a spirit so apt to excite their sympathies, interposed and procured a respite for further parley. An hour at such a crisis is generally equivalent to a life. He was sent back to his cabin; and before the time allowed for the definitive enforcement of the conditions had arrived, the rage of the conspirators had cooled down. After some further detention, he was set ashore to join the other officers of the fleet.

It was supposed that such an antagonist would prove an awkward customer to O'Connell, against whose personal courage doubts were even then entertained. Not long before, an unseemly quarrel with a brother of the long robe had been adjusted in a manner little conformable to the truculent notions of honor at that time prevalent. At some minor court, where it was safe to take liberties with the presiding power, O'Connell met an argument | of the opposite counsel, Maurice Magrath, with this unparliamentary rejoinder"Maurice, you lie;" and Maurice, taking up a volume of the Statutes at Large that lay convenient for such a purpose, flung the same at his learned friend's head. A message followed, and on the ground, when the pistols had been handed to the parties, O'Connell, who was the challenger, exclaimed, with that dramatic pathos in which he had no superior, either on the stage or off it, "Now I am going to fire at my dearest and best friend." This led to a reconciliation, and no powder was burned.

An ill-natured and sanguinary public was not slow to assign the worst motive to the reminiscences of friendship at such a moment; and hence people were prepared to expect an easy triumph for Mr. D'Esterre. Party spirit could scarcely have run higher than it does now, but personal hatred was a more avowed ingredient in the feeling with which an obnoxious politician was regarded. It is not a reflection, therefore, so much upon the individuals as upon the spirit of the time, to say that there were men in office who would have rejoiced to see their formidable adversary brought low in any manner. To such a feeling, at least, was attributed the passive acquiescence of the authorities in the tumultuary state of the capital previous to the duel, and their abstinence from measures of prevention when apprized that the parties had proceeded to the field.

If any one imagined, however, that O'Connell was deficient in physical courage, it was a great mistake. He had nerve to sustain him in any danger, though it never was a part of his philosophy to court it. As Madame de Stäel said of Napoleonwhom the hero-inongers reproached for not having rushed, like Catiline, into the thick of the carnage at Waterloo, and perished sword in hand-of death in itself he had no fear; but death would have been a reverse, and to reverses of every kind he had a decided objection. So neither was it any part of O'Connell's plan, with a brilliant career before him, to run a-tilt at every one he met. If he did not run out of the way, it was as much as either his friends or his foes had a right to expect. The desperate course which he steered for nearly thirty years, in the teeth of hostile administrations, among the breakers which separate the anchorage of the law from the wild serf of treason and rebellion, is an answer to the absurd imputation of personal fear as a defect in O'Connell's nature. He was in fact daring even to rashness: and it is notorious that his wife's health suffered materially, nay, very probably her life was shortened, by unceasing agonies of trepidation and alarm, lest his temerity should at length place him within the fangs of legal vengeance. Is it not absurd to suppose that such a man would shrink into a corner from the discharge of a pistol?

The story of his encounter with D'Esterre is soon told. As he said himself, in the letter to Lidwell, they had "little fighting." It was nearly sunset when they were placed on the ground, in a field at Bishopscourt, in the county of Kildare, about twelve miles distant from Dublin. The place was well chosen for spectators, being near the foot of a hill, from which many thousands could, and did, behold the proceedings, without crowding or interruption. A chilling sight it must have been to the small party of friends who attended poor D'Esterre, to find themselves hemmed in on every side by hostile ranks, whose menacing looks left no reason to doubt that a speedy retribution would follow, should the result prove untoward to the popular idol. They must have been men of no ordinary determination, to have consented to stand the hazard at all against such threatening odds; no rules of chivalry required them to enter lists surrounded

exclusively by the partisans of an adverse and angry faction; and it certainly argued but little magnanimity in the managers at the opposite side not to have rejected such a fearful advantage, and proposed a more secret meeting.

