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Simon answered, " I have a large family, sir, and she has no childher."

"That's not her fault,"said the priest,—"andmaybe she'll mend o' that yet." This excited much merriment, for the widow was buxom, and had recently buried an old husband, and by all accounts, was cocking her cap at a handsome young fellow in the parish.

Jude Moylan, £0 5t. Od. "Very good, Judy, the women are behaving like gentlemen; they'll have their reward in the next world."

Pat Finnerty, £0 8s. 4<l. "I'm not sure if it is 8s. 4d. or 3s. 4d., for the figure is blotted, but I believe it is 8s. 4d."

"It was three and fourpince I gave your Reverence," said Pat from the crowd.

"Well, Pat, as I said eight and fourpenre, you must not let me go b»ck o' my word, so bring me five shillings next week."

"Sure, you wouldn't have me pay for a blot, sir?"

"Yis, I would,—that's the rule of backgammon, you know, Pat. When I hit the mark, you pay for it."

Here his Reverence turned around, as if looking for some one, and called out, "Rafferty! Rafferty! Rafferty! Where are you, Ratferty?"

An old gray-headed man appeared, bearing a large plate, and Father Phil continued,—

"There now, be ac tive—I'm sending him among you. good people, and such as cannot give as much as you would like to be read before your neighbors, give what little you can towards the repairs, and I will continue to read out the names by way of encouragement to you,—and the next name I see is that of .Squire Egan. Long life to him!"

Squire Eoan, £3 0s. Od. "Squire Egan—five pounds— listen to that—a Protestant in the parish—five pounds! Faith, the Protestants will make you ashamed of yourselves if you don't take care."

Mrs. Flanagan, £2 0s. Od. "Not her own parish, either,^ a fine lady."

James "Milligan of Roundtown, £1 0s. Od. "And here I must remark that the people of Roundtown have not been backward in coming forward on this occasion. I have a long list from Roundtown,—I will read it separate." He then proceeded at a great pace, jumbling the town and the pounds and the people in the most extraordinary manner: "James Milligan of Roundtown, one pound; Darbv Daly of Roundtown, one pound; Sam Finnegan of Uoumftown, one pound; James Casey of Roundpound, one town; Kit Dwyer of Townpound, one round — pound, I mane; Pat Roundpound — Pounden, I mane—Pat Pounden a pound of Powidtown also —there's an example for youl—

"But what are you about, Rafferty? I don't like the sound of that plate of yours,—you are not a good gleaner,—go up first into the gallery there, where I see so many good-looking bonnets,—I suppose they will give something to keep their bonnets out of the rain, for the wet will be into the gallery next Sunday if they don't. I think that is Kitty Crow I see, getting her bit of silver ready; them ribbons of yours cost a thrifle, Kitty— Well, good Christians, here is more of the subscription for you."

Matthew Lavery, £0 2s. 6<£. "He doesn't belong to Roundtown,—Roundtown will be renowned in future ages for the support of the church. Mark my words! Roundtown will prosper from this day out,— Roundtown will be a rising place."

Mark Hennessy, £0 2t>. Gd.; Luke Clancy, £0 2s. 6<i.; John Doolin, £0 2s. (id. "One would think they had all agreed only to give two and sixpence apiece. And they comfortable men, too! And look at their names,—Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,—the names of the blessed Evangelists, and only ten shillings among them! Oh, they are apostles not worthy the name,—we'll call them the poor apostles from this out!" (Here a low laugh ran through the chapel.) "Do you hear that, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? Faith! I can tell you that name will stick to you." (Here the laugh was louder.)

A voice, when the laugh subsided, exclaimed, " I'll make it ten shillin's, your Reverence."

"Who's that?" said Father Phil.

"Hennessy, your Reverence."

"Very well, "Mark. I suppose Matthew, Luke, and John will follow your example?" "We will, your Reverence."

"Ha! I thought you made a mistake; we'll call you now the faithful apostles,—and I think the change in your name is better than seven and sixpence apiece to you."

pass that well-dressed woman for? thry back—Ha! see that, she had her money ready if you only asked her for it,—don't go by that other woman there— Oh, ho! So you won't give anything, ma'am? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. There is a woman with an elegant sthraw bonnet, and she wont give a farthing. Well now, afther that, remember,— I give it from the althar, that from this day out sthraw bonnets pay fi'penny pieces."

Thomas Durfy, Esq., £1 0s. Od. "It's not his parish, and he's a brave gentleman."

Miss Fanny Dawson, £1 Os. Od. "A Protestant out of the parish, and a sweet young lady, God bless her! Oh faith, the Protestants is shaming you!"

Dennis Fannin, £0 7t. dd. "Very good indeed, for a working mason."

