NAZARETH.

But since their researches already give occasion to perceptions so simple and so grand, since they open horizons in the distance where light certainly exists, since there is from the stand-point of truth a serene and unalterable confidence in the final and definite results of modern discoveries, we may be permitted even now to describe them for the elevation and the encouragement of the mind, for the justification and the honor of human science, for the revindication of the grandeur and of the glory of God.

After a residence of two months in the holy city of Jerusalem, the writer of this sketch left the shrines of the Cross and the Tomb to visit the sacred localities of Palestine. Going northward, and passing by Jacob's well and Samaria, our party came to Jenin, on the borders of the plain of Esdrælon, where we encamped for the night; and on the next day, which was Thursday, April 5th, 1866, went to Jezreel, to the great fountain which springs from the base of the mountain of Gilboa, on which Saul and Jonathan were slain; then passed through Nain, where our Lord raised the widow's son, and Endor. Leaving Mount Thabor on our right, we came to the foot of the steep hill on the other side of which is Nazareth. After a wearisome ascent, in the middle of the afternoon, we saw the city of the annunciation at our feet.

Nazareth is in a valley about one mile long, running east and west, and only a quarter of a mile wide. Fifteen hills inclose this small space. The whole of this valley, not occupied by the houses, is filled with gardens, corn-fields, and small groves of olive and fig-trees. The houses are irregularly placed, and are evidently more comfortable than many others in the Holy Land. Being all constructed of white stone, they have a substantial appearance. But the streets cannot be praised. Irregular in their course, they are the filthiest we had anywhere seen. This wretched condition of the streets is the more noticeable because the people are superior to other dwellers in the land, and apparently more intelligent, well-fed, and housed. Several buildings were in the course of erection; and it seemed that the village was prospering. The houses stand on the lower slope of a hill about four hundred feet high, and on the adjacent ridges. About four thousand people make up the population, all Christians except seven hundred Mohammedans. Of the Christians, the schismatic Greeks number about one thousand, and the Roman Catholics and Greek Catholics have each about five hundred persons. There is an air of independence and relative comfort about all the people here which contrasts with the sad and desponding manners of the residents in other eastern places. Wherever Turks rule, cheerfulness is unknown.

On entering Nazareth, we rode to the further end of the village, and encampedin a pleasant spot quite near the fountain of the Virgin, a place to which all travellers who remain in their tents resort, as it is usual to encamp in the vicinity of water. Besides this, the fountain is the best place to see the people of the village, it being the common place of resort, especially for women. This spring is the only one in the place; and for that reason it has many visitors. From early dawn until late in the afternoon, women of every age come here with jars or pitchers on their heads or shoulders. The streams of water are not copious, and there is often delay in obtaining the supply, especially in seasons of drought. While waiting here to fill their jars, the women gossip and chat, and thus each one hears the news of the day. Women of every rank go to the fountain for water—partly that they may not appear to be above their neighbors, and partly, it may be surmised, to hear what is going on. Little girls are trained to carry the water-jar on the head—for them, of course, the jar is small—and every person has a small pad or cushion on her head to support the jar and prevent injury. From this habit of so bearing these jars, all the women of Nazareth are straight and erect in their carriage, and have much grace and dignity of motion. Not only are they finely formed, but their faces are the most beautiful in Palestine; and there is a pleasing tradition that the Blessed Virgin Mary left the gift of beauty to the women of her city. Their dress is also graceful, consisting of large, short trowsers, a close-fitting jacket, and a long white veil which does not cover the face. For ornament they use a string of silver and gold coins around the head and chin, many of which are very heavy and valuable—uncomfortable decorations at the best, but showing the dowry of the wearer.

I thought that the water of the fountain of Nazareth was the best I had ever tasted; perhaps this was fancy, but certainly the water is most pure and excellent, and is renowned for those qualities. To this fountain, without doubt, the Blessed Virgin came hundreds of times, being trained like other children to bear the water-jar from early years. Here she talked with her neighbors, and lived in a manner undistinguished from other poor girls. And whoever will go to-day to that fountain in Nazareth, or to the one near the shrine of the Visitation in the hills of Judea, will see young women looking just as Mary did eighteen hundred years ago; for habits of life and dress have scarcely changed in the east during that long time. The water at Nazareth rises about eight or ten rods from the place where it is poured into the jars, being conveyed to the latter place in an aqueduct; and the schismatic Greek Christians have built a church at the spot where it issues from the ground, on account of an old tradition that the annunciation took place at the spring when the Blessed Virgin went there for water. There is this great advantage resulting from the error of the Greeks, that, on account of their belief in it, they leave the spot where the annunciation really took place in the quiet possession of the Catholics, the Franciscan monks being the custodians of the shrine.

Now let us walk to the most holy place, which is at the other end of the village, and some distance from our tents. The premises are extensive, and consist of large buildings, surrounded by a high wall. Passing through the gate, we come to a court, around which are the school-rooms, the pharmacy, the quarters of the superior and other monks; from this larger area we go to a smaller one immediately in front of the churchThe church itself is about seventy feet square, and the roof is supported by four very heavy piers or square columns. These piers, and much of the walls, are covered with tapestry hangings, with embroidery and paintings; and the whole edifice, though not very large, has a fine, rich, and cheerful appearance, as if arranged for a perpetual festival. As we enter the church, immediately before us is a flight of fifteen very broad steps, leading down to the shrine. At the foot of these stairs is a vestibule, about twenty-five feet long by ten wide, and a low arch, opening in the middle of this space, admits to the holy place. There is a marble altar, and under the altar is a marble slab, four inches above the floor; it has the Jerusalem cross in the centre, with the Franciscan coat of arms on the right, and the sacred stigmata, or five wounds of the crucified Saviour, on the left. This marble marks the spot where the Blessed Virgin stood at the time of the annunciation. On the back wall, under the altar, is the inscription, "Verbum caro hic factum est," (Here the Word was made flesh,) the most wonderful and important inscription in the world. That at Bethlehem, where it is written that "Here, of the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ was born," could never have been engraved but for the event commemorated in the words of the shrine at Nazareth. Above the altar is a picture well painted and old, but spoiled by the flat gold crowns which have been fastened to the canvas over the heads of the Blessed Virgin and the angel. Below the table of the altar, and over the marble slab, hang several silver lamps which burn continually. Immediately behind this altar and picture are another altar and picture, back to back with those of the shrine. The second altar has the inscription, "Hic erat subditus illis," (Here He was subject to them.) Behind these, and reached by a narrow rock-hewn stairway, is the kitchen of the Blessed Virgin, where the fireplace and chimney are shown.

As we come into the church by the chief entrance, a most cheerful and pleasant scene welcomes the pilgrim. The gay decorations, the many paintings, the statues and silver lamps, with other objects, make a contrast with the dreariness of the ride to Nazareth, which seems to the Christian like a glimpse of heaven. He raises his eyes, and sees the choir where the Franciscan monks chant their office. Here is an altar with a large statue of the Blessed Virgin and the Infant Jesus, surmounted by a canopy. There are two large organs in the choir, one at the right, the other at the left. This choir is raised about sixteen steps above the floor of the church, and is immediately over the most holy place, of which it may be said to form the roof. As the shrine is about fifteen steps below the level of the church floor, the distance between the spot of the annunciation and the choir above it is about thirty steps. It gives the idea of three churches—the first being the main building, the second that of the holy place, which is below, and the third that of the monks' choir, which is immediately over the shrine. As we look down the broad stair which leads to the shrine, we see that the walls are cased with marble and adorned with paintings. Before us is the holy place, to which the eye is at once drawn; but before we reach it, in the vestibule, on the right and left hand, stand beautiful marble altars, each with a painting over it. In the whole arrangement there is a dignity and propriety which strike the pilgrim most favorably, and he recognizes it as planned by men who had a vivid realization of the event which is the gloryof Nazareth. To the left of the altar of the shrine is the upper two thirds of a large granite column suspended from the roof, with a fragment of a marble column under it; though these are both of dark stone, and of nearly the same color and size, it is easy to note the difference in the material of which they are composed.

