THE NYMPH'S WEDDING. [Michael Drayton, born in Atherston, Warwickshire, 1563 or 1570; died 1631. A poet of the time of Elizabeth and James I., and by some called poet-laureate. His chief poems are: The Shepherd's Garland, a series of pastorals; The Baron's Wars; The Poly-Olbion, a description of the tracts, rivers, mountains, and forests of Great Britain, with the most remarkable legends and antiquities associated with them-a poem which contains 30,000 Alexandrine lines, and which is remarkable for its topographical correctness, and beauty and variety of its allusions; and the Nymphidia, from which we quote. Campbell said: "The Nymphidia is in his happiest characteristic manner of airy and sportive pageantry."] A Nymph is married to a Fay, Mertilla. But will our Tita wed this Fay? Claia. Yea, and to-morrow is the day. Mertilla. But why should she bestow herself Upon this dwarfish fairy elf? Claia. Why, by her smallness you may find, That she is of the fairy kind, And therefore apt to choose her make Whence she did her beginning take: Besides, he's deft and wondrous airy, And of the noblest of the fairy, Chief of the crickets of much fame, In fairy a most ancient name, But to be brief, 'tis clearly done, The pretty wench is woo'd and won. Cloris. If this be so, let us provide Queen Mab will look she should be drest Mertilla. I'll have a jewel for her ear, (Which for my sake I'll have her wear); 'T shall be a dewdrop, and therein Of Cupids I will have a twin, Which struggling, with their wings shall break So sweet a liquor, as shall move Claia. Believe me, girl, this will be fine, And to this pendant, then take mine; A cup in fashion of a fly, Cloris. For jewels for her ears she's sped: But for a dressing for her head I think for her I have a tire, That all fairies shall admire : The yellows in the full-blown rose, Which in the top it doth inclose, Like drops of gold-ore shall be hung Upon her tresses, and among Those scatter'd seeds (the eye to please) The wings of the cantharides: With some o' th' rainbow that doth rail Those moons in, in the peacock's tail: Whose dainty colours being mix'd With th' other beauties, and so fix'd, Her lovely tresses shall appear As though upon a flame they were. And to be sure she shall be gay, We'll take those feathers from the jay; About her eyes in circlets set, To be our Tita's coronet. Mertilla. Then, dainty girls, I make no doubt But we shall neatly send her out: But let's amongst ourselves agree, Of what her wedding gown shall be. Claia. Of pansey, pink, and primrose leaves, Most curiously laid on in threaves: And all embroidery to supply, Powder'd with flowers of rosemary : A trail about the skirt shall run, The silk-worm's finest, newly spun: And every seam the nymphs shall sew With th' smallest of the spinner's clue: And having done their work, again These to the church shall bear her train: Which for our Tita we will make Of the cast slough of a snake, Which quivering as the wind doth blow, The sun shall it like tinsel show Cloris. And being led to meet her mate, To make sure that she want no state, Moons from the peacock's tail we'll shred, With feathers from the pheasant's head: Mix'd with the plume of (so high price) The precious bird of paradise: [Justin M'Carthy, born in Cork, November, 1830. Novelist and journalist. He is a contributor to the principal English and American magazines and reviews, and is the author of The Waterdale Neighbours: My Enemy's Daughter; Lady Judith; Con Amore, a volume Mertilla. The nightingale, of birds most choice, of critical essays; A Fair Saxon, a political novel; To do her best shall strain her voice; Claia. But for the bride-bed, what were fit? That hath not yet been talk'd of yet. Cloris. Of leaves of roses, white and red, Shall be the covering of her bed: The curtains, vallens, tester, all Shall be the flower imperial; And for the fringe, it all along With azure harebells shall be hung; Of lilies shall the pillows be, With down stuft of the butterfly. Mertilla. Thus far we handsomely have gone, Now for our prothalamion, Or marriage song-of all the rest, A thing that much must grace our feast. Ere we before the assembly bring it; Then my dainty girls set to it. Claia. This day must Tita married be; Come, nymphs, this nuptial let us see. Mertilla. But is it certain that ye say? Will she wed the noble Fay? Modern Leaders, a series of sketches of sovereigns, statesmen, authors, &c., published in America (1872), where it has obtained much popularity. Mr. McCarthy having spent several years in the United States, won for himself there extensive reputation as novelist, critic, and lecturer.] Look out for the Fenians! See that they don't capture you, and keep you as a British hostage." 66 "Stuff! There are no Fenians." 