Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales

John Flood papers, 1867-1871
MLMSS 1542 (Safe 1 / 409)

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The Wild Goose:
A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Vol. 1.] Convict Ship "Hougoumont", Saturday, November 9th 1867. [No.1.

To Our Readers.
From the frozen north, past the past the smiling shores of the lakes, brilliant in silvery moonlight Island of Destiny, – where so oft I have lingered on luxurious lakes, brilliant in silvery moonlight, slept on the bosoms of its singing rivers, and shrieked in wild freedom o’er its verdant hills, – far o’er the broad Atlantic, on adventurousiving, – the leader of my flock, – I have flown, to cheer you on your weary way with my homely notes: Ill natured people may incline to call this cackling; but I scorn the insinuation. When the notes of a goose – a mere tame slave of a creature – saved the Capitol of mighty Rome, was that cackling? Ans(w)er! Not that I mean to say that a wild goose has not a privilege to cackle sometimes, – for instance after having made a lay, and on many other legitimate occasions, of all which I intend to avail myself.

I’ve dipped my wings in the emerald spray of Erin’s waters, scanned the pathless Ocean’s waifs on my way hitherward, and with retrospective eye have contemplated the land of pilgrimage and pride of the "Wild Geese" of other days, – to bring you memories of home and friends, of wives and sweethearts, and of scents and songs of fatherland, ever dear to the wanderer.

I will aim to console you for the past, to cheer you for the present, and to strengthen you for the future. But it beseems not so shy a bird to promise too much, nor must I flatter myself that I shall be as welcome to you as one of more melodious throat or gaudier plumage; yet welcome I trust I shall be here where all else is strange, and that each new weekly visitant may be still more welcome, – not alone for the news it brings to keep your memories green, but also that it may prove of interest to all to watch the changing flight of the flock, and read the mystic story they trace as they pass on their airy flight to the shores of that far, strange land of our destined exile.

"The wanderer, far from those he loves, and all his heart holds dear,
"Oft pauses, as he onward moves to check the rising tear.
When thoughts of home and bye-gone days, come crowding o’er his brain,
How sweet the voice within, that says – hope on, we’ll meet again".

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Queen [Cliodhna] and the Flower of Erin: A Tale of Our Pagan Ancestors.
By Mushra.

Chapter 1. – Queen Cliodhna.
Who has not heard of the ancient fairy lore of Erin; of the pagan rites and incantations of the Danauns, when every hill, ruth, fountain, and ruin of Innisfail, had its own guardian genius; or which of us has not listened, with rapt attention, to the legendary traditions which we heard in our boyhood, of the of the adventurous deeds of Milesian heroes, or of the no less exciting and marvellous records of enchantments and spells, performed by some demoniacal witch, to cross the daring exploits of heroes in their pursuit of love or war?

How often around the quiet and happy homes of our childhood, have we been hushed to rest by beloved lips, perchance, ere now, for ever silent in death, singing to us croons and lullabies of warriors and men long since departed! Amid the bustle and excitement of maturer years, those snatches of & melody, and those tales of other days will sometimes come crowding along the field of memory, bringing vividly to our recollection the calm and halcyon days of our parents’ homesteads.

Before the benign influence of Christianity shed its halo of heavenly glory over the Island of Saints, no one, perhaps, of the witches, fairies, or goblins of Eirie, exercised such sway, or was held in such dread, as Cliodhna, the Queen of the Munster fairies. All round the borders of the green Isle, her name was celebrated as a being possessed of more than matchless power, and many a witch trembled over her incantations, as the name of the dreaded Queen was mentioned. From the enchanted shores of Lough Lene, around the seaside, to the further borders of Thomond, or North Munster, none dared dispute her sway, or enter the magical ring to compete with her, in a tourney of supernatural skill.

She is described by the poets and storytellers of Ireland, as a young woman possessed of more than mortal charms; and like some of the goddesses of Grecian Mythology, she seems to have been passionately fond of earthly lovers; and her principal occupation was, by means of her magical rites, to assume various disguises, and thus seduce young men from their allegiance to their sweethearts.

Many a lovely daughter of Erin shook with dread, when she thought of the baleful influence of the all-powerful enchantress; and innumerable were the charms, and talismans employed, to counteract her diabolical arts. From the highborn, and proud daughter of the king, to the modest, and beautiful maiden of the cottage, all, without any distinction, prayed for the preservation of lover or brother, from the seductions of the dreaded enchantress. Others, vowed offerings, and dedicated feasts, to propitiate her good will, and though

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she seems never, to have been regarded with veneration, yet, perhaps, she had more worshipers, than any of the other traditional divinities of Ireland.

Her principal place of resort was Carrig Cliodhna, or the Rock of Cliodhna; generally, a picturesque and barren mass of stone, rising abruptly from the level land lying round. It is not necessary nowadays, to give the ancient Irish name of the district, in which this famous rock was situated. Numerous were the places, which claimed the honor of having it in its locality, and like to the cities of ancient Greece, which severally claimed to be the birth-place of Homer; so, also, many places in Munster had its own Carrig Cliodhna, which was looked to, with mingled feelings of awe and fear, by the neighbouring inhabitants.

The place which we will fix on for her residence in the following story, is that, situated in the parish of Donoughmore, Barony of East Muskerry, County of Cork. It is a pile of grey massive rock, rising perpendicularly to the height of 20 or 30 feet above the surrounding country; and occupying an area of about an acre of land. The neighbouring district was is rather hilly and mountainous, particularly, to the south and west, where the Bogra hills form a connecting link, between that the continuation of the Reeks, in Kerry, and the Ballyhoura and Nagle Mountains, which are offshoots from the lordly Galtees. To the north, the rock looks down on the rich valley of the Blackwater, from which river it is distant, about six or seven miles, and the view extends far away over the wide champaign lands of Duhallow; than which, there is not a fairer, or more fertile, district in our beautiful and beloved island.

(To be continued.)

Latest News.
Earth, Sky, and Sea.
General Telegraph Co. (Unlimited.).

From the Supernal Spheres, Nov.1.
– A tremendous banquet given to the Gods last night by Bacchus, which shows they hallow-e’en earthly festivals. Jupiter took soda-water and brandy this morning, and a similar report has been maliciously circulated concerning the ox-‘eyed lady’. Phoebus quite choleric; kicked [indecipherable] out of the sky for breathing too heavily; indisposed towards evening, and retired to bed rather early.

Nov. 2. – Venus winked at the man in the Moon. Diana threatened to scratch her eyes out. Celestial Court greatly scandalized.

Marine Regions, Nov. 9th. – Squalls ahead. Neptune thinks he has enough of finny uns in his dominions, and is incensed at the thought of a fresh influx of those turbulent beings. When they reach the line he is determined to hook them, if they don’t hook it.

