CHAPTER XXI.

DEAD MAN'S ISLAND.

There was one person in Ballybay at least who envied the woman that lay

forever free from life's fitful fever. The day's demonstration in the

town had brought no joy to Mat's heart. He had not yet learned to make

any distinction between the agitators who had broken his own life and

murdered the hopes of his country, and the very different class of men

who had brought new life and hope to the Irish nation. The whole

business of the meeting to him, therefore, appeared nothing but gabble,

treason, and folly. He spent his hours, after a scornful look or two at

the preparations for the speeches of the day, in wandering through the

fields and streets which he had known in boyhood, and appeared to have

left so very, very long ago. Every sight deepened his depression. He

thought of the first day he had spent in the town long ago, when he

visited Ballybay for the first time after years of absence. Then he

thought that he had exhausted the possibilities of grief over the waste

of a nation's life; but he now found that there were deeper depths and

larger possibilities of suffering in the Irish tragedy. Famine, plague,

a whirlwind, or an earthquake could not, as he thought, have worked

mischief more deadly, more appalling, more complete. He saw, with a

curious sinking of the heart and an overwhelming sadness, that nearly

every well-remembered spot of his boyhood was marked by the ruins of a

desolated home. Here was the corner where he used to turn from the one

to the two mile round--as two of the walks around Ballybay were

called--but where was the house with its crowd of noisy children, which

he saw every morning with the same confident familiarity as a

well-remembered piece of furniture in his own house? Yes: there was the

little road where he remembered to have stood one day so many years ago.

It was a bright, beautiful day in summer, the sky was blue, and the

roses bloomed; but everything was dark to him, for Betty, his first

nurse, the strongest affection of his childhood, had retired to her

mother's home the day before. And as he recalled how all the world

seemed to be over for him on that day, he felt the full brotherhood of

sorrow, and in one moment understood all the tragic significance of the

separation which emigration had caused in more than a million Irish

homes. The road had changed as though the country had been turned from

a civilized to a savage land. The grass was growing thick and rank, the

roses had gone, thick weeds choked festering pools, and of the little

cottage in which Betty had dwelt there was not even a vestige.

And so, alas, in the town. At its entrance a whole street had

disappeared, black and charred the walls stood--silent and deserted.

This constant recurrence of the symbols of separation, desertion,

silence, death, produced a strange numbness in his mind, and he walked

along in a dream that became deeper and deeper. But he saw everything

with the obscurity, and still with the strange, piercing look, of the

dreamer. Turning from the houses to the people, he saw as it were in a

flash the true meaning of that weary look which he had first observed as

the prevalent expression of most faces; he loathed and at the same time

he understood the prematurely bloated and blotched faces of so many of

the young men whom he met everywhere, and read the story of the hopeless

struggle against daily deepening gloom which had sought desperate relief

in whiskey. He understood the procession of sad, and, as in his exalted

mood he thought, spectral, men and women, that flowed in a noiseless

stream to the chapel. It was May, "the month of Mary," as it is so

touchingly called in Ireland, and in that month there are devotions

every night in honor of the Mother of God. It was with difficulty he

restrained his tears as there rose from the voices of the congregation

the well-known and well-remembered hymn to the Blessed Virgin--the

fitting wail of a people who dwell in a land of sorrows.

"Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy. Our Life, Our Sweetness, and Our

Hope, to thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve, to thee do we

send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears." How

well he recalled the evening long ago, when the hymn first struck him as

the wail from the helpless agony of a dying nation.

Then Mat went home, and, as he entered the house, he noticed with the

new-born light in his eyes many things that had escaped his attention

when he first entered there in the morning. His father, as he answered

the door, seemed to him to have aged ten years since he had looked at

him in the morning, and he saw with a pang that seemed to squeeze his

heart as in a vice that his clothes were shabby, and that even his boots

were patched and broken. Then he went upstairs, and, entering the parlor

noiselessly, caught sight of his mother. She turned sharply around, and

to his horror and surprise he saw a fierce, violent blush overspread her

pale cheek. He could not help looking at the table, and there he saw the

same dread sight that had met him at so many painful crises in his life,

for his mother was examining bank bills and pawn tickets. Then he rushed

back in memory to the days of his own childhood, when he had wondered

why it was that his mother occasionally wept as she turned over these

mysterious slips of blue paper and small pieces of stiff card. The

abject failure of his life never appeared to him so clearly as it did at

that moment, and the sense of complete disaster was aggravated by the

awful feeling that he had made others suffer even more bitterly than

himself. And for a moment it seemed, too, as if his mother were resolved

that he should taste the full bitterness of the moral, for she looked at

him fixedly as the blush died from her cheeks; but her heart was too

touched by his look of pain, and in a moment she had kissed him on the

cheek, after the frigid and self-restrained fashion of Ballybay.

Mat had a battle with himself as to whether he should visit Mary on this

day; but after a while he felt that it would be a sort of savage triumph

if he could fill the whole day with all the pain that could be packed

within its hours. He had no idea as yet what he was going to do with the

morrow, but it would certainly bring some new departure; this day he

was, for this reason, the more resolutely ready to abandon to the luxury

of woe.

Mary was alone when he visited the house; her husband had left town, for

he did not dare, with all his courage, to aggravate the popular hatred

by being visible on the day of the demonstration. She came into the room

and shook hands with him, to his surprise, without any appearance of

embarrassment. He looked at her without a word for a few moments, while

she asked a few questions in a perfectly natural tone of voice about the

meeting, his imprisonment, etc. As he looked he thought he saw a strange

and mournful change in her face. The features seemed to have grown not

merely hard, but coarse. He remembered the time when her upper lip had

appeared to his eyes short, expressive, elegant; now it seemed to have

grown long and vulgar. Her dark eyes were cold and impenetrable.

For a while they talked about indifferent things, but though he had

sworn to himself a thousand times that he would never utter a word about

her broken troth, his nerves were still too shaken and unsteady, after

his sufferings in prison and the wearing experiences through which he

had passed, to allow him to maintain complete self-control.

"And so you married Cosgrave," he said, as a beginning.

She looked at him sharply, and then answered, in the same cold and

perfectly collected voice, "Yes, I married Cosgrave."

"Are you happy?"

"Yes."

"You never cared for me?" he said with bitterness; and then the venom,

which had been choking him from the hour when he heard that his

betrothed was gone, overflowed. He went on, in a voice that grew hoarse

in its vehemence: "Look! I have been four years in prison; in the

company of burglars, pickpockets, murderers; I have been kept in silence

and solitude and restraint; and yet in all these four years I never

suffered a pang so horrible as when I heard that you had proved untrue."

"No," she answered, with a stillness that sounded strangely after the

high-pitched and passionate tones of his voice; "I was not untrue, for I

was faithful to my highest duty." Then she paused, and when next she

spoke her voice was also passionate; but it was passion that was

expressed in low and biting, and not in a loud tone. "You have known the

life of a prison: but you have not passed through the hell of Irish

poverty."... Then, after a pause, in which she seemed buried in an

agonizing retrospect, she said--"I would marry a cripple to help my

family."

She had scarcely said these words when her father entered. The father

was as much changed in Mat's eyes as the daughter; he could scarcely

walk; his feet seemed just able to bear him; and his hand was palsied.

He did not at first recognize Mat; and when at last he knew who it was,

said in the old voice, the familiar words which Mat so loathed, "Ah! the

crachure! Ah! the crachure!"

Mat now had the key to the hideous tragedy which had separated him from

the woman he loved, and who loved him. He looked quickly at her; but the

light of momentary excitement had died out of the face, and the

expression was now perfectly serene. Several reflections passed rapidly

through Mat's mind. He saw clearly that the girl had not a particle of

self-reproach; not a doubt of the rectitude or even the nobility of her

conduct; she had immolated herself with the same inflexible resolve and

unquestioning faith as the sublime murderer of Marat. Then passing

rapidly in mental review the history of so many self-murdered hearts, he

asked which was the more cruel--the Irish or the Indian suttee. Perhaps

in that moment Mat gained more knowledge than is given to other men in

years of that strangest of all, even feminine, problems--an Irish girl's

heart.

For a moment the two were left alone, for the first and only time in all

their lives.

"What?" said Mat, in an audible soliloquy, "is Irish life?" And then he

answered the question himself as she remained silent. "A tragedy, a

squalid tragedy!" But she looked at him cold, irresponsive, defiant, and

he rushed away before the old man came back with the whiskey.

The wreck of this girl's nature; her acceptance in full faith of the

sordid and terrible gospel of loveless marriage; the omnipotence of even

a little money in a land of abject and hopeless and helpless poverty,

brought the realities of Irish life with a clearness to his mind more

terrible than even uprooted houses and echoless streets.

He accepted the invitation of a friend to take a row up the river,

beautiful with its eternal and changeless beauty amid all this wreck of

hopes and blasting of lives.

They passed a small island.

"What is that called," asked Mat of the boatman.

"Dead Man's Island."

"What did you say?"

"Dead Man's Island."

"A----h,----Dead--Man's--Island!"

THE END.

GOING ON FOOT TO ROME.--In these days, when pilgrims go to Rome and

Jerusalem by railway and steamer, it is refreshing to hear that the

old-fashioned pilgrim may still be found. The last of these appears to

be Ignacio Martinez, a native of Valladolid, who has nearly completed

his pilgrimage to the Holy Place begun two years ago.

The Boys in Green.

After reading the Reminiscences of the Ninth Massachusetts, Volunteers,

published in late numbers of DONAHOE'S, it occurred to the writer that a

few incidents which came under my own personal observation, in which

that regiment figured, occurring over twenty-three years ago, may be of

interest to the survivors of the gallant Ninth, or their descendants. It

may also interest the general public, and your Irish-American readers in

particular, for my experience will speak more particularly of the corps

with which my fortunes were cast--Gen. Thomas Francis Meagher's Irish

Brigade. It was originally composed of three regiments, viz.,

Sixty-Third New York, Eighty-Eighth New York, and Sixty-Ninth New York,

all organized in New York City, but some of its companies hailing from

Albany, Boston, etc. The writer of this was connected with the Albany

Company K, Sixty-Third Regiment, in the capacity of "high private" when

the regiment was organized. This paper is merely intended to give an

account of a few incidents in which the brigade participated, not by any

means as a history of that organization.

