good philosophy enough 
for pastoral Canadians. He is of middle 
height, strongly and compactly built 
and carries himself with dignity. His 
face is handsome, but there is nothing 
remarkable about it except the mouth 
which indicates humor and the clear 
grey eye which betokens intellect. He 
is the very personification of insouciance; 
and good temper, and it is doubtful if 
he ever gets into a passion except for 
the benefit of a jury. It is also doubtful 
if he has any personal enemy, though 
happy in the possession of a legion of 
political ones ; it is hard to suppose 
that a man possessing his bonhommie 
and willingness to go out of his way to 
oblige can have any but friends, and in- 
deed he is one of the most popular men 
in Montreal. One thing that may be 
safely predicted of him is that he will 
never become a millionaire except a 
tremendous legacy is left him, for he 
does not seem thoroughly to grasp the 
idea that this is the nineteenth century 
and that the dollar is indeed mighty, 
if not almighty. As a speaker he 
Has few equals in Canada, and except, 



perhaps, the Hon. Mr. Blake, hon. 
William Macdougall, and the Hon. 
Mr. Fraser, of the Ontario Cabinet, 
no superior. He possesses a mag- 
nificent voice, sweet, powerful and 
flexible, which it is a pleasure to hear 
even when talking nonsense, but which 
when he is in earnest, has great influ- 
ence on the minds of an audience. Mr. 
Curran is in fact essentially a popular 
speaker. For the rest he is as natural 
and free from pretension as it is possi- 
ble for a mortal man to be, a Canadian 
patriot, a sincere lover of the land of 
his forefathers, and a devout member of 
the Catholic Church. Mr. Curran’s 
friends predict a brilliant career for 
him, and certainly a man who while 
still young has made such a reputation 
for himself, and obtained such eminence 
in his profession, may legitimately 
aspire to any position within the do- 
main of law or politics. 

We have been tempted before con- 
cluding this brief article to say a few 
words anent the faults of the subject, for 
like the rest of the world he undoubt- 
edly has faults ; but on calm considera- 
tion have decided to let them alone, as 
intrenching on the rights of political 
opponents. It is ours to enumerate his 
good qualities with an impartial pen, it 
will be theirs when the election comes 
on to inform an awe-st] uck world of the 
atrocious wretch who dares to aspire to 
Parliamentary honors. Let the readers 
of the Harp wait therefore patiently, 
and they will learn how many of Mr. 
Curran’s ancestors were hanged for 
sheep-stealing, how many times he de- 
served to be hanged himself, how when 
honest people imagined he was enjoying 
recreation, he was in reality closeted 
day and night with the Shah of Persia 
and the Nihilists, conspiring against hu- 
manity, and how, in a word, he is not 
a fit and proper person to represent 
the free and independent electors of 
Blank blank, or for that matter, to 
represent anything but political turpi- 

J. C. F. 

Much misconstruction and bitterness 
are spared to him who thinks naturally 
upon what he owes to others, rather 
than what he ought to expect from 


“ A mother’s love ” too pure a thing 
To serve as theme for earthly songs. 

The fairest flower which Earth has seen 
From Heaven it came — to Heaven belongs. 
The only love that knows no change 
Which lives, a pure and vivid flame — 
Through years of trial, care and woe, 
Through smiles or tears, the same the 

It hovers ’round the Infant’s crib, 

Each heart-throb proves a living prayer 
That God may guard the Baby life 
Entrusted to her kindly care. 

And when, unconscious to them both 
The happy years of youth have fled, 

The mother’s heart is yet the same 
Though every other love be dead. 

The soul may burn with fiercer fire — 

Or Passion own a madder flame, 

But viewed in years, with age-dimmed 

Such loves are loves in naught but name. 
Montreal. Marie. 


An Episode op the Syrian massacre. 

CHAPTER II. — ( Continued ) 

At length we set out for home, and 
I hoped to again walk in the bright sun 
light. But this was not to be yet. 
The sky was black as night : immense 
clouds spread over the whole heavens : 
whence flashes of lightening darted forth 
their forked tongues clashing and inter- 
lacing as though the flaming swords of 
Azrael, Michael and all the good angels 
flashed in combat against dark Eblis 
and his following. 

Gabrielle smiled and Nad-ji-eda pau- 

“ Have I said anything strange ? ” 
she asked. 

“ Not exactly but you confound the 
Bible and the Coran, eternal truth with 
error. But go on. A storm, you say, 
had broken forth in the mountains.” 

“ One storm ! a hundred storms. All 
Lebanon was shaking with the fury of 
tempest. The Ackals looked at each 
other in alarm and ran to their horses.” 
“ Come,” said my father seizing me 
by my arm and drawing me up into 
the saddle — “ the rain will soon fall in 
torrents : we most fly the storm.” 

Our return was a flight. It is a ter- 
rible thing to gallop at full speed over 



a mere path skirting an abyss into 
which the slightest false step would 
hurl you to destruction. In order not 
to see the danger I wrapped myself in 
my father’s white burnous. But it was 
not possible not to hear, and the thun- 
der roared continually. All at once I felt 
myself deluged with rain, which poured 
through the slight covering. 

“ Are you cold ? ” asked my father. 

“ No ; but I am afraid.” I fear Eblis 
is pursuing us to rob me of my soul. 
“ Are we near any shelter ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered my father in a besi- 
tating tone. 

“ It rains fearfully — does it not fa- 
ther ? ” 

“ In truth this is only the beginning 
of the storm. I am sorry I brought you 
my little one.” 

Meanwhile the thunder rolled fear- 
fully. The rain ran down from my 
clothes as though I had been plunged 
into a lake and my teeth chattered. At 
last the horse stopped. 

“ Are we so soon in Hesbaya ? ” I 
asked lifting one corner of the bui- 

“ No ; ” said my father, “ but we 
cannot go further. We must continue 
our journey after the ?torm. Mean- 
while here is a shelter we will take 
advantage of.” 

I looked out. It was the convent sur- 
rounded with its purple vineyard. My 
father approached a door and rang a bell. 
Presently the door was opened and an 
old man with locks of snow presented 
himself. I found afterwards that this 
was the gardener of the convent. He 
motioned to my father and his compa- 
nions* to follow as be led the way to a 
large shed. Here whilst the others 
wrung their garments I sat shaking 
with cold. The old man saw this and 
proposed to lead me into the convent. 

“ Yes go ; ” said my father. “ They 
will bring you back to hs when we are 

ready to set out; but remember ” 

here be put his finger to his lips as 
much to remind me not to say a word 
about what had happened at the 

There was so much water in the 
court which I should have had to cross 
in my sandals, that the old man took 
me in his arms and carried me to the 
entrance door where I was received by 

a young woman dressed in black whom 
they called Sister Ann. 

Sister Ann had such a sweet face, so 
kind and so smiling her black habit 
fitted so well that J could not keep from 
looking at her. She spoke arabic in a 
sweet and touching tone, and asked if 
I was cold or hungry, and pitying my 
state led me to a small room where she 
lit a fire with her own hands, which 
surprised me for she appeared rather as 
a lady to command slaves, than as one 
obliged to help herself. Then she 
brought from a cupboard dry and warm 
clothing which she urged me to put on 
whilst she went to prepare some food. 

“ This robe is not pretty,” said she 
with a sweet smile “ we intend it for 
some poor peasant’s daughter, not for a 
rich and elegant lady; still it is better 
than your wet and flimsy costume — is 
it not ? 

“ I should prefer your dress ” said I. 

“ Would you truly ? Ah, then you 
must stop with us and then we will 
dress you as one of us.” 

“ Ah, I wish I could with all my 

She looked at me with surprise. — 
“ What ! ” she said, “ would you wish 
to leave father and mother?” 

“ I wish not to belong to the sect of 
the Ackals, and not to become an old 
priestess a terror to childen, I prefer 
your pretty veil to that hideous brass 
head dress with its horns : your cheer- 
ful home to their dark khalone, which 
looks like the home of the panther ; and 
I would willingly remain here, that is, 
if you do not slaughter little bleating 
lambs, and excite your brethren to 

I was going to say more when I 
suddenly remembered that I ought to 
keep all I had seen in the mosque a 
profound secret. I held my peace and 
began to dress. 

Sister Ann shewed me every thing 
in the convent especially the chapel, 
the vestments, and the sacred vessels ; 
and explained every thing to me as far 
as the time would permit. At length 
she said : “ The rain has ceased. 1 see 

your father ready to depart.” 

“ Alas ; is it time to go ? ” I exclaim- 
ed in a tone of regret. 

“ I see, my little one, that you would 
soon become one of us.” 



“ Oh, yes ; if I might.” 

“ Will you think of us ? ” 

“ How can I ever forget this happy 
home, these beautiful gardens.” 

“ Is that all you will remember of 
your visit.” 

“ Oh, no ; I shall often think of all 
you have taught me of your holy reli- 

“ And we will pray for our little sis- 
ter — what is your name ? 

“ Nad-ji-eda.” 

“ That is a very pagan name. If you 
come among us, we shall have to change 
your name and to give you a more 
Christian one.” 

“ What name for instance ? ” 

“ Which ever you may choose. What 
think you of the name of the Elessed 
Mother of God ? ” 

“ Mirene ? (Mary) oh yes ; that shall 
be it. I will be called Sister Mirene. 

“ Nad-ji-eda ! ” cried my father from 
without as his horse pranced and pawed 
in the court. “We parted and I have 
seen neither convent nor religious al- 
though a year has passed since then.” 
Gabrielle looked at her friend with a 
pensive air and then shaking her hand. 

“ Nadi ” she said “ I believe our God 
calls you to him ; but the way he in- 
tends for you will be covered with 
thorns and briers.” 