'Oh, aren't there, though! Yes, by St. Patrick, and Fenianesses too-just ask Gerald Barrymore!" "Why, I am going over to Gerald Barrymore. I am going to spend the time with him-hunt and course and fish, and all the rest of it." "Well, he says there are Fenians no end." "Don't believe a word of it, although I am sure he thinks it if he says so. There isn't pluck enough in the population to make anything like a formidable movement of any kind. I'll undertake to rout any band of Fenians that may come in my way with this cane." "Misguided young man, farewell! If you should fall a victim to your rashness, I'll write your epitaph!" "Thank you, my dear fellow! That is indeed adding a new terror to death. It will make me doubly careful of my precious existence!" So the two friends parted, smiling. This dialogue took place one soft bright day of late autumn in the pleasant Temple Gardens, in the heart of London-the Temple Gardens of York and Lancaster, and the Red and White Roses; of Addison and Steele and Sir Roger | moment at what Gibbs told him; but his The two friends who thus talked and parted were Tom Gibbs and Laurence Spalding. Both were young barristers; both were as yet briefless; both were writers for newspapers and magazines; both were distinguished and active members of the Inns of Court Volunteer Corps, familiarly known as the "Devil's Own." Laurence Spalding was a tall athletic young fellow, who delighted in the drilling and the rifle-shooting, and the privilege-new, strange, and dear to young lawyers-of wearing the mustache. He it was who, on the eve of a visit to Ireland, was speaking scorn of Fenianism, and the natives of Ireland generally. He had never been in Ireland; and this was just the time when the air was rife with rumours of projected Fenian insurrection, and before any actual rising had taken place to divulge the real proportions of Fenianism's military strength. Laurence Spalding was to be a guest of his old chum and fellow-student, Gerald Barrymore, a young Irishman who had eaten his way to the English bar, and hoped to distinguish himself there, although, unlike most of his compatriots, he was heir to some property in Ireland which was actually unencumbered. Spalding was longing to see Ireland; longing to enjoy his friend's hospitality; longing to be introduced to his friend's beautiful sister, of whom he had heard so much. manly good nature presently returned, and he resolved to think no more about it. Unluckily, however, when he got to his Irish home he told his sister something of the story, and that young lady's pretty cheek and bright eye | glowed with pique and resentment. Grace Barrymore was a bright, animated, beautiful girl, with a noble queenly figure and curling fair hair. She was highly educated, had lived in France and Italy, had all the culture of an Englishwoman of the best class, and yet retained an exquisite flavour of her own racy nationality. She was a motherless girl, and she ruled her father and the estate and the tenantry, and the whole district generally. Like many other true-hearted Irishwomen who have seen other countries besides their own, she scolded her compatriots a good deal for their own benefit, but would not hear a word said against them by a foreigner, especially a Saxon. She was always warning all the "boys" of the place against mixing themselves up with the dangerous follies of Fenianism; and she did not at present know of the existence of a single Fenian in the neighbourhood; but she clenched her little fist, and bit her red lip, and mentally vowed vengeance when she heard that a young Englishman had dared to sneer at the courage of Fenianism and the danger of Irish insurrection. Two or three days passed away, and Laurence Spalding landed for the first time at Kingston, the port of Dublin, where his friend Barrymore received him. They spent two or three other days very joyously in the pleasant city. Everywhere they heard talk of Fenianism, and expected "risings" of the most dreadful kind, having for their object the overthrow of throne, Barrymore was going over to Ireland that night. Laurence was to follow in two or three days. Barrymore was to meet him in Dublin, and show him over the city; then they were to go on together to Barrymore's home in a mountainous, sea-washed, south-western coun-church, altar, private property, and everything ty. The railway would only carry them a certain way; the rest of the journey must be made by carriage or on horseback over mountain roads. else that respectable persons hold sacred. Gerald Barrymore shook his head gravely; Laurence Spalding laughed loudly. "Laurence, my dear fellow, I do wish I had been more fortunate in choosing my time to bring you over here. Down in my neighbourhood they say things are beginning to look very bad." Now it so happened that Tom Gibbs, who was a good deal of a chatterbox and a little of a mischief-maker, met Gerald Barrymore half an hour after the conversation just reported, and told him, with perhaps some flourish