It is well known to those familiar with events at the beginning of the

war, that the Washington authorities decided to change McClellan's base

of operations in the movement against the rebel capital (Richmond, Va.),

to the Peninsula. Accordingly, in the spring of 1862, over one hundred

thousand men and material of the Army of the Potomac, at that time, and

subsequently, the largest and best disciplined body of troops in the

service of the Republic, were sent by water to Fortress Monroe, Ship

Point, and adjacent places for disembarkation. Very few people in civil

life have any conception of the labor attending an operation of this

kind. Not alone was this immense body of men carried by water, but all

the material as well: heavy and field artillery; animals for the same;

horses for the cavalry; and baggage, ammunition and supply trains.

Thanks to the superiority of our navy at the time, the movement was

entirely successful. It is true a few sailing crafts, and some armed

rebel vessels showed themselves; but they took refuge up the York,

Pamunkey, Elizabeth and James Rivers, to be afterwards destroyed as the

Union Army advanced.

The writer was at the time on detached service (recruiting) in New York

City; but at the period the advanced vessels of the Flotilla reached the

Peninsula he received orders to rejoin his regiment. Accordingly I left

Albany (depot for recruits) April 11, 1862, in charge of twenty-two men,

eleven for Sixty-Third and eleven for Eighty-Eighth Regiments, reaching

Fort Monroe April 14, by steamer from Washington. I shall never forget

the impression made on my civilian mind as we steamed under the frowning

guns of the weather-beaten Fort, in the gray of the morning. It

impressed me with awe, as the black muzzles of the "War Dogs" bade

defiance in their silent grandeur to rebels in arms and European

enemies, who, at the time, entertained anything but friendly feelings

towards the Republic.

The achievement of the famous _Monitor_ was, at the time, in everybody's

mouth. Your older readers will remember how the "Yankee Cheese-Box," the

gallant Worden in command, put in appearance in Hampton Roads, a day or

two after the finest wooden war ships in the government service were

sent to the bottom, by the guns and ram of the rebel _Merrimac_. When

the saucy, insignificant-looking craft boldly steamed for the victorious

rebel iron-clad, the officers on board could not believe their senses,

never having seen anything like the mysterious stranger before; but when

fire and smoke belched forth from the _Monitor's_ revolving turret, they

were reminded that they had better look to their guns. Not being able to

damage the stranger with their British cannon, the rebel tried the

effect of its powerful ram; but the "cheese-box" divining its

intentions, nimbly got out of harm's way. Its powerful eleven-inch guns

in the turret continued to pound the iron sides of the _Merrimac_, until

the latter thought "discretion the better part of valor," and sought

safety in flight by ascending the Elizabeth River to Norfolk, not before

being badly damaged in the encounter. Notwithstanding the rebel had

numerous guns of the most approved pattern, their shot glanced

harmlessly from the _Monitor's_ revolving turret, the only object

visible above water. You may think we looked upon the champion with no

little pleasure as she peacefully lay in the channel, with steam up,

waiting for the appearance of its powerful adversary, which never came.

(The _Merrimac_ was so badly damaged in the encounter, its commander,

Jones, blew her up sooner than see her in the enemy's hands.) The masts

of the ill-fated _Cumberland_ and her consorts were plainly visible in

the distance, where they sank with their brave tars standing nobly by

their guns.

I am afraid the editor of the MAGAZINE will get impatient with my

description before coming to the Ninth. The writer goes into these

particulars because another generation has come on the scene since they

happened, and it may interest them.

After landing with my detachment of twenty-two men, we turned our faces

landward to find the army then moving towards Richmond. On the way we

passed through the village of Hampton, and subsequently were much

interested in looking over the battlefield of Big Bethel, where Magruder

made his first fight on the Peninsula, not long previous, and where the

Union troops were roughly handled. Gen. Joseph B. Carr, of Troy, N. Y.,

in command of the Second New York Volunteers, one of the most successful

Irish-American soldiers of the late war, took a prominent part in this

battle. It is thought he would have retrieved the blunders of some of

the Union officers, if he had not been ordered to retire by Gen. B. F.

Butler, who was in command. Gen. Carr is now serving out his third

successive term as Secretary of State of New York. He recently ran for

Lieutenant Governor on the Republican ticket; and although he failed to

get elected, he ran nearly nine thousand votes ahead of his ticket. The

rebel field works were just as they left them. The neighboring forests

told the story of the desperate conflict by the manner in which they

were torn from the effects of the artillery.

It was a long and tedious journey before we struck the army of "Little

Mac;" and when the shades of night began to envelope us, the little

squad was footsore, tired and hungry, having covered twenty-four miles

since leaving the steamer. To add to our inconvenience, we had eaten

nothing since leaving the vessel, and then a limited supply of "hard

tack," washed down with coffee. The location of Meagher's Brigade was

among the uncertainties. All our inquiries of troops in the vicinity

were fruitless.

Learning from the men of a battery, encamped on the edge of a clearing,

that an Irish Regiment was not far distant, inquired the name (State and

number).

"I think, sergeant," said the officer addressed, "that it is an Irish

Regiment from Massachusetts, but I do not know the number; they have an

Irish flag anyhow." Thanking the captain for the information, we sought

the locality of the Irish boys and their green flag.

"Halt! who comes there?" demanded a sentinel, pacing his beat, a few

yards from the road, as the squad approached in the twilight.

"Friends!" was the response.

"Advance, friends, and give the countersign!"

We had no "countersign," and could not give it. I did the next best

thing, and addressed the sentinel thus:

"We are Union soldiers, trying to find our regiment, having landed this

morning at Fortress Monroe. We are tired and without anything to eat,

since early this morning. Be good enough to tell us the name of that

regiment yonder."

"That is the Ninth Massachusetts, Col. Tom Cass," was his response.

"Call the corporal of the guard; I would like to see the colonel."

"Corporal of the guard, Post Five!" he lustily called out, at the top of

his voice.

"Corporal of the guard, Post Five!" was repeated in succession by the

respective posts; bringing that officer on the run, in a few minutes to

the post designated.

I repeated the request to the "corporal of the guard," a bright little

man, about twenty-four years old. He requested us to remain where we

were until the "officer of the guard" was consulted, "for ye know we are

in the enemy's counthry, and we must be cautious." We assented, of

course. Presently a lieutenant made his appearance, and after hearing

our story, told us to follow him. We passed the guard and made our way

to the colonel's quarters, before which a soldier was leisurely pacing.

The lieutenant entered, but returned in a moment and desired me to

follow him. I did so, and found myself in a group of officers. I saluted

and came to "attention."

"Well, sergeant, what can we do for you?" kindly asked an officer with

the eagles of a colonel on his shoulders.

"We are benighted, sir; my men and I landed at the Fort this morning,

and are on the way to find our regiments. We have had nothing to eat in

twelve hours. We're hungry and tired, and claim your hospitality for the

night."

"May I ask what command you belong to, sir?"

"My regiment is the Sixty-Third New York, colonel, and the detachment is

for that regiment and the Eighty-Eighth New York."

"What! Gen. Meagher, the Irish Brigade! Consider yourself at home,

sergeant. The best in our camp is at your service. You can have all you

can eat and drink, and a place to rest. Orderly," addressing a soldier

in front of the tent, "send Sergeant ---- to me."

"I see by your chevrons you are a non-commissioned

officer. May I ask your name?" addressing me.

"Sergeant J---- D----, Company K, colonel," was my response.

The sergeant made his appearance, and Col. Cass (for we learned,

subsequently, it was he) gave him directions to take Sergeant D----and

his men, and give them everything they wanted for the night, and their

breakfast before leaving in the morning. As we were about retiring the

colonel remarked:--

"The night is chilly, sergeant; fog is heavy, malaria abroad, and you

are tired. Wouldn't you like something in the way of liquid

refreshments?"

"Thanks, colonel," I replied; "but the Sixty-Third is a temperance

regiment.[9] We took the pledge from Father Dillon, last January, on

David's Island, New York Harbor, for the war."

"Is it possible? I am glad to hear it! God bless you. I trust you will

keep your pledge, not only for the war, but for all future time." I

thanked him, gave him a salute and retired.

We certainly found ourselves in "the hands of our friends." Sergeant

----(unfortunately my diary is silent as to his name) took us to his

quarters, and that being inadequate, lodged out some of the strangers.

Coffee was made for us at the company's kitchen, and in less than half

an hour there was enough of that delicious beverage steaming hot before

us, with a mountain of "hard tack," to feed a company, instead of

twenty-three men. The wants of the inner man being attended to (and we

did the spread full justice) brier wood and tobacco were called into

requisition. We found ourselves the centre of an interested crowd, for

it got noised abroad that a squad of Gen. Meagher's men was in Sergeant

----'s quarters. "Taps" were sounded at the usual hour, but, by

permission of the "officer of the day" the lights in the sergeant's

tent, and others adjoining, were not extinguished, out of respect to the

New Yorkers. During the evening song and story were in order, and at

this late day it will not be giving away a secret to say that the

"liquid refreshments," so kindly offered by the colonel were not ignored

by many present, for the Ninth had a sutler with it, whose supply of

"commissary" was yet abundant to be taken as an antidote against the

malaria.

At day-break the regiment was roused from slumber by the soul-stirring

sounds of the "reveille" which reverberated through the dark pine woods

of the "sacred soil." The strangers were prevailed on to take a hasty

cup of coffee, and as the men were forming for company drill, we bade

them "good-by," and sought our own regiments, which we found in camp in

a clearing, at Ship Point, nine miles from Yorktown, then held by the

enemy.

The writer did not see the Ninth again until the 27th of June following

(1862), and the occasion was a sad one. When McClellan's right wing was

crushed like an egg shell under Gen. Fitz John Porter, on the north bank

of the Chickahominy, two brigades of Sumner's Second Corps (Meagher and

French's) were ordered from the centre of our lines at Fair Oaks to

check the victorious march of the overwhelming masses of the enemy.

After fighting like Spartans for two days, the twenty-seven thousand men

under Porter were outflanked by the enemy who were sixty-five thousand

strong. Porter's troops were compelled to retire, and by sundown they

were in full retreat towards the temporary bridges constructed by our

troops, over the Chickahominy. At this juncture the two brigades

mentioned were ordered from our centre to check the advance of the now

victorious enemy.

The force engaged at Gaines' Mill was: Union, 50 Regiments, 20

batteries, 27,000 men. Confederate: 129 Regiments, 19 batteries, 65,000

men. Losses: Union, killed, 894; wounded, 3,107; missing, 2,836; total,

6,837. Confederate: Somewhat larger, especially in killed and wounded.