“ What matter,” cried the young 
girl, with enthusiasm, “ if Re awaits 
me at the end.” 

At this moment an Arab woman 
dressed in a large cafetan with a head 
dress of scarlet which brought out 
strongly her olive complexion, crossed 
the terrace. 

“ Nad-ji-eda ! ” cried she, “ where are 
you my peri ? ” 

“ It is Sulema, my nurse,” said Nad- 
ji-eda. “ She must not see the image 
of Jesus, she will scold.” 

Gabrielle concealed the little statue 
of our Lord whilst her freind took down 
the flowers from the altar. 

The party on the terrace contem- 
plated this little scene in silence. It 
was the old man who spoke first. 

“ Evidently Nad-ji-eda has abjured 
the worship of Allah and of Hackem 
on the altar of the divine Issa.” 

“ And you appear very little put out 
about it ; senior Amrou ! ” observed 
Mrs. Herbelin. 

The old man shook his head. 

“ I foresaw that,” said he, “ the day 
I determined to give the young girl an 
European education.” 

“ It remains to be seen whether her 
father Djelaib has had the same fore- 

“ What ! Djelaib ! ” said the old Turk 
moving his turbaned head with a sor- 
rowful air — “ Djelaib would have killed 
the poor thing, if I had not been near 
to protect her. I know well the inten- 
tions of that miserable fanatic. Fancy 
my sweet little Nada transformed into 
a savage priestess, prophetess and py- 
thoness, wandering in the woody glades 
of Lebanon, and passing for a lunatic 
in the opinion of every reasonable being. 
No; indeed. I will not leave my little 
charge to Djelaib. In a few months I 
will take her to France and we will see 
whether he will come to look for her as 
far as Paris. 



The rising sun had scarcely flashed 
its golden beams over the summits of 
the mountains, when a traveller mount- 
ed upon an arab horse of excellent breed, 
but evidently over-ridden crossed the 
spur of ante Lebanus and prepared to 
traverse that wonderful plain in the 
middle of which Damascus rests like a 
diamond set in velvet. 

It was the 9 July 1860 and almost a 
year from the day on which Nad-ji-eda 
had related to her friend Gabrielle the 
events recounted in the preceding chap- 
ter. Our horseman before entering on 
the plain halted a few seconds not to 
admire the view before him but to take 
its bearing. As soon as this was done, 
he turned his horse’s head to the left, 
touching the noble animal’s flanks light- 
ly with the spur. 

“ Foward, Djerid ! foward my brave 
boy ” said he. 

Djerid neighed, shook his flowing 
mane and sprang foward like an arrow 
from a bow. After a hard gallop. 

“ At length Djerid !” cried the horse- 
man, “we are near Damascus. One more 
effort my brave steed and you have 
done. Sweet hay, pure water and cle^h 
straw await you.” % 

Djerid neighed again and quickened 



his flagging speed. But it was only for 
a moment. His limbs staggered, he 
stumbled, regained hinself and at lenght 
stood suddenly still. 

“ Foward ” cried the rider. 

The poor brute hung down its head, 
and rema ned immovable. 

“ Foward, my brave companion, ” 
cried the rider, “ let it not be said that 
you have crossed mountain defile and 
arid rocks to die upon this fertile 

Cheered by the voice of its rider, the 
noble beast summoned all its energy for 
a final effort, but it was too much, after 
a few laboured bounds it tottered, re- 
gained itself and finally fell, the blood 
streaming from its nostrils. 

The rider had forseen this end and 
disengaging his foot from the stirrups 
stepped lightly to the ground. For a 
time he stood looking down upon the 
noble animal, that had borne him so 
bravely. Then suddenly recollecting 
himself, he drew a pistol from his girdle 
and talking aim, discharged it behind 
the dying horse’s ear. 

“ He was an old friend,” said he, — 
“ but the life of three persons is at 
stake. I have at least shortened his 

Thencefoward our traveller continued 
his course on foot, hastening along the 
outskirts of the city with hurried steps, 
unmindful of the heat or dust. 

About ten in the morning, he reached 
the nearest house of the suburbs and 
hastened to knock at the door of Mr. 
Herbelin’s house. 

A man with a white turban opened 
the door, and seeing our traveller 
exclaimed with astonishment Mr. Fer- 
dinand ! 

“ Yes,” answered our travail er as he 
sought to pass in — “ let me come in, 

“ Certainly, Master ; come in Master 
knows undoubtedly that my master and 
mistress are not here.” 

“ Not in ! ” exclaimed Ferdinand. 
u I shall find them in the bazaar.” 

“ No ; they have been on a visit to a 
friend some days.” 

“ Far from here ? ” 

“No; not very far. They are with 
M. Dravel at his country house. You 
know M. Dravel, you must have passed 
his house if you came by the eastern 

road. Close to the foot of the moun- 

Yes, said Ferdinand, speaking to 
himself: it is perhaps better so, it will 
be some hours of fatigue less for my 
sister and for Gabrielle. “ Chalib,” he 
said, speaking in a loud tone, “ harness 
me a horse.” 

“ Will you not take same food.” 

“ No ; nothing. I am in a hurry. I 
will not even enter.” 

“ But you must be fatigued,” 

Ferdinand made a gesture of impa- 
tience as he sat down under a large 
orange tree, and Chalib hastened to the 
stables. Soon he returned leading a 
magnificient arab fresh and full of fire. 
The young traveller as he hastened to 
moment, gave Chalib a folded paper on 
which he had written few words. 

“ Take this, Chalib, to M. Just, my 
brother-in-law’s principal partner, lose 
not a minute and take care to give it 
into his own hands. And Chalib, tell 
me, you are a Druse, aie you not? ” 

| Yes, Sir.” 

“ You adore Hackem ? ” 

“ Yes, Sir.” 

“ Yery well — or rather very ill — but 
that is all I want to know.” 

Young master is crazy, said Chalib 
as he shut the door. How pained my 
mistress will be to find her brother in 
such state. 

Our young traveller, brother to Mrs 
Herbelin, was a distinguished physician 
practising at Beirout. He was an 
orphan and without any other relation 
than his sister, and it was in order to 
he near her that he remained in Syria. 
Mr Herbelin had one of the largest com- 
mercial houses in Damascus, and as all 
his goods passed through Beirout, he 
had a warehouse under the care of his 
brother-in-law. On parting from Chalib, 
all dusty and tired as he was Ferdinand 
retraced his way to the mountains 
without losing a moment. The day was 
far advanced when he arrived at M. 
Dravel’s mansion. 

Mrs Herbelin was walking with her 
husband under the lemon trees which 
skirted the property. She recognized 
her brother the moment she saw him, 
and exclaimed. 

“ What ! Ferdinand. You here. What 
a happeness. We were far from 
expecting such a pleasure.” 



“ Do not rejoice too much,” said Fer- 
dinand, in a grave tone. 

“ Why, this grave tone ? ” asked Mr. 
Herbelin, “ Have we not reason to 
rejoice to see you safe and sound after 
traversing that unhappy Lebanon, which 
is one huge field of carnage and mur- 
ders ? ” 

“ Are the massacres still continuing ?” 
interrupted Mrs. Herbelin. 

“ Yes, beyond doubt,” answered Fer- 
dinand. “ They slay everywhere ; all 
Lebanon is on fire. The holy war, as 
they call it, is preached at all points. 
The ministers of Hackem emulate the 
zeal of the Imans and Santons. Druse 
and Turk join hands in the destruction 
of the unfortunate Maronites, and 
indeed of all that is Christian. ” 

“ And you have dared to cross Le- 
banon under such circumstances? ” 

“ Yes, in order to warn you of your 

“ What > here ? Let us return imme- 
diately to Damascus and take our 
friends with us.” 

“ But my dear sister, it is at Damas- 
cus that danger especially exists.” * 

“ Oh no, Ferdinand ; do not think 
that ” replied Mr. Herbelin. “ All is 
tranquil in the plain. We have nothing 
to fear. Achmel Pasha watches over 
the security of the city, and has ordered 
a fresh levy in order to defend it.” 

“ Ah, alas ; it is this security which 
will be your ruin. Achmet secretly 
protects the assassins ; he will soon 
raise the mask. The city is doomed. 
To-morrow,— perhaps to-night the signal 
for slaughter will be given. Why should 
they spare Damascus when in all the 
rest of Syria they burn, pillage and 
assassinate ? 

“ Then, brother, it is only a conjec- 
ture, you have formed, not a certainty, 
of which you are in possession,” asked 
Mrs Herbelin. 

“ Unfortunately, nothing is more 
certain ; I am exactly informed.” 

(To be continued.) H. B. 

He who vainly trumpets his own 
praises is a fool, but he who speaks evil 
of himself is worse than a fool ; he is 
either a crafty knave or a madman. 

The strongest force in the world is 
that exerted by love. 


