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CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY was born in Dublin, in 1811, and was educated at Trinity College in that city. He went to Canada, where he occupied an official position for some time, and finally to New York, where he wrote regularly for the newspapers and magazines, and published several works. He died in Florida in 1875.


As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping

With a pitcher of milk for the fair of Coleraine,
When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,

And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.
Oh, what shall I do now?'T was looking at you now!

I'm sure such a pitcher I'll ne'er see again.
'T was the pride of my dairy. Oh, Barney McCleary,

You 're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine.”

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her

That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her

She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'T was the baymaking season I can't tell the reason

Misfortunes will never come single, 't is plain! For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster

The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.


Speed on, speed on, good master!

The camp lies far away;
We must cross the haunted valley

Before the close of day.

1 This very popular song, often wrongly attributed to Lysaght, is based on an old story, of which one version will be found in ‘La Cruche 'by M. Autereau, a contemporary of La Fontaine, the fabulist, which is included in some editions of the latter's works. “ Coleraine ” is generally pronounced in Ireland Col'raine.

How the snow-blight came upon me

I will tell you as we go,
The blight of the Shadow-hunter,

Who walks the midnight snow.

To the cold December heaven

Came the pale moon and the stars, As the yellow sun was sinking

Behind the purple bars.

The snow was deeply drifted

Upon the ridges drear,
That lay for miles around me

And the camp from which we steer.

'T was silent on the hillside,

And by the solemn wood No sound of life or motion

To break the solitude,

Save the wailing of the moose-bird

With a plaintive note and low, And the skating of the red leaf

Upon the frozen snow.

And said I, –“ Though dark is falling,

And far the camp must be,
Yet my heart it would be lightsome,

If I had but company.'

And then I sang and shouted,

Keeping measure, as I sped, To the harp twang of the snow-shoe

As it sprang beneath my tread;

Nor far into the valley

Had I dipped upon my way, When a dusky figure joined me,

In a capuchon of gray,

Bending upon the snow-shoes,

With a long and limber stride; And I hailed the dusky stranger,

As we traveled side by side.

But no token of communion

Gave he by word or look,
And the fear chill fell upon me

At the crossing of the brook.

For I saw by the sickly moonlight,

As I followed, bending low, That the walking of the stranger

Left no footmarks on the snow.

Then the fear-chill gathered o'er me,

Like a shroud around me cast, As I sank upon the snow-drift

Where the Shadow-hunter passed.

And the otter-trappers found me,

Before the break of day, With my dark hair blanched and whitened

As the snow in which I lay.

But they spoke not as they raised me;

For they knew that in the night I had seen the Shadow-hunter,

And had withered in his blight.

Sancta Maria speed us !

The sun is falling low,Before us lies the valley

Of the Walker of the Snow!



GEORGE BERNARD SHAW was born in Dublin, July 26, 1856. He was for some time a Land Agent in the West of Ireland. He went to London when he was twenty years old, and for a good many years has been prominently before the public as a leading exponent of the cause of socialism in politics. He founded the Fabian Society, and has helped to spread a knowledge of it and its aims by the brilliant lectures which he has given from time to time on this side of the Atlantic.

Mr. Shaw was always a musical enthusiast. He has a profound knowledge of the subject, and has written musical criticisms for the leading London papers.

He began his literary career as a novelist, and produced some very robust work. His Cashel Byron's Profession' was a fresh and delightful book. His · Widowers' Houses 'was produced by the Independent Theater in 1892. Two years later · Arms and the Man' made a great success, and since then a new play by Mr. Shaw has always been an event of the first importance to playgoers. His • Obiter Dicta' set all the town laughing ; his wisdom jests with a

grave face.


From Cashel Byron's Profession.'

Mrs. Hoskyn considered obscurity beautiful; and her rooms were but dimly lighted by two curious lanterns of pink glass, within which were vaporous flames. In the middle of the larger apartment was a small table covered with garnet-colored plush, with a reading-desk upon it, and two candles in silver candlesticks, the light of which, being brighter than the lanterns, cast strong double shadows from a group of standing figures about the table. The surrounding space was crowded with chairs, occupied chiefly by ladies. Behind them, along the wall, stood a row of men, among whom was Lucian Webber.

All were staring at Cashel Byron, who was making a speech to some bearded and spectacled gentlemen at the table. Lydia, who had never before seen him either in evening dress or quite at his ease, was astonished at his bearing. His eyes were sparkling, his confidence overbore the company, and his rough voice created the silence it broke. He was in high good-humor, and markeü his periods by the swing of his extended left arm, while he held his right hand close to his body and occasionally pointed his remarks by slyly wagging his forefinger.

“-executive power,” he was saying as Lydia entered. “That's a very good expression, gentlemen, and one that I can tell you a lot about. We have been told that if we want to civilize our neighbors we must do it mainly by the example of our own lives, by each becoming a living illustration of the highest culture we know. But what I ask is, how is anybody to know that you 're an illustration of culture? You can't go about like a sandwich man with a label on your back to tell all the fine notions you have in your head, and you may be sura no person will consider your mere appearance preferable to his own. You want an executive power; that's what you want. Suppose you walked along the street and saw a man beating a woman, and setting a bad example to the roughs. Well, you would be bound to set a good example to them; and, if you ’re men, you'd like to save the woman; but you couldn't do it by merely living; for that would be setting the bad example of passing on and leaving the poor creature to be beaten. What is it that you need to know then, in order to act up to your fine ideas? Why, you want to know how to hit him, when to hit him, and where to hit him; and then you want the nerve to go in and do it. That's executive power; and that's what's wanted worse than sitting down and thinking how good you are, which is what this gentleman's teaching comes to after all. Don't you see? You want executive power to set an example. If you leave all that to the roughs, it 's their example that will spread, and not yours.

And look at the politics of it. We've heard a good deal about the French to-night. Well, they've got executive power. They know how to make a barricade, and how to fight behind it when they've made it. What's the result? Why, the French, if they only knew what they wanted, could have it to-morrow for the asking-more's the pity that they don't know. In this country we can do nothing; and if the lords and the landlords, or any other collection of nobs, were to drive us into the sea, what could we do but go? There's a gentleman laughing at me for saying that;

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