A JOURNAL OF AGRICULTURE, NEWS, POLITICS & MISCELLANY
By Andrews dc Griswold.
Comer of Randolph and Broad streets, (up-stairs.)
THREE DOLLARS per annum— in adeanet.
Tm espies lor #5, “ •• ••
Two deHart for six months.
KT All Lktterx must be free of postsf'*. except where
iwatr is enclosed.
Tke Beauty of Liberty.
** In nil tiling* that have beauty, there is nothing to
man more comely than Liberty.”— Milton.
When the dance of the shadow*,
At day-break is done,
And the cheeks of the morning
Are red with the un.
When he sinks in his glory,
At eve from the view,
And calls up the planets
To blaze in the blue ;
There is beauty—but where is the beauty to see.
More proud than the sight of a nation when free 7
When the beautiful bend
Os tbe bow is above
Like a collar of light,
On the bosom of love—
When the moon in her mildness
Is flaming on high,
Like a banner of silver
Hung out in the sky ;
There is beauty—but earth has no beauty to see,
More proud than the front of a nation when free.
In the depth of the darkness,
Unvaried in hue,
When the shadows are veiling
The breast of the blue ;
When the voice of the tempest,
At midnight is still, .
And the spirit of solitude
£<ib* on the hill;
There is bemnty—but where is the beauty to tee.
Like the broad-beaming brow of a nation when free
In the breath of the morning,
When Nature's awake,
And calls up the chorus
To chant in the brake ;
In the voice of the echo,
Unbound in the woods ;
In the warbling of streams.
And the foaming of floods,
There is beauty—but where is the beauty to see,
Like the thrice-hallowed sight of a nation when free 7
Like the chargeiof a column
Os plumes on the plain ;
When the thunder is up
From his eloud-cradled sleep,
And the tempest is treading
The paths of the deep ;
There is beauty-—but where is the beauty to see,
I/ke the brow of a nation when free!
[From the Mother's Assistant.)
Who Stole the Bird’s Nest t
“To whit! to whit! to whee!
Will you listen to me 7
Who stole four eggs I laid.
And the nice nest I made 7”
“ Not I,” said the cow, “ Moo, moo!
Much a thing I’d never do;
I gave yon a wisp of hay,
But didn’t take your nest away.
Not I,” said the cow, “ Moo, moo !
Such a thing I'd never do.”
•’ To whit! to whit f to whee !
Will you listen to me ?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made 7”
Now what do you think 7
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree to-day 7”
“ Not I,” said the dog, “ Bow wow !
I wouldn’t he so mean,.l vow ;
I gave hairs the nest to make,
the mjH i diuTft cane. t
“ Not I,” said the dog, “ Bow wow !
I wouldn’t be so mean, i vow.”
“To whit! to whit! to Whee!
Will you listen to me 7
Who stole the four eggs I laid,
” Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo !
J.et me speak a word, too;
Who stolp that pretty nest
From little yfellow breast 7”
“ Not I,” said the sheep, “ O, no!
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so;
I gave some wool the nest to line,
Hut the nest was none of mine.
Bah, bah,” said the sheep,O, no,
f wouldn't treat a poor bird so.”
■“To whit.’ to whit! to whee !
Will you listen to me 7
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made 7”
“ Caw ! eaw ! ,cried the crow ;
I should like to know
What thief took away
A bird’s nest to-day ?”
“ Cluck, cluck,” said the hen,
“ Don't ask me again;
Why, I haven’t a chick
That wonld do such a trick.
“ We all gave a feather,
And she wove them together ;
I'd scorn to intrude
On her little brood;
“Cluck, cluck,” said the hen,
“ Don’t ask me again.”
“ Chir-a-whir! Chir-a-whir!
Wo will make a great stir!
Let me find out his name,
And mil cry, for shame I”
’ I woi)d npt rob a bird,”
Said little Mitry Greene;
** I think I never heard
Os any thing so mean.”
“ ’Tis very cruel, too,”
Said little Alice Neal ‘j
“ I wonder if he knew
How sad ike bird would feel!”
A little sov hung down his bead.
