And well he knows he nears, at last, To wrap the heart of Hugh O'Neill! THE LITTLE WIFE. Frown not, my love! ah, let me chase And mist-like o'er your manly eyes. Ah, let me try the winning ways You said were mine-the angel art To pour at once ten thousand rays Of dancing sunlight on your heart! Your little wife Must bid these gloomy thoughts depart. When love was young and hopes were bright, I thought, 'midst all our dreams of bliss, That clouds might come like these to-night, And hours of sorrow such as this. And, then, I said, my task shall be To soothe his heart so fond and true, And he who loves me thus, shall see How much his little wife can do. My heart, my life, Your little wife Must bid you dream those dreams anew. Then let me lift those locks that fall So wildly o'er your lofty brow, And smooth, with fingers soft and small, The veins that cord your temples now. How oft, when ached your wearied head, From manly care, or thought divine, You've held me to your heart, and said You wanted love so deep as mine! My own, my life! Your little wife, And here it is-a love as wild As e'er defied the world's control; The fondness of a tearful child, The passion of a woman's soul, All mingled in my breast for thee, In one hot tide-I cannot speak: But feel my throbbing heart, and see Its brightness in my burning cheekMy love, my life! Your little wife Must cheer you, or her heart will break. Ah, now the breast I found so cold, Grows warm within my close embrace; VOL. IV. And smiles as sweet as those of old Your little wife SONG FROM THE BACKWOODS. Deep in Canadian woods we've met, From one bright island flown; Great is the land we tread, but yet Our hearts are with our own. And ere we leave this shanty small, While fades the autumn day, We'll toast old Ireland! We've heard her faults a hundred times, The new ones and the old, In songs and sermons, rants and rhymes, Enlarged some fifty-fold. But take them all, the great and small, Here's dear old Ireland! We know that brave and good men tried And all, 'tis said, in vain: Here's good old Ireland! Loved old Ireland! We've seen the wedding and the wake, The stuff they take, the fun they make, And well we know in the cool gray eves, 78 Ah, fond old Ireland! Dear old Ireland! Ireland, boys, hurra! And happy and bright are the groups that pass When Sunday morning smiles! And deep the zeal their true hearts feel Oh, dear old Ireland! Ireland, boys, hurra! But deep in Canadian woods we've met, The dear old isle where our hearts are set, And our first fond hopes remain! But come, fill up another cup, Good old Ireland! Ireland, boys, hurra! TO MY BROTHER. Though Fate will permit us no longer However our hearts may be tried. But, though we be far from each other, One bond that no distance can sever Shall always connect us, my Brother. And oft, when my prospects look dreary, When those I have trusted deceive, When I sink, disappointed and weary, And scarcely know what to believe; How oft does some sweet recollection, And brings a hot dew to my eyes- The thoughts I could share with no other; As barks that the tempests have driven Have parted us here from each other, And meet in that haven, my Brother. DONAL OF BEARA. (FROM "DUNBOY.") Brave Donal! foes and traitors knew Like one inwrapt in love or song. Yet ever in that manly breast The passion ruling all the rest, The source to which his thoughts returned, The central fire that in him burned, By all life's forces fed and fanned, Whose firm and well-embattled front By night and day the flooring trod, And only proved, when all was done, Was Beara's prince, O'Sullivan. THE FARMER'S SON. Where'er are scattered the Irish nation, For Charlie is coaching me every day: He shows me the yachts that have just come in, And he tells all about them,-but, oh, by the way, Do you know who is here?-why, that tall Miss Glynn. I saw her last night near the fort, my dear, For a three-reefed shroud and a whispering For flowing binnacles fore and aft, And a backstay cleaving the foaming seas! You know the regatta will soon take place, The people are fast filling in for it too, Sweet, when you and I are one Earth will bloom anew, Brighter then the stars and sun, Softer then the dew; Sweeter scents will then arise From the fields and flowers; Holier calm will fill the skies In the midnight hours. Music now unheard, unknown, Not a hint of tears; ALEXANDER MARTIN SULLIVAN. For the last few years Mr. Sullivan's career has been chiefly connected with England. He was not long in the house when he established his right to occupy there the same prominent position to which his talents had previously raised him in the assemblies of his own country; and, though he belongs to a party not very acceptable to the British parliament, he has succeeded in placing himself in the ranks of those speakers whose voices control divisions. Mr. Sullivan has published several works. Of these, one of the most popular was an Irish history called The Story of Ireland, which had a very large sale. His best known work, however, is New Ireland. This book has had a marvellous success; it has been received with equal favour by the English, the Scotch, and the Irish press, and it has passed in a short period through a large number of editions.] [Alexander Martin Sullivan was born in | mind to seek in the profession of the lawyer Bantry in 1830-three years later than his another sphere of action. In 1876 he was brother the poet. Destined for other pursuits, admitted to the Irish bar, and in 1877 he he at an early age discovered that his true voca- joined the bar of England, receiving the untion was journalism, and in 1853, having made usual honour of a "special call" to the Inner the acquaintance of Gavan Duffy, he began to Temple. He had in 1876, as has been mencontribute to the Nation. Two years after, tioned in the preceding notice, resigned his Duffy, as has been told in his memoir, threw connection with the Nation. up in despair Irish journalism and Irish politics, and Mr. Sullivan succeeded to the then not promising heritage of editing the Nation. He held that position for upwards of twenty years, and throughout that lengthened period his pen was constantly active in defence of the Nationalist side in politics. His post, as well as his natural disposition and talents, threw him into political warfare, and there has been no movement of importance in Irish politics for the last quarter of a century in which he has not taken a prominent part. Possessed of great oratorical powers, gifted with an eloquence ready, spontaneous, and brilliant, his aid was eagerly sought, and his friendship or hostility was an important factor in the political struggles of his time. In 1857 he took a short vacation, paying a visit to the United States, and he has left a record of his impressions