exclaiming," Hurrah! our majority is ten, and the poll closes in an hour. Hurrah for the Chief! Hurrah for McAlpine!"

Robert made his cousin an imperative sign to be silent, for this was no time when any friend of humanity or of liberty could desire to increase the excitement in an almost delirious mob, as ignorant of religion or politics as the people of Timbuctoo, and already dangerously infuriated; but the priests thought differently, for it was evident that they aimed at having young Carre both bludgeoned and stoned. The young farmer's forbearance was mistaken for fear or indecision, so that the Irish reapers, becoming more outrageous, seized on every missile they could find, and hurled it at the two Carres, who stood side by side, pale, but firm, while they plainly perceived how the priests were hounding on the mob to their destruction. No one dared now to be neutral, and the hustings looked like a beleaguered fortress.

"Remember!" said Father O'Connell, whirling his whip, while he stood beside a car of imprisoned voters; "remember the bloody-minded attack yesterday on Father Eustace, whose life was saved only by his own courage and presence of mind! Lady Edith looking on too, and Sir Allan assisting. Observe those two black sheep on the hustings! They headed a mob yesterday that would have murdered your priest. What do they deserve now? Cowardly wretches! if you let them escape, the guilt be upon your own heads,-I'll never absolve one of you more! Donald McTavish!

to

so they've caught you again! Tied in a cart there, neck and heels, how do you feel? Come and vote instantly, like a free and independent freeholder as you are, or take the consequences.* Suppose the hand of death heavy upon you tomorrow, and that a messenger comes to me to attend you in your dying moments. If there were no other priest in the way, I would be bound to go. I dare not refuse to attend the death-bed of such a being. (Great sensation.) I would go attend such a wretch with a heavy heart, without much hope, because I would feel that I was going to administer sacraments to one whose conscience had become so seared, and whose heart was so rotten at the core, that I could not have much expectation of effecting a conversion. Overpowered with the impression that I was about to visit a perjured wretch, who, for a miserable bribe, had betrayed the dearest interests of his country and his religion, and borne down with the harrowing reflection that God, in his just anger, might leave such a wretch to die in his sins, (sensation,) I should fear that my mission would be fruitless-that I could have no hope of converting a heart so hardened, so lost to every sense of duty and religion, as to vote in support of that apostate traitor, Sir Allan. Keep from him and his supporters, for the devils of hell are his companions, and no saint in heaven shall pray for him in his dying hour."

Donald McTavish, completely overpowered by Times, 28th July, 1852.

such a burst of imprecations poured out on his special account, was lifted from the cart and borne up to the hustings again, trembling and bewildered, but still evidently most unwilling to record his newly acquired name as voting at all, and shrunk back in agonized perplexity when the pen was thrust into his hand.

“Donald McTavish," said Robert Carre, with grave anxiety, "consult nothing but your own conscience now, and be perfectly free to exercise your own right. He is the free man, whom the truth makes free. If it cost me my life this moment, I'll stand by you, rather than see any man forced to vote when I know his conscience bids him not, and when I see you urged into breaking your own solemn promise to the unburied dead."

"See him tampering with an elector," exclaimed Father O'Connell, in a voice of thunder, "the battle is at our doors, now! Up, brothers!” (deafening cheers.) "What occurred to your unoffending and defenceless pastor yesterday, may be attempted by other means to-morrow. He had nearly been slaughtered in the shambles of Protestant butchery. Law and justice slept, while the dark enemies of bigot hate would deal out our ruin.”

The sensation was immense, and every rioter looked upon Duncan McTavish as doomed to immediate and terrible destruction in this world, and for ever, as the intimidation of Father O'Connell did not limit itself to a present life, but extended itself over soul and body in another.

"My good friends, if this riot continue, the polling must be stopped," said Robert Carre to some of those who crowded nearest him. “Mr. O'Connell, as whipper-in for the Popish party, has given you a fine specimen to-day of the eloquence which is commonly called rigmarole. He wishes to get up a riot that might do for all Ireland together; but little did I dream that ever good, honest respectable Clanmarina could be worked up by any Popish aggressor into becoming the theatre of such a brawl as this. Hats stove in -caps knocked off-shops closed-women shrieking-men hooting-stones hurled, and a fierce onslaught even upon me, your neighbour, and from my boyhood, your friend. Duncan McTavish seems likely to fare no better-he could scarcely fare worse, and all through a disciplined and united force of straight-from-Connaught Romish priests. They are mere voteless nobodies, but are acting here as election-agents and touters, who wish by this riotous red-hot zeal to convert us into a belief in scarlet hats and red stockings, and in all the wild dreams of Papal infallibility. There is not much that I can bring myself now to say with any hope of success, but-let me repeat the words used by Sir Robert Peel once,-If I am compelled to determine whether I shall give my allegiance to Queen Victoria, or to a mere mockery king of Munster, I ask no time for reflection; my determination is made."" The men of Clanmarina stood silent as the grave, struck with a sense of their own humiliated condition in being

the mere puppets of a priesthood forced to riot against those who were as their hearts told them, in sober truth, their best friends; but the Irish priests and strangers backed by Fathers Eustace and O'Connell now became more frightfully violent than before. One man threw a large stone at Robert, which struck him next the ear, and produced a deep cut, from which the blood flowed in torrents; and another rioter was about to follow his example, when he was felled to the earth by the still powerful arm of M০Ronald. The affray which followed passes all description; but the two priests, stooping low to avoid the shower of stones that flew like a hailstorm over their heads, fled in trembling safety from the fearful tempest they had raised. When Robert Carre, after fighting his way from the hustings, and being rendered insensible by the blow of a bludgeon on his head, next awoke to consciousness, he was stretched on a bed in the neat tidy cottage of Mrs. McRonald. His aching forehead was swathed in linen, his broken arm under process of being set by Dr. McIndre, and a warrant was already served upon him for having been out in a riot."

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"The jury can hardly bring in a verdict of wilful murder," said M'Ronald, anxiously, nobody has been murdered; but there will probably be three days' imprisonment for the Papists, and three months for us. Father Eustace has taken his oath that not a single Popish stone was thrown, and Robert Carre is strongly suspected of