and Laurence only laughed again, and wondered embellishment, what Laurence had been say- at the credulity of his friend. Laurence was ing about Ferianism and the dangers of Irish one of that class of Englishmen who never rebellion. Barrymore's cheek reddened. He believe in anything unusual until they see it; was, like most Irishmen, rather sensitive of who ride out beyond bounds in Naples and ridicule; and, moreover, although a loyal Sicily, scoffing at stories of brigandism, and British subject, he had been descanting some- get taken by brigands; who ramble heedless what largely at the dinner in the Temple Hall outside the lines of camps; and bathe in shoal on the formidable nature of the Fenian move- water where sharks are said to abound, and do ment. So he felt a good deal annoyed for the other such deeds of blunt bold scepticism. The two friends went by the railway as far as they could go. Then a carriage met them, and they prepared for a journey which Spalding was given to understand would last a couple of days. The carriage had a pair of strong sinewy horses. The driver and the postillion were both armed with pistols. Gerald Barrymore deposited pistols in the carriage holsters. Laurence craned his neck out, and saw that a small body of men, armed with guns, were drawn across the road, and that two were at the horses' heads. Before he could leap out of the carriage, a dozen men were at the side of it. One had a sword. They wore a sort of uniform, and each had a green sash. "Surrender, gentlemen!" said the swords "I wish we were safe at home, Masther man, politely. Gerald," observed the driver. "Surrender to what?" demanded Gerald, "So do I, Tim. How are things looking fiercely. just now?" "To the soldiers of the Irish Republic!" was the reply. "Look at our flag!" One of "Terrible bad, Masther Gerald!" "Thrue for you, boy!" growled the pos- the men was indeed bearing a green flag. tillion, in assent. "The whole side of the counthry is up, I'm tould," said the driver. "More power to 'em!" growled the postillion. "What nonsense!" laughed Laurence; and he turned to Barrymore. "Do you really believe such talk as this?" 66 My dear Spalding, you don't know anything of this country. I only hope you may not be compelled to learn by disagreeable experience." Gerald's answer to the summons was the discharge of one of his pistols, which, however, was discharged in vain. Laurence fired the other, but it too failed of its object. Then both the young men leaped from the carriage and gallantly attacked the troops of the Irish Republic. Laurence hit out with good scientific arm, and knocked two Republican warriors over; but ne Hercules contra duos-what could two do against twenty? Our poor friends were very soon bound round the arms with stout cords, and rendered incapable of resistance. The driver and postillion had from the be Laurence shrugged his shoulders. His friend was evidently not amenable to reason on this subject, which Laurence had settled before-ginning fraternized with the Fenians. hand by process of intuition-the best possible way of dealing with difficult political and national questions. They drove on for some hours, Spalding and Barrymore smoking and pleasantly chatting, although Barrymore was continually casting anxious glances on either side of the road, and every now and then examining his pistols. At last they came into a dark and gloomy defile-a narrow gorge almost as wild as an Alpine pass, and which seemed to stretch on for miles. "If we were through this," said Barrymore, in a low tone, as if speaking to himself, "I think we should be safe for this day." "Are there highway robbers about?" asked Spalding. "Highway robbers here? Oh no!" "What else, then?" "The Fenians!" said Gerald, in a low and solemn voice. "You see, gentlemen," said the swordsman, "how useless was your resistance. If you had shot one of our men, I probably could not have saved your lives." "I suppose this means robbery," said Laurence. "If so, you may as well rifle our pockets at once. "As you are an Englishman, and of course ignorant of Ireland," said the leader, calmly, "I excuse your insolent remarks. But you had better not let any of the men around hear you speak of them as robbers." "Then, if you are not robbers and cutthroats, what the devil are you?" "Fenians!" "Fenians be-blessed!" observed our British hero. "You had better, for your own sake, sir, be silent. Get into the carriage." Laurence and Gerald were promptly lifted in. The leader and another man got in like Laurence threw himself back in the carriage wise. The word to march was given, and the and quietly laughed. carriage went on. Laurence could hardly be Just at that moment a shot was heard, and lieve the evidence of his senses. He felt like the driver pulled up the horses. "Begorra, they're on us, sure enough!" he exclaimed. a man in a dream-like the victim of a