of laughter and demoniac exultation; the
murderers had secured all the doors, and, well armed,
had posted themselves round the house to drive
back any who should try to escape. They
mocked the shrieks of their victims; they danced
wildly about, in ferocious excitement; and let
off their guns into the flames. There were
seventeen human beings shut up in the Sheas'
house; they were well armed, and provided
with ammunition, but they do not seem to
have made any effort to fire on their enemies
from the windows, or to sell their lives dearly:
paralysed with terror, they had only the blind
instinct of trying to get out, all of them by the
same door. They struggled, fought, and impeded
each other, like rats in a burning barn, and were
found next morning piled up behind the front
door, an entangled blackened heap of what
had once been human beings—a confused and
horrible pile. One pitiful incident came to light
of the events of that night. Poor Kate Muhaly,
whose indiscretion had been the immediate cause
of all, was, as we have said, near her confinement.
The scorching heat and wild affright
brought on premature labour. When she felt
the first pains, she dragged herself to a wash-house,
where there was a large tub of water.
As soon as the child was born, she plunged the
little thing into the tub, holding its head above
water so that it might breathe. In the morning
her body was found, with the arm that had
held the child, hanging over the side of the tub.
The poor little baby had been burned too.
The building had burned rapidly; the roof
had fallen in, and the shrieks and groans were
silent, when assistance came. The glare of the
flames, and the noise of the shouting, and the
firing of the guns, were seen and heard to a great
distance. Philip Dillon, the nearest farmer,
suspected at once what was going on, and
called his labourers and servants, gave them
arms, and led them himself towards the Sheas'
dwelling, intending to help them; but he came
too late. The murderers were still on the
ground, but, as the party drew near, the roof
fell in, and no more shrieks were heard. Philip
Dillon and his party were inferior in numbers to
Mayer and his gang, and neither party wished to
attack the other. Mayer drew his men off, but
not before a cow-boy in Dillon's party who was
brother to one of Shea's servants had advanced
near enough to recognise Gorman quite
distinctly; he was with the gang enjoying his
revenge, and making his companions laugh by
mimicking the shrieks of the victims. On their
road they passed close to the place where the
miserable Mrs. Kelly was lying on the ground,
still alive, and sensible of the horrors she had
witnessed. She found her way home, and did
not say a word to her husband. The cow-boy
went to rouse up the poor old woman, his
mother, to tell her of his brother's fate. As
soon as she had a little recovered from the
shock of hearing it, she laid her commands on
him to keep silence lest the same doom should
come upon them too.

Next morning the news of what had happened
spread rapidly; the whole county gathered in
crowds; the police were on the alert; but not
a trace of the murderers could be found. The
cow-boy held his peace. Philip Dillon and his
men declared they had not come near enough to
recognise any one. Mrs. Kelly was examined
before the magistrates, but declared she knew
nothing.

An immense reward was offered for the
discovery of the murderers, but for a year and a
half all the researches of government were in
vain. The spot where the horrors had been
transacted, was shunned as an accursed spot,; but
nobody would help to denounce the perpetrators
of the horrible crime. Mary Kelly, who had
witnessed everything, led a haunted life; the recollection
of what she had seen, was more horrible
than the sight of the reality. She could not rest
in her bed, but arose night after night, to walk
round the blackened ruins of Shea's farm-house,
which had a horrible attraction for her. She spoke
to no one, but wandered about, too miserable to
live, and afraid to die. Her mind began to give
way under her horrible secret. She believed
that her cousin Kate Muhaly, holding her baby
in her arms, was constantly haunting her and
upbraiding her for not bringing the murderers to
justice. At last, unable to bear her misery any
longer, she revealed the secret to her priest in
confession. He urged her to inform the
magistrates; but it required all his authority, and long
exercise of it, before he could succeed. She was
a woman of great firmness, and would endure
any torture sooner than turn "informer." At
last the priest's words and the desire to give
rest to the soul of her cousin, prevailed.
Mary Kelly went to Captain Despard, a
magistrate, and told him all she knew about the
murder of the Sheas. Mayer, Gorman, and all
the gang, were arrested, brought to trial,
convicted, and executed.

We wish we could add what became of Mary
Kelly, but we do not know. It has been
mentioned that an immense reward had been offered
for the apprehension of the murderers; but
whether Mary Kelly took the money or not, is
not recorded. Amid the annals of Irish crime
and outrage, the murder of the Sheas bears
away the palm for atrocity.

A FRENCH VIEW OF STARS AND
STRIPES.

M. MAURICE SAND, son of Madame Dudevant,
had the fortune to travel in the United States, last
summer, with Prince Napoleon and the Princess
Clotilde. He was picked up in the prince's yacht
at Algiers, and, having accepted an invitation to
accompany the prince and princess to Lisbon,
remained with them in their subsequent
extended journeyings in America. After many
stoppages and excursions, he arrived with
them at New York, where M. Sand landed
with, as he says, a pair of eyes and ears, but
with no great pretensions to wisdom or powers
of discernment. He describes in a fragmentary
style what he saw and heard, and leaves his
readers to make their own deductions.

M. Sand's attention, after he had landed at