My little man is merry and wise, Gay as a cricket and blithe as a bird; Often he laughs and seldom he cries, Chatters and coos at my lightest word: Peeping and creeping and opening the door, Clattering, pattering over the floor, In and out, round about, fast as he can,— So goes the daytime with my little man.

My little man is brimful of fun, Always in mischief and sometimes in grief; Thimble and scissors he hides one by one, Till nothing is left but to catch the thief; Sunny hair, golden fair over his brow— Eyes so deep, lost in sleep, look at him now; Baby feet, dimpled sweet, tired as they ran, So goes the night-time with my little man.

My little man, with cherry-ripe face, Pouting red lips and dimpled chin, Fashioned in babyhood's exquisite grace, Beauty without and beauty within,— Full of light, golden bright, life as it seems, Not a tear, not a fear, known in thy dreams; Kisses and blisses now make up its span, Could it be always so, my little man?

My little man the years fly away, Chances and changes may come to us all,— I'll look for the babe at my side some day, And find him above me, six feet tall; Flowing beard hiding the dimples I love, Grizzled locks shading the clear brow above, Youth's promise ripened on Nature's broad plan, And nothing more left me of my little man.

My little man,—when time shall bow, With its hoary weight, my head and thine,— Will you love me then as you love me now, With sweet eyes looking so fond in mine? However strangely my lot may be cast, My hope in life's future, my joy in life's past, Loyal and true as your loving heart can, Say, will you always be my little man?

My little man! perchance the bloom Of the hidden years, as they come and pass, May leave me alone, with a wee, wee tomb Hidden away in the tangled grass. Still as on earth, so in heaven above, Near to me, dear to me, claiming my love, Safe in God's sunshine, and filling his plan, Still be forever my own little man.

Perhaps our Irish poetess in exile—Boston does not consider itself a place of exile—would prefer to be represented by one of her more serious poems; and probably she had good reasons for placing first in her volume the following which is called "The Master's Hand."

The scroll was old and gray; The dust of time had gathered white and chill Above the touches of the worker's skill, And hid their charm away.

The many passed it by; For no sweet curve of dainty face or form, No gleam of light, or flash of color warm, Held back the careless eye.

But when the artist came, With eye that saw beyond the charm of sense, He seemed to catch a sense of power intense That filled the dusky frame.

And when with jealous care His hand had cleansed the canvas, line by line, Behold! The fire of perfect art divine, Had burned its impress there!

Upon the tablet glowed, Made priceless by the arch of time they spanned, The touches of the rare Old Master's hand, The life his skill bestowed.

* * * * *

O God whom we adore! Give us the watchful sight, to see and trace, Thy living semblance in each human face However clouded o'er.

Give us the power to find, However warped and grimmed by time and sin, Thine impress stamped upon the soul within, Thy signet on the mind.

Not ours the reckless speed To proudly pass our brother's weakness by, And turning from his side with careless eye, To take no further heed.

But, studying line by line, Grant to our hearts deep trust and patient skill, To trace within his soul and spirit still, Thy Master Hand divine!

Mrs. Blake in one point does not resemble the two Irish woman-poets—for they are more than poetesses—whom we named together at the beginning of this little paper. Ireland and the Blessed Virgin have not in this Boston book the prominence which Miss Mulholland gives them in the volume which is just issuing from Paternoster Square. The Irish-American lady made her selection with a view to the tastes of the general public; but the general public are sure to be won by earnest and truthful feeling, and an Irish and Catholic heart cannot be truthful and earnest without betraying its devotion to the Madonna and Erin.

Irish Monthly, edited by REV. MATHEW RUSSELL, S.J.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: Gille Machree, "brightener of my heart;" the name of one of Gerald Griffin's sweetest songs.]

[Footnote 8: Amongst American women we cannot claim Nora Perry, in spite of her Christian name; but the father of Miss Louise Guiney was an Irishman. Both of these show a fresh and bright talent, which lifts them far above feminine verse-writers.]



George Washington.

HIS CELEBRATED WHITE MULE, AND THE RACE IT MADE AWAY FROM A DEER RIFLE.

Washington has generally been credited with the introduction in America of mules as a valuable adjunct to plantation appurtenances; but very few people know that one of his favorite riding animals was a white mule, which was kept carefully stabled and groomed along with his blooded horses at Mount Vernon. In the year 1797, there was published at Alexandria for a brief period, a weekly paper called Hopkin's Gazette. A few numbers of this sheet are still extant. In one of them there is an account of an exciting adventure, in which Washington, the white mule, and one Jared Dixon figured. It is evident that the editor of this paper did not have an exalted opinion of the great patriot, as he speaks of him as "a man who has the conceit of believing that there would not be any such country as America if there had not been a George Washington to prevent its annihilation." From this account it appears that Jared Dixon was a Welshman, who lived on a hundred-acre tract of land adjoining the Mount Vernon plantation. Washington always claimed that the tract belonged to him, and made several efforts to dispossess Dixon, but without success. According to the Gazette, Washington's overseer had, on one occasion, torn down the Dixon fence and let the cattle into the field, and various similar annoyances were resorted to in order to force Dixon to move away. But Dixon would neither surrender nor compromise, and kept on cultivating his little farm in defiance of the man who had been first in war and was now first in peace.

"It was last Thursday about the hour of noon," says the Gazette, "when General Washington rode up to Mr. Dixon's gate. He was mounted on his white mule, which had come down the broad road on his famous fox-trot of eight miles an hour. There was fire in the General's eye and his under lip protruded far, betokening war. His riding-boots shone in the sun, as did his gold spurs. His hair was tied with a gorgeous black ribbon, and his face was pale with resolution. Mr. Dixon and his family were adjusting themselves for dinner, when they heard the call at the gate. There was a most animated conversation between these two neighbors, in which the General informed the humble settler that he must receive a certain sum for his disputed title or submit to be dispossessed. Whereupon Mr. Dixon, who was also a Revolutionary soldier, and felt that he has some rights in this country, informed the lordly neighbor that the land was his own, that he had paid for it and built houses thereon, the children were born to him on it, and that he would defend it with his life. Continuing, he charged the general with inciting his employes to depredate on the fences and fields. It was natural that this should arouse the mettle of the modern Mars. He flew into a towering rage, and applied many epithets to Mr. Dixon that are not warranted by the Ten Commandments. He even went so far as to raise his riding-whip and to threaten personal violence. Mr. Dixon is a man of few words, but a high temper, and, not caring to have his home and family thus offended, he gave the general one minute to move away while he rushed into his house for his deer rifle. There are none who doubt the valor of the general; but there may be a few who do not credit him with that discretion which is so valuable a part of valor. Suffice it for the ends of this chronicle to say that it required only a few moments for him to turn the gray mule's head towards Mount Vernon, and, in less time than it takes to here relate, the noble animal was distancing the Dixon homestead with gallant speed. It was no fox-trot, nor yet so fast as the Derby record, but most excellent for a mule. At any rate, it was a noble race, which saved a settler's shot and a patriot's bacon, and averted a possible catastrophe that might have cast a gloom on American history."

If this narrative is strictly accurate, Washington might have replied to his refractory neighbor, on being warned away, in the language of the Nevada desperado who was put on a mule by a committee of vigilants and given ten minutes to get out of town; "Gentlemen," said the desperado, "if this mule don't balk, I don't want but five."

Washington's Mother.

Mrs. Washington found little difficulty in bringing up her children. They were disciplined to obedience, and a simple word was her command. She was not given to any display of petulance or rage, but was steady, well-balanced, and unvarying in her mood. That she was dignified, even to stateliness, is shown us by the statement made by Lawrence Washington, of Chotauk, a relative and playmate of George in boyhood, who was often a guest at her house. He says—"I was often there with George—his playmate, schoolmate, and young man's companion. Of the mother I was ten times more afraid than I ever was of my own parents. She awed me in the midst of her kindness, for she was indeed truly kind. I have often been present with her sons—proper tall fellows, too—and we were all as mute as mice; and even now, when time has whitened my locks, and I am the grandparent of a second generation, I could not behold that remarkable woman without feelings it is impossible to describe. Whoever has seen that awe-inspiring air and manner, so characteristic in the father of his country, will remember the matron as she appeared, when the presiding genius of her well-ordered household, commanding and being obeyed.



A Child of Mary.

An old general was once asked by a friend how it was that, after so many years spent in the camp, he had come to be so frequent a communicant, receiving several times a week. "My friend," answered the old soldier, "the strangest part of it is, that my change of life was brought about before I ever listened to the word of a priest, and before I had set my foot in a church. After my campaigns, God bestowed on me a pious wife, whose faith I respected, though I did not share it. Before I married her she was a member of all the pious confraternities of her parish, and she never failed to add to her signature, Child of Mary. She never took it upon herself to lecture me about God, but I could read her thoughts in her countenance. When she prayed, every morning and night, her countenance beamed with faith and charity; when she returned from the church, where she had received, with a calmness, a sweetness and a patience, which had in them something of the serenity of heaven, she seemed an angel. When she dressed my wounds I found her like a Sister of Charity.

"Suddenly, I myself was taken with the desire to love the God whom my wife loved so well, and who inspired her with those virtues which formed the joy of my life. One day I, who hitherto was without faith, who was such a complete stranger to the practices of religion, so far from the Sacraments, said to her: 'Take me to your confessor.'

