those who shrank from conspiracy or despaired of insurrection; and the habit of agitation produced a type of character, as Cervantes says that every man is the son of his own works. Leadership had, with some honorable exceptions, become divorced from education and property, because the class which gave leaders to the nation in the thirty years before the Union had now been thoroughly denationalized.

The reflection may occur that if these unhappy features in the character of English rule and the temper of the Irish people during the last two centuries were the result of causes acting steadily during a long period of time, a correspondingly long period of better relations will be needed to efface them. History, however, if she does not absolutely forbid, certainly does not countenance such a prediction. It has sometimes happened that when malignant conditions have vanished, and men's feelings undergone a thorough change, a single generation has been sufficient to wipe out ancient animosities, and capacities for industrial or intellectual or political development have been disclosed which no one ventured to expect. Necessity and responsibility are the best teachers. Even the dreary annals of Ireland show some progress from century to century. In a time like ours, changes of every kind move faster than they did in the days of darkness and isolation; and, though there are moments when clouds seem to settle down over Ireland or over Europe as a whole, yet if we compare the condition of the world now with that of a century ago, we find ample grounds for a faith in the increasing strength of the forces which make for righteousness and peace.

WILLIAM BUCKLEY.

WILLIAM BUCKLEY has made a great success in a novel of remarkable vigor entitled 'Croppies Lie Down'-and his shorter stories, of which we give an example, are read with much appreciation both here and on the other side of the Atlantic.

INNISCARRA.

From 'The Gael' (by permission).

He regretted that he had not gone over the crest of Curragh Beg instead of following the slanting road by its flank, when he saw who stood in the way, her form white against the pines of Garrovagh across the Lee. The sinking sun, too, found her white gown and the cloudy tresses of living gold that framed her lovely face, their burnished plaits crowning the spirited head with a crown that queens might envy. She was carrying the milk pail and supervising the erratic progress of Drimmin, the little cow from the Kingdom of Kerry. Had Drimmin been human, she would have described her most obvious characteristic as firmness, from which it may be gathered that Maureen Ni Carroll's task was not a sinecure. A tuft of sweet clover just inside a neighboring fence having attracted her attention, she promptly entangled her horns amid the wiring; this made the girl call out, shading her eyes, then she saw Hugh and put down the pail.

Hugh was not a particularly intelligent young man, but the light of fancy had not been dulled in his unworn eyes, and the sudden expression on Maureen's face brought a thought so perturbing that he was glad to occupy himself with Drimmin's predicament, the girl standing by, save for the brief Gaelic greeting, wordless. Drimmin being extricated, he came to her with the original statement that it was a fine evening.

"Come here,” replied Maureen, "is it true that you are goin' to list below there at Ballincollig?"

Hugh threw a restless glance at the silvery Lee. "There isn't much else for a man to do these times," he said. "I was biddin' 'em good-bye at Castle Inch."

"An' you're not goin' back to Cloghroe any more? Then it's true?"

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""T is, begor; the mother's dead, an' two cows. There's a gale due."

"Is it the way you can't farm?"

"I'm able to do that right enough, but the life is slavery -not a bit of diversion. So, what would I do it for?"

She looked at him. "Groomin' horses an' carryin' pails isn't much, either," she retorted, "an' that's what most of 'em are doin' down there."

He bent his brows and switched his leg with the kipeen 1 he was already learning to carry like a riding-whip. "It's a fine life all the same—a soldier's,” he said, dreamily, thinking of the review he had seen at Cork Park.

"War isn't like that," she replied with Irish intuition, an' if it was, there's the shame of goin' out to kill people that never did you harm, for people who made your country what it is."

"It's a fine life all the same," he reiterated, “ an' there 's promotion-"

"For you!" she retorted.

to turn souper?"

"Is it the way you are goin'

He winced. "No fear of that!" he said.

"An' it's nice, decent comrades you'll have sure, you must have heard what some of 'em did over at Inniscarra once? Robbin' the dead!"

"There's good and bad everywhere."

"An' what will they give you for goin' among 'em?" He repeated the recruiting sergeant's patter; she tore it to shreds in the light of some exceedingly straight statements made by a cousin who had the honor of giving twenty years of a now worthless life in exchange for a shilling a day—and stoppages. He hardly heard, he was thundering away in a phantom pageant lit by Fantasy's glow, with all the horses at the charge and all the swords aslant. Through the vision a few trumpet notes flaunted up the valley, a voice that called, and he turned away.

She understood, her beautiful brows running straight a moment. "Sure I wouldn't mind," she said, "it would be grand if it were for Ireland!" Then her cheek burned, and she took up the pitcher.

1 Kipeen, a short stick,

"Good-bye, Maureen," he said. He feared his tongue might play him false.

1

"Slan leat," she answered over one curved shoulder, "Beannact De le t' anam!" 2

When he had gone a short distance he looked back. She was following the mountain path, her gown diaphanous at the sides, the hair a golden mist about the graceful head. In a moment, sky, water, wood, and brooding hill seemed instinct with sudden significance; dimly he knew the picture would remain until he died.

He went on with laggard step, for his angel was pleading to the spirit within, and the evening scene was pleading also in the tongue we learn too late. The sunlight passed ere he reached the bridge spanning the Bride, and here he paused before descending the dip. The little valley, with its scattered pines and shadowy mist and steep banks under St. Cera's Athnowen stretched away to the right; he traced it mentally up to ancient Kilcrea and Farran height throned upon the Clara slopes above the sunny plains and rolling hills of Muskerry. He looked across to Inniscarra's pebbly strand, and followed the invisible road winding beneath the sloping flank of Garravagh on to the sweet Dripsey stream. It was a pleasant country, good to live in, better to die for, best to fight for, as strangers found, though God knows, dull enough, because its people, having lost their spirit with their tongue, had become boorish imitators parroting stupid or bestial things. But, before him swelled the broad Lee, arched by the time-worn bridge so many quiet feet had crossed, bearing generations of men to their sins or their sorrows or their joys, and it seemed to cut his life in twain, for beyond lay the walled barrack where the braided jackets, and gleaming swords, and prancing chargers waited.

He resumed his way, harassed by wearying thoughts. So oppressed, he ascended the narrow road, fringed on one side by young beech, and oak, and drooping ash. At the other, beside the Lee, the "Island of the Dead" rose lovely and lonely, its elms reflected below, and the bell tower of an alien faith that to its years is but as the life of a weed against the brow of old Garrovagh. An aged priest whose 1 Slan leat, Good-bye. 2 Beannact De le t' anam! God rest your soul.

Masses he had often served told him that the great Hugh O'Neil once halted here, what time he marched south, and the Saxon churls hid behind the walls of Barry's fortress, and Ormond hovered afar. Of course he knew nothing more; being born in that land, he was ignorant of its story as the heron his tread had disturbed or the wood pigeons cooing overhead. All he comprehended was that O'Neil had been a great soldier who beat the English long ago, and that he would be a soldier too. The glamour of the camp lured his ignorance, he thought proudly of the ordered lines, the gallant dress, the tossing manes, the flashing steel, the splendor of the charge. Nor was he to be blamed; the grace of color is not the less because it clothes a clod, the bright blade will flash its thrilling message though held by unworthy hands, the gallant steed go thundering on in beauty and in strength, though bestridden by a coward's bones.

He went more rapidly, glancing at the meadow land opposite, ghostly now beneath white river mists, and then paused, peaked shapes taking form and substance there. "Tents!" he whispered; "I wonder I didn't see 'em before!" The air appeared to strike suddenly cold. He shivered. "It must be a new regiment under canvas," he muttered; "maybe the sergeant is there."

He pushed on rapidly, a confused murmur meeting his ear, and soon gained the turn of the old bridge, whence a road winds up to the coach road running on to Macroom. Down this a detail of horsemen trotted; they carried lances, but were not lancers. They were soldiers wearing lightly corselet and helmet that glimmered sharply in the gathering dusk. One was singing; to him the tongue was almost unknown, but the melody woke memories. caught a word here and there as the rest took it up, strangely familiar, strangely remote-it was the Colleen Dhas.

He

Instinctively he felt among friends and was seized with a sudden desire to know more about those men, those real soldiers, who carried themselves so gallantly and did not growl at their curveting steeds.

"Good night, men," he said as they passed, but the troopers gave no sign, and went on across the bridge, whose parapet had grown lower, he thought, turning then off to