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The Irish republic. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1867-18??, September 14, 1867, Image 13

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solid basis for the people to stand upon; and until that time
comes, good-by order and tranquillity.
I see by the last number of your paper that you have cele
brated the union of the F. B. in Chicago, (that is, the I. R. A.
in Ireland and the F. B. in America,) and I am very happy
to hear of such a union being consummated ; but am sorry
to say that the Fenians in St. Louis have not strength enough,
in point of working Fenians, to say that they can do the
same as you in Chicago have done. It will be a glorious
day in America, and in Ireland also, when it is proclaimed
in trumpet tones to the world that the past differences in the
F. B. are now laid aside, and that they are again massed in
one solid body, to drive the tyrant, root and branch, from
the green isle. The day is not far distant when we shall
hold the national holiday for the union, and then to work
with renewed vigor. We in St. Louis were promised, some
time ago, (by the “ Dean” of the faculty of the F. B.,) two
physicians to cure the patient. We were given to understand
that Feuianism was sick in St. Louis, and required a few
doses of copperhead physic. Well, not being physicians of
the Jeff. Davis order, we were not supposed to know anything
about the state of the patient’s health. However, we waited
for the true physicians to come.
Messrs. Editors, if you have any good Fenian physician
in Chicago, you ought to induce him to come to St. Louis
and prescribe for the patient, and I will guarantee he won’t
have his labor to go for nought. All the sufferer wants is
some little excitement to bring him around again, and make
him as strong as ever. Respectfully, M.
Light and Liberty.
Bellevue, Mich., August 31st, 1867.
To the Editors of The Irish Republic.
Mimsrs. Editors: Having read several copies of your
valuable journal since it first started, and being very much
benefited thereby, I can safely say, with all truth and justice,
that it is the best paper I or any other Irishman ever yet
read ; and it should be in the hands of every Irishman who
feels any interest in the cause of Irish independence. I only
regret one thing, and that is, that it did not start earlier.
How many thousands would it have enlightened by this time,
as there is nothing that' the Irish need so much as to be
enlightened in this important struggle for national independ
ence ? All whom I have introduced your paper to give it
the praise it so well merits; but, alas! how much it is to be
regretted that so many of the Irish people, who read nothing,
but only drag along through the saloons of the world as best
they can, without taking any trouble about anything only
their own selfish gratification. They are always croaking
against the leaders of the Fenian Organization, as acting
dishonestly. Such ridiculous talk is alike provoking and
disgusting to all true Irishmen. There is nothing puts such
a damper on these croakers as The Irish Republic. The
time will soon come when they will have to hide their
cowardly and brainless heads with shame, from the scoffs of
the true and faithful Fenian men whom they are trying to
hold up to contempt. Such low-lived creatures are beneath
the dignity of notice. The true and faithful of the Irish
race can bear a little longer with their sneers.
Go ahead, gentlemen, with the noble work you have so
well begun—that of enlightening a people who stand much
in need of it, as it is of the utmost importance to our holy
cause. A Soldier of the Irish Republican Army.
Her eyes were shining brighter than the star;
And she began to say, gentle and low,
With voice angelic, in Tier own language:
“ O spirit courteous of Mantua,
Of whom the fame still in the world endures,
And shall endure, long-lasting as the world ;
A friend of mine, and not a friend of fortune,
Upon the desert slope is so impeded
Upon his way, that he has turned through terror,
And may, I fear, already be so lost,
That I too late have risen to his succor,
From that which I have learned of him in heaven.
Bestir thee now, and with thy speech ornate,
And with what needful is for his release,
Assist him so, that I may be consoled.
Beatrice am I, who bid thee go;
I come from there, where 1 would fain return;
Love moved me which compelleth me to speak.
When I shall be in presence of my Lord,
Full often will I praise thee unto him.”
Then paused she, and thereafter I began:
“ O Lady of virtue, thou alone through whom
The human race exceedeth all contained
Within the heaven that has the lesser circles,
So grateful unto me is thy commandment,
°To obey, if’twere already done, were late ;
No farther need’st thou ope to me thy wish.
