SHOPPING.
(Continued)

Before the day was over I was thoroughly ashamed of having gone shopping with my aunt. She went through all the draper's shops in Cork though she saw what she wanted in the first as well as in the last and, in the end, after asking my opinion, and the shopman's opinion on the momentous questions of the choice of the ribbons, she turned up her eyes, and ejaculated-" may the Lord direct me.'

On another occasion a young friend of mine from Killarney, who came on a visit to my mother's house, wished, before returning home, to procure a few articles of finery in the city, and requested me to accompany her. I went unwillingly, as I feared something like a repetition of the dose I had when I accompanied my aunt, but did not like to refuse my young friend, and thought too, that as she was more my own age I would be able to influence her to judge quickly, should she be inclined to be tedious. But I found that, young as she was, she had acquired the habit of giving all the trouble that it was possible to give in every shop, and of never deciding on anything in the first shop she entered.

These two experiences, occurring so close upon each other, threw me into a train of reflections on the duties which we owe to shopkeepers.

Every young lady should consider that when a man opens a shop he does so with a view to a legitimate profit by which he is to live, and that it is as unjust of her to try and rob him of that profit, by consuming too much of his time in attendance on her, by inducing him to tumble and disarrange his goods, or by using any stratagems to tempt him to sell without a profit, as it would be to steal an article from his counter. In some cases "Shopping and Shoplifting" are more nearly allied than some of my Irish sisters are apt to imagine. When I enter a shop I desire to feel that the proprietor, in opening his shop, and keeping goods there suitable to my wants, is as much my benefactor, as I am his in choosing his shop to make my purchase in, nor would I wish to enter, or part without as polite a salutation, as if I were entering or leaving the parlour of a friend.

I have sometimes grieved to see parents trying to train their children to give as much trouble as possible in making their little purchases. I have been delighted to see the native off-handness and good nature of the child, so easily pleased, and so thoroughly free from any desire to obtain what they wanted at less than its priced value, and the readiness, pride, and pleasure with which they paid for what they required

This is the healthy state of feeling-in which the man might take a lesson from the child. The rule should be, not to buy, unless we want, but when we do go to buy, to make the purchase an opportunity for the interchange of kindly feeling, elicited by the communication of mutual good offices. Let the women of Ireland consider that the glory of a country must spring chiefly from the middle classes-that these

consist chiefly of shopkeepers and small manufacturers-that the country could not do without them, though it might possibly dispense with doctors, lawyers, small nobility, and their connections. That the sure sign of a vulgar mind, is the show of disrespect for the outward condition into which circumstances may have thrown any human being. That thoughtful kindness, and true respectfulness of manner, are as necessary an ingredient to mark the lady who stands outside the counter, to make her purchase, as of her who stands within to help the purchaser. That goodness of heart, is beyond education, and education beyond station. That the different stations of society are artificial barriers, which the wise and good regard only as filmy lines, which form no stay to the flow of kindly thought of feeling. I would that I could rouse all my sisterhood of Ireland, to see the fact, that the only real vulgarity, is unkindness, meanness, shabbiness, and ostentation-that these are as vulgar, when exercised towards the poor as the rich, the lowly born as the highly born, when displayed in a visit to a shop, towards the shopkeeper, as in a visit to a drawingroom towards its owner, or any of his friends or servants.

Should this essay of mine to interest and speak words of truth to my fellow countrywomen, be deemed suitable to the pages of the CELT, -by the Committee who guard its entrance, I shall consider myself honoured by the permission to help in so good a work; the appearance of which I hail with delight, as a sign of moral life at the heart of the Old Land. Though I never took part in politics, yet I can revere those whose proper sphere it is, and who do so nobly and honestly; I would be glad to be allowed to take my own small part in the glorious enterprise-the intrepid and honest little CELT, which the Committee of the Celtic Union have launched forth to enter the dwellings of all who will receive it, and to cheer their homes with words of comfort and of hope. MARY MACMAHON.

QUERIES AND ANSWERS.

"STUDENT.”—A series of biographies and anecdotal papers, having the past history of the country wound up with them, have been for some time in preparation, and the Committee are likely to occasionally give good wood cuts in connection with them. "MILESIAN" is wrong, and we will let him see his error in an early number.

"BRIAN BORU" thankfully declined, as also "P.P.,” “OLIVER," NORA CREENA," and "MARCUS."

RECEIVED. The sketch of Anne Devlin, and the paper on Taxes, both of which will appear in our next number.

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"THE WISE MAN GATHERETH KNOWLEDGE, AND RULETH HIS OWN HOUSE."-Old Celtic Proverb.

No. 15, VOL. I.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1857. [ONE PENNY.

ANNE DEVLIN. A REMINISCENCE OF 1803.

Never did aphor

"Man is great in daring, woman in suffering.' ism speak more truly, and never was it better illustrated than in the conduct of the humble peasant girl whose name heads this article.

Anne Devlin was the daughter of a dairy-man, and the niece of the celebrated outlaw whose name lives in the Wicklow mountains, Michael Dwyer. At the period of the Emmet insurgent movement of 1803 she was twenty six years of age, and acted in the capacity of a housekeeper and general servant to Robert Emmet at his residence in Butterfield lane.

After the unfortunate night of the 23rd of July, when Emmet and his companions were obliged to fly from Dublin and to seek shelter in the Wicklow mountains, Anne remained in charge of the house. Upon the 25th the house was searched by a body of yeomen headed by a magistrate, looking for the late resident, Mr. Ellis, the assumed name of Robert Emmet. Four of the yeomen took charge of Anne as their prisoner, while the body of them proceeded to search the concerns for her master; failing in that object they proceeded to question Anne about the gentleman with whom she lived, but all enquiries were fruitless, they could elicit nothing from a woman faithful to her trust and firm in her purpose.