And went ai<-’ hid behind the bed |
For he stole that pretty neat
From poor littlo yellow breaet;
And he felt ao full of ahame,
He did nut like to tell his name
“AS LITTLE GOVERNMENT AS POSSIBLE ; THAT LITTLE EMANATING FROM AND CONTROLLED BY TIIE PEOPLE, AND UNIFORM IN ITS APPLICATION TO ALL.”
MKI S CBftit ABf ,
From the Cu*tis Recollections and Private Memoirs of
the Lite and Cbarnc.ior of Washington.
nts home and household.—order, method,
Wherever Washington established a home
—whether temporary or fixed, whether amid
the log huts of Morristown or the Valley Forge,
the in New York or
Philadelphia, or Mount Ver
non—every where punctuality,
economy reigned. His household, whether
civil or military, was always a liberal
scale, and wrs conducted with duo regard tp
economy and usefulness.
The Steward. — Francis, who kept the tavern
in New York where Washington took leave of
his officers in 1763, was the first Steward to
the President. Francis was a rare Whig in
the Revolutionary day, nnd attached no little
importance to his person and character from
the circumstance of the memorable parting of
the Commander-in-Chief with his old and long
endeared companions in arms have taken place |
nt Francis’Tavern, in New York.
The Steward was a man of talent nnd con
siderahle ttiFc in the line of his profession, hut j
was at the same lime ambitious, fond of display,
nnd regardless of expense. This produced con
tinued difficulties between the President and
certainly one of the most devotedly attached to
him of all his household.
The expenses of the Presidential Mansion
were settled weekly ; and, upon the bills being
presented, the President would rate his Slew,
ard soundly upon his expensiveness, saying
that, while he wished to live comfortably to his
high station, liberally, nay handsomely, he ab
horred waste and extravagance and insisted that
; his household should he conducted with due re
; gard to economy and usefulness.
Francis would promise amendment, and the
next week the same scene would be enacted in
all its parts, the Steward retiring in tears, and
exclaiming, ‘Well, he may discharge me ; he
may kill me, if he will ; but while he is Presi
dent of the United Slates, and 1 have the honor
to he his steward, his establishment shall be
supplied with the very best of every thing that
ardship. W ashington was remarkably fond of
fish. It habit lor N. Fngland ladies fie
fjuently to prepare the codfish in a very nice
manner, and send it enveloped in cloths, so as
to arrive quite warm for the President’s Satur
day dinner, he always eating codfish on that
day in compliment to his New England recul.
It happened that a single shad was caught
in the Delaware in February, and brought to
the Philadelphia market for sale. Francis
pounced upon it with the speed of asi osprey,
regardless of price, but charmed that he had sc.
cured a delicacy that, above all others, he knew
would be agreeable to the palate ofhis Chief.
When the fish was served, Washington sus.
pected a departure from his orders touching the
provision to be made for his table, and said to
Francis, who stood at his post at the sideboard,
• What fish is this V
‘A shad, a verv fine shad,’ was the reply;
I knew your Excellency was particularly fond
of this kind ol fish, and was so foitunate as to
procure this one in the market—a solitary one,
and the first of the season.’
* The price, sir ; the price !’ continued Wash-
Riguiii, tone; -the price, j
‘Throe, three,three dollars,’ stammered out
the coiiscience-stricken Steward.
‘Take it away,’ thundered the Chief; ‘take
l it away, sir ; It shall never lie said that my la
! hie seis such an example ofluxury and crxtrav.
agancc.’ Poor Francis tremblingly obeyed,
and the first shad of the season was removed
untouched, to be speedily discussed by the gour.
inands of the servant’s hail,
Ihe CriiEF Cook.— I his celebrated artist,
as he would have been termed in modern par
lance, was named Hercules, familiarly termed
Uncle Ilarkfess. Trained in the mysteries of
his art from and in the palmy days
of \ irginia, when her thousand chimneys smok
ed to indicate the generous hospitality that
reigned throughout the whole length and
breadth of her wide domain, Uncle Harkicvs.
was, at the period of the First Presidency, as
highly accomplished a proficient in the culinary
art as could be found in the United Slates. He
wag a dark brown man. little, it any. above the
usual size, yet possessed of such great rriuscu
iar power as to cutiile him to he compared with
his namesake of fabulous historv.