But the cause tell me why thou dost not shun
The here descending down into this center,
From the vast place thou burnest to return to.”
“ Since thou wouldst fain so inwardly discern,
Briefly will I relate,” she answered me,
“ Why I am not afraid to enter here.
Of those things only should one be afraid
Which have the power of doing others harm;
Of the rest, no ; because they are not fearful.
Ood in His mercy such created me
That misery of yours attains me not,.
Nor any flame assails me of this burning.
A gentle Lady is in heaven, who grieves
At this impediment, to which I send thee,
So that stern judgmdht there above is broken.
In her entreaty she besought Lucia,
And said, ‘Thy faithful one now stands in need
Of thee, and unto thee I recommend him.’
Lucia, foe of all that cruel is,
Hastened away, and came unto the place
Where I was sitting with the ancient Rachel.
‘ Beartice,’ said she, ‘ the true praise of God,
Why succorest thou not him, who loved thee so,
For thee he issued from the vulgar herd?
Host thou not hear the pity of his plaint ?
Dost thou not see the death that combats him
Beside that flood, where ocean has no vaunt ?
Never were persons in the world so swift
To work their weal and to escape their woe,
As I, after such words as these were uttered,
Came hither downward from my blessed seat,
Confiding in thy dignified discourse,
Which honors thee, and those who’ve listened to it.’
After she thus had spoken unto me,
Weeping, her shining eyes she turned away ;
Whereby she made me swifter in my coming;
And unto thee I came, as she desired;
I have delivered thee from that wild beast,
Which barred the beautiful mountain’s short ascent.
What is it, then ? Why, why dost thou delay ?
Why is such baseness bedded in thy heart ?
Daring and hardihood why hast thou not,
Seeing that three such ladies benedight
Are caring for thee in the court of Heaven,
And so much good my speech doth promise to thee ?”
Even as the flowerets, by noctural chill,
Bowed down and closed, when the sun whitens them,
Uplift themselves all open on their stems;
Such 1 became with my exhausted strength,
And such good courage to my heart there coursed,
That I began, like an intrepid person:
“ 0 she compassionate who succored me,
And courteous thou, who has obeyed so soon
The words of truth which she addressed to thee !
Thou hast my heart so with desire disposed
To the adventure, with those words of thine,
That to my first intent I have returned.
Now go, for one sole will is in us both,
Thou Leader, and thou Lord, and Master thou.”
Thus said I to him; and when lie had moved,
I entered on the deep and savage way.
The Derby Day.—There is one event, and only one, which
brings all classes of Londoners into contact with one another on
terms of equality, and on neutral ground. The Derby Day re
sembles the Saturnalia of the Romans, and the FrenchCarnival.
It is a day devoted to the most absolute license, and to the
wildest mirth. The road from London to the Epsom Downs
is literally a mass of moving vehicles. The tinker in his
spring-cart casts a critical eye upon the duke who passes him
driving four-in-hand, and makes caustic remarks upon his
equipage or his attire. His Grace or his friends condescend
ingly rejoin, and penny flour-bags are sportively exchanged.
All distinctions are leveled: the only person who can drive
to the Derby without being “chaffed” is the heir-apparent to
the throne. He is regarded rather as something to be looked
at with curiosity, like the horses in the Paddock; and fre
quently on the course an individual in the humbler walks of
life will leave his friends and stroll toward the Grand Stand,
announcing that he’s “just going to have a squint at Wales.”
It must be acknowledged that the workingmen who go to the
Derby do not display the “ monastic virtues” which Lord
Houghton has politely ascribed to them; their buffoonery is
of the grossest description; so much so that it is impossible
to take a lady to the Derby. Their pleasantries, too, are
without geniality; they are marked by excessive bitterness.