For several years back the Irish Catho- 
lics of Montreal reflected credit upon 
themselves in a most peculiar manner. 
They displayed a spirit of religion 
which attracted public attention and 
elicited the most flattering encomiums. 
As pilgrims they would fain honor the 
illustrious Mother of the Blessed Virgin, 
and in thus honoring her they shrank 
before no sacrifice whatever. This year 
singularly pleasing must have been the 
homage which she received at their 
hands. No feature did it lack which ft 
should possess. It was enhanced by 
every possible charm. Piety held sov- 
ereign sway. On all sides it shed its 
most benign influences and nobody could 
resist them. In previous years it was 
always under the auspices of the Catho- 
lic Young Men’s Society of St. Patrick’s 
parish that the Irish pilgrims of this 
city had placed themselves. This year 
the St. Patrick’s Temperance and Bene- 
fit Society was privileged to take them 
under its care. Great indeed was the 
responsibility which it assumed. Yet 
greater still is the merit which it ac- 
quired. In discharging this responsi- 
bility it gave nothing less than supreme 
satisfaction, and proved eminently quali- 
fied for the task which, it had under- 
taken. The 30th of July, 1881, should 
be written in characters of gold in the 
annals of this organization. It inaugu- 
rated for its history an epoch of unpre- 
cedented glory. It was the day when 
the pilgrims were advertised to start on 
their journey to Ste. Anne de Beaupre. 
From the outset till the return nothing 
could be more delightful than the wea- 
ther which they enjoyed. No ill-omened 
clouds loomed upon the horizon. The 
sky was clear and bright. There was a 
luxury in every breath of the atmos- 
phere, and an exquisite sense of comfort 
and ease evoked by the aspect of the 
waters. The St. Lawrence donned all 
its majesty. Its shore-scenery looked 
most enchanting amid the variety of its 
matchless beauties. Suddenly the last 
signal for departure rang out. It was 
half-past four o’clock p.m. The Canada , 
laden with over 700 passengers, began 
slowly to leave its moorings. Mean- 



while the strophes of the “ Ave, Maris 
Stella ” were sung at the prow of the 
steamer by a group of choristers, whose 
voices blending in unison, produced a 
beautiful effect. This hymn lent at once 
a devotional character to the voyage. 
It also served to secure the loving inter- 
est and powerful protection of the 
Blessed Virgin. When this tribute of 
confidence was paid her, the steamer 
was transformed into a sort of floating 
chapel. Temporary confessionals were 
erected in four different places. All the 
priests on board were kept busily en- 
gaged at their respective gratings till 
halt-past ten o’clock. These priests 
were the Reverend Fathers M.Callaghan, 
Kiernan, Quinlivan and Jas. Callaghan. 
The clergyman whose portrait illus- 
trates this number of the Harp, was 
conspicuous as the spiritual Director of 
the Pilgrimage. His competency in 
this capacity cannot be surpassed. It 
has been put to the test for five years in 
succession, and has always met with gen- 
eral appreciation. His name is a house- 
hold word. His career is already most 
creditable. It may not yet be oppor- 
tune to sketch even its outlines. Suffi- 
cient to remark, that by his oratorical 
attainments he would do honor to any 
pulpit, and by the affability of his man- 
ners would captivate the hearts of 
any congregation. Two committees 
were entrusted with the temporal inter- 
ests of this pilgrimage : an Executive 
Committee and a Vigilance Committee. 
The Executive was composed of Messrs. 
M. P. Ryan, M. P., Edward Murphy, 
and Owen McGarvey. The Vigilance 
claimed the following gentlemen : 
Messrs. M. Sharkey, T. McGrail, A. Bro 
gan, J. State, A. Emerson, W. P. Nolan, 
J. Walsh, W Walsh, (X Bland and X 
Connaughton. Both Committees had se- 
lected B. Gunning for their acting Secre- 
tary, and most worthy did he prove of 
the choice. Mr. B. Emerson, the Presi- 
dent of the Society, superintended the 
operations of both Committees. For the 
last two years he has been occupying 
the highest post of distinction in the 
gift of his society. 

At six o’clock the bell gave no- 
tice that supper was ready. The 
notice was not let pass by unheeded. 
Soon folks were seen effecting a des- 
cent to the lowest regions of the 

steamer. They had few admirers but 
many followers. McPherson, of the 
Victoria Restaurant was on hand 
He greeted them with the smile of 
conviviality and with a carefully pre- 
pared meal which was served in the 
best possible style. In this connection 
it is just to say that whenever his ser- 
vices were required by his numerous 
guests, he left nothing undone and 
spared no pains to give each and all 
thorough satisfaction. The indispen- 
sable item called for by nature having 
been despatched, word was given to 
assemble all the pilgrims in the stern 
of the boat. While they were gather- 
ing Professor Fowler took a seat at the 
piano and accompanied a lovely hymn 
to St. Anne. The words of this hymn 
were composed originally in the French 
language but rendered for this occasion 
into English metre by a Montreal poeti- 
cal talent of no inconsiderable merit. 
Patrick M‘Ca,ffrey, a most charming 
and intelligent youth, sang the solo part 
in the clearest and sweetest accents. 
The chorus was taken up by severaj 
boys attached to the choir of St. Pat- 
rick’s church and by a large number 
of bystanders. Once the hymn had 
ceased the most perfect silence pre- 
vailed. Evqly eye and ear were turn- 
ed in the direction of the Rev. M. Cal- 
laghan who from the place where he 
stood could be easily seen and heard by 
all. He availed himself of this oppor- 
tunity to have the Beads recited pub- 
licly. Before however opening this 
magnificent prayer he deemed it neces- 
sary to make a few observations. Short- 
ly before starting from Montreal he 
received a letter from Father Dowd ex- 
plaining why he did not corneas gener- 
ally expected. He read it aloud and 
from its contents it was obvious that 
the absence of this reverend gentleman 
was altogether independent of his will 
and averse to his wishes. During the 
recitation ot the Beads everybody 
kept in a kneeling attitude. Nothing 
could be more solemn and impressive 
than this scene. Over half a thousand 
people were then animated by the same 
sentiments and offering the same sup- 
plications to the throne of Heaven’s 
Queen. At the completion of this de- 
votional exercise the Rev. J. Callaghan 
emerged into public view and delivered 




a most instructive and edifying dis- 
course. The following will recall some 
of the principal ideas which it contained 
and some of the leading sentences to 
which he gave utterance : 

“ Life upon earth is a pilgrimage. 
The boat which is now bearing us down 
the rapid waters of the Saint Lawrence 
is a perfect emblem of the present life. 
Each stroke of her wheels hurries us 
from the point of departure to our goal 
and destination. Each pulsation of the 
heart speeds us on our way from the 
cradle to the grave. The soul, however, 

oversteps the resting place of the mortal 
frame and takes her ascending flight 
to her Creator to receive from His 
hands her crown or her chains. The 
body likewise shall, on the day of ge- 
neral retribution, resume once for all 
its companion in time in order to share 
in her eternal happiness or eternal 
misery. Life here below being, there- 
fore, a pilgrimage it follows that pil- 
grimages are a most laudable and praise- 
worthy institution of the Catholic 
Church. The latter has not only given 
birth to them, but also perpetuated 



them throughout the course of eighteen 
hundred years by her approval and 
sanction and by enriching them with 
the most precious gifts of her spiritual 
treasury. The most venerable pilgri- 
mages existing in the Catholic Church 
are pilgrimages to Jerusalem, to the 
Lamina Apostolorum at Eome, and to 
St. James of Compostella, to Our Lady 
of Lourdes, and to Paray-le-Monial, the 
former being in honor of Mary Imma- 
culate, and the latter in veneration of 
the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, finally 
to Our Lady of Knock, the celebrated 
pilgrimage of Ireland. Pilgrimages 
are not only a reasonable institution, 
but also a fruitful one. The mind, the 
heart, and the body derive immense ad- 
vantages therefrom ; the mind through 
an increase of faith ; the heart, through a 
new addition of sanctifying grace and the 
body by the disparition of its various 
infirmities. I must remark that Catho- 
lic theology teaches that whereas God 
will never deny us the spiritual advan- 
tages which we stand in need of and 
which we earnestly implore, yet He 
will never condescend to grant any tem- 
poral advantage either of health or for- 
tune unless it be advantageous to the 
interests of the soul, or at least be not 
prejudicial to her eternal welfare. I 
must observe, likewise, that it is sur- 
prising how some object to the truth of 
a manifest miracle, for Catholic theolo- 
gy and Catholic philosophy profess that 
less power is required on the part of 
Divine Omnipotence to raise a dead body 
to life than to redeem a lost soul from 
the tyranny of Satan and to restore it to 
the friendship of an offended God. Let 
us then invoke Saint Anne. Her many 
titles to our affection and confidence 
have not disappeared from her having 
left this world. JSfo, while on earth she 
exercised great influence over the heart 
of her immaculate daughter, the Virgin 
Mary, and of her adorable grandchild, 
the Saviour and Redeemer of the woMd. 
In Heaven, her power has not been les- 
sened. Moreover, Saint Anne, by being 
a friend of God, had received from the 
latter a sort of participation in the di- 
vine life of God. Why ought we not 
honor, in this glorious Saint, this spe- 
cial gift wherewith God has honored 
her ? Yes, may we honor upon earth 
her whom we shall honor during all 
eternity. Amen.” 

After the sermon the pilgrims retired 
to rest. Many however from the anti- 
cipated excitement of the morrow, could 
not enjoy all the sweets which balmy 
sleep affords. In the grey of morning 
everybody was astir. The grand old 
rock-city was not far off. Soon Quebec 
was reached. The ferry which was 
chartered to bring the Montrealers to 
the shrine of St. Anne was in readiness. 
It was The Brothers noted alike for its 
solidity and capacity. Father Burke, 
the well known Redemptorist, came by 
special invitation on board this ferry 
and accompanied the pilgrims down to 
Beaupre. He was most welcome both 
to priests and people. The downward 
voyage occupied but a few hours which 
were most profitably spent in prayer 
and meditation. All having disembarked 
on the bridge at St. Anne repaired 
without delay to the Church dedicated 
in her honour. 

