The cold air that blew in at the open window refreshed me, and I could

think what was to be done. The train was increasing its pace rapidly.

Evidently the stoker, in sole charge, was striving to reach Empoli

before the other train, which we should follow, was due: he had to

make five minutes in a journey of forty-five, and, at the rate we were

going, we should do it. We stopped nowhere, and the journey was more

than half over. We were now between Segua and {205} Montelupo; another

twenty minutes and I should be a bruised corpse. Something must be

done.

I decided soon. Unfastening my bag, I took out my revolver, without

which I never travel, and looking carefully to the loading and

capping, fastened it to my waist with a handkerchief. I then cut with

my knife the bar across the middle of the window, and carefully looked

out. I could see nothing; the rain was falling fast, and the night as

dark as ever. I cautiously put out first one leg and then the other,

keeping my knees and toes close to the door, and lowered myself till I

felt the step. I walked carefully along the foot-board by side steps,

holding on to the handles of the doors, till I came to the end of the

carriages, and was next the tender. Here was a gulf that seemed

impassable. The stoker must have passed over it; why not I? Mounting

from the foot-board on to the buffer, and holding on to the iron hook

on which the lamps are hung, I stretched my legs to reach the flat

part of the buffer on the tender. My legs swung about with the

vibration, and touched nothing. I must spring. I had to hold with both

hands behind my back, and stood on the case of the buffer-spring, and,

suddenly leaving go, leaped forward, struck violently against the edge

of the tender, and grasped some of the loose lumps of coal on the top.

Another struggle brought me on my knees, bruised and bleeding, on the

top. I stood up, and at that moment the stoker opened the door of the

furnace, and turned toward me, shovel in hand, to put in the coals.

The bright red light from the fire enabled him to see me, while it

blinded me. He rushed at me, and then began a struggle that I shall

remember to my dying day.

He grasped me round the throat with one arm, dragging me close to his

breast, and with the other kept shortening the shovel for an effective

blow. My hands, numbed and bruised, were almost useless to me, and for

some seconds we reeled to and fro on the foot-plate in the blinding

glare. At last he got me against the front of the engine, and, with

horrible ingenuity, pressed me against it till the lower part of my

clothes were burnt to a cinder. The heat, however, restored my hands,

and at last I managed to push him far enough from my body to loosen my

pistol. I did not want to kill him, but I could not be very careful,

and I fired at his shoulder from the back. He dropped the shovel, the

arm that had nearly throttled me relaxed, and he fell. I pushed him

into a corner of the tender, and sat down to recover myself.

My object was to get to Empoli before the Sienna goods train, for I

knew nothing of what might be behind me. It was too late to stop, but

I might, by shortening the journey seven minutes instead of five, get

to Empoli three minutes before the goods train was due.

I had never been on an engine before in my life, but I knew that there

must be a valve somewhere that let the steam from the boiler into the

cylinders, and that, being important, it would be in a conspicuous

position. I therefore turned the large handle in front of me, and had

the satisfaction of finding the speed rapidly increased, and at the

same time felt the guard putting on the break to retard the train.

Spite of this, in ten minutes I could see some dim lights; I could not

tell where, and I still pressed on faster and faster.

In vain, between the intervals of putting on coals, did I try to

arouse the sleeping driver. There I was, with two apparently dead

bodies, on the foot-plate of an engine, going at the rate of forty

miles an hour, or more, amidst a thundering noise and vibration that

nearly maddened me.

At last we reached the lights, and I saw, as I dashed by, that we had

passed the dread point.

As I turned back, I could see the rapidly-dropping cinders from the

train which, had the guard's break been sufficiently powerful to have

made me {206} thirty seconds later, would have utterly destroyed me.

I was still in a difficult position. There was the train half a minute

behind us, which, had we kept our time, would have been four minutes

in front of us. It came on to the same rails, and I could hear its

dull rumble rushing on toward us fast. If I stopped there was no light

to warn them. I must go on, for the Sienna train did not stop at

Empoli.

I put on more fuel, and after some slight scalding, from turning on

the wrong taps, had the pleasure of seeing the water-gauge filling up.

Still I could not go on long; the risk was awful. I tried in vain to

write on a leaf of my note-book, and after searching in the tool-box,

wrote on the iron lid of the tank with a piece of chalk, "Stop

everything behind me. The train will not be stopped till three red

lights are ranged in a line on the ground. Telegraph forward." And

then, as we flew through the Empoli station, I threw it on the

platform. On we went; the same dull thunder behind warning me that I

dare not stop.

We passed through another station at full speed, and at length I saw

the white lights of another station in the distance. The sound behind

had almost ceased, and in a few moments more I saw the line of three

red lamps low down on the ground. I pulled back the handle, and after

an ineffectual effort to pull up at the station, brought up the train

about a hundred yards beyond Pontedera.

The porters and police of the station came up and put the train back,

and then came the explanation.

The guard had been found dead on the rails, just beyond Empoli, and

the telegraph set to work to stop the train. He must have found out

the failure of his scheme, and in trying to reach the engine, have

fallen on the rails.

The driver was only stupefied, and the stoker fortunately only

dangerously, not fatally, wounded.

Another driver was found, and the train was to go on.

The count had listened most attentively to my statements, and then,

taking my grimed hand in his, led me to his mother.

"Madam, my mother, you have from this day one other son: this, my

mother, is my brother."

The countess literally fell on my neck, and kissed me in the sight of

them all; and speaking in Italian said--

"Julian, he is my son; he has saved my life; and more, he has saved

your life. My son, I will not say much; what is your name?"

"Guy Westwood."

"Guy, my child, my son, I am your mother; you shall love me."

"Yes, my mother; he is my brother, I am his. He is English too; I like

English. He has done well. Blanche shall be his sister."

During the whole of this time both mother and son were embracing me

and kissing my cheeks, after the impulsive manner of their passionate

natures, the indulgence of which appears so strange to our cold blood.

The train was delayed, for my wounds and bruises to be dressed, and I

then entered their carriage and went to Leghorn with them.

Arrived there, I was about to say "Farewell."

"What is farewell, now? No; you must see Blanche, your sister. You

will sleep to my hotel: I shall not let you go. Who is she that in

your great book says, 'Where you go, I will go?' That is my spirit.

You must not leave me till--till you are as happy as I am."

He kept me, introduced me to Blanche, and persuaded me to write for

leave to stay another two months, when he would return to England with

me. Little by little he made me talk about Alice, till he knew all my

story.

"Ah! that is it; you shall be unhappy because you want L500 every

year, and I have so much as that. I am a patriot to get rid of my

money. So it is that you will not take money. You have saved my life,

and you will {207} not take money; but I shall make you take money, my

friend, English Guy; you shall have as thus." And he handed me my

appointment as secretary to one of the largest railways in Italy. "Now

you shall take money; now you will not go to your fogland to work like

a slave; you shall take the money. That is not all. I am one of the

practice patriots--no, the practical patriots--of Italy. They come to

me with their conspiracies to join, their secret societies to adhere

to, but I do not. I am director of ever so many railways; I make fresh

directions every day. I say to those who talk to me of politics, 'How

many shares will you take in this or in that?' I am printer of books;

I am builder of museums; I have great share in docks, and I say to

these, 'It is this that I am doing that is wanted.' This is not

conspiracy; it is not plot; it is not society with ribbons; but it is

what Italy, my country, wants. I grow poor; Italy grows rich. I am not

wise in these things; they cheat me, because I am an enthusiast. Now,

Guy, my brother, you are wise; you are deep; long in the head; in

short, you are English! You shall be my guardian in these things--you

shall save me from the cheat, and you shall work hard as you like for

all the money you shall take of me. Come, my Guy, is it so?"

Need I say that it was so? The count and his Blanche made their

honeymoon tour in England. They spent Christmas day with Alice and

myself at Mr. Morton's, and when they left, Alice and I left with

them, for our new home in Florence.

------

From The Cornhill Magazine.

THE WINDS.

O wild raving west winds....

Oh! where do ye rise from, and where do ye die?

The question which is put in these lines is one which has posed the

ingenuity of all who have ever thought on it; and though theories have

repeatedly been propounded to answer it, yet one and all fail, and we

again recur to the words of him who knew all things and said, "The

wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but

canst not tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth."

However, though we cannot assign exactly the source whence the winds

rise or the goal to which they tend, the labors of meteorologists have

been so far successful as to enable us to understand the causes of the

great currents of air, and even to map out the winds which prevail at

different seasons in the various quarters of the globe. The problem

which has thus been solved is one vastly more simple than that of

saying why the wind changes on any particular day, or at what spot on

the earth's surface a particular current begins or ends. Were these

questions solved, there would be an end to all uncertainty about

weather. There need be no fear that the farmer would lose his crops

owing to the change of weather, if the advent of every shower had been

foretold by an unerring guide, and the precise day of the break in the

weather predicted weeks and months before. This is the point on which

weather-prophets--'astro-meteorologists' they call themselves

now-a-days--still venture their predictions, undismayed by their

reported and glaring failures. {208} It has been well remarked that

not one of these prophets foretold the dry weather which lasted for so

many weeks during the last summer; yet, even at the present day, there

are people who look to the almanacs to see what weather is to be

expected at a given date; and even the prophecies of "Old Moore" find,

or used to find within a very few years, an ample credence. In fact,

if we are to believe the opinions propounded by the positive

philosophers of the present day, we must admit that it is absurd to

place any limits on the possibility of predicting natural phenomena,

inasmuch as all operations of nature obey fixed and unalterable laws,

which are all discoverable by the unaided mind of man.

True science, we may venture to say, is more modest than these

gentlemen would have us to think it; and though in the particular

branch of knowledge of which we are now treating daily prophecies (or

'forecasts,' as Admiral Fitzroy is careful to call them) of weather

appear in the newspapers, yet these are not announced dogmatically,

and no attempt is made in them to foretell weather for more than

forty-eight hours in advance. We are not going to discuss the question

of storms and storm-signals at present, so we shall proceed to the

subject in hand--the ordinary wind-currents of the earth; and in

speaking of these shall confine ourselves as far as possible to

well-known and recorded facts, bringing in each case the best evidence

which we can adduce to support the theories which may be broached.

What, then, our readers will ask, is the cause of the winds? The

simple answer is--the sun. Let us see, now, how this indefatigable

agent, who appears to do almost everything on the surface of the

earth, from painting pictures to driving steam-engines, as George

Stephenson used to maintain that he did, is able to raise the wind.

If you light a fire in a room, and afterward stop up every chink by

which air can gain access to the fire, except the chimney, the fire

will go out in a short time. Again, if a lamp is burning on the table,

and you stop up the chimney at the top, the lamp will go out at once.

The reason of this is that the flame, in each case, attracts the air,

and if either the supply of air is cut off below, or its escape above

is checked, the flame cannot go on burning. This explanation, however,

does not bear to be pushed too far. The reason that the fire goes out

if the supply of air is cut off is, that the flame, so to speak, feeds

on air; while the sun cannot be said, in any sense, to be dependent on

the earth's atmosphere for the fuel for his fire. We have chosen the

illustration of the flame, because the facts are so well known. If,

instead of a lamp in the middle of a room, we were to hang up a large

mass of iron, heated, we should find that currents of air set in from

all sides, rose up above it, and spread out when they reached the

ceiling, descending again along the walls. The existence of these

currents may be easily proved by sprinkling a handful of fine chaff

about in the room. What is the reason of the circulation thus

produced? The iron, unless it be extremely hot, as it is when melted

by Mr. Bessemer's process, does not require the air in order to keep

up its heat; and, in fact, the constant supply of fresh air cools it,

as the metal gives away its own heat to the air as fast as the

particles of the latter come in contact with it. Why, then, do the

currents arise? Because the air, when heated, expands or gets lighter,

and rises, leaving an empty space, or vacuum, where it was before.

