belong by terms of law to some Warrall, or Waldron, or some of the other worthy patentees, who are now the owners of Lochtee. But this is a matter concerns us little. The master of the mansion has been absent since O'Reilly seized Cavan, and would probably have little welcome for us if he were at home. Its present tenants will be more pleased to meet us. It is occupied, I have learned, by a party of gentlemen who have been sent by the Marquis of Ormonde to treat on matters of moment with General O'Neill.

The sick man overheard the announcement, and hastily whispered to the officer at his side:

"I am glad of it, MacDermott. Let us on to the place of meeting. Come with me; you have seen me win the position I have occupied in my native land, you shall see me renounce it. Bid them move on. I have the weakness to wish this scene over as quickly as possible."

The invalid was borne slowly onward; his retinue followed in silence. At the entrance to the mansion, they were received by several gentlemen who insisted on conducting O'Neill to the apartments prepared for him.

"Let us to business first, gentlemen," said O'Neill, peremptorily. "I shall soon have ample leisure for repose."

He was borne into a room of the abandoned house by the arms of some of his own officers, and the commissioners of Ormonde gathered round his chair.

"How goes the campaign?" asked O'Neill, struggling with the pain which the movements he had been compelled to make occasioned.

"The King's cause has suffered heavily," replied one of the delegates; "Cromwell has advanced against Wexford."

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Was no effort made to stay his advance through Wicklow ?" None; the Lord Deputy judged it more advisable to hold his forces in readiness to support the garrisons of the southern fortresses." "It would have been better to have kept Cromwell at a distance from the fortresses," observed O'Neill, bluntly. "What are now the wishes of his Excellency?"

"He prays that you would advance with all speed to support him with your forces, and to aid him with your skill and experience. Should you be too unwell to travel, he begs you to send forward to his assistance a portion of your army. He hopes much from the discipline and courage of your troops."

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"Willingly would I fly to the post of danger he offers," said O'Neill," not," he added, looking round upon his officers who stood near, to prove my duty to the Lord Deputy, but to save from the ruin that threatens her the land I have loved and tried to serve. But it must not be; the field of battle is not the place for a helpless cripple. My gallant and faithful soldiers I can lead no more. there are those about me here who can well fill my place; under them the troops of Ulster will continue to be what they have been, the surest hope of Ireland in her distress; forward where others shrink, faithful when others betray."

But

There was no response from the group of officers; a look of sorrowful dismay overshadowed the sternest face among them, The silence was unbroken till one of Ormonde's delegates hastened to express his sense of O'Neill's magnanimity, and to assure him of the satisfaction it would cause the Lord Deputy.

"The reward is greater than I presumed to claim," said O'Neill, with some irony. "The articles of our agreement we shall discuss at our leisure. I have yet some instructions give to those who are to command my forces. I will not now trespass longer upon your patience. Another time we will confer upon the further objects of

your mission."

The commissioners of Ormonde withdrew, and O'Neill remained alone with his officers.

The proud and haughty bearing he had hitherto maintained de serted him; the fire that had burned in his eve, subsided into a look of tenderness and sorrow, and the cold, stern voice in which he had addressed the envoys of the Lord Deputy, grew broken and husky.

"Comrades," he said, "the day I dreaded has come at last. We must part for ever. The hand of death is upon me; my path to the grave is straight and short; I have received the summons which all must obey, and which allows no respite. For you, there is yet, I trust, a glorious future. You will continue to lead to victory the brave fellows who have been so faithful to me. Be chary of their lives while the war lasts, and when it is over, insist, if you are victorious, on conditions that will secure them the fruits of the victory, which, if it come at all, they will have been most instrumental in winning. To you, gentlemen, who have stood by me in my days of adversity, and who have shared my joy and pride when fortune smiled upon our flag, I bid adieu with breaking heart. Together we have braved the perils of many a bloody field, together we have carried the 'Red Hand' tr umphant out of many a desperate fray. Heaven permits that here my career should end. May it forgive the authors of my death, and accept my resignation to its will in atonement for the failings of my life. Be, when I am gone, what you have been whilst I was amongs you-faithful to your friends, generous to your enemies, undaunted in danger, incapable of dishonour-and the hope will light up my last hours that the old banner will still flaunt its white folds defiantly

in the face of its many foes.

