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How wise thou wert-how tender-ah! but it | And on the turf I sit alone, where we two sat of seemed to be
Some glorious guardian angel that walked this And think of thee till memory can bear to think earth with me;
And now, though hope be over, and love too much in vain,
What marvel if my weary heart finds naught like thee again?
Beloved, when thou wert near me, the happy and the right
Were mingled in one gentle dream of ever fresh Faint are the breezes, and pure is the tide,
All the long summer eve talking to thee.
TALK BY THE BLACKWATER.
If thou wert aught to shrink from-to blush with sudden shame
If there were ought my faith in thee to darken or
One memory of unkindness-one chilling want of Dear are the green banks we wander upon;
As mine, through chance, and change, and time, Dearest the thought, that, come weal or come woe, must ever cling to you. Through storm or through sunshine together they'll flow
That he who won the beating heart the lips must fear to name!
But oh! before the whole wide world how proudly
would I say:
"He reigned my king long years ago—he reigns my king to-day."
BY MISS DOWNING.
Cushlamachree, 'tis blessed to be
All the long summer eve thinking of thee.
Yon bark o'er the waters, how swiftly it glides!
And so I turn to seek thee throughout all the mist | Wherever the stream flows 'twill bear me with
And love with vain devotion, and weep with vainer
Cushlamachree, 'tis blessed to be
Summer and winter time clinging to thee.
CHARLES JOSEPH KICKHAM.
[The revolutionary movement which came | best part of Fenian literature was to be found to be known as Fenianism was unlike that in the Irish People, the journalistic organ of of 1848 in the character of its leaders. As the association; and the chief contributors to has been seen from previous memoirs, the that journal were Mr. T. Clarke Luby, Mr. older political agitation was associated with John O'Leary, and Mr. C. J. Kickham. a brilliant outburst of intellectual effort; and the majority of the leaders have left behind high intellectual heritage, or asserted under other skies, and in more favourable circumstances, their possession of great intellectual powers. The Fenian movement, on the other hand, was poor in its literary products; and few of its leading spirits have, since its collapse, reached to any lofty position. The
Charles Joseph Kickham was born at Mullenahone, county Tipperary, in 1830. At the age of thirteen he met with an accident, to which we probably owe the many fine productions of his pen: he was deprived of hearing. He began in about his eighteenth year to contribute poems and tales to Irish journals and magazines; and when the Irish People was started he became, as has been said, one
of its chief leader-writers. Involved thus in | looked up, and smiling bashfully, replied: 'I
believe I'm seventeen and a bit, sir,' and then bending her head she shook down her wavy auburn hair to hide her blushes. She found out a low seat, and always sat upon it, in order, as I saw, to make herself look small among the other girls. I remarked, too, that she always wore her cloak, for the purpose, as I guessed, of concealing her well-developed figure. All this reserve, however, was thrown aside when I was not present. How often did I watch her from the window during play-hours, bounding like a wild fawn among the children? All the children loved her; and it was so interesting to see some little creature explaining the lesson to poor Rose, who would take her tiny instructress up in her arms and kiss her as a reward for her trouble. But after a few months Rose Mulvany could read and write pretty well, and, in fact, knew as much as most girls of her age and class. Every day I felt more and more interested in her; but I was pained to observe that she became more reserved, and even appeared to stand almost in awe of me. She would check herself suddenly in the midst of her wildest glee on seeing me approach, and shake down her tresses to hide her face. I used to stand by sometimes and encourage the boys and girls at their games in the play-ground; but the moment I appeared, Rose would put on her cloak hastily and steal away.
"After a while I began to call at her father's house on Sunday evenings. How glad the kind old couple were to see me! And Rose, too, was less reserved on these occasions than at school, but she was still very timid. The thought often occurred to me that she disliked me; but I believe now the contrary was the case. It was very foolish in me to torment myself as I did; for, as I afterwards remembered, her face always lighted up on seeing me, and while I stayed, though she generally remained silent, she looked perfectly happy. I wished very much that my dear mother should see her, but I was quite afraid lest she For I should feel prejudiced against her. and noticed that my mother was quite jealous of every one who she imagined might make too deep an impression on me. thought no one good enough for me. "So matters stood, when one day John Mulvany came into the school and handed me a letter to read. I read it, and my heart died within me. A relative had paid his daughters' passage to America. Rose had an elder sister, a quiet, good, industrious girl. Her father
I believe she
the Fenian movement, he was one of those on whom the government made a descent; and having been tried and convicted he was sentenced to fourteen years' penal servitude. His comment on the conclusion of the trial was terse: "I have endeavoured,” he said, "to serve Ireland, and now I am prepared to suffer for Ireland." Four years after his conviction he was released.
