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ending in the indecisive Battle of Sheriffmuir, of which the bicentenary occurs on the 13th of November. Tickell sang at the time" Then down shall fall the King of Perth."

Although Charles Edward was crowned at Edinburgh, recovered Scotland, marched as far south as Derby, and twice defeated disciplined British armies, at Prestonpans and at Falkirk, he too was obliged to fly. Culloden is the end of Jacobitism. But the fidelity of the Highlanders after Culloden is even better than their two victories.

The Prince whose birth caused the Revolution, the War, and the "July Anniversaries" was as sincere a Catholic as his father. Towards the end of the reign of Anne he might have become King of England if he would but have turned Protestant. But he refused, and his refusal has gained the warm commendation of even so strong a Whig as Thackeray, whose unfair representation of this Prince in Henry Esmond caused a contemporary Protestant writer to remonstrate thus:-" It is highly questionable how far, even in fiction, it is allowable thus to put historical characters in an unworthy light, the alleged facts being wholly baseless."

Lastly this brief chronicle of

Old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago

may fitly be concluded by the reminder that the Royal Declaration, so much discussed a few years ago, was framed undoubtedly with the object of excluding from the throne the Catholic Stuarts.

DILLON COSGRAVE, O.C.C.

PROVIDENCE

When wild winds wail o'er land and sea,
When fall the snow and rain,
God guards the buds on shrub and tree,
The wild flowers on the plain;
And when the dreary winter days
Are time that once has been
The daisies rise, the kingcups blaze,
The earth wears gold and green.
And in the darkest winter night
Of storm and tempest sore,

As in the sunshine warm and bright,
God rules the wide world o'er.

In troubled days, in days of stress,
In kingdoms great and small,
When war clouds burst, and dangers press,
When empire's rise and fall.

When stout hearts quail and brave men die
As they their war brands wield

God guards the skylarks soaring high,
The lilies of the field.

O'er high and low, o'er friend and foe,

O'er cot and citadel,

Where the sun shines, where tempests blow,

God wisely rules and well.

MAGDALEN ROCK.

Μ'

A GROSS DECEPTION

By NORA TYNAN O'MAHONY.

Y friend Miss K's house is the most inspiring proof and example I know of what may be made. out of the most unpromising material by a person of taste and mental resource, at the expenditure, of course, of a good deal of energy and thought, and inevitably also of a certain fairly moderate, however amount of money.

Once an old police-barrack, rendered useless and derelict by the modern peaceful conditions of the country, it long stood bare and ugly in all save its situation. An almost typical Irish dwelling of the comfortable farmhouse variety, built in the commonplace two-storied style, with three front windows above, and one on each side of the hall door below, it looked out on a fair, green prospect of hill and field and woodland that, whether bared by the winter breeze, or greening softly under the breath of spring, or burnt red-gold and russet by autumnal suns and frosts, looked always beautiful, and peaceful, and satisfying.

The house itself, standing a few paces back from and quite parallel with the road, was, as I first remembered it, quite innocent of embellishing green leaf or blossom. Hardly a tree or bush, indeed, broke the cold and cheerless monotony of its immediate surroundings save for two or three gnarled and unpruned old apple-trees that braved the mountain breeze in a small green paddock by its side.

The

Now, how all has been changed-and most of it, moreover, by my friend's own tireless and capable small hands! bare outer walls are covered up with roses and clematis, and a number of other climbing and beautiful things; the halldoor is transformed by a roomy glass porch, on the shelves of which stand pots of every tinted glowing blossom as in season. Rose-covered arches lead one from the gay and well-kept little

front garden to the large garden and paddock on either side. A neat lean-to green-house filled with every specimen of hothouse plants, roses, heliotrope, passion flowers, petunia, geranium, lily, and all the flowers that blow, make a thing of beauty of the otherwise ugly gable-end of the house.

Lower down in the garden stands a smaller green-house devoted to the culture of tomatoes, and-when they are out of season-of seedlings and plant-cuttings; while the garden itself is such a wonderful riot of blossom and fragrance as makes passing travellers" long in city pent," school-going children, and others, stand and gaze over the low intervening hedge by the roadside with happy, half-envious sighs as though that low barrier stood between them and Heaven.

Roses crimson, white, yellow and pink, garland the arches that plentifully overhang each little garden walk. Other arches there are of lilac or laburnum, of purple and white clematis. Giant pink holly-hocks, sky-blue and purple delphiniums, columbines and penstemons of every hue, lift their gay heads against the trellis; each finely gravelled path is bordered by a well-nigh innumerable variety of smaller plants and flowers, pansies, primroses, bachelor's buttons, and so on. Then there is the high rockery beyond the little river, a glowing mass in Spring of yellows and purples, pinks and blues; and the little stream itself, finding its way cheerily in under an old Irish archway beneath the road, and singing a low little sweet song as it spreads along under two or three alluring rustic bridges, past banks lavishly beautified by every species of sweet-smelling, water-loving plants.

And then, up and down through part of the garden, run little beds of thyme and mint and sage and celery, to add their special delightful fragrances to the general aroma; with rows of gooseberries, currants, raspberries and strawberries in the background; and on the other side of the house, half the paddock given over to the culture of cabbages and potatoes, while the remaining portion is the undisputed possession of Bessie, a fat and over-petted donkey with a decided and often clamorous taste for apples, sweets, and other goodies.' At the back are very neat outhouses, for the most part wooden, and built by their owner herself; who has also tiled some of the garden walks, cemented others, and made and hung fine

wooden gates here and there in a way that any trained workman might feel proud of.

Within doors, need it be said, all is tasteful and comfortable in the highest degree. Charming pictures, china, brica-brac, ivories, ebonies, polished brasswork, together with the solid and beautiful old furniture and fittings; and flowers, flowers everywhere, make of this quaint little homestead at the foot of the lonely hills an ideal place of beauty, contented peace and hospitality. There is no scarcity either of good books, or of music; and not alone is there a grand piano of beautiful tone but a small organ also, to say nothing of a more commonplace and very excellent gramophone, to enliven the quiet of its chief bright sitting-room, looking on to the conservatory, and the garden and the road.

A visit to this hospitable house is always sure to be a pleasant one, especially at Christmas time, when every window is brightly lit up, and the whole house gaily decorated with wreaths and garlands, tinsel, and Chinese lanterns, and bells of silver and rose and gold, to do honour to the Christchild, and to the little children, a great deal more poor than rich, who are bidden there because of Him each Christmas, for a whole long happy afternoon and evening of innocent and delightful fun and pleasure.

There is always a bountifully spread tea, with pounds and pounds of cake and sweets and jams and biscuits, to be followed by a highly enjoyable magic-lantern display. Then there is dancing and singing, solos and choruses, jigs, reels, Highland flings, and recitations, to which all the little people are expected to contribute their part. And last, though not least, there is usually a Christmas Tree, hung from the topmost to the bottom bough with toys and tinsel and glowing lights, and sending many a thrill of delightful anticipation through tender little joyful childish hearts.

This year, however, there was to be no Christmas Tree, our kind hostess took care to warn all her guests beforehand. One and all regretted it, but nobody ever thought of complaining. No doubt the cruel War was accountable for this, as so many other drawbacks and deficits of late-though Miss K-, to be sure, had never said so. And just as many little pairs of rough-shod little feet sped eagerly this year over the

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