IRISH GARDENING. 



105 



prove in her own person whether more tickets 

 were given to emigrants than there were places in 

 ships. For, thus, the poor people had to spend, 

 in lodg-inghouse keep, the little hoard they had 

 for the other-side landing'. And therefore, she, 

 and her right-hand man, were hounded and 

 hooted by the monopolists of the Cove. She 

 found things out, and made things better. So, as 

 we all know, she helped to make thing's better 

 in the women's quarters in the steamers. At first 

 suspected and at- 

 tacked by the steam- 

 ship companies, she 

 had, for the last quar- 

 ter of a century, a 

 standing offer of free 

 passage, I think, from 

 many of them. She 

 did her people lasting 

 good. Herself an 

 Irish nationalist, bv 

 loyalty to her father, 

 Smith O'Brien, bv in- 

 stinct, shall one sav. 

 and by convictioTi, 

 there never was a 

 better follower of the 

 best in the best of 

 her father's friends, 

 Thomas Davis, and 

 of all his teaching to 

 accept every man's 

 work for Ireland ; 

 never to question, 

 nor to suspect ; to 

 be ready to forward 

 every honest effort, 

 to meet honesty fairly, 

 to be ready, again 

 and again, to believe 



in others. That is shown in her story of the 

 Fenian times, Light and Shttdc. If it is now out 

 of print, one says let it be reprinted. It is out 

 of real experience, deep longing for the good 

 of Ireland, sympathy with the weak, with the fool- 

 hardy, with the brave ; not without plenty of 

 criticism of the madness of the people. kwA yet 

 a madness both divine and mean. In her Co. 

 Limerick she had lived a free child life, mixing 

 with the people in the bad old, good old days. 

 At Cahirmoyle 



We led our life, a full and joyous life, 



And knew but little of the world's deep grief. 



Nor even our own, though sad beyond belief. 



Almost the youngest child, in 1848 itself she 

 was knowing little or nothing. But her father's 

 story was idealised by her always : — 



And well I mind when first I saw thy bowed 

 And seared grey head bent low beneath a cloud 

 Of disappointment, silence, and despair. 

 Thy land lay in a trance, thou Ihought'st it dead, 

 And that deep sorrow aged thy downcast head. 



" I can t\o nothing for our Irish," he once 

 wrote, " luitil they stop their senseless feuds." 

 His daughter, Gaelic 

 Leaguer, industry 

 helper, and peaceful 

 politician, practised 

 what h e w o u 1 d 

 preach. She had a 

 canny side, and yet a 

 romantic — ' ' Pauvre 

 vieux cceur toujours 

 neuf" — though her 

 young days, indeed, 

 were only sixty years 

 since. The series of 

 sonnets — Cahir- 

 ntovlc. or the OH 

 //();«f — tells of the 

 \oung family life — 

 fair and free and u)i- 

 cxf! 111! lied : — 



.Mv mother reading 



with unwearied tongue 



Of the brave tales and 



the brave deeds of old. 



A mother kind and 

 good, intelligent and 

 helpful, whose voice, 

 reading the Psalms, 

 lingered (her daugh- 

 ter lately wrote) as a 

 call to highest 

 things — in ears for whom present day sounds 

 were hushed. This was strong and brave, 

 was it not ? — when such a difficulty was coming 

 on — to venture into the world of fighting for a 

 right, and to win, bearing some, at least, of the 

 usual insults and obloquy. And these words 

 are so noble, and passionate, and simple : — 

 The woods are silenced for me, and the streams 

 Ripple no more for me along the leas ; 

 No more for me the birds sing melodies 

 To greet the morn, or give the sun good dreams ; 

 No more the circling rooks in heavy crowds 

 Beat homeward cawing, 'neath the wind-swept clouds. 

 Where are the sweet sounds gone? Are they all gone? 

 Gone from the meadows deep with swathes of hay. .. 



[Ch.\rlotte G. O'Brien 



In lalir life. 