Ihe Chief Cook gloried in the cleanliness
and nicety of his kitchen. Under his iron dis
cipline, wo to his underlings if speck oi spot
could be discovered on the tables or dressers,
or if the utensils did not shine like polished sil
ver. With the luckless wights who had ofTena
in these particulars there was no arrest ofjudg.
ment, for judgment and execution went hand
The Steward, and indeed the whole house,
hold, treated the Chief Cook with much re.
spect, as well for his valuable service* as for
his general good character and pleasing man
It was while preparing the Thursday or Con
gross Dinner that Uncle darkless shone in ail
his splendor. During his labors upon his ban.
quet he required some half dozen aprons and
napkins out of number. It was surprising the
order and discipline that was observed in so
COLUMBUS, Georgia, Tliiissdaj Evenings May 17, 1849.
hustling a scene. His underlings flew in sll
directions to execute his orders, while he, tip’
great master spirit, seemed to possess the pott
er of übiquity, and to bo every whete nt tlf*
When the steward, in snow-white apron, sijt
shorts and stockings, and hair in full powder,
placed the first dish on the table, the clock bL
ing on the stroke of four, ceased ‘ the lahoryjfc
While the masters of the Republic were en
gaged in discussing the savory viands of the
Congress Dinner, the Chief Cook retired to
make his toilet for an evening promenade. Hi*
perquisites from the slops ofthe. kitchen were from
one to two hundred dollars a year. Though
homely in person, he lavished the most of these
large avails upon dress. In making his toilet,
his linen was of unccptionnhle quality and white
ness, then black silk shorts, ditto waistcoat, ditto
stockings, shoes highly polished, with largo
buckles covering a considerable part of the foot,
blue cloth coat, with velvet collar and bright me
tal buttons, a long watch-chain dangling from
his fob. a cocked hat and gold-headed canc com
pleted the grand costume ofthe celebrated dan
dy (for there were dandies in these days) of the
Thus arrayed, the Chief Cook invariahjf
passed out at the front door, the Porter making
a low bow, which was promptly returned. Join
ing his brother loungers of the pave, he proceed
ed up Market Street, attracting considerable at
tendon. Market Street being, in the old times,
the resort where fashionables ‘did most congnf l
gate.’ Many were not a little surprised on be
holding so extraordinary a personage, while oth
ers, who knew him, would make a * formal and
respectful bow, that they might receive in return
the salute of one of the most polished gentlemen
and the veriest dandy of nearly sixty years ngvyt
The Coachman. —John Fagan, by birth AT:
Hesian, tall and burly in person, was an accom
pi is 1 1 cri coachman in every respect, lie undos*.
stood the mechanism of a carriage, and could
tak to pieces and put together again all the parti, I
should he meet with any accident on the road.
He drove the President the whole tour of thfe
then United States, from Portsmouth to Savan
nah, in the white chariot built by Clarke, of
Philadelphia, without the slightest accident or
misfortune happening in so long a journey.
On the President’s return Clarke wil* in alF*
tendance to learn the success of what he deeiU*
od his master-piece of coach-making. NtssooniP^
dential Mansion than the anxious coacn inu ‘
was under the body of the white chariot, exsß,
ining everything with a carelul and critical ow;
till Fagan shouted from the box, ‘ All right, Nuji
Clarke ; all right, sir ; not a bolt or screw stat 9
ed in a long journey and over (lie devil’s owß
roads.’ The delighted mechanic now found I>M
hand grasped in that the President, who compJr-’
mented him upon his workmanship, assuring litF
that it had been sufficiently tested in a great tl
riety of very bad roads. Clarke, the happiestlf
men, repaired to his shop, in Sixth Street, \v%oiS.
he informed his people of the success of thX
white chariot, the account of which lie had tv- |
ceived from the President’s own lips, when the I
day ended in a jollification at the coach-toto
John Krause succeeded Fagan. He was a
steady, estimable man, and, having been bread
in the Austrian cavalry, was perfectly conver
sant with horses. He was an excessive smoker,
his mcershaum never being out of his mouth,
excepting at meals or on the coach-box.
The stables consisted of ten coach and sad.
die horses, and the two white chargers, a coach
man, and two grooms. Os the chargers the unt
usually rode by the Chief was named Pre scoff?
