harm-look where she flounced right across the road, and scraped herself up agin the furze-bush; her hair's thick on it."

He was hastening on, longing and dreading to be round the next corner, when he heard close by a sound, such a homely, commonplace one, that he experienced hardly a moment of panic before out of the little bypath ran a very small boy, swinging a large tin can. As a general rule, Dinny would. have seen nothing particularly attractive about the black-headed, barefooted, flannel-petticoated gossoon, and would probably have allowed him to pass on unaccosted; but in the present circumstances, he could have desired no better company, for an innocent child is the most efficacious safeguard possible when uncanny things are about. Another encouraging reflection also occurred to him immediately: "Twas that now, and divil a thing else, scared the two of them-the little brat skytin' by, clattering' his can, and the light shining' off it on a suddint." Still, this view of the matter, though plausible and rational, was not certain enough to justify him in letting slip the chance of an escort, and he therefore set about engaging the child in conversation. He did so rather clumsily, for lack of the familiarity with children's society which would have enabled him to fill up the gap between thirty odd and five years old with appropriate small-talk. "Is it goin' for water you sonny?" he said.

are,

"She sent me to the well again," said the gossoon stopping his trot, and pointing up the path to a tangle of briers and long grass in a slight hollow.

"And is it gone dry on you?" said Dinny, looking at the empty can.

The reply was a turning of it upside down to show a crack running several inches round the bottom rim. "I can put the top of me littlest finger through it," the gossoon said and proved. "It won't hould a sup at all. And the big jug's broke too."

"That's a bad job," said Dinny.

"There's nothin' she can be sendin' now, unless the black kettle itself, that's as much as I can do to lift when it's empty inside, let alone full— it's the size of meself bedad," averred Dinny's protector.

"Sure then, she couldn't ax you to be carryin' that. Is it far you come?" Dinny inquired anxiously.

"I dunno," said the gossoon, "but it's a terrible ould baste of a kettle for always wantin' to be filled. I hate the sight of it sittin 'there on the fire, wid the dirty ould lid thryin' to lep off it; and then me aunt does be bawlin' to me to run out and bring the water before it's boiled dry. I'm sick and tired of goin' up the lane, wid the heavy can pullin' out the arm of me all the way back, fit to destroy me, Katty Lyons says it is. And a while ago I was givin' it a couple of clumps agin a stone, where I seen a weeny crack comin'; and maybe that's what biggened it. But you needn't let on I tould you, or I'll be kilt. Sorra a sup

it'll hould."

He dropped some small handfuls of the fine sand into the can, and holding it up, watched the grains sift slowly out. This experiment he repeated more than once, and Dinny, albeit in a hurry, looked on with patience. But at last he suggested: "Mightn't she be mad, if you're too long delayin'?"

"She does be mad most whiles," his companion said philosophically, "I don't so much mind, if she won't be sendin' me back wid the ugly ould kettle."

However, he began to walk on, rattling a couple of cockle-shells, that had remained in the can. Dinny accompanied him closely, and meekly waited when he occasionally stopped to pick up pebbles, or explore rabbit-holes, or start sand-avalanches and cascades by tugging at the colorless roots of the grasses in the slithery banks. It was a slow progress, and the dusk had grown perceptibly grayer by the time that Dinny emerged from between them, at a place where the road branches, on the right towards Clochranbeg, on the left toward the great bog of Greilish.

"And what way are you goin', avic?" Dinny inquired, with less anxiety now, having left behind the Silver Lane, which he knew to be the most perilous stage of his journey.

The child pointed to a small cabin standing opposite, a stone's throw back from the road, a reply that somewhat surprised Dinny. For even through the gathering dimness, the place looked quite ruinous and deserted, with rifted roof, and rank weeds peering in at frameless windows. "She's screechin' to me," said the gossoon, and darted off, making for the door. Dinny heard nothing but the cockle-shells clattering in the can. "There's no sort of people," he said to himself, "would be livin' in the likes of that, unless it was tinkers. He was the quare little imphimself and the big kettle."