Not one of the whole assemblage maintained a more intrepid demeanor, under these trying circumstances, than D'Esterre. However needlessly he may have sought the quarrel, being in, he conducted himself with unaffected manliness. His second was a brother corporator, who, inexperienced in the science of projectiles, accepted the services of an adept in loading the pistols. A great deal was supposed to depend upon that operation; half a grain of powder, over or under, being deemed equal to the square of the distance in determining the point of incidence. The old tacticians did not use to be so precise, but shook the charge, à discretion, out of a powder-horn. Happily it has almost ceased to be of the least importance whether of the two methods be the more effective. But, on the occasion of which we speak, it seems not improbable that over-exact science saved O'Connell's life. Mr. Frederick Piers, who had undertaken the nice operation of measuring out the menstruum necessary for giving the bolus due effect, is supposed to have been too sparing of his powder. Some persons, who were spectators of the event, alleged that the fault was D'Esterre's, who, in his haste to have the first shot, fired before his pistol had been brought to a proper level. Whatever the cause, the bullet entered the ground before O'Connell's feet, and he, never the man to throw a "good chance" away, took a steady aim and shot his antagonist in the hip.

The ceremonial observed on this occasion differed from that which was usually observed, in the omission of any signal, or word of command. The parties were placed on the ground, and left to their own discretion to choose their time, and to use the weapons of offense which had been committed to them.

cedent. Curran, a great many years before, when he was a stripling unknown to fame, provoked a quarrel in the Circuit Court of Clonmel with one Walsh, the mob-favorite of his day, and they went out, accompanied by the whole court, except the judge and jury. They were taken to a field, well inclosed with hedges, and placed in opposite corners, just as if they had been a pair of bulls turned into a paddock. The whole population, from the outside of the fence, eagerly watched and encouraged their mutual advances. They both fired, and missed; a "lame and impotent conclusion," provocative of derisive cheers, amid the echoes of which the combatants reëntered the court, to receive the ironical congratulations of their longrobed brethren.

But, on this occasion, it was no derisive cheer which rose up to heaven; but a loud and cruel yell of triumph went forth from the valley, and was sent back again from the hills, while its echoes were prolonged from field to field, and passed away to distant multitudes, who telegraphed the event, with incredible speed, into the heart of the city. The hapless victim, of his own intemperate folly, lay writhing in torture; but the pang which that shout sent through his heart far surpassed-as he described it on his dying bed-the anguish of his wound. A bitter thing surely it must be to hear thousands of your fellow-creatures rejoicing, with one voice, in your calamity; and such was the requiem which attended poor D'Esterre from that luckless field. The following day, while the shades of death were thickening around him, his victor-taking his ease at his inn-was speculating on the advantages which the Catholic Question might reap from the patronage of the Earl of Donoughmore.

✓ "So runs the world away."

We will end this chapter on discords and contrasts in music, with giving a beautiful variation in the life and death of Paganini, the king of the violin. When in the rapt and conquering power of his genius he played on his instrument, he is said to have seemed like one fighting with some wild beast, tearing, struggling, and finally triumphing. So that the professors of music, who listened to him, if not violin players, thanked Heaven that they had never attempted to perform on that instru- | ment; while those who were, threw away their violins in despair.

The words of an Italian give this description of the peaceful ending of his life, in lovely contrast with the almost terrible effort with which he played in the vigor of his health :

"On the last night of his existence he appeared unusually tranquil. When he awoke he requested that the curtains of his bed should be drawn aside, to contemplate the moon, which was advancing calmly in the immensity of the pure heavens. At this solemn hour he seemed desirous of returning to nature all the soft sensations he was then possessed of; stretching forth his hand toward his enchanted violin-to the faithful companion of his travels-to the magician which had robbed care of its stings -he sent to heaven with its last sounds, the last sigh of a life which had been all melody."

"O! my father never refuses me anything; and indeed, Mary, when I hear your mother say No! so often to you, I cannot help feeling glad that since I had to lose one of my parents, it was Anne hesitated, for she saw Mary's eyes filling with tears-" it was not my father." Mary Stevenson scarcely remembered her father, for he had died when she was but a few years old; but her kind mother had entirely supplied his place. By her industry and activity she had been able to provide for the bodily wants of her children, while her unceasing cares and timely restraints formed their minds and corrected their faults; thus was she to her orphans both father and mother, and VOL. III, No. 2.-S.

though she often had the firmness to say No! to Mary's unreasonable wishes, her little girl had sense enough to perceive that her mother was right, and always regarded her with the tenderest affection. It may be supposed, then, when the children parted, how unpleasantly Mary felt when she remembered her companion's words.

But Anne Townsend had never known the care of a mother, for she died when her infant was a week old; and, except the nurse, her father was the only being on earth who had ever supplied her wants or watched over her with affection. When, therefore, she saw her playmates hanging round their mother, or heard them mentioning her commands with respect, she often exclaimed, "How singular! Now if it were their father, I should not wonder."

