consequently, saw nothing wrong in the carriage of the Desmonds. This part of the work I have not noted as I could have wished-my occupations interfered, and it is probable that I have not as yet acquired the necessary amount of reading; yet I claim some share of credit in this regard, for the original of O'Daly is as bald as the skull recently apostrophised by "Shamrock." As to the accuracy of the translation, I cannot be taken to task, for it is as literal as our "Saxon guttural" would allow me to make it.

That, however, which concerns me most is the second part of the work, as there may be some who will censure me for having given an English version of "the Persecutions." If so, they must either charge me with clothing Latin fiction in an English vesture, or attribute to me sentiments of stupid bigotry. I will answer the last assumption first. Those who know me, and whose opinions I value, will absolve me of such a crime; and as for those who, without knowing me, make such a charge, I care very little. Heaven is witness, that this is not the time for acrimonious controversy, when the scenes that are daily passing before us find no parallel, save in those which, looming on the prophetic vision of Jeremiah, caused him to articulate these wailing tones which must thrill every heart to the end of time. Were controversy of any sort profitable, just now, it ought to be such as would prove manifestly to our rulers, that they who are gorged with the fatness and riches of the world should not allow the people of this land to perish of famine; for the Romans did not suffer even their slaves to die of hunger. A highly gifted genius, whose name is written on a brighter lintel than that where Dante

Alighieri read of Hope's proscription,* has discoursed in numbers stern and beautiful on this painful subject. May they on whom the responsibility rests, look to us in time or abide the consequences of their neglect, for with truth we may say to them—

"We are wretches, famished, scorned, human tools to build your pride,

But God will yet take vengeance for the souls for whom Christ died.
Now is your hour of pleasure-bask ye in the world's caress,
But our whitening bones against ye will arise as witnesses,
From the cabins and the ditches in their charr'd uncoffin'd masses,
For the Angel of the Trumpet will know them as he passes.
A ghastly spectre army before the great God we'll stand,
And arraign ye as our murderers, the spoilers of our land!"+

But pardon me this digression, and let me resume and conclude. As to the materials of the second part of this volume, 'tis quite true that there are many facts obviously over-coloured; yet, 'tis nevertheless quite certain that the proclamations of Elizabeth, James the First,

"Lasciáte ogni speranza voi ch' entrate.
Queste parole di colore oscuro

Vid' iö scritte al sommo d' una porta;

Perch' io: Maestro, il senso lor m' è duro."

Inferno, Canto III.

Should this book fall into the hands of the editor of the Waterford Chronicle, I beg to assure him that the lines here quoted do not contain a single word of treason-nay, that they do not even hint at the Bequests Act or Colleges Bill. I have not time at present to translate them, but Father Kenyon may take it into his head to give us the English version. I beg moreover to inform the Editor that Dante does not, and never did write for the "Nation," either prose or verse. This, I hope, will prevent him from falling into a mistake, and confounding Dan. Alighieri with some Young Irelander who may rejoice in the name of Dan. Gallagher.

"Speranza," in Nation newspaper, Jan. 25, 1847.

and Charles the First, not to speak of Cromwell's, are things more terrible than Mrs. Radcliff ever dreamed of; nor did I rest content with these, but studied as long and as well as I could, the fragmenta Historica, scattered over the Hibernia Dominicana, and the writings of David Routh, bishop of Ossory. Should any one be anxious to read fiction of Irish History, he will find much of that character in Carte, Borlase, but most of all, in Sir John Temple,* who, more fortunate than Saul in the cave of Endor, had not to put on a disguise, in order to conjure up ghosts and take down their sworn depositions.

Again, if there be strong language in the book, I am not answerable for it. The phraseology of Father O'Daly's time is not that of to-day. And, above all, let those who read, remember that the author was outlawed for his religion, and driven to seek shelter in a distant land. What wonder then if he employed epithets so freely bandied by Protestants as well as Catholics, at the period when he wrote? Could he look on unmoved while the torch was being applied to the roof-tree which had sheltered his brethren for ages; or was it in the nature of man at any time to write sweet and soothing sentences, when reflecting on those who sent him houseless on the world? The yearnings of

*The veracity of Sir J. Temple's Hist. of the Irish Rebellion, may be judged by the following extract from his catalogue of depositions. "Hundreds of the ghosts that were drowned by the rebels at Portnadown Bridge, (in 1641,) were seen in the river bolt upright, and were heard to cry out for revenge on these rebels. One of these ghosts was seen with hands lifted up, and standing in that posture from the 29th of December to the latter end of the following lent!"

O'Daly's heart were for an Irish grave; and this boon was denied him. That which they dug for him by the banks of the Tagus has its terrible history; for when God commanded Lisbon to quake, as though he were coming to judge the world, the Irish exile's sepulchre revealed its tenant-shaft, column, temple, tower, and shrine, tottering from their foundations, sunk into it in shapeless ruin, and caverned his bones still deeper in a foreign soil. Nothing now remains of him save this volume, and the head-stone which once marked the spot where he was buried. No matter what praise or censure may result from the translation, I console myself with the consciousness of having endeavoured to wake, at least in some degree

"The old weir'd world that sleeps in Irish lore;"

and with ardent wishes for your happiness here, and hereafter, remain your obedient servant,

SS. Michael and John's,

Dublin, Jan. 30, 1847.

C. P. MEEHAN.

TO THE MOST EMINENT PRINCES,

ANTHONY AND FRANCIS BARBERINI,

CARDINALS OF THE HOLY ROMAN CHURCH.

66

I PRESENT to your view the mourning of your daughter, like unto "the mourning of ostriches," Mich. i., (most eminent princes and cardinals, in rank and dignity equal, vivid images of all other virtues, prototypes of firmness and fidelity, patrons and protectors of the Irish nation). Behold, "the sea monsters" of English heresy "have drawn out the breast" of your daughter; they have given suck to their young, and the daughter of your people is like the ostrich in the desert," Thren. iv. 3. She has left her eggs on the earth, nor has she warmed them in the dust. "She is hardened against her young ones, as though they were not hers." She has left her young in the dust, to be trodden on by the feet of beasts. Truly, Ireland, like a young maiden (who is to be guided by the circumspection of a parent, rather than the caprices and vanities of youth), must ever own herself more indebted to your prudence than to her own sufficiency; for you, in the days of her sorrows and trials, protected her, as long as she hearkened to your wisdom-cherished her, till she grew cold-and counselled her, till she grew foolish. But, alas! Tully (Reth, lib. 1) hath taught us that wisdom, without strength, may be of much avail, and that strength, without prudence, availeth little. One of you (the Cardinal Anthony) has shown himself the protector of Ireland; and the other, to speak the truth, a powerful aider in her struggles. One of you, by solicitude and earnest prayer, faithfully clung to her; the other stretched out the arm of authority to defend her. One of you exerted all his energies for the sake of the Irish nation, to foster and cherish the order of friars preachers-and in this work he stands proudly conspicuous—