"Through the ministry of this man of God, and by the divine grace, I have become what I am, and what I rejoice to be."



Dead Man's Island.

THE STORY OF AN IRISH COUNTRY TOWN.

T. P. O'CONNOR, M. P.



CHAPTER XIX.

MAT BECOMES A FENIAN.

Shortly before this, the Widow Cunningham had received the news that her poor boy had been killed in a colliery accident in Pennsylvania. This stopped the allowance which he used to send her out of his own scant wages.

The destruction of her daughter now came as the last blow that broke her long-enduring spirit. There had been a time when she would have died rather than have gone into the workhouse, but she had nothing left to live for now, and she became a pauper. The Irish workhouse soon kills what little spirit successive misfortunes have left in its occupants before their entrance, and in a few years there was nothing left of the once proud, high-spirited and splendid woman, whom we knew in the early days of this history.

Meantime, the fate of the girl had been the final influence in deciding the fate of another person. Mat Blake had fluctuated for a long time before he could make up his mind to join the revolutionary party; but on the very evening of the day on which he had seen Betty in the streets of Ballybay he made no further resistance, and that night was sworn in as a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

It is not my purpose in this story to enter at length into his adventures in his new and perilous enterprise. He had not been long in the ranks when he was recognized by Mr. James Stephens as one of the most promising members of the conspiracy, and he was chosen to do important and serious work. The funds of the organization were nearly always at the lowest ebb, and during this period of his life Mat had to pass through privations that could only be endured by a man of passionate purpose and unselfish aims. Many and many a time he had not the money wherewith to buy a railway ticket. His clothes were often ragged, and he frequently had to walk twenty miles in a day in shoes that were almost soleless. The arrangement usually was for the members of one circle to supply him with the money that would take him to the next town; and though he saw many instances of abject cowardice and hideous selfishness at this period—especially when the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act left the liberty, and to some extent, the life of every man at the disposal of the police. He also witnessed many proofs of heroic courage and noble devotion.

At length the time came when everybody expected the blow to be struck at British tyranny, and the star of Irish liberty to arise. Mat, owing to his fiery and impatient temperament, naturally belonged to that section of the Fenian Brotherhood which demanded prompt action, and still in the age of illusions and of blinding rage, he would admit no difficulties, and feared no obstacles. Mat had sworn in hundreds of members. He had passed through the town of Ballybay on the memorable night when an Irish regiment, as it was leaving for other quarters, cheered through the town for the Irish Republic, and some of the men on whom he relied most strongly were in high authority in the police force. He knew nothing of the almost total want of arms, taking it for granted that all the wild boasts of the supplies from America and other sources were founded on facts. He was one of the deputation that finally waited upon the leaders in Dublin to hurry on the struggle.

He went down to Ballybay on the night of the 17th of March, 18—, which had been fixed for the rising. The head centre of the province had arranged to meet the men there that night with arms. The Ballybay Barracks were to be surrendered to them through one of the sergeants who belonged to the Brotherhood; and it was hoped that by the evening of the next day, the green flag would float over the castle which for three centuries had been garrisoned by the soldiers of the enemy.

Two hundred men met at the trysting place, close to the "Big Meadows." They were kept waiting for some time; impatience began to set in, and demoralization is the child of impatience. At last the head centre appeared; he had five guns for the whole party. Then the men saw that their hopes were betrayed. Most of them quietly dispersed towards their homes. That night Mat was seized in his bed, and within a few minutes afterwards was in goal. He felt that the game was up, that all his bright hopes, like those of many another noble Irish heart before him, had ended in farcical nothingness. Disaster followed upon disaster. When he made his appearance in court he saw upon the witness table one of his most trusted friends, who was about to give the evidence that would ensure his conviction.

A final outrage was in store for him. The Government had resolved, when once it had entered upon the campaign against the conspiracy, to pursue it with vigor, and judges were selected who might be relied upon to show the accused no justice during the trial, and no mercy after the conviction. Crowe, who had been made a judge shortly after his last election for Ballybay, was naturally chosen as the chief and most useful actor in this drama. During all the years that had elapsed since his treason he had distinguished himself, even above all the other judges of the country, in the unscrupulous violence of his hostility to all popular movements. Trial before him came to be regarded as certainty of conviction. The fearlessness of the man made him inaccessible to the threats that were everywhere hurled against him, and his rage became the fiercer and his violence the more relentless on the day after he found a threatening letter under a plate on his own table. He brought to his task all the ferocity of the apostate. Under all his apparent independence, his quick vanity and his hot temper made him sensitive to attack, and the Fenian Press had made him the chief target of its most vehement and most constant invective.

Mat Blake was known as one of the bitterest writers and speakers of the movement, and some of the writings in which he had attacked Crowe displayed a familiarity with the incidents of Ballybay elections which could only have come from the pen of one who had been intimately associated with those struggles.

The two men now stood face to face—the one on the bench and the other in the dock. Crowe did not allow himself to betray any sign of previous acquaintance with the prisoner before him. The jury was selected; every man who might be supposed to have the least sympathy with National movements was rigorously excluded from the box, and Mat was tried by twelve men, of whom nine were Orangemen and the other three belonged to that Catholic-Whig bourgeoisie against which he had always waged unsparing war. Anthony Cosgrave was the foreman. Mat was convicted, and sentenced to seven years' penal servitude.

The sufferings he underwent during this period I will not attempt to describe. After a very short stay in Ireland he was transferred to Portland, and there the English warders exhausted upon him all the insolence and cruelty of ignorant and triumphant enemies. One suffering, however, was in his case somewhat mitigated. He had not a large appetite, and the prison food, though coarse, was sufficient for his wants. With the generosity which characterized him, he was even ready to divide his food with those whose appetites were more exacting. Among his companions were two men, tall, robust, red-haired, who belonged to a stock of Southern farmers, and who were possessed of the gigantic strength, the huge frame, and the sound digestion of Cork ploughmen. Every day these hapless creatures complained of hunger and of cold, and Mat and Charles Reilly, another member of the Irish People staff, sometimes found a sombre pleasure in finding and gathering snails for them. Whenever either of them brought a snail to Meehan or to Sheil the famished men would swallow it eagerly, without even stopping to take off the shell. Meehan is now a prominent member of the Dynamite Party in New York. Sheil became insane shortly after his release, and threw himself into the Liffey.

One day, after four years' imprisonment, the Governor called Mat into his room and told him that he was free. He was transferred to Milbank, then he was supplied with a suit of clothes several times too large for him, and he went out and by the Thames, and gazed on that noble stream with the eyes of a free man.

He wandered aimlessly and listlessly along, unable yet to appreciate the full joy of his restoration to liberty. As he was passing over Westminster Bridge he was suddenly stopped by a man whom he had known in the ranks of the organization, and whom the fortune of war had not swept into gaol with the rest. The stranger looked at Mat for a few moments; gazed on the hollow eyes, the pale cheeks, and the worn frame, and, unable to restrain his emotions, burst into tears. This was the first indication Mat received of the terrible change that imprisonment had wrought in his appearance. The next day he set out for Ballybay.

Meanwhile, vast changes seemed about to come over Ireland. The Fenian conspiracy had been the death-knell of the triumphant cynicism and corruption that had reigned over the country in the years succeeding the treason of Crowe. The name of Mr. Butt, as the leader of a new movement, was beginning to be spoken of. An agitation had been started which demanded a radical settlement of the land question. Demonstrations were taking place in almost every county, and the people were united, enthusiastic, and hopeful. Several of the worst of the landlords had already been brought to their knees, and there had been a considerable fall in the value of landed property. The serfs were passing from the extremity of despair and demoralization into the other extreme of exultant and sometimes cruel triumph.

Even the town of Ballybay was beginning to be stirred, and the farmers all around joined the new organization in large numbers.

By a curious coincidence a monster demonstration was announced in Ballybay for the very day of Mat's arrival.

As Mat passed along the too well remembered scene between Ballybay and Dublin, he could not help thinking of the time when he had gone over this road on his first visit to Ireland after his departure for England. He had then thought that desolation had reached its ultimate point; but in the intervening period the signs of decay had increased. It appeared as if for every ruin that had stared him in the face on the former occasion ten now appeared. For miles and miles he caught sight of not one house, of no human face; he seemed almost to be travelling through a city of the dead.

As the newspaper containing tidings of the new movement lay before him, he leaned back in reflection, and once more thought of the days in which Crowe figured as the saviour, and then as the betrayer of Ireland. It had been a rigid article of faith with the Fenian organization that no confidence was to be placed in constitutional agitations and agitators. Mat retained in their full fervor the doctrines he had held for years upon this point; and he turned away from the accounts of the new movement as from another chapter in national folly and prospective treason. Looking out on the familiar grey and dull sky, he could see no hope whatever for the future of his country. Irish life appeared to him one vast mistake; and so far as he had any plans for the future they were of a life removed from the chaos and fret and toil and moil and disappointments and humbug of politics. He thought of returning once more to his profession; but he resolved that it would be neither amid the incessant decay of Ireland, nor surrounded by hostile faces and unsympathetic hearts in England. His thoughts were of the mighty country which had extended its hospitality and generosity to so many of his race, and had bestowed upon them liberty, prosperity, and eminence. In all these visions one figure, one sweet face mingled itself. With Mary Flaherty by his side he felt that no career could be wholly dark, no part of the world wholly foreign, and as he once more indulged in waking dreams he hummed to himself the well-known air,—

"Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Still wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me."

