member for South Donegal was sent by Mr. Parnell to organize the Irish vote in Scotland. He was afterwards sent to England on a similar mission, and was in Yorkshire when another bogus contest on the part of Foster brought him home. Again the Orange candidate was badly beaten, and again Mr. Kelly returned to Westminster to fight the old fight and uphold the good old cause. But before going back to the "Modern Babylon," the young member did just what we should expect one of his deep religious feeling to do. He made a holy retreat in the far-famed island of Lough Derg. Writing to a friend a few days after his return to London, and referring to this pilgrimage, he says," Mrs. - will have told you of my being at Lough Derg. It was a glorious trip, and surely one that possessed for me a sacred import and memorable attractions."

He returned to Ireland towards the end of September in anything but good health. With a view to recruit himself he went to Carrick, whose health-giving atmosphere has restored many a helpless invalid to strength and vigor. But his devotion to the people's cause, his anxiety for their welfare, his sympathy in their struggles to cope with the landlord devil, urged him, in spite of his failing health, to do work for which he was in no way able. We shall let Canon Clifford tell the rest. We quote from the sermon delivered at Mr. Kelly's funeral :

"When he arrived at Kellybegs Dr. McFeely told him he was speaking too much, and that he was not able for the task that he was taking upon himself. He then decided to come home to spend Christmas with his father. Sooner, however, than cast a gloom over his home by his illness he remained at Mountcharles, where he was tenderly and kindly looked after. He felt better on Christmas Day, when he said he would go to Mass. Some one said it would be better if he would not. 'Not go to Mass!' said he. Why, I would not miss Mass on Christmas Day for the whole world.' And he went, and next day he rallied, and on the following day seemed as well as ever. On New Year's eve he said, 'I will go to chapel in the morning for confession and to receive Holy Communion, and begin the New Year properly.' Alas! before seven hours of the New Year had passed he was in the embrace of death. That night he took ill. Dr. Smith was sent for and then Dr. Warnock; and all that could be done for mortal man was done for him. These gentlemen remained by him with the priest until his eyes were closed in death, and a happy death it was."

Another quotation from Canon Clifford and we have done :

"I will never forget the 8th of December, when all were in the turmoil of an election. I came here after being at the court-house, and when I said I was surprised at his not being at the polling booths, he said he was going to hear Mass first; and he served Mass for me and I administered Holy Communion to him. This alone shows how little he was excited by the ways of the world, not puffed up with pride or vanity."

Such was the late member for South Donegal, a good Catholic, a thorough Irishman, and who can say more for mortal? Gentle reader, you will not, we know, refuse to say a little prayer for the soul's happiness of Bernard Kelly.

JANUARY 28, 1887.

OLLAVE FOLA.

Do not be quick to speak; say much by a modest and judicious silence. St. Francis de Sales.

The Glory of Ireland.

FROM AN ADDRESS DELIVERED BY THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER, IN THE PEOPLE'S THEATRE, VIRGINIA CITY, ON

ST. PATRICK'S DAY, 1866.

On this day, nearly one thousand three hundred years ago, the lurid fire of the Druid began to pale, and the cross appeared in the kindly Irish sky. The celebration we Irishmen make to-day is the celebration of love, of pride, of sorrow. Were Ireland an ill-favored country-were it sterile, bleak, inhospitable-were there no scenes there to delight the eye and captivate the heart-were there no sweet valleys, no laughing rivers, none of the graces and grandeur of Nature such as have inspired the melodies of Moore, and given to the pencil of Maclise some of its finest themes; had the country no picturesque history, no great name illuminating her annals, no halls that had echoed to a superior eloquence, no fields on which heroism had fought for liberty; were it a desert in the light of an unpropitious sun, and a blank in the literature of the world—even so, as the place of our birth, as the place where we first knew a mother's smile and a father's blessing, we should love it, be jealous of it, and cling to it all the more devotedly, on account of the deprivations with which it had been stricken. But our love for Ireland has no such rigorous conditions to test and vindicate it. Heaven has been most bountiful to that land. As it came from the hand of God it has all the rare excellence that makes it a singularly favored land. Under a government of its own sons-partial and generous as they would be to it no land would be happier, no land be more profitable to its people; for it has been endowed with all advantages,- serenity of climate and wealth of soil, safe and spacious harbors indenting the whole circle of its coast, the more essental minerals and superabundant water; all which, under a genial administration and favoring laws, would not only make it prosperous but give it greatness. I have spoken of the means which Ireland abundantly possesses to be a strong and prosperous nation. Her intellectual wealth is fully commensurate with her physical. The fame of her more gifted sons revolves with the planet, and it is no exaggeration to say that it has a recognition which is co-extensive with civilization. Has not the Vicar of Wakefield gone round the world? Does not Edmund Burke loom up in political history with a stature too colossal not to be seen from every quarter of the globe? "Lalla Rookh" has been translated, and is a volume of gold in the land of the Fire Worshippers themselves. Sheridan has written his name in letters of inextinguishable light upon the desecrated temples and plundered palaces. Never in any country was there so superb an assembly of orators and wits, statesmen and gallant gentlemen, as the Irish Parliament was in the few years of independence. There was Harry Flood, of whom it was grandly said by his great rival that, like Hercules, he failed with the distaff, but with the thunderbolt he had the arm of a Jupiter. There was Henry Grattan, of whom Lord Brougham declared

