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P VOL. I.
THE SWOED OF EOBEftfcsgEL
BY REV. ABRAM ,7. RYAN.
Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright.
Hashed the sword of Lee !
Far in the front of the deadly fight,
High o’A the brave, in the cause of Right,
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light,
Led us to victory.
•
Out of its scabbard, where full long
It slumbered peacefully—
Roused from its rest by tire battle-song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong,
Gleamed the sword of Lee !
Forth from its scabbard, high in air.
Beneath Virginia’s sky—
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear
That where that sword led, they would dar<*
To follow and to die.
Out of its scabbard ! Never hand
Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter band had a cause as grand.
Nor cause a chief like Lee !
Forth from its scabbard! how we prayed
That sword might victor bo 1
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
He still hoped on, while gleamed the blad«
Os noble Robert Lee !
Forth from its scabbard ! all in vain !
Forth flashed the sword of Lee !
’Tie shrouded now in its sheath again.
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, j et irithout a stain,
Proudly and peacefully.
From tho Hibernian Magazine.
ASTORVOF THEOLDEH TIME.
“ Three monks sat by a bogwood lire—
Hare were their crowns, and their garments grey,
Close sat they by that bogwood fire,
Watching the wicket till break of day.”
Ballad Poetry.
Saving the color of their garments,
which, instead of grey, were of a dark
brown, and the omission of any allusion
to their long flowing beards, the above
lines convey as accurate an idea as any
words could of the parties that occupied
the spacious guest-chamber of the Capu
chin convent of Bruges on the last night
of October, 1708.
Seated round the capacious hearth, on
which, without aid of grate, cheerfully
blazed a pile of dark gnarled logs dug up
from the fens, which, in the days of Caesar,
were shaded by the dense forests of Flan
ders, three lay-brothers of the order kept
watch for any wayfarer that might re
quire hospitality or information on the
evening in question. Their convent stood
—and a portion of it still stands—at the
southern extremity of the town, close be
side the present railway station. But
Bruges was not, a century and a half ago,
what it is to-day. War, and the recent
decline of its ancient commerce, rendered
it, at the period of which we write, any
thing blit a safe or attractive locality for
cither tourist or commercial traveller to
visit. There was no “ Hutel do Flandre,”
or “ Fleui de Ble/’or even ‘ 4 Singe IFOr ”
for the weary itinerant to seek refresh
ment or lodgment. Neither were there
gens-d'armes in the streets, nor affable
shopkeepers in their gas-lit magazins, as
at present, to whom the benighted stranger i
might apply for information regarding the j
locality in which liis friends resided. The j
convents and monasteries, however, with
which Belgium was then, as now, studded,
were ever open to the traveller, be his
rank or condition what it might, and pre
eminent for their hospitality wqre the
Capuchin fathers.
The night was a wild one ; and the dying
blasts of October seemed bent on a
ous struggle ere they expired.
“ What au awful storm !” exclaimed
Brother Anselm, rising to secure the huge
oak window shutters that seemed, as if in
terror, every moment ready to start from I
their strong iron fastenings. j
“ ’fcis fearful,” re-
JsTe companions, Brother Bo
naventure, “and what dreadful lightning !”
Peal after peal of thunder resounded
through the spacious hall and adjoining
corridors ; and then, again, came the
wind beating' the rain, in torrents, against
door and casement, and completely drown
ing the chimes of the Carillon, though the
market place, where the belfry stood, was
close beside them. Still not a word es
caped their third companion, Brother
Francis, a venerable old man who sat
nearer than his younger brethren to the
ample fireplace. He continued silently
reciting “ Ave” after “ Ave” on the beads
of the large rosary attached to his girdle,
and seemed, in the excess of his devotion,
utterly unconscious of the storm that
howled without.
A loud knocking at the outer gate, fol
lowed quickly by the ringing of the
stranger’s bell, at length announced the
arrival of some guest. In an instant, the
old man let his beads fall to their accus
tomed place by his side—for the rule of
St. Francis gave charity toward the neigh
bor a first place among its spiritual observ
ances—and hastened, as eagerly as his
younger brothers, to admit the poor trav
eller, who must be sore distrait, on such
an awful night.
Lighting* a lantern, they proceeded
through the court to the outer porch, and
drawing back the slide that covered a
small grated aperture in the wicket, de
manded who the wayfarer might be. The
gleam of the lamp fell upon the uniforms
of two military men, who seemed en
gaged in supporting a third between them,
while their horses stood neighing in terror,
and pawing the gronud beside them. In
a second the gate was unbarred, and three
of Yendome’s troopers entered the court
yard ; two of them still supporting their
comrade, who had been badly wounded
in a skirmish with Marlborough’s troops,
near Audenarde, that morning. Leaving
Anselm with the two other soldiers to look
after the horses, brothers Francis and Bo
liaventure led the wounded man into the
convent. He seemed weak and faint ;
but the cheerful blaze of the fire, and the
refreshment speedily administered by the
good brothers, soon restored him some
what, though he still suffered acutely
from his wound, and was utterly unable
to stand without the aid of support.
For the first time Brother Francis broke
silence. From the moment he caught a
distinct view of the stranger’s face, a& he
sat in the light of the lire, his gaze seemed
riveted upon him ; and an observer might
have noticed the old man’s lip quiver and
his face grow paler, might have even ob
served a tear steal down his cheek, as he
j continued for a. while to gaze in silence
! on the pallid features of the young soldier.
1 At length he addressed him, not in French
! or Flemish, but in a language which to
; Brother Bonaventure was foreign.
The stranger’s face brightened at the
sound of his own tongue, and he readily
made answer to the few hurried questions
put him by the old monk Their conver
sation was of very brief duration ; but its
result seemed astounding. For when An
selm returned with the soldiers, he found
Bonaventure and the stranger chafing the
old man’s temples as he lav in a swoon on
the bench before them.
To their inquiries as to the cause of this
strange occurrence, Anselm could give
no definite answer. All lie knew was,
that although he could not understand
what passed between Brother Francis
and their comrade, the conversation
seemed to produce a wonderful effect on
the former. He trembled from head to
foot, and then smiled, and seemed about
to grasp the stranger in bis arms, when
lie suddenly fell back on the bench as they
now saw him. The young soldier—he
was almost a boy, and strikingly hand
some—was equally puzzled. Brother
Francis had merely asked him if he were
Irish; and when ho answered ‘“Yes;” if
his name was Herbert, and if it was Gerald
GA, APRIL 4, 1868.
Herbert, and it his father and grandfather
were Irish ; and when he replied that his
name was Gerald Walter Herbert, and
that his grandfather was not Irish, hut
English, the old man muttered something
which he could not catch, and fainted.
That was all he could tell them ; but what
that had to do with Brother Francis’ lit
still remained a mystery.
For a considerable time the aged monk
lay senseless and almost motionless, the
only symptoms of animation he presented
being those afforded by the convulsive
throbbing ot his heart, and an occasional
deep-drawn sigh. His brothers seemed
deeply afflicted, and sought by every means
in their power to restore him ; for Fran
cis, though few knew anything of his his
tory, was, notwithstanding, the favorite of
the whole community.
Toward midnight the old man revived,
and his first inquiry was fgr the young
soldier. He now embraced him, and, as
he pressed him again and again to his
heart, with tears and blessings called him
“ his son,” “ his dear child.” Brothers
Anselm and Bonaventure looked at each
other in mute astonishment. They feared
that their dear old friend, the patriarch of
the lay-brothers, was losing his reason.
They knew that, for thirty years at least,
he had been an inmate of the cloister,
while the party whom he thus lovingly
called his son could at furthest number
twenty birthdays, if indeed he could count
so many. Still greater, however, was
their surprise, when, on a closer scrutiny,
they could not fail to observe a marked
family likeness between their aged brother
and the individual on whom all his affec
tions seemed now centred.
But this was no time for the indulgence
of curiosity. The two troopers, drenched
and travel-stained, must be attended to.
and the wound of their comrade looked
after. Fortunately, their convent num
bered among its inmates one of the best
leeches in all West Flanders. He had
been already summoned to the aid of
Brother Francis, and now that he no longer
required his services, lie directed his at
tention to the other invalid, whose case
seemed the less urgent of the two. In a
short time his skilful hand extracted a
spent ball from the sufferer’s knee, and,
by the application of a soothing poultice,
restored him to comparative ease. Nor
were Brothers Anselm and Bonaventure
idle meanwhile. Files of well buttered
tarlines made of wholemeal bread baked
in the convent, with plentiful dishes of
rashers and omelets, and a flagon or two
of foaming Louvain beer, soon covered
the table. Cold meats, too, of various
kinds, were served up in abundauce ; and
the two dragoons were soon busily en
gaged in satisfying appetites good at all
times, but now considerably sharpened by
a hard ride and a long fast. It was the
first peaceful meal they enjoyed since the
Duke of Burgundy got command ; and
they blessed their stars for having been
selected to escort young Herbert to the
rear. Having completed the bandaging
of his wound, and administered such medi
cine as he deemed best calculated to make
up for his patient’s loss of blood, the in
firmarian led him to the chamber pre
pared for his reception; and Brother
Francis begged to be allowed to take
charge of him. His request was granted,
but upon the sole condition that no con
versation of an exciting nature should take
place between him and the invalid till
sucli time as all feverish and inflammatory
symptoms had subsided. Day after day,
and night after night, the old man watched,
in strict silence, beside the stranger’s
couch j and all were in amazement at
such assiduity and attention on the part of
one who, as long as any remembered him,
seemed utterly detached from all earthly
affections. They even saw him mingle
tears with his prayers, as he knelt beside
the pillow of the sleeper. It was whis
pered that the guardian knew something
about the matter; for he, too, now came
frequently, and looked with evident inter-
csfc on the invalid. No one else ventured
to speak to Brother Francis on the sub
ject, for though generally kind and gentle,
and communicative as a child, there were
times when he became sad and reserved
—and this seemed one of them.
Ten days passed on, and the invalid
made such rapid progress that the infinna
rian and his staff pronounced him quite
out of danger, in no further need of medi
cal treatment, and only requiring the aid
ot the cook to recover completely his wont
ed vigor. The interdict was now re
moved, and Brother Francis seemed, hap
py. He could, henceforth, speak as he
pleased to his young protege. The latter
felt equally delighted; tor he felt, he
knew not why, a sort of unaccountable at
tachment—it was certainly more than
mere gratitude—toward the old man grow
ing daily stronger and stronger within
him. And then Brother Francis called
him “my son”—but perhaps, as an old
man, that was the name by which he ad
dressed all youngsters. At all events, he
loved the old monk as a child loves a
father, and always felt sad when the duties
of his rule obliged his venerable friend to
leave him for a time.
“And so you tell me you have no re
collection of your father ?” said Brother
Francis, with a sigh, as they sat together
one evening—it was the eve of St.‘Martin
—in the same apartment where we first
introduced them to our readers.
“ None whatever,” replied his compan
ion ; “ lie left France as a volunteer with
d’Fsson’s division, and was killed at
Limerick when I was but three years
old. So I often heard my mother say.”
And your father’s father ?”
“ Was, as l have already said, an Eng
lishman—but he, too, died in the wars
long ago. They say he fell in Spain.”
The old man could no longer restrain
his feelings. Bursting into tears, and
clasping his young companion to his
bosom, as he had done on the night of
their first meeting, be said :
“ No, my child—your grandfather,
Walter Herbert, is not dead, but yet sur
vives to give you that blessing which
your own poor father could not bestow on
you with his parting breath—he stands
before you.”
It was a touching scene to witness—
that old Capuchin monk, with iiis long
white beard, and coarse dark gown, and
leathern cincture, and bare sandalied feet,
locked in the fond embrace of the youncr
soldier of “ the Brigade,” on that eve of
St. Martin, in the old convent of St.
Bruges! We do not mean to intrude on
the sacred privacy of domestic feeling, but
leaving parent and child to commune with
each other in the fullness of their hearts,
will, with our readers’ kind permission,
assume, for the nonce, the province of the
Senachie, and briefly relate as much of
their history as we have ourselves learned,
Outre Mer—and is still oftentimes related
on long winter evenings by the brothers
who have succeeded—literally stepped
into the sandals of—Brother Francis and
his comrades.
THE CAPUCHIN'S STORY.
W alter Herbert, or, as he was called
in religion, Brother Francis, was the
only child of an ancient family in Not
tinghamshire. Entering the army at an
| early age, he found himself stationed
with his regiment in Limerick, when the
army of the ‘‘Confederates” sat down
before that city in the summer of sixteen
hundred and forty-two. He was then in
his twentieth year. Forming part of
Courtenay’s company, when the city
opened its gates to Garret Barry and
Lord Muskerry, he retired with his com
mander to King John's castle, where,
though closely besieged, they resolutely
held out till St. Jbhn’s eve, when Courte
nay was obliged to capitulate. In the
course of the attack on the castle, a mine
was sprung by the besieging party, and a
turret, in which Herbert was stationed,
fell to the ground with a terrific crash.
For weeks he lay delirious ; and when
«at length he awoke to consciousness, lie
found himself the occupant of a hand
somely-fitted chamber looking out on the
church of St. Nicholas. His host was a
middle-aged, gentlemanly-looking per
son, ot grave yet affable manners. He
was a widower, and bis household con
sisted of himself, an aged housekeeper,
two sons, and an only daughter The
latter—Eily O’Brien—was the sick man’s
principal nurse, and no Sister of Mercy
could have bestowed more care on a suf
fering invalid than she did on Waiter
Herbert—stranger though he was to
her creed and her country. From length
ened and almost continual intercourse, a
feeling’ of mutual affection sprang up be
tween the young people. Gratitude on
the one hand, and sympathy for the suf
ferings of the handsome young officer on
the other, heightened this feeling, till it
grew into deep and lasting love. Like
Desdemona, she loved him “ for the dan
gers lie had passed and he loved her
“ that she did pity them.” But an in
surmountable obstacle to their union lay
in their difference of religion. Herbert
was a Protestant ; and old Connor
O’Brien would never hear of any child
of Iris being united to one of that creed
which, in its struggle for ascendancy, he
believed to be the cause of so much suffer
ing to his country, even though no other
impediment whatever existed. A private
marriage was thus their only alterna
tive, and to this, in an evil hour, poor
Eily consented.
Months rolled on—months of bliss to
Walter and Eily—but their separation
was at hand. Important letters called
Herbert away, almost at a moment’s
notice. He hoped, however, that his ab
sence would be of no lengthened dura
tion, and that he would soon return to
publicly claim his own Eily as his wife.
But alas ! his hopes were doomed to sad
and bitter disappointment. On his arri
val in England, he found the entire
country in arms; and as it became im
possible to remain neutral, or return to
Ireland, he was forced to join the newly
formed corps just raised in his native
county by Henry Ircton, his father’s
landlord. Once under military discip
line there was no retreating ; and though
all lii.s thoughts were turned to Ireland,
he was doomed to maddening suspense
regarding her who alone made Ireland
dear to him. All communication be
tween the two countries was now sus
pended. At Edgehill and Newbury ho
retreated before the king's troops—and
at Marston Moor and Naseby bad a
share in defeating them. But victory
or defeat was alike void of interest to
him. It was even with indifference he
heard of his promotion for having saved
his general’s life at Naseby. The sole
engrossing thought of his existence was
how to get back to Limerick. That
long-sought for opportunity at last ar
rived ; but when it did, it scarcely
brought joy to Herbert. He was or
dered to join in the invading Parliament
ary force; and, when he called to mi-d
the fierce fanatics who were to be Id’s
fellow-soldiers, love made him tremble
for the Irishry.
The fourteenth of June saw him on
the battle-lield of Xaseby— the follow
ing autumn found him sailing up ihe
Shannon—and, ere the close of the your,
he was gazing upon ttie steeple of St.
Mary’s and the towers of Limerick from
the battlements of Bunratty, which had
fallen into the hands of the Parliamenta
rians. He fancied he could even see the
very house in which he had spent so many
happy days. But beyond fancy lie could
not go. To reach the city was utterly
impossible. All he could learn from an
Abbey fisherman whom they had taken
prisoner, was that Connor O’Brien was
still alive, and that his daughter was mar
ried and had a beautiful little boy. Who
her husband was his informant could not
say j but he thought he was an officer in
Earl Glamorgan’s army. Herbert, huw-
No. 8.