The threat of death, certain and immediate, if she did not reveal what she knew, failed to extract a single reply beyond the resolute declaration that she had nothing to tell, would tell nothing. Then it was that a brutal official directed his still more brutal followers to convey her to the yard, and there execute her as one participating in the treason of her master in refusing to reveal the secret they knew she held; with riotous shouting and an indecent savagery, men disgracing man's form and nature dragged this young and devoted female to the place appointed for her death. And while some of them hastened to erect a temporary gallows by elevating the shafts of a common car, and securing a rope to its back board, a process, which she was compelled to witness by being kept erect, with her back close to the

opposite wall, while the fiends kept their sharp bayonets pointed to her naked bosom, pressing them as it were with gentle touches against her tender skin until the blood flowed freely down her person. But the heart within that breast was of no common nature, it throbbed firmly, its pulses did not quail; it sickened not under the tortures inflicted, or the contemplation of the death preparing for her. Fidelity and honor were a part of her very nature, and they nerved her to that stern firmness which will die ere it will betray, die nobly rather than live dishonoured, endure personal annihilation rather than bring that annihilation upon the object of its devotion.

And ever as they pressed her to tell, they pierced her woman-skin with soldier-weapons to torture the secret from her keeping, but still came the one firm answer, "I have nothing to tell, I will tell nothing." Then they pointed to the ready gallows, there with its noosed rope, pendulum-like, swinging from its top, and measuring the minutes of her life, and cried, "tell us where Mr. Ellis is gone to, or die."-Steady was her response-"you may murder me but I will not tell you a word about him." Then they hurried her forward, ready executioners affixed the rope upon her neck, while others seated themselves upon the car to steady it, and as she uttered a single cry, "Lord Jesus, have mercy upon my soul," she was raised aloft, her body swung heavily in the air, her eyes darkened, her senses failed, the world was disappearing, eternity opening: but it would not suit their purpose to murder her yet, other means should be tried to win her secret. The rope was lowered, her feet rested upon the ground, and the light of heaven once more shone upon her opening eyes amid the yells and laughter of her heartless tormentors. When sufficiently recovered she was sent into the city, and brought before the great manager of the torture and corruption of the day-Major Sirr. He had learned that torture had failed, and adopted a new mode of attack; with soft and soothing words he endeavoured to reason her out of her secret, and closed the persuasiveness of his argument by offering her £500; a fine fortune for a peasant girl, if she would only tell him where Mr. Ellis had gone. Soft words could not delude, gold could not corrupt the girl who had already confronted death sooner than betray her secret. Forty years after the sad period of her sufferings, when Doctor Madden was eliciting from her these details, he said to her in reference to the offer of £500, "you took the money of course," and he adds in his Memoir, "The look the woman gave was one that would have made an admirable subject for a painter, a regard in which wonder, indignation and misgiving of the seriousness of the person who addressed her, were blended; Me take the money-the price of Mr. Robert's blood! no, I spurned the rascal's offer."

Finding it impossible to mould the stern nature of the girl to their purpose, she was cast into a solitary prison. There she remained in * Doctor Madden, author of the Lives of the United Irishmen, a gentleman to whose untiring industry the people of Ireland stand deeply indebted for the preservation of vast biographical and historical information in relation to those troubled times.

utter ignorance of the fearful events passing around her, and would have perished for the want of suitable sustenance, but for the tenderness of the wife of one of the officials, an Englishwoman, who shuddered at the atrocities of the time, and sought to mitigate Anne's sufferings and to prolong her life by a thousand feminine kindnesses.

One day Anne was ordered into one of the yards for air and exercise, but when she entered the place her shrewdness discovered the cause of the seeming mercy. She was conscious eyes were glaring upon her from one of the grated windows, the eyes of the officials, and pacing up and down the yard was one whose figure she instantly recognised was that of the unfortunate Robert Emmet. She knew she had been sent out to identify him. She passed him as though she had never before seen him, and by a frown deterred him from recognising her. A few days subsequently she was sent for to the Castle for examination, and by the directions of her gaoler she was ordered to be shewn the gallows in Thomas-street, by which she had to pass. Accordingly the cavalcade stopped at that scene of so many murders; how her woman nature must have shuddered as she gazed upon the fearful spot; fresh drawn blood had dabbled o'er its boards, and from the boards to the pavement, where but a few hours gone by, stains were visible too, but the dogs had lapped them up. The blood had disappeared from off the street, but it still clung to the boards, and as her eyes rested upon it, they told her that it was the blood of a young traitor, of one she knew, it was the blood of Emmet. We have not heard how her devoted but yet strong heart bore up against the sight, but we can well imagine the deep agony of the feelings of that girl, who when an aged woman, forty years later in life, upon looking again upon the chamber he was wont to inhabit, wept woman's tears, and shook with all the awakened tenderness of woman's devotedness. Noble-minded girl, tender-hearted old woman, may the blessings of another, a purer, and a better world, compensate you for your sufferings here, and reward you for the nobleness with which you held true and faithful to the patriot, to the cause and to the country, leaving to that country an example bright as ever graced old Rome in her proudest days. Well may woman feel proud of her sex as she reads your story, while proud man himself shall find within it not merely matter for praise, but for imitation too!

L'INDE ANGLAISE, PAR EDOUARD WARREN: PARIS. (ENGLISH INDIA, BY EDWARD WARREN.)

No man could have a more honourable genealogy, than Edward Warren. His father was an Irish officer in Dillon's regiment of the Irish brigade, the noblest regiment in the world. On the decapitation of Louis XVI., the elder Warren left France and settled in India. Young