At eight o’clock mass was said on 
the main altar by Father J. P. Kiernan 
in presence of all the pilgrims. During 
its celebration full vent was given to 
the sentiments which piety inspired. 
Over 600 persons had been fasting since 
midnight and received communion. 
Scarcely was the holy sacrifice finished 
when the Rev. Father Burke made his 
appearance in the pulpit and preached. 
He was listened to with marked inter- 
est, especially when relating an occur- 
rence which showed to advantage the 
eminent patronage of St. Anne. At the 
conclusion of the sermon her relics 
were venerated. At a short distance 
from the church may be seen a basin 
containing the far-famed water of Ste. 
Anne de Beaupre. People were con- 
tinually flocking to this basin which 
could not but recall to their memory 
the miraculous pool of Bethsaida des- 
cribed by St. John the evangelist. The 
site of the old chapel is still pointed out. 
The modest little cemetery close-by is 
not much visited. At eleven o’clock 
The Brothers had grown impatient. It 
had been waiting a long while and 
could not brook any further delay. It 
now began to steam back to Quebec. 
Many an eye lovingly lingered on 
Beaupre and its Basilica. Many a heart 
throbbed with the liveliest pulsations 
on bidding farewell to a spot consecrated 
for over two centuries to Mary’s most 


5° i 

August Mother. Not a few individuals 
on board were heard sounding the 
praises of St. Anne and proclaiming the 
marvels which she had wrought in their 
favour. Several remarkable incidents 
became the general topic of conversa- 
tion. Owing to an accident, Mrs. Owen 
Farmer, a resident of Cote St. Paul, had 
been compelled for seven months to 
make use of a crutch. She left it at the 
shrine of Ste. Anne de Beaupre, satis- 
fied that she would never require it 
agMn. A lady came from Toronto pa- 
ralyzed in the rig-ht arm. She returned 
bearing the glad news that she was 
cured. An Irish gentleman, residing in 
Griffintown, had been for months com- 
plaining of rheumatic pains. He de- 
clared that his pains had disappeared. 
A French young girl was unable for 
years to use her lower limbs. On the 
way home she felt greatly improved. 
During the recitation of the Beads, she 
was surprised to be able to kneel with 
all the others. At Quebec, The Brothers 
gave back all its passengers to the Can- 
ada, where a magnificent welcome in 
the shape of a first-class dinner greeted 
them. The remainder of the day was 
spent in a most becoming manner. Be- 
fore night prayers were announced — a 
few hours glided by unsuspectingly for 
all those who were in the vicinity of 
the piano. Professor Fowler was in ab- 
solute requisition. He was the very soul 
of congeniality. He knew what would 
take, and how to please. Liberally did 
he dispense all the charms of music 
with which he is so familiar. Vocal and 
instrumental artists abounded. Kindly 
did they yield their contingent to the 
general fund of enjoyment. Not unfre- 
quently Elysian bars of harmony were 
rehearsed. Little Walsh, a boy of seven 
summers, will be long remembered, for 
his bewitching performances. Night 
prayers opened with the recitation of 
the Beads. This recitation was followed 
by an address, in which the Rev. M. 
Callaghan did unquestionably excel 
himself. Seldom has any audience been 
elevated to such a justifiable degree of 
enthusiasm as was felt by all who list- 
ened to the words which fell from his 
lips. It is a subject of regret that they 
have not been treasured up in a verba- 
tim report. 

He expiessed himself delighted to be in 

their midst. “Never was any pilgrim- 
age better calculated to redound to the 
honor of the Most High and the ad- 
vantage of all concerned. The Catholic 
Church alone could have inspired such 
a movement. It was a grand success in 
every sense of the word. It was a most 
imposing act of faith and charity. The 
pilgrims were like the primitive Chris- 
tians of ‘ one mind and of one heart.’ 
They shared in the same faith and pro- 
fessed the same dogmas. They had 
been showing towards one another 
every possible mark of friendship. For 
over a day and a half they had been 
experiencing together the beauty and 
grandeur of Catholicism. They were 
brothers and sisters. No wonder because 
they were members of that one incom- 
parable family which overspread the 
world like the mustard-tree of the 
Gospel and claimed Christ as its Head. 
Nothing could equal, still less surpass, 
the happiness which overflowed every 
breast and lit up every countenance. 
The St. Patrick’s Temperance and Be- 
nefit Society was entitled to the highest 
measure of praise. Dr. Croke, theillus- 
trous Catholic prelate and Irish patriot, 
had sounded its name over the globe. 
It was in his language an 1 intelligent 
and respectable body.’ This pilgrim- 
age had furnished it with a fresh and 
most indisputable title to these glorious 

“The thanks of the pilgrims should be 
tendered to Bernard Emerson, President 
of this Society. All would feel pecu- 
liar pleasure in bearing testimony to 
his constant benevolence, unceasing so- 
licitude and untiring energy. This So- 
ciety was assuming grand proportions 
owing in a great measure to the zeal of 
the Rev. Father Xiernan, its Chaplain, 
and the many noble qualities which he 
possesses. Heaven had favored the pil- 
grimage in many ways. The Saints are 
our best friends. The illustrious Mother 
of the Blessed Virgin claims on our part 
a -special homage of respect and confi- 
dence.” When the Reverend gentleman 
had concluded his discourse, he raised 
his eyes to heaven and invoked a bless- 
ing upon the immense multitude that 
knelt to receive it. A good night’s rest 
was the next item of interest. The 
morning air was bracing. An inter- 
change of salutations took place — a look 



of business began to develop on many a 
face — and the cares of every-day life to 
re-assert themselves. 

The Canada was now fast approaching 
the city of Montreal. Mr. Emerson gath- 
ered all the pilgrims for the last time 
at the stern of the steamer. It was 
chiefly for the purpose of passing votes 
of thanks to the parties who had the 
best claims upon their gratitude. “Most 
deeply indebted,” said he, “do we feel to- 
wards the clergy of St. Patrick’s Church, 
who notably on this occasion have con- 
tributed to promote our spiritual wel- 
fare. Whenever anything is calculated 
to advance it, we are sure to find them 
in the vanguard. To the Eeverend 
Father Dowd and his distinguished re- 
presentative, the Eev. M. Callaghan, we 
should ascribe the principal glory of 
this pilgrimage.” Let us not forget to 
mention here the gentleman whose ex- 
perience in the catering life, was con- 
stantly at our disposal, and could not 
fail in any instance to gratify the most 
epicurean tastes. Mr. Edwd Murphy eu- 
logized the Eichelieu Company, and 
spoke in complimentaiy terms of the 
skill and kindness of the Captain of the 
Canada. On leaving the boat the pil- 
grims found it difficult to part with each 
other. But who will wonder ? Ineffa- 
ble was the happiness of the social in- 
tercourse which, for almost two days 
they had been enjoying. Yet part 
they should, but not for ever. Implicitly 
they pledged themselves to meet again 
under the banner of the sons of Tem- 
perance. God grant that for many years 
to come they may together refresh their 
souvenirs, gladden their hearts, and cull 
all sorts of the choicest blessings at the 
shrine of the good Ste. Anne de Beaupre. 


His Grace Archbispop CaoKe, of 
Cashel, some time ago preached an elo- 
quent sermon on the different positions 
occupied by man in society, in the 
course of which he gave the following 
wise counsel, founded on the precepts 
of the Church 

He said it was an old and true and 
well known saying that there is noth- 
ing new under the sun. Equally old 
and true was it though, perhaps not so 
well known, that there were no two 

things perfectly alike under the sun. 
The most gifted artist that ever had 
been, or that ever might have been, never 
cast or carved, or otherwise produced 
any two articles whereof one would be 
an exact copy of the other. No two pro- 
ductions of the human head or hand, of 
pen or pencil ever were exactly alike. 
Even the great artificers, whose works 
would perish but with time, built them 
without materials in endless and incon- 
ceivable variety. Where would they find 
two faces, two landscapes alike ? What 
could the world be if all men rivalled 
Solomon in wisdom, Cresus in wealth, 
Alexander in strategy or Locke in un- 
derstanding ? Let them look at some his- 
toric picture representing, for instance, 
a group of statesmen in the council 
chamber, or a number of mailed war- 
riors on the battle field. The artist 
could not give a requisite prominence 
to all the figures — some of them must 
be comparatively in the shade, others 
almost entirely so, and others literally 
surrounded by a flood of light. So in 
society — there must be happiness and 
misery, wisdom and folly, wealth and 
poverty — the master and the servant 
dependent up'on and relieving each 
other — the Greek and the barbarian, 
the wise and foolish are scattered pro- 
miscuously in every direction around. 
What a strange and startling variety of 
conditions one is sure to meet with in 
the world ! Some are poor but conten- 
ted ; others are rich but wretched, because 
wicked or reviling. Some have too much 
others too little. Some want for every- 
thing, and others apparently wanting 
for nothing. Some wear diadems and 
rings of unknown value upon their fin- 
gers, are waited on by a numerous re- 
tinue, and have their persons adorned 
with the most costly ornaments — others 
friendless and unknown, steal on through 
life, no one heeding them, and the 
wind and the weather assailing them 
on the way. Some driving in chariots 
guilded and gay, others travelling on 
foot unheeded. Some have many friends, 
oiliers" are without them. Some are 
respected by their fellow citizens, others 
dreaded or despised. For some, every 
enterprise succeeds, for others there 
is nothing but disasters. In a word 
there are some who seem to be the es- 
pecial favorites of Providence, and there 



