66 those that weep shall be as though they wept not." After toiling, like a galley slave, for so long, she thinks she is entitled to a little rest, so she sits there luxuriously, on a low chair by the open window, smelling her roses and reading Shakespeare. She does not get on very fast with her play, for every minute her eyes are lifted up from her book to glance down the road; she is expecting her sister home this afternoon, and is looking out anxiously for the first sign of her approach. At last her listening is rewarded. Off in the distance is heard the rumble of a carriage, five minutes more and it turns in at the white gate. A peal on the knocker, voices in the hall, not only women's trebles but a man's sonorous bass (not the cabby's either). Steps on the stairs, two steps a woman's light one and also a man's heavy one. Kate is quite alone, but at these sounds she smiles to herself. Then the door bursts open and Maggie rushes in, blooming as any damask rose, all blushes, and smiles, and pink ribbons. A fire of kisses ensues. Well, Kitty, how are you? it seems quite funny seeing you again." Kate returns the kisses with interest. She has so few to love now that she clings the more to those that are left. "I thought you were never coming," she said, and her green eyes shone with a quiet gladness. "I am so glad to have you back again." Kate, here's George; he has taken the trouble to escort me all this long way up; is not it good of him?" At this introductory remark, the said young man, who had been hitherto standing by as a spectator, grinning pleasedly, came forward and greeted his cousin. "Oh," cried Kate, with amusement in her tone. "I begin to see. How are you George?" "I suppose you guess, don't you?" Maggie asked, with a rather embarrassed laugh. "Of course she does," said George, putting a hand on each of Maggie's shoulders, as if to proclaim himself owner thereof. Kate smiled softly upon them both. Perhaps I do a little." "I suppose you found it all out from my letter this morning, did not you ?" No, I cannot say that I positively found anything out; I had my suspicions. I'm not surprised, but I'm very, very pleased.' That's all right; I was sure you would be, was not I George?" "I congratulate you both most heartily. People always say that, as a matter of course, I know; but I do mean it really. You believe me, don't you?" and she put out a hand frankly to each; both to the sister who had been jealous of her, and to the man who would fain have married her. "Yes," they both said, as unanimously as if it had been a response written down for them. "I shall have two brothers instead of one now; but come, are not you very tired, and hot, and dusty after all that railway? You'll have some tea, won't you? I told them to bring some in.' Then George spoke up. With great discernment and amiability of feeling he perceived that at this conjuncture his room would be better than his company. Those two sisters had a great deal to say to one another, which, though it was all about him, and because it was all about him, could not be said before him. So he said "Not for me, thank you, Kate. I must be going down to our place to look up the old people. Good-by." As soon as he was fairly gone, Kate kissed her sister again, and looked her full in the face. "Well, who was right-you or I?" she asked. "Oh, you; but I did not think you would have been." "You see it has all come right as I said it would." "Yes, so it has; but I thought it then too good luck to be true." "Well, I won't ask how it all came right, for I suppose that would not be a fair question; but I may ask how long it has been settled ?" Only the day before yesterday." "The same day that you wrote to me?" "Yes, the morning of that day." "Well, I suppose you are in a state of the most complete beatitude nowa sort of seventh heaven." "Oh, yes, now I am, but I can tell you I was anything but that three days ago. I began to think it was never coming-began to be afraid that he was hankering after you still." "After me? Absurd. You should not get such notions into your stupid old head." "Ah, but I did though; I could not help; it was no great wonder, considering what he had told me. But then that morning he asked me to come out walking with him, and it was all plain sailing after that; but I can tell you I was pretty miserable before." "I suppose he is going to tell his father and mother now ?" "Yes. Oh, there'll be no difficulty there. Louisa told me they had all been longing for him to marry one of us ever since we came. He has been very unsettled of late, and they think that getting a wife will be the best thing that can happen to him." "I think so too. odd it all seems !" Dear me, how 'Yes, does not it? But come let's have a look at you. Well, really, you do look uncommonly well, considering." "I never was better in my life." "I am so glad to see you again alive, after all this dreadful fever. At one time I hardly thought I should." "It did seem doubtful." "I wonder how you ever managed to live through it." "I wonder so myself sometimes. I don't think I could go through it again if it were to come back directly, without giving me a little breathing time." "Heaven forbid ! I should take to my heels pretty quick again if it did.' "Oh, no fear of that; it has done its work." She shuddered a little, and sighed "And you were with him at the last?" "Yes. Maggie, please, we won't talk about that any more; I cannot manage it quite yet.” "Poor thing! I'm sorry; it was stupid of me. I see that we must try and cheer you up a bit.” "I don't think I need cheering, Maggie; I feel very cheerful.” "You must come and live with us when we are married." How pleasant that "we" and "us" are to young people before their novelty is worn off! "Must I? There'll be plenty of time to talk of that by-and-by." "Which means that you intend to shirk us. Ah, I know you so well." "It means that I think young married people are much better left to themselves, without the incumbrance of a permanently spinster sister attached to their establishment." "I don't see it at all. It would be the pleasantest arrangement possible; and I'm sure George would say the same if he were here.” 66 George is very good-natured, and would say anything to please you just at present; but have you settled where you are to live?" "Oh, no-it is early days to talk about that; but wherever it is, there'll be always room for you. I wish you would make up your mind to that." "Thank you, Maggie; I have made up my mind; but I'll tell you all about that by-and-by." CAROLS FROM THE CANCIONEROS. BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHY. I. "Vista ciega, luz oscura."