that no orator of any age was his equal, and who, communicating to Ireland the pentecostal fire with which he himself was inflamed, beheld his country, to use his own magnificent phrase, rising from her bed in the ocean and getting nearer to the sun. There was Curran - the most thorough Irishman of them all - the exhaustless wit, the dauntless and defiant advocate, whose marvellous eloquence threw over the darkest cause the most copious streams of splendor and enchantment, and who was as true to Ireland as he was to the saddest client who sought the shelter and defence of his blazing shield. In art Maclise has won an imperial crown. Davis said of him that his pencil was as true as a sunbeam. Barry was in his studio what Burke was in the Senate — a prodigy of genius. In his vast painting of the Last Judgment he has "shaken one world with the thunders of another.'

But it is said that the educated intelligence, to say nothing of the property of Ireland, has, unless in some eccentric instances, become imperialized, and that to the independence of the country it is haughtily hostile. Here an argument is advanced against Irish independence. With me that argument goes for nothing. Shall a nation postpone her liberty in deference to an erudite slavery? Is the liberty of a nation a usurpation unless the menials of political life, the painted butterflies of fashion, varlets, harlequins, and vassals, concur in the claim? Give me the people the democracy - the men who till the fields, the men who build ships and cities, the men who subjugate the wilderness, train and rear it into a noble civilization, and, so far, consummate the divine purpose of creation. From this element have some of the most powerful intellects and potentates of the world sprung. Homer, Shakespeare, Michelangelo, the great jurists of England, the great statesmen of America, the marshals of Napoleon, were from the democracy. Give me the

people, the democracy of Ireland! should they demand the liberty of Ireland, I shall not wait on any lord or pedant, nor on any lord's or pedant's flunky, to ratify the claim. Give me the peasantry-the reviled, scorned, ignored peasantry of Ireland. Their wretched cabins have been the holy shrines in which the traditions and the hopes of Ireland have been treasured and transmitted. In the adverse days— in the days of cowardice, debasement, and despair- the spirit of Ireland has lived in them and become immortal. In the fiercest storms they have never once winced or wavered. In the bloodiest times they have been dauntless and heroic. The hills of Wexford, the plains of Kildare, the mountain passes of Wicklow-all are vital with their des perate courage under the shock and scourge of battle. Never, never let the Irish heart give up the hope of seeing, on Irish soil, the fatal destiny of centuries reversed, and a restored nation, wisely instructed and ennobled in the school of sorrow, planted there. Think, think what this hope has been to Ireland. It has been the light of her darkness, the jewel of her poverty, the music of her tribulation, the bright companion of her exiles. It has been the main nerve of her industry abroad; on the field of death it has been the fire of her heart and the magic of her flag.