A bit further on, he overtook the widow McNulty, who was going his way, and as they walked on together, he casually asked of her how the Silver Lane had come by its bad "For," he said, "since I come to this parish, I met wid many that do be afeared of it, but what's wrong wid it I never happened to hear tell."

name.

a

"Sure it was before my time," said Mrs. McNulty, "there used to be woman livin' in the ould empty house you seen at this end of it, and a little boy belongin' to her, that she gave bad thratement to. Huntin' him off she was continual, to fetch her big cans full of water out of the well near the far end of the lane, that you might have noticed goin' by. So one day she sent him wid a great heavy lump of kettle, he couldn't rightly lift, and thryin' to fill it, the crathur overbalanced himself, and fell in and was got dhrownd dead. And ever since then, it does be walkin' there now and agin, and folks say there's no worser bad luck goin' than for a body to see a sight of it, or so much as to hear the clink of the can-well, man alive,

a

what's took you at all?”

"The Lord have mercy on me this day," said Dinny, "and I just after walkin' along side of it, and talkin' to it the length of the boreen."

And thenceforth neither of them had any breath to spare for conversation until they at last reached distant-still cruelly distant-Clochranbeg.

C

JANE BARLOW.

An Ancient Abbey.

ELBRIDGE ABBEY, County Kildare, the residence of the late Sir Gerald Dease, who died there recently, is rich in historic and literary memories and associated with the names of Swift and Grattan. Celbridge Abbey was, early in the eighteenth century, the residence of Bartholomew Van Homrigh, who was Lord Mayor of Dublin in 1698, and the father of Esther Van Homrigh, the "Vanessa" of Swift's poems. Dean Swift was for years a frequent guest and visitor at Celbridge Abbey.

And then, some sixty or seventy years later, Celbridge Abbey was the residence of Colonel Marlay, the uncle of Henry Grattan. When Grattan's Liberal politics and patriotic leanings became so displeasing to his father as to render home life unpleasant, he frequently retired to Celbridge Abbey, where he was always received with affection by his uncle, Colonel Marlay, and another uncle, Dr. Marlay, Dean of St. Patrick's, and afterwards Protestant Bishop of Waterford, who sym-. pathized with him in his views of political affairs, which were repugnant to his father, the Tory Recorder of Dublin.

There is a grotto in the grounds of Celbridge Abbey overlooking the Liffey which was a frequent resort of Swift and "Vanessa," and, in a later generation, of Henry Grattan.

At the period of the insurrection in 1798 Celbridge Abbey was the residence of Colonel George Napier and his wife, Lady Sarah Napier, the sister of the Duchess of Leinster and of Lady Louisa Conolly, the wife of Mr. Conolly, of Castletown. Lady Sarah Napier was a daughter of the Duke of Richmond, and George III., in his young days, was most anxious to marry her, and was dissuaded with difficulty from so doing by the entreaties of his ambitious mother, the Princess of Wales.

The Napiers came to Celbridge to be near Carton and Castletown, the residences of Lady Sarah Napier's sisters. Colonel Napier did all that in him lay to restrain the atrocities of the British troops and yeomen. Lady Sarah Napier's correspondence with reference to this period, and more especially to the capture and death of her nephew, Lord Edward FitzGerald, are still extant, and give a most graphic description of the Dublin Castle "reign of terror." -Weekly Freeman.

Don't fail to procure MRS. WINSLOWS SOOTHING SYRUP for your Children while cutting teeth. It soothes the child, softens the gums allays all pain, oures wind colic and is the best remedy for diarrhoea

IN

'N San Francisco one day not long ago, I was in conversation with a good old Irish woman. She was telling me that all her people were dead or settled at a great distance from her and neglecting to write for years as frequently and inexplicably happens. "But wait a bit," she said in her native Gaelic; "I have something to show you," and she left the room, returning a little later with the something carefully wrapped up in soft tissue paper, It was "a tied with a green ribbon. sod o' turf" from Ireland "and I'll have it buried with me in the coffin."

