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fervent assurance of his undying' love and
devotion to her, when the old man stopped
him short, and, drawing him into the re
cess of the bow way, asked him if he might
now rely on his friendship and protection?
“Henceforth, as God is my witness,”
earnestly replied Herbert, ‘‘your interest
and mine are but one.
“Good !’’ returned his companion.
‘'Then, when occasion presents itself, you
will procure a pass for and a friend
in whose safety I feel the deepest interest.
For my own life I care not, as I have no
one save you and my grandson now re
maining to care for/*’ Then the old man,
and spite his resolution, sobbed aloud.
“But my friend,” he continued, after a
few moments, "cannot yet be spared. We
cannot afford to lose him. and it is solely
on his account —though ho knows nothing
of my prefect —that 1 have waited here
to meet you.”
After some further brief conversation,
they parted with a fond embrace —the
old man to his friend, and Walter to the
barracks. When bis watch was ended,
he lay down to enjoy, for the first time
during many months, a peaceful slumber
of several hours.
The Ist of November, 1651, dawned
brightly on the old city of Luimneach, and
its now shattered fortifications —brightly
on the brown heath of the Meelick moun
tains—brightly on the waving woods of
Cratloe—brightly ou the rapids at the
salmon weir, and on the snowy sails of
the English transports at anchor in "the
pool”—brightly on the gory head of
gory head of Terence O’Brien, Bishop of
Einly, impaled on the center tower of the
city—brightly too, on his murderer, Hen
ry Ireton, as he reviewed the body of
troops destined for the siege of Carriga
holt Castle ; for God “maketh his sun to
rise on the good and bad.” Ere the sun
set, the vanguard of that body had left
the Cratloe hills far behind them, on their
march westward; and Herbert was second
in command of the first division. He
was well mounted, and with him rode
two peasants thoroughly acquainted with
the country, and destined to serve him as
guides. Os late his soldiers remarked
that he had grown unusually silent and
morose, and lew of them cared to intrude
on him uninvited. Thus it happened
that, during the march he rode consider
ably in advance, though always within
sight of his detachment, with no other
companions than the two guides.
«»*»« c. C il*o«M la V well UC—
quainted, and the soldiers remarked that
he conversed freely with him on the road.
The other seemed to speak but seldom,
and then only to his brother guide. This,
however, was no matter of surprise, as it
was supposed he spoke in Irish, a lan
guage almost utterly unknown to the
English commander. And such, in reali
ty, was the fact. Whether he understood
English or not. he spoke in his native
tongue to O’Brien, who, as the reader
may have guessed, was Herbert’s other
guide on the evening in question. As
they approached Ennis, the old man seem
ed much excited, alleging, as his reason,
that he feared being recognized; but it
was not difficult to perceive that his
anxiety was more for his companion than
himself. They succeeded, however, in
reaching their destination, and encamped
near Kilfiehera to await the arrival of the
main body from Kilrush. Under pretext
of exploring the wild coast of Kilkceand
Herbert left the camp at sun
rise, attended solely by the two indi
viduals who lmd been his companions on
the inarch from Limerick He returned
alone, however, in the evening, and rumor
went abroad that he had been deserted
by his guides amid the wild recesses of
the coast. This new piece of treachery
on the part of the Irishry, after being
warmly denounced round the Cromwellian
camp-fires that night, was forwarded next
morning to Limerick, to be faithfully
chronicled, with many other facts of like
authenticity, ia “Ludlow’s Memoirs.”
Herbert was too much overjoyed at the
escape of his father in-law and the friend
in whom he seemed so deeply interested,
to give himself any concern about the
camp-fire gossip, or Ludlow’s version of
the matter.
