brances, for a longer term than an incumbent was legally resident on his benefice, and all bonds, covenants, and other assurances for upholding the same indirectly by obligations of resignation or residence, should be utterly void to all intents and purposes whatever." These laws, carried out with exactness, soon added considerably to the revenue of the Church; the incomes of some of the bishops as well as of the inferior clergy were increased, and churches were repaired or rebuilt. Bramhall, Bishop of Derry, who had been appointed to watch over the temporalities, used to boast, a few years later, that he had increased the yearly income by £40,000.*

It is not our purpose to dwell at any length on the line of conduct pursued by Wentworth towards the Protestant Church in reference to its religious teaching and practices. The Irish Protestants, then as now, were strongly leavened with Puritanism, partly on account of the great number of Scotch settlers throughout the country, partly because of their dislike of the Catholic Church and its authoritative teaching. Laud did not cease to press on Wentworth the need of introducing among them a creed and a liturgy perfectly uniform with those of the English Church. The adoption of the Thirty-Nine Articles was strongly urged by the English and Irish Governments. Ussher, the Primate, did not offer any opposition. To procure the general consent of the bishops and clergy was the principal object of the present convocation. Bramhall strove to persuade them of "the necessity of having all the Protestant churches in and under his Majesty's dominion to speak the same language." By threats and promises, the Deputy brought about that the English Articles should be received and approved. To appease the wrath of some, who were solicitous about the freedom of the National Church, Ussher proposed that the Irish Articles agreed on in 1615, should be ratified by Act of Parliament; but Wentworth threatened that, unless they ceased to agitate the public mind by such a proposal, he would order those articles to be burnt by the common hangman. The canons of the Church of England were also received, not indeed in their entirety, but with some few unimportant changes suited to the circumstances of the country. When the meeting broke up, he wrote to Laud: "There were among them some hot spirits, sons of thunder, who moved that they should petition me for a free synod; but in fine, they could not agree among themselves who should put the bell about the cat's neck; and so this likewise vanished. My stirring herein will be strangely reported and censured on that side. And how shall I be able to sustain myself against your Prynnes, Pyms, and Bens, with the rest of that generation of odd names and natures, the Lord knows." Andrews, the Dean of Limerick, who was chairman of a committee chosen by the Lower House, without the knowledge of the bishops, to consider the canons sent for their adoption, was punished for his temerity by being promoted to the see of Ferns, "one of the meanest of the whole kingdom." On his nomination, he preached

*Mant, "History of the Church of Ireland," I. 508.

+ Smith, "Life of Ussher," p. 73.

Parr, "Life of Ussher," pp. 42 and 476.

400

a farewell sermon to his former hearers; even in the pulpit he could not restrain his joy: "How long," he exclaimed, "how long have we heretofore expected preferment, and missed it; but now, God be He did not know that the gift conferred on praised, we have it." him was so poor and encumbered as to be rather a punishment than a reward. "The Bishopric of Ferns," wrote Wentworth to Laud, "is already so saddle-girted and so spear-galled, as if the devil himself were the rider, he could not make worse of it than it is already. He is a good child and kisseth the rod; so you see it was not a connection ill-bestowed on him."*

On the 12th of April the Parliament was dissolved. The Deputy would have preferred a prorogation; but the royal mandate left him no choice. He consoled himself with the thought that, "for the King's service and public settlement of the State, it was the happiest Parliament that ever was in Ireland, and that his Majesty had now made himself more absolute master of the kingdom by his wisdom than any of his progenitors were able to do by their swords. There being good reason for his Majesty to be pleased, he was well contented to give other men leave to censure as they list, fully delighted in his obedience and faith to his master, which would preserve him inviolably against any calumny and foulness of tongues." He now had leisure to enter on the inquiry into Defective Titles, a business he had long at heart; by it he hoped to enrich the Crown still more. The history of this, the most tyrannical act of his cruel government, we must, for want of space, defer to our next issue.

(To be continued.)

D. M.

BEY

YEARNINGS.

BY ALICE ESMONDE.

EYOND, where the branching trees divide,
In the trembling light of the dying day,
See the Suir's gold track, where the wavelets glide
Through the circling arch 'mid a shower of spray;
Hear the music sweet of that old, sad song

It brings in its heart from the lone hills down,
And the cadence deep that it bears along,
As it streams away 'neath the shadows brown.

There's the convent gray and the spire above,
With its background clear of the deep blue skies-
I can see every spot in that place I love,
As I stand here now and I close my eyes-

* Laud's Letter to the Deputy, I. 380.

Ah! 'twas never half in my youth so dear,
Nor drew my thoughts to itself away,
Not one-half as fair as I see it here,
A picture framed in my heart to-day.

I know every stone in those ivied walls,
From the shaded walk to the terrace high;
I know where the green of the spring first falls,
Where the roses latest in summer die;

And I listen still as the Suir flows on-
And it wrings my heart with a thrill of pain,
For it sings of years and of old friends gone,
Of voices I'll hear not on earth again.

On its margins green all the wild flowers grow,
And they seem not to me so sweet elsewhere,
And its waters linger, as loath to go

Through the blossomed reeds and the rushes there,
The forget-me-nots, and the woodruff tall,

The strawberry blossoms that grow in the dells— And the fairest flower still of them all,

The tender, trembling white sorrel-bells.