[graphic]

Jemmy Riley, £0 * 5s. Od. "Not bad for a hedge carper. ther."

"I gave you ten, plaze your Reverence." shouted Jemmv; "and by the name token, you may remember it was on tfie Nativity of the blessed Vargin, sir, I gave you the second five shilling."

"So you did, Jemmy," cried Father Phil, "I put a little cross before it, to remind me of it; but I was in a hurry to make a sick call when you gave it to me, and forgot it afther: and indeed myself doesn't know what I did with that same five shillings.

Here a pallid woman, who was kneeling near the rails of the altar, uttered an impassioned blessing, and exclaimed, "Oh, that was the very five shillings, I'm sure, you gave to me that verv day, to buy some little comforts for my poor husband, who was dying in the fever 1" and the poor woman

A deep thrill of emotion ran through the flock as this accidental proof of their poor pastor's beneficence burst upon them; and as an affectionate murmur began to rise above the silence which that emotion produced, the burly Father Philip blushed like a girl at this publication of his charity, and even at the foot of that altar where he stood, felt something like shame in being discovered in the commission of that virtue so highly commended by the Providence to whose worship that altar was raised. Ho uttered a hasty " Whisht, whisht!" and waved with his outstretched hands his flock into silence.

In an instant one of those sudden changes so common to an Irish assembly, and scarcely credible to a stranger, took place. The multitude was hushed, the grotesque of the subscription list had passed away and was forgotten, and that same man and that same multitude stood in altered relations,—tiw;/ were again a reverent flock, and he once more a solemn pastor; the natural play of his nation's mirthful sarcasm was absorbed in a moment in the sacreduess of his ufliee; and, with a solemnity befitting the highest occasion, he placed his hands together before his breast, and, raising his eyes to heaven, he poured forth his sweet voice, with a tone of the deepest devotion, in that reverential call for prayer, " Orate, fratres!"

The sound of a multitude gently kneeling down followed, like the soft breaking of a quiet sea on a sandy beach; and when Father Philip turned to the altar to pray, his pent-up feelings found vent in tears, and while he prayed he wept.

I believe such scenes as this are of not unfrequent occurrence in Ireland,—that country so long suffering, so much maligned, and so little understood.

O rulers of Ireland! why have you not sooner learned to l«i<ithat people by love, whom all your severity has been unable to drive t

[graphic]

BY THE ALMA RIVER.—Miss Mulock.

Willie, fold your little hands;

Let it drop, that " soldier " toy;
Look where father's picture stands,—

Father, who here kissed his boy
Not two months since,—father kind,
Who this night may— Never mind
Mother's sob, my Willie dear,
Call aloud that fie may hear
Who is God of battles; say,
"Oh, keep father safe this day
By the Alma River!"

Ask no more, child. Never heed
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk,

Right of nat ions, or of creed,

Chance-poised victory's bloody work

Any flag i' the wind may roll

On thy heights, Sebastopol;

Willie, all to you and me

Is that spot, where'er it be,

Where he stands—no other word I

Stands: God sure the child's prayer heard
By the Alma River.

Willie, listen to the bells
Ringing through the town to-day:

That's for victory. All, no knells
For the many swept away,—

Hundreds, thousands! Let us weep,

We who need not,—just to keep

Reason steady in my brain

Till the morning comes again,

Till the third dread morning tell

Who they were that fought and fell
By the Alma River.

Come, we'll lay us down, my child;

Poor the bed is, poor and hard:
Yet thy fether, far exiled,

Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home;
Or beneath the starry dome
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries—Willie, mark—
Where he buries those who died
Fighting bravely at his side
By the Alma River.

WO*

Willie, Willie, go to sleep,

God will keep us, O my boy!
He will make the dull hours creep

Faster, and send news of joy,
When I need not shrink to meet
Those dread placards in the street,
Which for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eyes— Child, say thy prayer
Once again,—a different one:
Say, "O God, thy will be done
By the Alma River!"

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT—J. G. Whittieb.

Look on him!—through his dungeon grate

Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him, dim and late.

As if it loathed the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed.
His hand upholds his drooping head—
His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard,
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard;
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, disheveled locks of snow.

No grateful fire before him glows,
And yet the winter's breath is chill;

And o'er his half-clad person goes
The frequent ague thrill!

Silent, save ever an'^ anon,

A sound, half murmur and half groan,

Forces apart the painful grip

Of the old sufferer's bearded lip;

Oh, sad and crushing is the fate

Of old age chained and desolate!

Just God! why lies that old man there?

A murderer shares his prison bed,
Whose eye-balls, through his horrid hair,

Gleam on him, fierce and red;
And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear,
And, or in wakefulness or sleep,
Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,
Crimson with murder, touches him.

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