and thunder of battle, where gallant men contended for victory with their lives-I met death there fairly face to face and often before and since-but the proudest death a man can die is that wherein unnoticed and unhonored he gives his life for the sake of a gallant though down-trodden people. If I had a thousand lives I should give them in the cause. Not all the wealth that England boasts of could tempt me. Tempt!-the very idea is dishonoring!— to breathe a word that could endanger the brightening fortunes of her people! I have known them to love them. I have learned to respect their high spirit and their undaunted bravery, and it was the highest hope of my life to die fighting for their freedom. Go! The threat of death at the yard-arm was a tribute of high respect compared with your insulting offer." "There are those higher in your service than ever you can hope to obtain who would not, and have not, despised such a one," said the visitor cynically. "I disbelieve it. I should mourn the day, when the flag of France covered such a scoundrel." "Harsh words, monsieur. Were you to live long enough you would see the truth of my words; and see it in the disastrous ending of your boasted armament. I tell you, if all the strength of France were put forward in your vaunted expedition there are those within it who would neutralize it-and not the subordinate either. You see we know all. We need no information, though I would gladly have saved your life at the price of what is really worthless to us, because it is in our possession at present." Eugene turned on his heel to the port-hole, the only parting word he said being, "Go." "You will think better of it." Eugene made no answer. "If you should-I shall be here for a week-send for me. My name is Castlereagh-Lord Castlereagh. All Ireland knows me." Eugene did not hear his concluding words. A chill of deadly cold was at his heart. Could it be possible the words were true? Could it be possible that there were within the French ranks, high up in command, scoundrels who would sell their country for British gold? His heart spurned the idea. And yet there was something in the words of the visitor which showed that, in this instance at any rate, he knew what he was speaking of, and spoke truth. It is always so easy when one really speaks the truth to see it: one may mistake the false for the true, but the truth for falsehood-never. bears its own distinctive characters never to be mistaken. He stood there gazing vacantly at the growing day brightening the face of the waters, wholly unconscious of what he was looking at, a dull sense of pain and dread and humiliation weighing on his heart like a foreboding of unaccountable evil-evil not to himself, but to France and to the cause of Ireland, with which he inseparably linked Seamore. How long he stood there he knew not, until a voice behind him aroused him. It was the cook bringing him his breakfast. It was only then he remembered-and, remembering, wondered at it-that the hour for his execution had long passed without his once thinking of it. In presence of the unseen danger threatening France and the expedition and Ireland, all considerations of self had completely vanished -quite as much as if he were non-existent, or a third party who had no connection with himself. CAROLINE NORTON (LADY STIRLING-MAXWELL). (1807-1877.) MRS. CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON was the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and the daughter of his son Thomas. She was born in 1807, and while still in her girlhood she began to wield her pen and pencil. In conjunction with her sister, Lady Dufferin, she produced the 'Dandies' Rout,' with illustrations from her own designs; and by 1829 The Sorrows of Rosalie' was published. In 1829 she was married to the Hon. George Chapple Norton, a brother of Lord Grantley. It did not take long to convince her that the choice she had made was a most unhappy one. Her husband is described as indolent and conceited, devoid of talent and devoted to pleasure, and sometimes so brutal as to resort to physical violence. He was almost wholly without means, and in order to gratify his extravagant tastes she was compelled to toil night and day at literary work. Mr. Norton demanded that his wife should exercise her influence with Lord Melbourne, then a Minister, to procure him a situation under the Crown. Through him, Mr. Norton obtained a situation as police magistrate in London. He is said to have greatly neglected his duties, to have quarreled with his colleagues, and to have indulged in undignified correspondence with the newspapers ; and the result was that his official superior was obliged to express dissatisfaction with his conduct. He was, besides, exasperated against Lord Melbourne by the latter's refusal to lend him money. He took his revenge by bringing an action for divorce against the Minister and Mrs. Norton, laying the damages at £10,000 ($50,000); but the jury found the charge so entirely unsupported that they gave a verdict for the defendants without leaving the box. This led to the final separation of Mrs. Norton and her husband. Mrs. Norton was for some years one of the idols and the chief ornaments of society; for her vivacious intellect, fine powers of repartee, and distinguished and varied talents made her everywhere a welcome guest. Toward the end of her days, however, she lived in retirement, and for a short time before her death she was confined to her room. Her career had a somewhat romantic close. Her first husband's death left her a widow in 1869. Eight years afterward she was again married, her husband being Sir W. Stirling-Maxwell; there had existed between them a friendship of many years. The marriage was purely platonic. Mrs. Norton was married in her own drawing-room in the spring of 1877 and in the June following she was dead. It was a singular coincidence that her sister, the Countess of Gifford, should have been married for the second time under somewhat similar circumstances. 'The Sorrows of Rosalie,' which we have already mentioned, was praised enthusiastically by Christopher North in the Noctes Ambrosianæ,' and found a eulogist also in James Hogg. The Undying One' followed in 1830. This is a version of the legend of the 'Wandering Jew.' Her next work dealt with a blot on English society-the condition of the women and children employed in factories. Her feelings found expression in a poem, 'A Voice from the Factories,' published in 1836; and in 1841 her letters in The Times of London on the same subject were issued in a collected form. The 'Dream,' published in 1840, is one of the most ambitious of Mrs. Norton's poems. 'The Child of the Islands' describes with much vehement eloquence the condition of the poor in England. "The Child of the Islands" is the Prince of Wales, who was then in infancy. Among her other poems we may mention 'The Lady of La Garaya,' which is considered the most polished and classic of all Mrs. Norton's longer poems. Many of her fugitive pieces have been set to music, and some of them have become familiar as household words. Mrs. Norton also produced three novels-Stuart of Dunleath,'' Lost and Saved,' and Old Sir Douglas '-and pamphlets on several occasions. She wrote ' The Martyr,' a tragedy, several tales and sketches, and also edited a lively book on society in Sierra Leone. THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED. My beautiful, my beautiful! that standeth meekly by, Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed; Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind; The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold;— Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell!-thou 'rt sold, my steed, thou 'rt sold! Farewell! Those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger's home; Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed pre pare: That silky mane I braided once, must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again-but never more with thee Shall I gallop o'er the desert paths where we were wont to be Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain, Some other steed, with slower pace, shall bear me home again. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing brightOnly in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer thy speed, Then must I startling wake, to feel thou 'rt sold, my Arab steed! Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side, And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting vein! Will they ill use thee?-if I thought-but no,-it cannot be; Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return? "Return!"-alas! my Arab steed! what will thy master do, When thou, that wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view? When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the gathering tears Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears? Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot, alone, Where, with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on; And sitting down by the green well, I'll pause, and sadly think, ""T was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink." When last I saw thee drink!-Away! the fevered dream is o'er! I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more; They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strongThey tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold? 'Tis false! 't is false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold! Thus thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains! Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains. |