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leave his body to find its proper balance of its own accord. If the painter of that picture had known his business he would never have sent his man up to the scratch in such a figure and condition as that. But you can see with one eye that he didn't understand-I won't say the principles of fighting, but the universal principles that I've told you of, that ease and strength, effort and weakness, go together. Now," added Cashel, again addressing Lucian; "do you still think that notion of mine nonsense?" And he smacked his lips with satisfaction; for his criticism of the picture had produced a marked sensation, and he did not know that this was due to the fact that the painter, Mr. Adrian Herbert, was present.
Lucian tried to ignore the question; but he found it impossible to ignore the questioner. "Since you have set the example of expressing opinions without regard to considerations of common courtesy," he said, shortly, "I may say that your theory, if it can be called one, is manifestly absurd."
Cashel, apparently unruffled, but with more deliberation of manner than before, looked about him as if in search of a fresh illustration. His glance finally rested on the lecturer's seat, a capacious crimson damask arm-chair that stood unoccupied at some distance behind Lucian.
"I see you're no judge of a picture," said he, goodhumoredly, putting down the candle, and stepping in front of Lucian, who regarded him haughtily, and did not budge. "But just look at it in this way. Suppose you wanted to hit me the most punishing blow you possibly could. What would you do? Why, according to your own notion, you'd make a great effort. The more effort the more force,' you'd say to yourself. I'll smash him even if I burst myself in doing it.' And what would happen then? You'd only cut me and make me angry, besides exhausting all your strength at one gasp. Whereas, if you took it easy-like this-" Here he made a light step forward and placed his open palm gently against the breast of Lucian, who instantly reeled back as if the piston-rod of a steam-engine had touched him, and dropped into the chair.
"There!" exclaimed Cashel, standing aside and pointing to him. "It's like pocketing a billiard-ball!"
A chatter of surprise, amusement, and remonstrance spread through the rooms; and the company crowded towards the table. Lucian rose, white with rage, and for a moment entirely lost his self-control. Fortunately, the effect was to paralyze him; he neither moved nor spoke, and only betrayed his condition by his pallor and the hatred in his expression. Presently he felt a touch on his arm and heard his name pronounced by Lydia. Her voice calmed him. He tried to look at her, but his vision was disturbed; he saw double; the lights seemed to dance before his eyes; and Lord Worthington's voice, saying to Cashel, "Rather too practical, old fellow," seemed to come from a remote corner of the room, and yet to be whispered into his ear. He was moving irresolutely in search of Lydia when his senses and his resentment were restored by a clap on the shoulder.
"You wouldn't have believed that now, would you?" said Cashel. "Don't look startled; you've no bones broken. You had your little joke with me in your own way; and I had mine in my own way."
P. A. SHEEHAN.
THE REV. P. A. SHEEHAN was born at Mallow on March 17, 1852, and was educated at Maynooth College. For some time he served on the English mission at Exeter. He was recalled to his native diocese of Cloyne in Ireland, where he was attached to the Cathedral of Queenstown for eight years. In 1895 he was appointed parish priest of Doneraile. Besides many contributions in prose and verse to periodicals on both sides of the Atlantic, he has published Geoffrey Austin, Student,' 'The Triumph of Failure,' My New Curate,' a most successful novel, and Luke Delmege,' also a novel. 'My New Curate' has been translated into many languages.
From 'Luke Delmege.'
Not the white cliffs of Dover, but the red loam of Devonshire downs, where the sandstone was capped by the rich teeming soil, saluted our young exile the following morning. He had risen early, and, shaking off the mephitis of a stuffy cabin, had rushed above, just as the sailors were swabbing the decks. Here he drew in long, deep breaths of the crisp, cool sea air, as he watched the furrows cut by the coulter of the sea-plow, or studied the white towns that lay so picturesquely under the ruddy cliffs. "And this is England," Luke thought. England, the far-reaching, the imperial, whose power is reverenced by white, and black, and bronzed races; and whose sovereignty stretches from the peaks of the Himalayas to the Alps of the southern archipelagoes." Luke couldn't understand it. She lay so quiet there in the morning sun, her landscapes stretched so peaceful and calm, that symbol of power, or of might far-reaching, there was none.