At last he was at the railway, and there were his poor old father and his mother standing before him, their hair bleached to whiteness, trembling, feeble, with tears rolling down their cheeks. Mat was in his mother's arms in a moment.

Ballybay, even on this occasion, was true to itself. The arrival of Mat in Dublin had been announced in the newspapers, and the heart of the people throughout the country went forth to him, as it always does to those whose generous rashness has been punished by England's worst tyranny. He had been accompanied to the railway station at the Broadstone by a crowd; thousands cheered him, and shook him by the hand, and wept and laughed. The word had mysteriously gone along the line that the patriot was returning, and at every one of the stations, however small, there was a multitude to greet him warmly.

But at Ballybay, still deep down in the slough of its eternal despond, a few lorn and desolate-looking men stood on the platform. There they were once more, as if it were but yesterday, with their hands deep down in their pockets; the wistful, curious glance in their eyes, and the melancholy slouch in their shoulders. They tried to raise a cheer, but the attempt died in its own sickliness.

And then Mat left the train, walked over the station as one in a dream, and was placed upon the sidecar almost without knowing what he was doing.

There was a terrible dread at his heart; he asked his mother a question; she answered him; and then, and for the first time since he had left prison, his heart burst, his spirit broke, and he entered his father's house pallid, trembling, his eyes suffused with bitter tears.



CHAPTER XX.

THE DEMONSTRATION.

And thus it came to pass that the chief characters of this story found themselves in Ballybay again on its closing day, on exactly the same spot as they were on the day when it opened.

The Land League demonstration was not prepared with any particular care or organization, the Irish people being still, even in the matter of political demonstration, in a state of childish immaturity. It turned out to be better so, for the spontaneous inventiveness of the moment suggested a programme far more dramatic and picturesque than could have occurred to the mind of the most ingenious political stage-manager. The platform had been erected on the spot where the cabin had stood which the son of the Gombeen man had overthrown so many years ago. The field now was laid in grass, which, before the demonstration waved long and green; but as the hours went on and the thousands of feet passed over it, the grass was all crushed and torn. There were half a dozen bands—two of them dressed in the showy uniform which descends from the pictures of Robert Emmet in the dock—and they played continuously and for the most part discordantly. There were also many banners, there was a long procession of men on horseback, and the heads of the horses were covered with green boughs. Green, indeed, was everywhere; there were green banners, green scarves, green neck-ties, and the greater part of the men displayed the green ticket of the Tenant League in their hats. The air of the crowd was in no way serious, the whole affair was rather like a fete than a grave political demonstration. The multitudes, too, had the absence of self-control which characterizes popular demonstrations; their feelings seemed to express themselves without thought or premeditation, speech overflowed rather than fell from their lips. The result was that the cheering was continuous; now it was the arrival of a band; then the erect walk of a sturdy contingent from a distant point; sometimes it was simply the exchange of a look, that, though mute, spoke volumes, between the people in the procession and those on the sidepaths, that brought forth a wild cheer, in short the temper of the crowd was bright and electrical—the mood for unusual ideas and passionate scenes.

The good humor was hearty rather than inventive or articulate, but one man had had the genius to invent a comic device. This was a very wild creature, half beggar, half laborer, the last of a rapidly dying class in Ireland. He had got hold of a wretched nag of whom the knacker had been defrauded for many years and seated on this in fantastic dress he cudgelled it unmercifully, amid screams of laughter, for around its neck was a placard with the words, "Dead Landlordism."

About two o'clock, there was seen making a desperate attempt to penetrate through this teeming, densely-packed, and noisy multitude, a stout figure, with a face ugly, irregular, good-humored. He was dressed in a long and dull-colored and almost shabby ulster. His hat was as rough as if it had been brushed the wrong way, and he wore a suit of tweed that was now very old, but that even in its earliest days would have been scorned by the poorest shopman of the town with any pretensions to respectability, and the trousers were short and painfully bagged at the knees. But the divine light of genius shone from the brown eyes and the ample forehead. The enthusiasm of the multitude now knew no bounds. There was first a strange stillness, then, when the word seemed to have passed with a strange and lightning-like rapidity from mouth to mouth, there burst forth a great cheer, and it was known that Isaac Butt had come.

But even the Irish leader was destined to play a subordinate part in the proceedings of this strange day. It was a local speaker that stirred the hearts of the people to the uttermost, for he told the story of the eviction of the Widow Cunningham, of the death of her husband, the exile of her son, the shame of her daughter.

While he was speaking some one cried, "She'll have her own agin," and then a few of the young fellows disappeared from the platform. In the course of half-an-hour they returned. They ascended the platform, and after a while, and another pause, a strange and audible thrill passed through the multitude; and then there were passed in almost a hoarse whisper the words, "The Widow Cunningham." And she it was; acting on the hint of the speaker, she had been taken from the workhouse; and she was brought back to her old farm again and to the site of her shattered homestead and broken life. The multitude cheered themselves hoarse; hundreds rushed to the platform to seize her by the hand; a few women threw their arms around her neck, and wept and laughed. Finally, the enthusiasm could not be controlled, and, in spite of the entreaties of the political leaders and of the priests, a knot of young men caught the poor old creature up, and carried her around the field in triumph; the crowd everywhere swaying backwards and forwards, divided between the effort to make a way for the strange procession and the desire to catch sight of the old woman. Probably few of the people there could understand the strange effect which this sight had upon them; but their instincts guided them aright in the enthusiasm with which they hailed this visible token of a bad and terrible and irrevocable past.

And how was it with the chief actor in the scene? Five years of life in a workhouse had left no trace of the handsome, long-haired, and passionate woman who had cursed the destroyer of her house and her children with wild vehemence, and had resisted the assault of the Crowbar Brigade with murderous energy. She was now simply a feeble old woman, with scanty grey hair; the light had died out of her eyes; and there was nothing left in them now but weariness and pain; her cheeks were sunk and were dreadfully discolored; in short, she was a poor, feeble, old woman, with broken spirits and dulled brain. The revenge for which she had longed and prayed had come at last; but it had come too late.

She went through the whole scene with curious and unconscious gaze, as of one passing through a waking dream, and the only sign she gave of understanding anything that was going on was that she gave a weak and weary little smile when the people cried out to her enthusiastically, "Bravo, Widow Cunningham!"—a smile as spectral as the state of things of which she was the relic. She was very wearied and almost fainting when she was brought back to the platform; and then she said, in a voice that was a little louder than a whisper, and with a strange wistfulness in her eyes, "I'd like a cup of tay."

But there was no tea to be had, and the thoughtless good-nature of the day helped to precipitate the tragedy which the equally thoughtless enthusiasm had begun. A dozen flasks were produced; a tumbler was taken from the table, and a large quantity of whiskey was poured down her throat. She became feeble, and the rays of intelligence almost disappeared from her face.

At last, as the evening fell, the crowd dispersed; the old pauper was left by the men who had brought her to the platform, and there were but a couple of women more watchful than the rest to take care of her. They tried to bring her home, but she showed a strange kind of obstinacy, and refused for a long time to move. When she was got to make a stir she seemed most unwilling to go in the direction of the workhouse, she would give no reason—for indeed she seemed either unable or unwilling to speak at all, but with the silent obstinacy of an animal she tried to go in an opposite direction. At last the two women thought it wisest to humor her, and let her go where she wished. By this time night had completely fallen, and in going down a dark boreen she managed to escape from her companions altogether. They searched everywhere around, and at last frightened, they went home for their husbands. A party of five people—the husbands, the son of one of them, and the two women came along the boreen, guided by the dim light of the farthing dip which is the only light the Irish farmer has yet been able to use. After a long search they came to a spot well known to all of them, and then the truth burst suddenly upon them. One of the women had been at the funeral of the Widow Cunningham's husband when she was a little girl, and remembered the spot where he was buried. They all followed her there in a strange anxiety, and their anticipations proved right. On the grave of her husband they found the Widow Cunningham, and she was a corpse.



CHAPTER XXI.

DEAD MAN'S ISLAND.

There was one person in Ballybay at least who envied the woman that lay forever free from life's fitful fever. The day's demonstration in the town had brought no joy to Mat's heart. He had not yet learned to make any distinction between the agitators who had broken his own life and murdered the hopes of his country, and the very different class of men who had brought new life and hope to the Irish nation. The whole business of the meeting to him, therefore, appeared nothing but gabble, treason, and folly. He spent his hours, after a scornful look or two at the preparations for the speeches of the day, in wandering through the fields and streets which he had known in boyhood, and appeared to have left so very, very long ago. Every sight deepened his depression. He thought of the first day he had spent in the town long ago, when he visited Ballybay for the first time after years of absence. Then he thought that he had exhausted the possibilities of grief over the waste of a nation's life; but he now found that there were deeper depths and larger possibilities of suffering in the Irish tragedy. Famine, plague, a whirlwind, or an earthquake could not, as he thought, have worked mischief more deadly, more appalling, more complete. He saw, with a curious sinking of the heart and an overwhelming sadness, that nearly every well-remembered spot of his boyhood was marked by the ruins of a desolated home. Here was the corner where he used to turn from the one to the two mile round—as two of the walks around Ballybay were called—but where was the house with its crowd of noisy children, which he saw every morning with the same confident familiarity as a well-remembered piece of furniture in his own house? Yes: there was the little road where he remembered to have stood one day so many years ago. It was a bright, beautiful day in summer, the sky was blue, and the roses bloomed; but everything was dark to him, for Betty, his first nurse, the strongest affection of his childhood, had retired to her mother's home the day before. And as he recalled how all the world seemed to be over for him on that day, he felt the full brotherhood of sorrow, and in one moment understood all the tragic significance of the separation which emigration had caused in more than a million Irish homes. The road had changed as though the country had been turned from a civilized to a savage land. The grass was growing thick and rank, the roses had gone, thick weeds choked festering pools, and of the little cottage in which Betty had dwelt there was not even a vestige.

