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hamper, by averitable little. Mrs. Melody, rosy and trim in satin bonnet and flowered shawl, and very white stockings, and very mice shoes, and looking altogether as rosy, and fresh, as if she were the very queen of apples from a topmast orchard bough. If I mistake not, she and the hamper are both the result of free-will; the latter in an especial degree, for there's going into it a great plum cake, and a pound of tea, and a roll of bird's eye, and a good bottle of Jamaica—and folding up, so as to lie lightly on the top, a trim little frock, all pink, that's to suit some little, sprite or another, that you may be very sure. Well, just too at this very minute, drives up to the door, a comfortable sort of shandrydan of a gig, so what with the diligent apprentice on duty, the little old man's best coat and hat, the little woman so trim, the hamper, and so on, it's clear they're going to make a holiday of it, and so they are, for it's Whitsun-Monday. Ten years that very day since Joe bought the kit; and the stranger's first word is of it. “Why, bless you, sir,” says Melody, speaking so out of himself that the little old lady lifts her hands, and the apprentice stops full short in carrying the hamper to the door, “why, it was no other than Joe Huistly as we're a-going to see. Why, he's as well known now over the counties as the Minster organ—ay, sir—and it's astonishing what he's brought out of the forge as I may say, rough and hissing and gusty as it is, and put it like an angelspirit into the coarse natures about him. Bless you, sir, old Statute the justice has shut up his books, and hasn't signed a commitment these last eighteen months, and it's clear he's only in her blessed Majesty's commission just to pound a stray pig or donkey now and then. And so the flaming sword of justice, he once kept pretty bright by pulling out, is growing rusty in its scabbard, and 'll stick there, I hope. Well, sir, that kit was a blessed step from the doctrine of necessity, for Joe's made some seores of hearty songs for the people, and has put such a deal of the common heart of human nature in 'em, that they sell by scores, and so profit him and me too—but we’re going to see him, and "— “And I too,” said the gaunt, pale, haggard man, in his broken English, “but—” “Ay, sir; I see you want, like many more, to hear Joe's story. Well, it's a cheerful one; but step in, sir, though I can't spare you long, for I wouldn't disappoint Joe, not even for the

bishop himself!"

". In the gorgeous evening sunlight of the same day, that costly carriage reaches the green-tree-fringed boundary of the swarth common I have spoken of. The pale, haggard man within is the great Italian maestro, whom convention stoops to honour, whom convention has bought, whom convention glories for the day of fashion, to forget and pass into oblivion as soon as a newer "star" shall arise ; yet he has come humbly, not scornfully, to see that genius, that earns its free but honest bread by labour of sinew and muscle, to leave it without one bond to be pure high priest over spiritually-growing natures of the many around.

Up to the very door of the once dame-school cottage the green sward comes, and the cottage now has a quaint wooden porch and a deal of iry about it, and garden palings near, with clustering roses and young trees over it ; and now on chairs, on forms, on the smooth sward itself, scores of happy holiday people, in whitest smocks and brightest gowns (not by Young England decorated), ay! and even gentry too, and old gray-haired clergymen and forge-masters, and, best of all, Mr. Statute the justice (Jinks and Tickle are shut up at home), are come on this blessed evening, in cool and shadow-work done, care forgotten, to hear Joe and his matchless Kit.Oh, God! what kingship has true genius! .". . And there, just as the maestro comes near, Joe takes his place at a long table before the door, and there is the kit, and there is that garnerer of the beaded gold, near Joe, as in her heart ; ay, and old Melody, with an ear as wide as Orpheus',- and what's best, one precious little womanhood of a flower, for a Titan like Joe to show forth to the world as his own; and on her arm, in the pink frock, a little Joe, all life, that puts its tiny gladdened hands forth, and has a word that tells a pretty tale of the thimble and the green bag. It's clearly, “Dad, dad, da !" Well, Nell, thou art a happy one!

The kit ’s ready; it begins ; a score of forge-lads stand up and chime in with it and Joe's voice ; and the songs that come are so ready to every tongue, flow so freshly from the fountain of the heart, and are such a link of touching nature, graced with art, that he of convention bends drooping as a disciple, whilst rough swart faces wonder earnestly, as if they never heard that matchless kit before ; and the baby, too, has crept to Joe's knee, with little blue eyes uplifted at the dancing strings; and Nell has but one gaze ; it is for the face of the kit's dear master. : ..:

The last string hasn't done vibrating before that memorable old Brown Tom and his wig come on the table, looking as crisp and as curling as ever ; for as Joe knows there is no need to stand and wait upon the soul of harmony with thirsty. lips; the true spirit once awakened, enjoyment stands erect, where sensuality crawled to bind and to debase ! -Well, to his honour be it said, the maestro comes forward straight at once, and grasps Joe's horny hand ; ay, and isn't too proud, presently, to touch Tom's wig; and that done, he tells all about his thoughts when that kit was bought, and then tries to tempt Joe from the forge to earn convention's gold. • .* Why, thank'ye, no, sir," says Joe,' straight' out at once, without a minute's hesitation. ." They 're fine things you tell about, but they don't tempt me. No ; the bit of talent I have I'll keep for struggling human creatures ; for the souls of poor men only want awakening, so as to soften the despised, rough, latent spirit, and pave the way for truth and knowledge. This is what I try to do, sir, and hope to do, sir, from the hour I heard the Minster organ. Ay, sir, and I don't think I'm far wrong, when I tell you, poor scholar as I am, that men of genius are God's natural priesthood, who only serve truly on humanity's GREAT ALTAR, when they make that genius free to ALL, as the light and air of heaven! 1. I think ye, sir, Nell and the kit, and these dear friends around, are quite enough for one man's happiness. Yes; the kit, as Melody knows, has done wonders !" !

What with songs and Brown Tom, and a dance as merry as the fairies beneath the stars, a precious ending to the holiday is made of it; a very Whitsun's night to welcome in the blushing summer and so, better than bull-dog Grizzle matches (by the way, the old fellow frisks his tail, and courts the baby's steps); better than cribbage. scorings on a down-turned keg ; better than roared murder from the “Sheers ;' better than “ Jinks and Tickle on Commitments,” is this—the spirit of advance that has thus crushed the coarse and sensual! :

But long before the dance is over, the maestró is gone, alone; worse than alone ; with no one that hangs upon his footstep; with no heart but false ones, that feast upon and speculate for his gold! Thus does Intellect's false worship of Mammon end! The onceprized flower of convention's praise is at last cast rereward, as a weed down-trodden without a name!

Every grasping hand, every smile on this night, is the record, Joe, of thy worship of the true !

Blessings on thee, Joe: blessings on thy kit; blessings on every one like thee, that awakens the inner soul; blessings on all true genius, that helps on its way the mighty vital life of heart that is abroad. For the so-called mythos of Pan was but the intuition of the eternal truth; that one great soul and fellowship of harmony had yet to spiritualise, and link together the MIGHTY BrotherhooD OF MAN. E. M.

MY HEART IS LIKE THE BEE.

OH ! my Heart is like the Bee—
For it danceth up and down

O'er each happy thing it sees,
In the country, in the town.

Oh! my Heart is like the Bee—
For ’tis ever murmuring

A low tune of quiet joy
O'er each fair and lovely thing.

Oh! my Heart is like the Bee—
For from everything it meets,

Be it fair, or be it foul,
It sucks nothing but the sweets.

Oh! my Heart is like the Bee—
For from every lowly flower

It doth bring a solace home
For the cold and wintry hour.

Oh my Heart is like the Bee—
For all gently it shall creep,

At the even-song of life,
To its nest, and go to sleep.

But my Heart’s not like the Bee—
It shall wake again, and fly

Where the sweet things never wither,
And the bright things never die.

And my Heart’s not like the Bee—
*Twill be then a bliss to know,
That 'twas a wise and faithful heart,
To see Nought but good below !
R. E. B. MacLELLAN.

IRELAND AND THE IRISH.

BY A NATIVE.
--

WHEN all is darkness, he does a public good who holds up a rush taper, and, even in times of greater enlightenment, there are recesses in the temple of Truth where even a feeble light is of importance. One of the worst lighted of the courts in that temple has been the political one ; and the darkest recess in that court, Irish politics. There it has been all groping—darkness that could be felt. A few farthing candles have been raised, but they have done little to dispel the gloom. Still do the most erroneous views of Ireland's policy and prospects obtain credence, and even its actual condition is unknown or misunderstood. It may seem a bold thing for an Irishman to raise his torch of bogwood amongst the patent waxlights of great metropolitan newspaper and government commissioners. But as he thinks his, although a ruder and less beautiful instrument, will throw rays to a greater distance, and enlighten a wider range, he feels it his duty to do so. But dropping metaphor, there is really so much misconception of Irish questions, not only amongst the people of England generally, but amongst the most popular and approved writers, that though but feebly fitted for the task, I would fain be heard. Thus Ireland is too generally spoken of as a continuous scene of anarchy and confusion, as a place where life and property are insecure, and her people as improvident, and almost incapable, and perfectly careless, of improvement. Even those writers most quoted and relied upon, both by politicians and law-makers, are often vague and conjectural in their statements of facts, and generally false in their conclusions. “Ireland,” says Mr. Nichol, “is now suffering under a circle of evils, producing and reproducing one another. Want of capital produces want of employ. ment—want of employment turbulence and misery—insecurity prevents the accumulation of capital, and so on. Until this circle is broken the evils must continue, and probably augment. The first thing to be done is to give security—that will produce or invite capital, and capital will give employment.” Mr. Foster

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