Mr. Kickham has published two complete stories, Sally Cavanagh, or Untenanted Graves, from which we give an extract, and Knocknagon, or the Homes of Tipperary. stories have been read wherever there is an Irish home, and have made sad or joyous thousands of Irish hearts. They have found approval also in the columns of English and not friendly journals, which, disliking, perhaps bitterly, some of the ideas of the author, have found themselves able to meet him in friendliness on the impartial ground of literature. His books, indeed, deserve alike their popularity with the peasant and the approval of the critic. His pictures of life-especially of peasant life—are wonderfully true to nature, full of keen observation, humour, and fidelity. In his attention to minute details and homely incident he resembles in a great degree the style of MM. Erckmann-Chatrian.
Mr. Kickham's ballads are equally popular, and are just what ballads for the people should be-simple in language, direct in purpose, and in an easy and common measure. A collected edition of his works is now being published by Messrs. Duffy & Son. Two volumes containing the stories already named have appeared; two more are promised, the one consisting of a new story; the other of Mr. Kickham's songs and ballads.]
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY.
(FROM "SALLY CAVANAGH."1)
"It was necessary to have the name of each pupil on the roll. When I wrote down the name of Rose Mulvany I turned to her to inquire what was her age. I hardly knew why, but I could not ask the question, and put up the book without putting down her next week I got two or three 'new scholars,' and when asking their ages I took courage and said: 'And how old are you, Rose?' She
1 By permission of the author.
called Rose, and told her to come home with | to Mary, and kissed her. I could not do more him. She did not know what was in the letter, than take Rose's hand. Her head drooped, but I believe she guessed it; for as she went and her lips parted as I did so. As I let go out she looked at me, and turning round her her cold hand she fell senseless into my arms. head, kept her eyes fixed upon me till her Oh, fool! fool! why did I not save her then? father closed the door. I never saw her look 'Mary died of fever on the voyage. Her directly at me before while I was looking at her. sister landed in New York. And-oh, my God! "On Midsummer's day she came with her how can I write the words? Rose Mulvany, father and mother to take leave of the scholars. the beautiful, the innocent, the pure, is a lost, I shall never forget the scene. The children polluted thing. My life, since I learned her clung to her, most of them crying passionately. fate, has been one dream of agony. I have Several of the boys even were obliged to brush endeavoured, but in vain, to tear her from my the tears from their eyes as they looked at her. heart. I know she is lost to me for ever. But For the first time the poor girl was well the thought that she is lost to virtue and to dressed; and surely a creature more radiantly God-leading a life of sin and dragging souls beautiful was never seen. When they had to hell-is wearing away my life. gone I went mechanically through the business of the day. I locked the school-room as usual, and turned my steps homeward. Before going into my little cottage I walked for an hour down by the river. I asked myself should I declare my affection for her, and ask her to stay and be my wife. But what reason had I to hope that she had cared for me? And what would my dear mother think? Was I even sure that Rose's parents would consent? For, with all their respect for me, I thought it quite possible that they would not consider me a fit match for their daughter. The schoolmaster is thought so little of in this country. No; I had not the courage to ask Rose Mulvany to be my wife.
"In the evening I went down to the bridge, where the people were assembled round a bonfire. There was a dance too. The sisters were there, with their arms twined round each other's waists. There was something touchingly sorrowful in their faces. I thought my heart would burst as I looked at Rose. She was so sad, and oh! how lovely. You, Mr. Purcell, was there. A young girl asked you to dance. After dancing with her you looked round to choose a partner, as is the custom. You asked Rose Mulvany to dance. I saw her eyes flash with pleasure. All gloom was gone in an instant. Surely the pang I felt at that moment was not caused by jealousy? But I did feel a pang; and immediately a gloomy foreboding took possession of my heart. I moved to the side of Rose's sister.
66 6 'Mary,' said I, 'take care of Rose.' "She looked at her sister, and then at me. She took my hand and pressed it without speaking. I knew she understood me.
"I accompanied them home. Oh! the grief of that poor father and mother! For a while it made me forget my own. I bade farewell
"My dear, good mother is gone to rest. I have laid her beside my father. I leave Ireland to-morrow. I go to save Rose Mulvany. If it be God's will that I shall succeed, you will hear from me. Good-bye, my true friend, and may you be happy!"