And so, alas, in the town. At its entrance a whole street had disappeared, black and charred the walls stood—silent and deserted. This constant recurrence of the symbols of separation, desertion, silence, death, produced a strange numbness in his mind, and he walked along in a dream that became deeper and deeper. But he saw everything with the obscurity, and still with the strange, piercing look, of the dreamer. Turning from the houses to the people, he saw as it were in a flash the true meaning of that weary look which he had first observed as the prevalent expression of most faces; he loathed and at the same time he understood the prematurely bloated and blotched faces of so many of the young men whom he met everywhere, and read the story of the hopeless struggle against daily deepening gloom which had sought desperate relief in whiskey. He understood the procession of sad, and, as in his exalted mood he thought, spectral, men and women, that flowed in a noiseless stream to the chapel. It was May, "the month of Mary," as it is so touchingly called in Ireland, and in that month there are devotions every night in honor of the Mother of God. It was with difficulty he restrained his tears as there rose from the voices of the congregation the well-known and well-remembered hymn to the Blessed Virgin—the fitting wail of a people who dwell in a land of sorrows.

"Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy. Our Life, Our Sweetness, and Our Hope, to thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve, to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears." How well he recalled the evening long ago, when the hymn first struck him as the wail from the helpless agony of a dying nation.

Then Mat went home, and, as he entered the house, he noticed with the new-born light in his eyes many things that had escaped his attention when he first entered there in the morning. His father, as he answered the door, seemed to him to have aged ten years since he had looked at him in the morning, and he saw with a pang that seemed to squeeze his heart as in a vice that his clothes were shabby, and that even his boots were patched and broken. Then he went upstairs, and, entering the parlor noiselessly, caught sight of his mother. She turned sharply around, and to his horror and surprise he saw a fierce, violent blush overspread her pale cheek. He could not help looking at the table, and there he saw the same dread sight that had met him at so many painful crises in his life, for his mother was examining bank bills and pawn tickets. Then he rushed back in memory to the days of his own childhood, when he had wondered why it was that his mother occasionally wept as she turned over these mysterious slips of blue paper and small pieces of stiff card. The abject failure of his life never appeared to him so clearly as it did at that moment, and the sense of complete disaster was aggravated by the awful feeling that he had made others suffer even more bitterly than himself. And for a moment it seemed, too, as if his mother were resolved that he should taste the full bitterness of the moral, for she looked at him fixedly as the blush died from her cheeks; but her heart was too touched by his look of pain, and in a moment she had kissed him on the cheek, after the frigid and self-restrained fashion of Ballybay.

Mat had a battle with himself as to whether he should visit Mary on this day; but after a while he felt that it would be a sort of savage triumph if he could fill the whole day with all the pain that could be packed within its hours. He had no idea as yet what he was going to do with the morrow, but it would certainly bring some new departure; this day he was, for this reason, the more resolutely ready to abandon to the luxury of woe.

Mary was alone when he visited the house; her husband had left town, for he did not dare, with all his courage, to aggravate the popular hatred by being visible on the day of the demonstration. She came into the room and shook hands with him, to his surprise, without any appearance of embarrassment. He looked at her without a word for a few moments, while she asked a few questions in a perfectly natural tone of voice about the meeting, his imprisonment, etc. As he looked he thought he saw a strange and mournful change in her face. The features seemed to have grown not merely hard, but coarse. He remembered the time when her upper lip had appeared to his eyes short, expressive, elegant; now it seemed to have grown long and vulgar. Her dark eyes were cold and impenetrable.

For a while they talked about indifferent things, but though he had sworn to himself a thousand times that he would never utter a word about her broken troth, his nerves were still too shaken and unsteady, after his sufferings in prison and the wearing experiences through which he had passed, to allow him to maintain complete self-control.

"And so you married Cosgrave," he said, as a beginning.

She looked at him sharply, and then answered, in the same cold and perfectly collected voice, "Yes, I married Cosgrave."

"Are you happy?"

"Yes."

"You never cared for me?" he said with bitterness; and then the venom, which had been choking him from the hour when he heard that his betrothed was gone, overflowed. He went on, in a voice that grew hoarse in its vehemence: "Look! I have been four years in prison; in the company of burglars, pickpockets, murderers; I have been kept in silence and solitude and restraint; and yet in all these four years I never suffered a pang so horrible as when I heard that you had proved untrue."

"No," she answered, with a stillness that sounded strangely after the high-pitched and passionate tones of his voice; "I was not untrue, for I was faithful to my highest duty." Then she paused, and when next she spoke her voice was also passionate; but it was passion that was expressed in low and biting, and not in a loud tone. "You have known the life of a prison: but you have not passed through the hell of Irish poverty."... Then, after a pause, in which she seemed buried in an agonizing retrospect, she said—"I would marry a cripple to help my family."

She had scarcely said these words when her father entered. The father was as much changed in Mat's eyes as the daughter; he could scarcely walk; his feet seemed just able to bear him; and his hand was palsied. He did not at first recognize Mat; and when at last he knew who it was, said in the old voice, the familiar words which Mat so loathed, "Ah! the crachure! Ah! the crachure!"

Mat now had the key to the hideous tragedy which had separated him from the woman he loved, and who loved him. He looked quickly at her; but the light of momentary excitement had died out of the face, and the expression was now perfectly serene. Several reflections passed rapidly through Mat's mind. He saw clearly that the girl had not a particle of self-reproach; not a doubt of the rectitude or even the nobility of her conduct; she had immolated herself with the same inflexible resolve and unquestioning faith as the sublime murderer of Marat. Then passing rapidly in mental review the history of so many self-murdered hearts, he asked which was the more cruel—the Irish or the Indian suttee. Perhaps in that moment Mat gained more knowledge than is given to other men in years of that strangest of all, even feminine, problems—an Irish girl's heart.

For a moment the two were left alone, for the first and only time in all their lives.

"What?" said Mat, in an audible soliloquy, "is Irish life?" And then he answered the question himself as she remained silent. "A tragedy, a squalid tragedy!" But she looked at him cold, irresponsive, defiant, and he rushed away before the old man came back with the whiskey.

The wreck of this girl's nature; her acceptance in full faith of the sordid and terrible gospel of loveless marriage; the omnipotence of even a little money in a land of abject and hopeless and helpless poverty, brought the realities of Irish life with a clearness to his mind more terrible than even uprooted houses and echoless streets.

He accepted the invitation of a friend to take a row up the river, beautiful with its eternal and changeless beauty amid all this wreck of hopes and blasting of lives.

They passed a small island.

"What is that called," asked Mat of the boatman.

"Dead Man's Island."

"What did you say?"

"Dead Man's Island."

"A——h,——Dead—Man's—Island!"

THE END.

GOING ON FOOT TO ROME.—In these days, when pilgrims go to Rome and Jerusalem by railway and steamer, it is refreshing to hear that the old-fashioned pilgrim may still be found. The last of these appears to be Ignacio Martinez, a native of Valladolid, who has nearly completed his pilgrimage to the Holy Place begun two years ago.



The Boys in Green.

After reading the Reminiscences of the Ninth Massachusetts, Volunteers, published in late numbers of DONAHOE'S, it occurred to the writer that a few incidents which came under my own personal observation, in which that regiment figured, occurring over twenty-three years ago, may be of interest to the survivors of the gallant Ninth, or their descendants. It may also interest the general public, and your Irish-American readers in particular, for my experience will speak more particularly of the corps with which my fortunes were cast—Gen. Thomas Francis Meagher's Irish Brigade. It was originally composed of three regiments, viz., Sixty-Third New York, Eighty-Eighth New York, and Sixty-Ninth New York, all organized in New York City, but some of its companies hailing from Albany, Boston, etc. The writer of this was connected with the Albany Company K, Sixty-Third Regiment, in the capacity of "high private" when the regiment was organized. This paper is merely intended to give an account of a few incidents in which the brigade participated, not by any means as a history of that organization.

It is well known to those familiar with events at the beginning of the war, that the Washington authorities decided to change McClellan's base of operations in the movement against the rebel capital (Richmond, Va.), to the Peninsula. Accordingly, in the spring of 1862, over one hundred thousand men and material of the Army of the Potomac, at that time, and subsequently, the largest and best disciplined body of troops in the service of the Republic, were sent by water to Fortress Monroe, Ship Point, and adjacent places for disembarkation. Very few people in civil life have any conception of the labor attending an operation of this kind. Not alone was this immense body of men carried by water, but all the material as well: heavy and field artillery; animals for the same; horses for the cavalry; and baggage, ammunition and supply trains. Thanks to the superiority of our navy at the time, the movement was entirely successful. It is true a few sailing crafts, and some armed rebel vessels showed themselves; but they took refuge up the York, Pamunkey, Elizabeth and James Rivers, to be afterwards destroyed as the Union Army advanced.

