achievement" "even where it does not visibly look out of the same." We will .not be put down by the unkind little hits of the Pacchiarotto " volume, but will say his works are not "blank"" of such records as he enumerates; that we know | quite well that he is "man's lover" not his hater; that he makes it his business to promote peace, not "stir up strife" in the world; that he has a singular power of seeing beauty in the ugliest things of the earth; that nothing that is part of a great whole is "small" to him; that he does own a "Lord of all,” and doubtless strives to pay that Lord "his duty."

If we were forced to look upon his utterances respecting God's dealings with man, and man's relation to God, to his fellow, to his aspirations, to his work as nothing but "dramatic simulations," then evidently we must regard him as a great thinker and dramatist, but no longer as a teacher, for surely no man can be called a teacher who does not intentionally try to impart views that are his own. And we cannot afford to give him up as a teacher in these days when signs are not wanting that England is ripe for another kind of intellectual guidance than that which she has welcomed for many a long year. Madame de Staël says of men of genius that they are toujours contemporains des siècles futurs par leurs pensées," and this fact combined with the truth contained in Mr. Browning's own line in "The Death in the Desert," that "none can learn except | the already taught," explains the small appreciation with which his works were received whilst the morbid, unsatisfied, introspective, denying spirit was at its height, which enfeebled the middle decades of the century. But now at last signs are not wanting that "despondency corrected" is to be the motto of the future. Nations like individuals have their phases, and there is good cause to hope that our recent tendencies to mourn over all we have not got, is yielding to the healthier tendency to rejoice over what we have and use it to the uttermost. We are now to a certain extent " 'already taught," and are therefore prepared for more teaching.

The best wish we can offer to the remaining years of the nineteenth century is that future historians may be able to say of it that whereas Clough and Mattnew Arnold embodied the philosophical and religious thought of its central period, Robert Browning became the representative man of its close.

MARY A. Lewis.

From Chambers' Journal.

HUMORS OF IRISH DISTRICT VISITING.

"MISS MARTHA, it's Anty Dillon's Molly that's here. Her mother is tearin' mad wid the toothache, an' would ye be afther givin' her the laste taste in life of jam, she says, if you plaze, to take the stang out of her mouth, an' help her swalley the bit o' bread? She hasn't slep' or et for two days."

"Miss Ellen has gone out with the keys, and won't be back till after the Bible class."

"Shure, I tould her that, miss, an' she says she'll come agin bime-by."

'Jam for toothache!" I exclaimed. "Yes; it is a grand specific," said Martha drily, "especially in families where there are children. There is an epidemic of toothache this spring. Last year it was influenza, till I began to give black currant vinegar instead of jam. But vinegar won't do for the teeth, you know. And now I am sorry I must leave you for an hour; one of my old women is dying, and another has sent to say she is 'downhearted,' and wants to see me particularly."

May I go with you? I would like it, if they don't mind."

"Oh, they will be delighted to see a strange lady. But I am afraid you will find it lugubrious. Their talk will be all about death and the grave, this time. However, it will be characteristic, and possibly amusing; so, come along."

"You see," said my friend as we set out, "the Roman Catholics are as twelve to one in the town, but there are a good many Protestants for all that-poor ones, and the archdeacon is very careful of them. He knows them all personally, and their circumstances, and goes to see them himself when necessary. The parish is divided into districts, with a lady visitor for each. We go our rounds once a week regularly, and report to the archdeacon anything that requires his attention. And if our people fall into necessity or tribulation, want advice or help, they send for us, or come to us, at any time. 'I niver felt the loss o' me father an' mother till Miss Mary got married an' wint away,' said an old woman to me once, speaking of one of us who had left the town. They often tell me I am like a mother to them. Here we are at Mrs. Nolan's. Yes; she's still alive, I see.”

It was the usual mud cabin, the open door admitting to the one room which served as kitchen, sitting-room, and cham

ber of death. A kettle was boiling on the hearth, and a teapot stood by. Two or three women sat round the fire, waiting for the final scene. The place was swept, and the furniture set in order; and by the bed, where an old woman lay slumbering fitfully, a chair was placed for visitors.

