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2 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.