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marks of the enemy's cannon, while
all around wore an air of desolatioa
and sorrow. He looked up into one
well-remembered window, but no fra-
grant geraniums were now there, as
of old ; no lark carolled the eheering
song he so often listened to, with pleas-
ure, some nine years before ; balcony,
and shutter, and curtain had disap-
peared. The whole house seemed in
mourning. Even his knock rang
through the house as through a sepul-
chre—so he thought. Twice he re-
peated it; and, at length, an aged
head peered cautiously trough a fir-
mer window, and asked who was
there. His answer quickly bimight
down the old domestic ; but a flood of
tears was her only welcome, as she
opened the door and admitted hinu
She had been the nurse of Eily and
her brothers in childhood, and partly
his own in sickness ; and was now the
survivor of all her <^d heart loved ;
of all, save one, a blue-eyed, curly-
headed boy, who now hid behind her,
evidently scared at the presence of a
visitor in that desolate dw^ing. A
few words of greeting on the part ot
old Winny or Winifred assured him
that he was known and welcome ; and
a few words of fondness addressed to
the child soon restored his confidence.
He was eve% ere long^ seated eatit-



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247



tentedly on his &liier^8 knee, playing
wkhh^ Bwoid-backle — ^for that fair-
headed, blue-eyed boj was the only
chUd of £ily O'Brien and Walter
Heri>ert And as he gazed with
pride on his beautiful boy, new hope
and a new sense of duty sprang up
within him. He felt that there was
even yet s(Mnething to live for. To
protect that half-Karpiian child and his
sorrowing grandsire would from that
moment be the sole duty of his life,
the sole solace of existence ; and to
this he pledged himself in Eil/s little
room, to whidi he ascended with his
youthful companion^ who, at his
nurse's biddings now called faun father,
and twined his little hands round his
neck as he kissed him. The sudden
roll of drums at length announced to
him that it was time to depart, and
fondly embracing his chUd <mce more,
he hurried out of the house. He
would never have left it did he then
but know that in so doing he was bid-
ding bis boy fisurewell for ever.

The beating to anns announced the
commencement of the mock trial of
two dozen individuals^ whom Iret<m
had already virtually sentenced to
death, by excluding them from the
protection guaranteed to th# remain-
ing citizens in the terms of capitula-
.tion. How readily would Herbert
have saved every <me of tjiem, but his
vote was <mly ^ective in one case,
that of the gallant Hugh ONeil, the
<aty governor. The rest were con-
demned, by a m%)ority, to die ; and it
was not without a tear he beheld that
long file of brave and resolute men led
forth to the scaffi)ld. Priest and lay-
man, aoldier and citizen, were alike
Baerifieed, and for no crime save that
of loving and defending their native
land. And what Englishman, thought
he, would not readily be guilty of the
same offence ? All passed silently
fiwn the death-chamber ; all, save one,
a veneniMe man, who, with Father
Wonlfe, was arrested in the lazar-
boose while administering the last
•acramonts of the Charch to its plague*
stricken inmates, soon to be deprived



of all spiritual ministry. Herbert
thought he recognized him, as he stood
erect and fearless in the council-hall,
and with hand pointed toward heaven,
summoning Ireton to meet him, ere a
month, at its judgment bar. He had
certainly seen him before, but dressed
in white serge, and not, as now, in
purple. Nay, if he remembered
rightly, he had been EU/s confessor,
and, with the parish dexgyman's per-
mission, had married them privately
in the church of St. Saviour, hav-
ing first obtained a promise, freely
granted by Herbert, that the children
of that union, if such there were,
should be brought up in the religion of
the mother. What would he not haye
done to preserve the live of that ven-
erable, heavenly-looking man ! The
last of Ireton's victims was one whose
presence among the condemned he
^tnessed with astonishment. He
had seen him closeted for hours with
that same Ireton; and knew him to
have been promised lands and money
for certain services to be rendered to
the general But treachery was met
with treachery; and Fennell, the
traitor, .ended his days on the same
scaffold with Terence O'Brien, the
bishop and martyr.

The last guard was relieved on the
day of execution — ^it was the eve of
All-Hallows-— and the clock of the
town-hall was just chiming midnight
as Herbert, who was the officer of the
night, commenced his rounds. As he
passed along, in silence and alone, by
the Dean's Close, on his way to the
castle barracks, he was suddenly stop-
ped, at the head of an arched passive,
over which an oil lamp feebly flickered,
by an individual closely wrapped up
in a large, dark fiieze over-coat. To
draw his sword was his first impulse ;
but a single glance at that wan hibe^
whose gaze was sadly fixed upon him,
changed his purpose in an instant.
And, though armed to the teeth, he
trembled in presence of that defence-
less old man, and stood in silence be-
fore him.