The writer was at the time on detached service (recruiting) in New York City; but at the period the advanced vessels of the Flotilla reached the Peninsula he received orders to rejoin his regiment. Accordingly I left Albany (depot for recruits) April 11, 1862, in charge of twenty-two men, eleven for Sixty-Third and eleven for Eighty-Eighth Regiments, reaching Fort Monroe April 14, by steamer from Washington. I shall never forget the impression made on my civilian mind as we steamed under the frowning guns of the weather-beaten Fort, in the gray of the morning. It impressed me with awe, as the black muzzles of the "War Dogs" bade defiance in their silent grandeur to rebels in arms and European enemies, who, at the time, entertained anything but friendly feelings towards the Republic.

The achievement of the famous Monitor was, at the time, in everybody's mouth. Your older readers will remember how the "Yankee Cheese-Box," the gallant Worden in command, put in appearance in Hampton Roads, a day or two after the finest wooden war ships in the government service were sent to the bottom, by the guns and ram of the rebel Merrimac. When the saucy, insignificant-looking craft boldly steamed for the victorious rebel iron-clad, the officers on board could not believe their senses, never having seen anything like the mysterious stranger before; but when fire and smoke belched forth from the Monitor's revolving turret, they were reminded that they had better look to their guns. Not being able to damage the stranger with their British cannon, the rebel tried the effect of its powerful ram; but the "cheese-box" divining its intentions, nimbly got out of harm's way. Its powerful eleven-inch guns in the turret continued to pound the iron sides of the Merrimac, until the latter thought "discretion the better part of valor," and sought safety in flight by ascending the Elizabeth River to Norfolk, not before being badly damaged in the encounter. Notwithstanding the rebel had numerous guns of the most approved pattern, their shot glanced harmlessly from the Monitor's revolving turret, the only object visible above water. You may think we looked upon the champion with no little pleasure as she peacefully lay in the channel, with steam up, waiting for the appearance of its powerful adversary, which never came. (The Merrimac was so badly damaged in the encounter, its commander, Jones, blew her up sooner than see her in the enemy's hands.) The masts of the ill-fated Cumberland and her consorts were plainly visible in the distance, where they sank with their brave tars standing nobly by their guns.

I am afraid the editor of the MAGAZINE will get impatient with my description before coming to the Ninth. The writer goes into these particulars because another generation has come on the scene since they happened, and it may interest them.

After landing with my detachment of twenty-two men, we turned our faces landward to find the army then moving towards Richmond. On the way we passed through the village of Hampton, and subsequently were much interested in looking over the battlefield of Big Bethel, where Magruder made his first fight on the Peninsula, not long previous, and where the Union troops were roughly handled. Gen. Joseph B. Carr, of Troy, N. Y., in command of the Second New York Volunteers, one of the most successful Irish-American soldiers of the late war, took a prominent part in this battle. It is thought he would have retrieved the blunders of some of the Union officers, if he had not been ordered to retire by Gen. B. F. Butler, who was in command. Gen. Carr is now serving out his third successive term as Secretary of State of New York. He recently ran for Lieutenant Governor on the Republican ticket; and although he failed to get elected, he ran nearly nine thousand votes ahead of his ticket. The rebel field works were just as they left them. The neighboring forests told the story of the desperate conflict by the manner in which they were torn from the effects of the artillery.

It was a long and tedious journey before we struck the army of "Little Mac;" and when the shades of night began to envelope us, the little squad was footsore, tired and hungry, having covered twenty-four miles since leaving the steamer. To add to our inconvenience, we had eaten nothing since leaving the vessel, and then a limited supply of "hard tack," washed down with coffee. The location of Meagher's Brigade was among the uncertainties. All our inquiries of troops in the vicinity were fruitless.

Learning from the men of a battery, encamped on the edge of a clearing, that an Irish Regiment was not far distant, inquired the name (State and number).

"I think, sergeant," said the officer addressed, "that it is an Irish Regiment from Massachusetts, but I do not know the number; they have an Irish flag anyhow." Thanking the captain for the information, we sought the locality of the Irish boys and their green flag.

"Halt! who comes there?" demanded a sentinel, pacing his beat, a few yards from the road, as the squad approached in the twilight.

"Friends!" was the response.

"Advance, friends, and give the countersign!"

We had no "countersign," and could not give it. I did the next best thing, and addressed the sentinel thus:

"We are Union soldiers, trying to find our regiment, having landed this morning at Fortress Monroe. We are tired and without anything to eat, since early this morning. Be good enough to tell us the name of that regiment yonder."

"That is the Ninth Massachusetts, Col. Tom Cass," was his response.

"Call the corporal of the guard; I would like to see the colonel."

"Corporal of the guard, Post Five!" he lustily called out, at the top of his voice.

"Corporal of the guard, Post Five!" was repeated in succession by the respective posts; bringing that officer on the run, in a few minutes to the post designated.

I repeated the request to the "corporal of the guard," a bright little man, about twenty-four years old. He requested us to remain where we were until the "officer of the guard" was consulted, "for ye know we are in the enemy's counthry, and we must be cautious." We assented, of course. Presently a lieutenant made his appearance, and after hearing our story, told us to follow him. We passed the guard and made our way to the colonel's quarters, before which a soldier was leisurely pacing. The lieutenant entered, but returned in a moment and desired me to follow him. I did so, and found myself in a group of officers. I saluted and came to "attention."

"Well, sergeant, what can we do for you?" kindly asked an officer with the eagles of a colonel on his shoulders.

"We are benighted, sir; my men and I landed at the Fort this morning, and are on the way to find our regiments. We have had nothing to eat in twelve hours. We're hungry and tired, and claim your hospitality for the night."

"May I ask what command you belong to, sir?"

"My regiment is the Sixty-Third New York, colonel, and the detachment is for that regiment and the Eighty-Eighth New York."

"What! Gen. Meagher, the Irish Brigade! Consider yourself at home, sergeant. The best in our camp is at your service. You can have all you can eat and drink, and a place to rest. Orderly," addressing a soldier in front of the tent, "send Sergeant —— to me."

"I see by your chevrons you are a non-commissioned officer. May I ask your name?" addressing me.

"Sergeant J—— D——, Company K, colonel," was my response.

The sergeant made his appearance, and Col. Cass (for we learned, subsequently, it was he) gave him directions to take Sergeant D——and his men, and give them everything they wanted for the night, and their breakfast before leaving in the morning. As we were about retiring the colonel remarked:—

"The night is chilly, sergeant; fog is heavy, malaria abroad, and you are tired. Wouldn't you like something in the way of liquid refreshments?"

"Thanks, colonel," I replied; "but the Sixty-Third is a temperance regiment.[9] We took the pledge from Father Dillon, last January, on David's Island, New York Harbor, for the war."

"Is it possible? I am glad to hear it! God bless you. I trust you will keep your pledge, not only for the war, but for all future time." I thanked him, gave him a salute and retired.

We certainly found ourselves in "the hands of our friends." Sergeant ——(unfortunately my diary is silent as to his name) took us to his quarters, and that being inadequate, lodged out some of the strangers. Coffee was made for us at the company's kitchen, and in less than half an hour there was enough of that delicious beverage steaming hot before us, with a mountain of "hard tack," to feed a company, instead of twenty-three men. The wants of the inner man being attended to (and we did the spread full justice) brier wood and tobacco were called into requisition. We found ourselves the centre of an interested crowd, for it got noised abroad that a squad of Gen. Meagher's men was in Sergeant ——'s quarters. "Taps" were sounded at the usual hour, but, by permission of the "officer of the day" the lights in the sergeant's tent, and others adjoining, were not extinguished, out of respect to the New Yorkers. During the evening song and story were in order, and at this late day it will not be giving away a secret to say that the "liquid refreshments," so kindly offered by the colonel were not ignored by many present, for the Ninth had a sutler with it, whose supply of "commissary" was yet abundant to be taken as an antidote against the malaria.

At day-break the regiment was roused from slumber by the soul-stirring sounds of the "reveille" which reverberated through the dark pine woods of the "sacred soil." The strangers were prevailed on to take a hasty cup of coffee, and as the men were forming for company drill, we bade them "good-by," and sought our own regiments, which we found in camp in a clearing, at Ship Point, nine miles from Yorktown, then held by the enemy.

The writer did not see the Ninth again until the 27th of June following (1862), and the occasion was a sad one. When McClellan's right wing was crushed like an egg shell under Gen. Fitz John Porter, on the north bank of the Chickahominy, two brigades of Sumner's Second Corps (Meagher and French's) were ordered from the centre of our lines at Fair Oaks to check the victorious march of the overwhelming masses of the enemy. After fighting like Spartans for two days, the twenty-seven thousand men under Porter were outflanked by the enemy who were sixty-five thousand strong. Porter's troops were compelled to retire, and by sundown they were in full retreat towards the temporary bridges constructed by our troops, over the Chickahominy. At this juncture the two brigades mentioned were ordered from our centre to check the advance of the now victorious enemy.