in a volume entitled A Visit to the Valley of Wyoming. In 1868 he came, like most National Irish journalists, into collision with the authorities, and having been indicted on two charges in connection with the processions in memory of the three Fenians executed at Manchester, he was convicted on one of the charges, and sent to prison. During his incarceration he learned that the corporation of Dublin had determined to give the most significant mark of its respect by nominating him to the position of lord-mayor; but he refused the flattering proposal. He in like manner would not accept a subscription which had been collected as a testimonial to him on his release, and insisted on devoting the £300 already gathered to the fund for erecting the statue to Henry Grattan, which now stands in College Green, Dublin. In 1874 Mr. Sullivan entered on a new career. He was started for Louth in opposition to an important member of the Liberal administration - Mr. Chichester Fortescue (now Lord Carlingford)—and was returned. He had some time previously made up his "FORTY-EIGHT." (FROM NEW IRELAND."1) John Mitchel- the first man who, since Robert Emmet perished on the scaffold in 1803, preached an Irish insurrection and the total severance of Ireland from the British Crown-was the son of the Rev. John Mitchel, Unitarian minister of Dungiven, county Derry. He was born in 1815, and was educated at Trinity College, Dublin. Like many another Trinity student he early became a contributor to the Nation newspaper; and in 1845, on the death of Thomas Davis, accepted an editorial position on that journal, in conjunction with Charles Gavan Duffy and Thomas Darcy M'Gee. The stern Unitarian Ulsterman soon developed a decided bent in favour of what half a century before would 1 By permission of the author. be called "French principles." He was republican and revolutionary. At all events, during the scenes of the famine period he quite drew away from the policy advocated by his colleagues, and eventually called upon the Irish Confederation to declare for a war of independence. He it was who revived the "Separatist" or revolutionary party in Irish politics. From 1803 up to 1845 no such party had any recognized or visible existence. There was, beyond question, disaffection in the country, a constantly maintained protest against, or passive resistance to, the existing state of things; but no one dreamed of a political aim beyond Repeal of the Union as a constitutional object to be attained by constitutional means. The era of revolt and rebellion seemed gone for ever. John Mitchel, however, thrust utterly aside the doctrines of loyalty and legality. He declared that constitutionalism was demoralizing the country. By "blood and iron" alone could Ireland be saved. These violent doctrines were abhorrent to Smith O'Brien, and indeed to nearly every one of the Confederation leaders. O'Brien declared that either he or Mitchel must quit the organization. The question was publicly debated for two days at full meetings, and on the 5th of February, 1848, the "war" party were utterly outvoted, and retired from the Confederation. Seven days afterwards John Mitchel, as if rendered desperate by this reprehension of his doctrines, started a weekly newspaper called the United Irishman, to openly preach his policy of insurrection. He was regarded as a madman. Young Irelanders and Old Irelanders alike laughed in derision or shouted in anger at this proceeding. But events were now near, which, all unforeseen as they were by Mitchel and by his opponents, were destined to put the desperate game completely into his hands. The third number of the new journal had barely appeared when news of the French revolution burst on an astonished world. It set Ireland in a blaze. Each day added to the excitement. Every post brought tidings of some popular rising, invariably crowned with victory. Every bulletin, whether from Paris, Berlin, or Vienna, told the same story, preached, as it were, the same lesson: barricades in the streets, overthrow of the government, triumph of the people. It may be doubted if the United Irishman would have lived through a third month but for this astounding turn of affairs. Now its every utterance was rapturously hailed by a wildly excited multitude. What need to trace what may be easily understood-Ireland was irresistibly swept into the vortex of revolution. The popular leaders, who a month previously had publicly defeated Mitchel's pleadings for war, now caught the prevalent passion. Struck by the events they beheld, and the examples set on every side, they verily believed that Ireland had but to "go and do likewise," and the boon of national liberty would be conceded. by England, probably without a blow. Confederate "clubs" now sprang up all over the country, and arming and drilling were openly carried on. Mitchel's journal week by week laboured with fierce energy to hurry the conflict. The editor addressed letters through its pages to Lord Clarendon, the Irish Viceroy, styling him "Her Majesty's Executioner General and General Butcher of Ireland." He published instructions as to street warfare; noted the "Berlin system," and the "Milanese system," and the "Viennese system;" highly praised molten lead, crockery ware, broken bottles, and even cold vitriol, as good things for citizens, male or female, to fling from windows and housetops on hostile troops operating below. Of course Mitchel knew that this could not possibly be tolerated. His calculation was that the government must indeed seize him, but that before he could be struck down and his paper be suppressed he would have rendered revolution inevitable. The Confederation leaders had indeed embraced the idea of an armed struggle, yet the divergence of principles between them and the Mitchel party was wide almost as ever. They seemed marching together on the one road, yet it was hardly so. For a long time O'Brien and his friends held to a hope that eventually concession and arrangement between the government and Ireland would avert collision. Mitchel, on the other hand, feared nothing more than compromise of any kind. They would fain proceed soberly upon the model of Washington and the colonies; he was for following the example of Louis Blanc and the boulevards of Paris. The ideal struggle of their plans, if struggle there must be, was a well-prepared and carefully-ordered appeal to arms,1 and so they would wait till autumn, when the harvest would be gathered in. A private letter written from his cell in Newgate Prison by Gavan Duffy to O'Brien in the week preceding the outbreak, and found in O'Brien's portmanteau after his arrest, brings out very curiously these views: "I am glad to learn you are about to commence a series of meetings in Munster. There is no half-way house for |