An indescribable scene ensued. The most
dreadful imprecations burst forth from the
wretched prisoners. M'Elarney, an old and
malignant convict, vented his rage by cursing
the counsel who had pleaded against him, and
by frequently interrupting the judge in
pronouncing the awful sentence of death. "I
don't care! I don't care what you do with
me!" was the incessant cry of the inhuman
miscreant.

The ten murderers were hung at Dundalk on
the 9th of March. The ninety other villains
who had danced round the funeral pile of the
Lynches escaped.

In his charge at Armagh, immediately after
these executions, Judge Fletcher gave a history
of the bygone persecutions of the Catholics of
Armagh by the Orangemen and Break of Day
men, who had ruthlessly driven thousands of
persons from the country, or, to use their
own cruel language, "to hell or Connaught."
These wanton and unprovoked persecutions,
unchecked by the magistrates, magnified by
designing and traitorous persons, had led to the
fatal origination of the Ribbonmen's associations
and subsequently to the deplorable rebellion
of 'Ninety-eight, with all its attendant
atrocities and cruel massacres.

The excellent and wise judge concluded with
a few sentences which were as thoughtful as
they were true. "No good," he said, "can
accrue to you from the persecution of your
neighbours who may believe a little more or a
little less, who may worship God in a different
temple, or with different observances. The law
knows no difference, regards no distinction of
colour or pretension. For myself, I think it
right to say to you, gentlemen, that I regard all
these associations as illegal. I care not what
the body, whether green or orange, nor what
the pretence, nor what the profession—all, I
say, are illegal."

It is in crimes like this burning of Wildgoose
Lodge that we see the darker side of the fine
Irish character, its impetuous courage turned
into cruelty, its deep religious feeling into fetish
superstition, its pining for liberty into secret
and cowardly conspiracy. Can we wonder that
such crimes as this and the Scullabogue,
Wexford, and Vinegar-hill massacres, forced the
English into severity and repression?

IN THE SHADOW.

  SITTING in the shadow, singing
    Such a sober song,
  Sure thou dost the merry season
    And the sunshine wrong!
  Forth among thy venturous brethren,
    Where great deeds are done;
  Only in the wide arena
    Is the garland won.
  Fame and honours are the guerdon
    Of the bold and strong.
  Singer, in the shadow singing
    Such a serious song,
  What if unto thee derision
    And neglect belong?

  While thy slow reluctant fingers
    On the lute-strings lie,
  Eager crowds to crown thy rivals
    Pass thee careless by.
  And thou sittest, singing, singing,
    Through the silence lone,
  To the same sad burden ringing
    Mournful monotone.
  And the busy will not hearken,
    Nor the idle heed,
  The ambitious do not prize thee,
    Nor the happy need.
  Come forth to the sunshine, singer,
    'Mong the haunts of men,
  Tune thy harp to blither measures—
    They will hear thee then.

  Far above my compeers
    Could'st thou lift me now,
  Wreathing with their laurels
    My triumphant brow,
  By my syren singing,
    Not a soul unmoved—
  In all hearts enthrone me,
    Chosen and beloved,
  More than Balak proffer'd
    To the recreant seer,
  All the mighty covet,
    And the proud hold dear,
  Should not, could not, tempt me,
    To a softer strain;
  I must sing my song out,
    Though I sing in vain.

  As the Master guides it,
    So the hand must play,
  And the words He whispers
    Need'st must have their way.
  Let the world turn from me
    With a mute disdain,
  I must speak my message,
    Though I speak in vain;
  I must sing my song out,
    Though I sing in vain.

  Let men hurry by me,
    As they will to-day;
  There will come a morrow
    When they need'st must stay,
  When they need'st must listen,
    Murmur as they may.
  Therefore in the shadow
    Leave me singing on;
  They will surely seek me
    At the set of sun,
  When life's day is waning,
    And her hopes are gone.

DROPPED PROVERBS.

THE play of Hamlet is generally thought to
appear to disadvantage, and to endanger the
author's fame, on such occasions as where, in
consequence of the indisposition of Mr.
Hopkins, the Prince of Denmark is, "for this night
only," taken out of the bill. Othello, and no
Moor, is a spectacle which we should vastly
prefer witnessing by proxy. In the Merchant
of Venice, we could not well spare the Jew.
We recollect a passage or two where the
dialogue would run tamely without Shylock. What
an apple is to an apple-dumpling, these
ingredients are precisely to those dramas—core and