He was a fine parade horse, purely white and
sixteen hands high, lie was indifferent to the
fire of artillery, the waving of banners, and the
clang of martial instruments, but had a very bad
habit of dancing about on the approach of a car.
riitge, a habit very annoying to his rider, who,
although a master in horsemanship, preferred
to ride as quietly as possible, especially when,
during his Saturday’s ride, lie would meet with
carriages containing ladies, it being customary
with them to order their coachmen to stop and
to let down their glasses, that the President
might approach to pay his compliments.
The other charger was named Jackson, from
the circumstance of his having run away with
Major Jackson, aid-dc-camp to the President,
en route from New York to Philadelphia, in
1790, to the sad discomfiture of the Major, iuul
the no little amusement of the Chief ant?Tpe
brilliant cortege of gallant cavaliers with which
he was attended. Jackson was a superb ani
mal, purely white, with flowing mane and tail
He was of a fierce and fiery temperament, and,
when mounted, moved with mouth open, champ-
I ing the bit, his nostrils distended, and his Arab
I eye flashing fire. Washington, disliking a fret
ful horse, rarely rode this line hut impetuous an
imal, while Krause, w hose duty it was to accom
pany the President when on horseback, had had
divers combats with the fiery charger, in sever
al of which, it was said, the old Austrian dragoon
came off rather second best. When putting on
the housings and caparison for the Chief to title
Jackson, Krause would say, ‘Ah, ha, my lilie
fellow, you’ll have your match to-day, and I
know you’ll take care to bohavo yourself,’. In
fact, the noble horse had felt the power of Wash
ington’s stalwart arm, a power that could throw
a horse upon his haunches in a single moment,
and the sagacious animal quailed before a force
not easily resisted or soon forgotten.
Among the coach horses were a pair of beau
tiful blood bays, bred at Mount Vernon, ireui
the celebrated stallion, Magnolia. These thor
ough breds were the pots of timetable, and al
ways drew the coach when Mrs. Washington
paid hor visits in Philadelphia. Mrs. Washing. 1
lion and her grand-daughter were just sealed in
tlio coach, and James Hurley (a native of Ire.
land) was putting up tho step when, the day be
ing warm and the Hies troublesome, otic of the
horsos nibbed off his bridle. The coach than,
of course, sat powerless on his box. Th af-
frighted animal at first stared wildly about him,
and was in the act of springing forward, when
Hurley, perceiving the imminent danger, with a
presence of mind equalled by his courage, grap
pled the animal around the neck, ami amid his
.furious and maddening plunges clung to him,
and so incumbered him with the weight of a ;
heavy man that the passengers in the street j
were enabled to come to the rescue, when the j
‘i-praocd, Rit.l the carnage off. j
The President was much gratified when in
specting his stable in Philadelphia. They were
large and roomy, and every thing in and about
thpin in the most perfect order; the grooming
of the horses superb, such as the moderns can
have no idea of.
Punctuality. —Washington was the most
punctual of tnen. To this admirable quality,
and the one equally admirable of rising at four
o’clock and retiring to rest at nine at nil sea.
“Sons, this great man owed his being able to ac
complish such mighty labors during a long and
illustrious life. He was punctual in every thing,
and made every one punctual about him.
During his memorable journey through the
•Union, he had, before setting oil', arranged all
the stages for the whole route ; the ferries, the
inns, the hour of arriving at, and departing from
each, were all duly calculated, and punctually
Mid the white chaiiot arrive at all its appoint
ments, except when prevented by high waters or
.excessively bad roads.
His punctuality on that long journey astonish-
Qid everY one. The trumpet call of the cuvah j |
j\mH?Lb£4u eii coming it) at full speed, and the
•rry resound far and wide, ‘He’s coining!’ Scarce.- j
Jy would the artillery men linlimber the cannon, [
when the order would be given. ‘ Light your ’
matches, the white chariot is in full view !’
Revolutionary veterans hurried from all di
rections once more to greet their beloved Chief.