Abyssynia, via Cape Verde, Nov 9th. – It is generally believed that the assistance of the Emperor Theodore is at an end, since the British troops have Gon-dar.

The Markets.
Tobacco not to be had at any price; holders unwilling to part with the commodity – Great demand for preserved potatoes and plum duff. – Water scarce, and of an inferior quality. – Pork rather higher than usual, and still advancing. – Biscuit getting livelier. – Chocolate a drug in the market. – Tea rather flat. – Oatmeal steady.

Our entire staff, "devil" and all, have been fairly driven to their wits’ ends to concoct something to fill up this little corner, and have utterly failed.

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Answers to Correspondents.

"Dick." – It is spelled "Coxswain" not "Cock’shen." – Where did you go to school?

"One who fears rats." – Better bear with a the rats than become acquainted with a the cat.

"Peter." – Yes; all Scilly people are English.

"Ignorance." – A latitudinarian is a man who finds the latitude at sea and elsewhere. A vegetarian is a man who grows vegetables. Why don’t you buy a dictionary?

"Enquirer." – Very little is known of the first Settlers of central Africa; but the supposition that it was colonized by an Irish Chieftain named Tim Buctoo, appears to us to be a popular error.

"One eager to learn." – Your question, to say the very least that can be said about it, is absurd, and betrays your confounded ignorance. However, we will condescend to enlighten you. First, then, Mexico is an Island in the Red Sea, from which it is evident it takes its name. Its inhabitants are of a light sky-blue color, and not black as you supposed. They are a very industrious people, but they never work on holidays (of which they have 365 in the year.) On those gala days their dress is richer than usual being composed of a pair of spectacles and a bludgeon; on all other days they vary their costume by xx omitting the spectacles. Their Government is a despotic anarchy, and they are very happy under it, indeed. We cannot devote any more of our valuable space to you; but if you wish to become thoroughly acquainted with this subject, we advise you to study the "London Directory" for 1612.

We should be very sorry to injure anyone, even unintentionally; and, if we have done so, we will be willing to make reparation. Will "Endymion," then, kindly inform us in what way we have deserved his ill will, that he should inflict on us such trash as his "Plaint to the Moon".

"A constant reader." – We don’t believe it possible to cozen the Captain out of all the sheep-shanks made by the Crew; neither do we think they would improve the soup.

The Wild Goose.
"They’ll come again when south winds blow."
Saturday, Nov. 9th 1867.

Home Thoughts.
In our passage through this world we are taught wisdom by a stern monitor, – Experience. Pain, and sorrow, and suffering, take each their part in giving to us the golden lesson; and but for their powerful influence the end of our pilgrimage would often be dark and cheerless, although the path itself might have been lighted up by the false glare of excitement and pleasure. By their rude discipline our minds are prepared for the mild and soothing balm and consolation of religion, and rendered softer and better in our intercourse with our fellow-man. They tame the wayward heart of the thoughtless youth, and turn his pliable mind to the truer and more enduring pleasures of home, with all its endearing ties of parental love and brotherly affection; and they tone down the stronger passions of maturer years, and guide the mind in that strait and oft-neglected way that alone leads to true and perfect happiness.

"Sweet are the uses of Adversity," wrote the poet; and in that brief sen-

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tence is enclosed a truth worthy of deep consideration. But Divine Wisdom has not ordained that sufferings and sorrows are the only beneficial influences that act upon us. It is not by adversity alone that we are rendered good and happy. There are certain powers or faculties of the mind which, if nourished and cultivated, will shed a mild and steady light on our path through life and will keep the lofter and better part of our nature green and vigorous.

Best and foremost amongst those powers of the soul is that beautiful and mysterious feeling of love and reverence that attaches to the word "home." Dear is that word to our hearts at all times, – dear even in its most limited sense, and when we are enjoying its peace, its blessings, and its affections; but, oh! how inexpressibly dear is that little word to the weary wanderer! To him its signification is limitless, – everything his heart yearns after – Country, wife, child, brother, friend! all are enveloped in its mystic charm; and, though wandering far, far, away from the scenes of his joyous youth and merry boyhood, the purer part of his nature returns thither, and revels in dreams o’er the beloved haunts of the dim and shadowy past.

Yes, dear to the wanderer are those memories: they are shrined in the bosom of the emigrant, who, from his adopted home, looks not back to, nor thinks of, the dark cloud of want and misery or the cruel hand of oppression that drove him from the home of his fathers; they lighten the path of the Mariner tossed about on the wild waves of the trackless deep; they cheer the heart of the tired soldier, who, sleeping beside the bivouac fire, lives again his happiest years in the bright but visionary scenes of dreamland.

They are dear to all, and one cherished by all; but deeper, purer, and stronger than the love of the emigrant, the sailor, or the soldier, is that changeless and undying devotion that lives within the heart of the exile. To him the word "home" has a holly signification, – a power that embodies within itself everything that man can cherish. It conjures up the spirits of the past from their shadowy dwellings, and paints with vivid pencil the beloved features of the beloved dead. It carries him far away from the stern realities of the present; and, although in his retrospective journey he may again behold many saddening scenes, and indulge in recollections of happy days for ever vanished, still he lingers fondly o’er the heart-cherished picture, and loves it all the dearer for every pang it inflicts upon him. And is it not better thus?

What language can express the baseness of the wretch who, through fear of causing pain to himself, would cast away and ignore for ever the good and holy thoughts and memories that are stirred within us by the name and the recollection of our childhood’s home? If there exist each a being, let us speak of him in the words of our poet: –

"Shame and dishonor sit
"By his grave ever;
Blessings shall hallow it
Never, oh! Never."

But why should we speak thus? Surely never, or rarely indeed, has our fair little country produced so degenerate a son. No, No! – wild, volatile, thoughtless, reckless, we may be called, – but that stigma is undeserved. We love the little isle that it has pleased God to make our mother-land. In her few smiles, in her many tears, and in her countless sufferings, we love her. The blessed hope of returning again

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to her genial soil, and to the dear ones we left behind, will give us strength to bear and brave the worst; and, until then, thro’ pain, and regret, and sorrow, we will still look back and pray for her and for them with the true, unswerving love only known to Exiles.

Emerald Spray.

Farewell.
Farewell! Oh, how hard and how sad ‘tis to speak
That last word at parting, – for ever to break
The fond ties and affections that cling round the heart,
From home, and from friends, and from Country to part!
But ‘tis harder, when parted, to try to forget,
Though it grieves to remember; ‘tis vain to regret, –
The sad word must be spoken, and Memory’s spell
Now steals oer me sadly. Farewell! Oh, Farewell!

