native lieutenant of the regiment, with whom | doubt, or cupidity among our people, I have Mungul Pandé, his cousin and Azráel's nephew, preached, I have urged, I have entreated them a private in the regiment, lived. He had ap- not to forget the past, but to cling together plied for leave to hold a recitation of religious for their honour and their caste, in a time books at night, and to be allowed "lights and which the holy mother, Kalee, told me was to singing," which was not unusual, and had come. I have borne hunger and thirst, poverty attracted no particular attention. and weariness, in my wanderings from place to place. I have been tried and sentenced to die: and I should have been hanged in pollution, but for that poor fellow who sits among ye, who saved my life at the risk of his own. As a Gosain, as a Bairagee, as a Jogee, as a pilgrim carrying Ganges water on his shoulders for hundreds of miles-as a Brahmin expounding these holy books before me, I have travelled throughout the length and breadth of the country. I have attended fairs, and markets, and holy shrines. I have been the honoured guest of great Rajahs, and even of Nawabs; and-O listen, brothers!--I have heard but one cry-a cry that came from the very souls of the people-deliverance from the English! Azráel Pandé was the reciter, and the reading had continued late into the night. One by one the listeners had departed, and those who had come for a special purpose alone remained. The jemådar looked closely round the room to see if any one not in the secret were present, and went out to ascertain that all was safe; and on entering again he carefully put out the lights, except one small lamp which burned in a niche, and even were it noticed from without, would attract no particular attention. Then he barred the door, and said, "We may speak freely now, brothers; let Azráel Pandé tell us what he has heard, and what he would have us do. Gather close to him, that he may not need to raise his voice." There were about twenty men, tall and strong, as men of Oudh and Bahar always are; men with handsome, regular features, and fair skins, descendants of the Aryan warriors of past ages. They were not all of the Thirtyfourth, for there were other regiments at the station who had sent delegates to hear counsel, and make arrangements. These men now huddled together on the earthen floor; and Azráel Pandé, their teacher, naked to the waist, his head bare, his long, soft, wavy hair thrown back over his shoulders, and his forehead, breast and arms painted with the sacred marks of their faith, sat in a raised seat above them, on which his host generally slept. The light from the lamp flickered, and cast weird, varying shadows about the room, and now and again rested brightly upon him, shewing his broad, muscular frame, and lighting up his stern, savage features; but the faces of the men before him were in deep shadow: and all that could be seen of them, closely muffled as they were, was their gleaming eyes, as one turned to another in the most exciting portions of their teacher's address. "Brothers!" he said, when all were silent and still, “I am not one unknown to ye. What part I played in the old Thirty-fourth ye know well, and I need not remind you of it. What I have done since, ye do not know; but for twelve years, wherever I could strike a blow against the Feringee power, I have not failed to do so. Wherever I saw hesitation, "Why is this? Listen, and I will tell you. Which of us on the march, as he stepped into any one of the holy rivers, has not cried out, 'Jey Gunga Mata!' and then, 'Jey Koompanee Bahadoor!' With such cries our fathers went to battle, and won a thousand victories. But that is past. The 'Koompanee' is not as it used to be; it is no longer an incarnation of our gods. It has changed into a mean, cheating robber, who farms this great Hind of ours from the government of England, and robs it of all it can carry away. Where do those great ships yonder take the cotton, and the indigo, and the silk which the poor ryots have produced, but to England? Do they bring us anything in return? No! nothing but what we have to buy, and very dearly; and even the old Moghuls did not tax our salt and our opium. When the 'Koompanee' was as a prince we served them; and shed our blood for them in faith and honour. They were our fathers and our mothers. But now?