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plexed were the watchwords of party in those days. Walter Hussey was one of those "friendly Catholic rebels" who engaged in the great conflict of 1641, with the intention, as is oftentimes supposed, of making a diversion in favour of the unhappy Charles, when hard pressed by his turbulent "Commons of England." To this day, reviewing the maze of the Queen's intrigues, and the mystery of "Glamorgan's Commission," it is very hard to decide the question, whether the great Irish rebellion of 1641 was or was not fomented by encouragement from the Court of Charles.

Be that as it may, poor Walter Hussey ("the worse luck his ") banged in most magnanimously among the best of

"The gallants who fought for the crown,"

and held his own with high hand through most of the wars of that day; ay, and might have held out until he came within terms of amnesty as well as others, were it not that an evil destiny must be accomplished; and therefore in a luckless day, Cromwell of the Iron Hand, who was reducing all Ireland in the same ruthless spirit which had quenched the conflagration of Tredagh in the blood of its garrisondetermined to detach some of his ironsided troopers to beleaguer Castle-Gregory, under the command of Colonels Le Hunt and Sadlier, grim-visaged Roundheads, men after his own heart, to whom he gave his usual significant commandment when he meant mischief-namely, "to see that they did not the work of the Lord negligently."

How this command was executed must now be briefly told. The siege grew straiter day by day, until at last, as a fine May morning dawned (the fa

tal fifth once more), Walter Hussey, with all the garrison which the chances of war had left him, made a desperate sortie, and cutting his way through the iron fence of the besieging force, betook himself by the defile of Magh-ana-boc, to his castle of Minard, at the other side of the mountain.

How his enemies, with the quest of bloodhounds, pursued the doomed man thither; how, after a desperate defence, he died, undermined, blown up, and so mutilated as to be recognised only "by the red stockings which he wore by way of distinction ;"-these are all matters written in the local history of the place and time. It only remains for us to sum up the brief memoir of Castle-Gregory's final day, now arrived after a duration of more than three quarters of a century, and we shall have seen it from its cradle to its grave.

It was about mid-day, on the 5th of May, 1649, that Colonel Sadlier, having directed that the castle should be dismantled and rifled-a command which his grim followers executed with all the solemnity of men going to a field preaching-gave the word to break up his leaguer, in order to pursue the traces of his flying foe through the mountain passes.

He had scarcely proceeded a mile on his march towards Glen-a-boe, through which his course lay, when a thin smoke was observed to rise through the grated windows of the castle, then a bright flame flashed at intervals; presently was heard a terrific explosion, re-echoed from the surrounding hills like thunder, and all was over. ČastleGregory, which, during its short continuance, had been the scene of so bloody a three act tragedy" of real life, was no more.

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CHAPTER XV. AND LAST.

As the evening of that final 5th of May fell, two individuals might be seen groping their way among the scattered and blackened ruins of the castle, which covered the ground in every direction. One, was an old man, in the extreme verge of human existence, with his white hair streaming over the collar of his cothamore; the other, a young child, with his elf locks curling round an infant face; they looked like personifications of the past

and present, of life in its dawn and its decay.

"I can't see at all, Johnny, a-lannah (my child), the night is fallingand, Gold help me-it is nearly dark night with me always; but your eyes are young, God keep them to you, my child-look about you, and if you can see the arch-stones of the door-way lying anywhere, for the love of God, lead me to them, and let me sit down.

The stones, which had been only

shaken out of their place by the explosion, were easily distinguished by their size and shape; and the little boy, as he was directed, led his great grandfather, for in such relation they stood to each other, and placed him sitting on one of the stones.

The old man never attempted to identify them with his eye; but his hand wandered vaguely over the smooth face of the stone, until he found the carved letters so often alluded to, when solemnly lifting his dim eyes to heaven, he said, "Glory be to God, for all he was pleased to leave me to witness. My young hands reared these walls for one angry man, and carved these letters for another. I was young yet, when I saw a woman's foolish anger provoke a man's wild pas

sion, and anger dip itself in blood; and now the anger of man does the bidding of God upon all, and lays this strong castle in the dust for evermore. God's name be praised for all things, but his ways are wonderful."