Then the surrounding cold air, being elastic, forces itself into the

open space, and gets heated in its turn.

From this we can see that there will be a constant tendency in the air

to flow toward that point on the earth's surface where the temperature

is highest--or, all other things being equal, to that point where the

sun may be at that moment in the zenith. Accordingly, if the earth's

surface were either {209} entirely dry land, or entirely water, and

the sun were continually in the plane of the equator, we should expect

to find the direction of the great wind-currents permanent and

unchanged throughout the year. The true state of the case is, however,

that these conditions are very far from being fulfilled. Every one

knows that the sun is not always immediately over the equator, but

that he is at the tropic of Cancer in June, and at the tropic of

Capricorn in December, passing the equator twice every year at the

equinoxes. Here, then, we have one cause which disturbs the regular

flow of the wind-currents. The effect of this is materially increased

by the extremely arbitrary way in which the dry land has been

distributed over the globe. The northern hemisphere contains the whole

of Europe, Asia, and North America, the greater part of Africa, and a

portion of South America; while in the southern hemisphere we only

find the remaining portions of the two last-named continents, with

Australia and some of the large islands in its vicinity. Accordingly,

during our summer there is a much greater area of dry land exposed to

the nearly vertical rays of the sun than is the case during our

winter.

Let us see for a moment how this cause acts in modifying the direction

of the wind-currents. We shall find it easier to make this

intelligible if we take an illustration from observed facts. It takes

about five times as much heat to raise a ton weight of water through a

certain range of temperature, as it does to produce the same effect in

the case of a ton of rock. Again, the tendency of a surface of dry

land to give out heat, and consequently to warm the air above it, and

cause it to rise, is very much greater than that of a surface of water

of equal area. Hence we can at once see the cause of the local winds

which are felt every day in calm weather in islands situated in hot

climates. During the day the island becomes very hot, and thus what

the French call a _courant ascendant_ is set in operation. The air

above the land gets hot and rises, while the colder air which is on

the sea all round it flows in to fill its place, and is felt as a cool

sea-breeze. During the night these conditions are exactly reversed:

the land can no longer get any heat from the sun, as he has set, while

it is still nearly as liberal in parting with its acquired heat as it

was before. Accordingly, it soon becomes cooler than the sea in its

neighborhood; and the air, instead of rising up over it, sinks down

upon it, and flows out to sea, producing a land-wind.

These conditions are, apparently, nearly exactly fulfilled in the

region of the monsoons, with the exception that the change of wind

takes place at intervals of six months, and not every twelve hours. In

this district--which extends over the southern portion of Asia and the

Indian ocean--the wind for half the year blows from one point, and for

the other half from that which is directly opposite. The winds are

north-east and south-west in Hindostan; and in Java, at the other side

of the equator, they are south-east and north-west. The cause of the

winds--monsoons they are called, from an Arabic word, _mausim_,

meaning season--is not quite so easily explained as that of the

ordinary land and sea breezes to which we have just referred. Their

origin is to be sought for in the temperate zone, and not between the

tropics. The reason of this is that the districts toward which the air

is sucked in are not those which are absolutely hottest, but those

where the rarefaction of the air is greatest. When the air becomes

lighter, it is said to be rarefied, and this rarefaction ought

apparently to be greatest where the temperature is highest. This would

be the case if the air were the only constituent of our atmosphere.

There is, however, a very important disturbing agent to be taken into

consideration, viz., aqueous vapor. There is always, when it is not

actually raining, a quantity of water rising from the surface of {210}

the sea and from every exposed water-surface, and mingling with the

air. This water is perfectly invisible: as it is in the form of vapor,

it is true steam, and its presence only becomes visible when it is

condensed so as to form a cloud. The hotter the air is, the more of

this aqueous vapor is it able to hold in the invisible condition.

We shall naturally expect to find a greater amount of this steam in

the air at places situated near the coast, than at those in the

interior of continents, and this is actually the case. The amount of

rarefaction which the dry air on the sea-coast of Hindostan undergoes

in summer, is partially compensated for by the increased tension of

the aqueous vapor, whose presence in the air is due to the action of

the sun's heat on the surface of the Indian ocean. In the interior of

Asia there is no great body of water to be found, and the winds from

the south lose most of the moisture which they contain in passing over

the Himalayas. Accordingly the air is extremely dry, and a

compensation, similar to that which is observed in Hindostan, cannot

take place. It is toward this district that the wind is sucked in, and

the attraction is sufficient to draw a portion of the south-east

trade-wind across the line into the northern hemisphere. In our winter

the region where the rarefaction is greatest is the continent of

Australia; and accordingly, in its turn, it sucks the north-east

trade-wind of the northern hemisphere across the equator. Thus we see

that in the region which extends from the coast of Australia to the

centre of Asia we have monsoons, or winds which change regularly every

six months. As to the directions of the different monsoons, we shall

discuss them when we have disposed of the trade-winds--which ought by

rights, as Professor Dove observes, rather to be considered as an

imperfectly developed monsoon, than the latter to be held as a

modification of the former.

The origin of the trade-winds is to be sought for, as before, in the

heating power of the sun, and their direction is a result of the

figure of the earth, and of its motion on its axis. When the air at

the equator rises, that in higher latitudes on either side flows in,

and would be felt as a north wind or as a south wind respectively, if

the earth's motion on its axis did not affect it. The figure of the

earth is pretty nearly that of a sphere, and, as it revolves round its

axis, it is evident that those points on its surface which are

situated at the greatest distance from the axis, will have to travel

over a greater distance in the same time than those which are near it.

Thus, for instance, London, which is nearly under the parallel of 50,

has only to travel about three-fifths of the distance which a place

like Quito, situated under the equator, has to travel in the same

time. A person situated in London is carried, imperceptibly to

himself, by the motion of the earth, through 15,000 miles toward the

eastward in the twenty-four hours; while another at Quito is carried

through 25,000 miles in the same time. Accordingly, if the Londoner,

preserving his own rate of motion, were suddenly transferred to Quito,

he would be left 10,000 miles behind the other in the course of the

twenty-four hours, or would appear to be moving in the opposite

direction, from east to west, at the rate of about 400 miles an hour.

The case would be just as if a person were to be thrown into a railway

carriage which was moving at full speed; he would appear to his

fellow-passengers to be moving in the opposite direction to them,

while in reality the motion of progression was in the train, not in

the person who was thrown into it. The air is transferred from high to

low latitudes, but this change is gradual, and the earth, accordingly,

by means of the force of friction, is able to retard its relative

velocity before it reaches the tropics so that its actual velocity,

though still considerable, is far below 400 miles an hour.

This wind comes from high latitudes and becomes more and more easterly

{211} reaching us as a nearly true north-east wind; and as it gets

into lower latitudes becoming more and more nearly east, and forming a

belt of north-east wind all round the earth on the northern side of

the equator. In the southern hemisphere, there is a similar belt of

permanent winds, which are, of course, south-easterly instead of

north-easterly. These belts are not always at equal distances at each

side of the equator, as their position is dependent on the situation

of the zone of maximum temperature for the time being. When we reach

the actual district where the air rises, we find the easterly

direction of the wind no longer so remarkable, as has been noticed by

Basil Hall and others. The reason is, that by the time that the air

reaches the district where it rises, it has obtained by means of its

friction with the earth's surface a rate of motion round the earth's

axis nearly equal to that of the earth's surface itself.

The trade-wind zones, called, by the Spaniards, the "Ladies' Sea"--_El

Golfo de las Damas_--because navigation on a sea where the wind never

changed was so easy, shift their position according to the apparent

motion of the sun in the ecliptic. In the Atlantic the north-east

trade begins in summer in the latitude of the Azores; in winter it

commences to the south of the Canaries.

In the actual trade-wind zones rain very seldom falls, any more than

it does in these countries when the east wind has well set in. The

reason of this is, that the air on its passage from high to low

latitudes is continually becoming warmer and warmer. According as its

temperature rises, its power of dissolving (so to speak) water

increases also, and so it is constantly increasing its burden of water

until it reaches the end of its journey, where it rises into the

higher regions of the atmosphere, and there is suddenly cooled. The

chilling process condenses, to a great extent, the aqueous vapor

contained in the trade-wind air, and causes it to fall in constant

discharges of heavy rain. Throughout the tropics the rainy season

coincides with that period at which the sun is in the zenith, and in

this region the heaviest rain-fall on the globe is observed. The

wettest place in the world, Cherrapoonjee, is situated in the Cossya

hills, about 250 miles northeast of Calcutta, just outside the torrid

zone. There the ram-fall is upward of 600 inches in the year, or

twenty times as much as it is on the west coasts of Scotland and

Ireland. However, in such extreme cases as this, there are other

circumstances to be taken into consideration, such as the position of

the locality as regards mountain chains, which may cause the clouds to

drift over one particular spot.

To return to the wind: When the air rises at the equatorial edge of

the trade-wind zone, it flows away above the lower trade-wind current.

The existence of an upper current in the tropics is well known.

Volcanic ashes, which have fallen in several of the West Indian

islands on several occasions, have been traced to volcanoes which lay

to the westward of the locality where the ashes fell, at a time when

there was no west wind blowing at the sea-level. To take a recent

instance: ashes fell at Kingston, Jamaica, in the year 1835, and it is

satisfactorily proved that they had been ejected from the volcano of

Coseguina, on the Pacific shore of Central America, and must

consequently have been borne to the eastward by an upward current

counter to the direction of the easterly winds which were blowing at

the time at the sea-level.

Captain Maury supposes that when the air rises, at either side of the

equator, it crosses over into the opposite hemisphere, so that there

is a constant interchange of air going on between the northern and

southern hemispheres. This he has hardly sufficiently proved, and his

views are not generally accepted. One of the arguments on which he

lays great stress in support of his theory is that on certain

occasions dust has fallen in {212} various parts of western Europe,

and that in it there have been discovered microscopical animals

similar to those which are found in South America. This appears to be

scarcely an incontrovertible proof; as Admiral Fitzroy observes:

"Certainly, such insects may be found in Brazil; but does it follow

that they are not also in Africa, under nearly the same parallel?"

