John Boyle O'Reilly

“ The solitary prisoner turns the same number of days with harrowing weariness a thousand times multiplied in five years. The days and nights of those years had passed like a black and white vibration over Alice Walmsley's life. They had brought little change to the outward eye; and the inward change was only a settlement of the elements of doubt and disbelief and despair into a solid deposit in her heart.
No friends had visited her. When her mother died, there was left no living relative. She had no love nor attraction beyond her cell—beyond her own soul. ”

“ Around, his counsellors, with streaming eyes;
His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side:
Death's shadow holds her—it will pass too soon;
She weeps in silence—bitterest of tears;
He wanders softly—Nature's kindest boon;
And as he murmurs, all the country hears:
For him the pain is past, the struggle ends;
His cares and honors fade—his younger life
In peaceful Mentor comes, with dear old friends;
His mother's arms take home his dear young wife.
He stands among the students, tall and strong. ”

“ Better the old dungeon, with its gloom; better for the sake of humanity. The new prison is a cage—a hideous hive of order and commonplace severity, where the flooding sunlight is a derision, and the barred door only a securer means of confinement. For the sake of sentiment, at least, let us have the dismal old keep, that proclaims its mission on its dreadful brow, rather than the grinning bar-gate that covers its teeth-like mils with vulgar metal efflorescence.
The great penitentiary of Millbank, is, or rather was, an old fashioned prison, its vast arched gateway sombre and awful as a tomb. ”

“ Wyville soon overtook him, and they rode abreast, the faithful bushman a horse's length behind.
On their left, a quarter of a mile distant, stretched the gloomy swamp, at this season a deadly slough of black mud, with shallow pools of water. On their right, a mile off, the conflagration leaped and howled and crashed its falling trees, as if furious at the barrier of marsh that baulked it of its prey. The bush between the swamp and the fire was brighter than day, and the horsemen drove ahead in the white glare.
They saw the road for miles before them. There was no one in sight. ”

“ And a glorious land is wild-beast ruled for want of human life.
Scarce a harmless thing moved on it, not a living soul was near
From the frowning rocks of Java Head right northward to Anjier.
Crestless swells, like wind-raised canvas, made the whaler rise and dip,
Else she lay upon the water like a paralytic ship;
And beneath a topsail awning lay the lazy, languid crew,
Drinking in the precious coolness of the shadow,—all save two:
Two poor Ishmaels,—they were absent. Heaven help them!—roughly tied
'Neath the blistering cruel sun-glare in the fore-chains, side by side. ”

“ With lightning rapidity Draper saw the dreadful confession his error had led him into. He knew that Sheridan spoke the truth, and he hurriedly attempted to close the grave he had exposed.
"She is dead," he said, searching Sheridan's face; "you should have known that, too."
"Dead or alive, God have pity on her!" answered Sheridan whose face and voice were filled with revulsion and contempt. "For her sake, I pray that she may be dead; but I do not believe you. I shall see that those be warned in time who are still in danger." ”

“ When chance first brought us together, I was a landed proprietor, and the heir of a noble lineage. Today I am a beggar at the feet of fatherless wealth."
"Excuse me. Lord Brompton, I have a father."
"Did I say I was at your feet, Miss Windsor?"
"You are the same clever creature as ever," she answered. "But I am beginning to believe you are in earnest. Is it possible that you are the Lord Brompton who told me once that fate's quiver held no shaft to terrify a philosopher? 'Dust to dust, and what matters it whether king or chaos rule?' Those were your words. ”

“ Having thrust the stone in his loose shirt-breast,
While he tried to think where he dropped the spade.
But Aaron Mace wore a long, keen blade
In his belt,—he drew it,—sprang on his man:
What happened, you read when the tale began.
Then he looked—the murderer, Aaron Mace—
At the gray-blue lines in the dead man's face;
And he turned away, for he feared its frown
More in death than life. Then he knelt him down,—
Not to pray,—but he shrank from the staring eyes,
And felt in the breast for the fatal prize. ”

“ Two hours later, when the glory of the sunset had departed, and the white moon was reflected in the mirror-like Swan, Will Sheridan and Alice stood beside the river. With one hand he held one of hers, and the other arm was around her. He was looking down into her eyes, that were as deep and calm as the river.
"It has been so always, dear," he said tenderly; "I have never lost my love for one day." ”

“ The mild airs of the warmer latitudes surprised and delighted those who had only known the moist climate of Britain. As the vessel sailed close to the island of Pico, one of the Azores, the deck was crowded with gazers on the unknown land.
It was the forenoon of a lovely day. The sun shone with radiant splendour on the soaring peak and purple cliffs of Pico. The island seemed to most of those on the ship like some legendary land of fairy lore. They bad never seen any country but England, and they had never before heard even the name of this important-looking place. ”

“ To plunge the bare arms to the elbow into the river as you go, and let the cool water curl up to the biceps; to feel the soft breeze on bare head and neck; to be far from the busy crowds in the cities, with all the senses awake to new and fascinating objects—the swirl of rapid water, the brown and yellow stones on the bottom of the river, the large, free movements of clouds, the strange flowers on the bank; to grip the paddle with an agreeable sense of power in shoulder and hand; to brace the feet strongly against the foot-rest and feel the canoe spring with the elastic force of the stroke ”

