"Is it support thim, sir?" he replied.
"Lord bless ye, I never supported thim. They git supported some how or another; they've niver bin hungry yit-when they are it'll be time enough to grumble."
Irish all over, thought I-to-day has enough to do, let to-morrow look out for itself.
THE EMIGRANT'S FAMILY. One of the strongest peculiarities-indeed, I may say passions of the Irish, is their devoted fondness for their offspring. A curious illustration of this occurred to me on my recent journey through the Northern lakes. It happened to be what sailors call very dirty weather, finished up by a tremendous gale, which obliged us to seek a shelter at a lump of aboriginal barrenness, called Manitou Island," where we were obliged to remain five days. There were a few deck passengers-between five and six hundred; and inasmuch as they had only provided themselves with barely sufficient for the average time, provisions became alarmingly scarce, and no possibility of a supply. To be sure, there was one venerable ox-a sort of semi petrifaction, an orga-me breast?"
"Well then," I resumed, with a determined plunge, would it be a relief to you to part from them?" I had mistaken my mode of attack. He started, turned pale, and with a wild glare in his eyes, lite. rally screamed out:
"A relief! God be good to uz, what d'ye mean? A relief? would it be a relief d'ye think, to have the hand chopped from me body; or the heart tore out of
The tact of woman! She had touched the chord of paternal solicitude; the poor fellow was silent, twisted his head about and looked all bewildered. The struggle between a father's love and his child's interest was evident and affecting. At last he said:
"God bless ye me lady, and all that thinks of the poor! Heaven knows I'd be glad to betther the child; it is'nt in regard to myself, but-had'nt I better go and speak to Mary; she's the mother of the child, and t'would be onreasonable to be givin' away her children afore her face and she not know nothing of the mather."
nic remnant-a poor attenuated, hornless, sightless, You don't understand us," interposed my philanbovine patriarch, who obligingly yielded up his small thropic companion. "Should one be enabled to residue of existence for our benefit. Indeed, it was place your child in ease and comfort, would you quite a mercy that we arrived to relieve him from interfere with its well-doing?" a painful state of suspense; for so old and powerless was he, that if his last breadth had not been extract ed, he certainly would not have drawn it by himself Well, as you may suppose, there was considerable consternation on board. Short-very short allowance was adopted to meet the contingency, and the poor deck passengers had a terrible time of it. Amongst the latter was an Irish emigrant, with his wife and three beautiful children, the eldest about seven years, all without the smallest subsistence, except what the charity of their fellow passengers could afford them; and as they were scantily supplied, it can readily be imagined how miserably off was the poor family.. However, it so happened that the beauty and intelligence of the children attracted the attention of one of our lady passengers, who had them occasionally brought into the cabin, and their hunger appeased. Gleesome, bright eyed little creatures they were, scrupulously clean, despite the poverty of their parents, all life and happiness, and in blissful ignorance of the destitution by which they were surrounded.
One day delighted with her proteges, the lady happened to say, half jestingly, "I wonder would this poor man part with one of those little darlings? I should like to adopt it."
Away with you then," said I, "and bring back word as soon as possible." In about an hour he returned, but with eyes red and swollen; and features pale from excitement and agitation.
"Well," inquired I," what success?"
Bedad 'twas a hard struggle, sir," said he, "but it's for the child's good, and Heaven give us strength to bear it."
Very good, and which is it to be?"
Why, sir, I've been spakin' to Mary, and she thinks as Nora here is the ouldest she won't miss the mother so much, and if ye'll jist let her take a partin' kiss she'd give her to yez wid a blessin." So my poor fellow took his children away, to look "I don't know," said I; "suppose we make the at one of them for the last time. It was not long ere inquiry." he returned, but when he did he was leading the
The man was sent for, and the delicate business second oldest. thus opened.
“How's this?” said I, "have you changed your
My good friend," said the lady, "you are very mind?" poor, are you not?"
His answer was peculiarly Irish: "poor! my lady," said he. "Be the powers of pewther! if there's a poorer man nor myself troublin' the world, God pity both of us, for we'd be about aquail."