"For the last year scarcely a day has passed that I have not determined to write to you the next day. But I always saw, or fancied I saw, some good reason for delaying the fulfilment of my promise yet another day. The monotony of my life, however, has just been varied a little by meeting accidentally with an old friend; and this has roused me to do what I have been so long thinking of doing. I am writing in my own little wooden house far away in the lonesome prairie. On last Sunday as I was returning home after having heard mass at a little village thirty miles from where I live, I saw a man lying on the ground by the side of the road. His arms were resting upon a box, and his face buried between his hands. A fine little boy lay near him asleep, with the man's coat folded under his head. I at once saw they were immigrants, and from Ireland, who had left the railway, and were proceeding on foot to some village or farmhouse in this neighbourhood.
"God save you,' I called out, pulling up my horse at the same time.
"God save you kindly,' he replied, raising his head and looking at me.
"Connor Shea!' I exclaimed; 'surely you are Connor Shea?'
"That's my name sure enough,' said he. 'But you have the advantage of me.'
"I must be indeed altered,' I remarked, when my old friend Connor Shea does not know me.'
"When I told him my name he started to
his feet, and was hastening towards me. But as he advanced I saw him reel and stagger, and before I could dismount and come to his assistance, he fell heavily to the ground. The boy told me that for several days back his father had eaten nothing but a few grapes which a lady had given him; and I at once concluded that Connor Shea had fever. Fortunately my house was not far off, and after bathing his temples and getting him to swallow a cooling draught, he was able to mount my horse, and half an hour's slow walking brought us to the door. The poor fellow is now free from fever, but it will be some days before he will be strong enough to go to work. He begs that you will not let his wife know of his illness. Neddy is a fine fellow, and his father has consented to leave him under my care. This is a great boon to me, particularly during winter when all out-door work is suspended here. I hope to have Neddy sufficiently advanced to have him bound to some respectable business in the course of next year. Connor has given me a full account of 'the neighbours,' since I left home. Alas, for poor Ireland! And now, in as few words as possible, let me tell you what has happened to myself since my arrival in this country.
“First of all, I found out the person through whom I had learned Rose Mulvany's fate. He accompanied me to the house where she had lived. With what mingled feelings of rage, and grief, and loathing I passed the threshold! It was one of those places where vice is decked out in tawdry finery. But I shall not disgust you with a description of it. The poor lost creature whom I sought had left the place in ill health some months before. A dissipated-looking woman remarked with a laugh that the pace was too fast for the young 'greeny,' and she broke down. This account excited my pity for the lost one, against whom I was beginning to feel something like resentment as I looked round on her brazen companions in shame. I was informed that Rose had gone to a city in the far west, and thither I started in search of her on the following day.
"I got employment in the great western city. My days were devoted to work, and from midnight till dawn I spent amid scenes the remembrance of which makes me shudder. Well, I found her at last-found Rose Mulvany in one of the very lowest haunts of crime and debauchery. The scene has left but a confused impression on my mind; music and dancing, the fumes of alcohol and tobacco, oaths and laughter and shrill screams of anger.
And in the midst of this pandemonium I saw the once innocent Irish maiden with
I was quite calm. Do you not wonder that I was so? I even felt a sort of satisfaction, not at having found her, but at seeing her degradation with my own eyes. I felt as if the spell were broken, and my sufferings at an end. The thought that she was what I now saw her had made me miserable for years; yet I felt for a moment an impulse to laugh outright at my folly. I saw before me a creature too low for contempt, too debased for pity, too loathsome to be hated. Turning away, not with disgust, but with utter indifference, I was hurrying out of the polluted atmosphere into the open air, when a thought struck me that made me pause.
"Is it not my duty,' I asked myself—' am I not bound as a Christian to make an effort to save her?'
"My conscience whispered, that not to make the effort would be a crime. I had a message sent to her that a person wished to see her in an adjoining room. The door opened, and with a smirk on her face, Rose Mulvany approached me. For a moment she looked surprised, but this was only because her reception was different from what she expected. She soon, however, began to retreat slowly backwards, while her eyes were fixed on me with a wild stare. In this way she had reached the door, and was turning the handle behind her back, when I stepped forward and placed my hand against the door.
"I believe,' said I, 'you remember me.' "She moved away from me again, and asked me in a low, hoarse tone to let her out.
"Not until I have first spoken to you, Rose,' I replied.
"Don't speak to me,' said she.
