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rr4 S /'7 _ _ _ * 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.