"Then you must find it difficult to support your children," said I, making a long jump towards our object.
"Not exactly changed me mind, sir," he replied, "but I've changed the crather. You see sir, I've been spakin' to Mary, and whin it come to the ind, be goxey! she could'nt part with Norah, at all; they've got use to aich other's ways; but here's little Biddy-she's purtier far if she'll do as well." "It's all the same," said I, «let Biddy remain." May Heaven be yer guardian!" cried he, snatch
ing her up in his arms, and giving her one long and hearty kiss. "God be kind to thim that's kind to you, and thim that offers you hurt or harm, may their sowl niver see St. Pether!" So the bereaved father rushed away, and all that night the child remained with us; but early the next morning my friend Pat reappeared, and this time he had his youngest child, a mere baby, snugly cuddled up in
"What's the matter now?" said I.
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Why, thin, sir," said he, with an expression of the most comic anxiety, "axin yer honor's pardon for bein' so wake-hearted, whin I begin to think of Biddy's eyes-look at thim, they're the image of her mother's bedad-I could'nt let her go; but here's little Paudeen-he won't be much trouble to any one, for if he takes after his mother, he'll have the brightest eye and the softest heart on the top of creation; and if he takes after his father, he'll have a purty hard fist on a broad pair of shoulders to push his way through the world. Take him, sir, and gi' me Biddy."
"Just as you like," said I, having pretty good guess how matters would eventuate. So he took away his pet Biddy, and handed us the little toddling urchin. This chirping little vagabond won't be long with us thought I. Ten minutes had scarcely elapsed ere Pat rushed into the cabin, and seizing little Paudeen in his arms, he turned to me, and with large tears bubbling in his eyes, cried: "Look at him sir-jist look at him--it's the youngest. Ye would'nt have the heart to keep him The long and short of it is, I've been spakin to Mary. I did'nt like to let Biddy go; but be me sowl, neither could live half a day without little Paudeen. No, sir; no, we can bear the bitterness of poverty, but we can't part from our children, unless it's the will of Providence to take them from uz.";
BY HENRY ALFORd.
Slowly and softly let the music go
As ye wind upwards to the gray church tower;
Check the shrill hautboy, let the pipe breathe low-
Tread lightly on the path-side daisy flower;
For she ye carry was a gentle bud,
Loved by the unsunn'd drops of silver dew;
Her voice was like the whisper of the wood
In prime of even, when the stars are few.
Lay her all gently in the flowerful mould,
Weep with her one brief hour, then turn away,—
Go to hope's prison--and from out the cold
And solitary gratings many a day
Look forth: 'tis said the world is growing old--
And streaks of orient light in Time's horizon play.
THE WATER DRINKER'S SONG.
O! water for me! Bright water for me!
And wine for the tremulous debauchee!
It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain,
It maketh the faint one strong again;
It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea,
All freshness like infant purity;
O water, bright water for me, for me!
Give wine, give wine to the debauchee!
Fill to the brim! Fill, fill to the brim!
Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim,
For I, like the flowers, drink naught but dew,
And my hand is steady and my eye is true.
O water, bright water's a mine of wealth,
And the ores it yields are vigor and health;
So water, pure water, for me, for me!
And wine for the tremulous debauchee!
Fill again to the brim-again to the brim!
For water strengtheneth life and limb;
To the days of the aged it addeth length,
To the might of the mighty it addeth strength;
It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight,
Tis like quaffing a goblet of morning light;
So, water, I will drink naught but thee,
Thou parent of health and energy!
When over the hills, like a gladsome bride,
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride,
And, leading a band of laughing hours,
Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers,
O! cheerly then my voice is heard,
Mingling with that of the soaring bird,
Who flingeth abroad his matins loud,
As he freshens his wing in the cold gray cloud.
But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew,
Drowsily flying and waving anew
Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea-
How gently, O! sleep, fall thy poppies on me!