"I thought," said Luke, aloud, "that every notch in her cliffs was an embrasure, and that the mouths of her cannon were like nests in her rocks."
""T is the lion couchant et dormant," said a voice.
Luke turned and saw standing close by an officer of the ship, a clean-cut, trim, well-defined figure, clad in the blue cloth and gold lace of the service. His face, instead of the
red and bronze of the sailor, had an olive tinge, through which burned two glowing, gleaming brown eyes, which just then were sweeping the coast, as if in search of a signal.
"I have often had the same thoughts as you, sir," he said, as if anxious to continue the conversation, "as we swept along here under more troublous skies and over more turbulent seas than now. It is the silent and sheathed strength of England that is terrible. I have seen other powers put forth all their might by land and sea: I have not been moved. But I never approach the English coast without a feeling of awe."
"I dare say it is something to be proud of," said Luke, who was appreciative of this enthusiasm, but did not share it.
"Perhaps not," the officer replied; "it is destiny."
You see the Cornish coast," he continued, pointing to a dim haze far behind them, in which the outlines of the land were faintly penciled. "Would you believe that up to the dawn of our century, fifty years ago, that entire peninsula was Catholic? They had retained the Catholic faith from the times of the Reformation. Then there were no priests to be had; Wesley went down, and to-day they are the most bigoted Dissenters in England; and Cornwall will be the last county that will come back to the Church."
"Horrible!" said Luke, sadly.
"And yet so thin is the veneering of Protestantism that their children are still called by the names of Catholic saints, Angela, and Ursula, and Teresa; and they have as many holy wells as you have in Ireland."
"It must be a heart-break to the priests," said Luke, "who have to minister amid such surroundings."
"I only speak of it as a matter of Fate," said the officer, dreamily. "It is the terrific power of assimilation which Protestant England possesses."
"You must be proud of your great country," said Luke. "No, sir," said the officer, "I am not."
Luke looked at him with surprise.
"Ireland is my country," the officer said in reply, "and these are our countrymen." He pointed down into the lower deck, where, lying prostrate in various degrees of
intoxication, were four or five cattle-dealers. They had sought out the warmth of the boiler during the night; and there lay, unwashed and unkempt, in rather uninviting conditions. Their magnificent cattle, fed on Irish pastures, were going to feed the mouths of Ireland's masters, and tramped and lowed and moaned in hideous discord for food, and clashed their horns together as the vessel rolled on the waves. It was altogether an unpleasant exhibition, and Luke turned away with a sigh.
In the early afternoon, the boat, after sheering close under the Eddystone lighthouse, swept around the beautiful woodlands and shrublands of Mount Edgcumbe, and the splendid panorama of Plymouth harbor burst on the view. Here again Luke was disappointed. Everything looked so calm, and peaceful, and prosperous, that he found it difficult to understand that there to the left was one of the greatest dockyards and marine emporiums and storehouses in the world; and his eye ranged along until, hidden under the bosky covers and the abundant foliage of Mount Edgcumbe, he saw a long, low wall of concrete, and there were the bulldog mouths of England's cannon.
"Going ashore, sir?" said the chief mate, the officer who had previously accosted him.
"No," said Luke, dubiously.
"Let me introduce my wife and little girl, sir," he said politely. "We are running in, as I am leaving Marguerite with the Notre Dame nuns here."
"You are going further, Father?" said the lady, with frankly polite Irish manner.
Yes," said Luke, "I'm going to London. I have a sister Margaret also," he said, tenderly watching the child's eyes, "but we call her Margery."
"We shall be lonely after our little woman," said the officer; "but she will be in safe hands."
"Do you know what Marguerite means, little one?" said Luke.
"No, Father," said the child.
"It means a pearl. Be thou," he said, assuming a tone of unwonted solemnity, "a pearl of great price."
"Bless her, Father," said the Catholic mother. And Luke blessed the child.
All that day, whenever he had a spare moment from his