character, made them objects of dislike-it may be of fear-to the present unscrupulous ruler of France, these are the mother of the Comte de Paris, and General Cavaignac. Both these persons are guided by a sense of duty and honour that seems absolutely unknown to a Bonaparte sovereign. The princess, true to the simple duties of a mother; the general, true to his duties as a republican soldier-are distasteful to the third Napoleon, we are sure; but though he is capable of any kind of criminal act against the liberties of a people, is he capable of ordering an assassination? That is a question for those casuists who have made the larger crime more venial than the smaller.

Of course, that which interested us in Eisenach was not what is in any way connected with personages of the present time, but with those of the past. The Castle of Warteburg, in its neighbourhood, was the cause of our visiting the town. The personages, then, of the past who had some attraction for us, in the first instance, are, I must acknowledge, of very shadowy existence to us-these were the minnesingers of ancient days. Here in this castle is a grand hall, in process of restoration to its old state, in which were held solemn meetings for contests of music and poetry. The victor in them won, with whatever other prize was given him, some noble lady's love, and sung himself and her into great fame afterwards. Even seeing the castle to which the minstrels came from all points of German land, and the hall that had echoed to their strains, did not make them live again for us. Our practical ideas about such persons have, in becoming poetical, crystallised themselves into a King Alfred, disguised and playing on his harp among the Danes. Or in the form of the Welsh bard hurling his anathema against King Edward, of

Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!

Or of Walter Scott's Minstrel, to whom

The way was long, the night was cold.

All these are such definite forms to us, that the crowd of minnesingers were in our fancy but the misty ghosts of Ossian.

But the Warteburg does bring back to memory in the living flesh and blood a man who can never be a mere ghost, though he has been dead three centuries-this is Martin Luther. He is not dead he cannot die-for all his work is far from being yet accomplished in Germany, or in Europe. To the Warteburg he was carried when he was made in a friendly way prisoner by the Elector of Saxony. In the room in which he lived for nearly twelve months it required no effort of imagination to picture him occupied on his translation of the Bible, or to see him in moments

of weariness standing at its window to refresh his mind by a look on the wooded hills below and around the height on which the castle stands. It is true there is neither dignity, nor grace, nor beauty in the man as he lets his eyes wander over God's fair work beyond this forced abode of his, or as he turns sturdily again to his own great work in that abode, but there are courage and honesty in his look commending him to the regard of the truehearted, the single-minded, who call up the remembrance of what he did and what he was. He, alone and unaided in the Warteburg, was forming in the Book, to be ever after open to all men, the instrument by which was to be overthrown one of the greatest tyrannies the world has ever seen. We left Eisenach, then, with our minds full of Luther's work accomplished, and yet to be accomplished. We forgot the exiles sent to it by new revolutions, in our thoughts of the great old revolution-the Reformation.

And now I come to the place from which my letter is datedCassel. If ever there were a place that had attained to that which is called by many the best results of civilisation, that is, the having large palaces for its rulers, theatres, museums, picture galleries, libraries, buildings for statues, fine gardens, and parks-if ever there were a place that had all these, and whilst making them had buried them in the slough of its own history, that place is Cassel. When one hears that its present ruler insists on retaining the title of Elector, and learns from some of the inhabitants of the town what his character is, one cannot but recal those years of the last century when such a man as this had the power of selling his Hessians for so many millions of pounds sterling to England to help in fighting her battles. And then the money obtained by the sale of this wretched soldiery was spent on the construction of one of the worst specimens of bad taste and extravagance that the world has seen since the building of Versailles. Truly le Grand Monarque had much to answer for in inspiring all the petty and vulgar sovereigns of the Germany of his day with the ambition to imitate in their fashion his stately follies. The large château of Wilhelmshöhe, near this town, is one of the most remarkable of these blundering imitations. There utter tastelessness and utter recklessness of expense went as far as they could go hand in hand. The stone and brick and carved records of the first could not be obliterated-the records of the second could; and it was thought best that they should vanish from all men's eyes-the accounts of the costs were burnt.

A man of a race very foreign to Germany, Jerome Bonaparte, was once thrust, with the title of King of Westphalia, into possession of these châteaux, and goods and chattels of the Electors of Hesse, where he disported himself for a time, much to his own

satisfaction no doubt. It is certain, however, that he left nothing testifying either to greater refinement of taste or to better notions of governing than the German rulers preceding him had done. Now all is, from what I can learn, about as bad as it can be.

Address your next letter to Bonn, and if you have anything more to say on that realm of the air which you would give to English thought, say it fearlessly. Yet I am sure that even in our letters, mere feminine letters as they are, many a thought has been expressed which would cause them to be kept back by the Prussian police-if they could read and understand our words. Can it be that the literary men, the great thinkers of Germany, are afraid to express in letters of friendship all that they feel on political matters and their estimate of sovereigns and public men? Or that if they do write their real sentiments, it is under the strict seal of secresy? I fear it is so, from something that transpired once respecting one of the greatest philosophers of the day. What should I have to tell you were I to penetrate into Russia? Nothing certainly worse than the police system, the espionage, and the heavy drain on the nation of the military organisation of Prussia at this time. Again, nothing worse than the police system in France, the espionage, and the heavy drain on the nation of an outlay by its government on things of mere show and luxury that tend only to vicious indulgences and to the degradation of the people.

Having learnt so much, it is time for me to return to England, where if I can find anything to say in praise of Russia we will discuss it. Au revoir!

BRADY'S FOUR ACRES OF BOG.

BY FELIX M'CABE.

VI.

WHO SHALL BE INVITED TO KENNEDY'S BALL?

MR. WILLIAM KENNEDY has for many years practised as an attorney in Carra, Ballydy, and the surrounding district; he is Mr. Phillips's legal adviser, and is known all over the country by the sobriquet of "honest Billy." It was said his father came to the district at a time when the only attorney there had little or nothing to do, and, strange to say, in the course of twelve months

he managed to have half the barony at loggerheads. His son, the present Mr. Kennedy, is not on good terms with his brother chip.

"Law, indeed; faith, he knows as much as would take a pig out of pound; hang me if he can manage that same even without consulting Blackstone.""

Such is the character Mr. Kennedy gives his opponent Mr. Ray; he will tell you his own opinion has never been set aside, not even by the Lord Chancellor of England, and will give you to understand that that high functionary has erred in judgment on such and such a case.

"Bungled, my dear sir-bungled, I assure you. I say so, my dear sir, though his lordship is a personal friend of mine."

Mr. Kennedy was always fussy and important at the magistrates' court of Carra, and a great toady and button-holder at the Four Courts, Dublin; he would stop Mr. Abjon just as he was going in to address the jury on a very important case.

"How do you do, Mr. Abjon-how do you do, my dear sir? Sure to get a verdict; the jury can't help themselves; told Cowan if any man in the three kingdoms could do it, you would."

"Thank you, Mr. Kennedy; I will try," said the leading counsel, as he endeavoured to make his way into court.

"I beg your pardon, my dear sir, only two words," said the attorney, laying his hand on Mr. Abjon's shoulder.

"Pray, be quick," said Mr. Abjon, pulling out his watch; "if I am half a minute late the chief will be in a temper."

The attorney took very little notice of the words of the leading counsel, and, placing his hand on his arm, walked him across the body of the court, as he talked in a most confidential manner before several of his opponent's clients, who were looking on.

"You remember, Mr. Abjon, the case we were engaged in last spring? Why they want to tax my costs. A word from you, my dear sir, will set the matter all right. You know we small rustic fry require a helping hand now and then."

"I will see about it," said Mr. Abjon.

"Thank you, my dear sir; go in and win," said Mr. Kennedy, as the counsel vanished behind the screen which divided the court from the body of the hall.

As he told Mr. Abjon to go in and win, he spoke quite loud enough to be heard by some of the "Rayites," as Mr. Kennedy called those people who were so simple as to go to his opponent for legal advice. He then took out his pocket-book to make note of something, conjecturing at the same time that those Connaught gentlemen would come to ask his opinion on the subject, which they did immediately they saw him disengaged.

"Sure of a verdict, as certain as you stand there. First-class man is Abjon; always thought him so. No better equity lawyer anywhere; a self-made man, mind you. Knew him when he could not pay his tailor's bills. We are no worse friends for all that."

With all Mr. Kennedy's legal knowledge he was not capable of holding his own in the family circle. He would sometimes tell his worthy spouse not to talk such trash; and she very pertly would tell him to mind his own business. He educated his family very well, and was attached to his second daughter, Nora, who had just returned from Brussels, where, her mamma will tell you, she was to receive the final polish. It was in honour of Miss Nora that Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy were to give the grand ball.

1

"You know, William," said Mrs. Kennedy, "we must send out cards."

"Botheration to it, woman! Do you think those gentlemen" (meaning the Aberdeen fusileers) "care anything about cards? Faith, they don't."

"Well, I know when my mother invited the officers, she always sent cards," said Mrs. Kennedy.

"Fudge," was the only reply which the attorney gave to the time-honoured customs of his mother-in-law.

He was so accustomed to hear every day what was done at Derry Grove by some member of the O'Malley family, that he long since ceased to look upon his connexion by marriage in any other light than the plague of his life.

"There is no use in arguing with women," Mr. Kennedy told his friends in public, "they never will listen to argument; and if you drive them into a corner in the witness-box, they let loose the flood-gates, and do you any amount of injury with the jury."

Mrs. Kennedy made another attack on her husband as to the propriety of sending out cards, until the matter was so compromised that Colonel and Mrs. Spankie, with one or two other guests, were to receive polite notes inviting them to the ball, and Mr. Kennedy was to go over to Carra and invite the officers in person; he was also to ask one or two farmers and a few small landholders, but no tradesmen, Mrs. Kennedy insisted.

"You know, dear, we could never think of asking the Coughlans, the Raleighs, or the Regans. How could we expect Colonel Spankie and the officers to meet those people? I don't want t o say but they are respectable in their way," said Mrs. Kennedy, laying great stress on the latter part of her sentence, "but their way is not our way."