The case of the rayah Greek gentleman is
pitiable. He is obliged by law or custom
to wear a distinctive dress; he is
exposed to personal insult and contumely;
his dignity is never safe; his property is by
no means so secure as it ought to be. Most
of the honourable careers of life are closed to
him. He is a mere dweller in the land. He
cannot be a patriot; for he has no share in
his country's danger or her glory. Her victories
only rivet his chains. I say plainly, that
unless we insist upon the Porte emancipating
her Christian subjects, we shall have the
majority of them constantly working against
us, by all possible means, in the present
struggle; and there is a great doubt if in the
end public opinion will not get gradually
much more in favour of the Greeks than it
has been; not from any faith or hope in
them; but from the natural sympathy of
Englishmen with all those who are
oppressed.

RECOLLECTIONS

As strangers, you and I are here;
     We both as aliens stand,
Where once, in years gone by, I dwelt
     No stranger in the land.
Then while you gaze on park and stream,
     Let me remain apart,
And listen to the awakened sound
     Of voices in my heart!

Here, where upon the velvet lawn
     The cedar spreads its shade,
And by the flower-beds all around,
     Bright roses bloom and fade;
Shrill merry childish laughter rings,
     And baby voices sweet,
And by me, on the path, I hear
     The tread of little feet.

Down the dark avenue of limes,
     Whose perfume loads the air,
Whose boughs are rustling overhead,
     (For the west wind is there),
I hear the sound of earnest talk,
     Warnings and counsels wise,
And the quick questioning that brought
     The gentle calm replies.

I hear, within the shady porch
     Once more, the measured sound
Of the old ballads that were read,
     While we sat listening round;
The starry passion-flower still
     Up the green trellice climbs;
The tendrils waving seem to keep
     The cadence of the rhymes.

I might have striven, and striven in vain,
     Such visions to recall,
Well known and yet forgotten; now
     I see, I hear, them all!
The present pales before the past,
     Who comes with angel wings;
As in a dream I stand, amidst
     Strange yet familiar things!

And the light bridge hangs o'er the lake,
     Where broad-leaved lilies lie,
And the cool water shows again
     The cloud that moves on high;—
And One voice speaks, in tones I thought
     The past for ever kept;
But now I know, deep in my heart
     Its echoes only slept!

THE LAST HOWLEY OF KILLOWEN.

AT the beginning of the year seventeen
hundred and ninety-eight, a respectable
family, named Howley, resided in the
neighbourhood of Wexford, in Ireland. They
consisted of the father; two sons, Mark and
Robert; and a daughter, named Ellen. That
was the year of the Great Rebellion, when the
patriot volunteers having taken successively
the titles of United Irishmen and Defenders,
openly declared themselves in revolt, against
the government of the sister country. The
civil war raged fiercely in the southern
provinces; and the Howleys speedily became
involved in it. The father, who assumed the
title of colonel, and placed himself at the head
of an armed band, chiefly composed of
peasants on his own estate, fell, fighting, at the
battle at Vinegar Hill. Both the sons were
taken prisoners with arms in their hands by
the king's troops, during the terrible fight in
the streets of Ross: and Mark, who was the
elder, was shot, without trial, on the spot
where he was captured; Robert, being a slim
youth of fifteen—and of an appearance even
younger than his years—was spared, and
sent to Dublin for trial. His sister Ellen, who
was then a girl of seventeen, and of very
remarkable beauty, set out without consulting
any one—indeed, there were few who dared
trust to the advice of another in that terrible
time—contrived to traverse a country, still
swarming with troops and insurgents, and
arrived safely in Dublin.

There, with no friend or acquaintance in the
city, she remained from the month of June
until the February of the following year. During
that time she was not allowed to see or
communicate with her brother; but the misfortunes
of her family, and the loneliness of her
situation, transformed the young girl into a
self-reliant woman. Every day was
methodically spent in some endeavour, direct
or indirect, to save her brother's life. She
sought for friends, and succeeded in
interesting those who had been mere strangers.
Day after day she haunted the courts,
listening to the speeches of the various
counsel, in order herself to form a judgment
of their skill. When she had fixed
upon one to undertake her brother's
defence, she instructed him herself, paying
his fees out of a little treasure she had
brought with her, and which had been kept
by her father against a time of need.

The barrister whom she had chosen was a
young man named Roche, then but little