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credible indifference. This is “Glory be to God, but 'tis the Irish virtue. The army of in- good son he is,” piously ejacuefficient Irish governesses and late the old folk. Let Bessy or starving illiterate Irish teachers Jane give them her heart's cast upon the Continent, forces blood, deny herself every pleasone to lament a virtue whose ure, not only the luxuries but results are so heartless and so

the very necessaries of life, and deplorable. If my most sympa- the same old folk nod their thetic and most unsatisfactory sapient heads,—“'Tis but her race were only a little less virtu- duty, to be sure.” ous in its own restricted sense Needless to say, this inapproof the word, and a tiny bit more priate burst of indignation was rational ! And not content, not inspired in those days by the alas! with the iniquity of driv- sight of my new little sister in ing these poor maimed crea her cradle, as white as milk, tures upon foreign shores in the with eyes like big blue stars, quest of daily bread, hopelessly the eyes of her Irish father, soft ill-equipped for the task, with- and luminous and gay. She out education, or knowledge of dwelt on earth just eighteen domestic or feminine lore, in- months, and then took flight to capable of handling a needle or some region where it is to be cooking an egg, without the hoped she found a warmer nest most rudimentary instinct of than fate would have offered her order or personal cleanliness, here below. indifferent in the matter of My grandmother was dead, baths and linen, so incompetent, but Dennis and Mary Ann still and vague, and careless,—these lived with my uncle Lionel. same parents at home expect What a joy our meeting ! So these martyrs abroad to replen “thim English ” hadn't made ish their coffers with miserably mince-meat of me! I was whole earned coin. I have never met and sound, Mary Ann remarked, an Irish governess on the Con- but mighty spare of flesh and tinent who had a sou to spend colour. “Just a rag of a creaon her private pleasures, for the ture,” Dennis commented, as he simple reason that she sent lifted my arm.

“Why didn't every odd farthing home. It's ye write and tell us ye were the iniquitous old story. Irish- hungry, alannah ?” men go to America, marry, and “I did so," I promptly remake their fortunes; but the torted; “but Sister Esmeralda landlord and shopkeeper at rubbed it out, and put in somehome are paid by the savings thing else which wasn't a bit of the peasant-girls, without a true.' “Thank you ” from their pa “Troth, and 'tis meself 'ud rents. Let Jack or Tom send enjoy givin' that wan a piece them a five-pound note in the of me moind.” course of a prosperous career, The whiff of the brogue was

1 I make this statement for the benefit of my country-people. If they could but know the partly earned reputation of Irish women on the Continent for untidiness, personal uncleanliness, and incompetence !



strong enough to waft you to bloomed; alleys where last year's the clouds. But how good to autumn leaves still lay ; broken be with these two honest souls pots that used to make such again! Uncle Lionel gave me a gay parterre of geraniums of a crown-piece, when he had every hue when my grandfather tortured my cheek with his lived; defoliaged rose - bushes, shaven chin, and called me a now mere summer urns of unlittle renegade because of my fulfilled promise, and scarce a English accent, and then I went red bunch the currantout to the garden, neglected boughs. And the pool, with ever since the death of my the circle of watering - cans grandfather.

above, now rusty and untouched, Where

Hamlet, and where I used to watch for the whither had vanished Elsinore ? first faint line of shadow cast Where was the youth with the by the gathering dusk, which future revolutionary name, who stole across its clear face in used to come bounding over the keeping with the stealing flight hedge, cheerily humming "Love of light above-how dead and among the Roses”? There sad all this seemed, despite its

no roses now, and the quaint familiarity. I was but house next door was to let. a child, and yet as I stood once

After the trim gardens of more in that neglected garden, England, this desolate old slip I had some premonition of the of garden, where weeds and immitigable sadness of rememthick grasses grew along the brance, the feeling that there uncared paths, seemed a ceme was already a past that had tery of dead seasons. Fruit- slipped through my fingers, as trees that bore neither blossom the waters run ceaselessly from nor fruit; flower - beds where the fountain of life to mingle leaf flower

with the still river of death.






