THE GARDEN. 233 



of Erin are the feet of tliose who piibhsh peace, 

 where war — intestine war, goaded by bigotry — 

 has for ages past defiled the land with blood ! I 

 look around ine on the peaceable possessions of an 

 Enghsh garden : I recall a long sojourn in the sis- 

 ter isle, yet more brilhantly clad in the profusion 

 of vegetable beauty, and again does my heart bleed 

 over a scene most unexpectedly placed before my 

 mind's eye, in the very assemblage to whiqh I 

 have alluded. 



There stood forth one, w^ho came to plead for 

 his poor country; and he told a simple tale of 

 what his own eyes had seen, his own experience 

 verified, within a short space of time. He spoke 

 of a mansion wdiere peace had dwelt : where the 

 pastor of a parish had long abode, and from whence 

 he was driven by the blood-thirsty rage of a mul- 

 titude, whose menaces compelled him to flee for 

 his life. He told of the wretched contrast that 

 ensued — of the glebe-house transformed to a bar- 

 rack — of peaceful chambers garrisoned by armed 

 men — of the bugle note echoing where, from a 

 family altar, had ascended the quiet tones of pra3"er 

 and praise. Tears from many eyes bore witness 

 to the sympathy of his hearers ; but none flowed 

 from a source so deep as mine. That pastor was 

 my friend ; that glebe-house was the pleasant 

 home where I learnt the meaning of those other- 

 wise inexplicable words, Irish hospitality ! la 

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