are others whose only inheritances are 
sufferings and tribulations, wretched 
outcasts, born and destined to live, 
as it were, in poverty, and to die per- 
haps without piety. He would ask 
them had they ever seriously consider- 
ed the condition of their fellowmen and 
compared their own with that of those 
around them ? Had they ever visited 
any ot these great but dreary hospitals 
where lie thousands of sickly patients, 
or one of those prisons where crime 
crouches on the ground in dark and 
loathsome cells ? Had they ever rea- 
son to mourn for the wreck of all their 
hopes, or the death of some one near 
and dear to them ? Or had they ever 
thought of what they suffered who had 
to dwell in dark lanes and polluted at- 
mospheres ? of what the soldier suffered 
when dying on the battlefield, or the 
murderer while walking to the scaffold, 
or the emigrant when he looks for the 
last time upon the home in which he 
was born, quit forever the companions 
of youth ? Many and many were the 
phases of misfortune, and the lot of 
many now before him, might be envied 
by thousands. If then, those whom he 
had the high honor of addressing there 
enjoying health as well as rank and 
wealth, should think what their lot might 
have been if cast among beggars. Let 
them have no feelings of pride which 
was hateful both to God and man, 
and has been denominated as the vice of 
fools. True there was a considerable 
pride that had its base in religion ; the 
mother of the Maccabees felt a just pride 
when she saw her seven sons die rather 
than obey the persecuting tyrant. So also 
did Francis Xavier when dying in the 
cause of God, far away from his native 
land. In such a case a pride might be 
felt, and yet not be sinful. As well might 
the lily in the field take pride in its love- 
liness, the statue of its symetry, or the 
ocean fish because of the quantity 
of water by which he is surrounded as 
man of his wide domains, his fame, his 
fortune or his family. His persecutors 
were all rich, yet the Savour reckoned 
among his disciples some of the weal- 
thiest people in Judea. Zachaius was 
chief of the Publicans. Thaddeus a ru- 
ler of the Synagogue and Joseph a cen- 
turion. If it were true that the Saviour’s 
first persecutor was a king, it is also true 

that the three first men who adored 
Him were also kings. God gave gifts 
and talents to every man, and to those 
whom He had given wealth, He would 
demand a strict account. The rich 
should rather have a feeling of appre- 
hension than of congratulation, and he 
instanced several parables in the Bible 
to show the dangers that accrue to a 
man from the possession of wealth. 
Was it not written there, “Blessed are 
the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of 
haaven ?” St. John the Baptist was poor, 
so was the reputed father of the Saviour ; 
so was the Blessed Virgin, and it was 
with the poor Galilean that Our Lord 
worked His first miracle. 



( From the French.') 

Years have rolled on since the events 
detailed in our last chapter. Maur and 
Chaffred Malbrouch are alone in their 
parlour in Turin. Both have been silent 
for some time. Chaffred speaks : 

“ I have determined to return to Home 
immediately, Maur ; I wish to assist at 
the return of the Pope to Home. You 
know that is my weakness. Before go- 
ing, I wish to speak to you of a plan 
I have in my mind. My fortune, as I 
have often told you, I intend to leave to 
your children. You and I are not young. 
Our incomes are sufficient for our wants 
and to spare. Should I ask too much, if 
I were to ask you to give me one of 
your daughters ?” 

“ How do you mean ?” 

“ You keep one, and let me take the 
other with me to Home. You know that 
I am at the mercy of servants. I am 
beginning to be tired of having no one 
about me to sew on a button : I eat 
without appetite, because I am alone at 
table without anyone with whom to ex- 
change a word. If I had the company 
of a niece she should have a lady com- 
anion, and behold immediately I should 
e surrounded by crowds : one day 
would be occupied in preparing the 



linen for the washing woman ; another 
in receiving it back again : people would 
thus pass in and out : a cat and a canary 
would be added : these would have ad- 
ventures : these adventures would be 
talked about : the women would be in 
commotion : silence would be no more. 
What say you ?” 

“ I see no great objection,” answered 
Maur. “ But which would you wish to 
go with you to Borne ?” 

“ Whichever you wish ; but the 
younger one would give me more peace : 
you know I do not like to scold. I think 
Clotilde would adapt herself easier to a 
house-keeper’s life.” 

“ I understand, but do you intend — 
excuse me, I am a father- — do you in- 
tend to favour her in your will ?” 

“ Why should I ? You know they are 
both equally dear to me.” 

It did not require many words to fin- 
ish this negotiation. 

For Maur, it was all he could desire. 
He knew that his child in Chaffred’s 
hands would be better than in his own. 
The choice even pleased him, for he 
preferred Clelie. He would call C!o- 
tilde, and tell her. 

“No,” said Chaffred, “let us wait un- 
til the last ; we shall thus avoid all dis- 
cussion. As to leave-taking it can be 
compressed into one morning, to the 
great sparing of sighs and tears. Let 
me act after my own fashion ; I will 
speak to her at the proper time and 

“ Do as you please. We are agreed.” 
Meanwhile Pius VII. moved slowly 
through the French provinces. He was 
anxiously expected at Turin, where it 
was intended to receive him with even 
greater demonstrations than on his last 
visit. Chaffred wished to go before him 
to Borne. One day after dinner, he de- 
scribed to his nieces the events of the 
pontifical journey. He spoke of them 
as though he had been present. 

The Pope travels in the midst of tri- 
umphs ; no sooner is one over than an- 
other begins. The dear Frenchmen! 
they have always been better than their 
governments. They are no longer that 
howling pack of maniacs, which rolled 
down the Alps to chew up the priests. 
For after all, the Jacobins are neither 
Frenchmen nor human beings : they no 
more have a fatherland than they have 

laws. You can recognize a true French- 
man, for he always says I am a Catho- 
lic. They wanted to make us believe 
that this great nation had been converted 
into pagans, when behold, they take the 
Pope by assault in order to get his bless- 
ing. It is to be feared that some of 
them will let themselves be crushed be- 
neath the wheels of the papal chariot. 

“ Ali which goes to shew,” said Maur, 

“ that the French sail whichever way 
the wind blows.” 

“ Wrong, my brother. It is the Pope 
who has been bourne on the popular 
wave like a ship before a storm. Once 
within the palace of Cardinal Fesch, he 
could not get out again. The case was 
serious. The poor Pope saw his car- 
riage at a distance, but saw no hopes of 
reaching it, though it was only two hun- 
dred paces distant, such was the crush 
and throng of people anxious to get 
near him. The gendarmes seeing that 
it was impossible for his carriage to 
come to him, asked him to walk to it 
and they would escoit him. The Pope 
set out — the gendarmes shouted to the 
people threatened ; made their horses 
rear in order to gain a little space 
through which his holiness might pass. 
Thus the Pope on foot, surrounded by 
mounted gendarmes, gave his blessing 
to the people. Thus he pressed on, but 
it so happened that at the very moment 
he thought to enter port he suffered ship- 
wreck. As he was placing one foot upon 
the carriage step he found his other 
foot held fast. He would have fallen 
forward but that he placed his hands 
upon the shoulders of two soldiers who 
stood guarding the carriage. Move his 
foot he could not. A young woman 
who had crawled amongst the horse’s 
legs, held the foot firmly with her two 
hands for she wished to kiss the pon- 
tiff’s slipper, and to hold it until her 
mother at her side could kiss it too.” 

“ Oh how I wish had been in her 
place ; ” cried out Clothilde with enthu- 

“ All the days of the week are not 
Sundays ” ,;said Chaffred. “ Who would 
have obtained you an audience ? Ah if 
we were at Borne ah yes ! then the 
thing would be easy. Tell me which of 
you will come with me to Borne ? 

“ I,” answered Clotilde quickly ; “ but 
who will bring me back at Turin ? ” 



“ She who goes with me must remain 
at Eome until I return. Your father 
consents to that. Do you not ? ” 

“ Ah yes, certainly,” answered Maur, 
“ How can it be otherwise if uncle 
Chafferd wishes it ? ” 

“ Well then,” said Chaffred, u draw 
lots to know which goes.” 

“ Ho lot drawing ” said Maur. “ I 
will arrange it all. The elder stays 
with her father ; the younger goes with 
her uncle ; ” saying this Maur passed 
his arm around Clotilde’s waist and 
kissed her. 

“ Will you not go with your uncle 
my dear one ? He goes to-morrow and 
will return in a year.” 

At this sudden announcement of so 
speedy a separation Clotilde felt the 
sharp pang of paternal love shoot to 
her heart : her tongue could only pro- 
nounce a low “ yes ” : immediately she 

“ But you and Olelie will come to see 
me at Eome.” 

On the following day uncle and niece 
took post for Eome. 

( To be continued.') H. B. 


The following are the main heads of the 
Land Bill as it has finally passed both 
Houses of Parliament : — 

I — Tenant may sell his tenancy for 
the best price he can get. Conditions : — 

1. Sale to one person only. 

2. Notice to landlord. 

3. Landlord may purchase on receiv- 
ing notice. 

4. Tenant must state consideration. 

5. Court may declare sale void. 

6. Landlord may object to purchaser. 

7. Court may recompense landlord for 
debt out of the purchase money. 

8. Wnere improvements made by land- 
land, purchase money apportioned by 

9. Landlord may give notice that he 
has claims on the estate. 

10. Where purchase money paid into 
Court, Court must determine all appli- 

11. Tenant who has sold his tenancy 
shall not be entitled to compensation for 
disturbance or improvement. 

12. Tenant, if holding subject to Ul- 

ster tenant right system, may sell in 
pursuance of that custom or in pursu- 
ance of this section ; but not both. 

II — When a person receives a tenan- 
cy as a bequest, he must be accepted by 
the landlord as though he were a pur- 

III — When landlord demands increase 
of rent, then 

1. Tenancy shall be deemed, if tenant 
accepts, a tenancy subject to statutory 
conditions for fifteen years. 

2. If tenant does not accept, tenancy 
shall be sold and tenant shall receive 
amount by which Court decides the 
selling of tenancy to have been depre- 
ciated below amount which would have 
been selling value if rent were fair rent. 