Some minds would probably see in this remark but the material for a coarse jest, but to a Celt there was something touching in this clinging to When all a sod from green Tyrone. near and dear on this earth had left her, she had at least this humble souvenir of the bright purple heath and the balmy Irish air skipped some fifty years ago in her young strength and light-heartedness.

It was none of your sods of "spoddagh" or soft brown or yellow, light, porous and spongy stuff, such as wily bogmen impose on unwary housekeepers, nor was it the "mud turf" made into an artificial sod from the dregs of the bog, but a hard, bricklike, coalblack sod cut by the sharp "slane" from the bottom of the "high bank"one of those sods which our mothers looked for when some deed of cookery was to be done, and when they said to one of us: "Go, out to the clamp, alanna, an' bring in a lock o' keerauns." Yes, this was the "keeraun," or rather the father of the keerauns (a word I had not thought of in ten years), those small black sods which, when heated up, became fiery-red "keers," or glowing coals.

This black sod of turf-how it reminded one of the days when we "cut" and "pitched" the turf on the "high bank" (no light work was that same pitching) and then duly "footed" it in neat "grogauns," after carrying it home in "pardogues," or wicker baskets, one swung each side of a donkey's or horse's saddle. And how the donkey would careen with his load the

frequent steep inclines, threatening dire peril to the hardy "gossoon" or "girshagh" that sat behind the baskets. Sometimes a small child in one basket was balanced by a rock in the other when there was no load of turf to be carried.

On more level roads the turf was drawn home more quietly in drays with crates standing on the sides; and often, to carry an extra load, the sods were built on the upper edge of the crate into a "bordogue," or border, raising the sides by one or two sods, and thus carrying an additional pile.

Then, at the house, came the scientific building of the turf "clamp," with its sloping wall of the squarest, bricklike sods. The building of this wall was quite an art in itself and was called "curring" or "feeling" the turf (which, being interpreted, means cornering and wailing the turf rick).

Every year, in the Fall, the parish priest would give out on the altar the name of those, the chief farmers of the parish, who were to come and draw home the parochial turf, and with us, in old Father Hugh's time, the wind-up invariably was, "And little Tom the Thatcher will come and curr the clamp." And no man walked out of that church half so proud as the said Tom the Thatcher, who thus, for the time, at least, became a parochial dignitary.

Very hard and slavish work was this cutting of turf on the bleak bog, but there was a recompense for it all when winter came around in the clear turf fire under the great chimney which towers over every Irish hearth. The days of sun-worship may be gone, but the hearth is still the central point of the home, and on winter nights all the household and visiting neighbors crowd around it; the "bracket" shins of the healthy bare-legged children giving visible proof of their devotions at the fireside.

Most of all, the hearthstone is the centre of the attraction in the winter when at nightfall the flagged-floor of the kitchen is newly swept, and the stools, long and short, three-legged and four-legged are drawn up near the

The akailey was in olden days, and indeed still is in most places, the rural substitute for newspaper, club and parliament. Oftentimes people went every night of the year, for years and years, to the same kailey-house, usually some small farmer's house, the attractions of which were often the subject of denunciation by the rich farmer's wives, who did not wish to see their sons and husbands stroll off from their own comfortable hearths to hear all the news and comments of the neighborhood at the more humble fireside.

Some of the habitues or kaileyers came every night over a mile to take their accustomed place under the wide chimney, through which, those sitting nearest the hob could, if they but looked upward, see the stars in the heavens outside-that is to say if they could see anything at all through the crowd of various articles that usually were hung up in the chimney, from flitches of bacon put up to dry, to blackthorn sticks, which, after being straightened, oiled and otherwise prepared, were placed in the sooty chimney to season and to take on a good black color.