This counter-current, or "anti-trade," as Sir J. Herschel has called

it, is at a high level in the atmosphere between the tropics, far

above the top of the highest mountains; but at the exterior edge of

the trade-wind zone, it descends to the surface of the ground. The

Canary islands are situated close to this edge, and accordingly we

find that there is always a westerly wind at the summit of the Peak of

Teneriffe, while the wind at the sea-level, in the same island, is

easterly throughout the summer months. Professor Piazzi Smyth, who

lived for some time on the top of that mountain, making astronomical

observations, has recorded some very interesting details of the

conflicts between the two currents, which he was able to observe

accurately from his elevated position. In winter the trade-wind zone

is situated to the south of its summer position in latitude, and at

this season the southwest wind is felt at the sea-level in the Canary

islands. Similar facts to these have been observed in other localities

where there are high mountains situated on the edge of the trade-wind

zone, as, for instance, Mouna Loa, in the Sandwich islands. There can,

therefore, be no doubt that the warm, moist west wind, which is felt

so generally in the temperate zones, is really the air returning to

the poles from the equator, which has now assumed a south-west

direction on its return journey, owing to conditions the reverse of

those which imparted to it a north-east motion on its way toward the

equator. This, then, is our south-west wind, which is so prevalent in

the North Atlantic ocean that the voyage from Europe to America is not

unfrequently called the up-hill trip, in contradistinction to the

down-hill passage home. These are the "brave west winds" of Maury,

whose refreshing action on the soil he never tires of recapitulating.

The south-west monsoons of Hindostan, which blow from May to October,

and the north-west monsoons of the Java seas, which are felt between

November and April, owe their westerly motion to a cause similar to

that of the anti-trades which we have just described. To take the case

of the monsoons of Hindostan: we have seen above how the rarefaction

of the air in Central Asia attracts the southeast trade-wind of the

southern hemisphere across the equator. This air, when it moves from

the equator into higher latitudes, brings with it the rate of motion,

to the eastward, of the equatorial regions which it has lately left,

and is felt as a south-west wind. Accordingly, the directions of the

monsoons are thus accounted for. In the winter months the true

north-east trade-wind is felt in Hindostan; while in the summer months

its place is taken by the south-east trade of the southern hemisphere,

making its appearance as the south-west monsoon. In Java, conditions

exactly converse to these are in operation, and the winds are

south-east from April to November, and north-west during the rest of

the year.

The change of one monsoon to the other is always accompanied by rough

weather, called in some places the "breaking out" of the monsoon; just

as with us the equinox, or change of the season from summer to winter,

and _vice versa_, is marked by "windy weather," or "equinoctial

gales."

The question may, however, well be asked, why there are no monsoons in

the Atlantic Ocean?

In the first place, the amount of rarefaction which the air in Africa

and in Brazil undergoes, in the respective hot seasons of those

regions, is far less considerable than that which is {213} observed in

Asia and Australia at the corresponding seasons.

Secondly, in the case of the Atlantic ocean, the two districts toward

which the air is attracted are situated within the torrid zone, while

in the Indian ocean they are quite outside the tropics, and in the

temperate zones. Accordingly, even if the suction of the air across

the equator did take place to the same extent in the former case as in

the latter, the extreme contrast in direction between the two monsoons

would not be perceptible to the same extent, owing to the fact that

the same amount of westing could not be imparted to the wind, because

it had not to travel into such high latitudes on either side of the

equator. A tendency to the production of the phenomena of the monsoons

is observable along the coast of Guinea, where winds from the south

and south-west are very generally felt. These winds are not really the

south-east trade-wind, which has been attracted across the line to the

northern hemisphere, They ought rather to be considered as of the same

nature as the land and sea breezes before referred to, since we find

it to be very generally the case, that in warm climates the ordinary

wind-currents undergo a deflection to a greater or less extent along a

coast-line such as that of Guinea, Brazil, or north of Australia.

Our readers may perhaps ask why it is, that when we allege that the

whole of the winds of the globe owe their origin to a regular

circulation of the air from the Polar regions to the equator, and back

again, we do not find more definite traces of such a circulation in

the winds of our own latitudes? The answer to this is, that the traces

of this circulation are easily discoverable if we only know how to

look for them, In the Mediterranean sea, situated near the northern

edge of the trade-wind zone, the contrast between the equatorial and

polar currents of air is very decidedly marked. The two conflicting

winds are known under various names in different parts of the

district. The polar current, on its way to join the trade-wind, is

termed the "tramontane," in other parts the "bora," the "maestral,"

etc.; while the return trade-wind, bringing rain, is well known under

the name of the "sirocco." In Switzerland the same wind is called the

"Fohn," and is a warm wind, which causes the ice and snow to melt

rapidly, and constantly brings with it heavy rain.

In these latitudes the contrast is not so very striking, but even here

every one knows that the only winds which last for more than a day or

two at a time are the north-east and the south-west winds, the former

of which is dry and cold, the latter moist and warm. The difference

between these winds is much more noticeable in winter than in summer,

inasmuch as in the latter season Russia and the northern part of Asia

enjoy, relatively to the British Islands, a much higher temperature

than is the case in winter; so that the air which moves from those

regions during the summer months does not come to us from a climate

which is colder than our own, but from one which is warmer.

So far, then, we have attempted to trace the ordinary wind-currents,

but as yet there are very many questions connected therewith which are

not quite sufficiently explained. To mention one of these, we hear

from many observers on the late Arctic expeditions, that the most

marked characteristic of the winds in the neighborhood of Baffin's

Bay, is the great predominance of north-westerly winds. It is not as

yet, nor can it ever be satisfactorily, decided how far to the

northward and westward this phenomenon is noticeable. The question

then is, Whence does this north-west wind come?

As to the causes of the sudden changes of wind, and of storms, they

are as yet shrouded in mystery, and we cannot have much expectation

that in our lifetime, at least, much will be done to unravel the web.

Meteorology is a very young science--if it deserves {214} the title of

science at all--and until observations for a long series of years

shall have been made at many stations, we shall not be in the

possession of trustworthy facts on which to ground our reasoning. It

is merely shoving the difficulty a step further off to assign these

irregular variations to atmospheric waves. It will be time enough to

reason accurately about the weather and its changes when we ascertain

what these atmospheric waves are, and what causes them. Until the

"astro-meteorologists" will tell us the principles on which their

calculations are based, we must decline to receive their predictions

as worthy of any credence whatever.

------

From The Month.

EUGENIE AND MAURICE DE GUERIN.

The life of Eugenie de Guerin forms a great contrast with those which

are generally brought before the notice of the world. Not only did she

not seek for fame, but the circumstances of her life were the very

ones which generally tend to keep a woman in obscurity. Her life was

passed in the deepest retirement of a country home. The society even

of a provincial town was not within her reach. Poverty placed a bar

between her and the means for study in congenial society. The routine

of her life shut her out from great deeds or unusual achievements. In

fact, her life, so far from being a deviation from the ordinary track

which women have to tread, was a very type of the existence which

seems to be marked out for the majority of women, and at which they

are so often wont to murmur. The want of an aim in life, the necessity

of some fixed, engrossing occupation, and the _ennui_ which follows on

the deprivation of these, forms the staple trial of thousands of

women, especially in England, where there is much intellectual vigor

with so little power for its exercise. That the reaction from this

deprivation is shown by "fastness," or an excessive love of dress and

amusement, is acknowledged by the most keen observers of human nature.

But to the large class of women who, disdaining such means of

distraction, bear their burden patiently, Eugenie de Guerin's _Journal

et Lettres_ possess an intense interest. Her life was so uneventful

that it absolutely affords no materials for a biography, but her

character is so full of interest that her name is now a familiar one

in England and France.

Far away in the heart of sunny Languedoc stands the chateau of Le

Cayla, the home of the de Guerins. They were of noble blood. The old

chateau was full of reminiscences of the deeds of their ancestors. De

Guerin, Bishop of Senlis and Chancellor of France, had gone forth,

with a valor scarcely befitting his episcopal character, to animate

the troops at the battle of Bouvines; and from the walls of Le Cayla

looked down from his portrait de Guerin, Grand Master of the Knights

of Malta in 1206. A cardinal, a troubadour, and countless gallant and

noble soldiers filled up the family rolls--the best blood in France

had mingled with theirs; but now the family were obscure, forgotten,

and poor. But these circumstances were no hindrances to the happiness

of Eugenie's early life.

"My childhood passed away like one long summer-day," said she {215}

afterward. Thirteen happy years fled by. There was the father,

cherished with tender, self-forgetting love; the brother Eranbert; the

sister Marie, the youngest pet of the household; the beautiful and

precocious Maurice; and the mother, the centre of all, loving and

beloved. But a shadow suddenly fell on the sunny landscape, and Madame

de Guerin lay on her death-bed, when, calling to her Eugenie, her

eldest child, she gave to her especial charge Maurice, then aged

seven, and his mother's darling. The dying lips bade Eugenie fill a

mother's place to him, and the sensitive and enthusiastic girl

received the words into her heart, and never forgot them.

From that day her childhood, almost her youth, ended; and it is

without exaggeration we may say that the depth of maternal love passed

into her heart. Henceforth Maurice was the one object and the

absorbing thought of her heart, second only to one other, and that no

love of earth. Sometimes, indeed, that passionate devotion to Maurice

disputed the sway of the true Master, as we shall hereafter see, but

it was never ultimately victorious. It was not likely that their lives

should for long run side by side. The extraordinary brilliancy of

Maurice's gifts made his father determine upon cultivating his mind.

As soon as possible, he was sent first to the _petit seminaire_ at

Toulouse, and then to the college Stanislaus at Paris.

Maurice de Guerin was a singularly endowed being. He possessed that

kind of personal beauty so very rare among men, and which is so hard

to describe--a spiritual beauty, which insensibly draws the hearts of

others to its possessor. Added to this, he had that sweetness of tone

and manner, that instinctive power of sympathy, that sparkling

brilliance which made him idolized by those who knew him, which

rendered him literally the darling of his friends. "_Il etait leur

vie_," said those who spoke of him after he was gone from earth.

The early and ardent aspirations of this gifted being were turned

heavenward. His youthful head was devoutly bowed in prayer. The

country people called him "_le jeune saint_;" and his conduct at the

_petit seminaire_ gave such satisfaction that the Archbishop of

Toulouse, and also the Archbishop of Rouen, offered to take the whole

charge of his future education on themselves; but his father refused

both. The temptations of a college life had left him scathless, and

the longing of his soul was for the consecration of the priesthood.

What he might have been, had he fallen into other hands, cannot now be

known. Whether there was an inherent weakness and effeminacy in the

character which would have unfitted him for the awful responsibilities

of the priestly office, we know not. At all events, he was attracted,

as many minds of undoubted superiority were at that time, by the

extraordinary brilliancy and commanding genius of de Lamennais; and

Maurice de Guerin found himself in the solitude of La Chesnaie, a

fellow-student with Hippolyte Lacordaire, Montalembert, Saint-Beuve,

and a group of others. Here some years of his life were spent, divided

between prayer, study, and brilliant conversation, led and sustained

by M. de Lamennais. Maurice, of a shy and diffident disposition, does

not seem to have attached himself to Lamennais, although he admired

and looked up to him, and although the insidious portion of his

teaching was making havoc with his faith.

And now, it may be asked, what of Eugenie? Dwelling in an obscure

province, with no other living guide than a simple parish cure, with a

natural enthusiastic reverence for genius, and a predilection for all

Maurice's friends, was she not dazzled from afar off by this great

teacher of men's minds, this earnest reformer of abuses? The instinct

of the single in heart was hers. Long ere others had discerned the

canker eating away the fruit so fair to look on, Eugenie, with

prophetic voice, was warning Maurice. {216} Lacordaire's noble soul

was yet ensnared. Madam Swetchine's remonstrances had not yet

prevailed; while this young girl in the country, whose name no one

knew, was watching and praying for the issue of the deliberations at

La Chesnaie.

At length the break-up came--the memorable journey to Rome was over.