3. If tenant does not accept he is en- 
titled to compensation for disturbance. 

4. Tenant, in place of accepting or 
declining such increase, may apply to 
Court to have the rent fixed. 

5. When landlord cannot agree with 
tenant on the subject he may also have 
access to the Court. 

The last clause was an amendment of 
the Lords. Mr. Gladstone’s assent to it 
provoked the hostility of the Irish 

IY — Tenant shall not be compelled to 
pay increase of rent unless he violates 
what are in this act referred to as statu- 
tory conditions, viz : — 

1. Punctual payment of rent. 

2. No waste. 

3. No subdivision or subletting. 

4. No act whereby tenancy becomes 
vested in assignee in bankruptcy. 

5. Not refusing landlord right of en- 
try for purpose of mining, cutting, 
hunting or fishing. 

6. Not opening a house for the sale 
of intoxicating liquors. 

Y and YI — Eepealing portion of the 
Land Bill and Tenant (Ireland) Act of 

YII — 1. Court may determine fair 

2. Eent thus fixed, called judicial rent, 
payable first rent day after decision. 

3. When rent thus fixed, tenancy to 
be held under statutory conditions for 
fifteen years. 

4. Court may disallow application 
under this section when improvements 
have been made and maintained by 



5. When application is made land- 
lord and tenant may agree to fix a 
special value for tenancy. Then if tenant 
wants to sell landlord has right of pur- 
chase at that value. 

6. Statutory terms not renewed till 
preceding statutory term has ixpired. 

7. No application for judicial rent 
may be made till the last twelve months 
of the current statutory term. 

8. No rent payable in respect of im- 
provements made by tenant. 

9. Court may take action when it 
considers the conduct of landlord or 
tenant to be unreasonable. 

XII — 1. Time of sale limited to one 
month after receipt of notice to quit. 

2. Court may enlarge time. 

3. Court may suspend proceedings 
taken against tenant, unless for breach 
of statutory conditions. 

4. If notice to quit is served for 
breach of statutory condition tenant 
may apply to Court, and if Court thinks 
adequate satisfaction is made by pay- 
ment of damages to landlord, it may 
so order. 

XVIII. — Tenancy deemed to have 
determined when landlord has resumed 
possession by purchase, or default, or 
operation of law. 

XIX. — Existing leases to continue as 
though this Act had not passed. Pro- 
vided that at their expiration they 
become subject to its provisions ; and 
if, since the Act of 18*70, the Court con- 
siders the acceptance of any lease to 
have been unreasonable it may annul it. 

XXIII — 1. Estates may be purchased 
by the Land Commission to resell to a 
“ competent number of tenants.” 

2. Sale by Commission to tenant may 
be^in consideration of a fine and of a 
fee farm rent. 

3. Land Commission may advance to 
tenant sum not exceeding seventy-five 
per cent of the price. 

4. Commission may indemnify, and 
such indemnity will be a charge on the 
Consolidated Fund. 

To this must be added the Lord’s 
amendment, accepted by Mr. Gladstone, 
that any applicant to the Commission 
who may consider himself aggrieved 
may appeal to the Court of Appeals in 
Ireland, with the limitation that the 
leave of the Court must be asked. 

Ballyshannon, Co. Donegal. 

Appeal of the Sisters of Mercy to the 
Irish in America , 

We, the Sisters of Mercy, Ballyshan- 
non, Ireland, appeal most earnestly to 
the charity of the Irish in America, in 
aid of the building fund of our new 
Convent of Mercy here. 

Brought here in 1861 by the Most 
Rev. Dr. M’Gettigan, now Primate of 
all Ireland, we have been, for the past 
fourteen years, struggling in a house 
which proved altogether unsuited to 
our wants, and which, by reason of its 
unhealthy character, has cost us great 
loss of life. 

Out of a small community of ten, six 
of our number died within three years, 
and three of these within a period of 
five months, all these deaths being in 
every instance the result of the damp 
unhealthy house we still occupy. 

But though it has pleased God to try 
ourselves sorely, yet we have not been 
lelt without warm sympathy and gene- 
rous support. One gentleman in Wex- 
ford, a perfect stranger to this county 
of Donegal as well as to every member 
of our community, hearing of our suf- 
ferings, sent us a munificent donation 
of £500 as a start for a new convent 
building fund, and this munificence 
largely seconded by bishops, priests, 
and laity — and many of the last named 
not of our own faith — has enabled us to 
lay the foundations of a commodious and 
substantial building, and the works have 
now been carried as far as the roof. 
But our people here, though most cha- 
ritable, are mostly poor, and our under- 
taking, involving an expenditure of 
£5,000, is for us a very heavy one. To 
discharge this liability the numerous 
and liberal charities of ^ur countrymen 
at home have already enabled us to 
make payments to our contractor to 
the extent of £3,000, and it is to meet 
the large and pressing want of £2,000 
still remaining that we now appeal to 
the generosity of the great Republic of 
the West. 

Now, therefore, that the works are 
suspended for want of further aid, we 



ask for the love of God, a share in that 
charity of our countrymen in America 
which has already helped to raise up so 
many churches and convents in the old 
land of their birth and their love, and 
we turn especially to all those beyond 
the Atlantic who are proud to own the 
soil of old Tyrconnell as the land of 
their fathers to help us with a generous 
hand to raise up for God’s poor a Con- 
vent ot the Sisters of Mercy on most 
hallowed and historic ground. Our new 
building will be within a stone’s throw 
of the famed “ Abbey Assaroe,” its 
foundations are placed on the very 
spot, at the mouth of the Erne, where 
once stood the Castle of the lordly 
O’Donnell’s, and it will be the first con- 
vent erected in this ancient diocese 
since the days of the penal times. 

And now, for every help, however 
small, that may be sent us, we promise 
the only return that we can give — the 
heartfelt and undying prayers of our 
little community, that the goodness of 
God may reward a hundred fold, even 
in this life, all of our country’s sons 
and daughters in America who show 
themselves our benefactors and our 

Approbation of the Bishop of the Diocese. 

Dear Reverend Mother, 

I earnestly recommend to the kind consi- 
deration of the charitable your appeal for 
aid to complete your new Convent in Bally- 
shannon. It is sad to see the work stopped 
through want of funds, while your Sisters 
pining away in their present unhealthy 
abode, and so cramped for space as to be 
unable to carry out efficiently the works of 
charity to which they have devoted them- 

Trusting that your appeal may meet with 
the success which the purity of your motives 
and the excellence of your work deserve. 

I am, dear Reverend Mother, 

Yours faithfully, 

Bishop ofRaphoe. 
Letterkenny, 22nd July, 1881. 

Donations will be most gratefully 
received and acknowledged by the 
Most Rev. Dr. Logue, Letterkenny, Co. 
Donegal; Very Rev. D. Spence, P.P. ; 
Rev. H. A. Gallagher, C.C. ; Rev. P. 
Kelly, C.C., Ballyshannon, Co. Donegal; 
or Sister M. Ignatius M‘Carthy, Supe- 
rioress, Convent of Mercy, Ballayshan- 
non, Co. Donegal, Ireland. 


Mr. J. G. Kohl, a practical minded 
German, who travelled in Ireland, and 
a gentleman by no means ill-disposed 
towards England, gives expression to 
the opinion that Ireland’s land system 
was at the root of her sufferings, and 
wonders that not even the great Tri- 
bune had once thought or spoken of 
any means of effecting a change in favor 
of the agricultural population, “ the 
most important and first class of socie- 
ty, upon which rests the whole fabric 
of the state, as upon its base.” Now 
that after the lapse of many years the 
views propounded by him have come 
to be seriously discussed, his words are 
well worth consideration. He observes : 
<e Iu most of the civilized countries 
of Europe — in France by a revolu- 
tion, in almost all the states of Germany by 
wise reforms — the nobility have been de 
prived of their old feudal rights over the 
oppressed and subjugated peasantry ; and 
these, from serfs and slaves, have been turn- 
ed into small free proprietors of the soil. 
Nay, even in Russia, within the last ten 
years, many introductory measures have 
been taken towards making peasants more 
independent of their lords and gradually to 
give them the ownership of the land which 
they till. In England and Ireland only, 
people have not ventured even to think on 
the question whether it would not be very 
wise to grant the poor, serfish Irish farmers 
the freehold of their soil ; or, if this could 
not be effected without a revolution, at least 
to follow the example of Russia, Saxony, etc, 
and, by reforms and measures introductory 
to changing the tentants-at-will into heredi- 
tary possessors, to regulate and reduce the 
rents of these tenants by law, and then to 
permit , and finally to insist on, the tenant’s 
right to purchase his land ; and by these 
means to Form a class of free peasants and 
small independent landowners. No one has 
for a moment thought of enquiring, as has 
been done in France and Germany — nay, 
even in the Baltic provinces of Russia— 
whether the peasant has not an older and 
better right to the soil than the noble land- 
owner who grew over his head gradually by 
force and oppression, and took away from 
him by degrees the land of his fathers. 
There is in England so holy an awe of inter- 
fering with the rights of property as recog- 
nized by the state that no one is capable of 
taking so comprehensive and elevated a 
view of the subject as would enable him to 
perceive that, under certain circurr stanees, 
it would be the highest wisdom for the state 
itself to violate these rights.” 

Mr. Kohl then goes on to speak of 



the titles by which the landed nobility 
of Europe hold their property and serfs, 
and remarks that where estates have 
been obtained by conquest the state 
might justly take them away from the 
original conquerors or their descendants, 
could they be found, and restore them 
to the poor peasants from whom they 
had been wrested. 