The next week found him again in
Limerick. Sudden news of the alarming
i* ness of the general had reached the
( amp, and the expedition to the west was,
for the time abandoned. Herbert found
iiis new post a trying one—to keep watch
and ward with llardress Waller, one of
Ins wife’s murderers, beside the dying
bed ot ; tiother. Waller was Ireion's
confidant, the ready instrument of all his
infamy: ud Herbert was selected by the
general in attend him as the only surviv
ing offic r attached to Ins own regiment
since it vas first raised in Nottingham,
tu; native county ot both. To escape
from his post was impossible. Nothing
short of suicide could free him from it;
ami the thought of his little son, if no higher
motive, prevented him from putting an
end to his existence. Night after nndu
was he doomed to sit by the bed-sido of
the dying man and listen to tho wild
ravings of remorse and blasphemy that,
almost every moment, escaped his plague
stained lips. He would start up betimes,
and, with the frantic look of a maniac,
call for his sword to ward off the fiends
that seemed to mock his tortures; and
then he would sink back exhausted, still
wildly raving of Charles Stuart, and Te
rence O’Brien, the “Lord’s anointed,” as
lie now called them, whom he had mur
dered. Nay, he would clutch Herbert’s
hand, and, with tears, implore his for
giveness. But Hu»’dress Waller stood
there too, and a look from him would
again rouse the murder-fiend within him.
All feeling of compunction would then pass
away, and grim despair again lay hold
of him. Oh ! it was a fearful sight—that
death-bed of despairing remorse. It
never left Herbert’s memory, and was
the commencement of that change that
ultimately converted the Puritan soldier
into a Christian monk.
Ireton died in his house in Mary street
on the 26th of November, 1651, still
“raging and raving,” says the chronicler*
of the unfortunate prelate, whose unjust
condemnation he imagined hurried on his
death. Uerbert was the party appointed
to guard the remains to England, and,
before setting out, hastened to his father
in-law’s house to bring his child with him.
But, alas! he found it empty, and not
tho slightest trace of Winny or the boy.
Nor could any one tell him what had be
come of either. With a bursting heart,
he set out with tho funeral cortege to
Cork, and thence to Bristol, resolved
never more to draw sword in Cromwell’s
cause. Arrived in London, he delivered
up his charge, and at once quitted tiie
kingdom, without waiting for the lying in
state at Somerset House, or final inter
ment in Westminster Abbey, of Ireton’s
plague-stricken corpse. Though pledged
never again to serve in the ranks of the
monsters whose atrocities in Ireland made j
him so often blush for his native country,
he could not yet entirely wean himself
away from his old profession. After a
few months passed in idleness and ennui
on the continent, during which he vainly
tried to forget the loss of his wife and
child, he entered the Earl of Bristol’s
regiment as a volunteer, and faithfully
maintained the cause of King Charles till
his restoration It was when forming a
part of his body-guard at Lord Tara’s
vneiilnnno m T? wlioro ibo oa ilc <1
monarch occasionally resided, that he first
met with the Capuchin fathers, and w r as
by them received into the Catholic
Church. With the king he returned to
England, but only to have all his sad re
collections awakened by meeting once
more with his old enemies, Waller and
Ireton.
Ireton! some astonished reader will
exclaim. Why, surely, we buried him
years ago, and are not expected, we pre
sume, to believe in ghosts in this enlight
ened nineteenth century of ours.
And yet we must repeat what we have
written. On his return to London, Walter
Herbert again stood face to face with
Waller and Ireton—the former, with a
smile of hypocritical adulation, welcoming
the return of him whose father he had
aided in murdering—the latter, a hideous
spectacle, first dangling on a gallows at
Tyburn, and then grimly staring at the
by-passers—if those sightless sockets
could be said to stare —from the highest
spike on Westminster Hall. It was a
shocking sight to Herbert—that ghastly
skeleton and that ghastly head—and re
called to his memory, with sadness and
horror, another hut far different head
which, ten years before, he saw set up,
pallid and blood-stained, on the castled
tower of Limerick. God is very just,
thought he, as he passed on with a
shudder.
On his return to England, Herbert
found himself friendless. All his relatives
had died or perished on the battle field,
during the civil wars, and of his child
there was still no trace. All he could
learn was that he had oeen sent to his
grandfather, then resident on the conti
nent; but where the grandfather resided
there was no means of ascertaining. ;
Tired of England, and the cruelties and
perfidies he daily saw endorsed by the
sign-manual of one who he imagined,
should have learned toleration and honor
in the school of affliction—in hopes also
of meeting with his child—he quitted
his native land forever, and joined the
ranks of the duke of Lorraine, the old ally
and friend of his former commander, the
Earl of Bristol. With him and Sir George
Hamilton he fought the battles of Spain
for nigh fifteen years ; and his last
aehieAement in her service was one of the
brightest on record. With a few resolute
companions he held his ground for two
entire days in the shattered citadel of
Cambrai, though the battery to which
they returned shot for shot was under the
♦Burke, “Ifibrrtn'a Dorn > view si.'
personal inspection of Louis XIV. and
the renowned hunchback, Luxemburg.
