already that I will not endeavour to force the inclinations of my daughter in the matter, and I now repeat that nothing will induce me to depart from this resolution. I desire above all things to see this union between our houses effected, but I would not, even for this, inflict pain upon my child. I will never use my parental authority to oblige her to a union against which her own heart may rebel. Let us hope, however, that the object so dear to both of us may be accomplished by gentler means. Visit us again on your return; the feelings of my daughter may change with time, or it may be that you have not rightly discerned what her feelings are."

"I would fain believe that I have erred in my opinion," said Plunkett, "but I cannot bring myself to distrust my judgment. However, I will do as you advise. I must start early to-morrow. Farewell! Excuse my sudden departure to Miss Dillon, and explain to her the cause of it."

He extended his hand in a cold, deliberate way, and Dillon as he took it within his own could hardly help contrasting the frank and cheerful manner of his other guest with the coldness and reserve of his friend.

Early on the following morning before the first gleams of sunshine had begun to play on the western shore of the lake, a boat put off from Duneevin Castle. In the stern sat Plunkett enveloped in a heavy riding cloak, his pale face shaded by the broad brim of his plumed hat. His sword rested on his knees, and the outlines of a heavy pistol were visible beneath the folds of his cloak. Near him sat a servant armed much after the same manner as himself. As the boat touched the strand, Plunkett and his attendant sprang hastily on shore. Two horses held by a groom were waiting their coming, and close by stood a wild looking lad with long shaggy hair and ragged dress. An old tunic of coarse cloth which descended to his knees and was secured at the waist by a cord, constituted his entire costume. He leaned upon a long staff, and watched with observant eye the motions of the cavalier and his

servant.

"This is the guide," said the groom, when Plunkett had mounted his horse. "Shawn-na-Coppal knows every brake and fen between Lough Ree and Ballymoe; he will lead you safe."

The shaggy-haired youth heard this commendation of his powers with stolid indifference. When Plunkett signed to him to lead the way, he grasped his long staff by the middle and started at a quick trot along the path which led from the water's edge. As he passed the bivouac of MacDermott's troop Plunkett reined in his steed and examined with attention the scene before him, the sleeping forms stretched around the smouldering fires, and the arms suspended from the trees and scattered on the ground. When at length his curiosity seemed to excite the uneasiness of the trooper who acted as sentinel, he moved slowly away. A few yards further

on, in front of the Biatach's cabin, stood his guide waiting his approach.

"You are going to Rathalvine ?" asked the wild-looking youth. "Who the devil bade you inquire whither I go?" demanded Plunkett, angrily.

"I must know whither you are going if I am to lead you," returned the shaggy guide, unmoved.

"Good faith! I had forgotten that," said Plunkett, with a laugh. "I go not direct to Rathalvine. I will first to Roscommon. Lead on!"

The dark eyes of his conductor peered inquiringly into the speaker's face as he uttered the concluding words.

"To Roscommon!" he answered, in a tone of mingled doubt and alarm. "Do you know who is at Roscommon now?”

"I care not who be there," replied Plunkett, angrily. "I fear no man."

"But it is not safe for one like me to go near the castle," objected Shawn, pointing significantly to his long hair and peculiar

costume.

"You have nothing to fear so long as you are in my service. I will be answerable for your safety."

The guide shook his head doubtingly, and seemed for a time to hesitate as to whether he should proceed further in the service he had undertaken.

"You promise that I shall not be touched by the soldiers," he inquired after a pause.

"I do."

"They say that gentlemen never break a promise," said Shawn. "I will guide you to Roscommon."

He started forward on the shaded pathway at a pace which would have astonished any one not acquainted with the powers of the wild horseboys, at this time an appendage of every gentleman's stable-yard, and the attendants of every troop of horse. When the sound of the horses' hoofs had died away in the distance, the traveller who, on the preceding evening, had announced himself to MacDermott as an envoy of The O'Neill, emerged from the ruined cabin. He held in his hand a tattered volume, and muttered to himself some half-audible Latin prayers. He had evidently overheard the conversation between Plunkett and his guide, for, after gazing for a moment down the path taken by the horsemen he broke out into a bitter laugh, and exclaimed:

"To Roscommon! You have spoken too soon and too loud for the success of your plans. There is time to defeat them yet." He hurried at a quick pace to the shore of the lake. The boatmen who had conveyed Plunkett from the castle, attracted by the charms of the groom's conversation had not yet put off from the shore. The stranger tore a leaf from a soiled pocket-book, wrote upon it a few words, and handing it to one of the loitering boat

men bade him deliver it as speedily as possible to the officer who had passed the night at the castle.