The old man sat awhile in solemn meditation-his little unconscious descendant gambolling around him—and then feebly returned to his home at no great distance; and the next morning old Jack Barrett, "the Father of the Barony," as he had long been called, was found quietly dead in his bed, without groan or struggle.

So ends a strange eventful history.

"I cannot tell how it might be,

I say the tale, as 'twas said to me."

R.

THE TROUBADOUR.

BY WILLIAM FORSYTH.

"By sails and oars did Geoffry Rudel find
The death that he desired."-PETRARCH.

"Irat et dolent m'en partray

Sien mon vey cet amour de leanch

Et mon vey qu oura la veray

Car sont trop neutras terras leanch."

From the Provençal of Geoffry Rudel.

"SHE'S far away

She's far away;

Alas! my love is far away."

'Twas thus that Geoffry Rudel sang,

The minstrel prince of Blaye.

One lady's name,

One lady's fame

He heard where'er crusader came.

The wand'ring palmer told her praise,

And many an exile's prayer had she;
Her beauty filled the minstrel's lays,

Or fired the Frankish chivalry.

They left the maids of sunny Rhodes,

And the battle-fields of Jewery,

Both prince and peer who wore the cross,

To win the flower of Tripoli.

A princess of the western line—

Of gentle Raymond of Tolouse,

Her sires had fought in Palestine,

Where'er Duke Godfrey's banner flew;

And now her name in love's sweet tone
Was heard along her father's shore:

It soothed the murmurs of the Rhone,

And sighed along the sedgy Loire.

As

And thus one minstrel sadly sung,
aye he swept his matchless lyre,
The tale of passion as it sprung
Forth, burning from his heart of fire:-
"Oh, happy birds, for ever free*
To sing of love so light to mine,

That I must grieve o'er, silently.
The shepherds with their pipes do rove,
The children on their tabors play,
While I alone in sadness pine

For her so loved, so far away."
Thus sung the gallant troubadour

That ruled the lands of Blaye.

And though his eye ne'er knew the bliss
Of lingering o'er that loved one's face,
He sighed along the troubled wavet

That washed his own beloved strand :

"It's oh! to be the meanest slave

That waits by that fair lady's hand

It's oh! to find a lowly grave,

And lie within that lady's land.

No more I'll wander, lorn and lone,
The banks of my beloved Garonne ;
No more I'll walk this wild- wood shade-
The forest flowers are dead to me;
No home can be my home, sweet maid,
Save thy fair land of Tripoli."

His lance was foremost in the lists,

His lay within the lady's bower;
But long in vain the fair Guienne
Will mourn her absent troubadour.

For o'er the ocean-well wide

Now floats his melancholy lay;

The rugged seamen weep beside,

As still he sings "She's far away."

His lyre so sweetly murmured on,

Where swept the waves like liquid gold,

But wildly, boldly, rung its tone

Where stormy waters roared and rolled.

And now triumphant hope it told-
Now did it wail in wild despair;
And now to gentler fancies mould
Its tones upon the ocean air.

But sadder grew both lay and lyre-
The minstrel's heart had lost its fire;

And as the long-sought lady's land
Arose before his languid eye,

And ere his bark had touched the strand,

He knew that he had come to die.

But still he sung in broken tones

"Oh! welcome death, when hope is dead:
The land will hold my mould'ring bones

That this beloved one doth tread."

He gave the groves of his Garonne
For a grave by lonely Lebanon:

Translated extracts from Geoffry Rudel's poems, in which frequent allusion is made to

the distant object of his affections.

†The Bay of Biscay.

And still his prayer was, once to see
The peerless maid of Tripoli.

And lo! ere death had closed his eye
A beauteous vision met its view,

Such as the fervent ecstacy

Of inspiration never drew

And well his heart the loved one knew
His lonely dreams had cherished long,
When fancy half-prophetic grew,
And showed the subject of his song.
The lady kissed his pallid brow,
And many a tear of sorrow shed—

He gently smiled on her, and lo!
The minstrel's gallant spirit fled.

The voice of song was hushed in death;
But she so loved when far away,

In sorrow drank thy dying breath,
Thou princely troubadour of Blaye.

She said, while weeping by his side-
"No other heart hath earth like thine;
And I will be thy widowed bride,
And wed thy memory to mine.

Adieu, adieu, ye glittering throng-
Ye joys that now no longer bless;

No song is left like Rudel's song-
No love within the world like his."