Perhaps in the whole history of the war there was no battle fought with

more desperation on both sides than that of Mechanicville (June 26), and

Gaines' Mill (June 27). Fitz John Porter handled his army with such

ability that his inferior force repelled repeated attacks of the flower

of the rebel army under Lee and Jackson; and if it were not for the

blundering of the cavalry, under Gen. Cook, through whose

instrumentality Porter's lines were broken, he would have repelled all

efforts to drive him to the river. As an evidence of the desperate

nature of the conflict, it may be mentioned that one Rebel regiment

(Forty-Fourth Georgia) lost three hundred and thirty-five men.

We got there, about eight miles, at eight o'clock, having pushed on by

forced marches all the way, but too late to change the fortunes of the

day. We did check the advancing and exalting Rebels, who supposed a

large part of the Union army had come to the rescue. Forming our lines

on top of the hill (Gain's) with an Irish cheer we went down the

northern side of the hill pell-mell for the enemy. The pursuers were now

the pursued. The Rebels broke and fled before Irish steel. To advance in

the darkness would be madness. The regiments were brought to a halt. So

as to deceive the Confederates as to the number of reinforcements, the

position of each regiment was constantly changed. In one of these

movements, the right of the Sixty-Third struck a rebel battalion, halted

in the darkness, and for a time there was temporary confusion. The grey

coats were brushed aside instantly, getting a volley from the right wing

of the Sixty-Third as a reminder that we meant business.

Fitz John Porter pays this tribute to the brigade as to the part it

took on this occasion: "French and Meagher's brigades of Sumner's corps,

all that the corps commanders deemed they could part with, were sent

forward by the commanding general.... All soon rallied in rear of the

Adams House behind Sykes and the brigades of French and Meagher sent to

our aid, and who now with hearty cheers greeted our battalions as they

retired and reformed."

While resting on our arms the dead and wounded were thick all

around--friend and foe. Alas! not a few were our brothers of the Ninth

Massachusetts. They told us in whispers how they repelled the enemy all

day, and not until they were flanked by the Rebels did they give way

before their repeated charges. The remnant of the regiment I

subsequently saw next morning, in the rear, few in numbers, but with its

spirit unbroken.

Having held the enemy in check to permit our broken battalions and the

wounded to recross the Chickahominy, the two brigades silently left the

field before dawn the next morning, blowing up the bridge behind us,

thus stopping the pursuit. The two brigades occupied their old places

behind the breastwork, at four the next morning, completely exhausted,

but gratified that we were instrumental in checking the enemy, and

saving from capture a large part of the army.

Four days later, July 1st, the bloody conflict of Malvern Hill was

fought--the last of the Seven Days' Battles. Meagher's brigade, at that

time consisting of the Sixty-Third, Eighty-Eighth, and Sixty-Ninth New

York and one regiment from Massachusetts (Twenty-Ninth), had arms

stacked in a beautiful valley, in the rear of the struggling hosts. All

day long the storm of battle raged, and the men of the brigade were

congratulating themselves that for once, at least, we would not be

called upon to participate. Each regiment was ordered to kill several

sheep and beeves, found the same day on the lands of a rich Virginian.

While the companies were being served, a staff officer was seen riding

at full speed to Gen. Meagher's head-quarters, his horse wet with foam.

The men knew what that meant. We had seen it before. In a few minutes

the "long roll" sounded in every regiment, and in less time than it

takes to write these lines, the brigade was on the march. We knew from

the sound of the guns that we were not going from but nearing the

combat. Turning a ridge in the south-east, a fearful sight met our view.

Thousands of wounded streamed to the rear, in the direction of Harrison

Landing, on the James. Men with shattered arms and legs, some limping,

all bloody and powder-stained. Many defiant, but the badly wounded

moaning with agony. The head of the column, with Gen. Meagher and staff

in front, turned sharply to the right, with difficulty forcing our way

through the wounded crowds. We learned, subsequently, that after

repelling the enemy with fearful slaughter all day, towards nightfall

they pressed our left and attempted to seize the roads on our line of

retreat to the James. Not till then were Meagher's men called on, and

promptly they responded. While hurrying to the front, the Sixty-Third

being the third regiment was halted. At this moment a volley from the

left between us and the river, swept through our ranks. Seventeen men of

the regiment fell, among them being Col. John Burke, who received a ball

in the knee. He fell from his horse, but the mishap was for the moment

kept from the men. Lieut.-Col. Fowler assumed command, and before the

Rebel regiment had time to reload, four hundred smooth bores sent a

withering volley crashing through their ranks. This put a quietus upon

them.

"What regiment is this?" demanded an officer on horseback, surrounded by

his staff, who came galloping up as the men reloaded.

"This is the Sixty-Third New York, general," responded Lieut.-Col.

Fowler of that regiment.

"I am Gen. Porter, in command of this part of the field. I order you to

remain here to support a battery now on its way to this spot. Do you

understand, sir?"

"Yes, general; the Sixty-Third always obeys orders," was the lieutenant

colonel's prompt response, and Gen. Porter disappeared to the front.

While halted here for the appearance of the battery, a crowd of men

coming from the front, in the now gathering darkness, attracted my

attention. I should say there were not more than fifty men all

told--perhaps not more than thirty. They were grouped around their

colors, which I discovered to be a United States flag and a green

standard. The men were the most enthusiastic I ever saw. They were

cheering, and their voices could be plainly heard over the roar of

battle. Some were without caps, many were wounded, and all grimy

from powder, and every few moments some one of them called for

"three cheers for the stars and stripes."

"Let us give three for the green flag, boys."

"Give the Rebels h---- boys!" To one officer in front cheering, who had

his cap on the point of his sword, I inquired:

"What regiment is this, captain?"

"Why, don't you know?

"This is all that is left of the old Ninth Massachusetts--all that is

left of us boys!

"Our dead and wounded are in the woods over there!

"Oh! we lost our colonel, boys; the gallant Cass, one of the best

fighters and bravest man in the army!

"We saved our colors, though, and we had to fight to do it!

"Go in, Irish Brigade! Do as well as the Ninth did!

"Three cheers for the stars and stripes!

"Give three for the old Bay State!

"Hurrah!"

And the remnant of the splendid regiment filed to the rear in the

darkness; but still their cheers could be heard for quite a distance

over the rattle of musketry and the sound of the guns.

"The battery! The battery! Here comes the battery!" was heard from a

hundred throats, as it wildly thundered and swept from the rear,

regardless of the dead and dying, who fairly littered the field. God

help the dying, for the dead cared not! The iron wheels of the

carriages, and feet of the horses, discriminate not between friend and

foe. It will never be known how many were ground to pulp that July

evening as Capt. J. R. Smead's Battery K, Fifth United States Artillery

came in response to the command of the gallant Porter, who saw the

danger of having his left turned. Three batteries were ordered up by

Gen. Porter, viz: Capt. J. R. Smead; Capt. Stephen H. Weed, Battery I,

Fifth United States Artillery; and Capt. J. Howard Carlisle, Battery E,

Second United States Artillery.

"Forward, Sixty-Third! Double quick! march!" shouted Capt. O'Neil, the

senior line officer, who was now in command.

"Forward! Double quick!" was repeated by each company commander, and the

Sixty-Third followed the lead of the battery into the very jaws of

death, many of them to meet their brothers of the Ninth, who just passed

over the silent river, on the crimson tide of war![10]

Had the repeated and desperate efforts of the enemy succeeded in turning

the Union left, as was feared towards nightfall, a dire disaster awaited

the splendid army of McClellan. How near we came to it may be judged

from the fact that all the reserves were brought into action, including

the artillery under Gen. Henry J. Hunt. The instructions to Smead,

Carlisle and Mead, when hurried up to defend the narrow gorge, with

their artillery, through which the Confederates must force their way on

to the plateau, were to fire on friend and foe, if the emergency

demanded it. This is confirmed by a letter to the writer from Fitz John

Porter. "These batteries were ordered up," he says, "to the narrow part

of the hill, to be used in saving the rest of the army, if those in

front were broken, driven in and pursued, by firing, if necessary, on

friend as well as foe, so that the latter should not pass them. I went

forward with you to share your fate if fortune deserted us, but I did

not expect disaster, and, thank God, it did not come!"

These are the words of as brave and loyal an American as ever drew his

sword for the Republic. Few men, perhaps none, in the army at that time,

with our limited experience in war, could have handled his troops as

Gen. Porter did at Gaine's Mill and Malvern. He desperately contested

every inch of ground on the north bank of the Chickahominy, although

his force was only twenty-seven thousand against sixty-five thousand of

the enemy. Again at Malvern, the Rebels, maddened with successive

defeats, were determined to annihilate the grand army of the Potomac

with a last superhuman effort. They probably would have succeeded had a

less able soldier been placed in command at that critical point. But, as

will be seen from the above extract, the General never for a moment lost

hope of being able to successfully repulse the enemy, for no man knew

the material he had to do it with better than he.

What a pity that the services of such an able soldier should have been

lost to the army and the country, a few weeks later, through the petty

jealousies of small men, who wanted a scape-goat to cover up their own

shortcomings. For over twenty years this grand American soldier, the

soul of honor, who would at any moment sacrifice his life sooner than be

guilty of an act inconsistent with his noble profession, has been

permitted to live under the unjust stigma cast upon him. The day will

surely come, and it is not far distant, when the American people will

blush for the great wrong done Fitz John Porter. They will agree with

the late general of our armies, a man whose memory will be forever held

in grateful remembrance by his country (U. S. Grant), who, after careful

and mature investigation of his conduct at the Second Battle of Bull

Run, said deliberately, that Fitz John Porter should not be censured for

the mismanagement of that ill-fated battle. In military affairs Gen.

Grant was always a safe guide to follow.

After a careful review of Gen. Porter's case, Gen Grant wrote President

Arthur, under date of December 22, 1881, as follows:

"At the request of Gen. Fitz John Porter, I have recently reviewed

his trial, and the testimony held before the Schofield court of

inquiry held in 1879.... The reading of the whole record has

thoroughly convinced me that for these nineteen years I have been

doing a gallant and efficient soldier a very great injustice in

thought and sometimes in speech. I feel it incumbent upon me now to

do whatever lies in my power to remove from him and from his family

the stain upon his good name.... I am now convinced that he

rendered faithful, efficient and intelligent service.... I would

ask that the whole matter be laid before the attorney-general for

his examination and opinion, hoping that you will be able to do

this much for an officer who has suffered for nineteen years a

punishment that never should be inflicted upon any but the most

guilty."

It was many months before I again saw the Ninth Massachusetts; but what

a contrast to its appearance on that glorious April morning, in 1862,

when I was the recipient of its warm hospitality among the pines on the

threshold of the advance on the rebel capital.

