The same tone of feeling accompanied the baronet to his room; alone there, he did not say a word-so contrary to his habit; he sat at his table and merely wrote two letters. His pen scratched its marks rapidly over iced paper; his sentiments covered it in congealed figures like the frozen breath that resolves itself into hieroglyphics on a frame of glass in the keen winter, and records in an illegible cipher the life of him whose breast the vapour has quitted, yielding a clear transcript of what transpired in the man at the moment it left his body. He wrote what had happened; he gave the event no name-not affliction, not visitation, not dispensation. It was a chilled narrative stamped in black and white; all feeling was eliminated as it passed the filter. In his letter to the bishop he made no mention of God; in his letter to Mr. Stewart he made no comment on Man.

THE IMPERIAL PRISONER OF WILHELMSHÖHE.

BY MRS. BUSHBY.

He prayed for death upon the battle-field,

But to his prayers the Almighty would not yield;
The bullets rained around him thick and fast,
Yet all by him innocuously passed.

He strove in vain to conquer or to die,
It was not thus decreed by Him on high!
Borne down by numbers on that fatal day,
His mighty spirit quailed not; but to stay
The fearful carnage both of friend and foe,
With mental pangs which none can ever know,
He bent his pride, and to the royal chief
Of the vast hordes around, with silent grief,
He nobly sacrificed himself; alas!

The sacrifice was vain. The countless mass
With their bloodthirsty leaders onward press-
Still onwards. Will the Powers of Heaven bless
Their robber-schemes? Shall Europe's nations all
Before proud Prussia's conquering legions fall

To make her mistress of the world? Such may
Be Bismark's dream, but there will come a day
Of retribution dire. Its time Fate bides,

And from the eager eye of mortal hides
What is to be. Meanwhile how odious are
The words of coarse abuse of some, which jar
On the excited mind. How can they dare,
Whether the bribes of Prussia's court they share
Or not, to heap such slanders upon one
Who was so lately hailed as Europe's sun?
But all are not so vulgar or so mean,
For England knows Napoleon has been
Her firm ally, and ever faithful friend,

Since France bade him his uncle's throne ascend.

But France herself-ungrateful, fickle France!
How pitiful her present state! What chance
Of unity, of safety for her now,
Before a low-born herd compelled to bow?
Her armies, so heroic, who shall guide?
This, too, it is God's will as yet to hide.
But be the fleeting present what it may,
In future there will shine a brighter ray;
And HISTORY will clear, with pen of light,
Those acts and scenes now shrouded as in night;
And he-the greatest spirit of the age,
Shall fill a glorious space in its true page!

September 12, 1870.

BRADY'S FOUR ACRES OF BOG.

BY FELIX M'CABE.

V.

MR. WOOD'S NOTION OF AN IRISH WAKE.

MICHAEL FOGERTY is an old confidential servant at Fairy Lawn; he has filled the post for thirty years, and expects to die in harness. Fogerty is quite a character in his way, much respected by all the tenantry, and looked up to by the poor people. He speaks plainly to all parties, with an air of authority, on his master's late misfortune:

"If he could but get a howld of the murthering villains who placed the notice on the gate, he would make mincemeat of them, and cause them to remember his name was Michael Fogerty."

He had great respect for the "owld stock," and was going this evening to Norry Cronin's wake, as he stated, to see the poor crathur laid out, Mrs. Cronin having departed this world the night previous, after a prolonged sojourn of threescore years and ten. Fogerty looked forward to meeting some of the "owld_stock," and having a "bit of talk of ould times." As he stood at the pantry window, he saw Mr. Wood, Mr. Aster's valet, enter the court-yard. Mr. Aster had purchased some land in the immediate neighbourhood some few years previous, and at the late sale of Boydsville was the highest bidder for the home property. His valet, Mr. Wood, had only been a short time in his service.

Mr. Wood had a "farish berth enough in London, but wished to have a look at Hireland," as he told Fogerty.

"Well, glory be to the Lord! there is no coming up to those Lunnoners," said Fogerty, as he looked at Mr. Wood alighting from his horse. "He act'ly throws the reins to the gossoon as if he war a markis."

"Good morrow, Misther Wood. How are you to-day?" said Fogerty, as he met his brother chip at the back door. "I hope you're well to-day?"

"First class, thanks. How do you do?"

"Well, thank you, Misther Wood, I am purty considerable, thank ye."

99

"Governor's compliments. Know how Mr.-ah-ah—” "What are you ah-ahing about?" said Fogerty, who did not like the way Mr. Wood spoke of his master. "Why don't you say Misther Phillips at once? In throath, you know his name as well as I do myself, but it is a way all ye Lunnon people have with ye."