It was on Friday, April 6th, that I first said mass at the shrine of the annunciation. The interest of this spot is very great, even when compared with other places in Palestine; and I had looked forward, with great hope and expectation, to the day when I would be permitted to kneel and pray here. At last my wish was realized, and I offered the holy sacrifice on the very spot where the incarnation of God took place. By a concession of the holy see, the mass of the annunciation may be said on this altar nearly every day in the year; so that the pilgrim, coming at any season may have the consolation of being present at the same mass as is said on the 25th of March. Of course, every priest avails himself with eagerness of this privilege; and no words can express the emotion of his soul as, when reading the last gospel, in speaking the wordset Verbum caro factum est, he kneels down on the very spot where that mystery took place, where the incarnation of God began. For it was to Nazareth that God sent his holy Archangel Gabriel:

"to a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the virgin's name was Mary. And the angel being come in, said to her, Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women. And when she had heard, she was troubled at his saying, and thought with herself what manner of salutation this should be. And the angel said to her, Fear not, Mary, for thou hast found grace with God. Behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and shalt bring forth a son: and thou shalt call his name Jesus. He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Most High: and the Lord God shall give unto him the throne of David his father; and he shall reign in the house of Jacob for ever; and of his kingdom there shall be no end. And Mary said to the angel, How shall this be done, because I know not man? And the angel answering, said to her: The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Most High shall overshadow thee; and therefore also the Holy which shall be born of thee, shall be called the Son of God.... And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done to me according to thy word. (St. Luke i.)And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us." (St. John i.)

And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us." (St. John i.)

After having prayed a long time, prostrate at the shrine, I sat down at the side of the broad flight of steps leading to the holy place, and meditated for an hour. Before me was the spot where all these things occurred, and where man's redemption was begun. It was easy to go back one thousand eight hundred years, and picture the scene. The lowly maiden in her humble home, engaged, it may have been, in the ordinary occupations of the day, or perchance resting for a time from them, and meditating on God, when suddenly the room was filled with light, and the angel appeared and delivered his august message. Then in the house which once stood here the child Jesus lived, and grew in favor with God and man. He ran about the humble but sacred home in his boyhood, and wandered among the hills that are so close around Nazareth. Many a time did he go with Mary to the fountain when she brought water for the use of the family. By her side he kept in his early years, as children are wont to cling to their mothers. When he had grown older, he helped Joseph in the work of carpentry, and went with him as he journeyed to the various places where he found work. No doubt the employment was humble, the tools rude and few; and it is reasonable to suppose that such work as ahumble carpenter might find among poor villagers or fishermen at the Lake of Tiberias was not of the most elegant and costly kind. Even to this day there is great simplicity and rudeness in all the mechanic arts, which is noticed by the traveller, and it must have been equally so in the country places in the days of our Saviour.

Thus for thirty years did Jesus dwell in Nazareth, undistinguished from others by any external appearance, and leading a hidden life of contemplation and communing with his heavenly Father.

When his ministry had begun, after his baptism in the Jordan and his temptation of forty days in the wilderness, he came to Nazareth, and went into the synagogue, according to his custom, and read out of the book which was handed to him the words of Isaias,

"The spirit of the Lord is upon me; wherefore he hath anointed me to preach the Gospel to the poor. He hath sent me to heal the contrite of heart, to preach deliverance to the captives, and sight to the blind; to set at liberty them that are bruised, to preach the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of reward. And he began to say to them, This day is fulfilled this Scripture in your ears."

When they had rejected his teaching, he went to Capernaum, on the borders of the Sea of Galilee, fifteen miles east from Nazareth, and the people there were astonished at his doctrine and the miracles which he performed. Subsequently he visited Nazareth a second time, and was taunted by the people of the place, who regarded him as only one of their neighbors. They said, "Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary, the brother of James and Joseph, and of Jude and Simon? are not also his sisters here with us? And they were scandalized in regard of him." The greater portion of our Lord's life, during the three following years, was passed in the neighborhood of the Lake of Tiberias, or near Jerusalem.

Nazareth has one or two other places of interest, yet they are of small note in comparison of the shrine of the annunciation. One of these is the place where stood the workshop of Joseph; a chapel is built here. Another is the rock calledMensa Christi, or Table of Christ, which is venerated as the place where our Lord often ate his food. It projects three feet above the ground, and is about twelve feet long and eight feet wide. A new church is over it.

The hill back of Nazareth is always ascended by travellers for the sake of the fine view which may be had there. The whole country for miles around is visible—Mount Hermon, Mount Carmel, the Mediterranean Sea, and the great plain of Esdrælon. Just around Nazareth the hills are rather bare; but everywhere else they are wooded, and sink down into green valleys. We see how the city lies off all the great routes of travel in former days, and is shut up by the hills, and thusseparated(as the name Nazareth implies) from other places. Its isolated position, and the resulting obscurity, is the reason why it was unknown to ancient writers, and there is no mention made of it in the Old Testament. From the Gospel narrative we learn that the contemptuous inquiry was made "Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?" To this the Christian answers from the depth of his soul, Yes! all good cometh thence. The Child of Nazareth has passed from obscurity and a hidden life to a prominence which no description can adequately portray. He who was conceived of the Virgin Mary in this little village is our Lord and our God, and in him centre allour hopes. He who condescended to be subject to Mary and Joseph in Nazareth, is the King of kings and Lord of lords, and now and for ever reigneth in the heaven which is his home.

In accordance with the teacher's announcement, the day following Michael's return was given up to rejoicings, and Mr. Blair invited the school to pass it at his place.

It was one of those golden days not so frequent in our autumnal season as to lose the charm of novelty, or the full sense of their value in redeeming its general sternness; and it seemed to the boys as if nature herself shared in the universal delight. The spacious ground encircling Mr. Blair's residence afforded ample scope for their pastimes, and their dinner was served under the trees in the yard.

To those who had known Michael Hennessy only as the thoughtless, frolicsome boy, it did not seem possible that a few short weeks could have wrought the change now apparent in him. The fiery trial through which he had passed accomplished the work of time upon his character, and he emerged from it purified and matured.

His face still wore the sunny smile that had made it a joy to all, but the light which lingered upon it was chastened and subdued. His manners still charmed by the warm, ingenuous frankness that made him the village pet, but their former reckless gayety was sobered by the spirit of piety, which had established its abode within his youthful heart from the moment when the blessed hand of adversity opened wide its portals, and prepared it to become thenceforth a chosen home of the celestial guest.

He was more than ever the favorite of the boys, and the leader in all their sports; but his devotion to study was more faithful, his attention to every religious duty more regular, and his conduct under all circumstances more exemplary than ever before.

Soon after his return, farmer Brown celebrated the event by inviting the school—without any exceptions this time—to spend another day at the farm, as the season for gathering nuts had arrived. Such a gay time as they had! whisking the deep beds of fallen leaves about in search for hidden treasures, and watching the squirrels gleaning in the path from which they had thrown off nature's covering for stray nuts, whose hiding places had thus been revealed.

The day passed delightfully, but not, like their former holidays, in unalloyed and careless pleasure. The thought would intrude upon its happiest moments, that their little band was soon to be broken up, and that this was to be the last occasion upon which they would all meet in the hey-day of boyish glee, to join in boyish pastimes.

For the change was now stealing upon them apace which presses closely on the footsteps of boyhood—and from which our "young Vermonters"were not to be exempted—when one and another must pass from its arena, to enter upon a new stage of action and form new associations. When the dear old school-house, with all the memories that were to link it with the shifting scenes of each single life—to which it had been the starting-point in quest of knowledge—was to be exchanged for college halls, the office, the counter, or the farm, with all their excitements, laborious duties, and temptations, and their weary anxieties.

The next week after their visit to the farm, Frank Blair took his leave of home and friends to enter the naval school at B——. Not long after, George Wingate, Henry Howe, and Johnny Hart entered the College of the Holy Cross. The same week, Patrick Casey was appointed clerk in a railroad office, and Dennis Sullivan left to take his place as clerk in a wholesale establishment in Boston.

Who shall say what pangs all these changes, so easily related, and so much a matter of course in this changeful world, cost the young exiles now banished from the sheltering bosom of home, and standing for the first time face to face with the stern realities of life? The homesick looking back to the dear and peaceful past, the timid, shrinking glances into the dim vista of the dreaded future—the one bathed in all the effulgence of morning, the other bearing already upon its sombre wings foreshadowings of the night!

And who shall describe the loneliness of each home from which the brightest, warmest ray of sunshine had been stricken, when the school-boy with his "shining morning face" vanished from its precincts, to return no more for ever with the light of his young life upon his brow?

None but mothers can know the depth of the shadow that remains to them in the place of their mirthful boys. But take courage, ye mothers! Rest not in supine regrets and gentle memories, but betake yourselves with renewed energy and diligence to the use of the all-conquering weapon of prayer, for now more than ever do your darlings need its aid. Remember what the holy bishop said to the afflicted St. Monica in the olden time, "It cannot be that the child of so many tears should perish." Let your sons, in the midst of their temptations and trials, be shielded and sustained by the firm assurance that their mothers are constantly lifting up pure hands and fervent hearts to heaven in their behalf. So, following the example of that saintly mother, may you hope to gain that mother's reward. For it is true now as it was then, and will be unto the end of time, that, "They who sow in tears shall reap in joy!"