How often we have heard the phrase, "I have a wattle in the chimney for him"-an ominous phrase for "him." I often wonder how we all did not die of drafts and colds in these early days, for the blast on the backs of those seated round the hearth and the rush of air up the wide chimney, must have been tremendous.

Let us pull the "long," or thong of leather, that works the door-latch, and enter to join the cheerful circle around the fire. Closing the door, we find ourselves in a sort of hall, cut off from the kitchen by a low cross-wall. Our greeting "God save all here!" addressed to all in the house, is answered by a "God save you kindly!"

While some of those inside reconnoitre us through a pane of glass (which indeed is often not there at all) set in the cross wall, there is a general invitation to "Come in an' sit down." "Sit down an' make a kailey," "Take an air o' the fire," and the stools are pulled, and the fireside circle is enlarged to make room for the new comer near the fire.

And now, on the hearth, behold our friend the sod of turf, with many of his family. I mean when the house belonged as it usually did, to people who could afford to burn turf. The poorest people had to be content with "brosna," or fire-wood, painfully gathered up, and often giving forth more pungent smoke than comfortable heat. How little is needed to comfort the very poor!

In Ireland many an old man or woman over eighty years is glad to crawl a mile or more to gather a brosna for the fire of that evening, and seeing as one often does in the great Western forest on the Pacific coast, such great wanton destruction of timber, one cannot help thinking how many thousands of humble hearths would be gladdened by a small fraction of the waste on American soil.

The Vatican Achives.

W

HEN the news came that a fire had broken out in the Vatican, the civilized world shuddered at the thought of the irreparable loss to humanity which would follow even the partial burning of the palace of the Popes. Happily we have only to deplore the destruction of the Codex Marcellianus, of one very ancient papyrus, of a few early printed books and some old engravings.

No doubt those who are inclined to justify, under any pretext, the prophecies of Malachi, which are known to be apocryphal, in spite of their many happy hits, will not fail to find in this accident the ignis ardens which designates the successor of Leo XIII., who was the lumen in caelo, according to their explanation of the comet in his coat of arms.

The Vatican is a world in itself, and its archives, recently threatened, are, in a sense, the archives of humanity. Even those who have visited the Vatican have only a small idea of its immensity. It is not one palace; it is an entanglement of palaces, in which there are museums, luxuries of all sorts, riches and poverty. Many of its apartments are as empty of all ornament as the cells of a cloister.

The Louvre, the Tuilleries and Versailles cannot be compared in extent to the Vatican with its thirty magnificent halls, nine galleries, seven grand chapels, twenty courts, eight state staircases, two hundred staircases for ordinary use, several museums, the library, the archives and twelve thousand rooms. One single palace in Europe rivals the Vatican in grandeur, and few people know that that palace is in Portugal. It is the convent-palace

of Marfa, one of the follies of King John V., who was a megalomaniac.

The Vatican, taken as a whole, presents at first sight nothing regular or imposing. From that viewpoint the Versailles palace is superior to it. It was Celestine III. who commenced the Vatican, and almost all the Popes since his time have added to it a building or some interior decoration. Each one left his mark. The last was made by Leo XIII., who finished the Borgia apartments. On entering the Vatican the visitor becomes bewildered by its splendors, and as he advances he is puzzled by the obscurity in the order of the labyrinth. He is astonished at the apparent irregularity of construction, at that absence of harmony in the palace of a religion in which all is unity, hierarchy and harmony. It presents, so to speak, the republic in architecture; but a close study of the curious ensemble of buildings throws a clear light upon the chaos of centuries, and startles the intelligence.

All the great artists of the Renaissance have adorned the Vatican with their masterpieces, while the museums were filling with the works of antique art. The most conspicuous are found in the Raphael galleries, the frescoes of Michael Angelo, the antique frescoes and mosaics, the museum Pio Clementino, where we see the Laocoon, the Apollo Belvedere, the Mercury, the Antinous, the Perseus, the Wrestlers and the Meleager. In regard to the last named there is an amusing little story. When the Czar Nicholas I. visited the museum of the Vatican he was accompanied by Baron Visconti, whose erudition at last began to plague him. When he stood before the Meleager, the Emperor pointed to the dog of the hunter, and, in a commanding tone of voice, asked: "To what race does that dog belong?"