For I drink water, pure, cold and bright,
And my dreams are of Heaven the livelong night;
So hurrah for thee, water! hurrah! hurrah!
Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribband and star!
That pierced their bosoms; and each man would turn
And gaze in wonder on his neighbour's face
That with the like dumb wonder answer'd him:
Then some would weep, some shout, some, deeper
touch'd,
Keep down the cry with motion of their hands,
In fear but to have lost a syllable.
The evening came, yet there the people stood,
As if 'twere noon, and they the marble sea,
Sleeping without a wave. You could have heard
The beating of your pulses while he spoke.
A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN.
We see but half the causes of our deeds,
Seeking them wholly in the outer life,
And heedless of the encircling spirit-world,
Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us
All germs of pure and world-wide purposes.
From one stage of our being to the next
We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge,
The momentary work of unseen hands,
Which crumbles down behind us; looking back,
We see the other shore, the gulf between,
And, marvelling how we won to where we stand,
Content ourselves to call the builder Chance.
We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall,
Not to the birth-throes of a mighty Truth
Which, for long ages in blank Chaos dumb,
Yet yearned to be incarnate, and had found
At last a spirit meet to be the womb
From which it might leap forth to bless mankind,-
Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all
The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years,
And waiting but one ray of sunlight more
To blossom fully.
But whence came that ray?
We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought
Rather to name our high successes so.
Only the instincts of great souls are Fate,
And have predestined sway: all other things,
Except by leave of us, could never be.
For Destiny is but the breath of God
Still moving in us, the last fragment left
Of our unfallen nature, waking oft
Within our thought, to beckon us beyond
The narrow circle of the seen and known,
And always tending to a noble end,
As all things must that overrule the soul,
And for a space unseat the helmsman, Will.
The fate of England and of freedom once
Seemed wavering in the heart of one plain man:
One step of his, and the great dial hand,
That marks the destined progress of the world
In the eternal round from wisdom on
To higher wisdom, had been made to pause
A hundred years. That step he did not take,-
He knew not why, nor we, but only God,—
And lived to make his simple oaken chair
More terrible and grandly beautiful,
More full of majesty, than any throne,
Before or after, of a British king.
Upon the pier stood two stern visaged men,
Looking to where a little craft lay moored,
Swayed by the lazy current of the Thames,
Which weltered by in muddy listlessness.
Grave men they were, and battlings of fierce thought
Had trampled out all softness from their brows,
And ploughed rough furrows there before their time,
For other crop than such as homebred Peace
Sows broadcast in the willing soil of Youth.
Care, not of self, but of the common weal,
Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead!
A look of patient power and iron will,
And something fiercer, too, that gave broad hint
Of the plain weapons girded at their sides.
The younger had an aspect of command,-
Not such as trickles down, a slender stream,
In the shrunk channel of a great descent,-
But such as lies entowered in heart and head,
And an arm prompt to do the 'hests of both.
His was a brow where gold were out of place,
And yet it seemed right worthy of a crown,
(Though he despised such,) were it only made
Of iron, or some serviceable stuff'
That would have matched his sinewy, brown face.
The elder, although such he hardly seemed,
(Care makes so little of some five short years,)
Had a clear, honest face, whose rough hewn strength
Was mildened by the scholar's wiser heart
To sober courage, such as best befits
The unsullied temper of a well taught-mind,
Yet so remained that one could plainly guess
The hushed volcano smouldering underneath.
He spoke the other, hearing, kept his gaze
Still fixed, as on some problem in the sky.
"O, CROMWELL, we are fallen on evil times!
There was a day when England had wide room
For honest men as well as foolish kings;
But now the uneasy stomach of the time
Turns squeamish at them both. Therefore let us
Seek out that savage clime where men as yet
Are free: there sleeps the vessel on the tide,
Her languid canvass drooping for the wind;
Give us but that, and what need we to fear
This Order of the Council? The free waves
Will not say, No, to please a wayward king,
Nor will the winds turn traitors at his beck:
All things are fitly cared for, and the Lord
Will watch as kindly o'er the Exodus
Of us his servants now, as in old time.