And drooping as a willow wand,
She's ta'en the circlet from her brow,

The rings from off her velvet hand,
The bracelets from her arm of snow;

And rich attire and princely halls
She's bartered for a convent's gloom,

Where, 'mid its sad and silent walls,
She raised her minstrel lover's tomb:

And there in prayer long pined away
Such beauty as men seldom see,

Till by the Troubadour of Blaye
Was laid the Maid of Tripoli.

The above poem, wild and incredible as the devotion that it depicts may appear, is founded on circumstances that, if not historical, have all the authenticity that writers nearly contemporary with the hero, and the universal credit of those of two succeeding ages, can give them. St. Palaye, in his "History of the Troubadours," gives the narrative of the romantic passion of Geoffrey Rudel for the Countess of Tripoli, whose beauty was a world-wide theme at the time of the last crusade. His voyage to see his unseen lady-love-his death on his reaching the shore-her visit, and her subsequently retiring into a nunnery, are all given as matters of fact; and three centuries after, the marble mausoleum that she raised to the memory of her lover was still to be seen. Such devotion, however we may regard it, was not inconsistent with the romantic love of those chivalric times.

BUTLER ON DEVELOPMENT.*

It may be doubted whether this, though a posthumous publication, has suffered at all by the circumstances under which it has now issued from the press. The zeal of Mr. Butler's friends has probably reproduced these letters in as complete and accurate a form as he would himself have been disposed to give them, had Providence been pleased to spare him to us longer. They bore, indeed, at their first appearance, some marks of haste upon them; but those defects were not such as none but the author himself can safely remedy. There was no fault of the first concoction-hardly a vestige of imperfect plan or execution in the reasoning, or the arrangement, or even the style. Though, in their immediate composition, "the work," as Mr. Woodward tells us, "of hurried moments, snatched from labours of beneficence to the starving crowds who flocked around their author's residence," that work was but the expression of thoughts long revolved in the capacious mind of one whose words, "like airy ministers," were ever ready at his will to range themselves in well. ordered files to execute their service to his intellect. The imperfections of which we speak were such as were, under his circumstances, unavoidable. They were occasioned by want of time, and opportunity for a careful examination, and weighing of some authorities cited upon minor parts of the argument. In correcting these blemishes, his editor has judiciously availed himself of the help (always readily given when worthily sought) of Mr. Gibbings, a gentleman whose large and recondite bibliographical erudition would be rare in any country, and is almost unique in this. It is not, we think, too much to say, that the joint labours of two such able commentators upon this part of the work have presented the documentary literature of the question, upon the whole, in even a fuller and fairer shape than Mr. Butler him

self could have given to it. The honest vigilance with which they have discharged their duty is indeed worthy of all praise; nor will any but low and narrow minds see anything in the stern accuracy with which every, the least,

error of statement or citation is noticed and corrected, but what real friendship, as well as truth, demanded from them. Could there be any dis crepancy between the demands of these, they would, no doubt, have nobly determined with the Stagirite, Flor wegτιμῶν τὴν ἀληθείαν. But in this case there could be none. There can be no doubt that the great man who has been taken from us would be the first to blame the cowardly and false friend. ship which should dissemble or exte nuate any error into which he might have fallen from personal partiality to himself.

"Falsus honor juvat, et mendax infamia terret Quem nisi mendosum et mendacem ?"

If Mr. Butler, writing in a remote and almost savage region, beset night and day by the unfortunate cries of a starving population, fell now and then into some mistakes, the greatest of those errors may find more than a parallel in the blunders of an antagonist who laboured under no such disadvantages, and who yet could confound Paul of Samosata with the Apostle; while, at any rate, the ge nuine candour of his character kept him clear from those wilful prevarica tions which disgrace the statements of the faithless priest of the oratory. The contrast, indeed, between the two men is striking. Both learned, both expert dialecticians, both masters of no vulgar rhetoric: but the causes in which these potent arms are wielded were not more different than the spirit which actuated the combatants. One heartily believing in the power of reason to elicit and establish truth, and faithfully applying that power to the

"Letters on the Development of Christian Doctrine, in reply to Mr. Newman's Essay." By the Rev. William Archer Butler, M.A., late Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Dublin. Dublin: Hodges and Smith. 1850.

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