With the letter which follows we close the instalment' the series. Coventry Patmore had just published a book or Essays Principle in Art etc., and Father Russell in reviewing it had quoted at length from a letter of Aubrey de Vere. The poet-critic said among other things "It seems to me decidedly the best work we have seen for many years on the philosophy of poetry. It is full of profound insight and penetration, happily mingled with great good sense. Its style is not less remarkable. . . . It is a work capable of being of the very highest use to our young Irish poets and poetesses, in whom I am always much interested. It might prevent the misapplication of much ability and the wise development of powers otherwise fated to run to waste." High praise, surely, to bestow on a book; heightened, it is possible, by the friendly feelings of the kindly writer. and CURRAGH CHASE, MY DEAR FATHER RUSSELL, Feb. 1, 1890. So far from being annoyed I was much pleased at seeing your extract from my letter, for it may promote the circulation of a book by an old friend, and a book that may do good to many young friends-most of whom I have never seen. But I hope that what that extract says may not prevent your saying much more on the subject of Patmore's beautiful book, or getting one of your contributors to do so. I am glad you are sending your Feb. No. to Patmore. His address is simply "Hastings." Hastings." I suppose you will mark the page referring to him on the outside of the No. or write directing his attention to it. I like nearly everything in the vol. except the paper on Swinburne a man who has done much I fear to injure public taste and principle in matters poetical. If Patmore's Publishers have forgotten to send you his vol. you should inform him of the fact and he will doubtless send it. Miss Fitz Maurice's Sonnets have given me very great pleasure. As sonnets they seem to me extremely good, though I fear they give me far more praise than I deserve: but to an old Poet it is very gratifying to find that what he has UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF AUBREY DE VERE 223 liber h written has found its way to a young heart. My Poetry makes mention of a large number of Poets on purpose to draw to them the attention, and, as far as may be, the hearts of young and generous readers-readers capable of being raised by what they admire. I rejoice in the good account you send respecting the prospects of your new book. Believe me, Very sincerely yours, AUBREY DE VERE. Has not your uncle's Essay on The Sonnet been separately published? If not, could you lend it to me in any form, that I might lend it in turn to Miss Fitz Maurice whom I have the pleasure of knowing. I will return it safely. The two sonnets of Miss Fitz Maurice, which gave the old man so much pleasure, appeared, as did the review in question, in the issue of this magazine for February 1890, and bore the heading On Reading Aubrey de Vere's "Legends of St. Patrick." The latter of them we quote by way of conclusion. I read, and as I read, upon my ear] Arose a swell of music. Through the whole In truth thy sons and daughters. Lo! a smile Beams from thine eyes e'en as the tear-drops fall. Joy in thy sorrow that thou hast the while A Poet still, whose voice from out the past Calls out thy trust in God, and bids thee hold it fast. EASTER MORNING ANNO DOMINI 33 On that early Easter morning Eighteen centuries ago, When the amber clouds were dawning Christ arose, and we all know How the stones were rolled aside On that early Easter morning But the grave clothes white and fair In the dawn of Easter morning O what joyful rapture theirs! ANNO DOMINI 1915 On this happy Easter morning By some humble act of love On this happy Easter morning Asking, for the present, guidance, For the future simply cast All our care for it away Christ Our Lord is risen to-day. May be, we may chance to meet Him! Cups of water, words of cheer, These are Easter gifts that each one Then when night falls, He may say Child 'twas I you helped to-day. LUCY A. M. PEACHEY. THE THIRD DOLOUR Are they but days, or are they years, Days drenched with rain of tears, For Thee, my Son! All day the streets, stony and steep, I tread and tread. With eyes that will not sleep Into the dark I weep For sickening dread. Dost miss Thy Mother's kisses sweet, And feel forlorn ? Hast Thou had bread to eat, Or place to rest Thy feet, So small and worn? O Christ, my Child, I cry to Thee, Wheree'er Thou art; Thou, Who art God, dost see Thy Mother's agony, Her breaking heart. T. D. A. A SILVER SHRINE By CONSTANCE E. BISHOP, Author of "The Seventh Wave and other Soul Stories." CHAPTER VIII. The rainy season set in unusually early that autumn. The gentle showers that harbingered the coming torrents, revived and refreshed flower beds and dusty shrubs: afterwards a steamy heat arose, and hung upon the oppressive, windless air. Mould began to develop and grow vigorously upon all leathern articles, cushions and curtains. Our mistress suffered greatly in this hot, depressing weather: the intermittent rain; the dank, pungent, clinging odour that arose from earth; these things tried and irritated her sensitive nature. She seldom ventured for a ride, or went to the club: it was a difficult matter to find delicacies which would stimulate her flagging appetite. It was pleasant to see green grass springing in the compound: I grew mustard and cress upon an old blanket, and was proud when the mistress ate it sandwiched between thin bread and butter. Martin had brought a cock and three hens down to the plains from Gobilamal; the eggs which these hens now laid were fine ones. Some were boiled for his lady's breakfast; the rest he set beneath a country fowl who was a good and experienced mother. I helped him to set the bird: a matter entailing no little ceremony. First cook-matey filled an old shallow terra-cotta tripod with fresh ashes: upon these cook placed a rusty nail; a chilli and other lucky articles. These mascots keep away devils, and ensure a good hatching out of every egg. After these preparations Martin put eighteen |