drink, or wear, though Heaven knows there is little enough of such
things in Lisdara.

"The quicker you wear 'em out, the better you'll suit me," she says
to the awestricken Lisdarians. "I'm a workin' woman myself, an'

it's my ladies' money I've spent this time; but I'll make out to
keep you in brooms and scrubbin' brushes, if only you'll use 'em!

You mustn't take offence at anything I say to you, for I'm part
Irish--my grandmother was Mary Boyce of Trim; and if she hadn't come

away and settled in Salem, Massachusetts, mebbe I wouldn't have
known a scrubbin' brush by sight myself!"

Chapter XXI. Lachrymae Hibernicae.
'What ails you, Sister Erin, that your face

Is, like your mountains, still bedewed with tears?
. . . . . . .

Forgive! forget! lest harsher lips should say,
Like your turf fire, your rancour smoulders long,

And let Oblivion strew Time's ashes o'er your wrong.'
Alfred Austin.

At tea-time, and again after our simple dinner--for Bridget
Thunder's repertory is not large, and Benella's is quite unsuited to

the Knockcool markets--we wend our way to a certain house that
stands by itself on the road to Lisdara. It is only a whitewashed

cabin with green window trimmings, but it is a larger and more
comfortable one than we commonly see, and it is the perfection of

neatness within and without. The stone wall that encloses it is
whitewashed too, and the iron picketrailing at the top is painted

bright green; the stones on the posts are green also, and there is
the prettiest possible garden, with nicely cut borders of box. In

fine, if ever there was a cheery place to look at, Sarsfield Cottage
is that one; and if ever there was a cheerless gentleman, it is Mr.

Jordan, who dwells there. Mrs. Wogan Odevaine commended him to us
as the man of all others with whom to discuss Irish questions, if we

wanted, for once in a way, to hear a thoroughly disaffected,
outraged, wrong-headed, and rancorous view of things.

"He is an encyclopaedia, and he is perfectlydelightful on any topic
in the universe but the wrongs of Ireland," said she; "not entirely

sane and yet a good father, and a good neighbour, and a good talker.
Faith, he can abuse the English government with any man alive! He

has a smaller grudge against you Americans, perhaps, than against
most of the other nations, so possibly he may elect to discuss

something more cheerful than our national grievances; if he does,
and you want a livelier topic, just mention--let me see--you might

speak of Wentworth, who destroyed Ireland's woollen industry, though
it is true he laid the foundation of the linen trade, so he wouldn't

do, though Mr. Jordan is likely to remember the former point and
forget the latter. Well, just breathe the words 'Catholic

Disqualification' or 'Ulster Confiscation,' and you will have as
pretty a burst of oratory as you'd care to hear. You remember that

exasperated Englishman who asked in the House why Irishmen were
always laying bare their grievances. And Major O'Gorman bawled

across the floor, "Because they want them redressed!"
Salemina and I went to call on Mr. Jordan the very next day after

our arrival at Knockcool. Over the sitting-room or library door at
Sarsfield Cottage is a coat of arms with the motto of the Jordans,

'Percussus surgam'; and as our friend is descended from Richard
Jordan of Knock, who died on the scaffold at Claremorris in the

memorable year 1798, I find that he is related to me, for one of the
De Exeter Jordans married Penelope O'Connor, daughter of the king of

Connaught. He took her to wife, too, when the espousal of anything
Irish, names, language, apparel, customs, or daughters, was high

treason, and meant instant confiscation of estates. I never thought
of mentioning the relationship, for obviously a family cannot hold

grievances for hundreds of years and bequeath a sense of humour at
the same time.

The name Jordan is derived, it appears, from a noble ancestor who
was banner-bearer in the Crusades and who distinguished himself in

many battles, but particularly in one fought against the infidels on
the banks of the River Jordan in the Holy Land. In this conflict he

was felled to the ground three times during the day, but owing to
his gigantic strength, his great valour, and the number of the

Saracens prostrated by his sword, he succeeded in escaping death and
keeping the banner of the Cross hoisted; hence by way of eminence he

was called Jordan; and the motto of this illustrious family ever
since has been, 'Though I fall I rise.'

Mr. Jordan's wife has been long dead, but he has four sons, only one
of them, Napper Tandy, living at home. Theobald Wolfe Tone is

practising law in Dublin; Hamilton Rowan is a physician in Cork; and
Daniel O'Connell, commonly called 'Lib' (a delicatereference to the

Liberator), is still a lad at Trinity. It is a great pity that Mr.
Jordan could not have had a larger family, that he might have kept

fresh in the national heart the names of a few more patriots; for
his library walls, 'where Memory sits by the altar she has raised to

Woe,' are hung with engravings and prints of celebrated insurgents,
rebels, agitators, demagogues, denunciators, conspirators,--pictures

of anybody, in a word, who ever struck a blow, right or wrong, well
or ill judged, for the green isle. That gallant Jacobite, Patrick

Sarsfield, Burke, Grattan, Flood, and Robert Emmet stand shoulder to
shoulder with three Fenian gentlemen, names Allan, Larkin, and

O'Brien, known in ultra-Nationalist circles as the 'Manchester
martyrs.' For some years after this trio was hanged in Salford

jail, it appears that the infant mind was sadly mixed in its attempt
to separate knowledge in the concrete from the more or less abstract

information contained in the Catechism; and many a bishop was
shocked, when asking in the confirmation service, "Who are the

martyrs?" to be told, "Allan, Larkin, and O'Brien, me lord!"
Francesca says she longs to smuggle into Mr. Jordan's library a

picture of Tom Steele, one of Daniel O'Connell's henchmen, to whom
he gave the title of Head Pacificator of Ireland. Many amusing

stories are told of this official, of his gaudy uniform, his strut
and swagger, and his pompous language. At a political meeting on

one occasion, he attacked, it seems, one Peter Purcell, a Dublin
tradesman who had fallen out with the Liberator on some minor

question. "Say no more on the subject, Tom," cried O'Connell, who
was in the chair, "I forgive Peter from the bottom of my heart."

"You may forgive him, liberator and saviour of my country," rejoined
Steele, in a characteristic burst of his amazinglyfervent rhetoric.

"Yes, you, in the discharge of your ethereal functions as the moral
regenerator of Ireland, may forgive him; but, revered leader, I also

have functions of my own to perform; and I tell you that, as Head
Pacificator of Ireland, I can never forgive the diabolical villain

that dared to dispute your august will."
The doughty Steele, who appears to have been but poorly fitted by

nature for his office, was considered at the time to be half a
madman, but as Sir James O'Connell, Daniel's candid brother, said,

"And who the divil else would take such a job?" At any rate, when
we gaze at Mr. Jordan's gallery, imagining the scene that would

ensue were the breath of life breathed into the patriots' quivering
nostrils, we feel sure that the Head Pacificator would be kept busy.

Dear old white-haired Mr. Jordan, known in select circles as
'Grievance Jordan,' sitting in his library surrounded by his

denunciators, conspirators, and martyrs, with incendiary documents
piled mountains high on his desk--what a pathetic anachronism he is

after all!
The shillelagh is hung on the wall now, for the most part, and

faction fighting is at an end; but in the very last moments of it
there were still 'ructions' between the Fitzgeralds and the

Moriartys, and the age-old reason of the quarrel was, according to
the Fitzgeralds, the betrayal of the 'Cause of Ireland.' The

particular instance occurred in the sixteenth century, but no
Fitzgerald could ever afterward meet any Moriarty at a fair without

crying, "Who dare tread on the tail of me coat?" and inviting him to
join in the dishcussion with shticks. This practically is Mr.