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248



I%e OgnuMn of Brugei.



"Don't you know me, Walter?"
0aid the stranger.

''Alas! too well,* was his reply.
" But can I hope that you wiU ever
forgive me?*

^ Af y creed tells me to forgive even
my enemies — ^but I believe you never
meant to be such"—- and the old man
extended his hand to Herbert

They stood atone— with no eye
upon them save that of the all-seeing
Chie, and, in his presence, Walter fell
on his knees, protesting his purity of
intention, and asking the old man's
blessing. And Conner O'Brien, for it
was he, with head uncovered, blessed
the stranger for the first time, and,
raising him up, clasped him to his
bosom as his son — ^the husband of his
darling £ily, now sleeping with h^r
mother in Killely.

Herbert was about to respond, with
a fervent assurance of his undying
love and devotion to her, when die old
man stopped him short, and, drawing
him into the recess of the bow way,
asked him if he might now rely on his
friendship and protection.

''Henceforth, as God is my wit-
ness," earnestly replied Heri)ert,
"your interest and mine are but
one."

"Good!" returned his companion.
" Then, when occasion presents itself,
you will procure a pass for myself
and a friend in whose safety I feel the
deepest interest For my own Hfe I care
not, as I have no one save you and my
grandson now remaining to care for."
Then the old man, despite his resolu-
tion, sobbed aloud. " But my friend,"
he continued, after a few mometits,
" cannot yet be spared. We cannot
afford to lose him, and it is solely on
his account— thoa^ he knows noth-
ing of my pn>ject - -4hat I have waited
here to meet you."

After some further brief conversa-
tion, they parted with a fond embrace
— the old man to his friend, and Wal-
ter to the barracks. When his watch
was ended, he lay down to enjoy, for
the first time during many months, a
j>eaceful slumber of several hours.



The 1st of November, 1 651, dawned
brightly on the oki city of Lnimneaeh,
and its now shattered fortifications —
brightly on the brown heath of the
Meelick mountains— brightly on the
waving woods of Cratioe — ^brightly oa
the rapids at the salmon weir, and on
the snowy sails of the English tfWka^
ports at anchor in " the pool " — bright-
ly on the gory head of Terence O'-
Brien, Bishop of Emly, impaled on the
center tower of the city — ^brightly,
too, on his mui^erer, Henry Ireton, as
he- reviewed the body of troops des-
tined for the siege of Carrigaholt Cas-
tle ; for God ^maketh his sun to rise
upon the good and bad." Ere the sun
set the vanguard of that body had
left the CiuUoe hills far behind them,
on their march westward; and Her-
bert was second in command of the
first division. He was well mounted,
and with him rode two peasants thor-
oughly acquainted with the country,
and destined to serve him as guides
Of late his soldiers remarked t^ he
had grown unusually silent and mo-
rose, and few of them oared to intrude
on him uninvited. Thus it happened
that, during the nutrch, he rode consid-
erably iu advance, though always
within Slight of his detaclunent, with
no other companions than the two
guides.

With on^ of them he seemed well
aoqoainted, and the soldiers remarked
that he conversed freely with him on
the road. The other seemed to speak
but seldom, and then only to his
brother guide. This, however, was
no matter of surprise, as it was
supposed he spoke in Irish, a lan-
guage ahnost utterly unknown to
the English commander. And such,
in reality, was the fact Whether he
understood English or not, he Bp<Ae
in his native tongue to O'Brien, who,
as the reader may have guessed, was
Herbert's other guide on the eveoion^
in question. As they approached
Ennis the old man seemed much ex-
cited, alleging, as his reason, that he
feared being recognised; but it. was
not difficult to perceive that his anxie-



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The Capuekin of Bruges.



tf was more for hi3 companion than
himflelf. They suooeeded, however,
in reaching their destination, and en-
camped near Kilfiehera to await the
arriyal of the main bodj from Kil-
msh. Under pretext of exploring
the wild coast of Kilkee and Farahee,
Herbert left the camp at sunrise, at-
tended solelj by the two individuals
who had been his companicms on the
march from Limerick. He returned
alone, however, in the evening, and
mmor went abroad that he had been
deserted by his guides amid the wild
recesses oif the coasL This new
piece of treachery on the part of the
Irishry, after being warmly denounced
round the Cromw^lian camp-fires that
night, was forwarded next morning to
Limerick, to be faithfully chronicled,
with many other facts of like authen-
ticity, in <' Ludlow's Memoirs.^ Her-
bert was too much overjoyed at the
escape of his iatheiMn-law and the
friend in whom he seemed so deeply
interested, to give himself any con-
cern about the camp-fire gossip, or
Ludlow's version of Uie matter.