Michael remained at home, pursuing his studies diligently until the winter was far advanced, when his father was taken alarmingly ill, and he was obliged to relinquish them and devote himself to his care, and that of the family. He had long known that some trouble was weighing upon his father, and he was now made acquainted with it.

When Mr. Hennessy first came to M——, he rented a very pretty place just out of the village, to which they became so much attached that he finally purchased it, and had from time to time been able to make improvements and add little embellishments within and around the premises, besides meeting the payments as they fell due. Latterly, with failing health and an increasing family, he had been unable to do more than support his household comfortably, and two payments remained to be met; they were now both due, and his creditor threatened to foreclose the mortgage uponthe place, if they were not promptly paid.

Michael was deeply distressed when the state of their affairs was made known to him. The thought of losing their all, and the home they so dearly loved, the scene of so many tranquil joys, weighed heavily upon his young heart. He sought in fervent prayer the refuge of the Catholic, commending himself and all his dear ones anew to the protection of the Blessed Virgin Mother, and leaving all his troubles at her feet. Suddenly it flashed upon his remembrance that Mr. Blair had told him if he should ever need assistance or advice not to fail of applying to him, and that he should consider it a favor if he would do so. To him, therefore, he resolved to go at once, though it was not without much of the old apprehension of his sternness that he sought the office of that gentleman, mingled with uprisings of a pride that rebelled against asking favors from one who had formerly despised his people. For duty's sake, however, he mastered all these feelings, and was received with the utmost kindness. With a faltering voice he laid the whole case open to Mr. Blair, and concluded by saying, "Now, sir, you see the sum due on the place is not a large one, and if you feel disposed to advance it, I will guarantee the payment of interest and principal as soon as I can leave my father and get into a situation to earn it."

"What do you intend to do?" said Mr. Blair.

"I must seek a place as book-keeper or clerk in some establishment; and will do so without delay."

"Do you prefer such a position to any other?" inquired his friend.

"I have," said Michael, blushing with bashful earnestness, "always indulged the hope that I might be able to study law; but this must now be relinquished," he added after a slight pause.

"Well, my young friend," said Mr. Blair kindly, "I will now tell you what I think had better be done. I will raise this money for you, and you may take your own time to pay it. I have no fears on that score. I will see that matters in relation to the home are put upon a safe footing without delay. You will take care of your father and the family until he is sufficiently recovered to spare you, and then you will enter my office as a student. I have felt very lonely since Frank went away, and will be pleased to have his best friend with me. Besides, you are an excellent and rapid penman; I need such a one in my business just now very much, and can afford to pay you liberally for your assistance. My old hands are getting too stiff to write much, and my business is increasing. If this proposal suits you, consider the matter settled for the present."

It need not be told how thankfully Michael accepted the offer, nor what fervent thanksgivings were poured from pious hearts in that home when the arrangement was made known.

Mr. Hennessy recovered rapidly when the pressure of adverse circumstances and the fears of impending calamity were removed; and Michael soon entered Mr. Blair's office as a student. Here his close attention to business, his application to study, and his fidelity to every duty, gained for him the highest esteem and confidence of his superior, who would often exclaim to himself, "Oh! why could not my boy have been such a one as this? With every obstacle removed from his path and every encouragement offered, why would he persist in casting all his advantages aside, to pursue a reckless career of folly?"

And indeed he heard little that was encouraging from Frank in his newposition. He was so homesick, discontented, and dissatisfied with everything as to unfit him for the studies and duties of the school, the discipline and restraints of which were insupportably irksome to him. But his father was only convinced that they were remedies the more necessary to a restless spirit which chafed so fiercely under them. His passion for mischief and fun continually drew the chains he hated more closely around him, and involved him daily in new difficulties. One circumstance alone—humanly speaking—prevented him from falling into utter ruin. He had formed an enthusiastic friendship for his sister Fanny's dearest friend, the eldest daughter of Mrs. Plimpton, Julia Plimpton—one of those gentle, lovely girls, who wield a controlling influence over such impetuous, restless characters. He was in correspondence with her, and to her he communicated all his troubles and his peevish, fretful repinings, in perfect confidence, receiving just the advice he needed from time to time to keep him from breaking rudely away from all restraint.

Two years elapsed without any material changes in the circle to which this narrative relates.

During this period, Miss Carlton, one of Miss Blair's best friends, near her own age, and a lady of intelligence and wealth, with strong philanthropic impulses, had set herself with great enthusiasm to gather a large number of poor French Catholic children, who would not attend the public schools, into a sort of boarding-school at her own cottage on the confines of the village. She solicited aid from Miss Blair in dressing her young wards suitably, and entered zealously into the task of educating them, as a necessary prelude to their conversion to Protestantism, which must inevitably follow. Miss Blair willingly assisted her with funds, and the use of her needle in preparing clothing; but could not be persuaded to go any further. Miss Carlton at length becoming vexed and irritated by the cool scepticism with which her efforts were regarded, insisted on knowing the reason.

"I am sure it is not want of benevolence," said she; "for I have known you too long and too well to doubt the kindness of your heart. Do tell me, then, why you will persist in looking upon my exertions with so much apathy?"

"Precisely because," said Miss Blair, laughing, "I once tried the experiment myself, under as much more promising auspices as the superior numbers and greater necessities of that class of children in a city could furnish. My failure was more grand than yours will be, because my operations were on a grander scale."

"But why must I of necessity fail?"

"Ah! there lies the mystery. I cannot tell you why; nor do I deny but you may benefit them so far as learning to read and write, and even some little smattering of further knowledge may go; but make Protestants of them? Never! When you think you have secured them by catching the unfledged brood and attaching them to the Protestant cage by food and favors, just one chirp from the mother-bird, andPresto!your flock is gone! If you will take the pains to follow, you will find them nestled under the parent wing and peeping out at you so contentedly and complacently! I know, for I have tried it; and am forced to laugh now when I think how provoked I was, and how puzzled to account for the mysterious, irrepressible, and apparently irresistiblepower that majestic mother exercised. Since I came to this part of Vermont, my conviction of the futility of all such attempts has been confirmed. There have been great rejoicings among the Methodists and Baptists, at one time and another, over accessions to their numbers from the ancient ark; but let a priest appear in those localities and utter the rallying call of their church—away scamper the converts, and their Protestantconfrèreshave seen the last of them!"

As Mrs. Blair had intimated during the colloquy with Mrs. Plimpton, her sister-in-law had become interested in the converts of M—— and in reading their books. She began listlessly, from a mere willingness to hear what could be said on that side, and to see fair play, perhaps unconsciously hoping to find some solution for that "mysterious power" which so puzzled her. But the investigation thus indolently opened soon awakened new ideas as to the importance of issues which involved eternity. From that moment nothing could exceed the fervent energy with which she followed up the subject, determined to know and follow the truth, if it was to be found on earth. Her labors resulted as all such labors honestly entered upon, diligently pursued, and governed by the spirit of justice, must inevitably result. She found herself safely sheltered under the wings of the gentle mother whose loving attractions had formerly astonished her ignorance. Her brother made no comments, but poor Mrs. Blair was utterly disgusted.

Meanwhile her favorite niece—because Frank's favorite and petted sister—Fanny was drawn by casually looking into the books which her aunt was studying so closely to take a lively interest in the same subject. But the reading of "prosy books of controversy," as she called them, was an effort quite beyond her patience, so she would seek the office occasionally and question Michael. He declined, as far as he could in conscience, to assist her in the matter, thinking that to do so would be in some sort a breach of the confidence reposed in him by her father.

At length one day, when he had been even more provokingly indifferent than usual, and pursued his writing diligently despite her questioning, she exclaimed,

"I never did see such a vexatious fellow as you are! I can't imagine what Frank could have seen in you to like so well. One might just as well talk to a stick; there's nothing interesting or sociable about you! I suppose you think you're going to keep me from being a Catholic by your hateful ways; but you won't, I can tell you. I canread, if you won't talk, only Idohate the trouble." And she departed, leaving him amused beyond measure at her vehemence.

She was engaged in a correspondence with Julia Plimpton, of the frequent and confidential nature in which girls of that age are wont to indulge, and of course opened her heart to her friend upon the subject which now most interested her. Their letters were soon filled with the discussion of religious questions, in which after a time Mrs. Plimpton joined, expressing her surprise that so much could be said in favor of a creed which she had always regarded as the height of absurdity, and the last stronghold of bigotry, superstition, and ignorance, in this progressive age.

At the stage of our narrative upon which this chapter opens, Mr. Hennessy was one day looking over the columns of the BostonPilot—to which Mr. Sullivan was a subscriber—when his eye fell upon the following paragraph:

"If Patrick Hennessy or any of his family, who landed in Boston from the ship Hibernia in the summer of 18—, will call at thePilotoffice, they will hear something greatly to their advantage."