Submission had been required, and Lacordaire had given it. "Silence is

the second power in the world," he had said to Lamennais; and he had

withdrawn with him to La Chesnaie for a time of retreat, where he was

soon undeceived as to Lamennais' intentions. And these two great men

parted--one to reap the fruits of patient obedience in the success of

one of the greatest works wrought in his century, to gain a mastery

over the men of his age, and to die at last worn out by labors before

his time, the beloved child of the Church, whose borders he had

enlarged, whose honor he had defended; the other, to follow the course

of self-will, and to quench his light in utter darkness.

The students of La Chesnaie went away, and Maurice was thrown on the

world with no definite employment. An unsuccessful attachment deepened

the natural melancholy of his sensitive nature. He went to Paris, and

was soon in the midst of the literary world. He wrote, and obtained

fame; he was admired and sought after; but the beautiful faith of his

youth faded away like a flower, and the innocent pleasures of his

childhood, and the passionate love of his sister, had no attractions

for him compared to the brilliant circles of Parisian society.

And thus was Eugenie's fate marked out. From afar off her heart

followed him; and, partly for his amusement, partly to relieve the

outpourings of her intensely-loving heart, she kept a journal,

intended for Maurice's eye only. A few letters to Maurice and one or

two intimate friends make up the rest of the volume, which was, after

her death, most fortunately given to the world. In these pages her

character stands revealed, and no long description of her mode of life

could have made us more thoroughly acquainted with her than these

words, written sometimes in joy, sometimes in sorrow, in weariness and

depression, in all weathers, and at all times; for, believing that she

pleased her brother, nothing would prevent her from keeping her

promise of a daily record of her life and thoughts. Its chief beauty

lies in that she made so much out of so little. "I have just come away

very happy from the kitchen, where I stood a long time this evening,

to persuade Paul, one of our servants, to go to confession at

Christmas. He has promised me, and he is a good boy and will keep his

word. Thank God, my evening is not lost! What a happiness it would be

if I could thus every day gain a soul for God! Walter Scott has been

neglected this evening; but what book could have been worth to me what

Paul's promise is? . . . _The 20th_.--I am so fond of the snow! Its

perfect whiteness has something celestial about it. To-day I see

nothing but road-tracks, and the marks of the feet of little birds.

Lightly as they rest, they leave their little traces in a thousand

forms upon the snow. It is so pretty to see their little red feet, as

if they were all drawn with pencils of coral. Winter has its beauties

and its enjoyments, and we find them every-where when we know how to

see them. God spreads grace and beauty everywhere. ... I must have

another dish to-day for S.R., who is come to see us. He does not often

taste good things--that is why I wish to treat him well; for it is to

the desolate that, it seems to me, we should pay attentions. No

reading to-day. I have made a cap for a little child, which has taken

up all my time. But, provided one works, be it with the head or the

fingers, it is all the same in the eyes of God, who takes account of

every work done in his name. I hope, then, that my cap has been a

charity--I have given my time, a little material, and a thousand

interesting lines that I could {217} have read. Papa brought me

yesterday _Ivanhoe_, and the _Siecle de Louis XIV_. Here are

provisions for some of our long winter evenings."

Then she had a keen sense of enjoyment, and a wonderful faculty of

making the best of things. Thus a simple pleasure to her was a source

of delight. Here is her description of Christmas night in Languedoc:

"_Dec. 31_. I have written nothing for a fortnight. Do not ask me why.

There are times when we cannot speak, things of which we can say

nothing. Christmas is come--that beautiful fete which I love the most,

which brings me as much joy as the shepherds of Bethlehem. Truly our

whole soul sings at the coming of the Lord, which is announced to us

on all sides by hymns and by the pretty _nadalet_. [Footnote 49]

Nothing in Paris can give an idea of what Christmas is. You have not

even midnight mass. [Footnote 50] We all went to it, papa at our

head, on a most charming night. There is no sky more beautiful than

that of midnight: it was such that papa kept putting his head out of

his cloak to look at it. The earth was white with frost, but we were

not cold, and, beside, the air around us was warmed by the lighted

fagots that our servants carried to light us. It was charming, I

assure you, and I wish I could have seen you sliding along with us

toward the church on the road, bordered with little white shrubs, as

if they were flowering. The frost makes such pretty flowers! We saw

one wreath so pretty that we wanted to make it a bouquet for the

Blessed Sacrament, but it melted in our hands; all flowers last so

short a time. I very much regretted my bouquet; it was so sad to see

it melt drop by drop. I slept at the presbytery. The cure's good

sister kept me, and gave me an excellent _reveillon_ of hot milk."

Then, again, the grave part of her nature prevails, and she continues:

[Footnote 49: A particular way of ringing the bells during the

fifteen days which precede the feast of Christmas, called in _patois

nodal_.]

[Footnote 50: Since the period at which Mdlle. de Guerin wrote,

midnight mass has been resumed in Paris.]

"These are, then, my last thoughts; for I shall write nothing more

this year; in a few hours it will be over, and we shall have begun a

new year. Oh, how quickly time passes! Alas, alas, can I say that I

regret it? No, my God, I do not regret time, or anything that it

brings; it is not worth while to throw our affections into its stream.

But empty, useless days, lost for heaven, this causes me regret as I

look back on life. Dearest, where shall I be at this day, at this

hour, at this minute, next year? Will it be here, elsewhere; here

below, or above? God only knows; I am before the door of the future,

resigned to all that can come forth from it. To-morrow I will pray for

your happiness, for papa, Mimi, Eran [her other brother and sister],

and all those whom I love. It is the day for presents; I will take

mine from heaven. I draw all from thence, for truly there are few

things which please me on earth. The longer I live, the less it

pleases me, and I see the years pass by without sorrow, because they

are but steps to the other world. Do not think it is any sorrow or

trouble which makes me think this. I assure you it is not, but a

home-sickness comes over my soul when I think of heaven. The clock

strikes; it is the last I shall hear when writing to you."

The following is an account of what she called "a happy day:" "God be

blessed for a day without sorrow. They are rare in this life, and my

soul, more than others, is soon troubled. A word, a memory, the sound

of a voice, a sad face, nothing, I know not what, often troubles the

serenity of my soul--a little sky, darkened by the smallest cloud.

This day I received a letter from Gabrielle, the cousin whom I love so

for her sweetness and beautiful mind. I was uneasy about her health,

which is so delicate, having heard nothing of her for more than a

month. I was so pleased to see a letter from her, that I read it

before my prayers. I was so eager to read it. To see a letter, and not

to open it, is {218} an impossible thing. Another letter was given to

me at Cahuzac. It was from Lili, another sweet friend, but quite

withdrawn from the world; a pure soul--a soul like snow, from its

purity so white that I am confounded when I look at it--a soul made

for the eyes of God. I was coming from Cahuzac, very pleased with my

letter, when I saw a little boy, weeping as if his heart were broken.

He had broken his jug, and thought his father would beat him. I saw

that with half a franc I could make him happy, so I took him to a

shop, where we got another jug. Charles X. could not be happier if he

regained his crown. Has it not been a beautiful day?"

Here is another instance of the way she had of beautifying the most

simple incidents: "I must notice, in passing, an excellent supper that

we have had--papa, Mimi, and I--at the corner of the kitchen-fire,

with the servants: soup, some boiled potatoes, and a cake that I made

yesterday with the dough from the bread. Our only servants were the

dogs Lion, Wolf, and Tritly, who licked up the fragments. All our

people were in church for the instruction which is given for

confirmation;" and, she adds, "it was a charming meal."

The daily devotions of the month of Mary were very recently

established when Eugenie wrote; she speaks thus of them: on one first

of May when absent from home, she writes: "On this day, at this

moment, my holy Mimi (a pet name for her sister) is on her knees

before the little altar for the month of Mary in my room. Dear sister,

I join myself to her, and find a chapel here also. They have given me

for this purpose a room filled with flowers; in it I have made a

church, and Marie, with her little girls, servants, shepherds, and all

the household, assemble together every evening before the Blessed

Virgin. They came at first only to look on, for they had never kept

the month of Mary before. Some good will result to them of this new

devotion, if it is only one idea, a single idea, of their Christian

duties, which these people know so little of, and which we can teach

them while amusing them. These popular devotions please me so, because

they are so attractive in their form, and thereby offer such an easy

method of instruction. By their means, salutary truths appear most

pleasing, and all hearts are gained in the name of our Lady and of her

sweet virtues. I love the month of Mary, and the other little

devotions which the Church permits; which she blesses; which are born

at the feet of the Faith like flowers at the mountain-foot."

Speaking of St. Teresa, to whom she had a great devotion, she says: "I

am pleased to remember that, when I lost my mother, I went, like St.

Teresa, to throw myself at the feet of the Blessed Virgin, and begged

her to take me for her daughter." At another time she says: "To-day,

very early, I went to Vieux, to visit the relics of the saints, and,

in particular, those of St. Eugenie, my patron. I love pilgrimages,

remnants of the ancient faith; but these are not the days for them; in

the greater number of people the spirit for them is dead. However, if

M. le Cure does not have this procession to Vieux, there will be

discontent. Credulity abounds where faith disappears. We have,

however, many good souls, worthy to please the saints, like Rose

Drouille, who knows how to meditate, who has learnt so much from the

rosary; then Francon de Gaillard and her daughter Jacquette, so

recollected in church. This holy escort did not accompany me; I was

alone with my good angel and Mimi. Mass heard, my prayers finished, I

left with one hope more. I had come to ask something from St. Eugene?

The saints are our brothers. If you were all-powerful, would you not

give me all that I desired? This is what I was thinking of while

invoking St. Eugene, who is also my patron. We have so little in this

world, at least let us hope in the other."

Those who are not of the same faith as Eugenie de Guerin have not

failed {219} to be attracted by the depth and ardor of her faith and

piety. A writer in the _Cornhill Magazine_ observes, "The relation to

the priest, the practice of confession assume, when she speaks of

them, an aspect which is not that under which Exeter Hall knows them."

"In my leisure time I read a work of Leitniz, which delighted me by

its catholicity and the pious things which I found in it--like this on

confession:

"'I regard a pious, grave, and prudent confessor as a great instrument

of God for the salvation of souls; for his counsels serve to direct

our affections, to enlighten us about our faults, to make us avoid the

occasions of sin, to dissipate our doubts, to raise up our broken

spirit; finally, to cure or to mitigate all the maladies of the soul;

and, if we can never find on earth anything more excellent than a

faithful friend, what happiness is it not to find one who is obliged,

by the inviolable law of a divine sacrament, to keep faith with us and

to succor souls?'

"This celestial friend I have in M. Bories, and therefore the news of

his departure has deeply affected me. I am sad with a sadness which

makes the soul weep. I should not say this to any one else; they would

not, perhaps, understand me, and would take it ill. In the world they

know not what a confessor is--a man who is a friend of our soul, our

most intimate confidant, our physician, our light, our teacher--a

friend who binds us to him, and is bound to us; who gives us peace,

who opens heaven to us, who speaks to us while we, kneeling, call him,

like God, our father; and faith truly makes him God and father. When I

am at his feet, I see nothing else in him than Jesus listening to

Magdalen, and pardoning much because she has loved much. Confession is

but an expansion of repentance in love."

