remain. Wife, sons, friends, all passed unto the silent grave! and in their stead two young, fresh faces, daintily beribboned forms, with "parisienne" in every line of them, sit working by the inlaid table. They are Charles Hugo's widow, remarried to a Député of the Left, M. Lockroy, who sits chatting with M. le Sécretaire in a corner; and her friend and guest, Madame Ménard-Dorian. The two grandchildren, Georges et Jeanne, are playing "cache-cache" in the shadows of the salle bleue with Madame Ménard's only child, while "ma tantine" as they call the late Madame Hugo's sister, Madame Chenay, flits to and fro, pouring out tea for the whole party. M. Hugo himself sits a little apart, beside the fireplace, in a great gilded arm-chair, exchanging an occasional word or two with his neighbour, Madame Drouet, an old lady who may still almost be called beautiful, with her soft, gracious face and abundant gray hair piled high above the placid forehead. She is said to have saved the poet's life, or, at the least, his liberty, when, after the coup d'etat, she conveyed him, concealed in her carriage, safely through and out of Paris -into exile. But the poet's face is sad to-night, and his eyes wander wistfully into the shadows as if seeking for some memory of the past, while his daughter's bright chatter fails to evoke interest or reply. She notices this, and calls her children to her. " Georges, Jeanne, come and dance for grandfather!" They rush in, laughing, little Jeanne springing upon her grandfather's knees, and covering him with kisses. Then in a second the table is pushed away, Madame Lockroy sits down to the piano, the bright little aunt comes forward to act dancing mistress, and the three children waltz and pirouette, perform dainty little minuets with exquisite precision and solemnity; Georges always calm and grave, with his pale, immovable, chiselled features and large dark eyes fixed intently on the ground, hardly smiling, hardly even playing like a child, and so princely in his bearing that one hardly dares treat him as one; while his little sister, with her clear gray-blue dancing eyes, long golden-brown curls, and merry face, frisks about, shrieking with laughter and playing all manner of tricks-breaking off suddenly in the midst of a waltz to rush up to her grandfather and fling her arms about his neck, then whirl back crying to her mother to play on "Vite, vite, plus vite encore!" Then pouncing upon the famous old greyhound "Sénat," who, all unconscious of his own immortality (for he, too, is a well-known character as "le chien de Victor Hugo"), is sleeping quietly under the table, she drags him into the dance by his collar, on which you may read the motto, "Je voudrais qu' au logis quelq'un me ramenât. Mon état, chien, mon maitre, Hugo, mon nom, Sénat." To which name, by-the-by, one of the guests present gravely takes exception, as savouring of too little reverence towards the august body of which his master is a distinguished member! 66 But it is time to say good-night, and the music stops. The dreamers come in from their balcony, the "bonne" knocks at the door, and with a sigh of childish regret for the happy moments passed, the three children round to take their leave. go Bonsoir," little Mademoiselle Ménard, who can answer you in your own tongue and say "Good-night" in English: Georges could doubtless "give you good even" in the Latin tongue, for he is studying it with his professor; but he will say nothing-only lay his tiny soft hand in yours, and look up with those great melancholy eyes, until his sister pushes him away, flinging her arms round you and holding up her face for a kiss. "Bonsoir, petite Jeanne; Good-night! Good-night!"* NORAH'S BIRTHDAY. "April, with her white hands wet with flowers."-LEIGH HUNT. HE third fair morn of April is shining in the sky. THE Though 'tis the month of showers, to-day is bright and dry: But, to make sure of ending, I'll end, my Norah dear, M. R. * [This pleasant paper would interest us and our readers more deeply if the subject of it had made a better use of his genius and had followed to the end the higher inspiration of some of his early Odes et Ballades.-ED. I. M.] W HOSPICE FOR THE DYING. BY A DISCURSIVE CONTRIBUTOR. "For in the shade of death I shall find joy." HETHER or not it is true-and I do believe it is a fact-that no such institution as a hospice for the dying is to be found anywhere but in our own marvellously charitable land, certain I am that in no part of the known world, except Ireland, would one see on the public high road a great brass plate affixed to a gateway and bearing the title I have just now named. Anywhere else, the mere letter of the superscription would be considered as unendurable as a vision of "a bare-ribbed death," or an invitation to come to sit upon the margent of our grave." But the Irish have a way of their own of regarding death. They do not shirk the thought. It is mingled with all their prayers and has a place in all their blessings. Though sometimes, like their Spanish kinsmen, they will, with their benedictions, well nigh wish that you may "live a thousand years;" still, they never forget to cap their huge desire with a prayer for your happy passage to eternity. And these Irish blessings, covering the whole extent of life and culminating in the thought of dissolution, are pronounced as freely in seasons of joy as in moments of intense solemnity. At the wedding feast, amid smiles and congratulations, just as surely as at the funeral rite, you will hear the favourite blessing-the "happy death"-reiterated. This comes mainly from their vivid faith which, while it helps to realise the future life, makes it easy to regard the grave as but"A covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness;" and also, no doubt, from their quenchless memory of the dead sweetly drawing the thoughts to that bourne whence, indeed, their departed friends cannot return, but where they themselves most devoutly reckon on rejoining them. And who shall say that this daily memento, this familiarity with. "the strange events of death," saddens their outlook or disturbs the fountain of their spring of life? Rather, does not the