After consulting with Mrs. Hennessy, Michael, and Mr. Blair, he decided to start for Boston without delay.

The editor of thePilot, when found, asked him many questions as to his place of residence in Ireland, the name of his wife, of the priest who married them, of his other family connections, and where he had lived since he came to America; all which being satisfactorily answered, the following letter was put into his hands to read:

"San Francisco, Sept. 8, 18—."To the Editor of the Boston Pilot:"Dear Sir: When I was on board the Golden City, bound for this place early in the summer of 18—, the sailor on the 'look-out' discovered an object floating at some distance astern, and notified the captain, who ordered the boat manned to overhaul it. The object proved to be a man lashed to a table and apparently dead. They brought him to the vessel, where, after a time, he began to show signs of life, and in a few hours was able to give an account of himself. The Polar Queen, on which he was a passenger, was struck by an iceberg in the night. At the first shock he secured himself firmly to the table and sprang overboard; after which he remembered nothing, and could give no idea how long it was since the event, but supposed the vessel went down with all on board, as she was badly shivered and rapidly filling the last he knew of her."His name was Michael Hennessy, and he was a tradesman like myself, and from the same county at home. He had a brother Patrick, who was to sail for America the same year. The two brothers married two sisters, by name Mary and Bridget Denver, the year before. Michael married Bridget. They had no children when Michael left home. There was great call for work at our trades in San Francisco, and Michael came on here with me. As soon as we reached this place, he wrote home to the parish priest, Father O'Reilly, to have Patrick come to California, sending money which I loaned him. He received answer that his brother, with their two wives and Patrick's new-born infant, left soon after he did on the Hibernia, bound for Boston. He then applied to you, as you may remember, to get information of them, if you could. In due course you informed him that the Hibernia arrived safely at Boston; that you found the people with whom they stopped, who stated that Michael's wife and child died during a severe storm on the voyage out; that Patrick stopped in Boston until he heard of the loss of the Polar Queen with all on board, when he started for the western country, and they had heard nothing from him since."Michael then sent notices to papers in all the western cities, but could get no tidings from his brother. We continued to work at our trades, and the master builder who employed us, owning a deal of land near the city, paid us in city lots, on which we built houses, to rent according as we could, when work was scant. Rents were very high, for there was a great rush to the city, and buildings scarce, and the city lots went up in a way that would astonish the world. So Mike and I found ourselves rich of a sudden; but he always uneasy about his brother. At last, when he could stand the heavy heart no longer, he determined to go in search of him. In case any thing might happen him on his travels, he executed papers leaving all he had with me in trust for his brother or family, should they ever be found. Just when he was ready to start, he took sick of a fever and died the fourth day, which was the 27th of last month. I will do all in my power, as I promised him, to find his brother if he is still living; and my request is that you will help me. I have notices out through all the western country. He left a large amount in gold on deposit, and a still larger property in buildings and lots in the city. The rents are accumulating on my hands, but I will make no further investments until I know what will happen.Yours respectfully,"James Tracy."

"San Francisco, Sept. 8, 18—.

"To the Editor of the Boston Pilot:

"Dear Sir: When I was on board the Golden City, bound for this place early in the summer of 18—, the sailor on the 'look-out' discovered an object floating at some distance astern, and notified the captain, who ordered the boat manned to overhaul it. The object proved to be a man lashed to a table and apparently dead. They brought him to the vessel, where, after a time, he began to show signs of life, and in a few hours was able to give an account of himself. The Polar Queen, on which he was a passenger, was struck by an iceberg in the night. At the first shock he secured himself firmly to the table and sprang overboard; after which he remembered nothing, and could give no idea how long it was since the event, but supposed the vessel went down with all on board, as she was badly shivered and rapidly filling the last he knew of her.

"His name was Michael Hennessy, and he was a tradesman like myself, and from the same county at home. He had a brother Patrick, who was to sail for America the same year. The two brothers married two sisters, by name Mary and Bridget Denver, the year before. Michael married Bridget. They had no children when Michael left home. There was great call for work at our trades in San Francisco, and Michael came on here with me. As soon as we reached this place, he wrote home to the parish priest, Father O'Reilly, to have Patrick come to California, sending money which I loaned him. He received answer that his brother, with their two wives and Patrick's new-born infant, left soon after he did on the Hibernia, bound for Boston. He then applied to you, as you may remember, to get information of them, if you could. In due course you informed him that the Hibernia arrived safely at Boston; that you found the people with whom they stopped, who stated that Michael's wife and child died during a severe storm on the voyage out; that Patrick stopped in Boston until he heard of the loss of the Polar Queen with all on board, when he started for the western country, and they had heard nothing from him since.

"Michael then sent notices to papers in all the western cities, but could get no tidings from his brother. We continued to work at our trades, and the master builder who employed us, owning a deal of land near the city, paid us in city lots, on which we built houses, to rent according as we could, when work was scant. Rents were very high, for there was a great rush to the city, and buildings scarce, and the city lots went up in a way that would astonish the world. So Mike and I found ourselves rich of a sudden; but he always uneasy about his brother. At last, when he could stand the heavy heart no longer, he determined to go in search of him. In case any thing might happen him on his travels, he executed papers leaving all he had with me in trust for his brother or family, should they ever be found. Just when he was ready to start, he took sick of a fever and died the fourth day, which was the 27th of last month. I will do all in my power, as I promised him, to find his brother if he is still living; and my request is that you will help me. I have notices out through all the western country. He left a large amount in gold on deposit, and a still larger property in buildings and lots in the city. The rents are accumulating on my hands, but I will make no further investments until I know what will happen.

Yours respectfully,

"James Tracy."

After making arrangements to communicate with Tracy through the editor, who was to receive and forward drafts for him, Mr. Hennessy set out for home.

The surprise of all upon hearing the news may be imagined.

After a long consultation with his wife, Mr. Hennessy sought Mr. Blair, to whom he communicated the factthat the Michael of our narrative was the son of his brother Michael; that their own baby died in a fit on the night of Bridget's death, and they adopted the little motherless one in its place, without saying any thing to their companions, but intending to inform his brother of the fact when they should meet. Subsequent events determined them to keep it still concealed; but now that Michael was the rightful heir to all this wealth, it must be revealed.

Mr. Blair urged that, as his brother left the property to him, it was just as well to make no revelation on the subject; but Mr. Hennessy insisted that his brother made that arrangement in ignorance of the existence of his own child, and it would not be right for him to take advantage of it, and, in fine, that he would have nothing to do with the property. It was far more painful for him to give up his claim upon Michael as his son, and he did not feel equal to doing it in person. He therefore begged Mr. Blair to communicate these facts to Michael for him.

That gentleman lost no time in fulfilling the commission, and Michael was of course overwhelmed with amazement. He hastened to assure his father that he would not consent to any release of claims on the score of family ties, and they both went into a council with Mr. Blair upon "the situation." Finally they determined that Michael should transfer all the money to his father, and, retaining the real estate in his own hands, go into the practice of law in San Francisco himself. He at first proposed to have the family go with him to that place; but they had lived so long in Vermont, and become so much attached to M——, that they preferred not to leave.

Before Michael set out for California, he had a long conversation with Mr. Blair, at the conclusion of which it was arranged that, after he had established himself in his new home, and opened an office there, he should come back, and if a certain young lady (who was about to become a Catholic in "spite of him") could be persuaded to accompany his return—as he had good reason to hope she would—his next journey to that far off land would not be a solitary one.

During the progress of these events, the health of George Wingate had been gradually failing, but so imperceptibly as to create no serious alarm; and he could not be prevailed upon to abandon his studies, or the hope that he would live to consecrate his young life to his God in holy orders, until it was near its close. Henry Howe and Johnny Hart devoted themselves tenderly to him, and watched his decline with the grief which under such circumstances always attends friendships created and cemented by religion. He began at length to fail so rapidly that his family were sent for, and he never returned to the home of his childhood, but sleeps in peace under the shadow of the "Holy Cross" which he so dearly loved.

His mantle seemed to have fallen upon his devoted friend, Johnny Hart, who in due course of time entered upon the vineyard from which his beloved companion had been withdrawn while the dews of the morning still lingered upon his head, and the labors of the day were hardly begun.

Soon after the death of George, his oldest sister, Mary, joined the Sisters of Charity.

In the same year, Henry Howetook his father's place in the mercantile business, which was rapidly increasing in importance with the growth of the village, and Dennis Sullivan went into partnership with him.