We have no cloud or fire, and haply we
May not pass dry-shod through the ocean-stream;
But, saved or lost, all things are in His hand."
So spake he, and meantime the other stood
With wide gray eyes still reading the blank air,
As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw
Some mystic sentence, written by a hand,
Such as of old did awe the Assyrian king,
Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast.
"HAMPDEN! a moment since, my purpose was To fly with thee,- for I will call it flight, Nor flatter it with any smoother name,—
But something in me bids me not to go;
And I am one, thou knowest, who, unmoved
By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed
And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul
Whispers of warning to the inner ear.
Moreover, as I know that God brings round
His purposes in ways undreamed by us,
And makes the wicked but his instruments
To hasten on their swift and sudden fall,
I see the beauty of his providence
In the King's order: blind, he will not let
His doom part from him, but must bid it stay
As 't were a cricket, whose enlivening chirp
He loved to hear beneath his very hearth.
Why should we fly? Nay, why not rather stay
And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls,
Not, as of old the walls of Thebes were built,
By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be,
With the more potent music of our swords?
Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea
Claim more God's care than all of England here?
No: when He moves his arm, it is to aid
Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed,
As some are ever when the destiny
Of man takes one stride onward nearer home.
Believe it, 't is the mass of men He loves;
And, where there is most sorrow and most want,
Where the high heart of man is trodden down
The most, 't is not because He hides his face
From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate :
Not so there most is He, for there is He
Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad
Are not so near his heart as they who dare
Frankly to face her when she faces them,
And cling around the soul, as the sky clings
Round the mute earth, forever beautiful,
And, if o'erclouded, only to burst forth
More all-embracingly divine and clear:
Get but the truth once uttered, and 't is like
A star newborn, that drops into its place,
And which, once circling in its placid round,
Not all the tumult of the earth can shake.
"What should we do in that small colony
Of pinched fanatics, who would rather choose
Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair,
Than the great chance of setting England free?
Not there, amid the stormy wilderness,
Should we learn wisdom; or, if learned, what room
To put it into act,-else worse than naught?
We learn our souls more, tossing for an hour
Upon this huge and ever-vexed sea
Of human thought, where kingdoms go to wreck
Like fragile bubbles yonder in the stream,
Than in a cycle of New England sloth,
Broke only by some petty Indian war,
Or quarrel for a letter, more or less,
In some hard word, which, spelt in either way,
Not their most learned clerks can understand.
New times demand new measures and new men;
The world advances, and in time outgrows
The laws that in our fathers' day were best;
And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme
Will be shaped out by wiser men than we,
Made wiser by the steady growth of truth.
We cannot bring Utopia at once;
But better, almost, be at work in sin,
Than in a brute inaction browse and sleep.
On their own threshold, where their souls are strong No man is born into the world, whose work
To grapple with and throw her; as I once, Being yet a boy, did throw this puny king,
Who now has grown so dotard as to deem
That he can wrestle with an angry realm, And throw the brawned Antæus of men's rights. No, Hampden! they have half-way conquered Fate Who go half-way to meet her, -as will I. Freedom bath yet a work for me to do; So speaks that inward voice which never yet Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on To noble deeds for country and mankind. And, for success, I ask no more than this,To bear unflinching witness to the truth. All true, whole men succeed; for what is worth Success's name, unless it be the thought, The inward surety, to have carried out A noble purpose to a noble end, Although it be the gallows or the block? 'T is only Falsehood that doth ever need These outward shows of gain to bolster her. Be it we prove the weaker with our swords; Truth only needs to be for once spoke out, And there's such music in her, such strange rhythm, As make men's memories her joyous slaves,
Is not born with him; there is always work, And tools to work withal, for those who will; And blessed are the horny hands of toil! The busy world shoves angrily aside The man who stands with arms akimbo set, Until occasion tells him what to do; And he who waits to have his task marked out Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds: Reason and Government, like two broad seas, Yearn for each other with outstretched arms Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, And roll their white surf higher every day. One age moves onward, and the next builds up Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild, Rearing from out the forests they had felled The goodly framework of a fairer state; The builder's trowel and the settler's axe Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand; Ours is the harder task, yet not the less Shall we receive the blessing for our toil From the choice spirits of the aftertime. The field lies wide before us, where to reap
The easy harvest of a deathless name,
Though with no better sickles than our swords.