The force engaged at Gaines' Mill was: Union, 50 Regiments, 20 batteries, 27,000 men. Confederate: 129 Regiments, 19 batteries, 65,000 men. Losses: Union, killed, 894; wounded, 3,107; missing, 2,836; total, 6,837. Confederate: Somewhat larger, especially in killed and wounded. Perhaps in the whole history of the war there was no battle fought with more desperation on both sides than that of Mechanicville (June 26), and Gaines' Mill (June 27). Fitz John Porter handled his army with such ability that his inferior force repelled repeated attacks of the flower of the rebel army under Lee and Jackson; and if it were not for the blundering of the cavalry, under Gen. Cook, through whose instrumentality Porter's lines were broken, he would have repelled all efforts to drive him to the river. As an evidence of the desperate nature of the conflict, it may be mentioned that one Rebel regiment (Forty-Fourth Georgia) lost three hundred and thirty-five men.

We got there, about eight miles, at eight o'clock, having pushed on by forced marches all the way, but too late to change the fortunes of the day. We did check the advancing and exalting Rebels, who supposed a large part of the Union army had come to the rescue. Forming our lines on top of the hill (Gain's) with an Irish cheer we went down the northern side of the hill pell-mell for the enemy. The pursuers were now the pursued. The Rebels broke and fled before Irish steel. To advance in the darkness would be madness. The regiments were brought to a halt. So as to deceive the Confederates as to the number of reinforcements, the position of each regiment was constantly changed. In one of these movements, the right of the Sixty-Third struck a rebel battalion, halted in the darkness, and for a time there was temporary confusion. The grey coats were brushed aside instantly, getting a volley from the right wing of the Sixty-Third as a reminder that we meant business.

Fitz John Porter pays this tribute to the brigade as to the part it took on this occasion: "French and Meagher's brigades of Sumner's corps, all that the corps commanders deemed they could part with, were sent forward by the commanding general.... All soon rallied in rear of the Adams House behind Sykes and the brigades of French and Meagher sent to our aid, and who now with hearty cheers greeted our battalions as they retired and reformed."

While resting on our arms the dead and wounded were thick all around—friend and foe. Alas! not a few were our brothers of the Ninth Massachusetts. They told us in whispers how they repelled the enemy all day, and not until they were flanked by the Rebels did they give way before their repeated charges. The remnant of the regiment I subsequently saw next morning, in the rear, few in numbers, but with its spirit unbroken.

Having held the enemy in check to permit our broken battalions and the wounded to recross the Chickahominy, the two brigades silently left the field before dawn the next morning, blowing up the bridge behind us, thus stopping the pursuit. The two brigades occupied their old places behind the breastwork, at four the next morning, completely exhausted, but gratified that we were instrumental in checking the enemy, and saving from capture a large part of the army.

Four days later, July 1st, the bloody conflict of Malvern Hill was fought—the last of the Seven Days' Battles. Meagher's brigade, at that time consisting of the Sixty-Third, Eighty-Eighth, and Sixty-Ninth New York and one regiment from Massachusetts (Twenty-Ninth), had arms stacked in a beautiful valley, in the rear of the struggling hosts. All day long the storm of battle raged, and the men of the brigade were congratulating themselves that for once, at least, we would not be called upon to participate. Each regiment was ordered to kill several sheep and beeves, found the same day on the lands of a rich Virginian. While the companies were being served, a staff officer was seen riding at full speed to Gen. Meagher's head-quarters, his horse wet with foam. The men knew what that meant. We had seen it before. In a few minutes the "long roll" sounded in every regiment, and in less time than it takes to write these lines, the brigade was on the march. We knew from the sound of the guns that we were not going from but nearing the combat. Turning a ridge in the south-east, a fearful sight met our view. Thousands of wounded streamed to the rear, in the direction of Harrison Landing, on the James. Men with shattered arms and legs, some limping, all bloody and powder-stained. Many defiant, but the badly wounded moaning with agony. The head of the column, with Gen. Meagher and staff in front, turned sharply to the right, with difficulty forcing our way through the wounded crowds. We learned, subsequently, that after repelling the enemy with fearful slaughter all day, towards nightfall they pressed our left and attempted to seize the roads on our line of retreat to the James. Not till then were Meagher's men called on, and promptly they responded. While hurrying to the front, the Sixty-Third being the third regiment was halted. At this moment a volley from the left between us and the river, swept through our ranks. Seventeen men of the regiment fell, among them being Col. John Burke, who received a ball in the knee. He fell from his horse, but the mishap was for the moment kept from the men. Lieut.-Col. Fowler assumed command, and before the Rebel regiment had time to reload, four hundred smooth bores sent a withering volley crashing through their ranks. This put a quietus upon them.

"What regiment is this?" demanded an officer on horseback, surrounded by his staff, who came galloping up as the men reloaded.

"This is the Sixty-Third New York, general," responded Lieut.-Col. Fowler of that regiment.

"I am Gen. Porter, in command of this part of the field. I order you to remain here to support a battery now on its way to this spot. Do you understand, sir?"

"Yes, general; the Sixty-Third always obeys orders," was the lieutenant colonel's prompt response, and Gen. Porter disappeared to the front.

While halted here for the appearance of the battery, a crowd of men coming from the front, in the now gathering darkness, attracted my attention. I should say there were not more than fifty men all told—perhaps not more than thirty. They were grouped around their colors, which I discovered to be a United States flag and a green standard. The men were the most enthusiastic I ever saw. They were cheering, and their voices could be plainly heard over the roar of battle. Some were without caps, many were wounded, and all grimy from powder, and every few moments some one of them called for "three cheers for the stars and stripes."

"Let us give three for the green flag, boys."

"Give the Rebels h—— boys!" To one officer in front cheering, who had his cap on the point of his sword, I inquired:

"What regiment is this, captain?"

"Why, don't you know?

"This is all that is left of the old Ninth Massachusetts—all that is left of us boys!

"Our dead and wounded are in the woods over there!

"Oh! we lost our colonel, boys; the gallant Cass, one of the best fighters and bravest man in the army!

"We saved our colors, though, and we had to fight to do it!

"Go in, Irish Brigade! Do as well as the Ninth did!

"Three cheers for the stars and stripes!

"Give three for the old Bay State!

"Hurrah!"

And the remnant of the splendid regiment filed to the rear in the darkness; but still their cheers could be heard for quite a distance over the rattle of musketry and the sound of the guns.

"The battery! The battery! Here comes the battery!" was heard from a hundred throats, as it wildly thundered and swept from the rear, regardless of the dead and dying, who fairly littered the field. God help the dying, for the dead cared not! The iron wheels of the carriages, and feet of the horses, discriminate not between friend and foe. It will never be known how many were ground to pulp that July evening as Capt. J. R. Smead's Battery K, Fifth United States Artillery came in response to the command of the gallant Porter, who saw the danger of having his left turned. Three batteries were ordered up by Gen. Porter, viz: Capt. J. R. Smead; Capt. Stephen H. Weed, Battery I, Fifth United States Artillery; and Capt. J. Howard Carlisle, Battery E, Second United States Artillery.

"Forward, Sixty-Third! Double quick! march!" shouted Capt. O'Neil, the senior line officer, who was now in command.

"Forward! Double quick!" was repeated by each company commander, and the Sixty-Third followed the lead of the battery into the very jaws of death, many of them to meet their brothers of the Ninth, who just passed over the silent river, on the crimson tide of war![10]

Had the repeated and desperate efforts of the enemy succeeded in turning the Union left, as was feared towards nightfall, a dire disaster awaited the splendid army of McClellan. How near we came to it may be judged from the fact that all the reserves were brought into action, including the artillery under Gen. Henry J. Hunt. The instructions to Smead, Carlisle and Mead, when hurried up to defend the narrow gorge, with their artillery, through which the Confederates must force their way on to the plateau, were to fire on friend and foe, if the emergency demanded it. This is confirmed by a letter to the writer from Fitz John Porter. "These batteries were ordered up," he says, "to the narrow part of the hill, to be used in saving the rest of the army, if those in front were broken, driven in and pursued, by firing, if necessary, on friend as well as foe, so that the latter should not pass them. I went forward with you to share your fate if fortune deserted us, but I did not expect disaster, and, thank God, it did not come!"

These are the words of as brave and loyal an American as ever drew his sword for the Republic. Few men, perhaps none, in the army at that time, with our limited experience in war, could have handled his troops as Gen. Porter did at Gaine's Mill and Malvern. He desperately contested every inch of ground on the north bank of the Chickahominy, although his force was only twenty-seven thousand against sixty-five thousand of the enemy. Again at Malvern, the Rebels, maddened with successive defeats, were determined to annihilate the grand army of the Potomac with a last superhuman effort. They probably would have succeeded had a less able soldier been placed in command at that critical point. But, as will be seen from the above extract, the General never for a moment lost hope of being able to successfully repulse the enemy, for no man knew the material he had to do it with better than he.

What a pity that the services of such an able soldier should have been lost to the army and the country, a few weeks later, through the petty jealousies of small men, who wanted a scape-goat to cover up their own shortcomings. For over twenty years this grand American soldier, the soul of honor, who would at any moment sacrifice his life sooner than be guilty of an act inconsistent with his noble profession, has been permitted to live under the unjust stigma cast upon him. The day will surely come, and it is not far distant, when the American people will blush for the great wrong done Fitz John Porter. They will agree with the late general of our armies, a man whose memory will be forever held in grateful remembrance by his country (U. S. Grant), who, after careful and mature investigation of his conduct at the Second Battle of Bull Run, said deliberately, that Fitz John Porter should not be censured for the mismanagement of that ill-fated battle. In military affairs Gen. Grant was always a safe guide to follow.