Farewell to thy green hills, thy valleys, and plains,
My poor blighted Country! In exile and chains
Are thy sons doomed to linger. O God! who didst bring
Thy children to Zion from Egypt’s proud King,
We implore Thy great mercy! Oh, stretch forth Thy hand
And guide back her sons to this poor blighted land.

Never more thy fair face am I destined to see;
E’en the savage loves home, but ‘tis crime to love thee.
God bless thee, dear Erin, my loved one – my own!
Oh! how hard ‘tis these tendrils to break that have grown
Round my heart, – but ‘tis over, and Memory’s spell
Now steals o’er me sadly. Farewell! Oh, Farewell!

– John B. O’Reilly.
"Houguemont", Oct. 12th, 1867.

Prison Thoughts.
Whilst to and fro my prison cell I trace
The drear elliptic course with constant feet,
Thought spurns restraint, and, eager to embrace
Loved friends and scenes, speeds far on pinions fleet.

Between the bars the golden sunbeams stray,
And whisper stories of the world outside;
And joyous sparrows twitter all the day,
As if my prison sorrows to deride.

Back in the past! I am again a child,
Kneeling at mother’s side in reverent prayer
Before God’s awful throne. In accents mild
She prays the Lord her boy to make His care.

To guide his steps, from sin to keep him free,
Then teaches me the Sacred Page to read,
That I must bow to His all-wise decree,
And always praise, and pray in hour of need.

In childhood’s cloudy hour, who soothed my woes,
And kissed from off my cheek each falling tear,
And lulled me to her breast in sweet repose?
Best friend of earthly mould, – my mother dear.

In far Acadia lies her sacred dust;
Her sainted spirit dwells in realms of light,
Whilst I – my only hope that God is just –
A living death must suffer for the right.

Me thinks I breathe the hallowed atmosphere
Around that grave, and again new strength therefrom:
My heart her cenotaph contains – writ there,
"Thy will, O God! be done, Thy Kingdom come!"

Laoi.
Millbank, July, 1867.

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A Leap for Liberty.
Immediately after the late rising in Kerry, the uni writer of the following incident was compelled to fly from home in consequence of the rigid search kept up by her majesty’s troops, 2,000 of whom had their canvas pitched and their bivouac fires lighted amongst the romantic mountains that lie to the west of the beautiful and far-famed Lakes of Killarney.

The search was kept up for more than a fortnight, during which time they climbed all the peaks and crags, and explored the beautiful valleys, before they were satisfied that the fierce rebels had retired to their homes, and abandoned the revolutionary movement. After many hair-breadth escapes and adventures too numerous to relate here, I succeeded in making my way to London, where I was enjoying myself in the society of some friends; but this was too bright a state of things to last; for even then the cunning detectives were on my track, and, before a month was at an end, I was in their custody with a pair of steel bracelets on my wrists, sitting between two of them in the coupee of a first-class railway carriage bound for Ireland at the rate of fifty miles an hour.

What various feelings came over me as I started on that journey! – feelings that I now find utterly impossible to describe, such as I had never before experienced in my life. My liberty was gone, and I felt it severely; for a few weeks had only passed away since I was treading the beautiful hills of Kerry, free as the eagle that soars over the steep crags from which they take their name. I thought of the adventures and hardships I had encountered to preserve that liberty; and, now that a foul hand was laid upon me, I fancied I could not breath freely, and my heart swelled with fierce and bitter feelings.

I had not been five minutes seated in the train, when the thought of escape flashed through my brain, and all my energies were instantly at work. In a moment my plan was struck, – I would induce my guards to remove my handcuffs, and then take a desperate leap for liberty; and now my pulse was beating quickly at the approach of danger. I knew I should risk my life in the attempt; but what was life without liberty. If once outside that carriage window I was free again – but how could that be accomplished, sitting between two armed policemen with my hands firmly bound, both doors of the compartment locked, and the train dashing along at lightning speed.

The handcuffs were so tight that my wrists swelled. I complained of it; and my captors, after some hesitation, took them off. They had nothing to fear: the door was locked, and the train travelling at a furious rate. But they did not know how dearly I loved my liberty. I found myself nerved at the moment with tremendous strength. I started suddenly to my feet, and in a second the two men found themselves unexpectedly on the floor of the carriage. I dashed open the window, placed my hands on the ledge, and sprang out into the darkness. I felt or fancied that I was whirled about in the air before I reached the ground. Then all was blank.

My senses had left me, but again gradually revived, and I found myself sitting on the ground. Everything around me had a deathlike stillness. At first I was unconscious of what had occurred; but a picture of the scene, by degrees, came over my dizzy brain. I thought it was a dream, until I heard the hoarse puffing of the train gradually dying away in the distance, and felt my hands clutching the gravel. I felt faint; but, with a strong effort, I struggled to my feet.

I was free again! but I am sorry to say it did not last long; for in four days after, I was in the same train, under a stronger escort, on my way to the old country, to stand my trial for treason – felony, of which I was found guilty and am now on board the "Hougoumont" bound for Western Australia.

J.N.

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Australia.
As our readers, we presume would be grateful for a truthful account of the land to which they are going, and where they will probably sojourn for a lengthened period, we, of our great good nature, condescend to import to them some interesting particulars concerning that vast island, the knowledge of which may exercise a beneficial influence on their future course of life. It is, perhaps, superfluous to say that our statement may be implicitly relied on.

Australia is surrounded by water; and the sun is visible there during the day, when not obscured by clouds. Excellent authority informs us that that luminary is of material service to cooks, enabling them to dispense with the ordinary process of boiling and baking their meals over mere earthly fires. Native animals of various kinds, which may or may not be different from any we have ever seen, abound there; those which are not domesticated, roaming about untamed, sustaining life by devouring what they eat. The chief productions of the soil are indigenous for what we know or care.

The island is about as broad as it is long, and contains as many square miles as its average length multiplied by its average breadth will produce. This great continent of the south, having been discovered by some Dutch skipper and his crew somewhere between the 1st and 19th centuries of the Christian Era, was, in consequence, taken possession of by the Government of Great Britain, in accordance with that just and equitable maxim, "What’s yours is mine; what’s mine’s my own."

That magnanimous government, in the kindly exuberance of their feelings, have placed a large portion of that immense tract of country at our disposal, generously defraying all expenses incurred on our way to it, and providing retreats for us there to secure us from the inclemency of the seasons and the carnivorous propensities of the natives. Neither, through their forethought, need we take thought of the morrow as to how we shall clothe ourselves, or as to what we shall eat and drink.

The inhabitants of Australia are chiefly convicts and kangaroos; the student in ethnology may not be surprised to learn that all the males are sons of their mothers. Their chief employment is a very fowl occupation; this announcement is official. Their religious ceremonies are performed with a tedium not unknown elsewhere. The form of government is popular, and particularly gives satisfaction to high officers of state who secure to themselves £1,000 a year for life for obliging the people by enduring the fatigues of office for twelve months.