“ Prussia,” he says, “ and other countries 
not only did this, but, since they could not 
distinguish the just possessors from the un- 
just, they treated both alike, and compelled 
them, willing or unwilling, with or without 
title, to resign their pernicious and foolish 
privileges and accept a certain moderate 
indemnity. What Prussia and other coun- 
tries have done towards a nobility with much 
better titles people in Ireland do not dare 
even to think of doing with respect to a nobi- 
lity with the worst of all possible titles. 
Land-owners growing, as it were, out of the 
people themselves, and possessing their 
estates from time immemorial, may be said 
not to exist in Ireland; for the old national 
Irish nobles and landlords have, with few 
exceptions, become completely destroyed. 
The most honorable and best title an Irish 
family can show is force and conquest.” 

This assertion Mr. Kohl justifies by 
the statement that many Irish land- 
lords obtained their claim to their pro- 
perty “ by procuring confiscations in 
their favor surreptitiously, by trea- 
chery and fraud.” He adds : “ One 
can easily imagine by what villanies 
estates were acquired in a land where 
for a long time there existed a law by 
which a younger brother, on turning 
Protestant, could deprive his elder bro- 
ther, or a son his father, of his estates. 
And to these villanies and frauds of 
their ancestors most of the land-owning 
families of Ireland can be proved to 
owe their estates. When lands are held 
by such titles as these might not any 
reasonable government justly interpose, 
and if it could not be accomphished 
without a revolution, yet at least by 
gradual reform convert the poor tenants- 
at-will into peasant owners, so that the 
suffering millions may not for ever live 
in misery for the advantage of a few 
oligarchs ? ” 

For want of a nail the shoe was lost, 
for want of a shoe the horse was lost, 
for want of a horse the rider was lost, 
being overtaken by the enemy. 


A great and shameful scandal has been 
detected in a Scotch missionary settle- 
ment on the coast of Africa. It has 
been investigated, and the result is the 
summary recall of the Scotch Mission- 
aries, who were pronounced guilty of 
cruelly treating the natives, even to 
flogging them without cause, and of 
making an unjust war upon a native 
chief, who fortunately was not van- 

It is amazing that no question has 
been asked in Parliament concerning 
this hideous scandal, considering that it 
is but a repetition of similar scandals 
which made the name of English mis- 
sionaries odious in Australasia. 

For England to send out missionaries 
at all, however, is to merit the Divine* 
Rebuke : “ Thou hypocrite ! pluck first 
the beam out of thine own eye ere thou 
seekest the mote in thy neighbour’s.’' 
In one provincial English paper we 
have counted in the space of one-half 
column, five murder cases, entitled re- 
spectively . 

Strange murder by a mother, 

Alleged confession ot murder, 

The Derbyshire murder, 

Attempt to murder a wife. 

Determined wife murder by an old 

Could not missionaries do anything 
to prevent these crimes, since the Gov- 
ernment will not ? Again, read the 
following extract from an English 
paper : 

A Lancashire correspondent writes : 
—The little town of Stacksteads, in the 
Rosendale Yallev, was on Saturday the 
scene of a terrible fight between a man 
and a powerful and ferocious bull-dog. 
The brutal affair resembles in all its bar- 
baric aspects a similar combat which 
took place at Hanley, in the Black 
Country, a few years ago, between 
“ Brummy” and “ Physic.” At Stack- 
steads probably, more than in any other 
place in the Rosendale Yalley, there is- 
a very large preponderance of the rough 
element. "One of the most notorious of 
this class is a tall, burly and ferocious- 
looking man who is known by the 
name of “ Samson,” and who occasion- 
ally varies the monotony of his every- 
day life by drinking, fighting, gambling 



and other nefarious practices, and not 
unfrequently does he go through the 
performance of worrying live rats, to 
the great delight of his associates ; in- 
deed, he occasionally tries his teeth on 
pots, glasses and plates, whilst bones of 
any description are to him as but 
ordinary food. His last adventure took 
place, as before stated, on Saturday, 
when he had a fearful light for a large 
amount of money with a powerful and 
ferocious bull-dog, weighing about 
601bs., and which is noted for its prow- 
ess. His master having frequently 
boasted of the powers of the dog, a few 
nights ago challenged “ Samson” to 
fight it, which was no sooner done than 
it received a ready response. The 
agreement was that the dog should have 
the same chances as if pitted against 
another of the canine species, while the 
man was to have his hands securely 
fastened in front of him. Everything 
being ready, a man in the garb of a 
quarry man gave the word “ go,” upon 
which “ Samson” descended to the level 
of the brute, and on hands and knees 
waited the attack of the dog. The 
latter, on being unmuzzled, was 
hounded on by the yells of the specta- 
tors, and at once rushed at the man’s 
throat, when the fearful combat com- 
menced. The yelling of the crowd 
ceased, the spectators of the disgusting 
scene looking on with bated breath. 
The brute made several futile attempts 
at the man’s throat, -but the latter 
dodging it for some time, the onlookers 
became impatient, and again and again 
hounded on the dog. Another struggle 
took place, and although brief, was a 
fearful one. The man tried, as for very 
life, to obtain a grip of the dog, whilst 
the brute in turn twisted and turned in 
every conceivable form to get hold of 
the man’s throat. At length, after a 
terrible encounter, “ Samson” succeeded 
in seizing the brute with his powerful 
teeth and pinning it to the ground, 
almost worried it. On rising to his 
feet the man presented a horrible sight, 
his face and arms having been terribly 
lacerated in the encounter. 

And England sends missionaries to 
Africa ! Is there no kind friend in 
Africa or elsewhere to send mission, 
aries to England ? 


“ I can pay my way, and am obliged 
to nobody, ” is a frequent expression of 
the selfish man. We fancy we see him, 
while he utters it, with his purse-proud 
defiant look, buttoning up his pocket 
as if he thought you a thief. 

You can pay your way, can you? You 
are obliged to nobody? Good sir, we don’t 
believe you know what you say. That 
you can pay your pecuniary debts we 
have no doubt, but these, it seems to us, 
are the least part of your obligations. 

You owe duties to society as a man, a 
citizen, a millionaire, of which, perhaps, 
you have never thought, certainly not 
as debts to be paid, in your own per- 
son, and by an expenditure of your own 
time, and thought, and money. My dear 
sir, consider this well. I)o not live and 
die in the false belief that, because you 
owe this debt to society in the abstract, 
Heaven will never require its payment 
at your hands. Ho not imagine, either, 
that you can delegate its liquidation to 
others. No well-salaried minister, no 
sleek visitor of the poor can become 
your middle-man in this matter, doing 
your work for you. Monopolize your 
time in mere money-making, and suf- 
fer your heart to grow hard as steel, as 
all hearts will that never come in con- 
tact directly with human misery. 

“ I can pay my way, ” you say ; “ I 
am obliged to nobody.” Perhaps as 
you utter these words you look rebuk- 
ingly at some poor debtor who has fail- 
ed to meet his engagements. Beware. 
O rich man ! “ Judge not, lest ye be 
judged. ” You know not what defects 
of early training, what cruel disaster of 
fortune, what treachery on the part of 
others may have led to this bankruptcy. 
With all his errors, and even faults, for 
probably he has not been entirely free 
from either, he may yet be a better 
man, taken all in all, than you, with 
all your bank stock, your mortgages, 
your ships, and your real estate. He 
may not neglect his children, as you, 
absorbed in your speculations, probably 
do, leaving their moral training to oth- 
ers instead of superintending it your- 
self. He may be a truer husband, not 
acting, as you perhaps do, as if a wife 
was either slave or plaything, and not a 
companion. He may be a kinder friend 



a more conscientious citizen, a man 
better imbued with the thousand sym- 
pathies of humanity. Believe us, there 
are more crimes than being in debt, 
though where debt comes from imprud- 
ence or a reckless spirit of speculation, 
it is, Heaven knows ! bad enough. 

“ I can pay my way,” you say ; “ I 
am obliged to nobody.” You are obliged, 
on the contrary, to every fellow-crea- 
ture with whom you are thrown into 
contact, either in special life or in busi- 
ness. Without their courtesy, their 
attention, their kindness, their society, 
you would be the most miserable crea- 
ture alive. Every hour you live you 
are indebted to some fellow-being for 
some attention or other, and it is only 
because they are so freely and com- 
monly given, like the air of heaven, 
that you do not realize their value. The 
time will come, if it has not already, 
when some great family affliction shall 
teach you that with all your riches you 
are but a frail, helpless, human creature ; 
and in that hour of grief and heart- 
wrung agony you will recognize at 
least, even if but for a moment, its pre- 
cious boon of human sympathy ; you 
will feel how much you owe, ofter all, 
to your fellows. 

Thank Heaven ! all rich men are not 
like you. They have been many in 
every generation who acknowledge that 
they owe other debts than pecuniary 
ones, and who strive faithfully to liqui- 
date them. Their number is increasing, 
moreover, with each successive genera- 
tion. When the day arrives, as we 
believe most firmly it will, when all 
rich men shall recognize the obligations 
they owe to society, the millennium, in 
one sense at least, will have come. Then 
may the rich man truly say, “ I can 
pay my way ; I am obliged to nobody.” 


Walking down the street in a thoughful 
mood, I find myself thinking of the 
people I meet. Many and varied are 
the faces around me— people of all classes 
and conditions, each one intent on their 
own plans and purposes. 

Here come two middle-aged ladies, 
chatting by the way, discussing very 
earnestly their day’s shopping in view. 
How come two little girls, dancing along, 

brimful of joy, careless and happy. Pass 
slowly, oh, Time ! Let the days of the 
happy child life be long and many ! 