The fair white bells on the banks that lie,

On their thick-strewn leaves of a beauteous green,
On that soft pavilion laid out to die,

With the purple streaks 'mid their pallid sheen;
Too fair and white on the earth to stay,
In no common mould will they seek a grave,
They'll droop and pine on their thrones away,
Ere the parching sun shines out on the wave.

And they speak to me of a friend in pain,
And the waters murmur as past they roll,
With the cadence deep of that strange, weird strain,
Like an echo caught from a human soul-

That the best must die and the fairest fade,

And the truest heart still the deep wound meet,

But that Time can heal every scar it made,

And from hours most sad weave a memory sweet.

Oh! for ever still on the Calvary height,
Doth a darkness stay that will not depart;
Only Life-sick eyes 'neath the Cross find sight,
Christ's wounds but show through a broken heart;
He will draw tired souls to those heights above,
And the sad ones fill with his special grace,
He will shape hard ways with a jealous love;
Through the heart's deep rent He will show his face.

You were more unto me than words may tell,
Since you took my hand on a distant day,
And to one, since dead, said you'd guard me well
And hold her place and her gentle sway-
And ah! shall I speak of that other hour,
When your voice stole out 'mid a life all pain?

Shall I speak of the words, and the old, sweet power ?--
Forgive me! Not here could I that explain.

But the sun is gone and the golden track-
Though I hear the Suir as it streams away,
And it sings of years that will not come back,
And it sings to me in the dying day:
That the best must go and the fairest fade,
And the truest heart still the deep wound meet,
But that time can heal every scar it made,
And of sad To-day make a memory sweet.

THE CHANCES OF WAR.

BY A. WHITELOCK.

CHAPTER XXVI.

SPREADING THE TOILS.

"Cauto guerrier pugnando
Già vincitor si vede;
Ma non depone il brando,
Ma non si fida ancor :
Chè, le nemiche prede
Se spensierato aduna,
Cambia talor fortuna
Col vinto il vincitor."

Metastasio.

For

THERE is an indescribable buoyancy in the joy of newly-recovered liberty. Freedom, according to the universal theory of poets and philosophers, is a priceless blessing; like all other blessings it is doubly prized when it is recovered after a temporary loss. months Heber MacDermott had been a prisoner within the walls of Derry. His captivity had been lightened by the kindness of his captors, but had been irksome all the while. From the ramparts, where he was wont to walk for hours musing and alone, he had seen the hills of Donegal whiten with snow and then throw off their icy mantle and clothe themselves again in green and purple. In his solitude his mind had been busy with bootless self-questionings. He had occupied himself in divining what had been the further fortunes of his companions in arms, and oftener still, in conjecturing how it had fared with the gentle, heroic girl he had left alone in the power of her enemies.

With the end of spring there had come a season of tumult and excitement in the town. It was held by Sir Charles Coote for the Parliament of England. It was an important fortress, and was attacked early in the campaign organised by Ormonde in the name of the King. In the result of the siege MacDermott was but little interested; it was a matter of small moment to him whether he was detained prisoner in the name of the King or the Parliament. The operations of the besiegers were conducted without much energy, the blockade in no way increased the inconveniences of the prisoner's position. It rather relieved the monotony of his many unoccupied hours to observe the tactics of the garrison and their rivals. The game was rather spiritless, but it was better than nothing; he watched it from his solitary walk on the walls, and occasionally he descended into the narrow streets of the old town to hear the events of the hour discussed by the excited burgesses, who scowled at him as he went by-they were rebels themselves, but he was a Papist" rebel, and, as they thought, one of the "Irishry." One day as he descended into the town on one of these excursions, he noticed that the faces of the cooped-up citizens had put off their gloom and wore a holiday look of pleasure. There was laughter, loud and boisterous, and eager congratulations, and a hearty interchange of pleasant greetings, in the groups where hitherto the speakers had muttered their fears and forebodings in half audible whispers, and with much significant shaking of the head, and rueful upturning of the eyes. Even his own appearance among them was not greeted with the usual marks of unfriendliness. Stout burgesses nodded to him good-humouredly; and fair eyes, that before had only gazed from behind the windowcurtain at the godless rebel as he passed, now beamed their salutation from the open windows.

"Friend," he inquired of a Puritanical-looking townsman, whom he encountered in a lonely street, "may I inquire the reason of the general joy ?"

"Odds, man," answered the citizen, "hast thou not yet heard that the siege is nearly over? The Lord, who draweth good out of evil, maketh use of the rebel, O'Neill, to deliver us from them that lie in wait outside our gates. The Irishry have covenanted with the worthy Sir Charles Coote to come up unto the deliverance of the city, and will be here anon."

The words sent a wild thrill of hope through the breast of the prisoner, and he hurried away in search of reliable information.

"It is even so," said Montgomery, whom he found on duty at a remote point of the city wall. "Sir Charles has been obliged to call in the aid of your former commander, to rid us of the persistent attentions of our loyal friends yonder. O'Neill is already on his way hither. We are in hourly expectation of seeing Sir Robert and Colonel Audley* pack up their baggage, and bid us a reluctant farewell."

"Which adieu, I trust, will be speedily followed by mine."

* Sir Robert Stewart and Colonel Audley Mervin.