As an evidence of the advanced state of civilization among the natives, the consumption of oysters and ale (from which the name of the country is derived) is so enormous, that we smack our lips at the bare idea, and fondly indulge in pleasing anticipations of the part we are destined to play in exterminating the mollusca of those vast seas, and draining the country of its genial potations.

Gold was at one time so abundant, that the fair sex wore hair of that precious metal; but now it has become so scarce, that the Australians are reduced to the necessity of using "tin" as their medium of exchange.

Should an eager and intelligent public so far appreciate our labors as to demand a separate publication of this graphic and instructive sketch, our modesty may be so far overcome as to permit us to comply with their wishes; and we shall not only add copious notes, but employ the first artists to illustrate our work.

Kappa.

A great quantity of our manuscript has been obliterated, some careless person having sat on our slates. We have thus lost much interesting and valuable matter, for which mishap we intend to stop the grog of our "devil", which, we hope, will be satisfactory to the public.

We are happy to announce that a series of the popular evening concerts will be resumed on Monday, 11th inst., When an entirely new arrangement of the programme will be adopted.

The beautiful constellation of the Southern Cross is now visible nightly in the south – just above the horizon.

It is rumoured that five Messes will be allowed on deck in turn each morning at four o’clock, for purpose of bathing. We congratulate the public on this very necessary boon.

Wanted, a few critics; none need apply except gentlemen of undisputed talent and experience – Apply at this office.

Wanted, contributions of ice and cigars for use of editors and staff; all of which will be thankfully acknowledged.

Printed and published at the office, No. 6 Mess, Intermediate Cabin, Ship "Houguemont," for the Editors, Messrs. John Flood, and J. B. O’Reilly, by J.E.K.

Registered for transmission abroad. –

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The Wild Goose:
A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Vol.1.] Convict Ship "Hougoumont," Saturday, Nov.16,1867. [No.2.

Queen Cliodhna and the Flower of Erin.
A Tale of our Pagan Ancestors.
By Mushra.
Cap 2. – The Dance.

The bold, manly and light hearted youth of Ireland are, from time immemorial, celebrated for their love of athletic sports. Probably no game has taken such root in the hearts of our people, or has been so intimately connected with their habits and Customs, as that of hurling, or "goaling", as the peasantry call it. This game is eminently calculated to develop the physical and enduring hardihood of those engaged in it.

It is conceded by all impartial men – natives as well as foreigners – that there is no other national sport known which so fully calls forth the process of speed, strength and agility as this truly Irish exercise. Through centuries of oppression the people have clung to their darling pastime. And, though penal enactments of various kinds and other restraints have been from time to time levelled against it, it is still the national sport of the peasantry, particularly in the south.

Talk of the English game of Cricket! why, it is tame and insipid when compared with the exciting exercise of goaling. At the time of which we write, it was the favorite amusement of peer and peasant; and to excel in goaling was nearly as honorable as to excel in war.

None of the young men of Ireland at that time was so celebrated for his prowess in hurling as Cormac Art, son to the Chieftan of Iveragh, in Kerry. Young, ardent, and perfectly developed, he united in his person the speed of the red deer of his native hills with the strength and boldness of a lion. Often, at the head of his Kerry hurlers, he challenged and overpowered, in many a well-contested goal, the hurlers of the neighboring districts and lordships, until his name was as well known through the whole length and breadth of Ireland, as in his own Kingdom of Iveragh.

When he was still in his early manhood, he one holiday, after a goal in his own neighborhood, went to see the village boys and girls amusing themselves at the dance. Perhaps it is necessary to state that the goal field is generally also the place where the Sunday patron is held; and thither all the rustic beaux and belles congregate, not only to witness the goal, but also to join in the dance and to carry on their innocent flirtation, and other amusements.
As before stated, Cormac Art moved among the dancers, where, we may be sure, he was heartily welcome. Many a beautiful maiden that day would count it the greatest honor to be led out by him to dance and great was the excitement amongst the beauties as to who should be his partner.

A little apart from the crowd, but seemingly watching the movements of the dancers, stood a young girl of very fascinating appearance. No one knew who she was, or whence she came; nor did she seem to be anxious to make the

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acquaintance of any person present. Her dress, though not much superior to that of the billage maiden was yet worn with a sort of studied negligence – just so as to attract attention, without violating any of the rules of decorum. Altogether there was an air of mystery about her, which could not fail to be perceived by the most casual observer. Several of the young men had asked her to dance; but she specifically refused, although she seemed not to be in any hurry to leave the place.

Young Cormac Art, also noticed her; and after exchanging a few passing words with some of his acquaintances, male and female, among the dancers, advanced towards her. It was remarked by those who stood near, that her eyes gleamed with unusual brilliancy as he drew near. Accosting her with respectful and dignified politeness, which was natural to him, he asked her to be his partner in the dance. She modestly consented, and immediately accompanied him to where the dancers were engaged in their graceful evolution to the soul inspiring strains of the harp.

At the approach of Cormac Art and his fair partner, the others, – out of deference to time, and also to be the better enabled to witness the dancing of the stranger lady – gave over their own performance and left the stage clear to the youthful couple. The evening was unusually warm and bright, and the sky beautifully serene and cloudless, with the single exception of a small black cloud that was seen gradually approaching from the east.

The lady, when ready for the dance went over gracefully to the harper, whispered a few words in his ear, and immediately joined her partner. The harper looked surprised, and seemed as if trying to recollect so unusual and seldom performed tune, at length he struck up one of those weird and enchanting airs which entrance the soul, and which are seldom heard, as Irish musicians are unwilling to play them, it being remarked that those who do so seldom live much longer.

The Lady fixed her fascinating eyes on her partner, and, until its close, never for one single instant withdrew her gaze from him. That dance was long remembered by those who witnessed it. Cormac Art seemed to be spell bound, and moved along mechanically, without paying any attention to time or music. He looked like a bird electrified by the gaze of a serpent, and seemed to be quite passive in her toils. The small black cloud rapidly drew near, and, as the two crossed hands a thick whirlwind of dust enveloped dancers, harper and spectators in its stifling fold, and, when it cleared away, Cormac Art and his strange partner were nowhere to be seen.

(To be continued)

Special Commifion. – Forecastle.
13. Nov., 1867.

