LXVII.-NATIONAL BANKRUPTCY.

FROM A SPEECH BEFORE THE NATIONAL CONVENTION OF FRANCE, 1789.

I

HEAR much said of patriotism, appeals to patriotism,

transports of patriotism. Gentlemen, why prostitute this noble word? Is it so very magnanimous to give up a part of your income in order to save your whole property? This is very simple arithmetic; and he that hesitates, deserves contempt rather than indignation.

2. Yes, gentlemen, it is to your immediate self-interest, to your most familiar notions of prudence and policy, that I now appeal. I say not to you now, as heretofore, beware how you give the world the first example of an assembled nation untrue to the public faith. I ask you not, as heretofore, what right you have to freedom, or what means of maintaining it, if, at your first step in administration, you outdo in baseness all the old and corrupt governments. I tell you, that unless you prevent this catastrophe, you will all be involved in the general ruin; and that you are yourselves the persons most deeply interested in making the sacrifices which the government demands of you.

3. I exhort you, then, most earnestly, to vote these extraordinary supplies; and God grant they may prove sufficient! Vote them, I beseech you; for, even if you doubt the expediency of the means, you know perfectly well that the supplies are necessary, and that you are incapable of raising them in any other way. Vote them at once, for the crisis does not admit of delay; and, if it occurs, we must be responsible for the consequences.

4. Beware of asking for time. Misfortune accords it never. While you are lingering, the evil day will come upon you. Why, gentlemen, it is but a few days since, that upon occasion of some foolish bustle in the Palais Royal, some ridiculous insurrection that existed nowhere but in the heads of a few weak or designing individuals, we

were told with emphasis, "Catiline is at the gates of Rome, and yet we deliberate." We know, gentlemen, that this was all imagination. We are far from being at Rome; nor is there any Catiline at the gates of Paris. But now are we threatened with a real danger; bankruptcy, national bankruptcy, is before you; it threatens to swallow up your persons, your property, your honor,—and yet you deliberate.

MIRABEAU.

LXVIII.—THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE.

I.

HE joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide,
Thoresen sind is singing along the sea-side;

The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers,
And the harpstrings are trembling in all the glad bowers.

II.

Swell, swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum!
'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendor they come!

The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide

For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride.

III.

Before the high altar young Maud stands array'd;
With accents that falter her promise is made—

From father and mother for ever to part,
For him and no other to treasure her heart.

IV.

The words are repeated, the bridal is done,
The rite is completed-the two, they are one;
The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart,
That must not be broken till life shall depart.

V.

Hark! 'mid the gay clangor that compassed their car,

Loud accents in anger come mingling afar!

The foe's on the border, his weapons resound

Where the lines in disorder unguarded are found.

VI.

As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold,
When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold,
So rises already the chief in his mail,

While the new-married lady looks fainting and pale.

VII.

"Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife,
For the sister and mother, for children and wife!
O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain,
Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain !”

Leve

VIII.

Hurrah! to the battle! they form into line

The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine! Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue—

On, burgher and yeoman, to die or to do!

IX.

The eve is declining in lone Malahide,

The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride;
She marks them unheeding-her heart is afar,
Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war.

X.

Hark! loud from the mountain 't is Victory's cry!
O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky!
The foe has retreated! he flies to the shore;
The spoiler's defeated-the combat is o'er!

XI.

With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come―
But why have they muffled the lance and the drum?

What form do they carry aloft on his shield?
And where does he tarry, the lord of the field?

XII.

Ye saw him at morning how gallant and gay!
In bridal adorning the star of the day:
Now weep for the lover,-his triumph is sped,
His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead!

XIII.

But oh for the maiden who mourns for that chief,
With heart overladen and rending with grief!
She sinks on the meadow,-in one morning-tide
A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!

XIV.

Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole!
Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul.
True true, 't was a story for ages of pride,
He died in his glory-but, oh, he has died!

XV.

The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide,
The dead-wail is rolling along the sea-side;
The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green,
For the sun has departed that brighten'd the scene!
GERALD GRIFFIN.

LXIX. THE LARK IN THE GOLD-FIELDS.

"T

PART FIRST.

OM, I invite you to a walk."

"Well, George, a walk is a great temptation, this beautiful day."

2. It was the month of January in Australia. A blazinghot day was beginning to glow through the freshness of morning. The sky was one cope of pure blue, and the southern air crept slowly up, its wings clogged with fragrance, and just tuned the trembling leaves, no more.

3. "Is not this pleasant, Tom?-is n't it sweet?"

"I believe you, George! and what a shame to slander such a country as this! There they come home and tell you that the flowers have no smell, but they keep dark about the trees and bushes being haystacks of flowers. Snuff the air as we go, it is a thousand English gardens in one. Look at those tea-scrubs, each with a thousand blos

soms on it as sweet as honey; and the golden wattles on the other side, and all smelling like seven o'clock."

4. "Ay, lad! it is very refreshing; and it is Sunday, and we have got away from the wicked for an hour or two. But in England there would be a little white church out yonder, and a spire like an angel's forefinger pointing from the grass to heaven, and the lads in their clean frocks like snow, and the lasses in their white stockings and new shawls, and the old women in their scarlet cloaks and black bonnets, all going one road, and a tinkle-tinkle from the belfry, that would turn all these other sounds and colors and sweet smells holy, as well as fair, on the Sabbath morn. Ah, England! Ah!"

5. "You will see her again,-no need to sigh. Prejudice be hanged, this is a lovely land."

6. "So it is, Tom, so it is. But I'll tell you what puts me out a little bit;-nothing is what it sets up for here. If you see a ripe pear and go to eat it, it is a lump of hard wood. Next comes a thing the very sight of which turns your stomach, and that is delicious,-a loquot, for instance. There, now, look at that magpie! well, it is Australia, so that magpie is a crow and not a magpie at all. Everything pretends to be some old friend or other of mine, and turns out a stranger. Here is nothing but surprises and deceptions. The flowers make a point of not smelling, and the bushes, that nobody expects to smell, or wants to smell, they smell lovely."

7. "What does it matter where the smell comes from, so that you get it."

8. "Why, Tom," replied George, opening his eyes, "it makes all the difference. I like to smell a flower,—a flower is not complete without smell; but I don't care if I never smell a bush till I die. Then the birds, they laugh and talk like Christians; they make me split my sides, bless their little hearts! but they won't chirrup. It is Australia! where everything is inside-out and topsy-turvy. The animals have four legs, so they jump on two. Ten-foot square