Again she writes: "I have learnt that M. Bories is about to leave us--

this good and excellent father of my soul. Oh, how I regret him! What

a loss it will be to me to lose this good guide of my conscience, of

my heart, my mind, of my whole self, which God had confided to him,

and which I had trusted to him with such perfect freedom! I am sad

with the sadness which makes the soul weep. My God, in my desert to

whom shall I have recourse? Who will sustain me in my spiritual

weakness? who will lead me on to great sacrifices? It is in this last,

above all, that I regret M. Bories. He knew what God had put into my

heart. I needed his strength to follow it. The new cure cannot replace

him; he is so young; then he appears so inexperienced, so undecided.

It is necessary to be firm to draw a soul from the midst of the world,

and to sustain it against the assaults of flesh and blood.

"It is Saturday--the day of pilgrimage to Cahuzac. I will go there;

perhaps I shall come back more tranquil. God has always given me some

blessing in that chapel, where I have left so many miseries... I was

not mistaken in thinking that I should come back more tranquil. M.

Bories is not going! How happy I am, and how thankful to God for this

favor. It is such a great blessing to me to keep this good father,

this good guide, this choice of God for my soul, as St. Francis de

Sales expresses it.

"Confession is such a blessed thing, such a happiness for the

Christian soul; a great good, and always greater in measure when we

feel it to be so; and when the heart of the priest, into which we pour

our sorrow, resembles that Divine Heart _which has loved us so much_.

This is what attaches me to M. Bories; you will understand it."

Nevertheless, when the trial of parting with this beloved friend did

come, at length, it was borne with gentle submission.

"Our pastor is come to see us. I have not said much to you about him.

He is a simple and good man, knowing his duties well, and speaking

better of God than of the world, which he knows little of. Therefore,

he does not shine in conversation. {220} His conversation is ordinary,

and those who do not know what the true spirit of a priest is would

think little of him. He does good in the parish, for his gentleness

wins souls. He is our father now. I find him young after M. Bories. I

miss that strong and powerful teaching which strengthened me; but it

is God who has taken it from me. Let us submit and walk like children,

without looking at the hand which leads us."

Eugenie's life revolved round that of Maurice. No length of separation

could weaken her affection, nor make her interest in his pursuits less

engrossing. His letters, so few and so scanty, were treasured up and

dwelt upon in many a lonely hour. She suffered with him, wept over his

disappointments, and prayed for his return to the faith of his youth

with all the earnestness of her soul. With exquisite tact she avoided

preaching to him. It was rather by showing him what religion was to

her that she strove to lead him back to its practice.

"_Holy Thursday_.--I have come back all fragrant from the chapel of

moss, in the church where the Blessed Sacrament is reposing. It is a

beautiful day when God wills to rest among the flowers and perfumes of

the springtime. Mimi, Rose, and I made this _reposoir_, aided by M. le

Cure. I thought, as we were doing it, of the supper-room, of that

chamber well furnished, where Jesus willed to keep the pasch with his

disciples, giving himself for the Lamb. Oh, what a gift! What can one

say of the Eucharist? I know nothing to say. We adore; we possess; we

live; we love. The soul is without words, and loses itself in an abyss

of happiness. I thought of you among these ecstasies, and ardently

desired to have you at my side, at the holy table, as I had three

years ago."

Mademoiselle de Guerin occasionally composed; her brother was very

anxious she should publish her productions, but she shrank from the

responsibility. "St. Jean de Damas," she remarks, "was forbidden to

write to any one, and for having composed some verses for a friend he

was expelled from the convent. That seemed to me very severe; but one

sees the wisdom of it, when, after supplication and much humility, the

saint had been forgiven, he was ordered to write and to employ his

talents in conquering the enemies of Jesus Christ. He was found strong

enough to enter the lists when he had been stripped of pride. He wrote

against the iconoclasts. Oh, if many illustrious writers had begun by

a lesson of humility, they would not have made so many errors nor so

many books. Pride has blinded them, and thus see the fruits which they

produce, into how many errors they lead the erring. But this chapter

on the science of evil is too wide for me. I should prefer saying that

I have sewn a sheet. A sheet leads me to reflect, it will cover so

many people, so many different slumbers--perhaps that of the tomb. Who

knows if it will not be my shroud, and if these stitches which I make

will not be unpicked by the worms? While I was sewing, papa told me

that he had sent, without my knowledge, some of my verses to Bayssac,

and I have seen the letter where M. de Bagne speaks of them and says

they are very good. A little vanity came to me and fell into my

sewing. Now I tell myself the thought of death is good to keep us from

sin. It moderates joy, tempers sadness, makes us see that all which

passes by us is transitory."

Again she writes: "Dear one, I would that I could see you pray like a

good child of God. What would it cost you? Your soul is naturally

loving, and prayer is nothing else but love; a love which spreads

itself out into the soul as the water flows from the fountain."

******

"_Ash-Wednesday_.--Here I am, with ashes on my forehead and serious

thoughts in my mind. This 'Remember thou art dust!' is terrible to me.

I hear it all day long. I cannot banish {221} the thought of death,

particularly in your room, where I no longer find you, where I saw you

so ill, where I have sad memories both of your presence and your

absence. One thing only is bright--the little medal of Our Lady,

suspended over the head of your bed. It is still untarnished and in

the same place where I put it to be your safeguard. I wish you knew,

dearest, the pleasure I have in seeing it--the remembrances, the

hopes, the secret thoughts that are connected with that holy image. I

shall guard it as a relic; and, if ever you return to sleep in that

little bed, you shall sleep again near the medal of the Blessed

Virgin. Take from, me this confidence and love, not to a bit of metal,

but to the image of the Mother of God. I should like to know, if in

your new room I should see St. Teresa, who used to hang in your other

room near the _benitier:_

'Ou toi, necessiteux

Defaillant, tu prenais l'aumone dans ce creux.'

You will no longer, I fear, seek alms there. Where will you seek them?

Who can tell? Is the world in which you live rich enough for all your

necessities? Maurice, if I could but make you understand one of these

thoughts, breathe into you what I believe, and what I learn in pious

books--those beautiful reflections of the Gospel--if I could see you a

Christian, I would give life and all for that."

******

Maurice's absence was the great trial of Eugenie's life; but there

were minor trials also, concerning the little things that make up the

sum of our happiness. She suffered intensely and constantly from

_ennui_. Her active, enterprising mind had not sufficient food to

sustain it, and bravely did she fight against this constant depression

and weariness.

A duller life than hers could hardly be found; she had literally

"nothing to do." She had no society, for she lived at a distance from

her friends. Sometimes the cure called, sometimes a priest from a

neighboring parish, and then the monotonous days went on without a

single incident. There was no outward sign of the struggle going on.

Speaking of her father, she says: "A grave look makes him think there

is some trouble, so I conceal the passing clouds from him; it is but

right that he should only see and know my calm and serene side. A

daughter should be gentle to her father. We ought to be to them

something like the angels are to God."

Nor would she distract her thoughts by any means which might injure

her soul. "I have scarcely read the author whose work you sent, though

I admired him as I do M. Hugo; but these geniuses have blemishes which

wound a woman's eye. I detest to meet with what I do not wish to see;

and this makes me close so many books. I have had _Notre Dame de

Paris_ under my hands a hundred times to-day; and the style,

_Esmeralda_, and so many pretty things in it, tempt me, and say to me,

'Read--look.' I looked; I turned it over; but the stains here and

there stopped me. I read no more, and contented myself with looking at

the pictures." At another time, when she is staying at a "deserted

house," rather duller than her own, she writes: "The devil tempted me

just now in a little room, where I found a number of romances. 'Read a

word,' he said to me; 'let us see that; look at this;' but the titles

of the books displeased me. I am no longer tempted now, and will go

only to change the books in this room, or rather to throw them into

the fire."

There was one sovereign remedy for her ills, and she sought for it

with fidelity, and reaped her reward.

"This morning I was suffering. Well, at present, I am calm; and this I

owe to faith, simply to faith, to an act of faith. I can think of

death and eternity without trouble, without alarm. Over a deep of

sorrow there floats a divine calm, a serenity, which is the work of

God only. In vain have I tried other things at a time like this; {222}

nothing human comforts the soul, nothing human upholds it.

'A l'enfant il faut sa mere,

A mon ame il faut mon Dieu.'"

At another time of suffering she writes: "God only can console us when

the heart is sorrowful: human helps are not enough; they sink beneath

it, it is so weighed down by sorrow. The reed must have more than

other reeds to lean on."

******

"To distract my thoughts, I have been turning over Lamartine, the dear

poet. I love his hymn to the nightingale, and many other of his

'Harmonies' but they are far from having the effect on me that his

'Meditations' used to have. I was ravished and in ecstacy with them. I

was but sixteen, and time changes many things. The great poet no

longer makes my heart vibrate; to-day he has not even power to

distract my thoughts. I must try something else, for I must not

cherish _ennui_, which injures the soul. What can I do? It is not good

for me to write, to communicate trouble to others. I will leave pen

and ink. I know something better, for I have tried it a hundred times;

it is prayer--prayer which calms me when I say to my soul before God,

'Why art thou sad, and wherefore art thou troubled?' I know not what

he does in answering me, but it quiets me just like a weeping child

when it sees its mother. The Divine compassion and tenderness is truly

maternal toward us."

******

And, further on: "Now I have something better to do than write: I will

go and pray. Oh, how I love prayer! I would that all the world knew

how to pray. I would that children, and the old, and the poor, the

afflicted, the sick in soul and body--all who live and suffer--could

know the balm that prayer is. But I know not how to speak of these

things. We cannot tell what is ineffable."

She had said once, as we have seen, that she would give life and all

to see Maurice once more serving God. She had written to him thus, not

carelessly indeed, but as we are too wont to write--not counting the

cost, because we know not what the cost is. She wrote thus, and God

took her at her word, and he asked from her not life, as she then

meant it, but her life's life. First came the trial of a temporary

estrangement. Her journal suddenly stops; she believed it wearied him,

and, without a word of reproach, she silenced her eager pen. Maurice,

however, declared she was mistaken, and she joyfully resumed her task

with words which would evidence, if nothing else were left, us, the

intense depth of her love for her brother. "I was in the wrong. So

much the better; for I had feared it had been your fault." Then

Maurice's health, which had always been delicate, began to fail, and

her heart was tortured at the thought of him suffering, away from her

loving care, unable to send her news of him.

"I have, been reading the epistle about the child raised to life by

Elias. Oh, if I knew some prophet, some one who would give back life

and health, I would go, like the Shunamite, and throw myself at his

feet."

And again, most touchingly, she says: "A letter from Felicite, which

tells me nothing better about you. When will those who know more

write? If they knew how a woman's heart beats, they would have more

pity."

Maurice recovered from these attacks, and in the autumn of 1836

married a young and pretty Creole lady. He had not the violent

attachment as to the "Louise" of his early youth; but the union seemed

a suitable one on both sides. One of Eugenie's brief visits to Paris

was made for the purpose of being present at her brother's marriage.