Samuel Wiggins was this day arraigned before "Judge "Lynch" and a discriminating jury, under the following indictment: – "For that, being instigated by the devil and a love of plunder, he did, on the 12th Nov., 1867, feloniously and avariciously attempt to steal one stick of tobacco of great value, to wit, of inestimable value, the property of Obadiah Taylor. – And that, being instigated as aforesaid, he did, on the 12th day of Nov., 1867, feloniously and voraciously steal and eat the rations of a fellow passenger, to wit, a small black pig; and further, that said pig having resisted, he said Wiggins, did maliciously and ferociously assault and attack with his fists said small black pig; whereby said small black pig received and suffered great bodily pain and injury, to wit, a black eye, and a swelled head, from the effects of which said small black pig yet suffers."

The prisoner’s personal appearance would not tend to his acquittal of this or any other charge; and in this instance (especially with regard to "small black pig") he seems to have gone the whole hog. – Obadiah Taylor and Jno. Jones graphically proved the attempt to "steal the ‘baccer." – His Lordship, having received a quid of the weed that Wiggins coveted, asked for evidence as to the prisoner’s character.

James Bruiser said as he knowed Wiggings for years, having "done a bit" with him in "The Steel", and a bigger ruffin never walked. (Hear, hear from the Judge.) He could prove as he were a sneakin war-mint; sometime ago he (Wiggins) bought five allowances of biscuit for some tobacco; he got the biscuit "into him", and wouldn’t give no baccer. (Exclamations of disgust from Judge and Jury.) He got three days’ wine stopped from his mess by

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3 The Wild Goose.

this ‘ere affair, and got ‘em a bad name – he did.

Last week he seed the pigs a-getting of some crushed biscuit for dinner; he chased them away from their tub, and devoured all their mess his’self. He tried on this ‘ere dodge till at last the pigs couldn’t stick it no longer; when he came again, one of ‘em, a little black’un, wouldn’t budge; the ruffin never said a word, but drew out and hit the poor pig a smash on the hi, and ever since the hanimal ‘as to wear a shade (Sensation in Court.)

The Judge said no further evidence was needed He addressed the jury as follows: – Look here, you jury, you’ve heard about This ‘ere orful crime as this ‘ere Samivel Wiggings ‘as been a-committen of – If you can let him off, do; but you can’t; for I say his guilty of this ‘ere charge; and if any one here says different, he’ll be tried and pumped on. (Hear, hear.) Now, no gammon; hands up for "guilty". (Here was a unanimous show of hands. The Judge himself putting up two very unwashed specimens.) Of course, no one here wants to wote for "not guilty". (Cries of "No, No.") –

His Lordship then proceeded to pass sentence. He said: – Samivel Wiggings, have you anything to say for yourself, you ruffin? – Mr. W. only scowled. – He then said: – "The sentence of this ‘ere court is this – that you, S. Wiggings, being convicted of a horrible and aggerawated crime, the respectable witnesses ‘aving clearly proved you to be a owdacious willain, wot steals baccer and wittals from yer poor mates, wich they haint got near enough for theirselves, as is a unpardonable noosance on your part, being a feller of werry hugly character; you must first be tarred all over by the gen’lmen of this ‘ere court, arter that, locked in the closet for three hours, and arterwards scrubbed with a birch or ‘air broom." (Immense applause.)

The Court forthwith carried the sentence into execution; and we trust that the "birch or ‘air brooms" carried away his plundering propensities as well as his coat of tar.

Latest News.
General Telegraph Co. (Unlimitede.)

Per Equatorial Line, Valentia 13th Nov., ’67. – A dreadful conflagration broke out amongst McGillicuddy’s Reeks. last night, supposed to be the work of an incendiary. We understand they are not insured. Several tourists have been seen prowling about the locality lately.

Via Cape Cod, Nov. 15th. – A raid has been made on the Banks of Newfoundland, by the pirate, Davy Jones, whose locker now contains their accumulated wealth. Several special constables started in pursuit.

The Markets.
Salt beef scarce; the supply in market rather too salt and bony. – Mutton made its appearance this week, but was bought in by agents from foreign Market (aft.) – Pork still high. – Tobacco – no alteration in last week’s quotations. – Sugar. – scarce, and much (s)peculation in this article. – Flour – demand increasing. – Lime Juice, – supply limited. – Eggs, none in Market, except goose lays; we presume that all others are hatched / the supply of fowl air being very plentiful between decks. – Sherry, steady demand for the article, but sales are checked. in consequence of the rise; if the Vendors act fair to back us (Bacchus) we will believe the supply will increase, and a steady demand be continued, which will tend to a considerable rise in spirits.

Later Still. – Nov. 16th. – The Man in the Moon has not died, and the Emperor of the Celestial Empire claims his effects as next of Kin.

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4 The Wild Goose.

Answers to Correspondents

All contributions for insertion in the "Wild Goose" must be sent to our office not later than Wednesday night; and we wish earnestly to impress on our valued correspondents that "brevity is the soul of wit."

T.Mc.F. – The subject treated is too profound for a journal like the "Wild Goose." We will be happy if you will kindly favour us with any lighter matter.

P.O’R. – Held over till next week.

D.B. – You say you have lost your stockings, etc; Well, you may try on the ship’s hose, if you like, but we don’t advise it.

Amphitrite. – Do you wish to come at-ween-us.

Medicus. – The bight of a rope is not considered dangerous. Apply a cabbage leaf to the wound.

Antonio. – St. Paul’s is a beautiful rock, of coral formation, near the line. It was discovered by Sir Christopher Wren.

Sinbad. – Polarized light is that used during the long nights by persons who live at the poles. It is produced by the friction of the earth on its axis, and is occasionally visible in those latitudes, where it is called the Aurora Borealis.

Dickcy Sam. – Yes, in calm weather, when the ship cannot make any knots, the captain compels the sails to make some.

Bill Sykes. – The aborigines of Australia send their Convicts to Low Island, in the Dangerous Archipelago.

Sea Dog. – The usual food of the "Wild Goose" is plum duff, lime juice, soft [indecipherable], cigars, sherry, and other luxuries of that sort. Try us.

The Wild Goose.
"They’ll come again when south winds blow."
Saturday, Nov.16.1867.

Self-Reliance.
The public – our public – are just now afflicted with the usual accompaniments of such a voyage as ours – monotony and melancholy – two goblins we earnestly wish to vanquish; and, lest our weekly efforts to cater for the general amusement should prove insufficient to banish them, we suggest to our readers that they should not alone trust to be passively amused by the "Wild Goose", but that each should endeavor to contribute his quota to the public stock, – the surest way to overcome both the one and the other.

Let us then cheerfully draw on memory and imagination, and invoke that good genius, Self-Reliance, by whom, if once inspired, man never fails in his efforts to attain the Great, the Good, or the Beautiful.

Self-Reliance! What a host of strength is in the mere name! ‘Tis but to say, "I will", and already the battle is more

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than half won. Why not, then, call it to our aid? and we shall find our imaginations and our souls strengthened, and our grey goose quills, as if by magic, imbued with a power both to amuse and to instruct; and, once invoked, let us never again lose such an ally, so that, growing daily stronger in its strength, we may be enabled to fight life’s battles bravely out.