After Michael reached San Francisco, he arranged his affairs, and opened an office in one of the best locations in the city, without delay. He found a home in James Tracy's house, and one of the best friends in that worthy man, who took a pride and interest in the son of his lamented friend scarcely less than that of a father.

Frank Blair became importunate in his solicitations for the hand of Julia Plimpton. Her mother steadfastly declining to consent until he should have established a character for sobriety and stability, he became exasperated, and abruptly left the navy. His disconsolate family could get no trace as to the course of his flight.

One day, as Michael Hennessy was passing down the street to his office, he observed a young man walking rapidly in advance of him, and, accidentally catching a side glimpse of his face, what was his astonishment to recognize Frank Blair.

"Why Frank, my lad, where in the world did you come from?" he cried out.

"Rather answer that question on your own account!" replied the astonished Frank. "How in the world do you happen to be in San Francisco?"

"If I could have seen you as I passed through New York, you would have known all; but I could not find you, and had no time to spare for a long search," said Michael. "It is a long story; so come with me to the office, and you shall hear it."

When the friends were seated, Frank told Michael that he had left the navy without a discharge, and shipped as seaman on board a vessel bound for Panama; and that he supposed his friends were wild with anxiety about him.

Michael communicated the details relating to his own affairs, with which our readers are already acquainted. He then wrote to Mr. Blair the story of Frank's arrival in safety, and that if he had no objections Frank would study law with him in San Francisco. Upon receiving the letter, Mr. Blair obtained an honorable discharge for his son from the navy, and consented to his remaining with Michael. In the course of time he went into partnership with his friend—now his brother-in-law—who has become one of the most celebrated criminal lawyers in that city.

Two years after the marriage of Michael, Frank was permitted to claim the hand of Julia Plimpton. At the same time, Henry Howe was married to Mrs. Plimpton's youngest daughter, Mary, and her mother came to live with them.

Mrs. Plimpton's son Charles is a lawyer in Massachusetts, and it is said he is coming for Lucy Wingate soon.

The people of M——, having noticed the frequent visits of Dennis Sullivan and Patrick Casey at Mr. Hennessy's, and that two beautiful cottages are building on lots purchased by that gentleman each side of his own, have settled the question that two more weddings are soon to take place in M——, but have not yet "named the day."

How my dreamy childhood ponderedOn that old heroic tongue!Then, the dream-land where I wanderedWas the Olympus Homer sung;The cloud-cleaving peaks that trembledWhen the mighty gods assembled.Dazzled saw I blue-eyed PallasThroned by Zeus on golden seat,Sipped from Hebe's nectar chalice,Plucked Cythera's roses sweet—Breathless watched, as from those portalsBattleward clashed down the immortals.Naiads from Scamander's fountainLifted to my lips the cup;Oreads skimming Hæmus' mountainTo the tryst-place caught me up;Gleamed athwart the forest's graceThe white light of Dian's face.Burst upon my ear the townwardThunder of Achilles' wheel,When the fair long locks trailed downward,And the shriek made Ilium reel.Conquering torches, steep to steep,Flashed along the wine-dark deep.But my heart—that restless roamer—Quit those fields of kingly strife,That old world of Greece and Homer,For the world of love and life.Dead, like leaves on autumn clay,Those old gods and wonders lay.O the spirit's aspiration,Glorious through all nature's bound!The soul yearning through creation—All the sought, and all the found!Oh! what is—and what shall beIn far immortality?For truth's marvels well are ableAll of fiction to eclipse,And the wine of classic fableTasteless palls upon the lips.From the living fount of truthWells the soul's immortal youth.Still at times when basks the riverThe long summer afternoon,When the broad green pastures quiverIn the rippling breeze of June,I unclose the Iliad's pages,To unearth those buried ages.But no Ilium now, nor tragicPlains I find in Homer's lay;With a new and stranger magicNow it leads another way—Whirls me on a sudden trackTo my merry childhood back.All that fresh young joy rejoices,Beats the child heart as of yore,And again I hear—oh! voicesThat I thought to hear no more,Till—the dusk has round me grown;Close the book—the dream has flown.C. E. B.

How my dreamy childhood ponderedOn that old heroic tongue!Then, the dream-land where I wanderedWas the Olympus Homer sung;The cloud-cleaving peaks that trembledWhen the mighty gods assembled.

Dazzled saw I blue-eyed PallasThroned by Zeus on golden seat,Sipped from Hebe's nectar chalice,Plucked Cythera's roses sweet—Breathless watched, as from those portalsBattleward clashed down the immortals.

Naiads from Scamander's fountainLifted to my lips the cup;Oreads skimming Hæmus' mountainTo the tryst-place caught me up;Gleamed athwart the forest's graceThe white light of Dian's face.

Burst upon my ear the townwardThunder of Achilles' wheel,When the fair long locks trailed downward,And the shriek made Ilium reel.Conquering torches, steep to steep,Flashed along the wine-dark deep.

But my heart—that restless roamer—Quit those fields of kingly strife,That old world of Greece and Homer,For the world of love and life.Dead, like leaves on autumn clay,Those old gods and wonders lay.

O the spirit's aspiration,Glorious through all nature's bound!The soul yearning through creation—All the sought, and all the found!Oh! what is—and what shall beIn far immortality?

For truth's marvels well are ableAll of fiction to eclipse,And the wine of classic fableTasteless palls upon the lips.From the living fount of truthWells the soul's immortal youth.

Still at times when basks the riverThe long summer afternoon,When the broad green pastures quiverIn the rippling breeze of June,I unclose the Iliad's pages,To unearth those buried ages.

But no Ilium now, nor tragicPlains I find in Homer's lay;With a new and stranger magicNow it leads another way—Whirls me on a sudden trackTo my merry childhood back.

All that fresh young joy rejoices,Beats the child heart as of yore,And again I hear—oh! voicesThat I thought to hear no more,Till—the dusk has round me grown;Close the book—the dream has flown.

C. E. B.

Of the works of fiction in the English language of which the first half of this century has been so prolific, Ireland has contributed at least a fair proportionate share. Her writers in this department of literature are numerous, and their productions have been generally received with due favor on this side of the Atlantic as correct portraitures of the habits and manners of a people in whom we take so deep an interest, and whose very contradictions of character render them interesting studies for the curious and philosophic. Of so large a number four at least deserve special notice, standing, as they do, prominently in the front rank of Irish authors and exhibiting in a marked degree a pleasant diversity of talent and invention, as varied as the peculiar characteristics of the provinces to which they belong. Carleton, for example, was an Ulster-man, rugged and ungraceful, yet possessing a deep vein of caustic humor, while his figures are struck out as distinctly as if his pen had some of the power Of Michael Angelo's chisel; John Banim was the embodiment of Leinster propriety and stability; Lever is never so much at home as at the mess-table of the "Rangers," or when endangering the neck of his hero or heroine over a Galway fence; while through Gerald Griffin's pages flow, now gently as a meandering stream andanon with the impetuosity of a mountain torrent, the poetry and passion of Munster. Still, in the strictest sense, none of these novelists can be considered national; yet all are true to Irish character. To those unacquainted with the radical difference of mind, temperament, and even physique, which is to be found in so comparatively small a country, this may seem paradoxical; but it is nevertheless true. Mickey Frees and Lowry Lovbys are plentiful enough in Ireland, but only in their respective sections; while Valentine McClutchy terrifies the northern tenant each recurring gala-day, and Banim's Paddy Flynn, to use the pithy remark of Sir Philip Crampton, "is hanged twice a year regularly in the south of Ireland."

If any of them be entitled to the term national, that honor should be awarded to Griffin, who in hisInvasion,Duke of Monmouth, and some minor stories, has travelled out of his favorite province with some degree of success. But even in his wanderings in Wicklow, Taunton dene, and the wilds of Northumbria, we are constantly catching glimpses of the Shannon and Killarney. The reason of this is obvious. He aimed to be a strict and minute copyist of nature; and nature to him was bounded by the lovely scenery of Munster and the people with whom he had been in daily intercourse for almost the whole of his short life. His power of observation, thus limited, became intensified, and what he lost in breadth of view and amplitude of knowledge, he gained in the distinctness and fidelity of his pictures. Besides, the merits of the true novelist, like those of the painter, should never be estimated by the square of the canvas, but by his faithfulness, either to human figure, action, and circumstance, or to the embodiment of noble ideas. It is not so difficult as it may seem to call up imaginary kings and princes, noble lords and ladies, clothe them with all the gorgeous panoply so easily found in the pages of dear old Froissart, or in the latest book of fashions, and make them speak and act in the most approved manner of our modern romances, because few of us care to inquire into the correctness either of design or execution. Cervantes and Goldsmith painted the men and manners of their day with rare fidelity, and their works will be read by the learned and unlearned as long as the languages in which they wrote shall exist; and no one can doubt that two of the most popular authors of our time, Balzac and Dickens, no matter how inferior in some respects to the authors ofDon Quixoteand theVicar of Wakefield, have truly held up to us panoramas of modern society in the two great cities of Europe. For Gerald Griffin we may not, perhaps, claim the universality of those great masters; but in purity of expression, truthfulness to nature, and delicacy of moral perception he is the equal of any of them.