After a careful review of Gen. Porter's case, Gen Grant wrote President Arthur, under date of December 22, 1881, as follows:

"At the request of Gen. Fitz John Porter, I have recently reviewed his trial, and the testimony held before the Schofield court of inquiry held in 1879.... The reading of the whole record has thoroughly convinced me that for these nineteen years I have been doing a gallant and efficient soldier a very great injustice in thought and sometimes in speech. I feel it incumbent upon me now to do whatever lies in my power to remove from him and from his family the stain upon his good name.... I am now convinced that he rendered faithful, efficient and intelligent service.... I would ask that the whole matter be laid before the attorney-general for his examination and opinion, hoping that you will be able to do this much for an officer who has suffered for nineteen years a punishment that never should be inflicted upon any but the most guilty."

It was many months before I again saw the Ninth Massachusetts; but what a contrast to its appearance on that glorious April morning, in 1862, when I was the recipient of its warm hospitality among the pines on the threshold of the advance on the rebel capital.

JOHN DWYER.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: While the Sixty-Third was in Camp of Instruction on David's Island, in the East River, opposite New Rochelle, N. Y., it was under the spiritual care of Father Dillon, an enthusiastic young priest. He was an ardent advocate of temperance. Like all green troops, the Sixty-Third had some reckless members, who frequently took a "dhrop" too much. Before leaving for the seat of war, at the conclusion of a powerful temperance discourse, he proposed to the assembled regiment that every man and officer take the temperance pledge, "for the war." One thousand uplifted hands responded, and while he slowly read the words of the pledge the men repeated them; and this was how the Sixty-Third became "a temperance regiment."]

[Footnote 10: Here is Gen. Porter's tribute to the part taken by the brigade in the terrific struggle at Malvern Hill: "I sent an urgent request for two brigades. Sumner read my note aloud, and fearing he could not stand another draft on his forces, was hesitating to respond, when Heintzleman, ever prompt and generous, sprang to his feet and exclaimed: 'By Jove! if Porter asks for help, I know he needs it.' The immediate result was the sending of Meagher by Sumner, and Sickles by Heintzleman. This was the second time that Sumner had selected and sent me Meagher's gallant Irish Brigade, and each time it rendered invaluable service.... It was at this time, in answer to my call for aid that Sumner sent me Meagher, and Heintzleman sent Sickles, both of whom reached me in the height of battle, when, if ever, fresh troops would renew our confidence and insure success. While riding rapidly forward to meet Meagher, who was approaching at a double quick step, my horse fell, throwing me over his head, much to my discomfort, both of body and mind.... Advancing with Meagher's brigade, accompanied by my staff, I soon found that my forces had successfully driven back their assailants. Determined, if possible, satisfactorily to finish the contest, regardless of the risk of being fired upon by our artillery in case of defeat, I pushed on beyond our lines into the woods held by the enemy. About fifty yards in front of us, a large force of the enemy suddenly arose and opened with fearful volleys upon our advancing line. I turned to the brigade, which thus far had kept pace with my horse, and found it standing like a stone wall, and returning a fire more destructive than it received, and from which the enemy fled. The brigade was planted. My service was no longer needed, and I sought Gen. Sickles, whom I found giving aid to Couch. I had the satisfaction of learning that night that a Confederate detachment, undertaking to turn Meagher's left, was met by a portion of the Sixty-Ninth New York Regiment, which advancing, repelled the attack and captured many prisoners."]

Leo XIII. has sent to the Emperor of Germany and to Prince Bismarck copies, specially printed and bound, of the Encyclical. His Holiness adds to the present to the Chancellor a copy of the Novissima Leonis XIII. Pont. Max. Carmina. A note of very emphatic and reverent praise of the poems has been communicated to the official German press.



A Christmas Carol.

Ah, weep not, friends, that I am far from ye, And no warm breathed words may reach my ears; One way is shorter, nearer than by sea, Prayers weigh with God and graces wait on tears; As rise the mists from summer seas unseen, To fall in freshening showers on hill and plain, So prayer sent forth from fervent hearts makes green The parched bowers of one whose life was vain.

Pray for me day and night these Christmas hours, This the one gift I value all beyond; Aid me with supplication 'fore those powers Who have regard for prayer, th' angelic bond— All ye who love me knock at Jesus' gate, As for one standing outside deep in snow, Tell him a sorrowing soul doth trembling wait, And none but He can ease its load of woe.

Ah, friends! of whom I once asked other things, Refuse me not this one thing asked again; Shield me, a naked soul, with sheltering wings, From rush of angry storms and bitter rain— I cannot stand the gaze of mine own eyes; That I escape myself implore our Lord— Ah, me! I learn he only's rightly wise Who seeks in all th' exceeding great reward.

From self that I be freed, O Father will! Lord Jesus from the world protect me still, Spirit paraclete, over the flesh give victory, And o'er the devil a lasting crown to me!

JAMES KEEGAN.



The Catholic Review: Irish-America contributes to the new Parliament one of the strongest members of the Nationalist party, Mr. T. P. Gill, for some years past assistant editor of the Catholic World, and previously a prominent journalist in Ireland, where, during the imprisonment of Mr. William O'Brien, he took the editorial chair of United Ireland until Mr. Buckshot Forster made it too hot for him. In the cooler climate of New York he still did good service to his party, in disabusing numbers of many ill-grounded misapprehensions and misconceptions, and in strengthening the sympathies, by increasing the information, of all well-wishers of Ireland. His work will be felt in England.



The Late Father Tom Burke.

Kegan Paul, Trench & Co., of London, have published, in two volumes, the "Life of the Very Rev. Thomas N. Burke, O.P.," by William J. Fitzpatrick, F.S.A. We give a few extracts:

"Some one complained to Father Burke one day that his sermons were too 'flowery;' but it was not just criticism if the term was intended to imply that they were florid. His answer was characteristic. 'And what should they be but floury—seeing my father was a baker?' It was also in allusion to his father's calling that he was wont to boast, when questioned as to his family, that they were 'the best-bread-Burkes' of Galway.

"'When I hear him preach,' said Bishop Moriarty, 'I rejoice that the Church has gained a prize; when I hear him tell a story, I am tempted to regret that the stage has lost him.'

"A Protestant lady listening to his lecture on divorce said: 'I am bound to become a Catholic out of self-respect and self-defence.'

"During the visit of the Prince of Wales to Rome His Royal Highness went to the Irish Dominicans and to the Irish College. Father Burke was asked to guide the prince through the crypt of St. Sebastian, his Royal Highness being, it was understood, particularly anxious to see the paintings with which the early Christians decorated the places where rested their dead. Some English ladies, mostly converts, in Rome at the time, were divided in their devotion to the Prince and to the catacomb pictures—the most memorable religious pictures of the world. That evening they begged Father Burke to tell them exactly what His Royal Highness said of the frescoes. The question was parried for some time; but when the fluttered expectation of the fair questioners had risen to a climax, Father Burke showed hesitating signs of his readiness to repeat the soul-betraying exclamations of the Prince. 'Well, what did he say?' they cried, in suspense. 'He said—well, he said—'Aw!'"

"In 1865, Father Burke succeeded the present Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster in the pulpit of Sta Maria del Popolo in Rome; and it is a little coincidence that the famous Dominican, a year or two earlier, when Prior of Tallaght, succeeded also the Cardinal's relative in the pulpit of the Catholic University. 'Father Andedon,' says Mr. Fitzpatrick, 'had been for some years a very popular preacher in the church of the Catholic University. On the retirement of Father Andedon to England, to which he was naturally attached by birth and belongings—for Dr. Manning was his uncle—Father Burke took his place in the pulpit.' It was here, by the way, that the 'Prince of Preachers' introduced the class of sermons known as 'Conferences,' and associated with Lacordaire and the pulpit of Notre Dame. Father Burke had never seen Lacordaire; but the Dean of the Catholic University, who had been listening to Lacordaire for years, was greatly struck by Father Burke's resemblance, as a preacher, to his great brother Dominican in France. The likenesses between preachers, as between faces, are sometimes subtle things! Bishop Moriarty, returning from Rome, paused in Paris, where he heard yet another Dominican orator, Pere Monsabre, preaching at Notre Dame. When next he saw Father Tom, he said to him—'Do you know Monsabre reminded me very much of you?' 'Now,' said Father Tom—telling the story to his friend, Father Greene—'this was very gratifying to me. Pere Monsabre was a great man, and I thought it an honor to be compared to him, and I told the Bishop so, adding, 'Might I ask you, my lord, what was the special feature of resemblance?' Now 'David' (the Bishop's Christian name) had a slow and deliberate and judicious way of speaking that kept me very attentive and expectant. 'Well,' he said, 'I'll tell you what struck me most. When he went up into the pulpit, he looked around him deliberately and raised up his hand and—scratched his head.'"

"In the maddest sallies of Father Tom there was generally to be found a method. His exuberances when he was Prior of San Clemente, for instance, were attributed to his desire that his tonsure might not be made to bear the weight of a mitre: 'It got whispered among the cardinals' (writes Canon Brownlow), 'that their eminences were at times the objects of his jokes, and that he even presumed to mimic those exalted personages. Some of them spoke seriously about it, and asked the Dominican Cardinal Guidi to admonish him to behave with greater gravity. Cardinal Guidi repaired to San Clemente, and proceeded to deliver his message, and Father Burke received it with becoming submission. But no sooner had the cardinal finished than Father Burke imitated his manner, accent and language, with such ludicrous exactness that the cardinal burst into a fit of laughter, and could not tell him to stop.'