struggled so hard.

march southwards. General O'Farrell, and Hugh O'Neill, to you "To-morrow the larger portion of our forces will continue their give in charge my trusted followers. You will be jealously tender of their interests for sake of the poor fellows themselves; be so, too, for mine. Let them not be robbed of the rights for which they have Ormonde; if Cromwell be victorious, stand by them to the end. If Cromwell be defeated, defend them against "My friends! had I lived, I would have striven to requite y fidelity to Ireland and to me. As it is, the last prayers of a dying man must be my only parting gift. These you shall have; my latest breath shall be expended half in a prayer for mercy for myself, half in invoking heaven's blessing on you. I would speak to you longer,

your

But this worn-out frame is

now that I am to speak to you no more. unequal to the effort. To-morrow, at bugle-call, let me see you once more at the head of your regiments, and let these failing eyes look their last look of pride on the valiant ranks they have watched in many a deadly struggle but never seen broken yet. Good bye! good bye! Forgive my weakness. Sickness has made me womanish. I have not strength to conceal my sorrow."

Tears stood in the eyes of the death-stricken chieftain as he grasped in turn the hands of his officers; and many a rough, weatherbeaten face bent low over the wasted fingers to hide the grief that threatened to unman its owner. No word of leave-taking was uttered, nothing but a silent clasp of the hand, with now and then a rattling sound in some hoarse throat that had oft made Saxon ears tingle with the war-cry of Tir-Owen, and one by one O'Neill's officers quitted the room.

"Not you, MacDermott," whispered the chieftain, as that officer stooped to take his commander's hand. "We part not yet. Your troop is of the detachment that accompanies me to Cloughoughter. I cannot bring myself to part from all; and from you I will take my leave only when I bid this world adieu. Stay with me a short time. longer. You shall soon be at liberty to rejoin your comrades."

O'Neill had conceived a strong affection for the young soldier, who, with an early history so much resembling his own, had come to be associated with him in a struggle for a land which was not the home of either. The kindred enthusiasm by which they were inspired linked together the hearts of the Irish leader and this half-alien volunteer. O'Neill had learned by a distressing experience that much which looks like true friendship is proved not to be such when adversity comes. He had been deserted at the turning point of his career -the moment of his rupture with the Supreme Council-by the allies on whom he most relied. And, now that his last sickness was upon him, and that he felt himself nearing his end, he turned from the sympathy which his bettered fortune had conciliated, to the disinterested friendship of the young soldier, whom a chivalrous patriotism attached to his banner, and whose fidelity had been subjected to the rudest trials, and remained unshaken.

At an early hour next morning the regiments told off to join the Lord Deputy were under arms. They were drawn up in closest order, and stood silent and motionless, fronted by a dense wall of mist which rose upon the river's bank, and looked like the outworks of some gigantic fortification, though the fortress was being rapidly dismantled by the morning sun. No blast of trumpet or roll of drum disturbed the stillness of the quiet October morning, nor was the sound of laughter heard, nor song, nor merry joke, nor any of the mirthful sounds that cheer the soldier on his march. The men stood to their arms with clouded brows and discontented faces, and their officers stood by, leaning moodily on their swords, or conversing in low whispers before the lines.

A subdued and hollow murmur which gradually swelled into a mighty groan broke from the dense ranks as a litter was borne along

in front of them, in which a pale, emaciated form lay. The litter halted before the armed throng, and the pale form raised itself painfully from the cushions on which it rested.