-listen to what they have done. "Three years ago I was in Nagpoor. The Rajah, who had been kind to me, died. No adoption to perform his obsequies was allowed, and his soul now wanders in hell. Then the Feringees seized his kingdom, confiscated his wealth, and even the clothes and jewels of his wives; and these, and their horses and elephants, their bullocks, were sold by auction, and the Koompanee took the money. Listen further. In the same year the Rajah of Jhansy died, a man who flew the English flag over his fort with his own. He left his little kingdom to be taken care of by the English for his descendants; but they seized it themselves, and keep it fast. In the west they took Sattara, and the family of Sivajee are beggars. Well, all these were state acts, and concern distant people. You have not heard their groans and cries as I have; and let them pass. "But the greed of dominion has come nearer to you. It has come at last to our homesteads in Oudh, where our people have lived free for thousands of years; and Oudh has become Feringee, like Nagpoor and Jhansy. Is not all this true, and need it not be avenged? "Do not murmur," he continued, stretching out his hands over the now excited men. "The time comes-nay, it is near, when you may shout 'Jey Kalee' with me, and bathe your hands in the hot English blood. Do not murmur, my sons, but listen. Have I told you all? Nay, if it were so, the loss of these kingdoms need not concern you. Those that lost them might cry and wail, but that would not affect one rupee of your pay, or one yard of the land ye possess. The English are too wise to interfere with them. But is there no more? What did I hear the people in the meeting of the Dhurma Subha say, only two days ago? What did I hear the Brahmins in the temple of Kalee, when I worshipped there to-day, say among themselves, and to us strangers: 'Come here no more!' they cried. "The order is gone out from the new Lord Sahib, that all Hindoos must become Christians, for the Queen of England has so determined. Come no more!' they cried, beating their mouths and their breasts; 'this day-any day -the holy temple of the mother whom we serve, may be defiled with cow's blood!' Ah yes; they believed this, those wise old priests, and why should not we, my sons?" chance escape this fate your sons cannot. Every man who enlists now must swear on the Ganges water, and holy Toolsee, to ensure the destruction of his own caste! What horrible mockery is this! Yet they will require you all, young and old, to go, or they will blow you away from their guns. 66 'Why are you quiet? Why have you borne this? This order is nearly half a year old, yet you have done nothing! Where is your honour, where is your caste? Do I speak to Brahmins and Rajpoots, or to outcast Mléchas and leather-dressers? Does not this come home to your hearts? When you return from the sea, will your wives embrace you? will they put your children into your arms? will your stalwart sons admit you into your homes? I tell you they will not, they dare not! They will say to you, 'Begone! ye are polluted.' They will not give you a cup of water were you even dying of thirst at your door. They cannot look upon you; they will shout to you, 'Ye were cowards to lose your caste, and had better died!' "Ah, yes!" he cried, as he wiped the foam from his lips; "you may writhe there, and murmur, and weep; but you, who are Brahmins, know that this is true, as well as I, a Brahmin, who tells it to you. But listen, I have yet more to say. Am I inventing tales to frighten you with? Not I. What the English do, they spread abroad that all may know it; and look you, my sons, how hellish are their contrivances to sap the very foundations of Hindoo faith and purity. Now the law is gone forth, that Hindoo widows may marry again-Brahmins, Kshettrees, Soodras alike!-Think, anyone of you, where your honour would be, if your widow married another man? Where would be the old respect and love which sealed the devotion of its life by holy suttee? Now, every woman who Then there was a low, hoarse murmur of, pleases may, like a prostitute, take a new hus"We have heard it: we believe it!" “Yes,” he continued, "you believe that, because the wrong comes home to yourselves. But listen further. We soldiers used to feel that we were safe against going over the sea. Now I hear on every hand a groan of despair that you are no longer safe; that when the order comes you must go over the black water, which washes out all trace of caste. You, every one of you that hear me now-every Brahmin and Rajpoot who heard me to-night -every one of the tens of thousands who serve in the army-must go-go to-morrow, if the Lord Sahib wills it-over the sea. If you by band. Think of the pity of this: think of the sin of it!" "Brothers!" he cried, with his hands outstretched and quivering, and his eyes flashing, "such are your own wives now, such are your mothers or sisters, for such have the English made them. I thank God that this misery is saved me, that mine died years ago, and that I have no child to endure pollution. There were times when Brahmins and Rajpoots plunged their swords and spears into their wives' hearts when there was even a suspicion or a dread of dishonour. As I traversed Rajpootana I heard many an old ballad which told