Now comes the question is this festival of love, of pride, of sorrow, celebrated here, incompatible with Irish loyalty in America? The ques

tion an ignominious one-would not surely emanate from me were it not that there are some vicious bigots, men of small brains and smaller hearts, men of more gall than blood, who, even here, assert that love for Ireland, devotion to her cause, active sympathy with the protracted contest for her redemption, involve an equivocal allegiance to the United States. Out upon the bastard Americanism that spews this imputation on the gallant race whose blood, shed in torrents for its inviolability and glory, has imparted a brighter crimson to the Stripes, and made the Stars of that triumphant flag irradiate with a keener radiance. I appeal not to the burning sands, the cactus-circled fortresses, the causeways, the volcanic heights, the gates and towers of Mexico. Let the woods and swamps of the deadly Chickahominy, the slopes of Malvern Hill, the waters of the Antietam, the defiant heights of Fredericksburg, the thickets of the Wilderness a thousand fields now billowed with Irish graves, declare that love for Ireland blends in ecstacy with loyalty to America, and that America has been served by none more truly than by those who carried in their impetuous hearts the memories and hopes of Ireland. No true American looks otherwise than with full trustfulness and the heartiest fellowship upon such manifestations of Irish heart, Irish piety, and Irish remembrance of the Irish birthplace as to-day animate this city. The true American knows, feels, and with enthusiasm declares, that of all human emotions, of all human passions, there is not one more pure, more noble, more conducive to good, and great, and glorious deeds than that which bears us back to the spot that was the cradle of our childhood, the playground of our boyhood, the theatre of our manhood.

Has the Holy Book a passage more deeply touching than that which pictures to us the daughters of a captive race, in their desolation of soul, weeping by the waters of Babylon when they remembered their lost homes and the vanished Towers of Zion? Has profane verse a line more exquisitely eloquent than that which tells us of the brave young Greek, beautiful and radiant as his native land,- bleeding and dying on the plains of Latium, with his darkening eyes fixed on Greece? Has political history a grander incident than that of Warren Hastings, the Dictator of India, in the midst of all his ambitious schemes, all through his struggles, his contests, his triumphs, and splendors, ever and always cherishing in his purer heart the hope and purpose of returning to his ancestral domain, and spending there, in calmness and goodness, the evening of his stormy life? Has our own bright poet, Moore, with all the wealth of his melody and fancy, given the world a scene in the presence of which kindlier, sweeter, holier sympathies arise than that which shows the captive girls of the East, amid all the luxuries of their perfumed and golden bondage, amid all the deadening enchantments of their voluptuous vassalage, winging their way back in tender thought to the scene of their free and spotless childhood? It is the American who has no heart, who has no thought beyond putting a dollar out at mighty interest, who has no zest for any other book than his easy account or his soulless ledger, who hates the Irish for their generous qualities, their infallible religion, and who deprecates the love of Ireland which the Irishman brings with him to America, which

he cherishes here in every vicissitude of his laborious life, and with which, whether he be in rags or in purple and in fine linen, whether he be digging for gold like a drudge in Montana or spending it like an Irish prince in New York, he celebrates St. Patrick's Day.

A Touching, Story.

HE bade his wife a tearful good-by.

"My love, my only one! The time will soon be here when I shall be in a position to snap my fingers at fate and set up as my own boss. Then we shall have no more of these cruel partings.'

"And you

will be true to me?"

"As I always am," he responded. "You did not forget to put that photo you had especially taken for me in my gripsack, did you? "Oh, dear, no. Are you sure you will look at it sometimes, love?" "You wicked doubter! You know that I should be wretched without at least such a semblance of my pet to look at daily and nightly."

Draw the veil of charity over his grief, and the treachery of one in whom he had such unbounded confidence.

In brief, she, his only love, his pet, his wife, had secretly planned to make him "wretched." She had taken that photograph from his gripsack, and was gloating over his misery when he should discover that only memory remained to him, for the time being, of his darling's looks.

"The dear fellow, how he will scold me for the trick," she thought; "but I will send him the photograph in the first letter I write to him. Thus appeasing her conscience she waited for his first letter. came from Chicago.

It

"My heart's delight" it began. "Got here O. K. this A. M. Have been wrestling with the trade all day, and a tough time I've had of it. Weary and fagged, I have retired to my room, shut out the gilded atmosphere of sin that envelopes this terrible city, and taken from my satchel your sweet picture. It is before me as I write; I shall kiss it when I have said my evening prayers; it will rest under my pillow. It is my one solace until I hold you, my sweet wife, in these faithful arms again."

Thus far she had read, then she toppled over on the floor.

What comfort she found there it is hard to say, but a great determination rose within the stricken wife, who went out an hour later and sought a telegraph office.

Her husband had been saying his prayers abroad that evening, and when he got to his hotel about midnight, his spiritual emotions received a rude shock by a telegram from his "only love."

It was elaborate for a despatch, but under the circumstances one could not expect an outraged wife to transmit her feelings by the slow mail. The despatch read: