Give Charity While You Live.
_Lake Shore Visitor_:--The many men and women who leave large bequests
to religion and to charity do in a certain sense some good. Their means
thus disposed of may feed the hungry and bring the erring to a sense of
duty. But generally speaking means thus left are not as well husbanded
as if they were spent by the testator himself. It is given in a bulk and
the legatee not having been put to the trouble and pains of earning the
legacy dollar for dollar soon lets the specie fly. It came easy and is
very apt to go the same way. It is not necessary for the charitably
inclined to wait until the message comes in order to perform an act of
charity. We are told that the "poor we always have with us." The orphan
may be found in every city and town, and orphanages and hospitals exist
in every city. To be really disinterested in our charity, we should give
while in health. While giving thus we are making a sacrifice, and
plainly proving that our hearts are not very strongly set on the goods
of this world. To give when that which we give is about to be snatched
away from us is certainly not giving with the hope of obtaining a very
great reward. Looking after our own donations would make them more
profitable to the cause of good, and giving when we are in health and
strength is making a sacrifice that without doubt will meet a reward.
Emmet's Rebellion.
[Illustration: ROBERT EMMET. Born March 4, 1780. Executed Sept. 20,
1803.]
At the time when the plans of the United Irishmen were slowly ripening
toward revolution, and when Wolfe Tone and Edward Fitzgerald still
believed in the immediate regeneration of their country, there were two
young men in Dublin University--close personal friends--who were
watching with peculiar interest the progress of events. Both were
exceptionally gifted young men, and both were destined to leave behind
them names that will live forever in the history of the Irish nation.
One was Thomas Moore; the other, his junior by a year and his senior by
one class in the University, was Robert Emmet.
It was especially natural that two such young men should take the
keenest interest in the national movement that was going on about them.
It was a movement calculated to attract all the generous and impassioned
impulses of youth. Both Moore and Emmet were profoundly ambitious for
their nation's welfare; both of them, we may well assume, felt conscious
of the possession of abilities beyond the average; and both were
animated by a desire to be of active service to their people. The
desire, however, which led Moore to become the poetical voice of
Ireland's aspirations and regrets, urged Emmet into directer and more
decided action. Emmet was a brother of Thomas Addis Emmet. He was,
therefore, closely in connection with the revolutionary movement, and
did all that lay in his power to advance it by his speeches in the
Debating Society and in the Historical Society of the College. Political
speeches were, of course, forbidden in such bodies as these two
societies; but Emmet always contrived to introduce into his utterances
upon any of the themes set down for debate some burning words which
those who listened to him, and loved him, could readily interpret into
justification of the United Irishmen, and encouragement of their
efforts.
Between the young orator and the young poet the closest friendship and
affection existed. The genius of Moore was naturally captivated by the
pure and lofty enthusiasm of Robert Emmet; and it is almost surprising
that under the circumstances Moore did not become more deeply involved
in the conspiracy that spread all around him. Moore had not, however,
the nature of the conspirator, or of the very active politician. He was
called upon to do other work in this world, and he did that work so
worthily that we may well forgive him for having been so little of a
rebel at a time when rebellion was the duty of every Irishman. Moore
tells a touching little story of himself and of his friend, which, in
itself, exemplifies the different natures of the two young men. Moore
had become possessed of that precious volume in which the labors of Mr.
Bunting had collected so much of the national music of Ireland; and he
delighted in passing long hours in playing over to himself the airs
which he was destined later on to make so famous by his verses. Emmet
often sat by him while he played, and Moore records how, one evening,
just as he finished playing that spirited tune called "The Red Fox,"
Emmet sprang up from a reverie, and exclaimed, "Oh, that I were at the
head of twenty thousand men marching to that air!" The air which
awakened in Emmet the gallant hope, which he was never destined to see
realized, had probably started in the brain of Moore dim memories of the
lost glories of Ireland; of the Knights of the Red Branch, of Malichi
with the gold torque, and of the buried city of Lough Neagh. The music
which Emmet had desired to hear as the marching song of victory is
familiar to every Irishman as "Let Erin Remember the Days of Old." "How
little did I think," said the poet, "that in one of the most touching of
the sweet airs I used to play to him, his own dying words would find an
interpreter so worthy of their sad but proud feelings; or that another
of those mournful strains would long be associated in the hearts of his
countrymen with the memory of her who shared with Ireland his last
blessing and prayer." Ninety-eight had come and gone like a dream. The
leaders of the United Irishmen were dead, in exile, or hiding from the
law. The Irish parliament had passed from existence, and the hated union
with England had become an accomplished fact. The promises of the
British minister, which had done so much to facilitate the passing of
the Act of Union, had, of course, been shamefully violated.