JOHN DWYER.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: While the Sixty-Third was in Camp of Instruction on David's

Island, in the East River, opposite New Rochelle, N. Y., it was under

the spiritual care of Father Dillon, an enthusiastic young priest. He

was an ardent advocate of temperance. Like all green troops, the

Sixty-Third had some reckless members, who frequently took a "dhrop" too

much. Before leaving for the seat of war, at the conclusion of a

powerful temperance discourse, he proposed to the assembled regiment

that every man and officer take the temperance pledge, "for the war."

One thousand uplifted hands responded, and while he slowly read the

words of the pledge the men repeated them; and this was how the

Sixty-Third became "a temperance regiment."]

[Footnote 10: Here is Gen. Porter's tribute to the part taken by the

brigade in the terrific struggle at Malvern Hill: "I sent an urgent

request for two brigades. Sumner read my note aloud, and fearing he

could not stand another draft on his forces, was hesitating to respond,

when Heintzleman, ever prompt and generous, sprang to his feet and

exclaimed: 'By Jove! if Porter asks for help, I know he needs it.' The

immediate result was the sending of Meagher by Sumner, and Sickles by

Heintzleman. This was the second time that Sumner had selected and sent

me Meagher's gallant Irish Brigade, and each time it rendered invaluable

service.... It was at this time, in answer to my call for aid that

Sumner sent me Meagher, and Heintzleman sent Sickles, both of whom

reached me in the height of battle, when, if ever, fresh troops would

renew our confidence and insure success. While riding rapidly forward to

meet Meagher, who was approaching at a double quick step, my horse fell,

throwing me over his head, much to my discomfort, both of body and

mind.... Advancing with Meagher's brigade, accompanied by my staff, I

soon found that my forces had successfully driven back their assailants.

Determined, if possible, satisfactorily to finish the contest,

regardless of the risk of being fired upon by our artillery in case of

defeat, I pushed on beyond our lines into the woods held by the enemy.

About fifty yards in front of us, a large force of the enemy suddenly

arose and opened with fearful volleys upon our advancing line. I turned

to the brigade, which thus far had kept pace with my horse, and found it

standing like a stone wall, and returning a fire more destructive than

it received, and from which the enemy fled. _The brigade was planted._

My service was no longer needed, and I sought Gen. Sickles, whom I found

giving aid to Couch. I had the satisfaction of learning that night that

a Confederate detachment, undertaking to turn Meagher's left, was met by

a portion of the Sixty-Ninth New York Regiment, which advancing,

repelled the attack and captured many prisoners."]

Leo XIII. has sent to the Emperor of Germany and to Prince Bismarck

copies, specially printed and bound, of the Encyclical. His Holiness

adds to the present to the Chancellor a copy of the _Novissima Leonis

XIII. Pont. Max. Carmina_. A note of very emphatic and reverent praise

of the poems has been communicated to the official German press.

A Christmas Carol.

Ah, weep not, friends, that I am far from ye,

And no warm breathed words may reach my ears;

One way is shorter, nearer than by sea,

Prayers weigh with God and graces wait on tears;

As rise the mists from summer seas unseen,

To fall in freshening showers on hill and plain,

So prayer sent forth from fervent hearts makes green

The parched bowers of one whose life was vain.

Pray for me day and night these Christmas hours,

This the one gift I value all beyond;

Aid me with supplication 'fore those powers

Who have regard for prayer, th' angelic bond--

All ye who love me knock at Jesus' gate,

As for one standing outside deep in snow,

Tell him a sorrowing soul doth trembling wait,

And none but He can ease its load of woe.

Ah, friends! of whom I once asked other things,

Refuse me not this one thing asked again;

Shield me, a naked soul, with sheltering wings,

From rush of angry storms and bitter rain--

I cannot stand the gaze of mine own eyes;

That I escape myself implore our Lord--

Ah, me! I learn he only's rightly wise

Who seeks in all th' exceeding great reward.

From self that I be freed, O Father will!

Lord Jesus from the world protect me still,

Spirit paraclete, over the flesh give victory,

And o'er the devil a lasting crown to me!

JAMES KEEGAN.

The _Catholic Review_: Irish-America contributes to the new Parliament

one of the strongest members of the Nationalist party, Mr. T. P. Gill,

for some years past assistant editor of the _Catholic World_, and

previously a prominent journalist in Ireland, where, during the

imprisonment of Mr. William O'Brien, he took the editorial chair of

_United Ireland_ until Mr. Buckshot Forster made it too hot for him. In

the cooler climate of New York he still did good service to his party,

in disabusing numbers of many ill-grounded misapprehensions and

misconceptions, and in strengthening the sympathies, by increasing the

information, of all well-wishers of Ireland. His work will be felt in

England.

The Late Father Tom Burke.

Kegan Paul, Trench & Co., of London, have published, in two volumes, the

"Life of the Very Rev. Thomas N. Burke, O.P.," by William J.

Fitzpatrick, F.S.A. We give a few extracts:

"Some one complained to Father Burke one day that his sermons were too

'flowery;' but it was not just criticism if the term was intended to

imply that they were florid. His answer was characteristic. 'And what

should they be but floury--seeing my father was a baker?' It was also in

allusion to his father's calling that he was wont to boast, when

questioned as to his family, that they were 'the best-bread-Burkes' of

Galway.

"'When I hear him preach,' said Bishop Moriarty, 'I rejoice that the

Church has gained a prize; when I hear him tell a story, I am tempted to

regret that the stage has lost him.'

"A Protestant lady listening to his lecture on divorce said: 'I am bound

to become a Catholic out of self-respect and self-defence.'

"During the visit of the Prince of Wales to Rome His Royal Highness went

to the Irish Dominicans and to the Irish College. Father Burke was asked

to guide the prince through the crypt of St. Sebastian, his Royal

Highness being, it was understood, particularly anxious to see the

paintings with which the early Christians decorated the places where

rested their dead. Some English ladies, mostly converts, in Rome at the

time, were divided in their devotion to the Prince and to the catacomb

pictures--the most memorable religious pictures of the world. That

evening they begged Father Burke to tell them exactly what His Royal

Highness said of the frescoes. The question was parried for some time;

but when the fluttered expectation of the fair questioners had risen to

a climax, Father Burke showed hesitating signs of his readiness to

repeat the soul-betraying exclamations of the Prince. 'Well, what _did_

he say?' they cried, in suspense. 'He said--well, he said--'Aw!'"

"In 1865, Father Burke succeeded the present Cardinal Archbishop of

Westminster in the pulpit of Sta Maria del Popolo in Rome; and it is a

little coincidence that the famous Dominican, a year or two earlier,

when Prior of Tallaght, succeeded also the Cardinal's relative in the

pulpit of the Catholic University. 'Father Andedon,' says Mr.

Fitzpatrick, 'had been for some years a very popular preacher in the

church of the Catholic University. On the retirement of Father Andedon

to England, to which he was naturally attached by birth and

belongings--for Dr. Manning was his uncle--Father Burke took his place

in the pulpit.' It was here, by the way, that the 'Prince of Preachers'

introduced the class of sermons known as 'Conferences,' and associated

with Lacordaire and the pulpit of Notre Dame. Father Burke had never

seen Lacordaire; but the Dean of the Catholic University, who had been

listening to Lacordaire for years, was greatly struck by Father Burke's

resemblance, as a preacher, to his great brother Dominican in France.

The likenesses between preachers, as between faces, are sometimes subtle

things! Bishop Moriarty, returning from Rome, paused in Paris, where he

heard yet another Dominican orator, Pere Monsabre, preaching at Notre

Dame. When next he saw Father Tom, he said to him--'Do you know Monsabre

reminded me very much of you?' 'Now,' said Father Tom--telling the story

to his friend, Father Greene--'this was very gratifying to me. Pere

Monsabre was a great man, and I thought it an honor to be compared to

him, and I told the Bishop so, adding, 'Might I ask you, my lord, what

was the special feature of resemblance?' Now 'David' (the Bishop's

Christian name) had a slow and deliberate and judicious way of speaking

that kept me very attentive and expectant. 'Well,' he said, 'I'll tell

you what struck me most. When he went up into the pulpit, he looked

around him deliberately and raised up his hand and--scratched his

head.'"

"In the maddest sallies of Father Tom there was generally to be found a

method. His exuberances when he was Prior of San Clemente, for instance,

were attributed to his desire that his tonsure might not be made to bear

the weight of a mitre: 'It got whispered among the cardinals' (writes

Canon Brownlow), 'that their eminences were at times the objects of his

jokes, and that he even presumed to mimic those exalted personages. Some

of them spoke seriously about it, and asked the Dominican Cardinal Guidi

to admonish him to behave with greater gravity. Cardinal Guidi repaired

to San Clemente, and proceeded to deliver his message, and Father Burke

received it with becoming submission. But no sooner had the cardinal

finished than Father Burke imitated his manner, accent and language,

with such ludicrous exactness that the cardinal burst into a fit of

laughter, and could not tell him to stop.'

"The venerable Father Mullooly was equally foiled by another phase of

the young friar's freakishness, when, on being remonstrated with for

what seemed to be an undue indulgence in cigars, Father Tom represented

it as rather dictated by a filial duty, for the Pope, he said, had sent

him a share of a chest of Havanas, worth a dollar each, which a Mexican

son had forwarded to the Vatican.

"But the other side of the man came out in his sermons when he succeeded

Dr. Manning--hurriedly called to England to attend the death-bed of

Cardinal Wiseman--as occupant of the pulpit of Santa Maria del Popolo,

and on many subsequent occasions: 'When I lift up my eyes here (he said

in speaking of the 'Groupings of Calvary'), it seems as if I stood

bodily in the society of these men. I see in the face of John the

expression of the highest manly sympathy that comforted and consoled the

dying eyes of the Saviour. It seems to me that I behold the Blessed

Virgin, whose maternal heart consented in that hour of agony to be

broken for the sins of men. I see the Magdalen as she clings to the

cross, and receives upon that hair, with which she wiped His Feet, the

drops of His Blood. I behold that heart, humbled in penance and inflamed

with love--the heart of the woman who had loved much, and for whom he

had prayed. It seems to me that I travel step by step to Calvary, and

learn, as they unite in Him, every lesson of suffering, of peace, of

hope, of joy, of love."

Our Neighbors.

The Irish in Canada.