"The lost race, Sire!" replied Visconti.

The Emperor had no more questions to ask, so he remained silent.

Then we come to the Chiaramonti museum, the Galleria Lapidaria, with the pagan and Christian inscriptions, the Egyptian museum, the Etruscan museum, the lay museum, with its jewels, statuettes and utensils of antiquity, the holy museum, with the objects found in the catacombs, the papyri room, with manuscripts of the fifth and eighth centuries, the room of the "Aldobrandini Wedding," with a fresco of ancient Rome, the hall of the Byzantine paintings, the cabinet of medals, the picture gallery, the gallery of tapestries, which, in Italy, are called "Arazzi," because the first tapestries came from Arras, and finally the library and archives.

The library built by Sextus V. was formed by Nicholas V., who gathered into it 9,000 manuscripts, to which were added many libraries, including one from Queen Christina, of Sweden, who, as is known, had Monaldeschi killed in her presence in the palace of Fontainebleau. At the present time the library of the Vatican contains more than 2,500 Greek, Latin and Oriental

manuscripts, and more than a hundred thousand volumes, which is a comparatively small number, but it is the extreme rarity of several of the works which makes the value of the collection.

The library is on the ground floor, and the books are not visible, shut up as they are in low cases surmounted by busts and vases. As for the archives, which reach from the famous Constantinian donation to the question of the Nominavit Nobis-they were kept strictly secret up to the time of Leo XIII.. who ordered them to be opened to all in search of historical truths. No doubt, matters of contemporaneous history are not given out, but everything which belongs to ancient history is open to the public. One day a Cardinal said to Leo XIII.: "Let me tell you, Holy Father, that the most indefatigable of the seekers to whom you have opened the archives of the Vatican is a Protestant."

"Very well, so much the better," replied the Pope. "We have nothing to lose through the appearance of the truth in history." Leo XIII. was always pleased to see the seekers at work, and often at 2 o'clock in the afternoon the great folding doors of the library would open to admit the portatina. The Pope, as he was carried along slowly, smiled upon the workers, who all rose and bowed. Some of them approached to kiss the hand of the Sovereign Pontiff. He gave them his blessing, and then made a sign to the others to continue their work. Sometimes he used to chat with one of them, taking an interest in his labors and encouraging him with extreme

benevolence.

These archives are not catalogued, like ours by subjects to facilitate the search, but by chronological order, by nunciature and by correspondence. The missionaries present to us the history of the world covering ten centuries, and the nuncios give to us the history of every country. Of course, everything is not absolutely accurate; but here and there an indisputable statement of fact sheds new light upon history and some recital explains an event. We know what treasures have been given to us in this way by the archives of the Republic of Venice through the reports of envoys.

What a disaster the loss of the archives of the Vatican would have been! But, fortunately, they are saved, and little by little the patient seekers, those Benedictines of history, will give us the strange revelations of that wondrous library.

THE "Book of the Month" for Jan

uary in Denvir's Irish Library is "The Irish in England and Scotland," by Hugh Heinrick.

Vol. 2 of Denvir's Irish Library (1903), in a handsome artistic cover, is now ready. Price by mail 60 cents.

HAT a strange chance of fate it is that the three greatest actors in the drama of the Union of Ireland and Great Britain should be interred together in a corner of Westminster Abbey! Grattan, who established the legislative independence of Ireland; Pitt, who conceived the scheme of uniting the Parliaments of the two kingdoms; and Castlereagh, the chief Irish instrument of the English Minister in the execution of his plan, sleep side by side in the "Statesmen's Aisle" of England's Great Valhalla; and to complete the role of the statesmen most intimately associated with the Union, Gladstone, who endeavored to restore to Ireland her native Legislature, was there in 1898. As the poet says:

buried

"A few feet of sullen earth divide each winding-sheet

How peaceful and how powerful is the grave that hushes all!"