66

He is yet abed," objected the individual to whom the note was confided, "and may not thank me for interrupting him." "Your excuse is contained in the note you carry. Do as I bid you. Much depends on your quickness. Begone!"

There was no resisting the voice and manner in which the order was given; the boatmen sprang into the boat and rowed rapidly away.

But a holy convent home,
Far away o'er ocean foam,

Where (like heaven itself) are blent
Innocent and penitent,

Serving Him the Shepherd Good
Who His life on Holy Rood
Gave for us His wandering sheep.
May He in His bosom keep,
Safe and happy, pure and calm,
One beloved gentle lamb!

But my trickling thoughts have flowed
Into quite a birthday ode;
Fewer words had better shed
Kindest blessings on thy head.
Oft indeed our hearts shall pray
"God bless her that's far away!"
Nor must thou forget us quite
When poor Erin fades from sight,
As thy bark, too swift, too gay,
Bounds upon her homeward way
O'er the oceans vast that flow
"Twixt Benburb and Bendigo.

Yet those climes less distant are,
Exile seems less stern by far,

Since we see that there bloom flowers
Just as fair and sweet as ours.
But what matter where we spend
These few moments till life's end?
Let no spot through which we roam
Bind our hearts as in their home.
'Tis at best a lodging given,
Station on the road to Heaven.
When that toilsome road is past,
Heaven will be our home at last.

That thy bard may meet thee there,
Breathe, kind pilgrim, many a prayer.

W. L.

434

LECTURES BY A CERTAIN PROFESSOR.

IX. ABOUT Success.

THERE are two pictures in Rome that always seemed to me to typify success, though with a very different mode of presentment. One is Guido's St. Michael in the church of the Capuchins, the other Domenichino's Death of St. Jerome that hangs opposite to the Transfiguration in the Vatican. Both represent the only success worth having, the only success about which there can be no arriere pensée; but mark with what a difference, at all events upon the surface. The former seems to realise such a dream of success as a young enthusiastic spirit might form while yet the ways of the world were unknown, and possibilities were measured only by noble aspirations and lofty thoughts. The fight is over, and not a sign remains of the bitterness of the conflict. The glow of eternal youth, and of vigour to which no struggle could bring weariness, rests upon the Archangel's brow. Serene as if no strife had ever been, his bearing tells that even if you carried your thought back to the very crisis of the battle, you would not have seen upon that unruffled forehead one shadow of a doubt about the issue. The imperturbable calm of a conscious minister of fate rests there. He seems just what he was, the unerring instrument of the Justice that, oppose who may, must conquer; and the young eyes, too passionless to flash even in the hour of victory, are also too passionless to look with any feeling so personal as hatred upon the foe whose doom they saw before the fight began. As Satan, surely hideous enough to be the personification of all evil, lies prone and helpless, his crushed head prostrate beneath his opponent's heel, with unutterable malice transfiguring his ugliness, one feels that here, at all events, is a real thorough success. One thinks, to be sure, and shudders to think, that even now, if, in one moment of careless scorn of the enemy he had defeated, the young angel were to lift his heel, and let the foe go free, the fight might be renewed in all its bitterness. But the angel is still vigilant, and one may trust him to keep his victory.

This, I say, is success; but it is the success of an angel, not such success as is likely to fall to the lot of a mere mortal. A man may conquer, too, and conquer as completely; but not in such a picture may his success be represented. The dust and sweat of battle will be upon him. There will be traces of blood and scars of wounds. His armour will be hacked with many a fell stroke of battle, there will be a look of weariness in his eyes, and, rest assured, upon the human victor's brow will beam no placid confi