_Montreal Gazette:_ The matter of Mr. Curran's speech on the occasion of

the opening of St. Ann's Hall is worthy of more than passing notice. He

chose for his theme the progress of the Irish race in Canada, and

although the groundwork of his address was placed in Montreal, the

deductions to be drawn from the statistics presented may, with equal

propriety, be applied to any section of Canada in which the Irish colony

is located. The Irish people are, for what reason it is unnecessary to

inquire, essentially colonists, much more so as respects the mass than

those of Scotland and England, and in no country or clime have they

found a more hospitable welcome or a more prosperous resting-place than

in Canada. In Nova Scotia, in New Brunswick, in Prince Edward Island, in

Quebec, in Ontario, Irishmen and the sons of Irishmen are found in the

front rank of the professions, of agriculture, of industrial enterprise,

while in the affairs of State they exert a large and legitimate

influence. Any one acquainted with the commercial life of Halifax, or

Montreal, and the agricultural districts of Ontario, will bear witness

that no more loyal and law-abiding, no more intelligent and progressive,

no more industrious and thrifty people than the descendants of Irishmen

are to be found. As to the progress of the race in Montreal, Mr. Curran

was able to present many interesting facts. From a community so small

that, in the expressive words of the late Dr. Benjamin Workman, a

good-sized parlor carpet would cover all the worshippers in the church,

they have grown, by continuous and healthy progression, into a

population of thousands, possessed of wealth, of influence, of activity,

of loyal citizenship, with its established schools, its district

congregations, its charitable institutions, its temperance societies,

which have administered the pledge to more than twenty-five thousand

people. In the two facts that since 1867 the assessed value of real

estate possessed by the Irish people in Montreal has increased from

$3,500,000 to more than $12,000,000, and that on the books of the City

and District Savings Bank there are eleven thousand Irish names, mostly

of the working classes, whose deposits exceed $2,000,000, the highest

testimony of the industry and opportunity of the race is found. The

prosperity of the Irish is not singular in this free country, but,

brought out as Mr. Curran has done, it serves to exemplify the splendid

field for honest toil Canada affords.

The French in Canada.

An Ottawa correspondent writes:--The race prejudices between the French

and Anglo-Saxon elements of the country seem to be acquiring violent

vitality. Such a consummation as a fusion of the two races is out of all

calculation. The French Canadians will continue, as they have always

been, isolated from their fellow Canadians; nor would this matter very

much if good feeling and mutual tolerance prevailed between the two

races. An incident has just fanned this race animosity into a flame. A

Toronto newspaper recently libelled a French Canadian regiment which was

sent on service to the North-West. This regiment, for obvious reasons,

was not sent where there was any chance of its being employed against

Riel's Half-breeds. The editor was brought from Toronto to Montreal to

answer for his writing before the Law Courts, and has just been

condemned to pay a fine of two hundred dollars. As the editor left the

court, a French Canadian officer attacked him with a whip, and in the

street he was surrounded by a furious mob, incited by the inflammatory

articles which the French papers of Montreal had been daily publishing

during the course of the trial. To crown all, whilst endeavoring to

defend himself from this violence, the hapless editor was arrested by

the police and dragged before the police magistrate, who very properly

discharged him. But the editor is a Toronto man, and now Toronto has

indignantly taken up his cause, raising subscriptions to indemnify him

for the cost of the trial--the "persecution," as it is called--and

organizing an anti-French movement. All this is very regrettable seeing

that the future of the Dominion depends so much upon a state of harmony

between the rival races. There are indications clear and unmistakable

that French Canada is yielding to a tendency towards old France, which

can have none other than a sinister effect upon the prospects of this

country if permitted to develop.

Quebec Province.

_Toronto Mail:_ To-day there are in Quebec three universities, namely,

Laval, McGill, and Lennoxville, three hundred secondary colleges and

academies, three Normal schools, twenty-five special schools, and about

six thousand primary schools, each grade of school being conducted on

the principle that it is better to teach a pupil little and teach it

well, than to turn him loose upon the world crammed with a smattering of

everything and a knowledge of nothing. The expenditure on education is a

large and constantly increasing item in the Provincial accounts; but the

people cheerfully pay it, for they are well aware that intelligence is

the first condition of success in modern life. [Intelligence and

education are not synonyms.]

Whatever may be the result, in the future, of the experiment of erecting

a French nationality in Canada, it is only right to say that the

builders are building well, and setting an example of energy, courage

and unity which we, in this richer province, might do worse than follow.

Dominion Misrule.

_Toronto Tribune:_ The Rev. Pere Andre, superior of the Oblate Fathers

in the Northwest Territories, says the "rebellion" is chargeable to the

abnormal system of government to which the country had been subjected.

He affirms that if there had been a responsible government with

authority and power to remedy the grievances of the half-breeds, there

would have been no "rebellion." He maintains that the _role_ played by

Riel in the "rebellion" was forced upon him. Listen to Father Andre's

own words: "It can, in all truth, be stated, and the affirmations of the

government to the contrary will not destroy the fact, that it was the

guilty negligence of the government at Ottawa that brought Riel into the

country. The half-breeds, exasperated at seeing themselves despised, and

at being unable to obtain the slightest justice, thought the only means

left to them to secure the rights which they demanded was to send for

Riel. He, in their opinion, was the only man capable of bringing the

authorities at Ottawa to reason. Riel came, and we know the ruin which

he gathered about him, but the government may well say _mea culpa_ for

their delay in taking measures which would have preserved the peace of

the country."

The Old Year's Army of Martyrs.

The year just past will long be known in the missions of the East as the

year of martyrs. In presence of its events, it seems almost wrong to

call only the early age of Christianity the Age of Martyrs. Brief

accounts have already been given in the public prints; but our readers

will be glad to have copious extracts from the letters of the survivors

among the missionaries, who have seen their flocks, with their brethren,

slaughtered by thousands. We give these the more willingly, as there has

so far been no full review of Catholic Mission work in the English

language. This tale of steadfastness in faith is also a new incentive to

love of the Sacred Heart of our Lord.

Mgr. Colombert, vicar-apostolic of Eastern Cochin China, writes under

date of August 29, 1885: "This mission, tranquil and flourishing two

months ago, is now blotted out. There is no longer any doubt that

twenty-four thousand Christians have been horribly massacred.... The

mission of Eastern Cochin China is utterly ruined. It has no longer a

single one of its numerous establishments! Two hundred and sixty

churches, priests' houses, schools, orphan asylums, everything is

reduced to ashes. The work done during two hundred and fifty years must

be begun anew. There is not a single Christian house left standing....

The Christians have seen the massacre of their brethren and the

conflagration of their houses. They have experienced the pangs of

hunger, and have felt the heat of the sun on the burning sands. They

must now undergo the hardships of exile, far from their native land and

the graves of their forefathers."

During this time of terror and destruction, several priests had lost

their lives, some under circumstances of horrible barbarity. New

telegrams continued to announce to the Christians of the West that their

brethren were daily called on to lay down their lives. Thus, on the 17th

of October, a dispatch to the venerable superior of the seminary of

Foreign Missions at Paris, announced that, besides one more missionary

and ten native priests, seven thousand Christians had just been

massacred. Letters, which arrived later, contained painful particulars

of what had before been known only in its general outline of horror.

Five of the refugee missionaries wrote on the 15th of August: "We dare

not enter into new details on this catastrophe. We will only say that to

find in history a disaster to be compared to ours, it would be necessary

to go back beyond the Sicilian Vespers, to the acts of vandalism of the

savage hordes which swept over, one by one, the vast provinces of the

Roman empire. A fact which adds to the horror is that this series of

slaughters and butcheries of our Christians has been done in a country

without means of communication or defence. In this way conflagration and

carnage have spread as widely as our Catholic parishes were numerous.

They were scattered here and there over a great extent of territory,

from the north to the south. On this account the murderers and

incendiaries have been able to accomplish their infamous designs with

impunity. We believe that never have there been seen so many massacres

and conflagrations, following one on the other for two or three weeks

continuously, on so vast a scale and at so many points at the same time,

with such ferocity and rage on the part of unnatural fellow-countrymen

who were exterminating their unarmed brothers.

"Alas! our souls are sad unto death at the sight of the extent of our

misfortunes. New dispatches will soon inform you how many survivors are

left of twenty-nine missionaries and seventeen native priests, of more

than forty male teachers of religion, of one hundred and twenty students

of Latin and theology, of four hundred and fifty native religious

sisters, and of forty-one thousand Christians.

"In order that these almost incredible misfortunes may not be thought

exaggerated, even by those who are ill-disposed, God has permitted that

laymen in great number--officers and soldiers of the French post,

officers and sailors of the war-ship moored in the harbor of Qui-nhon,

the crew and passengers of the steamer which came to port August

5th--should witness the horrible sight of ten or twelve different

centres of conflagration. There were as many fires as there were

Christian settlements. These lighted up the horizon all along the shore

for several miles. The officers, soldiers, and travellers were for the

most part strangers, and in some cases indifferent to everything that

concerns the missions. They have seen with their own eyes and with

lively emotion the greatness of the disasters which have befallen us....

Missionaries and Christians, we have literally been deprived of

everything: clothing, houses, rice, vestments for the celebration of the

holy Mass and the administration of the sacraments, books; we are in

need of everything. Scarcely one of us was able to save any part of his

possessions. But that which has the most saddened us missionaries, is to

have been forced to be present, down-hearted and powerless, during the

ruin and extermination of our Christians. How many times have we

repeated the words of Scripture: _I saw the oppressions that are done

under the sun, and the tears of the innocent, and they had no comforter:

and they were not able to resist their violence, being destitute of help

from any. And I praised the dead rather than the living._ (Eccl. iv.

1-2.) Yes, happy are those among us who died before witnessing all

these calamities, in comparison of which a typhoon, an inundation, even

a pestilence, would seem only ordinary misfortunes."

_The Messenger of the Sacred Heart._

Parnell's Strength.