nightmare. He gazed at Gerald, who sat silent and sullen, bearing defeat ungraciously. As "We're taken, Spalding!" said Gerald, he turned round rather abruptly, his elbow calmly. struck against something hard. It was only a revolver, which one of his guards was kindly holding toward his prisoner's breast as a little measure of precaution. "In the name of the devil, Gerald," said Laurence, speaking now in French that his captors might not understand, "what is the meaning of all this? Is it a dream? Is it a practical joke, or a piece of mummery? Who are these canaille?" "M. Barrymore has no difficulty in comprehending," said the man with the sword, in fluent French, and with excellent accent. "He understands his country, although he refuses to fight in her cause, and has degenerated so far from the patriotism of his ancestors as to show himself the enemy of her flag. M. Barrymore was offered a command only the other day, and he refused. He will have to answer now for his desertion." Laurence looked at Gerald. 66 They did offer me a command," said Barrymore, coolly. "Of course I declined. I am a loyal man. Now I am in their power. Let them kill me if they choose they are quite capable of it." Again Laurence mentally asked himself, "Am I dreaming? Am I mad? Is this the year 1867? Was I reading the Times this morning?" were led between armed ranks toward the crowd in front of the castle. As they came near the crowd divided, and a lady on horseback rode forward, then checked her horse, and with a commanding gesture indicated where the prisoners were to stand. She was a young woman, very handsome, with fair hair and a superb form, and she sat her horse like a queen. In all his bewilderment Laurence could observe her deep-blue lustrous eyes, her clustering fair hair, her graceful gestures, her full noble bust. She wore a green ridinghabit, and a cavalier hat with a green feather. She had pistols in her belt, and a sword hung at her side. "Am I assisting at a scene in the Opera Comique?" Laurence asked of himself. The ropes which bound the prisoners were removed, and the first use Laurence made of his freedom was to take off his hat and bow to the beautiful Amazon. She acknowledged his salute with grace and dignity. You are the Englishman?" she asked. "I am an Englishman, certainly. May I ask whom I have the honour of addressing?" "All that it concerns you to know, sir, is that I am at present in command of this castle and these Fenian soldiers. My name your countrymen may know some day." He gave up the whole conundrum in despair. A dreary hour or two passed away, and "Pray excuse me," said Laurence, "if I Laurence actually fell fast asleep. He only ask you one question. Do you really mean to woke when some of his captors were lifting tell me, madame, that these fellows are Fenians him out of the carriage. He now found him--that there is a Fenian army?" self standing on the edge of a grassy lawn or field in front of a large and partly ruined castle. There were cannon at the gates of the castle and on the roof, and a green flag was flying. Near the castle was whole mass of armed men. Laurence could see the gunbarrels glittering in the autumn sunset. Bring up the prisoners at onst," said a messenger who came down to meet the Fenian band and their captives. "Is the Chief here?" asked the man with the sword. 'No; the Chief's across the river. He's to attack in the morning airly, I'm tould. But she's here-bedad the worse luck for some people, I'm thinking!" and he cast a glance at Laurence and Gerald. "Gentlemen," said the man with the sword, "you are about to be brought before the Chief's daughter. In the absence of the Chief she commands. For your own sakes, I earnestly recommend prudence." Gerald shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. Laurence began to think the whole affair rather interesting. The two young men 2D SERIES, VOL. II. "Your ignorance, sir-the blind perverse ignorance of your countrymen-may perhaps be allowed to excuse your question; but I have no time to answer such folly. Look around you if you would learn. Now we have something else to do. Gerald Barrymore!" Her loud clear tone rang like a trumpetcall. Barrymore stood forward silently, and bent his head. "Gerald Barrymore, you have openly declared yourself a traitor to the cause of your country. You have refused to join us; you have done all you could to betray us to the enemy; to-day you actually dared to fire upon our flag. What have you to say why you should not die a traitor's death?" "Good Heavens!" exclaimed Laurence; "can this be serious?" "I have nothing to say," replied Gerald, calmly, "except that I am no traitor to my country, but a true patriot. I care little to say even this to you. I know I can expect no mercy, and I don't ask any. Do your worst." "Gerald Barrymore, I need not tell you that I would spare you if I could; that I have 123 |