“Is childhood dead?” Lamb admire, so eager to praise, so asks; “is there not in the best beset with wonder. I was to some of the child's heart left, spend a week in their midst, a to respond to its earliest en- delightful week, as long as a chantments?" Can I nowstory, as brief as a play, a puff without a responsive thrill, see of happiness blown across the myself flash into the unaltered bleak wind of solitude, a produlness of that Kildare village, longed and hilarious scamper a little princess of legend, with through sensation as vivid and the glory of foreign travel about vital as morning light. me, the over-seas cut of frock Mary Jane was there, with and shoes, the haughty and the unchanged oiled black ringcondescending consciousness of lets, and in my honour she wore superiority ?

them bound with a bright blue They were all so visibly at ribbon. Louie came out from my feet, so glad to worship and town to behold me, and gazed


in stupefied awe. I had been in

was acting, till the entire village a ship across the sea. I had was fit to rise and shout for traversed half of England in a her blood. railway-carriage.

Had I seen

“The likes of that did you elephant ? Mary Jane

Jane ever hear?” a gaunt peasant in wanted to know if I had seen corduroy would ask his neighthe Queen.

bour in dismay. No; but I had seen a naked “Troth and 'tis thim English lady, with beautiful golden hair as is a quare lot.

as is a quare lot. Beat a little down her back, ride through lady as is fit to rule the lot of the town of Lysterby on a them, and lock her up in dunwhite pony, while twelve lovely geons along with spirits and pages in silver and gold and goblins, and starve the life and satin rode before, and twelve soul out of her! Sure 'tis lovely maidens with long velvet worse they are than in the days cloaks lined with white satin of Cromwell.” rode behind her. This sounded Naturally, in the amazing as grand as a royal procession, record of my experiences, the and I glided ingeniously over hidden bones and marble hand the ignominy of having been to of my old friend, the White England and not having seen Lady of the Ivies, played a the Queen.

prominent and shuddering part. Mary Jane's mamma gave me

Under the influence of such a bowl of milk and a plate of an audience, I tasted the fascinarrowroot biscuits, and as I ating results of suffering. I devoured them, with what a was in that brief week repaid splendid air I recognised the for all the previous slights of old and faded views of New fortune. I reposed in the lap York ! I scorned my past of adulation, and turned my ignorance, and off - handedly woes into a dramatic enjoymentioned that “You know, ment. I had suffered; but the the sea isn't a bit like the romantic activity of my imapond.” And then the search gination, with a natural mirthfor a brilliant and captivating fulness of temperament, precomparison - arm extended to served me from the self-centred suggest immensity; heaving and subjective misery of the wave, rolling ship.

visionary, and from the embit“Isn't she wonderful ?” they tering anguish of cried; "and the fine language Once I had excited the local of her!”

mind against Sister Esmeralda From cottage to cottage, and the wretched superioress of from shop to shop, I wandered, the Ladies of Mercy, my anger intoxicated by the incense of against them vanished, and they admiration. I embroidered fact simply remained in memory as and invented fiction with the picturesque instruments of misreadiness of the fanciful travel- fortune. But for the moment I ler. Sister Esmeralda became was too full of the joy of living an unimaginable fiend, who had for anything like morbid selfpersecuted me as if I had been pity. I preferred to loll on the the heroine of the fairy-tale I grass beside Bessy the apple




woman, and treat all the chil- in bed that night, and communidren of the green to her darling cated to me next morning his trays of apples with uncle intention to confess to having Lionel's bright crown - piece. stolen two marbles from Johnnie Bessy never tired of assuring Magrath, and having licked Tim

that I was a wonderful Martin. creature, which I fully believed, “You know, Angy, I really and Louie made frequent men did lick him, he's such an awful tion of his thirst to be old beast, and made his nose bleed enough to marry

It rivers, with a black dab under soothed him to hear that he his eyes as big as my fist; and was much nicer than Frank, here are the two marbles I 'the horrid Lysterby boy. Louie stole." had not made his first confes He went back to town that sion, and he was thrillingly and afternoon, with his little grey fearfully interested in the tale eyes moist over the brimming of mine.