Whether, then, it be for our mutual instruction and amusement on board the good ship "Hougoumont", or the more varied scenes of life in which, through capricious fate or fickle fortune, our lot may be hereafter cast; whether we toil together beneath the burning sun of Australia, or singly scatter, far through the wide, wide world, or back again at the old homes, – still be our motto ever – "Self-reliance, – Away with Melancholy, – and Never despair"!

"Did we deserve it"?
After lengthened and profound consideration, we have decided to write this article. We would not be worthy of the onerous position we hold were we to remain silent under the circumstances. It is a painful thing to be compelled to publicly correct the faults of even a single individual; and those who perform such a meretorious act are seldom regarded with very kindly feelings by the corrected one; – but how much more painful must it be to find fault – serious, unpardonable fault – with every one – with the public – with the world – but more particularly with our own readers.

We hope our friendly admonition will have the desired effect and that the change in their conduct may soon be evident. We have been induced – nay, not induced – but forced, compelled, driven, – to write this article by the unaccountable conduct of our readers – not by what they said – no, no, we could pardon that – but by what they did not say.

It was a bitter thing, an unkind thing, and, coming unexpectedly as it did, it cut deeply. Yes; we acknowledge it. When the truth dawned on the cultivated winds of our enlightened and well-meaning staff, it fairly stunned them. Never can we forget the hopeless look of mingled misery and disgust that was painted on the wind-illumined faces of our colleagues when the thrilling fact became patent – that our literary labors were received by the public with cold and damning indifference!

For three days did we sit in our office, – unhappy, unnerved, unshaven – each hand desperately clutching our hair, and staring on each other with the wildest glare of editorial frenzy. Innumerable quills we have chewed and thrown aside during those three days – and what is the result? Our office, – desk, floor, bed – (for we sleep amidst our literature) and in a word the whole "bunk", – is littered with chaotic reams of paper; and on every sheet we pick up, glance at, and cast away again, we can see nothing but the one solitary sentence, written again and again – "Did we deserve it"?

Oh! shades of departed editors come to our aid! Oh ye spirits of maligned member of the fourth estate, leave us not to perish; but enter

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6 The Wild Goose.

into our great griefs and guide our pen as we vindicate ourselves and annihilate the Public. Think of the countless pangs which that Public inflicted on you when you devoted your varied talents to its instruction and amusement; think of its contempt for your elegant and pithy "leaders"; think of its sneers at your learned essays; its wooden-headedness for your inimitable jokes; and then, ye kindred spirits, when the recollection has roused you to fury, we conjure you to inspire and direct us that we may prick the ungrateful
monster in a sore place.

Let us again look over the chaos of papers around us. Here is a heap evidently written on the first day of our despair; page after page we scan, and meet nothing but that pathetic interrogative, – "Did we deserve it?" Faint and tremulous looking is the usually bold writing; cowed and dejected it appears, even in the first words of the touching appeal; but it dies away in a heart rending scrawl before it reaches the end.

Here again are some sheets from our second day – the same sentence still, but varied in the style; the writing appears something stronger, and the words have lost the Cowardly, hang-dog air of the previous day; but still they have a pained look as if they were badly treated; there is a mild reproach in every letter that would touch anything with feelings; but alas! Alas! the Public has none.

But stay! here’s a pile of the third day’s productions. Hah! stronger writing this – decidedly stronger! Here is a bold indignant – "Did we deserve it?" just such a one as a stern old schoolmaster would address to a trembling delinquent. Here is another – and another, stronger and more indignant still. We feel once more the manly glow of independence. We are ourselves again, Bah!

We [indecipherable] – we defy – we pity the Public. It may be silent; Ay, or it may talk, if it will. Oh! that it only had talked, and we had heard it! If it had only given us a chance of catching one individual in the act, we would be satisfied; had we some one to annihilate, it would give us peace. But no matter, we can watch and wait.

If the Public cannot see the beauty of our style – the erudition of our articles, or the pith of our jokes – Is that any argument against their intrinsic merit? Certainly not. We know their value and their worth – we see their excellence – we can appreciate their depth and beauty! Therefore it is the public and not we should be in despair – They are the losers; and altho’ we say it, who perhaps should not say it – their loss is very great indeed. For the public we will not allow our dignified composure to be ruffled by their silence or their noise. They may criticise as they will – We care not; but we swear by this chaotic mass of papers, and the memory of those three days, that if we hear them – we’ll scrunch them!

A Scotch Echo.
A few of the stars of a once celebrated Opera Company was engaged to sing at a Concert in an Edinburgh theatre, the manager of which undertook to procure an efficient native chorus to sing the refrain of a well known, beautiful song, the last line of each verse of which was to be repeated by Echo – the chorus behind the scenes.

The evening of the Concert arrived; and, on the assurance given by the manager, as to the efficiency of his chorus it was agreed to dispense with a rehearsal. The song commenced, and was being sung to a spellbound audience. The last words "flies away" were thrilling this the house, and now came the part of Echo to repeat them softly, when, judge of the consternation of the professionals, and the ludicrous amazement of the audience, when Echo, very musically, and in perfect time, replied – (not repeated) "flees awa"!!!

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7 The Wild Goose.

Emerald Spay.

The Green.
Go seek ye the fairest tint on earth
From Nature’s beauteous train;
In the gorgeous east of the snow-clad north,
Or away o’er the southern main;

‘Mid the isles that vie with the land of the blest
‘Neath their cloudless skies of blue;
Or search ye the pride and the wealth of the west
For the fairest and loveliest hue.

Some boast of the red, with its glaring flaunt
And its deep ensanguined dye;
And some of the Kingly purple vaunt,
Or the blue of a Grecian sky.

But a tint there is that is far above
The purple of ruby’s sheen; –
Of earth are they – but Almighty love
Is clothed in the beautiful green.

At Nature’s birth, when her colors arose,
And her beauties were all arrayed;
The bright warm green was the tint she chose,
And of green was her mantle made.

When she comes with the Spring to adorn our globe
The bountiful goddess is vain
Of the varying hues of her beauteous robe
As a maid of her silken train.

In summer, with flow’rets bright & wild
She decks out her mantle fair,
With playful grace, as a laughing child
Twines rosebuds through her hair.

In Autumn she rules with her brightest glow,
When the rich, ripe fruits are seen
Where fairest their tempting beauties show –
Mid their deep dark leaves of green.

But Oh! in the winter she loves it most,
When her bright gay hues are flown;
When the pride and the beauty of summer are lost
And the fruits of the Autumn are gone;

All fled are the joyous smiles of spring,
Not a wild-flower ever is seen;
But still round the goddess for ever doth cling
Her emerald robe of green.