Mr. Wood was still standing at the door of the servants' hall. "Come in, man, out of the cowld. You know ye are not in Lunnon now," said Fogerty.

"Hi ham not hin hany 'urry, thank you," said Mr. Wood, who did not quite understand the remarks made by Fogerty.

Mr. Wood then entered the hall, looking round to see if Bella, the parlour-maid, was about, whom he on a former occasion declared on his way home to be a "duced putty gel for an Hirsh lass."

Fogerty went up to his mistress, and announced in very few minutes to Mr. Wood that his master was something better.

"Now, Misther Wood," said Fogerty, "you must have something to take."

"Thank you, I shall—a little 'alf-and-'alf, hif conwenient." Fogerty, who never heard of the compound, and who did not wish to show his ignorance to his guest, replied, in his usual dry and ironical style:

"Bedad, then, Misther Wood, I am sorry to say it eyn't convenient just this minit. You see, Misther Wood, we did not know ye were a coming. We have Guiness's double X-good strong ale that could stick to your rib-and the finist drop of whisky you ever laid eyes on."

Mr. Wood said "he would have a pot of hale," which was at once produced for him by Bella, who came down in her new dress in honour of Mr. Wood. Fogerty told his friend that he was going to the wake, no doubt thinking that every one was aware of the demise of "poor Norry Cronin," and that there was no need to enter into particulars.

Mr. Wood said he would be delighted if Mr. Fogerty would allow him to accompany him, which request was immediately granted by Fogerty. The Boydsville valet had not the slightest idea that he was going to the house of the late Mrs. Cronin. He had been only a few months in Ireland, and could not well understand what the people said. He liked his place in Boydsville, as he declared:

"Precious little to do; and hafter a gentleman lived for years in London, 'ang it, a fellow, you know, whants a change."

Mr. Wood considered the "hair most inwigerating, though the governor his rather ha harbitary cove now and then.'

Fogerty and his companion walked along in the direction of "Norry Cronin's" house, and on passing the dwelling of the Rev. Mr. Maloney, the latter asked what kind of a man was the old gent, how many servants, and what kind of a lady was the misses. This last question made Fogerty stare, and laying his hand on Mr. Wood's shoulder:

"Yarra, then, Misther Wood, it is not the like of you-a

dasent man-as would ask me the like of that; and, moreover, ye comed from Lunnon, where they say they knows everything. Bedad, Misther Wood, avick, it is a quare world, and maracles will never sace in it."

Mr. Wood said he only asked the question in case he left Boydsville. He should like some situation where there was a lady. "There is generally more company, and that sort of thing, you know."

"Faith, the d-l a much company ye'd see at Father Malouney's, except the cowjuther and his slip of a niece; and, faith, she won't be long with him 'ither. She is going to marry a boy of the Burkes from Ballmakelty next Shrovetide. They say his raverence had his eye on him since he saw him at Bridget Doherty's wedding -she that eloped with a boy of Blake's from Toonra. Father Malouney went over to owld Burke's to buy a bit of a horse that he heard he had to sell, and, faith, he didn't buy it after all, but made the match that very night-small blame to him-for the people say owld Burke has his thirty-five acres cut and dry, ready when his son takes home a wife, and he could get any girl in the parish for the asking; but he thinks, you know, it would be luckier to have something to do with the clargy."

By this time they arrived at Norry Cronin's house, and were accosted by the two sons of the corpse, Billy and Jack, who stood at the door consoling each other, and pressing each other "to take a winney drop more" of the contents of a bottle which lay before them. Both Mrs. Cronin's sons were over fifty; but during her lifetime she never called them anything but the gossoons. Jack was just in the act of pressing a little more spirits on his brother, and appealing to his compassion, by telling him that he must not refuse, as they were a pair of orphans now, when Fogerty and his companion arrived.

"Yarra, give us yer hand, Misther Fogerty, and we'll shake it. ourselves. How is the masther?"

"A little better to-day, thank ye, boys," said Fogerty.

"Now, Misther Fogerty, you must have a drop of spirits in honour of the poor desased," said Jack Cronin, taking up the bottle in his hand.

"Well, boys, I thought you had some manners in you; but, faith, like the owld stock, it's very scarce now," said Fogerty, speaking rather sharply. "Why don't you ask that gentleman there to have a taste, eh?"

In a very short time Fogerty and Wood made their appearance in the servants' hall. Bella was agreeably surprised to see her young man back so soon; but, on closer inspection, she found his visit to old Norry's had not added to his general appearance.