of such things-for these memories never die—and I could say them to you; but | no! you could not feel them: you are deaddead to honour-dead to shame-dead to your faith! You have no caste, how should you understand the thoughts or the honour of those who still hold it? Are you silent?" They were silent, for most were sobbing, some gnashed their teeth, and drew their breath in hard gasps and sighs. "Another few words would I speak, my sons," he continued; "and you know this last ignominy better than I do. What are these new muskets which have been sent among you? Did not the old win all Hind for the English? win it with your fathers' blood, freely poured out. Did not thousands of our people perish in the Khyber amidst the snow and ice -whose blood cries for vengeance? Did not these men die with the old guns in their frozen hands? We, in the former times, did not want cows' and pigs' fat for them; our arms were strong enough to ram down the cartridges that we used, and our bullets then were as deadly as these; who ever withstood them? Now, the Feringees must have new cartridges and new guns, which require the fat of cows and pigs. I tell you there is no sense in this, no reason for this. Who is there in Hind left to fight? We, the men of Oudh and Bahar, have conquered all, even from the Sikhs. Ah yes, see brothers! the Sikhs and the Ghoorkhas don't mind fat, and they will be brought down on you in thousands and tens of thousands, to blow you away from guns, or to send you home to cover your faces and weep like women. So there is no need of this change of arms; but this is certain, that when you have once handled and bitten these fat-besmeared cartridges, you had better go to the Padré Sahib, and take the Baptisma at once. Poor fellows! you will have no caste left, and all the waters of Gunga Mata will not wash out your impurity. What will it then signify if you are all made to eat together in messes, as the white soldiers do? and then you will have cows' fat and pigs' fat in plenty, and Christians and Mléchas to cook your food. There is an order gone out about that in jails already, and what are you better than convicts? They have put chains on the land, these English. There are iron roads and iron wires stretching up to Dehly, and now going on to Peshawur, upon the land and its people. When they reach the Indus, yours will follow. You with your caste who would have protected Hindoos, will no longer be Hindoos! but Christian slaves-unable to protect them, "Do not weep, brothers! do not groan. This is no time for weeping. Arise! be resolute! Strike! for the sake of your honour, your faith and your caste. When there are no English, you will be free. Be like me, who have vowed this day before Kalee Mata, that every Feringee man, woman, or child, must die, and that she shall lick their blood. O! I will feed her with much of it, and it will be sweet-sweet!-for they are her direst enemies. Do not speak!" he continued, in the same hissing and mocking tone in which he had addressed the men. "I know your hearts, I know what you would say. But one thing I ask. If you are men, if you have still faith and caste, reach forward your hands one over another, and touch these books!" And the men rose to their feet and did as he had desired. "Now swear," said Azráel solemnly; "by this holy Geeta, by the five products of the cow, and by my feet, that when the time comes, ye, and those ye represent, will strike in for the faith! That ye will refuse, even to the extremity of death, to take the cartridges, and to go beyond the sea!” "We swear!" replied the men, in a hoarse whisper, "Jey Kalee Mata, we will be true to thee, even to death!" "Good, my sons!" continued Azráel, “she, the mother, will help us all in our oaths. Now listen to her last words: 'Be cautious! wait for the signal! Do not anticipate it by any foolish haste which will bring destruction on us all. It is but for a little time; the English are in sore strait, their country is small, and they have few soldiers. They have now war in Europe with the Russians, and war in Persia, and they will soon have war in China. They have to send more of their troops from India, and already they have not half their usual number, and still they trust us. Ha! ha! ha! Well! they might have done so safely, had they kept their old faith!' Now depart: I go to Cawnpore, to Agra, to Dehly, to Amballa; Gokul will go to Dinapore with your letters. Write what has happened here to every camp in the army, but cautiously; and when Sumbut 1914 begins, the signal will not be long deferred. "Now go! I leave my brother's son, Mungal Pandé, with you, be careful of him as one of your own." Then the men passed him silently one by one, touching his feet reverently with their hands, and then their foreheads and breasts, and so glided out of the door into the