Oh! fairest and best of the Colors of earth,
How I love thy genial smile!
Thy bright warm hue in my heart gives birth
To dreams of my own Green Isle.

To my childhood’s home swift Memory runs,
O’er every well-known scene;
Ah! deep in the hearts of her exiled sons
Is the love of their beautiful green.

‘Tis never extinguished – it never decays –
It came with their earliest breath;
‘Tis a light that is holy and pure, whose rays
Are vanquished alone by death.

God grant that the dawn of the morning is nigh
Where o’er Liberty’s ranks will be seen
Their heart cherished Sunburst rise gleaming on high
From its glorious field of green.

– J. B. O’Reilly.

Hallow E’en.
Tonight, my friends, with hollow mirth
We sing away our cares;
But ah! there is a woeful dearth
Of music in the airs.

A smile, t’is true, is on each lip,
A light is in each eye,
As onward speeds our crowded ship,
Beneath a brilliant sky;

A silvery ripple in her wake,
A soft breeze in her sail,
As southward still our course we take
From thee, Lov’d Innisfail.

But in each voice there is a thrill, –
A soft, sad thrill of pain,
That tells of memories, that fill
The heart, as back again

On fancies wing, across the foam,
We fly to those who weep,
Breathing angel prayers at home,
For lov’d ones on the deep.

To loving wife, and lisping child –
To maiden idoliz’d –
To mother dear – to sister mild –
To all belov’d and priz’d; –

And to our hearts, in mute despair,
Each best lov’d one is pressed,

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8 The Wild Goose.

And lips, and eyes, and brow, and hair,
Are kissed and caressed.

Tis Hallow E’en! A year ago.
Our lov’d ones softly smiled
Upon us, and with hearts aglow,
Enraptured, and beguiled,

We listened to their voices sweet,
And laughed, nor thought of care,
– Tonight, dear friends, like seabird fleet,
With white sails thro’ the air,

Our vessel bears us far away,
And thro’ her masts the wind,
Like murmurings of those who pray,
Breathes love from friends behind.

– But still, my friends, will bravely sing,
With hearts that never quail,
As onward bounds our convict ship,
From thee, lov’d Innisfail.

[Binn Cider]

On Thursday we were signalled by a Yankee ship, whose Captain wanted to know "where the tarnation the line had got to?" as he couldn’t find it. The irascible Yank. hinted that we must have cut it up to make clothes lines, we spread such a lot of bunting. Passengers exasperated at hearing our Captain maligned in such a manner.

Our special correspondent, writes from Fremantle, 11th Nov.; – "A grand reception preparing for the "Wild Goose", by her feathered friend the Swan. Plenty of long pipes, the smaller relations to supply "bird’s-eye."

We congratulate the public on the success of the popular evening Concerts of the past week; most, if not all, of the songs were beautifully rendered. Amongst others, "The Angel’s Whisper", by our "devil". We understand the African Opera Troupe will appear next week. We trust these eminent artists will not attempt a song without knowing the words perfectly, as pausing in the middle of a song to manipulate one’s bump of memory rather mars the good effect that would be otherwise produced.

Unreserved Sale.
To be sold by Public Auction, Forecastle Deck. on 20th Nov., 1867. A few second-hand Paper Collars, the property of a gentleman who has no shirt.

Lost or Strayed.
A Reward will be given by the Editor to any well-disposed person or persons who will give such information as may lead to the recovery of the "Staff" of the "Wild Goose".

If "J.E.K." returns to his home and friends, all will be forgiven.

Wanted, by the Editor, several reams of Foolscap, together with a corresponding quantity of Black Ink and Steel Pens, for which goose quills will be given in exchange.

To be disposed of – several fine Heads of fine Hair, which misfit the present owners. – Apply to the Man behind the Mast.

Problem.
Given – Any amount of fresh-water soap and the Atlantic Ocean; to find what length of time is required to wash a "Convic" clean.

Notice.
Any person found trespassing on the Editor’s slates, or in his office, will be prosecuted.

Printed and published at the Office, No. 6 Mess, for the Editors Messrs. John Flood and J. B. O’Reilly.

Registered for transmission abroad

[Page 18]
The Wild Goose:
A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Vol.1] Convict Ship "Hougoumont", Saturday, November 23, 1867. [No.3.

Queen Cliodhna and the Flower of Erin:
A Tale of our Pagan Ancestors.
By Mushra.

Chapter 3. – The Barrachan Girl.
The disappearance of Cormac Art and his fair partner at first caused no surprise, as it was though, in the hurry and confusion which the whirlwind occasioned, that they had retired unnoticed to avoid the stifling dust which blew all round; but, when after some time they were nowhere to be seen, the people began to look surprised, and many a strange conjecture as to what became of them was whispered about.

A diligent search was soon instituted to discover the missing pair, but in vain; although the young men dived into nook and cranny; cave and dell, until late into the night, their efforts were unavailing, for no trace of their leader could they anywhere find. Another party sought him at his father’s Castle, but it was still the same.

Great was the agony and grief of Art More, his father, when some days passed by, and still no tiding were heard of his missing son. At length he bethought him of an ancient Druid, who lived on the side of mangerton, and who was noted thro’ the Green Isle for his wisdom and sanctity. The heartbroken father [indecipherable] to this sage in the mountain to ask his advice, and to see if he could give him any account of his missing son.

The Druid, after hearing his story and his description of the young girl with whom he danced, said he must have been enchanted by the spells of Queen Cliodhna, and that she must have taken him away to a rocky palance. He also said, that, if she could keep him for fourteen clear days from the hour of taking him away, no power on earth could release him from her toils.

"There is not in Ireland," said he, "any enchanter who can free him from her witchery, except the Old Hag of Ulster, who lives on the shores of Lough Swilly. I would, therefore, advise you to [indecipherable] with all possible speed to her; and if you have the good fortune to meet her, and that she consents to come with you, all may yet be well, provided you arrive in time; otherwise your efforts are fruitless, and you will never again see your son."

Old Art More was bewildered at what he heard; eight days were already past, and he had but six left to journey to the far end of Donegal and back again, in case he could induce the old hag to come with him. Now, that distance in these days of engineering and railroad skill would be of no significance, but in the brave old day, of our ancestors it was far different. However, he resolutely determined to do all that could be done under the circumstances.