* * * * *
There were desperate riots in Limerick, Waterford and Tipperary in the
year of the union--smouldering embers of the revolution of '98, which
were destined still to break out into one final, fitful conflagration.
Robert Emmet saw the sufferings of his country with indignation, but not
with despair. He conceived the possibility of reviving the spirit of
'98. In his eyes revolution was not dead, but only asleep; and he
proudly fancied that he might be the voice to wake rebellion from its
trance, and lead it to its triumph. He had some personal fortune of his
own, which he unselfishly devoted to the purpose he had in view.
Gradually he began to gather around him a cluster of the
disaffected--survivors of '98 who had escaped the grave, the gibbet, or
exile--men like the heroic Myles Byrne, of Wexford, who had evaded the
clutch of the law, and was lying _perdu_ in Dublin, as assistant in a
timber yard, and waiting for fortune. In Myles Byrne, Emmet found a
ready and a daring colleague, and each found others no less ready, no
less daring, and no less devoted to their country, to aid in the new
revolutionary movement. Like the United Irishmen, Emmet was willing to
avail himself of French arms; but he trusted France less than the United
Irishmen had done. He had been in Paris; he had had interviews with
Napoleon; he had distrusted the First Consul, and, as we know from his
dying speech, he never for a moment entertained the slightest idea of
exchanging the dominion of England for the dominion of France. His
scheme was desperate, but it was by no means hopeless. Large stores of
arms and gunpowder were accumulated in the various depots in Dublin.
Thousands of men were pledged to the cause and were prepared to lose
their lives for it. The means of establishing a provisional government
had been carefully thought out, and had been given effect to in an
elaborate document, in which vast information was printed, ready to be
sown broadcast through the city and the county as soon as the green flag
floated over Dublin Castle. That was Emmet's chief purpose. Once master
of the castle, and Dublin would be practically in his power; and Dublin
once in the hands of rebellion, why, then, rebellion would spread
through the country like fire in a jungle, and Ireland might indeed be
free.
* * * * *
It is scarcely necessary to recapitulate the events of that memorable
evening of July 23, 1803. At 10 o'clock a rocket sent up from Thomas
Street blazed for a moment, the meteor of insurrection, in the unwonted
darkness of that summer night. But the signal that was to have been the
herald of freedom was only the herald of failure. A small mob of men
hurried to the malt house in Mass lane, which was the principal store of
arms. There pikes were hurriedly handed out to the crowd, and then
Emmet, who had hoped to head an army, found himself the centre of an
undisciplined rabble. His hopes must have sunk low as he stood there in
the dim and dismal street, in his glittering uniform of green and gold;
but his heart did not fail him for a moment. He turned towards the
castle at the head of his turbulent horde as composedly as if he had
been marshalling the largest army in Europe. But the crowd lacked
cohesion, lacked purpose, lacked determination. It fell away from its
leader loosely, even aimlessly. Some rushed wildly at the castle;
others, at the moment when unity and concentration were of the utmost
importance, hurried off in another direction to sack a debtor's prison
and set the inmates free. While the disorganized crowd was still in
Thomas Street, while Emmet was vainly trying to rally his forces and
accomplish something, a carriage came slowly down the street--the
carriage of Lord Kilwarden, Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench.
Inside the carriage were Lord Kilwarden, his daughter, and his nephew,
the Rev. Mr. Wolfe. The mob surrounded the carriage; Lord Kilwarden and
his nephew were dragged from the carriage, and killed with innumerable
pike-thrusts. The girl was left untouched; was, it is said, carried out
of danger by Robert Emmet himself, who had vainly attempted to stop the
purposeless slaughter. Before the Chief Justice was quite dead Major
Sirr and a large body of his soldiers made their appearance, and the mob
vanished almost without resistance, leaving several prisoners in the
hands of the military.
