followed them; and they often remarked the attentive
and penetrating look with which his deep-
set black eyes regarded them, and especially M.
Ragon. "It is Melmoth," they told him, "who
is trying to make a bargain for your soul."
Seriously, if they had not been in America
(where there are neither spies nor secret
agents*), they might have fancied that some
vigilant and protective administration had
imposed upon them this singular travelling
companion; for he could not be mistaken for one
of the agents of publicity who were incessantly
running between their legs, and who,
moreover, take no pains to conceal their
interested curiosity, but who seized their victims
by the arm, to demand their names, surnames,
quality, condition, and other biographical
details.

* Very doubtful indeed.

At last, one fine day, in the middle of Lake
Huron, the mysterious gentleman took a decisive
step. As if unable to keep his oppressive
secret any longer, he stalked straight up to
Baron Mercier, and requested a moment's
conversation. Then, introducing himself by name
(which is Irish) and title (major in the American
militia), he told him that he had every reason to
believe M. Ragon to be, like himself, of Irish
origin; that he consequently could not doubt
the French colonel's sharing the sentiments of
the immense population, of the same race and
the same religion with himself, which is spread
over the territory of the United States; that
those sentiments involved implacable hatred of
England, the spoiler of their common ancestors,
the mortal enemy of their unhappy brethren who
still remain bound to the soil of their ancient
country. Thereupon the major entered into the
most extraordinary details respecting a vast and
mysterious association which, he said, embraced
the totality of Irish Americans, and whose object
is not only to sustain and perpetuate in the New
World their glorious nationality exiled from the
Old, but also one day to carry back to the land
of oppressors the evils with which they have
crushed their victims. He asserted that this
gigantic league is completely organised, that its
financial and military resources are quite ready;
that fifty thousand armed Irishmen, enrolled in
regiments, only await a signal, the occasion of a
war, and of European support, to invade England,
and gratify, by setting fire to London, a
vengeance of which the Celtic race preserves in its
heart the hope and the secret ever since King
Arthur's death. He concluded by saying that
Ragon's reputation, and his position in the
French army, designated him, together with an
illustrious marshal, as one of the men whom
Ireland would remind, when the supreme struggle
arrived, of their origin and the sorrows of their
ancestors!

A confidential communication like this was
rather perplexing for a minister of the French
Emperor. Whatever allowance might be made
for the major's personal excitement, his hopes
and his projects were not the less founded on
the perfectly incontestable hatred which the Irish
Americans bear to England—a hatred which
emigration, far from extinguishing, has rendered
more lasting and terrible. The baron could not
with decency appear to lend an ear to the
revelation of a sort of plot, however imaginary. He
escaped the difficulty by assuring the mysterious
stranger that he was utterly mistaken as to
Ragon's nationality; that the Ragons were
Frenchmen and Burgundians from father to son;
and that he was not aware of his (Ragon's) having
any political hatred, either personal or inherited,
from his ancestors.

The major seemed completely upset by this
statement. He hung about the party for
a little while longer, and then suddenly
disappeared at one of the numerous stoppages
which the steamer made on the banks of the
lake.

On reading this, Mr. Cobden may admit that,
even if the major were not raving mad, and even
if the French have no intention of troubling us,
still a little volunteering now and then may be
indulged in, without committing a national sin.

THE HOME-WOOD.

AND here's the wood again where I,
Long years ago, shot hawk and pigeon;
And yonder, through that clump of beech,
I see the lake—the haunt of widgeon
(The blue sky's little looking-glass),
Where oft I swam, and oft I boated ,
And there, by yonder osier clump,
The lily floats, as lilies floated.

Still the nut-bush wide-branching rears
Its springy rods, so gay with tassels,
Where the great oak a monarch stands,
Girt round by the young trees—his vassals.
The ground is purple still with leaves,
Or with green mosses velvet padded,
In those long ridings of the wood,
Where often on my cob I've gadded.

There, where the violets purple blow—
I've roused the rabbit from the copse,
With beagles, beaters, cries, and whoops,
That shook the cones from the fir-tops;
And often down the leaf-strewn bank
The rabbits that my Manton slew
Rolled, and the white fluff of their fur—
Upon the bramble tendrils blew.

And there, when evening clouds were warm,
And flushed the lake with rosy red,
I paced with Kate, and plighted troth—
Dear Kate! now fifteen summers dead.
She chided me for wayward moods;
I plucked the holly twig unseen;
Then cried, "This leaf is rough with thorns,
Yet, like my love, 'tis ever green."

The blackbird whistled in the wood,
And skirting it the kine were browsing;
The night was lowering dark and fast,
Good things of day were slowly housing;
When, as she put her hand in mine,
I kissed her little lip of rose,
And then we walked and whispered love,
And we were happy, Heaven knows!