‘They called it marching to Head-Quarters, and;
ns the dear glorious old fellows would overtake
their neighbors and friends, they would say,—
cQ’ush 0I1 ‘ my boys, if you wish to see him ; for
*we who ought to know can assure you that he
is never behind time, but always punctual to the
It was thus.that Washington performed his
memorable tour of the United Slates—every
where received with the heartfelt homage that
tho love, veneration, and gratitude ol a whole
I people could bestow ; and there is no doubt yet
! living agrayhend who can tell of the time when
j he gallantly rode to some village or inn on the
Lhmg-remenabered route to hail the arrival of the
Ouu'io'y Axict join ill tfci- yoymt. wcLcorse Vr.
j the Father of his Country,
j And equally punctual in his angngements was
this remarkable man nearer home. To the re
’ view, the theatre, or the ball-room he repaired
the appointed time. The manager
_llLi<j<leut to re
pptest him to attend a play, was asked, “At
i what time, Mr. WigneJJ,doos your curtain rise ?”
The manager replied, “Seven o’clock is the
hour, but of course the curtain will not rise un
| til your Excellency’s arrival.” The President
observed, “I will be punctual, sir, to I lie time;!
nobody waits a single moment for me.” And,!
sMi e enough, precisely at seven, tho noble form’
Os Washington was seen to enter the stage box, j
amid the acclamations of the-audience and the’
music of the President’s march-
In the domestic arrangements of the Presiden
tial mansion, the private dinner was served at 3,
tin! public one at 4. The drawing-room com
inonced at 7, and ended a little past ten o’clock.
The levee began at 3, and ended at 4. On pub
lic occasions the company came within a very
short time of each other, and departed in the
same manner. The President is punctual, said
every body, and every body became punctual.
On the great national days of the 4ih of July
and 22<l ot February, the salute from the then
head of Market street (Bth street) announced the
opening of the levee. Then was seen the veil
eralde corps of the Cincinnati marching to pay
their respects to their President General, who j
received them at head quarters, and in the uni- j
form of the Commander-in-chief. This veteran
band of the Revolution had learned punctuality I
iforn their General in the “ times that tried men’s j
souls;” for, no sooner had the thunder peals of!
“ Gol. Proctor’s brass twelve pounders caused ,
the windows to rattle in Market street, than this
venerable body of the Cincinnati were in full
march for the headquarters.”
A fine volunteer corps, called the Light In- !
fan try, from the famed Light Infantry of the Rev. i
olutionary army, commanded by Gen. Lafayette,
mounted a guard of honor at headquarters during
the levee on the national days. When it was j
about to close, the. soldiers, headed by their scr-1
gcants, marched with trailed arms aiitl noiseless j
step through the hall to a spot where huge howls
of punch had been prepared for their refresh- i
ntent, when, after quailing a deep carouse, with
three hearty cheers to the health of the President,!
they countermarched to the street, the bands j
struck up the favorite air, ‘forward’ was the or- ;
der, and the levee was ended.
I “Old times are changed, old manners gone.” ‘
True, we have become a mighty empire in ex- 1
tent, wealth, and population; hut where, Amer
icans is the spirit of ’7O, the glorious and im
mortal spirit that dignified and adorned the early
days of the republic anti the age of Washington?
Shall it decline.and die among us? • Swear on
; the altar ol your liberty that it shall live forever I
Long years hav;p elapsed sinco the Recollec
tions have been offered to the public. In an
swer to numerous inquiries why they have not i
been published in book form, the author begs |
leave to observe that, having no views as to
profit, ho was desirous that the private memoirs
should go to the masses of the people in the
cheapest and most diffusible manner practicable.
Most liberal offers have been made to publish I
the Recollections in two volumes, with fine en-1
graving* from the four originals at ArlingfonJ
House, viz : the Provincial Colonel in ’72,
tho elder IValo ; the retired General and
trious Farmer of Mount Vernon, (has rrjjfl
Houdon, 85); tho splendid equestrian
by Trumbull, ('00,) and the President
St.it'-.. Oho best possible lib onms.) |, v I ,'-
1793. In this form the work will be hereafter
The work will also contain the private letters >
of the commander-in-chief to his step-arm and
aid-de-camp, John Parke Custis, (the father of
the author,) during the whole of the Revolution ;
also the paternal iettrrs of Washington to the
author, his adopted sou, when a student at col
logo iu ’93, 97 and 9S. NeUlfOr the “Revolu
tionary nor Paternal letters lmvo ever been pub.