The bursting of a shell laid him senseless,
and w hen, after a long and painful illness,
he was again restored to health, he re
solved, in thanksgiving, to devote the
remainder of his days to the exclusive ser
vice of God, in the convent where he first
learned to know Him.
During the recital of the foregoing
narrative, which, for brevity’s sake, we
have given consecutively, and in our own
words, Brother Francis was frequently
interrupted by his youthful auditor, as
new light was thrown by him on events
in his family history which, till then, he
had never heard satisfactorily cleared up.
lie had already learned from his mother
that his grandfather had been an English
officer, supposed to have fallen in Crom
well’s wars, though a vague report reach
ed the family that he was seen in Spain
after Cromwell’s death. Os his grand
mother, he only heard that she died
young, and that her father resided for a
considerable time in Brussels, with his
grandson, whom, at his death, he confided
to the care of the guardian of St. An
toine’s at Louvain, who was his brother
in-law, and who had brought the boy,
when a mere child, from Ireland. He
further learned that, after the completion
of his studies, and contrary to the wish of
his uncle, who intended him for the eccle
siastical state, his father embraced the
profession of arms, and, shortly after his
marriage, embarked with the French
troops sent by King Louis to Ireland.
He fell at the seige of Limerick, and his
widow died of a broken heart soon after
the intelligence of her husband’s death
readied her. He was himself then but a
boy, and was placed by his mother’s rela
tives at the Benedictine college of Douai,
whence lie passed, in due time, like his
father, to the ranks, and was then serving,
as we have already seen, in the Duke of
Vendome’s army.
“But von did not say who the other
person was that accompanied you on the
march from Limerick to Carrigaholt, or
what became of him or his companion,”
resumed the young soldier, when he had
concluded.
“That remains to this day a mystery to
me,” replied his grandfather, “fori never
saw either after we parted that evening.
I left them on a lofty isolated rock, off
the coast of Clare, to which they were
conveyed, as the surest place of safety, by
a tew poor xiainuuieii, men dwelling in a
ruined keep on the verge of the cliffs,
which, if I remember rightly, they called
Dunlicky. Had I much curiosity, I
might have possibly learned the stranger’s
name, but I never inquired, and probably,
as I did not, my father-in-law never told
me. Certain it is that he must have been
a person of high distinction, as all ad
dressed him with marked respect, I might
almost say reverence, and seemed most
devoted to him, though, as far as I could
see, he possessed no earthly means of re
munerating them—nothing, in fact, save
the half-military, half-rustic garments iri
which he was clad. And as they left him
and his companion in one of the two small
hubs that served as a shelter in stormy
weather for the few wild-looking sheep
that browsed on the island, they promised
soon to return with such necessaries as he
might need during his stay among them.
On returning to the canoe that brought
us from the mainland, I remembered that
I heard something fall from the stranger j
as he stepped ashore on a ledge of the
island. In my hurry at the moment, I
paid no attention to the circumstance ;
and it was only on our arrival at the foot
of the el ill on which the old castle stood
that I found the object which ho had
dropped lying in the bottom of the boat.
Hoping soon to be able to restore it to its
owner, I took it with me, and ever since
it has remained in my possession;‘for I
ueed scarcely sav, after all you have
heard, that an opportunity of restoring it
never since presented itself 1 still retain
it, with the father guardian’s permission,
in hopes of one day discovering 1 its lawful
claimant,’ ‘
Here Brother Francis drew from the
folds of his garment a small ebony cru
cifix, inlaid with pearl, and richly set in
gold, and reverently kissing it, handed it
to his companion. The letter, after care
fully examining it, read the following in
scription, beautifully engraved in text
characters round the rim—“«/. />. Rxnuc.
Leg . Ap. H.R V.7-L Edmdo. O'Dwyer
Epo. Luimi. M.DCXLVE’ Still the
history and after fate of the owner of the
crucifix remained a mystery to them.
Perhaps some reader of the foregoing
pages inay be able to throw some light on
the subject, if not for their benefit, at least
for ours.