Mr. Tom. Hughes, who in a letter to the Tribune accounted
for the frequency of colliery explosions by the fact that miners
are generally without a vote, would no doubt assert that their
defects are to be attributed to the same cause. But these are
really the defects of the English character. English fun and
English wit are naturally coarse and cruel. It is certainly
a more pleasing sight, in my humble opinion, to see a French
or Italian crowd on a great holiday, than to go toEpsom. In
the latter case the merriment seems forced; it is like that of
actors on the stage; it is loud and boisterous, but unreal, as
if it had to be “kept up;” till drunkenness steps in, when it
becomes more expansive, and character is displayed. It
would seem that the uncultivated British mind requires an
artificial stimulant of a strong kind: take the agricultural
laborer for example; he is taciturn, sullen, and dull. Drink
a pot or two of ale with him, and you find him rich in sly
humor, and in quaint proverbs and expressions. One race
is just like another so far as the horses are concerned; but the
Derby Day stands by itself. As the moment of the great
race approaches it is awful to contemplate that enormous
crowd—the*carriages massed in hundreds together; the great,
black, moving crowd; the tiers of faces in the grand strand.
A bell rings ; the multitude surges and divides, a green road
appears in their midst; far in the distance can be seen the
prancing horses, and the gay colors of the jockeys. A bell
rings, and there is a mighty shout; the horses gallop a few
yards; then silence, and a laugh; it is a false start; they dis
appear behind the hill; they reappear ; the colors can now
be plainly seen ; there is a yell from many thousand throats;
on they come, a cloud of yellow dust rising from their hoofs;
they pass like a flash of light and with a sound like that of a
rushing wind. Another yell, louder than ever, but not from
all; then silence, and a scattering of the compact mass.
Carrier pigeons fill the air ; horses are harnessed ; the cries
of the cake-sellers are raised again ; the organ-grinders begin
to play; the negro minstrels dance and sing; all goes on as
merrily as before. But the Derby is over, and the great
event of the year has passed; fortunes have been won and
lost. There are men who, as they return along the crowded
road, must chaff' the costermongers and drink champagne
with their companions, while one thought strikes eternally
upon their brains—settling day. There are men who, as they
return with laughter on their lips, are contemplating with a
firm mind the new life which they must soon begin to lead.
“How shall I ever be able to tell her? It is not all gone, to
be sure, and in five years, if I work hard, 1 may put myself
all right. But poor Ned ! he will have to leave school, and
Julia must go out as a nursery governess, I suppose?”
Primeval Man.—If we were to restrict our romance to
the first Lacustrine races, and to others which may be prob
ably synchronous with them, we might sketch a bare outline
of life and manners. In these men we see fishers, hunters,
shepherds and agriculturists, all in rude and barbaric style,
and with few of the appliances of later periods. Domestica
tion of animals was but partly in practice, and the large
quantity of grain discovered at Wanger doubtless belonged
to a public granary. These people could get food, and per
haps had quite enough of it; but their dwellings were mere
huts, smoky, narrow, and wretched. They had no tables or
chairs, and they probably slept on the ground. A good.Swiss
mountain chalet of the present day is probably superior to
what the most ancient Lacustrine huts were, although those
who have spent a night in a bad chalet may possibly con
sider that no antecedent human dwelling could have been so
intolerable. Still we must say, the nearest conception wre
can form of a Lacustrine village would be a large collection
of rough mountain chalets placed on piles on some one of
the Swiss lakes. Eating and drinking in the lake villages
must have been barbarous enough, as no knives or forks have
been .found. Beards grew thick on the men, for there were
no razors. Perhaps they had some sort of chief or ruler,
who legislated for the entire lake town or village, and there
must have been some guardian, or watch, or defender against
enemies, and some one to take charge of the bridge which
connected the town with the mainland. Perhaps, too, there
was some assembly of sages, venerable men and speakers. As
there were often several lake towns on one large lake, it fur
ther seems probable that they all united into a kind of lake
federation for mutual aid and defense against foes and invad
ers. No doubt they could talk by the hour together, but as
they could not write, or cipher, or draw hieroglyphics, we
shall never know what they said or thought. Human pas
sions must have dwelt in those rough breasts, as well as in
later races. No doubt they bad their intestine discords, and
perhaps they fought with flint weapons; but the fiercest
enmity would show itself in endeavoring to set on fire such
combustible habitations. There are reasons for thinking that
many of the lake towns were burnt; and M. Lelion has given
us his idea of one in flames as a frontispiece to his book.