timely recollection of the supreme goal towards which all who do not press thitherward with the Christian's trust are nevertheless reluctantly driven, serve, now to lighten a dark way, and again to calm a chafing stream? For content in life is not assured by forgetfulness of death, nor is there a panacea for misfortune in a drugged oblivion of the mysteries which are the law of God. One thing at any rate is certain-the Irish as a rule know how to die. The priest, the doctor, every one who may have been called to attend men of different nationalities in their last hours will, I think, allow that the Irishman more frequently than any other meets death with simple fortitude and becoming calm. He may not, perhaps, have lived up to the Christian standard; he may have overlaid his lamp of faith with questionable deeds; still, in the final hour, from the wreck of earthly hopes and the ashes of a passion-consumed life, the flame bursts forth anew and brightens for him the narrowing path drawing "nigh even to the gates of death." And if this be the case in the event of " a more uneasy and unhandsome death," such as results from sickness or accident, how much more so is it when the scene is heroic or conspicuous! Then, indeed, do those "very great scorners of death" continue unbroken the tradition of their nation, confronting death with the martyr's serenity, or hastening to it with a gallant joy. A striking incident was that which is related as having occurred amidst the horrors succeeding the capture of Limerick by the parliamentarian forces in 1651. A young man, called the Baron of Castleconnell, being summarily sentenced to death, applied to Ireton for respite of execution until his return from his lodgings. This having been granted, he broke open his trunks, and finding a new suit of white taffeta attired himself in it, and then rode gaily to the place of execution. His demeanour astonished the bystanders; and when asked concerning his change of clothes, he replied that if to marry a creature he should have done no less, why should he not do so now, when he believed he was going to marry heaven ?* Unquestionably all die a good death who depart in the grace of God. However, when our people speak of a happy death, they mean something over and above. They mean that their hope is to have time to prepare for appearing in the divine presence; to retain their senses to the end; and to have some one in their last hour to speak strengthening and consoling words to them. When death is imminent, they consider it no kindness on the part of a friend to gloss over the matter and cajole them into the belief that they may recover. I knew of a physician who found comfort on his own death-bed in remembering that during his practice he had never allowed a patient to pass into the other world without warning him to make his preparation. Once he was attending a poor man who had been recently ejected by the "crowbar brigade" and had hurt his leg in trying to remove some timber from the roof of his mud-walled cabin. An operation became necessary, and after its performance the doctor saw that the patient was sinking. "Rouse yourself, man," said he, "you are going to die." Opening his eyes and fixing his gaze on the speaker, the poor * Rev. C. P. Meehan: "The Irish Hierarchy in the Seventeenth Century." fellow uttered these words: "God bless you, doctor; and God's will be welcome!" The doctor's own turn came not very long after. He had been a good living man," as the people say, and was quite resigned to die. When his sister told him there was no longer hope, he expressed his gratitude to her for not concealing the fact, and thanked God that he had never himself deceived a patient. In the last stages of his illness his mind wandered, and he seemed to fancy that he was already before the judgment-seat, and called on to give an account of his actions. He enumerated works that he had been engaged in, and named the societies to which he belonged. But these were all set aside, stamped as "ostentation." When, however, it came to what he had done for the poor, and his kind acts in the workhouse (for he was medical officer of a country union in early poor-law days) the sentence was different-all these things were "allowed." On the evening preceding his death he imagined he was another person, a patient under his own care. He felt his pulse, and said: "This poor man is sinking rapidly; nurse, give him a little ether. He will not see the morning sun!" Next to the word of simple hard truth comes the sustaining or invigorating word, in the estimation of the dying Irishman. He waits expectantly for the strong, bright word to quicken the spark within him, and uphold him in the presence of "God's messenger," the angel of death and deliverance. In a striking way was this need made known to a priest who had not been accustomed to minister to the poor, and still less to attend the death-bed of the children of St. Patrick. On the occasion referred to, he stood beside a dying Irishman, to whom he was about to administer the last Sacraments. The man appeared for some time hardly to notice his presence, but at length, looking fixedly at him, and raising his voice, he exclaimed with startling vehemence: "Are you a priest? For if you are, why don't you say something to warm the heart of a poor fellow that's going to leave the world? Why don't you stir up the faith in him ?” Greatly do the poor Irish love to hear of heaven, when earth and its concerns are about to shrivel as a scroll. They will themselves speak of the holy city, Jerusalem, as if they already saw the walls thereof of jasper-stone, and had a passport to the gates. And who can wonder? For are not these they who have borne the burden and heats of the day, and carried their cross after their Saviour? Not, however, that they forget there is such a place as purgatory, or think it unlikely they shall have to pass through the cleansing fires. But what matter, so that heaven is beyond! How, indeed, they think, would God be the just Judge and not send them there! Α Sometimes, too, the native humour will flash upon the scene. poor woman in a sea-side village was sick unto death. She was "ready |