Mr. Parnell will have eighty-six followers in the new Parliament. From

biographical sketches of them the following facts have been

gleaned:--Twenty-three have had some collegiate education; twenty-five

have sat in previous Parliaments; nine of them are lawyers, six editors,

four magistrates, four merchants, three physicians, two educational

workers, two drapers, three tavern-keepers, four farmers, two grocers,

one carpenter, one blacksmith, one florist, one watchmaker, one tailor,

one dancing-saloon owner, and one manager of a dancing-school. There are

also a brewer, an ex-Lord Mayor of Dublin, a Secretary to the Lord Mayor

of Dublin, a Baronet, and a Knight. It appears that the members are

mostly men of the middle classes, who labor in some profession or trade

for a living. Only two men with titles are on the list. The plebeian

calling and humble origin of so many of the new Irish members has thrown

the English aristocrats into a frightful state of mind, and the landed

gentry who are to be rubbed against by these mudsills in St. Stephen's

have lashed themselves into a fury upon the subject. To add to the

enormity of the offence, these men do not do business by wholesale, or

on a large scale, but are mere humble tradesmen, publicans, and

artisans. The grocers, for instance, are common green grocers, who wait

on patrons with aprons tied about their waists, and the carpenter,

blacksmith, tailor, and others, actually work with their hands! The

Tories feel that evil days have fallen upon the land. They deplore the

fact that the system of non-payment of members, which has so long kept

poor men out of Parliament, has been broken down. They point out that if

the Irish are allowed to pay their own members, and even to send to

America for money for that purpose, the pernicious system will soon

spread to England, and the House of Commons will be utterly debased.

Some irritation against America is also expressed. Of course, the Tories

say, they could expect nothing better from the Irish in America; but of

those Americans who promoted or patronized the fund, they speak in terms

of both sorrow and anger. The _St. James's Gazette_, after pointing out

the plebeian character of the Parnellite members, says: "Are these

capable to reproduce the ancient glories of Parliament? Shall they

dominate the inheritors of the great names which have made Parliament

illustrious?" The Radicals rather enjoy the situation. Many of them are

taking up the cudgels in Ireland's behalf, in the hope that the Irish

new-comers will unite with the British workingmen, who have been elected

by the Radicals. There are about a dozen of such members elect. They

include a mason, a glass-blower, a tailor, a boot-maker, and a laborer.

The Radical papers urge the workingmen and self-made men, from both

sides of the Irish Channel, to combine and beard the aristocrats in

their hereditary den--the House of Commons.

_Irish-American._

A Silly Threat.

The statement that English "Liberal" employers are about to discharge

Irish workingmen throughout Great Britain, because they voted with

Parnell, is ridiculous on its face, and is worthy only of the malignant

genius of the persons who supply cable news to a portion of the American

press. The same canard was started on the world's rounds immediately

after the London explosions of a year ago. All this kind of nonsense is

originated in the press rooms of London for the purpose of diminishing

the Irish-American activity in the Irish cause. The originators are

silly enough to believe that the Irish in the United States might stop

aiding Mr. Parnell if they thought their kindred in England would be

made to suffer by the agitation.

Great causes cannot consider the sufferings of individuals, or

aggregations of individuals, in working out their objects. Whether a few

suffer or whether millions suffer cuts no figure in a fight for

principle, or for the greatest good of the greatest number. If mankind

were constructed on that chicken-hearted basis, no great movement for

the benefit of the human race could ever have succeeded. It was not

pleasant for the American Revolutionists, most of whom were husbands and

fathers, to be compelled to leave their families unprotected, and, in

many cases exposed to the attacks of England's savage allies, for the

purpose of joining the patriot ranks under the leadership of Washington.

When the soldiers of the French Republic rushed to arms, and defended

France successfully against all Europe, during the last decade of the

eighteenth century, they did not think of the privations of the bivouac,

of the horrors of the battlefield, of the sorrow of their families, they

thought only of France and of liberty.

In the War of the Rebellion millions of Union men sacrificed home, wife,

children, all that could make life dear, for what they believed to be a

cause superior to all domestic considerations. They died by hundreds of

thousands, and, in too many cases, left their families destitute; but

they saved the Union and thus preserved freedom, prosperity and

happiness to the countless millions of America's future.

So is it with the cause of Ireland. Even should some English employers

discharge thousands of their Irish workmen, which is highly improbable,

that is no reason why the Irish people should abandon the path of duty.

If Ireland should attain her freedom, it will not be long necessary for

Irish working people to be dependent on Englishmen, or other foreigners,

for a livelihood. They will find enough to do at home, in developing the

resources and winning back the lost industries of their country.

Americans were not afraid to give up one million men to the sword that

the republic might be saved. Irishmen in America or elsewhere cannot be

terrified into neutrality by a threat that a few thousands of their

kindred in Great Britain may be thrown out of employment because of

Parnell's agitation.

_The Citizen_, Chicago.

The Pope on Christian Education.

LETTER OF LEO XIII. TO THE PRELATES OF ENGLAND ON THE ABSOLUTE NECESSITY

OF RELIGION IN THE SCHOOLS.

TO OUR VENERABLE BRETHREN, HENRY EDWARD, CARDINAL PRIEST OF THE

HOLY ROMAN CHURCH, OF THE TITLE OF STS. ANDREW AND GREGORY ON THE

COELIAN HILL, ARCHBISHOP OF WESTMINSTER, AND THE OTHER BISHOPS OF

ENGLAND, POPE LEO XIII.

_Venerable Brethren_, _Health and Apostolic Benediction_--Your proved

fidelity and singular devotion to this Apostolic See are admirably shown

in the letter which we have lately received from you. Our pleasure in

receiving it is indeed increased by the further knowledge which it gives

us of your great vigilance and anxiety in a matter where no care can be

too great; we mean the Christian education of your children, upon which

you have lately taken counsel together, and have reported to us the

decisions to which you came.

In this work of so great moment, venerable brethren, we rejoice much to

see that you do not work alone; for we know how much is due to the whole

body of your clergy. With the greatest charity, and with unconquered

efforts, they have provided schools for their children; and with

wonderful diligence and assiduity, they endeavor by their teaching to

form them to a Christian life, and to instruct them in the elements of

knowledge. Wherefore, with all the encouragement and praise that our

voice can give, we bid your clergy to go on in their meritorious work,

and to be assured of our special commendation and good-will, looking

forward to a far greater reward from our Lord God, for whose sake they

are laboring.

Not less worthy of commendation is the generosity of Catholics in this

matter. We know how readily they supply what is needed for the

maintenance of schools; not only those who are wealthy, but those, also,

who are of slender means and poor; and it is beautiful to see how, often

from the earnings of their poverty, they willingly contribute to the

education of children.

In these days, and in the present condition of the world, when the

tender age of childhood is threatened on every side by so many and such

various dangers, hardly anything can be imagined more fitting than the

union with literary instruction of sound teaching in faith and morals.

For this reason, we have more than once said that we strongly approve of

the voluntary schools, which, by the work and liberality of private

individuals, have been established in France, in Belgium, in America,

and in the Colonies of the British Empire. We desire their increase, as

much as possible, and that they may flourish in the number of their

scholars. We ourselves also, seeing the condition of things in this

city, continue, with the greatest effort and at great cost to provide an

abundance of such schools for the children of Rome. For it is in, and

by, these schools that the Catholic faith, our greatest and best

inheritance, is preserved whole and entire. In these schools the liberty

of parents is respected; and, what is most needed, especially in the

prevailing license of opinion and of action, it is by these schools that

good citizens are brought up for the State; for there is no better

citizen than the man who has believed and practiced the Christian faith

from his childhood. The beginning, and, as it were, the seed of that

human perfection which Jesus Christ gave to mankind, are to be found in

the Christian education of the young: for the future condition of the

State depends upon the early training of its children. The wisdom of our

forefathers, and the very foundations of the State, are ruined by the

destructive error of those who would have children brought up without

religious education. You see, therefore, venerable brethren, with what

earnest forethought parents must beware of intrusting their children to

schools in which they cannot receive religious teaching.

In your country of Great Britain, we know that, besides yourselves, very

many of your nation are not a little anxious about religious education.

They do not in all things agree with us; nevertheless they see how

important, for the sake both of society and of men individually, is the

preservation of that Christian wisdom which your forefathers received,

through St. Augustine, from our predecessor, Gregory the Great; which

wisdom the violent tempests that came afterwards have not entirely

scattered. There are, as we know, at this day, many of an excellent

disposition of mind who are diligently striving to retain what they can

of the ancient faith, and who bring forth many and great fruits of

charity. As often as we think of this, so often are we deeply moved; for

we love with a paternal charity that island which was not undeservedly

called the Mother of Saints; and we see, in the disposition of mind of

which we have spoken, the greatest hope, and, as it were, a pledge of

the welfare and prosperity of the British people.

Go on, therefore, venerable brethren, in making the young your chief

care; press onward in every way your episcopal work, and cultivate with

alacrity and hopefulness whatever good seeds you find; for God, who is

rich in mercy, will give the increase.

As a pledge of gifts from above, and in witness of our good-will, we

lovingly grant in the Lord to you, and to the clergy and people

committed to each one of you, the Apostolic Benediction.

Given at Rome, at St. Peter's, on the 27th day of November, in the year

1885, in the eighth year of our Pontificate.

LEO PP. XIII.

BISHOP SPALDING ON STIMULANTS.--I hate drink, because it destroys the

good in life. I find in my own experience that I am more myself, while

under total abstinence, than when I was a moderate drinker. Life is

sweeter, fonder, freer to me as a total abstainer than as a moderate

drinker. So I say, if you want to get the most out of your life, if you

want to sympathize with your fellow-man, to feel the true force of your

beginning, abstain from alcoholic stimulants.

Te Deum.

The course of the general election has surpassed the most sanguine

expectations of the Irish leader. Our success has been such as might

well take our breath away with joy. The Irish race at home and in the

stranger's land have risen to the height of the great crisis with a

unity and soldier-like discipline absolutely unparalleled in the world's

history, and their magnificent enthusiasm has swept all before it. Three

grand results may already be chalked up, and they involve triumphs that

a few years ago would have been deemed the ideal of crazy dreamers. The

Nominal Home Rulers are effaced to a man. The once proud Irish Whig

party, who for a quarter of a century held undisputed sway over the

Irish representation, is literally annihilated. If Mr. Dickson should be

a solitary survivor, he will survive not as a living force in Irish

politics, but as the one bleak and woe-begone specimen now extant of a

race of politicians who once swarmed over four-fifths of the

constituencies of this island. The third great achievement of the

election campaign, and the mightiest of all, is that the Irish vote in

England has been proved to demonstration to be able to trim and balance

English parties to its liking, and consequently to make the Irish vote

in Ireland the supreme power in the English legislature. It is

impossible to over-estimate the magnitude of these results. The causes

of joy are absolutely bewildering in number. A few years ago, the

National voice in Ireland was heard only as a faint, distant murmur at

Westminster. It could only rumble under ground in Ireland, and every

outward symptom of Irish disaffection could be suppressed with the iron

hand without causing one quiver of uneasiness at Westminster, much less

shaking Ministries and revolutionizing parties. Even at home Nationalism

was a shunned creed. It was not respectable. The few exponents it

occasionally sent to Parliament were regarded as oddities. The mass of

the Irish representation were as thoroughly English party-men as if they

were returned from Yorkshire. To-day what an enchanted transformation

scene!