My soul is not a palace of the past,
The petty martyrdoms, wherewith Sin strives
To weary out the tethered hope of Faith,
The sneers, the unrecognizing look of friends,
Where outworn creeds, like Rome's gray senate, Who worship the dead corpse of old king Custom,
Hearing afar the Vandal's trumpet hoarse,
That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit.
The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change;
Then let it come: I have no dread of what
Is called for by the instinct of mankind;
Nor think I that God's world will fall apart,
Because we tear a parchment more or less.
Truth is eternal, but her effluence,
With endless change, is fitted to the hour;
Her mirror is turned forward, to reflect
The promise of the future, not the past.
He who would win the name of truly great
Must understand his own age and the next,
And make the present ready to fulfil
Its prophecy, and with the future merge
Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave.
The future works out great men's destinies;
The present is enough for common souls,
Who, never looking forward, are indeed
Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age
Are petrified forever: better those
Who lead the blind old giant by the hand
From out the pathless desert where he gropes,
And set him onward in his darksome way.
I do not fear to follow out the truth,
Albeit along the precipice's edge.
Let us speak plain: there is more force in names
Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep
Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk
Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name.
Let us call tyrants, tyrants, and maintain,
That only freedom comes by grace of God,
And all that comes not by his grace must fall;
For men in earnest have no time to waste
In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.
"I will have one more grapple with the man Charles Stuart: whom the boy o'ercame, The man stands not in awe of. I, perchance, Am one raised up by the Almighty arm To witness some great truth to all the world. Souls destined to o'erleap the vulgar lot, And mould the world unto the scheme of God, Have a foreconsciousness of their high doom; As men are known to shiver at the heart, When the cold shadow of some coming ill Creeps slowly o'er their spirits unawares. Hath Good less power of prophecy than Ill? How else could men whom God hath called to sway Earth's rudder, ard to steer the bark of Truth, Beating against the wind toward her port, Bear all the mean and buzzing grievances,
Where it doth lie in state within the Church,
Striving to cover up the mighty ocean
With a man's palm, and making even the truth
Lie for them, holding up the glass reversed,
To make the hope of man seem further off?
My God! when I read o'er the bitter lives
Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great
To beat beneath the cramped mode of the day,
And see them mocked at by the world they love,
Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths
Of that reform which their hard toil will make
The common birthright of the age to come,-
When I see this, spite of my faith in God,
I marvel how their hearts bear up so long;
Nor could they, but for this same prophecy,
This inward feeling of the glorious end.
"Deem me not fond; but in my warmer youth,
Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed away,
I had great dreams of mighty things to come;
Of conquest, whether by the sword or pen
I knew not; but some conquest I would have,
Or else swift death: now, wiser grown in years,
I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings
Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar
In aftertime to win a starry throne;
And so I cherish them, for they were lots
Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate.
Now will I draw them, since a man's right hand,
A right hand guided by an earnest soul,
With a true instinct, takes the golden prize
From out a thousand blanks. What men call luck
Is the perogative of valiant souls,
The fealty life pays its rightful kings.
The helm is shaking now, and I will stay
To pluck my lot forth; it were sin to flee!"
So they two turned together; one to die,
Fighting for freedom on the bloody field;
The other, far more happy, to become
A name earth wears forever next her heart:
One of the few that have a right to rank
With the true Makers for his spirit wrought
Order from Chaos; proved that right divine
Dwelt only in the excellence of Truth;
And far within old Darkness' hostile lines
Advanced and pitched the shining tents of Light.
Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell,
That-not the least among his many claims
To deathless honor-he was MILTON's friend,
A man not second among those who lived
To show us that the poet's lyre demands
An arm of tougher sinew than the sword.
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