It was a romantic scene. It took place in the chapel of the old and

quaint Abbaye aux Bois. The church was filled with brilliant and

admiring friends. The bride and bridegroom, both so beautiful, knelt

before the altar; the Pere Bugnet, who had {223} known Maurice as a

boy, blessed the union. The gay procession passed from the church, and

met a funeral cortege! It fell like an omen on Eugenie's heart. Six

short months went by, and Eugenie was again summoned to Paris, to

Maurice's sick-bed--his dying-bed it indeed was, but his sister's

passionate love would not relinquish hope. The physicians, catching at

a straw, prescribed native air, and the invalid caught at the proposal

with feverish impatience. That eager longing sustained him through the

long and terrible journey of twenty days; for, the moment he revived,

he would be laid in the salon, and see the home-faces gathered round

him. Then he was carried to his room, and soon the end came. At last

Eugenie knew that he must go, and all the powers of her soul were

gathered into that one prayer, that he might die at peace with God.

Calmly she bent over him, and kissed the forehead, damp with the dews

of death.

"Dearest, M. le Cure is coming, and you will confess. You have no

difficulty in speaking to M. le Cure?" "Not at all," he answered. "You

will prepare for confession, then?" He asked for his prayer-book, and

had the prayers read to him.

When the priest came, he asked for more time to prepare. At last the

cure was summoned.

"Never have I heard a confession better made," said the priest

afterward. As he was leaving the room, Maurice called him back, and

made a solemn retraction of the doctrines of M. de Lamennais. Then

came the Viaticum and the last anointing. Life ebbed away; he pressed

the hand of the cure, who was by him to the last, he kissed his

crucifix, and died. Eugenie's prayer was heard. He died, but at home;

a wanderer come back; an erring child, once more forgiven, resting on

his Father's breast.

And he was gone!--"king of my heart! my other self!" as she had called

him--and Eugenie was left behind. She had loved him too well for her

eternal peace, and it was necessary that she should be purified in the

crucible of suffering. Very gradually she parted from him; the gates

of the tomb closed not on her love; slowly she uprooted the fibres of

her nature which had been entwined in his. Her journal did not end,

and she wrote still to him--to Maurice in heaven: "Oh, my beloved

Maurice! Maurice, art thou far from me? hearest thou me? Sometimes I

shed torrents of tears; then the soul is dried up. All my life will be

a mourning one; my heart is desolate." Then, reproaching herself, she

turns to her only consolation: "Do I not love thee, my God? only true

and Eternal Love! It seems to me that I love thee as the fearful

Peter, but not like John, who rested on thy heart--divine repose which

I so need. What do I seek in creatures? To make a pillow of a human

breast? Alas! I have seen how death can take that from us. Better to

lean, Jesus, on thy crown of thorns.

******

"This day year, we went together to St. Sulpice, to the one o'clock

mass. To-day I have been to Lentin in the rain, with bitter memories,

in solitude. But, my soul, calm thyself with thy God, whom thou hast

received to-day, in that little church. He is thy brother, thy friend,

the well-beloved above all; whom thou canst never see die; who can

never fail thee, in this world or the next. Let us console ourselves

with this thought, that in God we shall find again all we have lost."

One great desire was, however, left to her; that of publishing the

letters and writings of Maurice, and of winning for her beloved one

the fame which she so despised for herself. A tribute to his memory

appeared the year after his death, in the _Revue des deux Mondes_,

from the brilliant pen of Madame Sand; but it was the source of more

pain than pleasure to Eugenie. With the want of candor which is so

often a characteristic of the class of writers to whom Madame Sand

{224} belongs, she represented Maurice as a man totally without faith.

Eugenie believed that he had never actually lost it, although it had

been darkened and obscured; and she was certainly far more in his

confidence than any of his friends.

For some time before his death he had gradually been returning to

religious exercises; and, as we have seen, on his death-bed, he had

most fully retracted and repented of whatever errors there had been in

his life. But Madame Sand was not very likely to trouble herself about

the dying moments of her friend, while it was another triumph to

infidelity to let the world think this brilliant young man lived and

died in its ranks.

"Madame Sand makes Maurice a skeptic, a great poet, like Byron, and it

afflicts me to see the name of my brother--a name which was free from

these lamentable errors--thus falsely represented to the world." And

again: "Oh, Madame Sand is right when she says that his words are like

the diamonds linked together, which make a diadem; or, rather, my

Maurice was all one diamond. Blessed be those who estimated his price;

blessed be the voice which praises him, which places him so high, with

so much respect and enthusiasm! But on one point this voice is

mistaken--when she says he had no faith. No; faith was not wanting in

him. I proclaim it, and attest it by what I have seen and heard; by

his prayers, his pious reading; by the sacraments he received; by all

his Christian actions; by the death which opened life unto him--a

death with his crucifix."

This article of Madame Sand only increased Eugenie's desire to

vindicate her brother, by letting the world judge from his own

writings and letters what Maurice really was. Many projects were set

on foot for publishing this work. Rather than leave it undone, Eugenie

would have undertaken it herself, though her broken spirit shrank more

than ever from any sort of notoriety, or communication with the busy

world outside her quiet home. But she would greatly have preferred the

task should be accomplished by one of his friends; and much of her

correspondence was devoted to the purpose. Time passed, and plan after

plan fell to the ground. This last satisfaction was not to be hers.

She was to see, as she thought, the name of her beloved one gradually

fading away, and forgotten as years went on. To the very last drop she

was to drain the cup of disappointment and loss. Her journal ceased,

and its last sentence was, "Truly did the saint speak who said, 'Let

us throw our hearts into eternity.'"

There are a few fragments and letters, which carry us on some years

later; and in one of the last of these letters, dated 15th of June,

1845, we find these consoling words: "I have suffered; but God teaches

us thus, and leads us to willingly place our hearts above. You are

again in mourning, and I have felt your loss deeply. I mean the death

of your poor brother. Alas! what is life but a continual separation?

But you will meet in heaven, and there will be no more mourning nor

tears; and there the society of saints will reward us for what we have

suffered in the society of men. And, while waiting, there is nothing

else to do than to humble one's self, as the Apostle says, 'under the

mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in the time of visitation;

casting all your care upon him, for he hath care of you.'"

These are almost her closing words; and thus we see God comforted her.

Three years more passed, of which we have no record; and we cannot but

deeply regret the determination of M. Trebutien not to give any

account of her beyond her own words. As long as they lasted, they are

indeed sufficient; but we would have fain followed her into the

silence of those last years, and have seen the soul gradually passing

to its rest. We would have liked to know if the friends she loved

soothed her dying hours--whether M. Bories, with his "strong {225} and

powerful words," was by her side in her last earthly struggle. But a

veil falls over it all. We feel assured, as we close the volume, that

whatever human means were wanting, the God she had faithfully served

consoled his child to the last, and sustained her mortal weakness till

she reposed in him. After her death, her heart's wish was fulfilled,

and abundant honor has been rendered to Maurice de Guerin. Nay, more;

for homage is ever given to the majesty of unselfish love; and from

henceforth, if Maurice the poet shall be forgotten, Maurice the

brother of Eugenie will never be. She has embalmed his memory with her

deep and fond devotion; and she has left a living record of how, in

the midst of a wearisome, an objectless, a monotonous life, a woman

may find work to do, and doing it, like Eugenie, with all her might,

leave behind her a track of light by which others may follow after

her, encouraged and consoled.

F.

------

THE BUILDING OF MOURNE.

A LEGEND OF THE BLACKWATER.

BY ROBERT D. JOYCE.

Rome, according to the old aphorism, was not built in a day. Neither

was the old town of Mourne, although it was destroyed in a day, and

made fit almost for the sowing of salt upon its foundations, by the

great Lord of Thomond, Murrough of the Ferns, when he gathered around

it his rakehelly kerns, as Spenser in his spleen called them, and his

fierce galloglasses and roving hobbelers. But the present story has

naught to do with the spoliation and burning of towns. Far different,

indeed, was the founding of Mourne, to the story of the disastrous

termination of its prosperity. You will look in vain to the histories

for a succinct or circumstantial account of the building of this

ancient town; but many a more famous city has its early annals

involved in equal obscurity--Rome, for instance. What tangible fact

can be laid hold of with regard to its early history, save the

will-o'-the-wisp light emanating from the traditions of a more modern

day? A cimmerian cloud of darkness overhangs its founding and youthful

progress, through which the double-distilled microscopic eyes of the

historian are unable to penetrate with any degree of certainty.

Mourne, however, though it cannot boast of a long-written history,

possesses an oral one of remarkable perspicuity and certainty. The men

are on the spot who, with a mathematical precision worthy of

Archimedes or Newton, will relate everything about it, from its

foundation to its fall. The only darkness cast upon their most

circumstantial history is the elysian cloud from their luxuriant

dudheens, as they whiff away occasionally, and relate--

That there was long ago a certain Dhonal, a nobleman of the warlike

race of Mac Caurha, who ruled over Duhallow, and the wild mountainous

territories extending downward along the banks of the Blackwater. This

nobleman, after a long rule of prosperity and peace, at length grew

weary of inaction, and manufactured in his pugnacious brain some cause

of mortal affront and complaint against a neighboring potentate, whose

territory extended in a westerly direction on the opposite shore of

the river. So he mustered his vassals with all imaginable speed, and

prepared to set out for the domains of his foe on a foray of unusual

ferocity and magnitude. Before departing from his castle, which stood

some miles above Mallow, on the banks of the river, he held a long and

confidential parley with his wife, in which he told her, if he were

defeated or slain, and if the foe should cross the Blackwater to make

reprisals, that she should hold out the fortress while one stone would

stand upon another, and especially that she should guard their three

young sons well, whom, he doubted not, whatever might happen, would

one day gain prosperity and renown. After this, he set out on his

expedition, at the head of a formidable array of turbulent kerns and

marauding horsemen. But his neighbor was not a man to be caught

sleeping; for, at the crossing of a ford near Kanturk, he attacked

Dhonal, slew him in single combat, and put his followers to the sword,

almost to a man. After this he crossed the Blackwater, laid waste the

territories of the invader, and at length besieged the castle, where

the widowed lady and her three sons had taken refuge. For a long time

she held her own bravely against her enemy; but in the end the castle

was taken by assault, and she and her three young sons narrowly

escaped with their lives out into the wild recesses of the forest.

After wandering about for some time, the poor lady built a little hut

of brambles on the shore of the Clydagh, near the spot where stand the

ruins of the preceptory of Mourne, or Ballinamona, as it is sometimes

called. Here she dwelt with her children for a long time, in want and

misery. Her sons grew up without receiving any of those

accomplishments befitting their birth, and gained their subsistence,

like the children of the common people around, by tilling a little

plot of land before their hut, and by the products of the chase in the

surrounding forest. One day, as Diarmid, the eldest, with his bow and

arrows ready for the chase, was crossing a narrow valley, he met a

kern, one of the followers of the great lord who had slain his father.

Now, neither Diarmid nor his brothers recollected who had killed their

father, nor the high estate from which they had fallen, for their

mother kept them carefully in ignorance of all, fearing that they

might become known, and that their enemies would kill them also. So

the kern and himself wended their way for some time together along the

side of the valley. At length they started a deer from its bed in the

green ferns. Each shot his arrow at the same moment, and each struck

the deer, which ran downward for a short space, and at last fell dead

beside the little stream in the bottom of the valley.

"The deer is mine!" said the strange kern, as they stood over its

body.

"No!" answered Diarmid, "it is not. See! your arrow is only stickin'

in the skin of his neck, an' mine is afther rattlin' into his heart,

through an' through!"