I shall never forget the shock of surprise I experienced on my first visit to Westminster Abbey, some years ago, to see the grave of Grattan. When I entered the Abbey by the porch close to St. Margaret's Church, giving immediate access to the north transept, or "Statesmen's Aisle"-so called because the monuments here, with few exceptions. are erected to political leadersthe afternoon service was being held, and a black-gowned verger directed me to a seat on the first bench just inside the door until prayer was over. I knew that Grattan was buried somewhere in this narrow transept, and I looked cagerly around for some trophy, some memento, some line, among the crowded memorials which surrounded me, to indicate the resting place of the eloquent and impassioned defender of Ireland's liberties. My quest was in vain. But in the search I saw on a monument close at hand the inscription:

"Ireland will never forget the States

man of the Legislative Union."

On the pedestal which bore these words was the statue of a man in the

By Michael MacDonagh.

robes of a peer. His name and title, I read, was "Robert, second Marquis of Londonderry and Viscount Castlereagh, K. G." As I looked on the face of the statue I recalled Byron's pitiless lines on "Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh," opening with the apostrophe"Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!" In truth, to me it seemed a handsome and noble face-a face that strikingly dominated the Statesmen's Aisle and to add to my discomfiture, for I had expected in the evil genius of Ireland an aspect grim and sinister, mysterious and impenetrable, this attractive and open countenance was illuminated by a serene and triumphant smile. Then, when the service was over, I found on the flagstone beneath my feet-hidden by the bench on which I had been sitting-the inspiring name, "Henry Grattan." This discovery was the climax to the historical unfitness of things, to the poetic injustice of the situation. The statue of Castlereagh on its high pedestal smiled suavely and somewhat mockingly, and below it the obscure grave of Grattan!

The first of the three statesmen of the Union to be buried in Westminster Abbey was William Pitt. He died at Putney on January 23, 1806, but was not interred until Saturday, February 22. On the Wednesday night previous the remains were removed privately from Putney to Westminster Palace, and lay in state in the Painted Chamber of the House of Lords during Thursday and Friday. The walls of the lofty apartment were covered from ceiling to floor with black cloth. In the centre of the room, under a canopy eighteen feet high, was the catafalque, festooned with sombre draperies and lit by 160 wax-lights in silver-branched candelabra. Watch was kept by six mutes. The public was admitted to the Chamber on Thursday and Friday from ten till six o'clock, and such was the popularity of the great dead statesman that over 200,000 persons visited it each day to see the coffin. The funeral on the Saturday was simple in its character. The procession passed directly from Westminster Palace to the western entrance to the Abbey-twenty feet of the roadway having been railed off to prevent any pressure from the enormous mass of spectators-and at one o'clock Pitt was laid to rest among the Kings and heroes of England.

Fourteen years later, in 1820, Henry Grattan was interred within a few yards of Pitt's grave. Does it not offend the home-loving instincts of the Irish race, the fact that England and not Ireland holds the ashes of the great patriot who crowned Ireland with legislative independence, the mighty orator who resisted the Union with an eloquence the like of which has rarely thrilled the world: Frequently toward the end of his life Grattan expressed a desire to be buried on the estate at Moyanna, Queen's County, which was presented to him in 1782, the year of independence, by a grateful nation. This wish he repeated to his doctor before setting out, in May, 1820, from Ireland to London-a journey which, with true presentiment, he felt would be his last-to appeal to the Imperial Parliament, as the representative of Dublin, with his dying breath for Catholic emancipation; and this wish he reiterated again and again on his death-bed. "Remember," said he to Dr. Berwick, in Ireland, "I desire to be buried in the churchyard at Moyanna."