darkness people! of the night. Before morning had dawned, | roads that were to bind India and enslave its Azráel Pandé rose and took leave of his host and his nephew, conjuring them to be faithful, and went to take his place in the northern train, on one of the iron chain "O Mother! wait, wait but a little," he murmured, stretching forth his hands towards Calcutta, "and thou shalt have the blood!" THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN. LUCY'S ATTIRE. (FROM VERSICLES.") When the Summer's sultry noon Flecks her chamber with its rays, [Thomas Caulfield Irwin was born on May | colour, a chaste and pure style, and a mastery 4, 1823, at Warrenpoint, county Down. His of measure characterize all that he has written. father, Thomas Irwin, was a physician; his Some of his prose reminds one of De Quincey mother the daughter of Mr. Caulfield Cooke, in its picturesqueness and stately diction.] a barrister, whose brother, the Rev. William Cooke, was, it may be mentioned, attached to St. Peter's Church, Dublin, at the same time as the Rev. Charles Maturin, the celebrated author of Bertram. Mr. Irwin was educated by private tutors, and acquired a thorough acquaintance with classics and several continental languages. He entered upon a literary career at an early age. By 1853 he was already so favourably known that he was employed by Mr. (now Sir) Charles Gavan Duffy to supply poetical contributions and literary essays to his journal. In 1854 he began to contribute to the Dublin University Magazine, and he continued to write frequently in that periodical until a recent period. Four collections of his poems have been published, Versicles (1856); Poems (1866); Irish Historical and Legendary Poems (1868); and Songs and Romances (1878). In the latter year there also appeared a selection of his prose writings under the title Summer and Winter Stories. These volumes, however, represent but a small portion of what Mr. Irwin has written: 130 Tales, of various length, and essays on a vast number of subjects, have proceeded from his pen. He is the author of a romance of antique life, From Cæsar to Christ, in which there is a striking representation of Roman and British civilization in the reign of Nero. Many of the scenes are finely described, and some of the situations are very strong and exciting. He is also the author of a poetic drama, Ortus and Ermia, a versified translation of Catullus, and translations besides from several classical and continental poets. The verses of Mr. Irwin are fully deserving of the warm appreciation with which they have been received. He has true poetic inspiration. Picturesqueness and rich Warmly waning through the haze, Mix with the twilight ouphs, and feast Scarcely breaks the clasp of night, Soft and warm in winter's spite; As pink sheaths of the perfumed bean. But when norland tempests stir, Blowing o'er the frosted lands, She must wear, without demur, Cosy refuges of fur For sweetest neck, and cold white hands; Shall deem her soft salute a treat: Shall her heart make merry din; Toward the costly decked bazaar; Or, by evening forest brown Wanders with her favourite star. Such shall seem her outward dress; As the mystic seasons roll Seasoned with them; while no less Shall their image tinge her soul, Chaste as chill December; bright As starry July's summer night; Pure as April's gelid buds, Rich as August's fruited woods; Blending in its many moods, Nature's warmth with Heaven's light. HYMN TO EURYDICE. (FROM "ORPHEUS.") Oh! love in life, oh! Paradise surrounded By weary distances of desert space, At length I breathe amid thy bounteous regions, There is love that broods like sunset o'er the ocean, and hue; There is passion, proud, and conquerless, and ear nest Like some purple sunset shadow in a valley, Glassing old heroic ruins on their stillness, snow. Oh could sweet fancy realize its visions, In some golden land of noon beyond the mountains, In some ancient isle of sweet perfection, where 'Mid twilight temples, highest-thoughted music Filled with spirit round the fragrance of the air. Where the goldened lark would set our hearts to music, As in jubilant communion with the sun, We'd pace the airy mountains o'er the ocean, 'Til the nightingale in woodland dusk begun : Where joyously in heaven's light our spirits Would broaden with the glory of the hours; And close beneath transparent dark in slumber, Life's odours masked in crimson folded flowers. Spirit of the half-closed eyes, Come to me ere midnight wanes, Deep into a feathered swoon. Leave thy odorous bed an hourLeave thy ebon-curtained bowerLeave thy cavern to the moon. Lowly burns the whitened hearth, Slowly turns the quiet earth. Now the woods and skies are dumb, In the dizzy midnight hum, Come to me, sweet phantom, come. Hidden in the folded gray Of thy garment, bear the urn |