"No matther," exclaimed the kern, with a menacing look. "I don't care

how he kem by his death, but the deer I must have, body an' bones,

whatever comes of it! Do you think sich a _sprissawn_ as you could

keep me from it, an' I wantin' its darlin' carkiss for the table o' my

lord, the Mac Donogh?"

Now Diarmid recollected that his mother and brothers were at the same

time almost dying in their little hut for want of food. So without

further parley he drew his long skian from its sheath.

"Very well," said he, "take it, if you're a man; but before it goes,

my carkiss must lie stiff an' bloody in its place!"

The kern drew his skian at the word, and there, over the body of the

fallen deer, ensued a combat stern and fierce, which at last resulted

in Diarmid's plunging his skian through and through the body of his

foe into the gritty sand beneath them.

{227}

Diarmid then took the spear and other weapons of the dead kern, put

the deer upon his broad shoulders, and marching off in triumph, soon

gained his mother's little hut. There, after eating a comfortable

meal, and telling his adventure, Diarmid began to lay down his future

plans.

"Mother," he said, "the time is come at last when this little cabin is

too small for me. I'm a man now, an' able to meet a man, body to body,

as I met him to-day; so I'll brighten up my weapons, an' set off on my

adventures, that I may gain renown in the wars. Donogh here, too, has

the four bones of a man," continued he, turning to his second brother;

"so let him prepare, an' we'll thramp off together as soon as we can,

an' perhaps afther all we'd have a castle of our own, where you could

reign in glory, as big an' grand as Queen Cleena o' the Crag!"

"Well, then," answered his mother, "if you must go, before you leave

me, you and your brothers must hunt in the forest for a month, and

bring in as much food as will do me and Rory here for a year and a

day."

"But," said Rory, the youngest, or Roreen Shouragh, or the Lively, as

he was called, in consequence of the 'cute and merry temperament of

his mind--"but, Diarmid, you know I am now beyant fifteen years of

age, an' so, if you go, I'll folly you to the worldt's end!"

"You presumptious little atomy of a barebones," answered his eldest

brother, "if I only see the size of a thrush's ankle of you follyin'

us on the road, I'll turn back an' bate that wiry an' freckled little

carkiss o' yours into frog's jelly! So stay at home in pace an'

quietness, an' perhaps when I come back I might give you a good purse

o' goold to begin your forthin with."

"That for your mane an' ludiacrous purse o' goold!" exclaimed Roreen

Shouragh, at the same time snapping his fingers in the face of his

brother. "Arrah! do you hear him, mother? But never mind. Let us be

off into the forest to-morrow, an' we'll see who'll bring home the

most food before night!"

"Well," said his mother, "whether he stays at home or goes away, I

fear he'll come to some bad end with that sharp tongue of his, and his

wild capers."

"With all jonteel respect, mother," answered Shouragh again, "I mane

to do no such thing. I think myself as good a hairo this

minnit--because I have the sowl an' heart o' one as King Dathi, who

was killed in some furrin place that I don't recklect the jography of,

or as Con o' the Hundhert Battles, or as the best man amongst them,

Fion himself--an' I'll do as great actions as any o' them yet!"

This grandiloquent boast of Roreen Shouragh's set his mother and

brothers into a fit of laughter, from which they only recovered when

it was time to retire to rest. In the morning the three brothers

betook themselves to the forest, and at the fall of night returned

with a great spoil of game. From morning till night they hunted thus

every day for a month, at the end of which time Diarmid said that they

had as much food stored in as would last his mother and Rory for a

year and a day.

On a hot summer noon the two brothers left the little hut, with their

mother's blessing on their heads, and set off on their adventures.

After crossing a few valleys, they came at length to the shore of the

Blackwater, and sat down in the shade of a huge oak-tree on the bank

to rest themselves. Beneath them, in a clear, shady pool, a huge pike,

with his voracious jaws ready for a plunge, was watching a merry

little speckled trout, which in its turn was regarding with most

affectionate eyes a bright blue fly, that was disporting overhead on

the surface of the water. Suddenly the trout darted upward into the

air, catching the ill-starred fly, but, in its return to the element

beneath, unfortunately plumped itself into the Charybdis-like jaws of

the villanous {228} pike, and was from that in one moment quietly

deposited in his stomach.

"Look at that!" said Diarmid to his brother. "That's the way with a

man that works an' watches everything with a keen eye. He'll have all

in the end, just as the pike has both fly and throut--an' just as I

have both fly, an' throut, an' pike!" continued he, giving his spear a

quick dart into the deep pool, and then landing the luckless pike,

transfixed through and through, upon the green bank. "That's the way

to manage, and the divvle a betther sign o' good luck we could have in

the beginning of our journey, than to get a good male so aisy!"

"Hooray!" exclaimed a voice behind them. "That's the way to manage

most galliantly. What a nate dinner the thurminjous monsther will make

for the three of us!" and on turning round, the two brothers beheld

Roreen Shouragh, accoutred like themselves, and dancing with most

exuberant delight at the feat beside them on the grass.

"An' so you have follied us afther all my warnin', you outragious

little vagabone!" exclaimed Diarmid, making a wrathful dart at Roreen,

who, however, eluding the grasp, ran and doubled hither and thither

with the swiftness of a hare, around the trunks of the huge oak-trees

on the shore. In vain Diarmid tried every ruse of the chase to catch

him. Roreen Shouragh could not be captured. At length the elder

brother, wearied out, returned to Donogh, who, during the chase, was

tumbling about on the grass in convulsions of laughter.

"'Tis no use, Donogh," he said, "we must only let him come with us.

He'll never go back. Come here, you aggravatin' young robber,"

continued he, calling out to Roreen, who was still dancing in defiance

beneath a tree, some distance off--"come here, an' you'll get your

dinner, an' may folly us if you wish."

Roreen knew that he might depend on the word of his brother. "I towld

ye both," said he, coming up to the spot, "that I'd folly ye to the

worldt's end; so let us have pace, an' I may do ye some service yet.

But may I supplicate to know where ye're preamblin' to at present; for

if ye sit down that way in every umberagious coolin' spot, as the song

says, the divvle a much ye'll have for yeer pains in the ind?"

"I'll tell you then," answered Donogh, now recovered from his fit of

laughing. "We're goin' off to Corrig Cleena, to see the Queen o' the

Fairies, an' to ask her advice what to do so as to win wealth an'

renown."

"'Tis aisier said than done," said Roreen, "to see Queen Cleena. But

howsomdever, when we're afther devourin' this vouracious thief of a

pike here, we'll peg off to the Corrig as swift as our

gambadin'-sticks will carry us!"

After the meal the three brothers swam across the river, and proceeded

on their way through the forest toward Corrig Cleena. On gaining the

summit of a little height, a long, straight road extended before them.

On and on the straight road they went, till, turning up a narrow path

in the forest, they beheld the great grey boulders of Corrig Cleena

towering before them. They searched round its base several times for

an entrance, but could find none. At length, as they were turning away

in despair, they saw an extremely small, withered old atomy of a

woman, clad all in sky blue, and sitting beside a clump of fairy

thimbles, or foxgloves, that grew on a little knoll in front of the

rock. They went up and accosted her:

"Could you tell us, ould woman," asked Diarmid, "how we can enter the

Corrig? We want to speak to the queen."

"Ould woman, inagh!" answered the little atomy in a towering passion.

"How daar you call me an ould woman, you vagabone? Off wid

you--thramp, I say, for if you sted there till your legs would root in

the ground, you'd get no information from me!"

{229}

"Be aisy, mother," said Donogh, in a soothing voice; "sure, if you can

tell us, you may as well serve us so far, an' we'll throuble you no

more."

"Ould woman an' mother, both!" screamed the little hag, starting up

and shaking her crutch at the brothers; "this is worse than all. You

dirty an' insultin' spalpeens, how daar ye again, I say call me sich

names? What for should I be decoratin' my fingers wid the red blossoms

o' the Lusmore, if I was as ould as you say? Be off out o' this, or be

this an' be that, I ruinate ye both wid a whack o' this wand o' mine!"

"Young leedy," said Roreen Shouragh, stepping up cap in hand at this

juncture, and making the old hag an elaborately polite bow--"young,

an' innocent, an' delightful creethur, p'r'aps you'd have the kindness

to exercise that lily-white hand o' yours in pointin' out the way for

us into Queen Cleena's palace!"

"Yes, young man," answered the crone, greatly mollified at the

handsome address of Roreen. "For your sake, I'll point out the way.

You at laste know the respect that should be paid to youth an'

beauty!"

"Allow me, my sweet young darlint," said Roreen at this, as he stepped

up and offered her his arm--"allow me to have the shuprame pleasure of

conductin' you. I'm sure I must have the honor an' glory of ladin' on

my arm one of the queen's maids of honor. May those enticin' cheeks o'

yours for ever keep the bloomin' an' ravishin' blush they have at the

present minnit, an' may those riglar ivory teeth o' yours, that are as

white as the dhriven snow, never make their conjay from your purty an'

delightful mouth!"

The "delightful young creethur" allowed herself, with many a gratified

smirk, to be conducted downward by the gallant Roreen toward the rock,

where, striking the naked wall with her crutch, or wand as she was

pleased to call it, a door appeared before them, and the three

brothers were immediately conducted into the presence of the fairy

queen.

It would be long, but pleasant, to tell the gallant compliments paid

by Roreen to the queen, and the queen's polite and gracious acceptance

of them; merry to relate the covert laughter of the lovely maids of

honor, as Roreen occasionally showered down praises on the head of the

"young leedy" who so readily gained him admittance to the palace, and

who was no other than the vain old nurse of the queen; but, despite

all such frivolities, this history must have its course. At length the

queen gave them a gentle hint that their audience had lasted the

proper time, and as they were departing she cast her bright but

love-lorn eyes upon them with a kindly look.

"Young man," she said, "you ask my advice how to act so as to gain

wealth and renown. I could give you wealth, but will not, for wealth

thus acquired rarely benefits the possessor. But I will give you the

advice you seek. Always keep your senses sharp and bright, and your

bodies strong by manly exercise. Look sharply round you, and avail

yourselves honorably of every opportunity that presents itself. Be

brave, and defend your rights justly; but, above all, let your hearts

be full of honor and kindness, and show that kindness ever in aiding

the poor, the needy, and the defenceless. Do all this, and I doubt not

but you will yet come to wealth, happiness, and renown. Farewell!"

And in a moment, they knew not how, they found themselves sitting in

the front of the Rock of Cleena, upon the little knoll where Roreen

had so flatteringly accosted the "young leedy." Away they went again

down to the shore, swam back across the river, and wandered away over

hill and dale, till they ascended Sliabh Luchra, and lost themselves

in the depths of the great forest that clothed its broad back. Here

they sat down in a green glade, and began to consider what they should

further do with themselves. At length {230} they agreed to build a

little hut, and remain there for a few days, in order to look about

the country. No sooner said than done.