-Cancionero General. Valencia, 1511. II. "Turbias van las aguas, madre”—Romancero General. Madrid, 1604. Turbid the waters flow, mother, Turbid they flow, oh! mother, dear, But they will clear. When from mine eyes the waters glide With love and time 'twill disappear- Turbid they flow, oh! mother, dear, When tyrant thought usurps the brain, Is mingled with the present pain; When sighs are breathed and tears seem vain, Hope whispers softly in mine ear— Turbid the waters flow, mother, Turbid they flow, oh! mother, dear, III. "Alguna vez."-Christoval du Castillejo.—Olras. Anvers, 1598. One day, one day, Oh! troubled breast, Thou'lt be at rest. IV. "Del rosal vengo, mi madre."-Gil Vicente-Olras. Lisboa, 1562. I come from the rose tree, mother, By the side of the streamlet flowing I come from the red rose tree. By the side of the stream swift flowing I come from the red rose tree. With a sigh, where the stream was flowing, I come from the red rose tree. V. "En la huerta nace la rosa."-Gil Vicente. In the grove the roses throng, I would wander thither, To hear the nightingale sing his song The maiden plucks the lemons pale To hear the nightingale sing his song Down to her hand the lemons bend, To hear the nightingale sing his song Within her hat of silk and pearls, To hear the nightingale sing his song VI. "De dentro tengo mi mal."-Luis de Camoes. My inner pain is all mine own, My inner pain no outward mark The soul alone the anguish feeleth; SOME EPISODES OF THE IRISH JACOBITE WARS. THE chief object of the following paper is to invest with interest an important portion of our chronicles, avoided by many readers as disagreeable in its events and in its consequences. Whatever the writer's religious or political bias, he is determined to treat the events and the personages concerned as if the campaigns took place in the neighbourhood of the "Great Wall," and the warriors were polished Chinese and horse-taming Tartars. His business is with picturesque episodes and circumstances of the war, and mental and corporeal portraits of the warriors and chiefs, and his wish to discover considerate and merciful qualities in the leading men of either party-those qualities by which the rigours of war are softened and its miseries diminished. It is in some degree unnatural not to feel prejudiced for or against our contemporary great men, whether of the cabinet or the field. But each of the brave characters of whom we are about to treat, has been resting in his narrow home for upwards of a century, after stoutly doing his duty to his sovereign and his country according to his lights, and to treat his memory in a prejudiced or spiteful spirit would be similar to taking his skeleton from his timehonoured tomb, and flinging it into the highway. We are not unprovided with worthy models of the treatment we propose to adopt. In the only two historic romances on the subject, worth quoting, it would be difficult to find a single unfair or illiberal observation on the men or the cause with whom the writer's sympathy is not engaged. The darling hero of the Roman Catholic romancist is contending for the cause of William; a steadfast young Jacobite, of old Irish blood, is selected by the Protestant as the central point of interest for his tale. This is as it should be. The heathen Greeks set up wooden monuments to celebrate victories won by one Hellenic state over another, and when these decayed through the influence of time and weather they were not renewed. We beg at the outset, however, to set the misgivings of some timid readers at rest. Not one word of praise or apology shall be spoken for the Irish Lord Galmoy or the English Colonel Kirke." Without at all expressing an opinion as to the poetic justice of the result, there was evident through the whole struggle an apparent interference of Providence to shape results from antecedents not at all corresponding. The Irish forces at the Boyne had brave and skilful commanders; James's warlike skill and personal bravery were undeniable; the disposition of battle was what it should be-yet William, weak of body, and wielding his sword with pain to his wounded arm, gained a decided, if, at some points, a hard-won victory. Again at Aughrim. No more suitable battle-ground could have been selected, or its advantages turned to better account. St. Ruth was a brave and talented general, and the forces he commanded loyal and courageous. Everything was proceeding according to his wishes, and he was preparing to head a charge which might have decided the fortune of the day, when three apparent accidents gave the victory to General Ginckel. The musketeers defending the pass at the old castle found themselves provided with cannon-balls instead of bullets, the flank movement of a regiment was mistaken for a retreat, and St. Ruth lost his life by a cannon shot. The mutual jealousies of the French and Irish officers, the confidence reposed in Tyrconnel by James, and his non-appreciation of the zeal and services of his Irish subjects, powerfully contributed to the failure of his cause. In this very middle of the nineteenth century a talented Irish Roman Catholic going to England to push his fortune as journalist or barrister will sooner conquer the prejudices of English Protestants than those of English Roman Catholics. The case was worse in the end of the seventeenth century. James was as prejudiced an Englishman as could be found in Britain, and would even grudge a personal advantage gained over his darling English when the instruments were the mere Irish. It must be acknowledged that there was no unnecessary expenditure of love or respect on the other side. They fought for him from a principle of religious loyalty, not personal liking, and to this day the peasants tell this characteristic anecdote of him. |