Emmet had disappeared, no one knew where--no one, that is, except some
dozen of his followers and some farmers in the Wicklow Mountains, whose
hospitality and protection were extended to the fugitive patriot. Emmet
might easily have escaped to France if he had chosen, but he delayed
till too late. Emmet was a young man, and Emmet was in love. "The idol
of his heart," as he calls her in his dying speech, was Sarah Curran,
the daughter of John Philpot Curran, the great orator who had played so
important a part in defending the State prisoners of '98. Emmet was
determined to see her before he went. He placed his life upon the stake
and lost it. He returned to Dublin, and was hiding at Harold's Cross,
when his place of refuge was betrayed, and he was arrested by Major
Sirr, the same who had brought Fitzgerald to his death, and who now,
strangely enough, occupies a corner of the same graveyard with the
"gallant and seditious Geraldine."
Curran very bitterly opposed Emmet's love for Sarah, and the voice which
had been raised so often and so eloquently in defence of the other
heroes and martyrs of Irish revolution was not lifted up in defence of
Emmet. Curran has been often and severely censured for not undertaking
Emmet's defence, and he has been accused, in consequence, of being, at
least indirectly, the cause of his death. But we may safely assume that
no advocacy either of men or of angels could by any possibility have
stirred the hearts of those in authority, and saved the life of the man
who was presumptuous enough to rebel against the Union. The trial was
hurried through. Every Irish schoolboy knows the impassioned and
eloquent address which Emmet delivered--an address which even the tragic
circumstances could not save from the brutal interruption of Lord
Norbury. On the altar of truth and liberty, Emmet had extinguished the
torch of friendship, had offered up the idol of his soul, and the object
of his affections. With the shadow of death upon him, the doomed patriot
addressed his countrymen in words of wellnigh prophetic import,
forbidding them to write his epitaph until his country had taken her
place among the nations of the earth. The words did not pass his lips
long before his death. He was found guilty late in the night of the 19th
of September, and he was hanged the next morning in Thomas Street, on
the spot where the gloomy church of St. Catherine looks down Bridgefoot
Street, where his principal stores of arms had been found.
* * * * *
Such was the fate of Robert Emmet. His dying request has been faithfully
obeyed by his countrymen; and it is but fitting that no spot should bear
his name, no statue should typify his memory, until the time comes for
which he hoped, and for which he suffered. His old friend, the companion
of his youth, the poet who had loved him, has honored his memory with
two of his noblest lyrics, and has devoted a third to the girl whom
Emmet's love has made immortal. Curran never forgave his daughter for
having given her affections to Emmet; he practically disowned her, and
did not, it is said, even extend his forgiveness to her at the hour of
her death some years later. It is melancholy to have to record the fact
that the betrothed wife of Robert Emmet was not entirely faithful to his
memory. She married, at the instance, it is said, of her friends, and
did not long survive her marriage.
JUSTIN HUNTLEY M'CARTHY in _United Ireland_.
* * * * *
No workman engaged in the copper mines or in the manufacture of copper
was ever known to have cholera. Science has demonstrated the fact that
cholera has raged the least where the presence of electricity in the air
was most positive.
The Annunciation:--March 25th.
How pure and frail and white
The snowdrops shine!
Gather a garland bright
For Mary's shrine.
For, born of winter snows,
These fragile flowers
Are gifts to our frail Queen
From spring's first hours.
For on this blessed day
She knelt at prayer;
When, lo, before her shone
An Angel Fair.
"Hail, Mary!" thus he cried
With reverent fear;
She, with sweet, wondering eyes
Marvelled to hear.
Be still, ye clouds of heaven!
Be silent, earth!
And hear an angel tell
Of Jesus' birth.
While she, whom Gabriel hails
As full of grace,
Listens with humble faith
In her sweet face.
Be still, Pride, War and Pomp,
Vain Hopes, vain Fear,
For now an angel speaks
And Mary hears.
"Hail, Mary!" lo, it rings
Through ages on;
"Hail, Mary!" it shall sound
Till time is done.
"Hail, Mary!" infant lips
Lisp it to-day;
"Hail, Mary!" with faint smile,
The dying say.
"Hail, Mary!" many a heart
Broken with grief
In that angelic prayer
Has found relief.
And many a half lost soul
When turned at bay,
With those triumphant words
Has won the day.
"Hail, Mary, Queen of Heaven!"
Let us repeat,
And place our snow-drop wreath
Here at her feet.