A month since Mr. Parnell's party was but a fraction of the Irish

representation. The Irish Whigs and Nominal Home Rulers combined

outnumbered them, without counting the solid phalanx of Ulster Tories.

Where are the three opposing factions to-day? The Nominal Home Rulers

have died off without a groan. The Northern Whigs have committed suicide

by one of the most infatuated strokes of folly ever recorded in

political annals. The Tories have shrunk within the borders of one out

of thirty-two counties in Ireland, with precarious outposts in three

others; and they are beside themselves with exultation because they have

managed to save Derry and Belfast themselves by a neck from the jaws of

all-devouring Nationalism. Nor is the seizing possession of

seven-eighths of the Irish representation the only or even the greatest

fact of the day. The Nationalists have not only won, but over

four-fifths of the country they have reduced their opponents to a

laughing-stock in the tiny minorities in which the Loyal and Patriotic

Union have obligingly exhibited them. The overwhelming character of the

Nationalist victory would not have been a tithe so impressive had not

our malignant enemies insisted upon coming out in the daylight in review

order, and displaying their pigmy insignificance to a wondering world. A

string of uncontested elections would have passed off monotonously

unimaginatively. It would have been said the country was simply dumb and

tame and terrorized. But the Irish Loyal and Patriotic Union have

guarded us against any mistake of that sort. They valiantly spent their

fifty thousand pounds in challenging the verdict of the country, and the

country is answering in thunder-tones that will reverberate to the most

distant times. Uncontested elections in Dublin City, for example, would

have attracted but little notice. It was known that the Nationalists

were in overwhelming strength on the register; but the croakers of the

_Scotch Times and Express_ might still have exercised their imagination

in bragging what wonders the loyalists might have performed, if they

thought it worth while. But the Loyal and Patriotic Union heroically

determined that national spirit in Dublin should not be allowed merely

to smoulder for want of fuel. They determined to brand their faction

with impotence in eternal black and white. They delivered their

challenge with the insolence and malignity of their progenitors of the

Penal Days, and the result was such a tornado of national feeling as

never shook the Irish capital before; a tornado before which the pigmies

who raised it are shivering in affright. Magnificent as are the results

in Ireland, however, our countrymen in England have achieved the real

marvels of the campaign. They have brought the towering Liberal majority

tumbling like a house of cards. They have in fifty-five constituencies

set up or knocked down English candidates like ninepins. With the one

unhappy exception of Glasgow, where tenderness for a Scotch radical gave

a seat to Mr. Mitchel-Henry, the superb discipline of the Irish

electorate has extorted the homage as well as the consternation of

English party managers. They have made Mr. Parnell as supreme between

rival English parties as the Irish constituencies have effaced the Whig

and Nominal factions who disputed his supremacy. Ten thousand times,

well done, ye brave and faithful Irish exiles. On the day of Ireland's

liberation you will deserve to rank high in the glorious roll of her

deliverers.

_United Ireland_, Dublin.

EIGHTY-SIX TO EIGHTEEN.--This is the way the Irish representation now

stands, eighty-six men in favor of making Ireland a nation, eighteen

wanting to keep her a province, and a province on which they can

selfishly batten. The elections in every way have borne out the forecast

of the Irish leaders, who calculated eighty-five as the minimum strength

of the National party. Mr. Gladstone will now be gratified to learn that

in response to his late Midlothian addresses, this nation has spoken out

in a manner which cannot be falsified or gainsaid, demanding the

restoration of its stolen Parliament. The loyalists, with all the power

of England at their back, and money galore at their command, can point

to only one whole county out of the thirty-two which has remained solid

for the Union. Antrim alone sends up a solid Tory representation, and

with it the only vestige that is left of the "Imperial Province" is

some fragments of Down, Derry and Armagh--in all of which the

Nationalists also have won a seat. On the other hand, in four Northern

counties--Monaghan, Cavan, Fermanagh and Donegal, the loyalists have not

carried a single division, and won only one out of four in Tyrone. How

much more "unity" do the English want? The excuse hitherto has been that

Home Rule could not be granted because Ireland was itself divided on the

subject; but even that wretched pretence is now forever at an end, for

almost since the dawn of history no such practical unanimity was ever

shown by any nation.

Rapidity of Time's Flight.

Swiftly glide the years of our lives. They follow each other like the

waves of the ocean. Memory calls up the persons we once knew--the scenes

in which we were once actors. They appear before the mind like the

phantoms of a night vision. Behold the boy rejoicing in the gayety of

his soul. The wheels of Time cannot move too rapidly for him. The light

of hope dances in his eyes; the smile of expectation plays with his

lips. He looks forward to long years of joy to come; his spirit burns

within him when he hears of great men and mighty deeds; he longs to

mount the hill of ambition, to tread the path of honor, to hear the

shouts of applause. Look at him again. He is now in the meridian of

life; care has stamped its wrinkles upon his brow; disappointment has

dimmed the lustre of his eye; sorrow has thrown its gloom upon his

countenance. He looks backward upon the waking dreams of his youth, and

sighs for their futility. Each revolving year seems to diminish

something from his little stock of happiness, and discovers that the

season of youth, when the pulse of anticipation beats high, is the only

season of enjoyment. Who is he of aged locks? His form is bent and

totters, his footsteps move but rapidly toward the tomb. He looks back

upon the past; his days appear to have been few; the magnificence of the

great is to him vanity; the hilarity of youth, folly; he considers how

soon the gloom of death must overshadow the one and disappoint the

other. The world presents little to attract and nothing to delight him.

A few more years of infirmity, inanity and pain must consign him to

idiocy or the grave. Yet this was the gay, the generous, the high-souled

boy who beheld the ascending path of life strewn with flowers without a

thorn. Such is human life; but such cannot be the ultimate destinies of

man.

The best education in the world is that got by struggling for a

living.--_Wendell Phillips._

Juvenile Department.

CHOOSING OCCUPATIONS.

Five little girls sat down to talk one day beside the brook.

Miss Lizzie said when she grew up she meant to write a book;

And then the others had to laugh, till tears were in their eyes,

To think of Lizzie's writing books, and see her look so wise.

Miss Lucy said she always thought she'd like to teach a school,

And make the horrid, ugly boys obey her strictest rule.

Miss Minnie said she'd keep a shop where all the rest must buy,

And they agreed to patronize, if "prices weren't too high."

Miss Ada said she'd marry rich, and wear a diamond ring,

And give a party every night, "and never do a thing!"

But Nellie, youngest of them all, shook out each tumbled curl,

And said she'd always stay at home, and be her mother's girl.

A CHILD AND A WASP.

Among the passengers on a train going West, was a very much over-dressed

woman, accompanied by a bright-looking Irish nurse girl, who had charge

of a self-willed, tyrannical two-year-old boy, of whom the over-dressed

woman was plainly the mother. The mother occupied a seat by herself. The

nurse and child were in a seat immediately in front of her. The child

gave frequent exhibitions of temper, and kept the car filled with such

vicious yells and shrieks, that there was a general feeling of savage

indignation among the passengers. Although he time and again spat in his

nurse's face, scratched her hands until the blood came, and tore at her

hair and bonnet, she bore with him patiently. The indignation of the

passengers was made the greater because the child's mother made no

effort to correct or quiet him, but, on the contrary, sharply chided the

nurse whenever she manifested any firmness. Whatever the boy yelped for,

the mother's cry was, uniformly: "Let him have it, Mary." The feelings

of the passengers had been wrought up to the boiling point. The remark

was made: audibly here and there that "it would be worth paying for to

have the young one chucked out of the window." The hopeful's mother was

not moved by the very evident annoyance the passengers felt, and at last

fixed herself down in her seat for a comfortable nap. The child had just

slapped the nurse in her face for the hundredth time, and was preparing

for a fresh attack, when a wasp came from somewhere in the car and flew

against the window of the nurse's seat. The boy at once made a dive for

the wasp as it struggled upward on the glass. The nurse quickly caught

his hand, and said to him coaxingly: "Harry, mustn't touch! Bug will

bite Harry!" Harry gave a savage yell, and began to kick and slap the

nurse. The mother awoke from her nap. She heard her son's screams, and,

without lifting her head or opening her eyes, she cried out sharply to

the nurse: "Why will you tease that child so, Mary? Let him have it at

once!" Mary let go of Harry. She settled back in her seat with an air of

resignation; but there was a sparkle in her eye. The boy clutched at the

wasp, and finally caught it. The yell that followed caused joy to the

entire car, for every eye was on the boy. The mother woke again. "Mary,"

she cried, "let him have it!" Mary turned calmly in her seat, and with a

wicked twinkle in her eye said: "Sure, he's got it, ma'am!" This brought

the car down. Every one in it roared. The child's mother rose up in her

seat with a jerk. When she learned what the matter was, she pulled her

boy over the back of the seat, and awoke some sympathy for him by laying

him across her knee and warming him nicely. In ten minutes he was as

quiet and meek as a lamb, and he never opened his head again until the

train reached its destination.

THE PREHENSILE TAILED COENDOU.

The Havre aquarium has just put on exhibition one of the most curious,

and especially one of the rarest, of animals--the prehensile tailed

coendou (_Synetheres prehensilis_). It was brought from Venezuela by Mr.

Equidazu, the commissary of the steamer _Colombie_.

Brehm says that never but two have been seen--one of them at the Hamburg

zoological garden, and the other at London. The one under consideration,

then, would be the third specimen that has been brought alive to Europe.

This animal, which is allied to the porcupines, is about three and a

half feet long. The tail alone, is one and a half feet in length. The

entire body, save the belly and paws, is covered with quills, which

absolutely hide the fur. Upon the back, where these quills are longest

(about four inches), they are strong, cylindrical, shining,

sharp-pointed, white at the tip and base, and blackish-brown in the

middle. The animal, in addition, has long and strong mustaches. The

paws, anterior and posterior, have four fingers armed with strong nails,

which are curved, and nearly cylindrical at the base.

Very little is known about the habits of the animal. All that we do know

is, that it passes the day in slumber at the top of a tree, and that it

prowls about at night, its food consisting chiefly of leaves of all

kinds. When it wishes to descend from one branch to another, it suspends

itself by the tail, and lets go of the first only when it has a firm

hold of the other.

One peculiarity is that the extremity of the dorsal part of the tail is

prehensile. This portion is deprived of quills for a length of about six

inches.