Fire, whether from foe or from accident, was their greatest
calamity, and appears to have overtaken a large proportion of
these communities in the end. One can imagine that it must
have been a grand sight, to behold an entire town, or possibly
two or three of the Lacustrine towns, in flames at one time,
all sending out athwart the thick darkness of the night
darting flashes and showers of sparks, and throwing a broad
glare on the dark surface of the gloomy lake, lighting up the
long, desolate shores, and flinging ruddy gleams high up the
lofty rocks, perhaps even to snowy summits beyond the
waters. Add to this the crackling of the burning piles, the
cries of the terrified inhabitants, the yells of the rude men
and the screams of the scarcely escaping women, the hurling
of bodies into the lake, and the cries of cattle caught by the
fire, and then we have the needful accessories for the final
Burglars.—There are in all large cities great numbers of
juvenile vagabonds who are ready to commit any species of
crime, from pilfering apples from a street stand to highway
robbery. The tenement houses of New York, occupied by
the offscourings of the four quarters of the globe, are espe
cially prolific of these young depredators. Many of these arc
expert house-breakers, who bestow their attention more par
ticularly upon dwellings which are temporarily bereft of oc
cupants or which are in the course of erection. They are
organized into gangs of from six to ten, the ages of the mem
bers of each gang ranging from seven to eighteen years. They
are the boys who loiter around the street-corners, shabbily
dressed, swearing, drinking, scuffling, and insulting passers
in the daytime, and in the evening performing their more
criminal work. The gangs are organized to “ work ” parti
cular neighborhoods, and they speedily become familiar
with every dwelling-house, store, manufactory, and workshop
in their district. Their richest harvest is made in the sum
mer, when vacant houses are to be found in every block. A
gang of juveniles having anxiously watched the summer flit
ting from the houses in the district of which it has burglari
ous charge prepare to “ go through ” the dwellings of the
absentees. Armed with skeleton keys and other implements
of their trade, the juveniles assemble at night by installments
in the vicinity of the house selected for initiating their enter
prise. If the skeleton keys obtain them admission, well and
good; if not, they resort to the back-yard, where they are less
liable to be observed. They are sure to gain an entrance in
some way—by forcing shutters, or breaking windows, or
climbing fences and walls to the second story windows. Some
times the smallest of their number is crowded through a fan
light or transom window, or shoved down the coal hole: one
of them once inside, the doors are opened for the remainder.
The house in their possession, they ransack it from top to
bottom, carrying off such “ swag ” as they desire, and in some
instances returning night after night. Two summers ago, a
policeman, while on his post at night near St. John’s Park,
saw a light shining through the shutters of a dwelling-house,
which he knew to have been closed by its owner while he
rusticated with his family at the sea-shore. The officer ob
tained assistance, took the responsibility of forcing the door,
and proceeded to an investigation of the premises. In the
dining-room everything was found in the greatest disorder.
A table, loaded with dishes and the remains of a hearty meal,
occupied the center of the room, while the floor was covered
with broken trunks, wearing apparel, and a conglomerate
mass of household goods. From cellar to garret the house
had been rummaged, while on the roof three juvenile thieves
were discovered hiding behind the chimneys. It was ascer
tained that these hoys, the oldest of whom was sixteen be
longed to a gang consisting of seven, and that for two weeks
they had made this house their headquarters. Two other
houses in the same block being vacant, they had entered them
by passing over roofs of the intervening dwellings and forc
ing the scuttles. These two houses were found to have been
robbed in a manner similar to the first. Whatever plunder
they fancied, had been taken away and converted into cash
through tiie medium of those receivers of stolen goods, who
find a profit in anything, from a penny whistle to a grand
piano. Every professional burglar of mature age has a mis
tress, and she not unfrequently contributes to the general
iund by her dexterity in criminal pursuits. Some of them
are pickpockets, others] shoplifte rs, and others are of that
still more degraded class to whom virtue and chastity are
unknown. Mere frequently they are the deceived, victims
of their lovers, taken from among the poor working-girls
of our large manufactories. Sometimes the burglar finds his
sweetheart among the nurses or the chamber-maids, who

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