Little more remains to be told of
brother Francis. In his ninetieth year
ho died peacefully in the midst of the
brotherhood with whom so many years of
his life had been so happily spent —and
his eyes were closed in death by the hands
of Eilv O'Brien’s grandchild, young
Gerald Herbert, who had likewise joined
the order, and given up the camp and its
turmoil, and the world and its deceit, to
don the cowl of St. Francis, and spend
the rest of his days with the humble, hos
pitable Capuchins of Bruges.
AN HISTOrTcAL^SKETCH.
On the morning of the 20th January,
1792, the decree went forth which de
clared Louis XVI. of France, guilty of
general treason against the safety of the
State, and condemned him to death. He
demanded of the Convention a respite of
three days to prepare for death, a con
fessor to assist him in his last moments,
liberty to see his family, and permission
for them to leave France. The Conven
tion granted him an interview with his
family, and the assistance of a priest, but
refused the other requests.
The execution was fixed for the fol
lowing morning at ten o’clock. A heart
rending scene was the last interview of
the royal family. At half-past eight that
evening the door of his apartment open
ed, and Maria Antoinette entered, lead
ing the Dauphin by the hand, followed
by tho young princess and Madame
Elizabeth They thronged together in
the poor King’s arms, weeping, sobbing,
and a scene of silent despair, broken
only by the bursting anguish of the af
flicted family. A glass door was be
tween this and the adjoining apartment,
from which the municipal officer on
guard, and the confessor, who had now
arrived, were witnesses of what passed.
The Queen, his daughter and sister,
leaned upon the King, and pressed him
in their arms. He continued to speak,
with their tears and lamentations inter
rupting his words. This terrible scene
of anguish lasted for two hours. At
length Louis arose to put an end to the
painful interview, and gave his blessing
to them. The princesses still clasped
their arms around him. “I assure you,”
said be, “that I will see you at eight
o’clock to-morrow morning.” “Why not
at seven ?” they all said at once. “Well
—yes, at seven,” said lie. “Farewell!”
He pronounced "farewell” so impressive
ly that their sobs were renewed, and his
daughter fainted at his feet. They
raised her from the floor; he embraced
them tenderly, one by one, and broke
away from them, again mournfully pro
nouncing, "Adieu ! adieu!”
Abbe Edgeworth, the confessor, was
now admitted to the King, and remained
with him until twelve o’clock that night,
during which time it had been arranged
between him and the priest that Mass
should be said in the morning, if the mu
nicipality should consent to it. At about
midnight Louis retired to rest, having
made up his mind not to see his family
in the morning, and desiring his valet to
| call him at five o’clock, at the same
time, “give this ring to the Queen,” said
he, “and tell her with what regret I
leave her ; give her also this locket con
taining the hair of my children ; give
this seal to the Dauphin, and tell them all
what 1 shall suffer without receiving their
last embraces, but I wish to spare them
the pain of so cruel a separation.”
This faithful valet, Clery, took his
place beside the pillow of his master,
watching the peaceful slumber into which
the latter sunk, even upon the night be
fore he was to ascend the scaffold
Meanwhile a few ardent minds were in
a ferment here and there, while the great
mass, either indifferent or awe-struck, re
mained immovable. A young man re
solved to avenge the fate of Louis XVI.
upon one of his judges. Lepelletier St.
Fargeau, one of the deputies was of noble
birth, and his fortune was immense. Like
many others of his rank, he voted for
death, in order to throw the veil of ob
livion over his birth and fortune. lie had
excited the more the indignation of the
loyalists on account of the class to which
he belonged. On the evening of the 20th
ho was pointed out to the guardsman as
he was sitting down to dine in a restau
rateur’s in the Palais Royal. The young
man. wrapped in a cloak, stepped up to
him and said :
“Are you Lepcllefcier, the villain who
voted for the death of the King T
“Yes,” replied the Deputy, “but I am
not a villain; I voted according to my
conscience.*’
“There, then,*' rejoined the guardsman,
“take that for your reward !” plunging a
sword into his side. Lepclletier fell, and
the young man escaped before the persons
present had time to secure him.
The clock of the temple struck five on
the 21st, when his valet rising to light the
fire, awoke the King, who, drawing the
curtaius, inquired the hour. “I have
slept soundly,” said the King, “and I stood
in need of it. Yesterday was a trying
day for me.”
“Ilis Majesty,” says Cleryks narrative,
“as soon as he was dressed, bade me go
and call his confessor, whom 1 found al
ready risen. I placed a chest of drawers
in the middle of the chamber, and arranged
it in the form of an altar for saying Mass.