"The venerable Father Mullooly was equally foiled by another phase of the young friar's freakishness, when, on being remonstrated with for what seemed to be an undue indulgence in cigars, Father Tom represented it as rather dictated by a filial duty, for the Pope, he said, had sent him a share of a chest of Havanas, worth a dollar each, which a Mexican son had forwarded to the Vatican.

"But the other side of the man came out in his sermons when he succeeded Dr. Manning—hurriedly called to England to attend the death-bed of Cardinal Wiseman—as occupant of the pulpit of Santa Maria del Popolo, and on many subsequent occasions: 'When I lift up my eyes here (he said in speaking of the 'Groupings of Calvary'), it seems as if I stood bodily in the society of these men. I see in the face of John the expression of the highest manly sympathy that comforted and consoled the dying eyes of the Saviour. It seems to me that I behold the Blessed Virgin, whose maternal heart consented in that hour of agony to be broken for the sins of men. I see the Magdalen as she clings to the cross, and receives upon that hair, with which she wiped His Feet, the drops of His Blood. I behold that heart, humbled in penance and inflamed with love—the heart of the woman who had loved much, and for whom he had prayed. It seems to me that I travel step by step to Calvary, and learn, as they unite in Him, every lesson of suffering, of peace, of hope, of joy, of love."



Our Neighbors.

The Irish in Canada.

Montreal Gazette: The matter of Mr. Curran's speech on the occasion of the opening of St. Ann's Hall is worthy of more than passing notice. He chose for his theme the progress of the Irish race in Canada, and although the groundwork of his address was placed in Montreal, the deductions to be drawn from the statistics presented may, with equal propriety, be applied to any section of Canada in which the Irish colony is located. The Irish people are, for what reason it is unnecessary to inquire, essentially colonists, much more so as respects the mass than those of Scotland and England, and in no country or clime have they found a more hospitable welcome or a more prosperous resting-place than in Canada. In Nova Scotia, in New Brunswick, in Prince Edward Island, in Quebec, in Ontario, Irishmen and the sons of Irishmen are found in the front rank of the professions, of agriculture, of industrial enterprise, while in the affairs of State they exert a large and legitimate influence. Any one acquainted with the commercial life of Halifax, or Montreal, and the agricultural districts of Ontario, will bear witness that no more loyal and law-abiding, no more intelligent and progressive, no more industrious and thrifty people than the descendants of Irishmen are to be found. As to the progress of the race in Montreal, Mr. Curran was able to present many interesting facts. From a community so small that, in the expressive words of the late Dr. Benjamin Workman, a good-sized parlor carpet would cover all the worshippers in the church, they have grown, by continuous and healthy progression, into a population of thousands, possessed of wealth, of influence, of activity, of loyal citizenship, with its established schools, its district congregations, its charitable institutions, its temperance societies, which have administered the pledge to more than twenty-five thousand people. In the two facts that since 1867 the assessed value of real estate possessed by the Irish people in Montreal has increased from $3,500,000 to more than $12,000,000, and that on the books of the City and District Savings Bank there are eleven thousand Irish names, mostly of the working classes, whose deposits exceed $2,000,000, the highest testimony of the industry and opportunity of the race is found. The prosperity of the Irish is not singular in this free country, but, brought out as Mr. Curran has done, it serves to exemplify the splendid field for honest toil Canada affords.

The French in Canada.

An Ottawa correspondent writes:—The race prejudices between the French and Anglo-Saxon elements of the country seem to be acquiring violent vitality. Such a consummation as a fusion of the two races is out of all calculation. The French Canadians will continue, as they have always been, isolated from their fellow Canadians; nor would this matter very much if good feeling and mutual tolerance prevailed between the two races. An incident has just fanned this race animosity into a flame. A Toronto newspaper recently libelled a French Canadian regiment which was sent on service to the North-West. This regiment, for obvious reasons, was not sent where there was any chance of its being employed against Riel's Half-breeds. The editor was brought from Toronto to Montreal to answer for his writing before the Law Courts, and has just been condemned to pay a fine of two hundred dollars. As the editor left the court, a French Canadian officer attacked him with a whip, and in the street he was surrounded by a furious mob, incited by the inflammatory articles which the French papers of Montreal had been daily publishing during the course of the trial. To crown all, whilst endeavoring to defend himself from this violence, the hapless editor was arrested by the police and dragged before the police magistrate, who very properly discharged him. But the editor is a Toronto man, and now Toronto has indignantly taken up his cause, raising subscriptions to indemnify him for the cost of the trial—the "persecution," as it is called—and organizing an anti-French movement. All this is very regrettable seeing that the future of the Dominion depends so much upon a state of harmony between the rival races. There are indications clear and unmistakable that French Canada is yielding to a tendency towards old France, which can have none other than a sinister effect upon the prospects of this country if permitted to develop.

Quebec Province.

Toronto Mail: To-day there are in Quebec three universities, namely, Laval, McGill, and Lennoxville, three hundred secondary colleges and academies, three Normal schools, twenty-five special schools, and about six thousand primary schools, each grade of school being conducted on the principle that it is better to teach a pupil little and teach it well, than to turn him loose upon the world crammed with a smattering of everything and a knowledge of nothing. The expenditure on education is a large and constantly increasing item in the Provincial accounts; but the people cheerfully pay it, for they are well aware that intelligence is the first condition of success in modern life. [Intelligence and education are not synonyms.]

Whatever may be the result, in the future, of the experiment of erecting a French nationality in Canada, it is only right to say that the builders are building well, and setting an example of energy, courage and unity which we, in this richer province, might do worse than follow.

Dominion Misrule.

Toronto Tribune: The Rev. Pere Andre, superior of the Oblate Fathers in the Northwest Territories, says the "rebellion" is chargeable to the abnormal system of government to which the country had been subjected. He affirms that if there had been a responsible government with authority and power to remedy the grievances of the half-breeds, there would have been no "rebellion." He maintains that the role played by Riel in the "rebellion" was forced upon him. Listen to Father Andre's own words: "It can, in all truth, be stated, and the affirmations of the government to the contrary will not destroy the fact, that it was the guilty negligence of the government at Ottawa that brought Riel into the country. The half-breeds, exasperated at seeing themselves despised, and at being unable to obtain the slightest justice, thought the only means left to them to secure the rights which they demanded was to send for Riel. He, in their opinion, was the only man capable of bringing the authorities at Ottawa to reason. Riel came, and we know the ruin which he gathered about him, but the government may well say mea culpa for their delay in taking measures which would have preserved the peace of the country."



The Old Year's Army of Martyrs.

The year just past will long be known in the missions of the East as the year of martyrs. In presence of its events, it seems almost wrong to call only the early age of Christianity the Age of Martyrs. Brief accounts have already been given in the public prints; but our readers will be glad to have copious extracts from the letters of the survivors among the missionaries, who have seen their flocks, with their brethren, slaughtered by thousands. We give these the more willingly, as there has so far been no full review of Catholic Mission work in the English language. This tale of steadfastness in faith is also a new incentive to love of the Sacred Heart of our Lord.

Mgr. Colombert, vicar-apostolic of Eastern Cochin China, writes under date of August 29, 1885: "This mission, tranquil and flourishing two months ago, is now blotted out. There is no longer any doubt that twenty-four thousand Christians have been horribly massacred.... The mission of Eastern Cochin China is utterly ruined. It has no longer a single one of its numerous establishments! Two hundred and sixty churches, priests' houses, schools, orphan asylums, everything is reduced to ashes. The work done during two hundred and fifty years must be begun anew. There is not a single Christian house left standing.... The Christians have seen the massacre of their brethren and the conflagration of their houses. They have experienced the pangs of hunger, and have felt the heat of the sun on the burning sands. They must now undergo the hardships of exile, far from their native land and the graves of their forefathers."

During this time of terror and destruction, several priests had lost their lives, some under circumstances of horrible barbarity. New telegrams continued to announce to the Christians of the West that their brethren were daily called on to lay down their lives. Thus, on the 17th of October, a dispatch to the venerable superior of the seminary of Foreign Missions at Paris, announced that, besides one more missionary and ten native priests, seven thousand Christians had just been massacred. Letters, which arrived later, contained painful particulars of what had before been known only in its general outline of horror.

Five of the refugee missionaries wrote on the 15th of August: "We dare not enter into new details on this catastrophe. We will only say that to find in history a disaster to be compared to ours, it would be necessary to go back beyond the Sicilian Vespers, to the acts of vandalism of the savage hordes which swept over, one by one, the vast provinces of the Roman empire. A fact which adds to the horror is that this series of slaughters and butcheries of our Christians has been done in a country without means of communication or defence. In this way conflagration and carnage have spread as widely as our Catholic parishes were numerous. They were scattered here and there over a great extent of territory, from the north to the south. On this account the murderers and incendiaries have been able to accomplish their infamous designs with impunity. We believe that never have there been seen so many massacres and conflagrations, following one on the other for two or three weeks continuously, on so vast a scale and at so many points at the same time, with such ferocity and rage on the part of unnatural fellow-countrymen who were exterminating their unarmed brothers.