smiles of his lively comic mouth. “You know," I dolefully re His was a hilarious depression, marked, “ the priest won't let a rowdy melancholy, emblematic you confess any of the nice in

of the nice in- of the destiny in store for him. teresting-looking sins, with the He grimaced wonderfully, with lovely big names, like a-dul-tery screwed-up eyelids and twisted and for-ni-fi-ca-tion and de- and bunched-out lips, and kept fraud-ing. He makes you tell on muttering all the time we awful little sins, like talking in walked together to the coachclass and answering a nun, and house where the mail-car started all that sort of thing."

from “It's an awful shame, so "Oh, but I say,” shouted it is. A fellow can't do what Louie, wagging a remonstrative he likes, but there's always head, " the priest can't prevent somebody bothering him and you from saying you committed ordering him about." adultery.”

Dear, honest, little playmate! “Yes, but he says you didn't; That was the last, last glimpse and then it seems you're telling I had of him. We exchanged a lie to the Holy Ghost, and our last kiss at the top of the you may be struck dead in the village street, and I wildly confessional-box."

waved my handkerchief until This Louie regarded as an ex a deep bend of the long white cessive risk to run for the simple Kildare road hid the car, as it pleasure of confessing a nice big seemed to roll off the flat landsin. He thought the matter over scape.


My parents had taken a house down to the grey rocks where at Dalkey, with a garden a the sea seemed to become our dream of delights, that ran by very own, as it rolled over the shadowy slopes and bosky alleys rocks, and made, from time to


2 B


in a

time, when the tide ran high, ings, she followed him across little pools along the sanded the Atlantic, and sought him fringes of the garden. The out in State after State, walkhouse was large and rambling, ing several leagues a-day, with and of a night when the waves lifts here and there in waggons, roared and the artillery of the subsisting for months on a daily heavens shook at the founda- crust and a root or two, to end tions of earth, it afforded us her dolorous peregrinations in a enormous gratifications of every hospital with her dying lover's kind. We were fascinated by head upon her faithful breast. terror, and shuddered in silence She returned to Ireland the during the long nights when heroine of a real novel, with our parents were kept in town black hair bleached and

eyes by a theatre, a race, a party. dim from weeping. She had Then we were left in the charge won the right to be cheerof our eldest sister, a young less, and stand with flowing person of a sentimental and eyes “on the bridge at middespotic turn of mind. She night," and tell us “in mournruled us with a rod of iron, and ful numbers life is but an empty then invited us to weep with dream.” her over the poems of Adelaide We were a wild lot, no doubt, Ann Procter. And while she and worked wonders in villany read to

tremor of and mischief. Even our sisardent sensibilities the legend ter's sentimentality at times of Provence, she ruthlessly con succumbed to our monstrous fiscated Waverley,

Waverley, Kenil- spirits; and she forgot Longworth,' “Rob Roy,' which I fellow and Miss Procter, to kept under my pillow, and read drop into Irish farce. All the aloud at night to my younger houses round about us sisters. Novels she held to be filled with boys and girls of all the kernel of every iniquity ages up to sixteen. We needed under the sun, but Longfellow no introduction to form a genand Adelaide Ann Procter were eral family of some thirty or the sole ennobling influences forty vagrants and imps of both of life. She was sustained in this crooked conviction by The head of the troop was a a pensive little stitcher, who red-headed youth, destined to used to come and sew and adorn the medical profession, mend for us all several hours and a pale proud-looking boy a-week, and could recite in their of fourteen, my first love, Arthur entirety "Evangeline” and the by name, of an exalted family, “Golden Legend.”

and I believe, a distinA quaint and original figure guished colonel. When this white-haired, sad-eyed little joined the boys on the cricketstitcher. She had had her field, I always picked up his romance, stranger than Evan- balls and handed them to him geline's. Her lover had gone to reverentially, and my reward America, and had fought in the was to be told in an off hand Federal war. With a few sav way that “I was a nice little





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