“ Not mine your passions, yet I weigh them well—
Who loves a greater sinks all lesser love,
Who hates a tyrant loses lesser hate.
My Land! I see thee in the marble, bowed
Before thy tyrant, bound at foot and wrist—
Thy garments rent—thy wounded shoulder bare—
Thy chained hand raised to ward the cruel blow—
My poor love round thee scarf-like, weak to hide
And powerless to shield thee—but a boy
I wound it round thee, dearest, and a man
I drew it close and kissed thee—Mother, wife!
For thee the past and future days; for thee
The will to trample wrong and strike for slaves ”

“ When he passed her door a few weeks later, and saw within the sweet-faced Sister Cecilia, and heard, after so many years, the voice of her he loved, in one short sentence, which sent him away very happy, she dreamt not that a loving heart had drunk up her words as a parched field drinks the refreshing rain.
So strong and so futile are the outreachings of the soul. They must be mutual, or they are impotent and vain. Reciprocal, they draw together through the density of a planet. Single, the one reaches for the other weakly, as a shadow touches the precipice, hopelessly as death. ”

“ Lord Somers seemed puzzled, and rather dismayed; while Sheridan enjoyed the conversation keenly.
"Do the roots spring from the throne and the aristocracy, or enter their crevices from the outside?" asked Hamerton.
"They are boon of aristocracy," answered Wyville, impressively.
"They spring from the rotting luxuries that fall from the tables of kings and earls and hereditary gentry. They creep from the palaces, where custom and care are too strong for them, and they crawl to the cabins and seize on the hearts of the poor for their prey. The seed of crime is in the flower of aristocracy." ”

“ Sister Cecilia, taking Alice's hands between her own, raised them a little, and then she raised her eyes, with a sweet smile on her face, as if she were carrying a lost soul to the angels, and in a voice as simple as a child's, and as trustful, said the Lord's Prayer Alice repeating the words after her.
Never before had the meaning of the wonderful prayer of prayers entered Alice's soul. Every sentence was full of warmth and comfort and strength. The words that sank deepest were these—she repeated them afterwards with the same mysterious effect—" Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven." ”

“ No more, no more, ye hapless crew, shall Holland meet your eye.
In lingering hope and keen suspense, maid, wife, and child shall die!
Away, away the vessel speeds, till sea and sky alone
Are round her, as her course she steers across the torrid zone.
Away, until the North Star fades, the Southern Cross is high,
And myriad gems of brightest beam are sparkling in the sky.
The tropic winds are left behind; she nears the Cape of Storms,
Where awful Tempest ever sits enthroned in wild alarms;
Where Ocean in his anger shakes aloft his foamy crest. ”

“ By the mast, with the halyards tight in his hands,
And the Mutiny Flag is flying!
Woe to the weak, to the mutineers!
The bolt of their death is driven;
A mercy waits on all other tears,
But the Chains are never forgiven.
Woe to the rebels!—their hands are bare,
Their manacled bodies helpless there;
Their faces lit with a strange wild light,
As if they had fought and had won the fight!
No cry is uttered upraised no hand;
All stilled to a muscle's quiver;
One line on the brink of the cliff they stand,
Their shadows flung down on the river. ”

“ That open lies upon my knee,—my fixed admiring look
At Uncle Ned, upon the left, whose upright, martial mien.
Whose empty sleeve and gray moustache, proclaim what he has been.
My mother I had always loved; my father then was dead;
But 'twas more than love—'twas worship—I felt for Uncle Ned.
Such tales he had of battle-fields,—the victory and the rout,
The ringing cheer, the dying shriek, the loud exulting shout!
And how, forgetting age and wounds, his eye would kindle bright,
When telling of some desperate ride or close and deadly fight! ”

“ And a life with a cureless pain is only half a life.
But why unhealed must the spirit endure? There are drugs for the body's dole;
Have we wholly lived for the lower life? Is there never a balm for the soul?
O Night, cry out for the healer of woe, for the priest-physician cry,
"With the pouring oil for the bleeding grief, for the life that may not die!
"He is false to the heart!" she moaned; "and I love him and cannot hate!" ”

“ Here, for the first time since we left Port Jervis, the water ran slowly. It is hard to leave a spot so beautiful, where so few strangers are led. Here was Nature at first hand. To impress it deeper on my mind, I retrace our course, on the bank, to where, a hundred yards above the bend, a little singing river flows into the Delaware. Only a few inches deep, babbling over brown pebbles, bright as the sun itself in its flashes, coming down under a dim arch of trees and fringing underwood—a very dream of a little singing brook, that
"Knows the way to the sea." ”

“ Now, the tree-tops grew dark, while the flame leaped along the ground, and raced like a wild thing straight towards the swamp.
"The fire has leaped the marsh!" said Mr. Wyville.
The whole air and earth seemed instantly to swarm with fear and horror. Flocks of parrots and smaller birds whirled screaming, striking blindly against the horsemen as they flew. With thunderous leaps, herds of kangaroo plunged across the road, and dashed into the deadly alternative of the swamp. The earth was alive with insect and reptile life, fleeing instinctively from the fiery death. ”

“ At a new-fashioned Yankee clock.
'Twas a gaudy thing with bright painted sides,
And it looked with insolent stare
On the desks and the seats and on every thing old;
And I thought of the friendly air
Of the face that I missed, with its weights and chains,—
All gone to the auctioneer's block:
'Tis a thing of the past,—never more shall I see
But in memory that old school clock.
'Tis the way of the world: old friends pass away,
And fresh faces arise in their stead;
But still 'mid the din and the bustle of life
We cherish fond thoughts of the dead. ”