It was a chilly evening in the autumn when Mary and Anne parted, and as the latter entered the neat little parlor at her home, where a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, for the first time she missed her father from his accustomed seat in the arm-chair. He had been looking pale and unwell for some time; was not always able to rise in the morning time enough to see her before she went to

school; and when she had teased him the

evening previous to take her to the menagerie, he had told her that he did not feel well enough to go out; but while he spoke his eyes were so bright and his cheek so red that she thought he must be well.

"Where is my father, Mrs. Jones ?" said she to the friend who took care of the house.

"He has gone to bed, Anne, and wishes you to be very quiet this evening; so come into the kitchen and take your supper."

The little girl obeyed, for she was hungry; but after tea-time seemed very long to her, for there was no kind father near to whom she might tell her little joys and sorrows. She had risen to the head of her class that day, but now no one praised her for it; she had three times checked herself when on the point of contradicting her schoolmates, but there was no one to rejoice with her; above all, she had grieved her intimate friend by a thoughtless, and, she could not help thinking, unfeeling speech, but there was no one

to receive her confession or advise her for the better. Poor Anne wept that night as she said her evening prayer, and her heart felt heavy, she scarcely knew why. There were not many more bright days just then for Anne Townsend, as her father never after left his chamber, and scarcely his bed, while his cheek burned brighter and brighter, and was often so hot that it seemed scorching to Anne's lips, as she affectionately kissed him each day on returning from school. At first he used to tell her how soon he hoped to be well; but now when she spoke of it the great tears would roll down his cheek, and he would shake his head so sorrowfully that she no longer talked about it.

One Saturday afternoon she was playing with Mary Stevenson, when a little girl came in whose clothes were patched and | shabby, and Anne refused to play with her. "What is the matter?" said Mrs. Stevenson, when she saw Anne with her bonnet in her hand.

"Ellen Smith has come in to play with us, ma'am; and Mary will not send her home."

her mother, and in the afternoon goes off with a cheerful face to school, where, I am told, she learns as much by diligence and attention as most girls do in the whole day; and on Sabbath, who is more constant or attentive at the Sabbath school? who ever heard Ellen Smith say an unkind or naughty thing, or saw her do a rude, bold action? I do not want you, Anne, to play with every little girl who wears a patched frock, lest you should grow proud; but I wish you, and Mary too, never to shun a child whose example and conversation can do you good, whether she wear a coarse frock or a fine one.”

Ellen coming in just then with such a pleasant smile, Anne, heartily ashamed, slid her bonnet into the chair, and, taking her hand, went out of the room, and in a little while quite forgot the patches.

"O, dear mother!" said Mary Stevenson, one day in the middle of winter, "Anne Townsend was not at school to-day, for her father is dead! Poor little girl! what will she do, for she has no mother?"

"She has a Father in heaven, Mary." "So she has, mother; but I do not be

"O! yes, ma'am, I suppose so; but her mother keeps a little shop, and I do not like to play with her. Besides she wears leather shoes on a Sabbath, and just look how her frock is patched!"

"And who, Anne, has given you your nice merino frock and morocco shoes?" "O, my father, ma'am ; my father gives me everything I want."

"But who gives your father his life and strength to labor for your comfort?" "God," said Anne, a little confused. "And if it is the will of God that you should have a father able to give you nice clothing, and Ellen Smith one who can only keep her in a patched frock, are you to be praised, or she blamed? Remember that what God has given he can take away. And which is the better girl of the two-which is the more useful child? Every morning early, though ever so cold, you may see little Ellen carrying home a large pitcher of milk from market; and then, before she has tasted a mouthful of food, she hastens to the workshop with her father's breakfast. All the morning she is engaged in taking care of her little brothers and sisters, nursing the baby, or doing some piece of household work for

me, and so I always think directly—I mean very soon-that when I get anything my Heavenly Father has given it to me; but Anne used to say, ' My father gave it to me,' or, 'My father will buy it for me;' do, dear mother, let me run up and tell her about her Father in heaven, for she hangs round her father's coffin and screams that they shall not bury him. Maybe when she knows that she has another Father she will not cry so."

Good little Mary was not suffered to see her friend until after the funeral of Mr. Townsend, and then she lay so stupid that Mrs. Jones sent for Mary, hoping she might rouse her.