The next week found him again
in Limerick. Sudden news of the
alarming illness of the general had
reached the camp, and the expedition
to the west was, for the time, aban-
doned. Herbert found his new post a
trying one — to keep watch and ward
with Hardress Waller, one of his
wife's murderers, beside the dying bed
of another. Waller was Ireton's con-
fidant, the ready instrument of all his
infamy ; and Herbert was selected by
the general to attend him as the only
surviving officer attached to his own
raiment since it was first raised in
Nottingham, the native county of
both. To escape from his post was
impossible. Nothing short of suicide
eoold free him from it; and the
tliought of his Uttle son, if no higher
motive, prevented him from putting
an end to his existence. Night after
night was he doomed to sit by the
bed-«ide of the dying man and listen
to the wild ravings of remorse and
blasphemy that, almost every moment



esci^ped his plague-stained lips. He
would start up betimes, and, with the
frantic look of a maniac, call for his
sword to ward off the fiends that
seemed to mock his tortures; and
then he would sink back exhausted,
still wildly raving of Charles Stuart,
and Terence O'Brien, the "Lord's
anointed," as he now called them, whom
he had murdered. Nay, he wonki
clutch Herbert's hand, fmd, with tears,
implore his forgiveness. But Hard-
ress Waller strnxi there too, and a
look from him would again rouse the
murder-fiend witliin him. All feeling
of compunction would then pass
away; and grim despair again lay
hold of him. Oh I it was a fearful
sight — ^that death-bed of despairing
remorse. It never left Herbert's
memory, and was the commencement
of that change that ultimately con-
verted the Puritan soldier into a
Christian monk.

Ireton died in his house in Mary
street on the 26th of November,
1651, still *^ raging and raving," says
the chronicler,* of the unfortunate
prelate, whose unjust condemnation he
imagined hurried on his death. Her-
bert was of the party appointed to
guard the remains to England, and,
before setting out, hastened to his
father-)a4aw's house to bring his child
with him. But, alas! he found it
empty, and not the slightest trace of
Winny or the boy. Nor could any
one tell him whkt had become of
either. With a bursting heart, he set
out with the funeral cortege to Cork,
and thence to Bristol, resolved never
more to draw sword in Cromwell's
cause. Arrived in London, he deliv-
ered up his charge, and at once quit-
ted the kingdom, without waiting for
the lying in state at Somerset House,
or final interment in Westminster
Abbey, of Ireton's plague-stricken
corpse. Though pledged never again
to serve in the ranks of the monsters
whose atrocities in Ireland made him
so often blush for his native country,
he oould not yet entirely wean him-
* Burke, '* Hilbemia IkmiMcaiia,^



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i&Q



n$ CapwMn of Brugt$.



self away fitnn his old profession.
After a few months passed in idleness
and minui on the continent, during
which he vainly tried to forget the
loss of his wife and child, he Altered
the Earl of BristoFs reg^ent as a
volunteer, and fietithfully maintained
the cause of King Qiarles till his re-
storation. It was when forming a
part of his body-guard at Lord Tara's
residence in Bruges, where the exiled
monarch occasionally resided, that he
first met with the Capuchin fathers,
and was by them received into the
Catholic Church. With the king he
returned to England, but (mlv to have
all his sad recollections awakened by
meeting once more with his old ene-
mies, Waller and Ireton.

Ireton ! some astonished reader will
exclaim. Why, surely, we buried
him years ago, and are not expected,
we presume, to believe in ghosts in
this enlightened nineteenth century of
ours.