If it has appeared to any that the Recollec
tions have embraced particulars 100 minute, the
author's apology is in various letter?, received
both from at home and abroad, urging him to
omit no details, however minute, or deem any
thing trivial that related in the smallest degree
to the life and character of Washington.
It is somewhat remarkable, yet such is history,
that, when all of the public, life and actions of a
great man have been published to the world, the
world invariably demands the private memoirs.
Mankind wish to learn something of the private
life, habits and manners of the individual whose
great public actions have commanded their nd
miration, whose illustrious public services have
won their gratitude and love. Voltaire, in speak
ing of Sir Isaac Newton, said : “ Does the great
Newton eat like other men 1” I
The labors of America’s distinguished histo
rians have given to his country and the world the
life and actions of Washington, as connected
with the age in which he flourished, and* the
mighty events thereof in which lie bore so prom- I
inent and illustrious a part. It has become the j
honored duty of the author of the Recollections j
| to lift the veil that always conceals the private J
| life of a great man from the public gaze, and to j
i show the Pater Patriot umid the shades of do
| mestic retirement, where in the bosom of his ’
family, on his farm,and at his fireside, friendship,
; kindliness and hospitality shed their benignant
! lustre upon his latter days.— Xat. Intelligencer.
From Ilolien’a Dollar Magazine.
An Incident in the Trial of an Irish Patriot.
by rttiL brp.noi.e.
| ‘A very original affairP said I, laying down
, the Tribune, of that day.
I ‘What is that 7’ asked my companion.
•I refer to that scene in the trial of Smith O’-
Brien, when Dotibin. the Irish Detective, is
J proved ape juror by the unexpected testimony
[ of Mr. D’Alton. All the circumstances connected
with the affair—the visit of D’Alton at the Free
i man office ; the hasty and successful measures
> >nuntW H 1 —” t; H i into court : lki>
t crushing ptwer of D’Alton’a testimony, and the
: complete t/nrnasking of DobW&—would seem to
; mark the whole ns an interference by Provi.
! donee, if all these tilings had not so unacdoimt
! airly failed in the grand result.’
| The gentleman to whom 1 said this, was a
I rebellion in ‘Ninety-eight.’ He [lausSßl
I moments, and then replied in a voice, tremulous
! with rage and strong feeling :
j “I dare not trust myself to speak of the trial of
’ O'Brien, for it reminds me of the days of Fitsger-
I aid and Emmet, lint there is one incident of
those times which I can mention with more
calmness. Your remarks suggested it. I will
tell you of a providential interference, this time
successful, in a trial of somewhat similar charac
ter. The actors were obscure, and are now
forgotten by all, except the few who stood in the
court room, and saw the heroism of a poor ser
vant girl, trampling upon her own love for the
sake of truth and justice in the cause of Ireland.
They never can forget it. All that I did not at
that time understand in the affair, I afterwards
learned by inquiry of others—so strong was the
interest that humble heroine made within me.
Late on Hollowmas Eve, a young man and
girl were sitting together in the servant’s room
ot an Irish country seat. The latter was a fair
and buxom lass, known far and near as‘pretty
Maty Donovan.’ She had an honest face, too,
where the very heart seemed looking forth, and
one for whose real nobility a man might pledge
his life. At the moment it was clouded with anx- !
iety and timid love.
Very near her, sat a young man with one of
; those false, handsome faces, that we occasional
j ly meet, and always look upon a second lime,
j llis glossy hair was elaborately curled, and his
I eye, hard and bright like jet, was marked with
insincerity. His whole appearance was, as 1
have just said, handsome and faifie. Had the
young girl whom he was so earnestly addressing,
been a physiognomist, she would never have lis
toned to his words, and as it was, her whole man
ner was wavering, distrustful, yfct tender.
‘Pheiim, von know that I love yo u, and oh I
that I could trust ye too. If I could shut my eyes
while ye talk to me, I’d wait no longer, hut give
ye the word at once, but whenever 11 ook in
your eye, you seem to be talking only with your
lips, and so 1 turn away from the face I should
love to look upon.’