To work they went, finished their hut beneath a spreading tree, and

were soon regaling themselves on a young fawn they had killed as they

descended the mountain. Next day they went out into the forest, killed

a deer, brought him back to the hut, in order to prepare part of him

for their dinner. Diarmid undertook the cooking for the first day,

while his two younger brothers went out along the back of the mountain

to kill more game. With the aid of a small pot, which they had

borrowed from a forester at the northern part of the mountain, and a

ladle that accompanied it, Diarmid began to cook the dinner, stirring

the pieces of venison round and round over the fire, in order to have

some broth ready at the return of his brothers. As he was stirring and

tasting alternately with great industry, he heard a light footstep

behind him, and on looking round, beheld sitting on one of the large

mossy stones they used for a seat a little crabbed-looking boy, with a

red head almost the color of scarlet, a red jacket, and tight-fitting

trowsers of the same hue, which, reaching a little below the knee,

left the fire-bedizened and equally rubicund legs and feet exposed in

free luxury to the air. His face was handsomely formed, but brown and

freckled, and he had a pair of dark, keen eyes, which seemed to pierce

into the very soul of Diarmid as he sat gazing at him. There was a

wild, elfish look about him altogether, as, with a vivacious twinkle

of his acute eye, he saluted Diarmid politely, and asked him for a

ladleful of the broth. Diarmid, however, in turning round from the

pot, had spilt the contents of the ladle on his hand, burning it

sorely, and was in consequence not in the most amiable humor.

"Give you a ladle of broth, indeed, you little weasel o' perdition!"

exclaimed he. "Peg off out o' my house this minute, or I'll catch you

by one o' them murtherin' legs o' yours, an' bate your brains out

against one o' the stones!"

"I'm well acquainted with the cozy an' indestructible fact, that a

man's house is his castle," said the little fellow, at the same time

thrusting both his hands into his pockets, inclining his head slightly

to one side, and looking up coolly at Diarmid; "but some o' that broth

I must have, for three raisons. First, that all the wild-game o' the

forest are mine as well as yours; second, that I'm a sthranger, an'

you know that hospitality is a virthue in ould Ireland; an', third an'

best, because you darn't refuse me! So, sit down there an' cool me a

good rich ladleful, or, be the hole o' my coat! there'll be wigs on

the green bethune you an' me afore you're much ouldher!"

"Ther's for your impidence, you gabblin' little riffin!" said Diarmid,

making a furious kick at the imperturbable little intruder, who,

however, evaded it by a nimble jump to one side; and then leaping up

suddenly, before his assailant was aware, hit him right and left two

stunning blows with his hard and diminutive fists in the eyes. Round

and round hopped redhead, at each hop striking the luckless Diarmid

right in the face, till at length, with one finishing blow, he brought

him to the ground, stunned and senseless.

"There," he said, as he took a ladleful o' broth and began to cool it

deliberately, "that's the most scientific facer I ever planted on a

man's forehead in my life. I think he'll not refuse me the next time I

ask him."

With that he drank off the broth at a draught, laid the ladle

carefully in the pot, stuck his hands in his pockets, and jovially

whistling up, "The cricket's rambles through the hob," he left the

hut, and strutted with a light and cheerful heart into the forest.

When Diarmid's brothers returned, they found him just recovering from

his swoon, with two delightful black eyes, and a nose of unusual

dimensions. {231} He told them the cause of his mishap, at which they

only laughed heartily, saying that he deserved it for allowing himself

to be beaten by such an insignificant youngster. Next day, Diarmid and

Roreen went out to hunt, leaving Donogh within to cook the dinner.

When they returned, they found the ill-starred Donogh lying almost

dead on the floor, with two black eyes far surpassing in beauty and

magnitude those received on the preceding evening by his brother.

"Let me stay within to-morrow," said Roreen, "for 'tis my turn; an' if

he has the perliteness o' payin' me a visit, I'll reward him for his

condescension."

"Arrah!" said both his brothers, "is it a little traneen like you to

be able for him, when he bate the two of us?"

"No matther," answered Roreen; "tis my turn, an' stay I will, if my

eyes were to be oblitherated in my purricranium!"

And so, when the morrow came, Diarmid and Donogh went out to hunt, and

Roreen Shouragh stayed within to cook the dinner. As the pot commenced

boiling, Roreen kept a sharp eye around him for the expected visitor,

whom he at length descried coming up the glade toward the door of the

hut, whistling cheerfully as he came.

"Good-morrow, youngster!" said the chap as he entered, and made a most

hilarious bow; "you seem to have the odor o' charity from your

handsome face here, at laste it comes most aromatically from the pot,

anyhow."

"Ah, then! good-morrow kindly, my blushin' little moss-rose!" said

Roreen, answering the salutation with an equally ornamental

inclination of his head--"welcome to the hall o' my fathers. P'r'aps

you'd do me the thurminjous honor o' satin' that blazin' little

carkiss o' yours on the stone fornent me there."

"With all the pleasure in the univarse," answered the other, seating

himself; "but as the clay is most obsthreporously hot an' disthressin'

to the dissolute traveller, p'r'aps you'd have the exthrame kindness

o' givin' me a ladleful o' broth to refresh myself."

"Well," said Roreen, "I was always counted a livin' respectacle o' the

hospitality of ould Ireland. Yet, although the first law is not to ask

the name of a guest, in regard to the unmerciful way you thrated my

brothers, I must make bowld, before I grant your request, to have the

honor an' glory of hearin' your cognomen."

"With shuprame pleasure," answered the visitor. "My name, accordin' to

the orthography o' Ogham characters, is Shaneen cus na Thinne, which,

larnedly expounded, manes John with his Feet to the Fire. But the

ferlosophers an' rantiquarians of ould Ireland, thracin' effect from

cause, call me Fieryfoot, an' by that name I shall be proud to be

addhressed by you at present."

"Well," rejoined Roreen, "it only shows their perfound knowlidge an'

love for truth, to be able to make out such a knotty ploberm in

derivations; an' so, out o' compliment to their oceans o' larnin',

you'll get the broth; but," continued he, as he took up a ladleful and

held it to cool, "as there are a few questions now and then thrublin'

my ruminashins, p'r'aps you may be so perlite as to throw a flash o'

lightnin' on them, while we're watin'. One is in nathral history. I've

heerd that of late the hares sleep with one eye shut an' th' other

open. What on earth is the raison of it?"

"That," answered Fieryfoot, "is aisily solvoluted. Tis on account o'

the increase o' weasels, and their love for suckin' the blood o' hares

in their sleep. So the hares, in ordher to be on their guard an'

prevent it, sleep with only one eye at a time, an' when that's rested

an' has slept enough, they open it an' shut the other!"

"The other," said Roreen, "is in asthronomy, an' thrubbles me most of

all, sleepin' an' noddin', aitin' an' dhrinkin'. Why is it that the

man in the moon always keeps a rapin'-hook in his hand, and never uses

it?"

{232}

"Because," answered Fieryfoot, getting somewhat impatient, "because,

you poor benighted crathure, he's not a man at all, but the image of a

man painted over the door of Brian Airach's shebeen there, where those

that set off on a lunarian ramble go in to refresh themselves, as I

want to refresh myself with that ladle o' broth you're delayin' in

your hand!"

"Oh! you'll get it fresh an' fastin'!" exclaimed Roreen, and with that

he dashed the ladleful of scalding broth right into the face of

Fieryfoot, who started up with a wild cry, and rushed half-blinded

from the hut. Away went Roreen in hot pursuit after him, with the

ladle in his hand, and calling out to him, with the most endearing

names imaginable, to come back for another supply of broth--away down

the glades, till at length, on the summit of a smooth, green little

knoll, Fieryfoot suddenly disappeared. Roreen went to the spot, and

found there a square aperture, just large enough to admit his body. He

immediately went and cut a sapling with his knife, stuck it by the

side of the aperture, and placed his cap on it for a mark, and then

returned to the hut, and found his brothers just after coming in. He

related all that happened, and they agreed to go together to the knoll

after finishing their dinner. When the dinner was over, the three

brothers went down to the knoll, and easily found out the aperture

through which Fieryfoot had disappeared.

"An' now, what's to be done?" asked Diarmid.

"What's to be done, is it?" said Roreen; "why just to have me go down,

as I'm the smallest--smallest in body I mane--for, to spake

shupernathrally, my soul is larger than both of yurs put together;

an', in the manetime, to have ye build another hut over the spot an'

live there till I return with a power o' gold an' dimons, and oceans

o' renown an' glory!"

With that he crept into the aperture, while his brothers busied

themselves in drawing brambles and sticks to the spot in order to

build a hut as he had directed. As Roreen descended, the passage began

to grow more broad and lightsome, and at length he found himself on

the verge of a delightful country, far more calm and beautiful than

the one he had left. Here he took the first way that presented itself,

and travelled on till he came to the crossing of three roads. He saw a

large, dark-looking house, part of which he knew to be a smith's

forge, from the smoke, and from the constant hammering that resounded

from the inside. Roreen entered, and the first object that presented

itself was Fieryfoot, as fresh and blooming as a trout, and roasting

his red shins with the utmost luxuriance and happiness of heart before

the blazing fire on the hob.

"Wisha, Roreen Shouragh," exclaimed Fieryfoot, starting from his seat,

spitting on his hand for good luck, and then offering it with great

cordiality, "you're as welcome as the flowers o' May! Allow me to

offer you my congratulations, _ad infinitum_, for your superior

cuteness in the art of circumwentin' your visitors. I prizhume you'll

have no objection to be presented to the three workmen I keep in the

house--the smith there, the carpenter, an' the mason. Roreen Shouragh,

gentlemin, the only man in the world above that was able to circumwint

your masther!"

"A cead mille failte, young gintleman!" said the three workmen in a

breath.

Roreen bowed politely in acknowledgment.

"Any news from the worldt above?" asked the smith, as he rested his

ponderous hammer on the anvil.

"Things are morthially dull," answered Roreen, giving a sly wink at

Fieryfoot. "I've heard that the Danes are making a divarshin in

Ireland; that a shower o' dimons fell in Dublin; that the moon is

gettin' mowldy for want o' shinin'; and that there's a say in the west

that is gradually becoming transmogrified into whiskey. I humbly hope

that the latther intelligence {233} is unthrue, for if not, I'm afraid

the whole worldt will become drunk in the twinklin' of a gooldfrinch's

eye!"

"Mile, mile gloire!" exclaimed the three workmen, "but that's grate

an' wondherful intirely! P'r'aps masther," continued they, addressing

Fieryfoot, and smacking their lips at the thought of whiskey, "p'r'aps

you'd have the goodness o' givin' us a few days' lave of absence!"

"Not at present," answered Fieryfoot; "industry is the soul o'

pleasure, as the hawk said to the sparrow before he transported him to

his stomach, so ye must now set to work an' make a sword, for I want

to make my frind here a present as a compliment for his superior

wisdom."

To work they went. The smith hammered out, tempered, and polished the

blade, the carpenter fashioned the hilt, which the mason set with a

brilliant row of diamonds; and the sword was finished instantly.

"An' now," said Fieryfoot, presenting the sword to Roreen, "let me

have the immorthial pleasure o' presenting you with this. Take it and

set off on your thravels. Let valior and magnanimity be your guide,

and you'll come to glory without a horizintal bounds. In the manetime

I'll wait here till you return."

"I accept it with the hottest gratitudinity an' gladness," said

Roreen, taking the sword and running his eye critically along hilt and

blade. "'Tis a darlin', handy sword; 'tis sharp, shinin', an' killin',

as the sighin' lover said to his sweetheart's eyes, an' altogether

'tis the one that matches my experienced taste, for 'tis tough, an'

light, and lumeniferous, as Nero said to his cimitar, whin he was

preparin' to daycapitate the univarsal worldt wid one blow!"