Next comes a sad-faced lady, robed in 
mourning garments, which mutely tell 
of the loss of dear ones. She is leading 
a little boy by the hand, striving to in- 
terest him ; and as I pass them I hear the 
sweet voice pleading, “Be happy lor my 
sake, dear mamma !”which is answered 
by a flood of tears under the thick crape 
veil, and the instinctive clinging closer . 
yet to the little hand within her own. 
Oh, mother-love ! — strongest, purest of 
all, willing, glad to endure, without 
thought of self, for the life dearer even 
than its own. 

Just before me is an old man white- 
haired and bowed with age, staying his 
faltering steps with the staff in his hand; 
and as I pass him, I glance at the plea- 
sant face, and notice the smile wreathing 
the thin lips still. And I wonder if it is 
hard to be old — to.- know life is almost 
done. And this thought comes to me, 
“As life is spent so shall the end be.” If 
wasted, there must be unavailing regret ; 
if well spent, there is that consciousness 
of nearing to the joys unspeakable that 
are waiting. 

Just by me are two gentlemen walking 
arm-in-arm, one of whom is emphatically 
a business man. Business flashes from 
every glance of the eye; business speaks 
in every turn of the head ; and the amount 
of business details that flow from his 
mouth is astonishing. I should say that 
he is a stock- broker. His companion is 
a diminutive, shivering little man who 
abhors business in every form, and to 
whom the remarks of his business friend 
give no pleasure. 

And now my attention is attracted to 
a lady by my side, of some forty years, 
whose every step indicates her inde- 
pendence to mankind. That she is a 
spinster, I know by her general appear- 
ance. She has long arms ; she is tall and 
thin ; she has sharp eyes, sharp nose and 
has a sharp, fierce look generally. The 
cares of neighborhood scandal have left 
their lines upon her b|*pw, and her lids 
are thin from constant using. Ah ! good 
morning. She has stepped into a hair- 
dresser’s. I noticed there were three 
distinct colors in her chignon, and the 
little prim curls were hung around it. 

Don’t think I don’t like old maids. I 


5i 1 

do and have a great regard lor them. It is 
these cross, prim, selfish, gossiping old 
maids that I despise ; and I knew this 
was one of them. 

Ah, here comes a literary gentleman. 
That he is literary I know by the roll of 
manuscript he carries in his ink-stained 
fingers, and his preoccupied appearance 
as he hastens along, intent upon devis- 
ing some new scheme by which readers 
are to be instructed and amused at the 
same time. 

But my walk is ended, and I am home 
at last. Good morning. 


An easy way to make hard water 
soft is this : Fill the wash boiler with 
hard water, then put half a teacupful 
of wood ashes into a little cloth bag, let 
this lie in the water until that is warm 
enough to use. This is worth know- 

Washing Ties. — The best mode of 
washing gentlemen’s neckties is to let 
them soak a little, then wash with hot 
soap and water, rinse in cold water 
slightly blued, dry them, dip them 
once more in cold water, starch ar d 
wring them thoroughly; then iron. 

The juice of a lemon, squeezed into a 
glass of water, without sweetening, 
drank before breakfast at this season of 
the year, is said to be a preventive of 
malaria, and an excellent thing for al- 
most every one to take, particularly if 
they are biliously inclined. 

A thoroughly qualified medical man 
has recently, in the course of his prac- 
tice, come upon what he believes and 
uses as a specific remedy for small-pox. 
The remedy is the bi-tartr&te of potash, 
the common cream of tartar of the drug 
store ; two ounces dissolved in boiling- 
water, with the juice of a lemon and su- 
gar added. Let the patient drink as 
much as he likes, but not less than a 
wineglassful every hour: In some of 

his cases this medecine has exhibited 
the most remarkable curative effects. 
It will purge, but as it is perfectly 
harmless this will not matter, and it 
does not appear to be the cause of cure, 
the remedy acting specifically on the 
virus, the pustules collapsing, leaving 
no pits, and a perfeet cure following in 
a short time. 

Cement for Bottles and Cans. — Take 
of resin, sixteen ounces, beeswax, six 
ounces, best English Venetian red, six 
ounces, melt the resin and wax, and 
gradually stir in the red. 

Corn Cake. — One cup sugar, two 
eggs, four tablespoons of sweet cream, 
two tablespoons of soda, four teaspoons 
of cream tartar, two cups of corn meal 
and one of flour. Let it stand in the 
warming oven of your stove five min- 
utes, then bake ten minutes in a hot 

The following drink for relieving 
sickness of the stomach is said to be 
very palatable and agreeable : Beat 
up one egg very well, say for twenty 
minutes, then add fresh milk one 
pint, water one pint, sugar to make 
it palatable ; boil, and get it cool ; drink 
when cold. If it becomes curds and 
whey it is useless. 

Catsup. — Halve your tomatoes, place 
them in a firkin, with a layer of salt 
between each layer cf tomatoes. Let 
them stand over night. In the mor- 
ning, add seasoning cloves, allspice, 
and very little mace, and pepper and 
salt to taste ; then put on the stove and 
boil one hour. Take from the fire, and 
strain, and bottle. 

A Nice Breakfast Dish. — Eemove 
the skins from a dozen tomatoes ; cut 
them up in a sauce-pan ; add a little 
butter, pepper and salt ; when sufficien- 
tly boiled, beat up five or six eggs, and 
just before you serve turn them into the 
sauce-pan with the tomatoes and stir 
one way for two minutes, allowing 
them time to be done thoroughly. 

According to La France Medicale, 
borax has been employed with advan- 
tage in cases of hoarseness and aphonia 
occurring suddenly from the action of 
cold. The remedy is recommended to 
singers and orators whose voices sudden- 
ly become lost, but which by these 
means can be recovered instantly. A 
little piece of borax the size of a pea is 
to be slowly dissolved in the mouth ten 
minutes before singing or speaking. 
The remedy provokes an abundant se- 
cretion of saliva, which moistens the 
mouth and throat. This local action of 
the borax should be aided by an equal 
dose of nitrate of potassium, taken in 
warm solution before going to bed. 




The real lucky fisherman is the one 
who doesn’t catch the rheumatism. 

If a man sitting on a chest is shot at, 
he would prefer, if hit at all, to be hit 
in his chest. 

What law has been the greatest 
terror to evil doers since the world 
began ? The mother-in-law. 

Jones said that the clouds of his early 
childhood were no bigger than a 
woman’s hand, but a squall always fol- 
lowed them. 

When a man and a woman are made 
one by a clergyman, the question is, 
which is the one. Sometimes there is 
a long struggle between them before 
this matter is finally settled. 

The first poetic “ fragment ” com- 
menced in these words : “ I sipped 

the nectar of her lips ; sipped and hov- 
ered o’er her.” And the last part was 
as follows : “ Her father’s hoof flash’d 

on the scene : I’m wiser now, and 

A wit says : “ In Germany, when a 
paper says anything witty, they kill 
the editor ; and not one editor has been 
killed there for two hundred years.” 

There is reason to respect the genu- 
ineness of that religion which is too 
modest to bear the gaze, and too delicate 
to bear the touch of the world. 

An old Highlander rather fond of his 
toddy was ordered by his physician, 
during a temporary illness, not to 
exceed one ounce of spirits daily. The 
old gentleman was dubious about the 
amount, and asked his son, a school- 
boy, how much an ounce was. “Sixteen 
drachms,” was the reoly. “ Sixteen 
drams! What an excellent doctor! 
exclaimed the Highlander. “ Run and 
tell Donald McTavish and big John to 
come down the night.” 

A Puzzle. — Is it possible to take 45 
from 45 and let your remainder be 45 ? 
Yes, for example — 

98765432 1—45 
12345678 9—45 

8641975 3 2—45 


Every plain girl has one consolation. 
If she is not a pretty young lady, she 
will, if she lives, be a pretty old one. 

A sign announcing “ The Yacuum 
Cure” is hung out from the window of 
an eating-house up town. 

A sign on an academy, Aberdeen, 
reads : “ Freeman & Huggs ; Freeman 
teaches the boys, and Huggs the girls.” 

A lovely poem, entitled “The Sui- 
cide,” is going the rounds just now. 
The poets have finally got into the right 

“ Better late than never,” if applied 
to going for a train, is incorrect, as a 
man has only so much extra trouble by 

Fifteen years ago an innocent young 
girl promised her lover that she would 
wait for him. To prove how she kept 
her word it is merely necessary to re- 
mark that, although she is now his wife, 
she frequently waits for him until two 

A. M. 

Grace : “ I’m going to see Clara to- 
day.” Charlotte: “I wonder how you 
can visit that dreadful girl.” Grace : 
'“Well, I must be off; have you any 
message ?” Charlotte : “ Ho, I don’t 
think of anything now — but don’t for- 
get to give her my love.” 

Killing the Prodigal. — A dissipated 
young man, who ran away from home 
and spent his substance in riotous liv- 
ing, resolved at last to return to the 
paternal roof. His father was kind 
enough to forgive the young rascal for 
his wickedness, and rushing into the 
house, overcome with joy that the boy 
had returned, cried out to his wife — 
“ Let us kill the prodigal ; the calf has 
returned ! ” 

Who Shot the Dorg ? — As one of 
the Dover, England, volunteers was 
passing one day, rifle in hand, he was 
accosted by a precocious urchin, who 
called out : “ Who shot the dog ! ” 

This saying our friend appeared by no 
means to relish. So turning he said : 
“ If you are no't off very soon, I’ll shoot 
a donkey.” Whereupon the boy calling 
out to one of his companions, rejoined: 
“ I say, Bill, look here — this fellow 
is just going to commit suicide.”