There are some persons conversant with Irish character who maintain that its essential element is neither gayety nor combativeness, but melancholy, and sustain their apparently singular theory by reference to the national music and poetry. Griffin's writings would afford an additional argument in favor of this position. His genius was decidedly tragic, his muse sad and retrospective. His pauses to give us a glimpse of fireside enjoyment appear to be more as tributes to old home memories, than as arising from any natural desire to linger over the recollections of such tranquil scenes; and his snatches of humor and merriment seem thrown in artistically, not so much to relieve the sombre shading of his picture as to give its most prominentfigures greater depth and boldness. He also labored under the disadvantage of all tragic minds; for, though he never can be said to have ignored the "eternal fitness of things" in rewarding the good and punishing the wicked, we close many of his volumes with a feeling more akin to sorrow than rejoicing, and while admitting the righteousness of his judgments, we sigh to think how God's best gifts to man may be turned to his own destruction. It seems to be the law of tragedy that the bad men must be more men of action than the good, in order to produce the proper effect. They dress better, talk more persuasively, and display high mental and physical qualities which, say what we may, will generally provoke a certain sympathy for them, evil as may be their acts. This inherent defect Griffin labored to modify, if he could not entirely eradicate. His moral heroes are good enough in their way, but their virtues are of too negative a character. Kyrle Daly, in theCollegians, and young Kingsly, in theDuke of Monmouth, have all the qualities we could desire in a friend or brother; but while we honor and respect them, a something akin to sympathy is clandestinely stealing out to the proud and wilful Hardress Cregan, and even to the cool malignity of that unparalleled scoundrel, Colonel Kirke. O'Haedha, in theInvasion, is an exception. He issui generisin Griffin's pantheon, being not only a man of pure morality and well up in the lore of his times, but he is also a chieftain governing wisely and firmly, a man of war as well as of love and peace, strong in his affections and hatreds, living, moving, and breathing like one who has a subtle brain, warm blood, and a powerful arm to enforce his authority. He is decidedly not only Griffin's grandest conception, but will stand in favorable comparison with any we can recall in historical romance.

TheCollegiansis Gerald Griffin's best known and most popular novel; and, when we consider the early age of the author at the time it was written, and the circumstances amid which it was composed, we are equally surprised at his knowledge of the springs of human action, and at the excellences of the book, both as regards correctness of style and completeness of plot. Though the working of some of the strongest passions of our nature is portrayed in it—love, hatred, revenge, ambition—there is nothing about them sensational or melodramatic; and though many different characters are introduced, and incidents necessarily occur in a short space of time, there is nothing hurried or disjointed, one character acting upon another and each event following and hinging on the one preceding so gracefully and naturally that the reader is borne along on an unbroken current, as it were, from cause to effect till he reaches the final catastrophe. It is related that a portion of this admirable book was written in court while the author, who had attained considerable proficiency as a short-hand writer in London, was engaged in reporting an important law case. During an interval in the proceedings, Griffin took out his manuscripts, and, as was his habit, when a moment of leisure presented itself, proceeded to continue his story, regardless of his surroundings. It happened that Daniel O'Connell was employed professionally in the suit, and not knowing the writer, and supposing him to be occupied transcribing his notes, looked over his shoulder to read the evidence; but finding that it was something very different from the dry question and answer of counsellor and witness, the great advocateturned away in silent indifference. He little thought at the time that the quiet, industrious young reporter was Gerald Griffin, and that the work upon which he was so intently engaged was theCollegians—a work which, from the day of its publication, was ever the favorite solace of the hours of relaxation of that illustrious statesman.

The moral of the book, however, is its greatest merit. The character of Hardress Cregan is inimitably drawn. Young, gifted both in person and mind, with a disposition naturally inclined to good, but warped and misled by a fond, proud, worldly mother, and the example of a dissolute father and his associates; early left to his own guidance and the indulgence of his whims and fancies, he descends from the high position in which we find him at the opening chapter, through all the stages of crime—parental disobedience, ingratitude, deceit, debauchery, and finally murder. Through each step in guilt we can trace the cause of his ruin—moral cowardice, false pride, absence of self-control, alternating or uniting, but always with disastrous effect, until in the culminating scene, in which, torn by remorse and conscious guilt, he leaves his native shores a condemned felon and dies at sea, we feel that the punishment, no matter how severe, is but in strict accordance with our highest sense of retributive justice. Nor are the almost equally, though perhaps unconsciously, guilty parents forgotten. Like a just judge, Griffin not only punishes the actual perpetrator of crime, but metes out penalties to those whose duty it is to correct the excesses of youth, restrain their passions, and lead them by precept and example to the practice as well as the knowledge of good, and who neglect the sacred trust. What parent, after reading theCollegians, can contemplate without a shudder the pangs of the haughty mother and the utter hopelessness of her dissipated husband, when they found their only child, so tenderly nurtured and so thoroughly schooled, torn from their arms in chains, and dying the death of an outcast and a convict. Their punishment abided in their parental hearts, and the author goes no further. Many years ago, we casually overheard one of the most thoroughly read, as well as one of the most profound thinkers in America, say, upon being asked his opinion of theCollegians, that he considered it the best novel in the language; for, while it made you hate the crime, it did not take away your charity for the criminal; an opinion which we think will be concurred in by all who have attentively read the book and applied the moral it contains. Kyrle Daly is an antipode of his friend and fellow-student, Hardress Cregan. His filial reverence and moral rectitude are depicted in his every action, and his whole character is as beautiful and lovable as that of the other is dark and fraught with terrible warnings. Not that young Daly is presented as a model lackadaisical individual, by any means; but as a strong man of matured mind and deep feelings, true in friendship and trusting in love; yet withal guided by the dictates of his religion and directed by the authority and advice of his father and mother, a weakness, if it be one, we are sorry to say, not often indulged in at the present day.

Did the limits of our article permit, we might furnish many extracts from this remarkable novel in testimony of the high opinion of the merits found in its pages by so many distinguished scholars, but theCollegiansis now so generally read that this is hardly necessary. We transcribe, however, the following briefsketch of a morning on the Shannon, and a breakfast scene, as a specimen of the author's power of minute description of rural scenery and felicitous rendering of social life:

"They had assembled, on the morning of Eily's disappearance, a healthy and blooming household of all sizes, in the principal sitting-room, for a purpose no less important than that of dispatching breakfast. It was a favorable moment for any one who might be desirous of sketching a family picture. The windows of the room, which were thrown up for the purpose of admitting the fresh morning air, opened upon a trim and sloping meadow, that looked sunny and cheerful with the bright green after-grass of the season. The broad and sheety river washed the very margin of the little field, and bore upon its quiet bosom (which was only ruffled by the circling eddies that encountered the advancing tide) a variety of craft, such as might be supposed to indicate the approach to a large city. Majestic vessels, floating idly on the basined flood, with sails half-furled, in keeping with the languid beauty of the scene; lighters burdened to the water's edge with bricks or sand; large rafts of timber borne onward toward the neighboring quays under the guidance of a shipman's boat-hook; pleasure-boats with gaudy pennons hanging at peak and topmast; or turf-boats with their unpicturesque and ungraceful lading, moving sluggishly forward, while their black sails seemed gasping for a breath to fill them—such were the incidents that gave a gentle animation to the prospect immediately before the eyes of the cottage dwellers. On the further side of the river arose the Cratloe hills, shadowed in various places by a broken cloud, and rendered beautiful by the checkered appearance of the ripening tillage and the variety of hues that were observable along their wooded sides. At intervals, the front of a handsome mansion brightened up a passing gleam of sunshine, while the wreaths of blue smoke, ascending at various distances from among the trees, tended to relieve the idea of extreme solitude which it would otherwise have presented."The interior of the cottage was not less interesting to contemplate than the landscape which lay before it. The principal breakfast-table (for there were two spread in the room) was placed before the window, the neat and snow-white damask cloth covered with fare that spoke satisfactorily for the circumstances of the proprietor, and for the housewifery of his helpmate. The former, a fair, pleasant-faced old gentleman, in a huge buckled cravat and square-toed shoes, somewhat distrustful of the meagre beverage which fumed out of Mrs. Daly's lofty and shining coffee-pot, had taken his position before a cold ham and fowl which decorated the lower end of the table. His lady, a courteous old personage, with a face no less fair and happy than her husband's, and with eyes sparkling with good nature and intelligence, did the honors of the board at the further end. On the opposite side, leaning over the back of his chair with clasped hands, in an attitude which had a mixture of abstraction and anxiety, sat Mr. Kyrle Daly, the first pledge of connubial affection that was born to this comely pair. He was a young man already initiated in the rudiments of the legal profession; of a handsome figure, and in manner—but something now pressed upon his spirits which rendered this an unfavorable occasion for describing him."A second table was laid in a more retired portion of the room, for the accommodation of the younger part of the family. Several well-burnished goblets, or porringers, of thick milk flanked the sides of this board, while a large dish of smooth-coated potatoes reeked up in the centre. A number of blooming boys and girls, between the ages of four and twelve, were seated at this simple repast, eating and drinking away with all the happy eagerness of youthful appetite. Not, however, that this employment occupied their exclusive attention; for the prattle which circulated round the table frequently became so boisterous as to drown the conversation of the older people, and to call forth the angry rebuke of the master of the family."The furniture of the apartment was in accordance with the appearance and manners of its inhabitants. The floor was handsomely carpeted, a lofty green fender fortified the fireplace, and supplied Mr. Daly in his facetious moments with occasions for the frequent repetition of a favorite conundrum, 'Why is that fender like Westminster Abbey?'—a problem with which he never failed to try the wit of any stranger who happened to spend a night beneath his roof. The wainscoted walls were ornamented with several of the popular prints of the day, such as Hogarth's Roast Beef, Prince Eugene, Schomberg at the Boyne, Mr. Betterton playing Cato in all the glory of'Full wig, flowered gown, and lackered chair;'of the royal Mandane, in the person of Mrs.Mountain, strutting among the arbors of her Persian palace in a loftytêteand hooped petticoat. There were also some family drawings done by Mrs. Daly in her school-days, of which we feel no inclination to say more than that they were prettily framed. In justice to the fair artist, it should also be mentioned that, contrary to the established practice, her sketches were never retouched by the hand of her master, a fact which Mr. Daly was fond of insinuating, and which no one who saw the pictures was tempted to call in question. A small book-case, with the edges of the shelves handsomely gilded, was suspended in one corner of the room, and, on examination, might be found to contain a considerable number of works on Irish history, for which study Mr. Daly had a national predilection, a circumstance much deplored by all the impatient listeners in his neighborhood, and (some people hinted) in his own household; some religious books, and a few volumes on cookery and farming. The space over the lofty chimney-piece was assigned to some ornaments of a more startling description. A gun-rack, on which were suspended a long shore gun, a brass-barreled blunderbuss, a cutlass, and a case of horse-pistols, manifested Mr. Daly's determination to maintain, if necessary, by force of arms, his claim to the fair possessions which his honest industry had acquired."'Kyrle,' said Mr. Daly, putting his fork into a breast of cold goose, and looking at his son, 'you had better let me put a little goose (with an emphasis) on your plate. You know you are going a-wooing to-day.'"The young gentleman appeared not to hear him. Mrs. Daly, who understood more intimately the nature of her son's reflections, deprecated, by a significant look at her husband, the continuance of any raillery upon so delicate a subject."'Kyrle, some coffee?' said the lady of the house; but without being more successful in awakening the attention of the young gentleman."Mr. Daly winked at his wife."'Kyrle!' he called aloud, in a tone against which even a lover's absence was not proof, 'do you hear what your mother says?'"'I ask pardon, sir—I was absent—I—what were you saying, mother?'"'She was saying,' continued Mr. Daly, with a smile, 'that you were manufacturing a fine speech for Anna Chute, and that you were just meditating whether you should deliver it on your knees or out of brief, as if you were addressing the bench in the Four Courts.'"'For shame, my dear! Never mind him, Kyrle; I said no such thing. I wonder how you can say that, my dear, and the children listening.'"'Pooh! the little angels are too busy and too innocent to pay us any attention,' said Mr. Daly, lowering his voice, however. 'But, speaking seriously, my boy, you take this affair too deeply to heart; and whether it be in our pursuit of wealth, or fame, or even in love itself, an extreme solicitude to be successful is the surest means of defeating its own object. Besides, it argues an unquiet and unresigned condition. I have had a little experience, you know, in affairs of this kind,' he added, smiling and glancing at his fair helpmate, who blushed with the simplicity of a young girl."'Ah sir!' said Kyrle, as he drew nearer to the breakfast-table with a magnanimous affectation of cheerfulness, 'I fear I have not so good a ground for hope as you may have had. It is very easy, sir, for one to be resigned to disappointment, when he is certain of success.'"'Why, I was not bidden to despair indeed,' said Mr. Daly, extending his hand to his wife, while they exchanged a quiet smile, which had in it an expression of tenderness and of melancholy remembrance."'I have, I believe, been more fortunate than more deserving persons. I have never been vexed with useless fears in my wooing days, nor with vain regrets when those days were ended. I do not know, my dear lad, what hopes you have formed, or what prospects you may have shaped out of the future; but I will not wish you a better fortune than that you may as nearly approach to their accomplishment as I have done, and that time may deal as fairly with you as he has done with your father.' After saying this, Mr. Daly leaned forward on the table, with his temple supported by one finger, and glanced alternately from his children to his wife while he sang in a low tone the following verse of a popular song:'How should I love the pretty creatures,While round my knees they fondly clung!To see them look their mother's features,To hear them lisp their mother's tongue;And when with envy time transported,Shall think to rob us of our joys,You'll in your girls again be courted,And I—'with a glance at Kyrle—'And I go wooing with the boys.'"

"The interior of the cottage was not less interesting to contemplate than the landscape which lay before it. The principal breakfast-table (for there were two spread in the room) was placed before the window, the neat and snow-white damask cloth covered with fare that spoke satisfactorily for the circumstances of the proprietor, and for the housewifery of his helpmate. The former, a fair, pleasant-faced old gentleman, in a huge buckled cravat and square-toed shoes, somewhat distrustful of the meagre beverage which fumed out of Mrs. Daly's lofty and shining coffee-pot, had taken his position before a cold ham and fowl which decorated the lower end of the table. His lady, a courteous old personage, with a face no less fair and happy than her husband's, and with eyes sparkling with good nature and intelligence, did the honors of the board at the further end. On the opposite side, leaning over the back of his chair with clasped hands, in an attitude which had a mixture of abstraction and anxiety, sat Mr. Kyrle Daly, the first pledge of connubial affection that was born to this comely pair. He was a young man already initiated in the rudiments of the legal profession; of a handsome figure, and in manner—but something now pressed upon his spirits which rendered this an unfavorable occasion for describing him.

"A second table was laid in a more retired portion of the room, for the accommodation of the younger part of the family. Several well-burnished goblets, or porringers, of thick milk flanked the sides of this board, while a large dish of smooth-coated potatoes reeked up in the centre. A number of blooming boys and girls, between the ages of four and twelve, were seated at this simple repast, eating and drinking away with all the happy eagerness of youthful appetite. Not, however, that this employment occupied their exclusive attention; for the prattle which circulated round the table frequently became so boisterous as to drown the conversation of the older people, and to call forth the angry rebuke of the master of the family.

"The furniture of the apartment was in accordance with the appearance and manners of its inhabitants. The floor was handsomely carpeted, a lofty green fender fortified the fireplace, and supplied Mr. Daly in his facetious moments with occasions for the frequent repetition of a favorite conundrum, 'Why is that fender like Westminster Abbey?'—a problem with which he never failed to try the wit of any stranger who happened to spend a night beneath his roof. The wainscoted walls were ornamented with several of the popular prints of the day, such as Hogarth's Roast Beef, Prince Eugene, Schomberg at the Boyne, Mr. Betterton playing Cato in all the glory of

'Full wig, flowered gown, and lackered chair;'

of the royal Mandane, in the person of Mrs.Mountain, strutting among the arbors of her Persian palace in a loftytêteand hooped petticoat. There were also some family drawings done by Mrs. Daly in her school-days, of which we feel no inclination to say more than that they were prettily framed. In justice to the fair artist, it should also be mentioned that, contrary to the established practice, her sketches were never retouched by the hand of her master, a fact which Mr. Daly was fond of insinuating, and which no one who saw the pictures was tempted to call in question. A small book-case, with the edges of the shelves handsomely gilded, was suspended in one corner of the room, and, on examination, might be found to contain a considerable number of works on Irish history, for which study Mr. Daly had a national predilection, a circumstance much deplored by all the impatient listeners in his neighborhood, and (some people hinted) in his own household; some religious books, and a few volumes on cookery and farming. The space over the lofty chimney-piece was assigned to some ornaments of a more startling description. A gun-rack, on which were suspended a long shore gun, a brass-barreled blunderbuss, a cutlass, and a case of horse-pistols, manifested Mr. Daly's determination to maintain, if necessary, by force of arms, his claim to the fair possessions which his honest industry had acquired.