"I wish to speak to you for your good.' "Do you not see what I am?' she asked. "I do,' said I, 'and that is the reason I have sent for you.'
"Am I not lost?'
"But, Rose, you may be saved-your soul may be saved.'
"She covered her face with her hands, and the bright auburn hair fell down, as I so often saw it fall in the old school-house.
"Rose,' said I, in a softened voice, 'I do not want to reproach you.'
"Reproach me!' she exclaimed, looking up quickly; 'what right have you to reproach me?'
"The question took me by surprise, for I certainly thought I had the best right in the world. "She put her hand to her throat as if she
"I was confounded; for I thought she meant to accuse me of having led her from the path of virtue in some way.
were choking, and said :-'If it were not for | left me that my heart could yet thrill with you I should not be what I am.' mingled love and pride and grief for that dear "Good God!' I exclaimed, 'what do you old land. Then I thought of the peaceful mean?' valley and my own home. That same moon looked mildly down upon them! I flung myself down by the shore of the great lake, far, far away, and for the first time since my great sorrow fell upon me, I burst into tears. Since that moment I have been an altered man. Life is no longer a burden to me. There is, "Yes,' she continued, after a pause, 'you to be sure, a shadow upon my path; but it is won my young, innocent heart, before I knew not the black one that rested on it so long. I I had a heart; and after winning it you de- dislike crowds, and hence I have exchanged the spised it. You let me go, just as if I was a worth-busy city for the lonesome prairie. But since less weed. I did not care what would become Connor Shea's arrival I begin to think that I of me. I joined in every folly I was asked to could enjoy the society of my old friends; and I join in. Poor Mary was gone, and I had no am already longing to see my hermitage lighted one to warn me. Oh! if I knew the world was up by poor Sally Cavanagh's bright looks. so bad I might be able to take care of myself!' Connor and I are in deep plans for the future. "You can have no idea of the shock her words gave me. For the first time the thought occurred to me that in some degree I might be accountable for this poor girl's fall. I was so moved I could not help saying:
"But before I come to the end of my paper let me tell you the result of my interview with Rose Mulvany. I got a note from her, which I shall copy here:
"Never ask to see me again. I am not worthy. I could not bear it. But send some one else to take me away from this place. May God for ever bless you. Something tells me that I am saved?'
"I mean,' said she, 'that when I was young and innocent--but why should I talk of that now?'
"O Rose! I never despised you. On the contrary, I loved you better than my life.'
"Her whole face lighted up. I gazed at her with wonder. There was something startling in the transfiguration I beheld. Everything about her-her eyes, her lips, her blushes, her attitude -everything about her was 'pure womanly.'
"And I have come here,' I continued, for no other purpose but to save you.'
"These words reminded her of what she really was, and the poor girl turned deadly pale. I thought she was fainting, and has tened to prevent her from falling.
"Don't touch me,' she cried, holding out her arms to keep me off, 'oh! do not touch a thing like me.'
"There was something appalling in the change that had come over her. She appeared to have withered in an instant. I actually saw the wrinkles creeping over her face and forehead. She sank into a chair which I had placed near her. After considering for a moment I decided upon the course I should pursue. Rose,' said I, 'here is my address. You know now you have a friend. And may God give you strength to turn back before it is too late.' I laid my card on a table near her, and withdrew.
"It was a moonlight night, and I spent an hour or two looking out on the waters of the great lake. I thought of Ireland, and of the sufferings of her children; in my desolation I thanked God that there was still something
"I hastened to a good Irish priest, and told him the whole story. The result is that poor Rose Mulvany has been for the past twelve months an inmate of an industrial institution under the superintendence of the Sisters of Charity. I am slow to believe in complete reformation in cases of this kind; but my reverend friend assures me that it would be harder now to tempt Rose Mulvany from the path of virtue than if she had never left it. I wonder-but I shall not trouble you with my speculations, at least not now. How well I remember the evening I gave you that hurriedly-written chapter of my history! I expected to hear of your marriage from Connor. My dear friend, whatever disappointment you may have met with--whatever sorrow you may have to endure-be assured that the bitterest drop has not been poured into the cup so long as there is no stain upon the fair fame of the woman you loved."
"I believe him," exclaimed Brian, and he started up as if the thought stung him. "Even now that the struggle is over, and an impassable gulf between us, even now that thought would be the bitterest drop in the cup. How this poor fellow has suffered. And my poor friend Connor Shea! What a pang those few words about him would strike to