And yet we must repeat what we
have written. On his return to Lon-
don, Walter Herbert again stood face
to fhce with Waller .and Ireton-— the
former, with a smile of hypocritical
adulation, welcoming the return of
him whose father he had aided in
murdering — ^the latter, a hideous spec-
tacle, first dangling on a gallows
at Tyburn, and then grimly staring
at the by-passers — if those sightless
sockets could be said to stare— from
the highest spike on Westminster
Hall. It was a shocking sight to
Herbert — that ghastly skeleton and
that ghastly head — and recalled to his
memory, with sadness and horror,
another but far different head which,
ten years before, he saw set up, pallid
and blood-stained, on the castled tower
of Limerick. God is very just,
thought he, as he passed on, with a
shudder.

On his return to England Herbert
found himself friendless. All his re-
latives had died, or perished on the
battle-field, during the civil wars, and
KsS his child there was still no trace.
All he could learn was that he had



been sent to his grandiather, then res-
ident on the continent; but where
the grandfather resided, there was no
means of ascertaining. Tired of Eng-
land, and the cruelties and perfidies
he daily saw endorsed by the sign-
manual of one who, he imagined,
should have learned toleration and
honor in the school of affliction — in
hopes also of meeting with his child-
he quitted his native land for ever,
and joined the ranks of the Duke of
Lorraine, the old ally and friend of
his former commander, the Earl of
BristoL With him and Sir Geoige
Hamilton he fought the battles of
Spain for nigh fifl^n years ; and his
last achievement in her service was
(me of the brightest on record. With
a few resolute companions he held his
ground for two entire days in the
shattered citadel of Cambrai, though
the battery to which they returned
shot for shot was under the personal
inspection of Louis XIV. and the re-
nowned hunchback Luxemburg. The
bursting of a shell laid him senseless,
and when, after a long and painful ill-
ness, he was again restored to health,
he resolved, in thanksgiving, to devote
the remainder of his days to the ex-
clusive service of God, in the convent
where he first learned to know him.

During the recital of the foregoing
narrative, which, for brevity's sake, we
have given consecutively, and in our
own words, Brother Francis was fre-
quently interrupted by his youthful
auditor, as new light was thrown by
htm on events in his family history
which, till then, he had never heard
satisfactorily cleared up. He had al-
ready learned from his mother that
his grandfieither had been an English
officer, supposed to have fallen in
Cromwell's wars, though a vague re-
port reached the family that he was
seen in Spain after CnHUwelFs deadi.
Of his grandmother, he only heard
that she died young, and that her fa-
ther resided for a considerable time in
Brussels, with his grandson, whom, at
his death, he confided to the care of
th^ guardian of St. Antoine's at Lou-



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I%s Capuchin of Bhtges.



3S1



TaJn, who was his brotber-iu-law, and
wlio had brought the boy, when a
mere child, fi:om Ireland. He further
learned that, after the completion of
his studies, and contrary to the wish
of his uncle, who intended him for the
ecclesiastical state, his fieither embraced
the profession of arms, and, shortly-
after his marriage, embarked with the
French troops sent by King Louis to
Ir^and* He fell at the siege of Lim-
erick, and his widow died of a brokw
heart soon aft^ the intelligence of
her husband's death reached her. He
was himself then bat a boy, and was
placed by his mother's relatives at the
Benedictine ooUege of Douai, whence
he passed, in due time, like his father,
fo the ranks, and was then serving, as
we have already seen, in the Duke of
Yenddme's anny.

^Bat yon did not say who the
other person was that accompanied
yon on the march from Limerick to
GuTigaholt, or what became of him
or his companion," resumed the young
soldier, When he had concluded.

^ That remains to this day a mys-
tery to me," replied his grandfa^er,
"for I never saw either after we
parted that evening. I left them on
a lofty isolated ro^ off the coast of
dare, to which they were conveyed,
as the surest place of safety, by a few
poor fishermen, then dwelling in a
ruined keep on the verge of the diffs,
which, if I remember rightly, they
called Dunlicky. Had I much curi-
osity I might have poesibly learned
the stranger's name, but I never in-
quired, and probably, as I did not, my
fother-in-law never told me. Certain
it is that he must have been a person
of high distinction, as all addressed
him with marked respect, I might al-
most say reverence, and seemed most
devoted to him, though, as &r as I
could see^ he possessed no earthly
means of remunerating them— -nothing,
in &ct, save the half-military, half-
rustic garments in which he was clad.
And as they left him and his compan-
ion in one of the two small huts that
served as a shelter in stormy weather



for the few wild-looking sheep that
browsed on the island, they promised
soon to return with such necessaries as
he might require during his stay
among them. On returning to the ca^
noe that brought us from the mainland,
I remen^red that I heard something
^l from the stranger as he stepped
ashore on a ledge of the island. In my
hurry at the moment I paid no attention
to the circumstance ; and it was only
on our arrival at the foot of the cliff on
which the old castle stood, that I found
the object which he had dropped lying
in the bottom of the boat. Hoping
soon to be able to restore it to its
owner, I took it with me, and ever
since it has remained in my posses-
sion ; for I need scarcely say, after all
you have heard, that an opportunity
of restoring it never since presented
itself. I still retain it, with Uie father
guardian's permission, in hopes of one
day discovering its lawful claimant."