‘1 understand ye, Mary Donovan, said Pheiim,
bitterly; ‘and because the lace 1 was horn willy
don’t suit ye, you think I am trying to
no use to feel around ve any
tli 1 * iiiouiita in- ami join the tighbgfl
•I 1111 • i
If I ‘ C|* ,■ 4)d:. ’
thatfl *“ 1
Phis discussion of ways, means, and all imprac
ticable projects, carried them far into the night,
so far, indeed, that Phclinr, lover though he was,
yawned sleepily as he took his candle, saying,
-Good night, Mary dear, and don’t forget Ilalow
‘Ah, Phclinr,’ she replied, ‘l’ll remember it
long enough for us baikJ
So she did.
The next day brought tidings to the inmates
Hail, that a large body of peasants'had
risen during the past night, and committed ex
cesses, too common in those times of apprehen
sion and resistance. Nor did they end with that
night’s Work. What is known in history as the
‘rebellion of Ninety-eight,’ speedily broke out,
and for months kept the land’ in most fearful agi
tation. At last the rebellion was crushed, and
then commenced thKtrial of those leaders who”
had been captured.
All crowded to the cotvt to see their first men
brought to trial and condemned almost invariably
to death. One ol these leaders was of great no
toriety in the vicinity of Hall, and when his
case Was called from the docket, every man, wo
man and child flocked to the place of trial—some
to sympathize with the eager patriot, some to ex
ult over his fall, and very many to see the man
j whose name had been held up as a word of
equal terror to refractory children and full grown
‘Mary,’ said her lover, as he saw her arrayed
!in rustic finery, ‘surely, ye’re not going to the
| ‘lndeed I am, she replied ; ‘l’ll go and give the
| poor prisoner a blessing with my eye, since I
! can do nothing else lor him. Why should I stay
away when a man is to be tried for his life, be-
I cause he loved us too well ? Surely wc must go
and say to him by our presence, that we are with
him in our Irish hearts.’
‘lt’s no place for women, I tell ye,’ exclaimed
Pht-lim wiih sudden violence, and then coaxing
j ly, ‘lndeed, you must not go. Stay at home and
I think of what I’m telling ye, that I’ve got fifty
| golden guineas, and that wo can be married
1 next week, or as soon as ye’ll only say the word.’
‘Fifty guineas in real gold ! Who gave them
| to ye I —was it the nla-ter, or’—
J ‘Hush ! Here’s the master’s own voice call
! ing me now, I must go. Stay at home, Mary
i dear, or I’ll not forgive ye.’
j ‘I don’t understand ye, Phelim, and I will go
to the court,’ said IVfary to herself. ‘Fifty guin
| cas in bright and heavy gold—blessings on the
( g iv *l’ .
j was observed Vb look anxiously around the court
as in search of some particular face. Each time
I he was disappointed, and at fast in the absence
of its principal witness, the crdvvn would first re
sort to other evidence. And meagre enough was
that evidence to all in the crowded court. Eve
. In- .
ously aH v -, ? - tft ,,
i e 1
‘l’helim !’ cried a faint
the opposite side of the room.
‘Silence, there in court 1’ shouted the slioriflV
But there was no silence in Mary Donovan's
‘I see it now—theso fifty golden guineas !
Ah, they have made Pbeiim Keeney an Inform-
but they shall never make me his wife.’
The Informer felt the moist, yet flashing pyo
of Mary Doifovan, burning into his brain, and he
shivered with terror, hilt the voice of the prose-”
eating attorney soon restored self-possession, and
he coolly testified as follows :
Uo had disguised himself and joined tho reb
els in their great meeting on the night of their
hrst rising. He had especially marked the
prisoner at the bar, as the seeming leader, and
the one under whose direction the whole body
acted. He heard this prisoner utter words anil
do acts of treason on that night. This was tho
substance of his testimony, and so clear, lull, di
rect was it throughout, that every one saw that
the prisoner’s life was hanging on the words
from the informer’s lips. The Crown lawyers
skilfully pumped him of everything, and found
that he had done full justice to his training.
The first question on the cross examination was
in regard to the time of this affair ; Pheiim ap.
peared somewhat uneasy, and replied in a very
‘Louder !’ cried ono of the Judges.
‘lt was on the night before the rising—Hal
‘No ; it was not on Hollownias Eve,’ exclaim
ed Mary Donovan, rising with an uncontrollable
impulse. ‘Pheiim ! you are not cvei^M^B