[Illustration]

The coendou does not like to be disturbed. When it is, it advances

toward the intruder, and endeavors to frighten him by raising its quills

all over its body. The natives of Central America eat its flesh and

employ its quills for various domestic purposes.

The animal is quite extensively distributed throughout South America. It

is found in Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, Guiana, and in some of the

Lesser Antilles, such as Trinidad, Barbados, Saint Lucia, etc.

LITTLE QUEEN PET AND HER KINGDOM.

With these words the stranger vanished, and Pet trotted on her way

again, with the clock and key in her pocket.

She had not gone far till she began to notice a great many little cabins

and cottages about the country, which looked very bare and

uncomfortable. "Surely these must belong to the poor!" she thought; "and

I daresay that is a very poor man who is following the plough over in

that field."

She walked across the meadows until she reached the ploughman, and

having noticed that his clothing was very bad indeed, and that he looked

worn and sad, she formed her wish, and the next moment she was following

the plough as if she had been at it all her life. She had passed

completely into the man; there was not a vestige of her left outside of

him; she felt her hands quite hard and horny; she took great long steps

over the rough ground; she cried "Gee-up!" to the horses; and she knew

very well if she could only look into a glass she should see, not Pet

any more, but the sunburnt man toiling after his plough. She was quite

bewildered by the change at first, but presently she began to interest

herself greatly in all the new thoughts that poured into her mind. After

a time she quite lost sight of her old self, and felt _that she was the

man_. She put her horny hand in her pocket, and found that the clock and

key were there safely, and this consoled her with the thought that she

was not hopelessly buried in the ploughman. When the sun went down she

stopped ploughing and went home to a little cottage which was hidden

among some bushes in a field.

Half a dozen little hungry children, with poor, scanty clothing came

running to meet her.

"Oh, father!" they cried, "mother has been so ill to-day, and neighbor

Nancy says she will never get well without some wine to make her

strong!"

The ploughman groaned at hearing this. "Ah," thought he, "where can I

get money for wine? I can scarcely earn food enough for so many; and who

will give me wine?"

Pet was greatly distressed at finding these painful thoughts throbbing

through and through her. "At home in my palace," she said, "everybody

drinks a bottle of wine a day, and they are not sick, and are all

strong. I must see about this afterwards." Then she went into the

cottage, and the first thing she did was to take the clock out of her

pocket and wind it up with the little key, and hang it on a nail on the

wall.

"What is that you have got?" said the poor woman from her straw bed.

"Oh, it is a clock that a gentleman made me a present of," said the

ploughman.

The eldest girl now poured out some porridge on a plate and set it down

before her father. Pet was very hungry, and was glad of anything she

could get; but she did not like the porridge, and thought that it was

very different indeed from the food she got at home. But while she was

eating, the poor man's thoughts quite overwhelmed her.

"What is to become of them all?" he thought. "I have ten children, and

my wages are so small, and food and clothing are so dear. When the poor

wife was well, she used to look after the cow and poultry, and turn a

little penny, but now she is not able, and I fear----"

"Oh, father! father! the cow is dead!" cried four boys, rushing into the

cottage.

And the poor man bowed his head on the table and groaned.

"Why, this is dreadful!" thought Pet. "Is this really the sort of thing

that poor people suffer. How I wish the month was up that I might do

something for them!" And she tried to glance at the clock, but could

not, because the man kept his eyes bent on the ground.

Pet was kept awake all that night by the ploughman's sad thoughts, and

very early in the morning she was hard at work again, carrying a heavy

heart with her all about the fields. Day after day this went on, and she

was often very hungry, and very sad at hearing the complaints of the

hungry children, and seeing the pale face of the sick woman. Every day

things became worse. The ploughman got into debt through trying to

procure a little wine to save his wife's life, and when rent-day came

round he had not enough money to pay. Just as things arrived at this

state, the clock ran down, and Pet, who had taken care to put it in her

pocket that morning along with the key, suddenly found her own self

standing alone in the field, watching the poor ploughman following his

plough, exactly as she had at first beheld him. She at once began

running away as fast as she could, when she was stopped by her friend

Time, who stood in her path.

"Where are you running to now?" asked he.

"I am hurrying home to my palace to get money, and wine, and everything

for these poor people!" cried Pet.

"Gently!" said Time, "I cannot allow it so soon. You must continue your

experiences and trust the poor ploughman and his family to me; I will

take care of them till you are able to do something for them. Were you

to go back to your palace now, you would be kept there, and I should no

longer be able to stand your friend; on the contrary, I might, perhaps,

against my will, be forced to prove your enemy. Go on now, and remember

my instructions."

And he vanished again.

Pet travelled a long way after this, and as she had to beg on the road

for a little food and a night's lodging, she had very good opportunities

for seeing the kindness with which the poor behave to each other.

Mothers, who had hardly enough for their own children to eat, would give

her a piece of bread without grumbling. At last, one evening, she

arrived at a splendid large city, and felt quite bewildered with the

crowds in the streets and the magnificence of the buildings. At first

she could not see any people who looked very poor; but at last, when

lingering in front of a very handsome shop window, she noticed a

shabbily-dressed young girl go in at a side door, and something about

her sad face made Pet think that this girl was in great distress. She

formed her wish, and presently found that _she_, _Pet_, _was the girl_.

Up a great many flights of stairs she went, passed gay show-rooms where

fine ladies were trying on new dresses, and at last she arrived at a

workroom where many white-faced girls were sewing busily with their

heads bent down. The little seamstress, who was now one with Pet, had

been out matching silks for the forewoman of the work, and now she sat

down with a bright heap of satin on her knees. "Oh, dear!" thought Pet,

as she threaded her needle, "how very heavy her heart is! I can hardly

hold it up; and how weak she is? I feel as if she was going to faint!"

And then Pet became quite occupied with the seamstress's thoughts as she

had been once with the ploughman's. She went home to the girl's lodging,

a wretched garret at the top of a wretched house, and there she found a

poor old woman, the young girl's grandmother, and a little boy asleep on

some straw. The poor old woman could not sleep with cold, though her

good grand-daughter covered her over with her own clothes. Pet took care

to hang up her clock, newly wound, as soon as she went in; and the poor

old woman was so blind she did not take any notice of it. And, oh, what

painful dreams Pet had that night in the girl's brain! This poor child's

heart was torn to pieces by just the same kind of grief and terror which

had distracted the mind of the ploughman: grief at seeing those she

loved suffering want in spite of all her exertions for them, terror lest

they should die of that suffering for need of something that she could

not procure them. The little boy used to cry with hunger; the young

seamstress often went to work without having had any breakfast, and with

only a crust of bread in her pocket. It was a sad time for Pet, and she

thought it would never pass over. At last, one day the poor girl fell

ill, and Pet found herself lying on some straw in the corner of the

garret, burning with fever, and no one near to help her. The poor old

woman could only weep and mourn; and the boy, who was too young to get

work to do, sat beside her in despair. Pet heard him say to himself at

last, "I will go and beg; she told me not, but I must do something for

her." And away he went but came back sobbing. Nobody would give him

anything; everybody told him he ought to be at school. "And so I should

be if she were well," he cried; "but I can't go and leave her here to

die!" The sufferings of the poor girl were greatly increased by her

brother's misery; and what was her horror when she heard him mutter

suddenly: "I will go and steal something. The shops are full of

everything. I _won't_ let her die!" Then before she had time to stop him

he had darted out of the room.

Just at this moment Pet's clock ran down, and she flew off, forgetting

Time's commands, and only bent on reaching her palace. But her strange

friend appeared in her path as before.

"Oh, _don't_ stop me!" cried Pet. "The girl will die, and the boy will

turn out a thief!"

"Leave them to me! leave them to me!" said Time, "and go on obediently

doing as I bid you."

Pet went away in tears this time, still fancying she could feel the poor

sick girl's woful heart beating in her own breast. But by-and-by she

cheered herself, remembering Time's promise, and hurried on as fast as

she could. She met with a great many sad people after this, and lived a

great many different lives, so that she became quite familiar with all

the sorrows and difficulties of the poor. She reflected that it was a

very sad thing that there should be so much distress in her rich

kingdom, and felt much puzzled to know how she could remedy the matter.

One day, having just left an extremely wretched family, she travelled a

long way without stopping, and she had not seen a very poor-looking

dwelling for many miles. All the people she met seemed happy and merry,

and they sang over their work as if they had very little care. When she

peeped into the little roadside houses she found that they were neatly

furnished and comfortable. Even in the towns she could not find any

starving people, except a few wicked ones who would not take the trouble

to be industrious. At last she asked a man what was the reason that she

could not meet with any miserable people?

"Oh," he said, "it is because of our good king; his laws are so wise

that nobody is allowed to want."

"Where does he live? and what country is this?" asked Pet.

"This is Silver-country," said the man, "and our king lives over yonder

in a castle built of blocks of silver ornamented with rubies and

pearls."

Pet then remembered that she had heard her nurses talk about

Silver-country, which was the neighboring country to her own. She

immediately longed to see this wise king and learn his laws, so that she

might know how to behave when she came to sit on her throne, and she

trotted on towards the Silver Castle, which now began to rise out of a

wreath of clouds in the distance. Arrived at the place, she crept up to

the windows of the great dining-hall and peeped in, and there was the

good king sitting at his table in a mantle of cloth of silver, and a

glorious crown, wrought most exquisitely out of the good wishes of his

people, encircling his head. Opposite to him sat his beautiful queen,

and beside him a noble-looking lad who was his only son. Pet, seeing

this happy sight, immediately formed her wish, and in another moment

found herself the king of Silver-country sitting at the head of his

board.

"Oh, what a good, great, warm, happy heart it is," thought Pet, and she

felt more joy than she had ever known in her life before. "A month will

be quite too short a time to live in this noble being. But I must make

the best of my time and learn everything I can."

Pet now found her mind filled with the most wonderfully good, wise

thoughts, and she took great pains to learn them off by heart, so that

she might keep them in her memory forever. Besides all the education she

received in this way, she also enjoyed a great happiness, of which she

had as yet known nothing, the happiness of living in a loving family,

where there was no terrible sorrow or fear to embitter tender hearts.

She felt how fondly the king loved his only son, and how sweet it was to

the king to know that his boy loved him. When the young prince leaned

against his father's knees and told him all about his sports, Pet would

remember that she also had had a father, and that he would have loved

her like this if he had lived. She could have lived here in the Silver

Castle forever, but that could not be. One day the little gold clock ran

down and Pet was obliged to hasten away out of Silver-country.