Here Brotlier Francis drew from
the folds of his garment a small ebony
crucifix, inlaid with pearl, and richly
set in gold, and, reverently kissing it,
handed it to his companion* The lat-
ter, after carefully examining it, read
the following inscription, beautiftdly
engraved in text chiuracters round the
rim — ^ J. B. RiKuc leg. ap. b.k.d.d.

B1>MW». O'dWTBR EPO. LUIM^. ICDCX-

LVi." Still the history and after fate
of the owner of the crucifix remained
a mystery to them. Perhaps some
reader of the foregoing pages may be
able to throw some light on the subject,
if not for their benefit, at least for ours,
liittle moro remains to be told of
Brother Francis. Li his ninetieth
year he died peacefully in the midst of
the brotherhood with whom so many
years of his life had been happily
spent-— «nd his eyes wero closed in
death by the hands of Eily O'Brien's
grandcUld, young Gerald Herbert,
who had likewise joined the order, and
given up the camp and its turmoil,
and the world and its deceit, to don
the cowl of St. Francis, and spend the
rest of his days with the humble, hos**
pitable Capuchins of Bruges.



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252



The DaughUn of the Due SAym.



From Tho Month.

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE DUG D'ATEN.



The stirring events, poUtical and
military, which followed on the out-
break of the great French reyolution,
giving a shock to every institution,
secular and religious, and leaving
their mark on the history of every civ-
ilized country, affected also, to an un-
exampled degree, 4 the fortunes of
families and individuals throughout
Europe. The troubles that over-
whelmed the thrones of kings, and
seemed to threaten the Church her-
self with destruction, penetrated even
to the very lowest classes of society.
The great were mined as well as their
princes ; the wealthy and noble were
proscribed and exiled; new families
arose as well as new dynasties ; and if
the cottage was spared persecution, it
did not escape the conscription, while
in many cases its inmates died on the
guillotine by the side of the tenants of
tiie neighboring palace. By this great
and universal convulsion hearts and
characters were tried to the utmost;
and if many in every class sank under
the ordeal which called for courage,
patience, and prudence, and other vir-
tues in the heroic degree, it is no less
true that many others, who seemed to
have been bom for a life of quiet and
ordinary duty, for unbroken and un-
eventful happiness, displayed unex-
pected strengdi of character, great qual-
ities of heart and mind, and revealed
graces of the highest order under the
blows of affliction. We are in some
respects fortunate in living just at the
distance we do from a period l&e this ;
for it has not yet passed into the re-
gion of pure history, in which we can
feel no practical concern; and yet time
enough has elapsed since its close
for us to reap a part at least of the
rich iaheritanoe that it has left behind
it of memoirs and correspondence re-
lating to those who played an actual



part in its scenes. It was crowded
with lives that deserve to be written,
fuU of interest and instroction.

Let us confine ourselves to France
alone. That country produced a
number of most remarkable men,
brought to the surface, as it were, by
the breaking up of the great fountains
of her national life, who^ for bad or
for good, played the chief part in the
political changes which so powerfoUy
affect Europe to tlie present day, or,
as the soldiers of a new Bra k£ mili-
tary glory, bore her flag in triumph
into every capital on the continent.
These men figured in events which
write themselves sooner than any
other on the pages of history; and
every one, therefore, has heard of the
names and exploits of the emperor
and his marshal. More noble and
heroic, more beneficial, and more truly
glorious to their country, were the
lives of hundreds — ^men and women—
who took a part in the great outburst
of fresh religious activity which fol-
lowed upon the restoration of free-
dom to Catholicism, of whose {Mety,
charity, and devotion the present
Church of France is the fruit and the
monument A great deal remains to
be done as to the biography and his-
toiy of this great religious restoration,
in many respects already equalling,
in others even outshining, the earlier
glories of the French Church, for a
moment submerged by the revolution.
Lastly, there is another department
also in which Hterary labor will be



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