"Soldiers!" said Owen O'Neill, with a voice which had something of its old vigour and all its characteristic earnestness, "I can lead you no longer. I have no more strength left. My presence among you as a helpless invalid would only delay your advance, and it is of vital consequence that you should push forward in haste. I must part from you here, to meet you again, or to meet you no more as heaven's decree and the fortunes of war permit. I take leave of you with sorrow, but it lessens my pain to think that I give you leaders worthy of the career of victory which has been yours. Follow them with confidence, and be faithful to them as you have been to me. Let the news of your heroic deeds done for Ireland's liberty come hither to cheer me on my sick bed. Every voice that speaks to me of your success will make me forget my sufferings, and send a thrill of joy through this tormented body. With confidence I leave to your keeping the flag that for seven years has been the shield of Ireland's friends and the terror of her foes. Let it still be seen foremost in the advance, steady in the centre of the conflict.

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'One word more. In your success as in your adversities, remember that God alone gives victory; to Him give thanks for every triumph, from Him seek aid in every reverse. This is my last injunction to you. Farewell."

It was only as he pronounced the last word that the calm tone and composed manner, under which he hid the emotions of that supreme moment, gave way. His lip quivered and his voice faltered as he uttered it. But he conquered in an instant this transient weakness, the effect of which on his followers might have marred the execution of his resolve to separate himself from his army. His eye regained its unmoved glance, and with a steady hand he signed to the officers to proceed.

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'Comport your pike-march !" rang out one gruff voice after another, and in front of their general passed the lines of the army of Ulster. Again and again the air was filled with the wild shouts and plaintive adieus of the poor fellows as they marched past the litter, but the pallid, almost stern face that looked out of it upon them showed no trace of the anguish that tore their leader's heart. The last regiment passed, the glitter of their pikes and muskets was growing dim in the distance, and their shouts becoming fainter and fainter; and still the pallid face looked its look of heroic resolve. But at length the sheen of the steel ceased to be visible to the eye of the watcher, and the voices of his followers to strike his ear.

"To Cloughoughter, MacDermott," he said, turning to an officer near his litter. "I am ready for death."

I

ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF A CANDLE.*

BY THE REV. GERALD MOLLOY, D.D.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."—Hamlet.

T may, perhaps, seem to you strange, after the stirring discourses you have heard on great orators and great statesmen, and more particularly, after the learned and eloquent discourse which has recently been addressed to you, on the nature and constitution of the sun, that I should ask you to come down from those lofty flights, and give your attention to so simple and homely a subject as a common candle. But there is a philosophy in small things as in great. The power and wisdom of God are manifested in all his works; and never do these attributes of the great Creator shine forth more beautifully than when they meet us in the dull routine of our daily lives, and minister by a thousand beneficent contrivances to our daily wants.

Yet it can hardly be denied that the beauty and the wisdom, the beneficence and the foresight, exhibited in the material works of God, are practically unknown to the bulk of mankind. The book of nature is a closed book for the great majority of the human race. It is written in a language they do not understand; I may almost say, a language they do not try to learn. I have often been struck with the eager curiosity of children, when this great book is first spread out before them. They are for ever putting questions about the works and ways of nature, and seeking, with ardent enthusiasm, to pry into her mysteries and her laws. But, somehow or other, as time goes on and childhood passes away, this curiosity gets blunted, this enthusiasm grows dull, until, at length, the man of mature years moves about amidst all the wonders of this beautiful world, and never concerns himself about them:

This change is due, in part, no doubt, to the cares and duties of life, which increase with years; but it is also due, in part, I am inclined to think, to the difficulty of getting that knowledge of nature for which the mind is yearning. The child goes on asking and asking, in all the brightness and buoyancy of hope; but finding none to answer his questions, he settles down, in time, into the dulness of despair; he makes up his mind that these things are not for him, that they are beyond his reach; and so he gradually gives up searching into the secrets of nature, just as, at an earlier period, he gave up crying for the moon, when he found that he cried in vain.

It seems to me, then, that we are, in a manner, impelled to the

* A Lecture delivered before St. Mary's Branch of the Catholic Union.