stranger!
Up from the Castle of Drumineer,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Kern and bonaght are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.

The Battle of Fontenoy is the corner-stone of the fame of Thomas Davis as a poet. No greater battle-ballad has ever been written. Beside it the ballads of Campbell are scarcely perfect. Davis and Campbell are each typical of a distinct school of painting. Davis entered into minute detail with the love of a pre-Raphaelite; Campbell wields the brush after the manner of one of the old masters. Unhappily for his country Davis died almost suddenly in the year 1845. He had not the happiness to see the beneficial results, which ensuing years brought to the work, which he was the first to begin. His character might be pithily expressed in the words which he poetically wished might be inscribed on his tomb: "He served his country, and loved his kind." A warm heart, and a stainless name, shed lustre on the chivalrous patriot. An earnest Protestant, he was no bigot. Of gentle birth and rearing, he never narrowed his prejudices to petty distinctions of class or creed; but threw in his individual help with the humbler striving of sturdy commoner and frieze-coated peasant. The measure of national advancement, which he accomplished, did not die with him, but lives to our time. It would require little space to prove here that the literary societies, the political club assemblies, the societies for the promotion of the Irish language and industries, the discipline of national unity, which controls the whole Irish movement in our day, are but the practical sequence of the lessons which Davis and his party taught and perpetuated. And if the hour is now at hand when the hard-fought battle of a century is to be decided for us in glorious victory; if to us it is given, through the efforts of the gallant patriots who still continue the good fight, to set the banner of victory on the temple of national independence, history yet survives and points its backward finger in abiding gratitude to the unforgotten workers, who laid the foundation of the citadel, which we are to open and inhabit.

Human nature is a greater force even than laws of political economy, and the Almighty Himself has implanted in the human breast that passionate love of country which rivets with irresistible attraction the Esquimaux to his eternal snows, the Arab to his sandy desert, and the Highlander to his rugged mountains.—Joseph Chamberlain.

Southern Sketches.

XVIII.

HAVANA.

After resting in my novel couch that evening, and experiencing no hurt from the so-called formidable mosquito of the West Indies, I started next morning, after a ten-o'clock breakfast of poached eggs, fried plantains, meats of various kinds spiced with garlic, fruits, and other nice things, to the Plaza de Armas, which is a beautiful square, and only a couple of blocks from the Hotel de Europa. Towards evening the Plaza presents a glittering sight. Its handsome palm-trees, roses, Indian laurels, flowering shrubs, piers, railings, and statue of Ferdinand, form a grand combination. The rambler to whom such scenes are new, sinks almost unconsciously into a seat, and surrenders himself to the irresistible influence of the music, fragrance and brilliancy of the place. The military band discourses soft and delicious music. Soldiers in gay uniforms, civilians in handsome dresses, and carriages containing the wealthiest and handsomest of Havana's daughters, fill the square, and one delightful stream of chat and laughter continues till the performance is ended. The fine palace of the captain-general, the beautiful chapel, El Templete (erected in honor of Columbus), the university attached to the Church of St. Domingo, and several stores and exchange offices border the Plaza. The scene is tropical, the moon's clear beams mingle with the lamplight, and the sense of tranquility, happiness, and repose, which characterizes the place and the crowds, gives one a foretaste of Paradise. A very old tree stands in front of the temple, and here it was that the first Mass was celebrated in the island. The palace of the captain-general is two stories high, painted light green, having a magnificent colonnade around the lower story, and an elegant piazza around the upper one. On visiting it next day, I was politely escorted by an officer through flights of marble staircases, embellished with statuary and flower vases, into the presence of the captain-general. He led me by vast, rich corridors to saloons embellished with green furniture, marble floors, rich vases, walls full of paintings, mirrors and statues. The ceilings were ornamented with exquisite mosaics. The despatch apartment, dining-room, and chapel were reached through splendid arches and highly-wrought pillars. Chandeliers of exquisite design and great value added to the splendor of the saloons. In winter the captain-general resides in the city palace; but in summer he takes up his abode at the quinta, or country seat, outside the town. A few minutes walk from here will take you to the cathedral, which is a ponderous, time-worn building, constructed of a kind of yellow stone, which has become mottled by age. I noticed doves cooing in its heavy old window-sills. Though the exterior is plain, the inside of the building is grand. Its floor is of marble, its walls are highly frescoed, and its pillars are very lofty and round. The high altar is of porphyry, and when I visited it, itself and the body of the church were undergoing repairs. A feature which is sure to interest every traveller, is a simple slab in the wall of the chancel to the left of the sanctuary. Behind this, rests the remains of the illustrious Columbus. A feeling of reverence and awe took possession of me as I recalled the religious and brave career of that wonderful man, who, from first to last, clung so strong to his holy faith. A courteous sacristan next showed me the beautiful vestments and sacred vessels in