nately they mostly are-from the Young Ireland days down to our own, and especially much upon our ballad and song writers, as we both felt their great importance from a propagandist point of view, and I felt then, and feel still, that what little Kickham did in the way of song and ballad was so good that it was a pity he did no more. Indeed, it is a pity that his poetry, which would make but a very small volume, has not yet been collected. And talking of lyrical poetry reminds me that I had strangely forgotten to say above that the author mostly read and probably most admired by Kickham after Shakespeare was Burns; so that in so far as he gave his nights and his days to the study of the greatest of all poets, and probably the greatest of all lyrical poets, he was assimilating the sort of intellectual food most suitable to his mental constitution. But there was another kind of knowledge besides that of books possessed by Kickham, and in this I have never met with any one who excelled him. He knew the Irish people thoroughly, but especially the middle or so-called lower classes, and from thoroughness of knowledge came thoroughness of sympathy. It was not that he at all ig nored the faults or shortcomings of the people, but he was convinced that these were far more than counterbalanced by their virtues, and, anyway, whatever merits or demerits they might have, they were his people, to whom he was bound to cling through life unto death, and this he did with a strength and force excelled by no man of his generation, if equalled by any. But why go on? Kickham, from his books and even from such scanty notices of him as have already appeared, is probably better known than any other Fenian dead or living. JOSEPH O'LEARY. (1790--1850.) JOSEPH O'LEARY was born in Cork about 1790, and was a contributor to The Freeholder and other papers of his native city and of Dublin. He went to London in 1834, and acted as Parliamentary reporter for the Morning Herald. He is said to have been one of the earliest contributors to Punch. Between 1840 and 1850 he disappeared, and is said to have committed suicide in the Regent's Canal, though this is not confirmed. Whisky, Drink Divine' first appeared in The Freeholder about 1820, and was reprinted in the Dublin and London Magazine. His only published volume is 'The Tribute,' a collection of poems (Cork, 1833). ་ WHISKY, DRINK DIVINE. Whisky, drink divine! Why should drivelers bore us While we've thee before us? Were it not a shame, Whilst we gayly fling thee To our lips of flame, If we could not sing thee? Whisky, drink divine, etc. Greek and Roman sung Chian and Falernian Shall no harp be strung To thy praise, Hibernian? Yes! let Erin's sons Generous, brave, and frisky- They owe it to their whisky- If Anacreon-who Was the grape's best poet Drank our mountain-dew, How his verse would show it! As the best then known, He to wine was civil; Had he Inishowen, He'd pitch wine to the devil- Bright as beauty's eye, When young love inhales it: Come, thou rich in blisses! Seems a shower of kisses- Could my feeble lays Half thy virtues number, A whole grove of bays Should my brows encumber. Be his name adored, Who summed up thy merits When we call thee spirits- Send it gayly round- This enchanting treasure: Be whisky! whisky! whisky! KATHLEEN O'MEARA (GRACE RAMSAY). (1839-1888.) KATHLEEN O'MEARA was born in Dublin in 1839. When she was very young her home was removed to Paris, but she had always a very warm heart for her native Ireland. She was a kinswoman of Barry O'Meara, the Irish physician of Napoleon during his last melancholy years. Her first book was 'A Woman's Trials.' It was followed by 'Iza's Story,'' A Salon in the Last Days of the Empire,' 'Mabel Stanhope,' 'Diana Coryval,' 'The Old House in Picardy,' 'Pearl,'' Are You My Wife?' 'Narka,' and other novels. perhaps the most successful of all her books was 'Madam Mohl, Her Salon and Her Friends.' She also wrote the Life of Frederick Ozanam,' and the 'Life of Bishop Grant.' Indeed, she excelled in biography. She had a very beautiful and saintly personality, and her work is worthy of herself. She died in Paris Nov. 10, 1888. THE NOVEL IN THE FIGARO. ' But "O sister! what a pity you went away!" exclaimed Clement, as he opened the door to her; "Madame de Genvriac has been here ever since you left. I believe she saw you going out, for she came up a minute after, and she and M. le Comte had great laughing when she went in." "Is she here still?" "Yes. She is reading to him now." "Ah!" This was a good sign, anyhow. Sœur Thérèse entered the room, and with a polite " Bonjour, madame!" to the visitor, proceeded to inquire how her patient had fared during her absence. He reported himself most satisfactorily; he had not had any crisis of pain, and the time had not hung heavily on him, thanks to Madame de Genvriac, who had come just at the right moment to amuse and entertain him. "Madame has been reading to you, I see?" said Sœur Thérèse smilingly; she was grateful to the noisy lady for her good offices on this occasion. "Yes, ma sœur; I have read him all the news of the day; Monsieur was ignorant of all the world has been doing these last ten days or so; then the Figaro has just begun a most amusing story in the Feuilleton'; it has made him laugh a great deal: you must read it to him as it comes out every day. But perhaps you would think it wrong to read a novel? Does your superior allow you to read any books that are not pious?" "She allows me, nay, my rule orders me, to do everything that can be of use or any pleasure to my patient," replied the Robin; "I am delighted to find out a way of passing the time pleasantly for him." "Ma sœur, you are a-a-what shall I call you?-a saint? an angel?-which do you like best?" said M. de Bois-Ferré. "A good nurse! That is the most complimentary name you can give me, because it runs a chance of being true," she replied laughing. "You are the very pearl and diamond of nurses! I am so grateful to you, sister, for your care of him!" exclaimed Madame de Genvriac, seizing her hand and pressing it warmly. "Is there nothing I can do to prove it?” Sister Theresa laughed in her merry, childlike way. "Pray for me, madame; but you owe me no gratitude. I am only doing my duty. Ask our dear Lord to enable me to do it better, and the gratitude will be all on my side." Madame de Genvriac promised, gathered up her velvets, and departed. "To the After this, Sister Theresa read the Figaro aloud regularly every day. It was very unpalatable reading, but there was so far nothing positively wrong in it, either in the paper itself or its "Feuilleton," and it amused the count highly. About the third morning, however, the story opened with a chapter which sounded rather repug nant, and grew unmistakably so, as it went on. pure all things are pure." The guileless spirit of Sœur Thérèse failed to apprehend the gross allusions, to see the vicious current which all along had been running through the story, and which only now rose more visibly to the surface. She began to feel vaguely perplexed, but it was rather the instinctive shrinking of a delicate soul from the possible approach of evil, than the definite fear of one who clearly recognized it. Her color rose once or twice, her tongue imperceptibly faltered over certain expressions. She did not understand them; it was like the taste of poison, or the unseen proximity of a deadly foe, that makes some animals shudder involuntarily, and betray signs of horror before they are conscious of the cause. It was this |