"Shure, you're just in time, Miss Martha-she's goin' fast," said one of the women as she came forward and welcomed us. "Yis, miss, she's sinsible. Ye know Miss Martha, Biddy, don't ye?" A smile came over the wrinkled features, and the heavy lids unclosed.

"Now, won't she make a purty corpse if she only looks like that at the last!" said the woman admiringly.

"I am glad to see her so calm and peaceful," whispered Martha.

"Isn't it a comfort, miss?" cried the woman out loud. "An' it's the work o' the world we had wid her till yisterday only, whin his Riverince himself cum down an' rasoned her into common sinse, an' she guy her consint to go to the new cimethry, quiet an' asy."

"To go to the new cemetery?” "Yis, miss. Shure, she held out agin it to the last; said it was a horrid, cowld, lonesome place, an' she'd niver lie comfortable there, wid niver a bone or a pinch o' dust of one belongin' to her within a mile. Cart-horses, she said, shouldn't drag her there, or to any place excipt a good churchyard full o' dacent Christian neighbors. But the archdacon arguyed the matther well. 'Biddy,' sis he, be rasonable now. Where in all the counthry-side would you find a wholesomer place to be laid in,' sis he, 'than the new cimethry?—a fine, open, airy place, high an' dhry. An' as for lonesomeness,' sis he, 'shure, it's fillin' ivery day it is. Ye'll have the neighbors gatherin' all round you in no time. An' I'll tell you what I'll do for you,' he sis; 'if you'll consint to go there quietly, I'll put you nixt Mrs. Donovan-shure, ye know her an' thin ye won't feel lonely or out o' the way wid her within call.' So thin she guv in."

"Yis, I guv in," said the dying woman feebly. "I cudn't howld out agin' his Riverince. There's no denyin' that Mary Donovan 'ud be a good neighbor, quiet an' asy, an' niver an ill word out o' her head; but I'd rather be laid alongside o' Nolan. A good husband he was to me, an' niver as much as riz his hand to me all the days we wor together - barrin' he was in dhrink an' unconscious-like."

66

'Alongside o' Nolan! Just listen to her now! And Oonagh churchyard twenty mile o' rough road away. Shure, it's battered to bits you'd be afore you got there, Biddy alanna. Yer ould bones 'ud niver stan' the jowltin'. An' prehaps it's come to bits the coffin would, they make 'em so thin nowadays."

"Ay, ay; I know how thim funerals go gallopin' whin they get out o' the town; I'd be shook all to pieces, I'm feared, an' so I guv my consint to go to the cimethry. It's an asy road enough; an' what does it matther, afther all, whin the good God is in one place as much as another!"

Martha stooped down and whispered a few words. "Yis, Miss Martha, I know; I'm none feared o' that. But I'm too far gone to spake much, honey." Then the heavy lids dropped again over the glassy eyes, and I thought I saw an added shade on the gray face.

"I think she's goin' now, glory be to God! I know that look."

"Miss Martha, could you be afther singin' a bit of a hymn? That would bring her to, if anythin' mortial could; she was always fond o' the singin'," said the woman.

Martha hesitated, looked at the still face, and then at me "Rock of Ages," I whispered and she began the dear old hymn at " While I draw this fleeting breath."

I saw the pale lips move, and stooped down.

"Nolan's voice! Shure, I'd know it a mile off. Ye're late, man; hurry on. It's tired o' waitin' I am. Och, but ye're the pick of the world for the singin'! It's gettin' cowld, alanna, an' the night's fallin', Nolan, an' I'm waried out. you are at long-last. Glory be to God! Nolan!"

Here

"Glory be to God!" echoed one of the women, "she's gone."

It was even So. Had Nolan really come up the "dark valley" to meet her, I wondered, as Martha stopped, and the women broke into ready Irish tears and ejaculations, in the midst of which we moved away.