On his arrival in London, and as he lay dying at his lodgings in Baker street, he again said, "As to my person, I wish to be laid in Moyanna. I would rather be buried there." Dr. Henry Grattan, writing in his biography of his father, of a time when the patriot was on his death-bed, says: "I often told him it was the intention to place him in Westminster Abbey. 'Oh,' said he, 'that will not be; after all, I would rather have Moyanna.'" The younger Grattan thought it a high honor for his father to have a grave in the Abbey, and he tried to bring him round to that opinion. On June 3, the day before Grattan died, his son again informed him that it was the I wish of the Duke of Sussex-the Whig son of George III.-that his remains should be interred in Westminster Abbey. "Well," said the dying man in an impatient tone, annoyed no doubt by those persistent importunities, "well, Westminster Abbey be it." And so the Duke of Sussex had his way-his wellintentioned way, no doubt-and Ireland was denied the ashes of one so dear to her as Henry Grattan. "He lived the life, he died the death, but he does not sleep in the tomb of an Irish patriot," exclaimed Sir Jonah Barrington.

The grave of Grattan, as I have already indicated, is difficult to find. In the north transept there are benches along the aisle at each side, with a passage in the centre. At the beginging of the benches, a few feet from the glass swing-doors of the transept, the name "Charles James Fox" will be seen on one of the flags of this passage, and beside it, hidden beneath the benches on the right, will be found the spot where Grattan sleeps. The grave is completely covered by the first and second rows of seats, and by a board which extends the length of the first bench for the convenience of worshippers who desire to kneel during service. I had to raise this board before I could decipher the simple inscription:

"HENRY GRATTAN,

Died

4th June, 1820."

I have sat close to the grave during several visits to the Abbey, and of the hundreds who passed in and out not a single visitor looked for the last resting-place of Henry Grattan, while the placid, victorious smile of Castlereagh seemed to catch the eyes of all. This, then, is the grave in Westminster Ab

bey-obscure, hidden, unnoticed because unnoticeable-which was forced on the acceptance of the dying patriot in preference to a grave in the quiet little burial-ground at Moyanna, in his native land, amid scenes which he loved; a resting-place to which pilgrimages would have been as popular as to O'Connell and Parnell's graves at Glasnevin, or to Wolfe Tone's in Bodenstown churchyard.

Two years later Castlereagh, Marquis of Londonderry, was laid side by side with Pitt. He died by his own hand on August 12, 1822, at his country residence, Crayford, Kent. The "Times," of August 14, contains a report of the inquest on the remains. The coroner appears to have been extremely anxious lest a verdict of felo de se should be returned. In his speech to the jury at the opening of the proceedings, he urged that the deceased was laboring under a mental delusion when he cut his throat. "But if, unfortunately," he added, "the evidence was not strong enough on that point, it should be remembered that no man could be in his senses the moment he did such a rash act as self-murder. The Bible declared that man clung to nothing so tenaciously as to his life. He, therefore, viewed it as an axiom that a man

must necessarily be out of his mind at the moment of destroying himself." This view is charitably accepted in our time in all cases of suicide; but the "Times," in some editorial comments on the inquest, disagreeing entirely with the coroner's conclusions, held it was possible to conceive a man killing himself while in complete possession of his mental faculties.

Dr. Bankhead, medical adviser to Castlereagh, was examined. In the course of his evidence he stated that he had been sent for on the morning of August 12, by Lady Londonderry, as it was feared that all was not right with his lordship, and, continuing, he gave the following description of the last tragic and awful scene:

"I stepped into his lordship's dressing room, and saw him in his dressing gown, standing with his front toward the window, which was opposite to the door at which I entered. His face was directed toward the ceiling. Without turning his head, on the instant he heard my step, he exclaimed, 'Bankhead, let me fall upon your arm. 'Tis all over!' As quick as possible I ran to him, thinking he was fainting or going to fall. I caught him in my arms as he was falling, and perceived that he had a knife in his right hand, very