When everything was ready I informed
the King. The priest came in, and Mass
began at six o’clock. There was profound
silence during the ceremony. Louis all
the time on his knees, heard Mass with
the most devout attention, and received
the communion.” \
As the service was concluding, the
rolling of drums and agitation in the
streets announced the preparations lor
execution. All the troops in Paris had
been under arms from five o’clock in the
morning. - s
The beat of drums, the sound of trum
pets, the clash of arms, the tramping of
horses—all resounded in the temple. At
half-past eight the noise increased, the
doors were thrown open with great clatter,
and Santerres, accompanied by seven
municipal officers, entered.
“You are come for me,” said the KiDg.
“Yes,” was the answer.
“Lead on,” said tho King.
A carriage waited; inside of it two
officers of gendarmie were seated, with
orders to despatch the King if the car
riage should be attacked, rumors having
been circulated that three hundred deyo
ted men contemplated rescuing him. The
King entered, followed by his confessor ;
he read during the slow progress of the
vehicle, the prayers from* a breviary for
persons at the point of death.
[lt is a fact that there had been an as
sociation formed of eighteen hundred men,
who were to cry out “pardon” before the
execution, but of those only one man had
the courage to do so, and he was instantl}*
torn to pieces by the mob which surround
ed the scaffold.!
The carriage advanced' slowly, sur
rounded by a large body of soldiers, and
at ten minutes past ten arrived at the
place of execution, where was planted
cannon, with the Marseillais and a violent
mixture of Jacobins and rabble stationed
about the scaffold. On quitting the car
riage three guards surrounded his Majes
ty as he started up the steps of the scaf
fold, and would have taken off his clothes,
but he repulsed them with haughtiness,
untying his neckcloth, opening his shirt,
and arranging his throat for the axe of
the guillotine himself. When they began
to bind his hands he resisted, with an ex
pression of indignation.
“Suffer this outrage,” said the Abbe to
him, “suffer it as the last resemblance to
that Saviour who is about to be your re
compense.”
At these words, the victim, resigned
and submissive, allowed himself to be
bound and conducted to the block. Sud
denly he separated himself from the exe
cutioners, stepped to the edge of the scaf
fold, and exclaimed : “Frenchmen, I die
innocent cf the crime imputed to me, and
I pray that my blood may not fall upon
France.” He would have continued, but
Santerres ordered the drums to beat, and
the rabble cried, “Executioners, do your
duty.” He was seized and pressed down to
the block, his confessor exclaiming, “Son
of Saint Louis ascend to Heaven,” as the
axe fell.
Thus perished at thirty-nine the best
and weakest of monarchs. He was, per
haps, the only prince, who, destitute of
passion, had not even the love of power,
and who united the two qualities most es
sential to a monarch : fear of God
and love of his people.
Ox McrnoDs or Greeting — Wbafc
form of greeting do you consider to be
the most friendly ? Not that of the Por
tuguese, whose “ May you live a thousand
years,” is exaggerated, and so lacks sin
cerity. Not that of the Oriental, “ May
your shadow never be less,” which is
pompous. Nor the French salute, which
is too greasy. Nor the Englishman’s
“ How d’ye do,” which is ugly. For real
grace of expression—fora perfect indica
tion of friendship, we must look to the
courtly custom of a savage nation. When
Captain Cook, of world-encircling fame,
visited Huaheine, the king of the country
proposed as a mark of amity to exchange
names with the illustrious navigator;
thenceforth KingOree was called Cookee,
and the Captain was known as Ore**
during the rest of his stay in the island.
Could abnegation of self in the interests
of your friends be expressed in more gra
cious or kindly fashion !—Once a Week.
A Physician passing by a gravestone,
maker’s shop called out ; “Good morn
ing, neighbor ; hard at work, T see. You
finish your gravestone as far as ‘in mem
ory of,’ and then wait, I suppose to see
who wants a monument next ?” “Why,
yes,” repled the old joker, unless some
body is sick and you arc doctoring ’em,
then I keep right on.
Men are more civilized by their pleasure
than their occupation. Business dispenses
not only with ceremony, but often with
common civility ; and we should become
rude, repulsive, and ungracious, did
wc not recover in our recreations the ur
banity which in the bustle of labors we
disregard.