The person who had acted as mistress of the ceremonies followed us to the door. "Wasn't it well she didn't go back o' her word about the new cimethry? An' won't she make a lovely corpse, Miss Martha, wid that pleasant look on her face? We'll sind to the house for the things, miss?" "Yes; Jane will give them."

"Sheets and things," explained Martha to me, as we walked away, "for the wake,

ingly, "did you hear there would not be so much money as usual this month?"

"I did, miss. The archdacon come himself to insinse me into the rason of it. He was rale downcast. I tould him niver to throuble about it; shure, we'll git along somehow."

"How will you manage this month on so little?"

66

'Well, miss, you see, Moore has got a stroke o' work. That will be a help. An' I had a letter from Amerkay, from Judy you remimber little Judy Grace, Miss Martha? — an' she sint me a little matther o' money, an' that'll tide us over a month or more. An' indade, the other childhre will niver let me want the bit o' bread while they have it. They're rale good in sindin' me things."

"But they send the money for your own use.'

"For me an' Moore. Yes, miss. Shure they look on us as their father an' mother. They can't remember no others, the cratures."

"Will they like your spending it on these children, who are nothing to you or them?"

"Miss Martha, do you take me for a brute baste, to have the bit an' sup meself an' see the fatherless go hungry? There was real surprise and indignation in the good woman's manner. Martha felt called on to apologize for her implied suspicion of ungenerosity; and we then turned our steps homeward.

"Another trait of the Irish peasantry," I remarked; but my companion was absent-minded, and made no response. "We must pass Tom Daly's," she said after some meditation. "I ought to speak to him, I suppose; but I don't know what to say. He is a Protestant; but I heard he went to the Roman Catholic chapel on Wednesday night, and walked in the procession of penitents. He was tipsy, of course; but that makes it all the worse."

The said Tom held down his head, and busied himself with an old shoe he was patching, as Martha entered his little cobbler's shop. I stood modestly in the door, and listened.

just half-dead; an', faix, I donno what I did or didn't do, thin."

"Tom, if you would only take the pledge, it might be the saving of you."

Shure, I'm willin' enough to take it, Miss Martha, if that will do you; but the keepin' it is another matther. I've taken it often an' often; but sorra bit o' good that did me. It was worse nor ever I was, as soon as I broke it."

"Tom, I wouldn't mind so much your going to mass, if you were in sober earnest. I would rather have you a good

Catholic than a drunken Protestant.'

"Oh, Miss Martha, is it you to think so little o' me as that? And does his Riverince sariously believe I'd do such a mane thing as turn? Drunk or sober, I'll niver belie me church an' clargy. Miss Martha, I'll tell you what I'll do. I went to mass, there's no denyin', on Wednesday night; but I was tipsy - bad scran to thim that tuk me! - but I'll go to church this blessid night sober, and with me eyes open. There's for you! That'll convince his Riverince. Shure I niver was in church on a week-day afore, barrin' the day I was marrid; but I'd do more nor that to show the archdacon I was no turncoat."

Tom did go to church that Friday night, and edified the congregation by his serious demeanor.

Coming out of the shop, Martha encountered a lively group of girls and boys, when she, to my surprise, seized the biggest girl by the shoulder and gave her a good shake. "I have just seen your mother, Molly Dillon. What did you mean, you naughty girl, by telling such a story? Don't you know that?" etc.

I need not give the sermon which followed. Molly looked frightened, and the other children interested.

Suddenly a little boy, with the bluest eyes and reddest hair I had ever seen, pushed forward.

"An' did Molly tell ye a lie, Miss Martha ?"

"She did, Jack."

"An' it's an awful wicked thing to tell a lie, miss?"

"It is Jack, awfully wicked." "An'an' it's worse to tell two nor one, miss?" cried Jack, stammering in his eagerness. Martha assented. "Miss Martha, you told us on Sunday last that the man that made another do a wrong thing was the wickedest o' the two. was all as one as if he did it himself, only maner. Miss Martha, if you don't give Molly the jam, you'll be afther makin'

It