"'Kyrle,' said Mr. Daly, putting his fork into a breast of cold goose, and looking at his son, 'you had better let me put a little goose (with an emphasis) on your plate. You know you are going a-wooing to-day.'

"The young gentleman appeared not to hear him. Mrs. Daly, who understood more intimately the nature of her son's reflections, deprecated, by a significant look at her husband, the continuance of any raillery upon so delicate a subject.

"'Kyrle, some coffee?' said the lady of the house; but without being more successful in awakening the attention of the young gentleman.

"Mr. Daly winked at his wife.

"'Kyrle!' he called aloud, in a tone against which even a lover's absence was not proof, 'do you hear what your mother says?'

"'I ask pardon, sir—I was absent—I—what were you saying, mother?'

"'She was saying,' continued Mr. Daly, with a smile, 'that you were manufacturing a fine speech for Anna Chute, and that you were just meditating whether you should deliver it on your knees or out of brief, as if you were addressing the bench in the Four Courts.'

"'For shame, my dear! Never mind him, Kyrle; I said no such thing. I wonder how you can say that, my dear, and the children listening.'

"'Pooh! the little angels are too busy and too innocent to pay us any attention,' said Mr. Daly, lowering his voice, however. 'But, speaking seriously, my boy, you take this affair too deeply to heart; and whether it be in our pursuit of wealth, or fame, or even in love itself, an extreme solicitude to be successful is the surest means of defeating its own object. Besides, it argues an unquiet and unresigned condition. I have had a little experience, you know, in affairs of this kind,' he added, smiling and glancing at his fair helpmate, who blushed with the simplicity of a young girl.

"'Ah sir!' said Kyrle, as he drew nearer to the breakfast-table with a magnanimous affectation of cheerfulness, 'I fear I have not so good a ground for hope as you may have had. It is very easy, sir, for one to be resigned to disappointment, when he is certain of success.'

"'Why, I was not bidden to despair indeed,' said Mr. Daly, extending his hand to his wife, while they exchanged a quiet smile, which had in it an expression of tenderness and of melancholy remembrance.

"'I have, I believe, been more fortunate than more deserving persons. I have never been vexed with useless fears in my wooing days, nor with vain regrets when those days were ended. I do not know, my dear lad, what hopes you have formed, or what prospects you may have shaped out of the future; but I will not wish you a better fortune than that you may as nearly approach to their accomplishment as I have done, and that time may deal as fairly with you as he has done with your father.' After saying this, Mr. Daly leaned forward on the table, with his temple supported by one finger, and glanced alternately from his children to his wife while he sang in a low tone the following verse of a popular song:

'How should I love the pretty creatures,While round my knees they fondly clung!To see them look their mother's features,To hear them lisp their mother's tongue;And when with envy time transported,Shall think to rob us of our joys,You'll in your girls again be courted,And I—'

with a glance at Kyrle—

'And I go wooing with the boys.'"

We cannot close this imperfectsketch of theCollegianswithout commending the treatment of the humbler personages introduced, equally free as they are from that stilted phraseology and broad caricature which too often disgrace Irish novels and so-called Irish plays. Poor Eily O'Connor, in all her simple innocence and ignorance of the world, is a beautiful creation; and though travestied in three or four different forms on the stage, she still holds a lasting place in our affections. Her meeting with her discarded lover, Myles Murphy the mountaineer, presents us a scene of touching pathos such as only, we imagine, an Irish peasant could express in his native tongue:

"'There is only one person to blame in all this business,' murmured the unhappy girl, 'and that is Eily O'Connor.'"'I don't say that,' returned the mountaineer. 'It's no admiration to me you should be heart-broken with all the persecution we gave you day afther day. All I'm thinking is, I'm sorry you didn't mention it to myself unknownst. Sure it would be betther for me than to be as I was afther, when I heerd you were gone. Lowry Lovby told me first of it, when I was eastwards. Oh ro! such a life as I led afther. Lonesome as the mountains looked before, when I used to come home thinkin' of you, they looked ten times lonesomer afther I heerd of that story. The ponies, poor crathers—see 'em all, how they're lookin' down at us this moment—they didn't hear me spring the rattle on the mountain for a month afther. I suppose they thought it is in Garryowen I was.'"Here he looked upward, and pointing to his herd, a great number of which were collected in groups on the broken cliffs above the road, some standing so far forward on the projections of rock as to appear magnified against the dusky sky, Myles sprang the large wooden rattle which he held in his hand, and in an instant all dispersed and disappeared, like the clan of a Highland chief at the sound of their leader's whistle."'Well, Myles,' said Eily, at length collecting a little strength, 'I hope we'll see some happy days in Garryowen yet.'"'Heaven send it! I'll pack off the boy to-night to town, or I'll go myself, if you like, or I'll get you a horse and truckle, and guide it myself for you, or I'll do any thing in the whole world that you'll have me. Look at this. I'd rather be doing your bidding this moment than my own mother's, and heaven forgive me, if that's a sin! Ah Eily! they may say this and that o' you, in the place where you were born; but I'll ever hold to it, I held to it all through, an' I'll hold to it to my death, that when you darken your father's door again, you will send no shame before you.'"'You are right in that, Myles.'"'Didn't I know I was? And wasn't it that that broke my heart! If one met me afther you flitted away, an' saw me walking the road with my hands in my pockets and my head down, an' I thinking; an' if he sthruck me on the shoulder, an' "Myles," says he, "don't grieve for her, she's this an' that," and if he proved it to me, why, I'd look up that minute an' I'd smile in his face. I'd be as easy from that hour as if I never crossed your threshold at Garryowen! But knowing in my heart, and as my heart told me, that it never could be that way; that Eily was still the old girl always, an' hearing what they said o' you, an' knowing that it was I that brought it all upon you—O Eily! Eily!—O Eily O'Connor! there is not that man upon Ireland ground that can tell what I felt. That was what kilt me! That was what drove the pain into my heart, and kept me in the doctor's hands till now.'"

"'There is only one person to blame in all this business,' murmured the unhappy girl, 'and that is Eily O'Connor.'

"'I don't say that,' returned the mountaineer. 'It's no admiration to me you should be heart-broken with all the persecution we gave you day afther day. All I'm thinking is, I'm sorry you didn't mention it to myself unknownst. Sure it would be betther for me than to be as I was afther, when I heerd you were gone. Lowry Lovby told me first of it, when I was eastwards. Oh ro! such a life as I led afther. Lonesome as the mountains looked before, when I used to come home thinkin' of you, they looked ten times lonesomer afther I heerd of that story. The ponies, poor crathers—see 'em all, how they're lookin' down at us this moment—they didn't hear me spring the rattle on the mountain for a month afther. I suppose they thought it is in Garryowen I was.'

"Here he looked upward, and pointing to his herd, a great number of which were collected in groups on the broken cliffs above the road, some standing so far forward on the projections of rock as to appear magnified against the dusky sky, Myles sprang the large wooden rattle which he held in his hand, and in an instant all dispersed and disappeared, like the clan of a Highland chief at the sound of their leader's whistle.

"'Well, Myles,' said Eily, at length collecting a little strength, 'I hope we'll see some happy days in Garryowen yet.'

"'Heaven send it! I'll pack off the boy to-night to town, or I'll go myself, if you like, or I'll get you a horse and truckle, and guide it myself for you, or I'll do any thing in the whole world that you'll have me. Look at this. I'd rather be doing your bidding this moment than my own mother's, and heaven forgive me, if that's a sin! Ah Eily! they may say this and that o' you, in the place where you were born; but I'll ever hold to it, I held to it all through, an' I'll hold to it to my death, that when you darken your father's door again, you will send no shame before you.'

"'You are right in that, Myles.'

"'Didn't I know I was? And wasn't it that that broke my heart! If one met me afther you flitted away, an' saw me walking the road with my hands in my pockets and my head down, an' I thinking; an' if he sthruck me on the shoulder, an' "Myles," says he, "don't grieve for her, she's this an' that," and if he proved it to me, why, I'd look up that minute an' I'd smile in his face. I'd be as easy from that hour as if I never crossed your threshold at Garryowen! But knowing in my heart, and as my heart told me, that it never could be that way; that Eily was still the old girl always, an' hearing what they said o' you, an' knowing that it was I that brought it all upon you—O Eily! Eily!—O Eily O'Connor! there is not that man upon Ireland ground that can tell what I felt. That was what kilt me! That was what drove the pain into my heart, and kept me in the doctor's hands till now.'"

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