Hastily proceeding home, he chose a few valuable presents to propitiate the good graces of the old Hag, and, saddling his fleetest steed, he set off for Ulster. On thro’ the rich alluvial lands of Limerick, down by the lordly [indecipherable], far away oer the fertile plains of Roscommon, over

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the steep hills and rocky dells of Sligo and Donegal sped the traveller, when, on the morning of Friday, he entered the Cabin of the Old Hag, having then but until Sunday evening to come back and get his son from the spell, of the enchantress, When he entered, he saw no one but except a little girl about ten years old, sitting by the half-burned turf embers, roasting barrachans (Barrachans are half-roasted potatoes and a peculiar relish with some little Irish boys and girls.)

The little girl was roasting her barrachans when the old man entered. He asked where was the old woman. She did not know. When would she be home? Of that she was also uncertain – "She may be in a day – she may not be for three days – she may not be for a fortnight." Had she any idea where she as to be found? No; her grandmother, as she called her, was not in the habit of telling her of her movements.

Art More was stupefied by this information, and gave vent to his feelings by loud bursts of lamentation. The little girl enquired the cause of his grief, and why the absence of her grandmother occasioned him such disappointment. He, without answering her, was turning away to leave the Cabin, when, she more earnestly desired to know what was his business with her grandmother – Without in the least expecting any assistance from her, he told her the Cause of his journey.

She listened attentively to his story, and at its conclusion asked him a few questions about his son, – as how old was he, what was his appearance, was he the Celebrated hurler of Munster; and, on being satisfied on these particulars, said, if the old man would engage to give her his son in marriage, when she came of age, she would go with him and endeavour to break the witchery of Queen Cliodhna; – but first she must eat her barrachans –

(To be continued.)

A 4th of July in America.
In the year of grace 1856, while still a mere boy, I became a resident of Boston, – the Capital of the old Puritan State of Massachusetts, and, in the fond estimation of its citizens, the chiefest city in the United States, and consequently in the world. In their pride, Boston is termed by its inhabitants the "Athens of America", and, by the rest of their countrymen, in their love of burlesque nomenclature, the "Hub of the Universe" and the City of Notions"; the latter word signifying, in the Yankee vocabulary, articles of trade.

The 4th of July (the anniversary of the declaration of American independence) was approaching; and impatiently I waited the tardy coming of this world-celebrated gala-day of the great American republic, – "the great and glorious Fourth", anticipating, from all I had heard respecting it, a rare treat. In order that I should be up early on the morning of Independence Day, and not cheat my boyish eagerness of a moment’s sport, I retired to bed very early the evening before, and, though my brain was worked up to fever heat at the thought of the morrow, Tommy almost instantly assorted his sway, and I became oblivious of past, present, and future.

Suddenly I was aroused from sleep. Peals of thunder, as it were, rent the air. Forgetful of the occasion, the terrible thought flashed through my brain that the awful Day of Judgment had arrived. Another instant, tho truth dawned upon my mind; it was the birth-day of a nation, – the day of all others that forcibly reminds Americans of the time when their fathers, despite of the immense odds they had to contend with, nobly dared to brave the proudest sovereignty of this world, and, battling for their rights, compel it to acknowledge their independence; then, by their exertions, raising them to the pre-eminence they now hold amongst the nations of the earth. From the loud and rapid reports, I conceived that the military were called out, and, placed in every street and lane, were ushering in the glorious day with tremendous feux-di-joie.

Venturing, at last, to get out of bed, I tremulously approached the window, and looked cautiously out. The bells were chiming a joyous peal. and every now and then the sky was illumined with a sheet of flame. Evidently no military were engaged in firing, as I had supposed; but in every direction torpedoes, Roman candles, etc, were let off with deafening noise by demonstrative, sleepless civilians. As it was not long after midnight, and feeling sure that the fun wouldn’t be exhausted before day, I again sought my couch, and once more fell asleep – rising [indecipherable] to prepare for the day’s enjoyment.

About six o’clock I sauntered forth. Heaven was smiling on the day’s proceedings, and the intense heat of the sun, sole occupant of the clear blue sky, was tempered by a refreshing breeze. Attracted by the sound of marching

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music, I proceeded up Summer Street, and encountered a motley procession, headed by a neatly uniformed brass band; who discoursed exquisite airs alternately with the discordant, ear-torturing performance of the ragged members of a tin pan and whistle band, appeared the procession of the "Ancient and Honorable Order of Antiques and Horribles". Uproarious cheers and shouts of laughter greeted their body as it filed up the street.

My astonished eyes were opened to their fullest extent at the fantastic and widely different costumes of that grotesque procession. Here were Hamlet and Don [indecipherable] de Borzan, arm in arm, masked, and kissing enormous bouquets at the ladies; here Punch and Judy, in a carriage, affectionately embracing and anon sparring scientifically at each other with connubial earnestness; here a sham female with exaggerated hoops and a very small apology for a bonnet, affecting most ridiculous coquettish airs; Don Quixote – not a bad specimen of the genus Yankee riding on a very sorry Rosinante indeed, abreast with the Rev. Mr. Snowball, a colored clergyman with very large blue spectacles and proportionate shirt-collar, and Sancho, dressed as a clown, clinging to the tail of Rosinante; and Lonis Napoleon taking snuff with Brother Jonathan, the latter comporting himself with more dignity than his imperial majesty.

The caricatures throughout were inimitable. Besides, sprinkled here and there, clowns and harlequin gesticulated and twisted themselves into all sorts of shapes; mock bears exhibited their Terpsichorean powers; monkeys jabbered, etc. Not the least inconspicuous in this display was an allegorical representation on a car of the Devil inciting Tyranny, crowned and dressed as a monarch, to acts of cruelty towards a group of cowering wretches in chains, whilst the Angel of Liberty was by degrees releasing them from slavery, and the tyrant eventually becomes the prey of the Arch-Fiend.

Having feasted myself to my heart’s content, I returned to breakfast; and, after doing justice to that meal, I set about arranging my stock of fireworks to be in readiness for a cousin of mine whom I had persuaded to spend the day with me. Pending his arrival, I amused myself with looking out the window, and watching the boys in the street, in all the enthusiasm of Young America, discharging pistols, piles of India crackers, etc.

On the outside ledge of the parlor-window below, I spied a heap of common fire-crackers. A brilliant idea occurred to me, which was forthwith put into practice. Attaching a piece of lighted fuse to a string, I lowered it among the incendiary materials, and the consequence was, not only that they went off with spirit-stirring reports, but, flying about in all directions, burnt holes in the Brussells carpet, and set fire to the window-curtains. Opportunely entering the room at the moment, the servant-maid, by extinguishing the fire, prevented it doing more mischief. Nobody being able to trace the cause of the accident, I, of course, escaped blame, not being even suspected.

Joined by my cousin, he and I sallied forth about town. The din was such as to fill our youthful hearts with unbounded delight, being incessant and deafening beyond description.

On Washington Street, we witnessed the marching past of troops of soldiers, – horse, foot, and Artillery, – the governor and state officials, the corporation and other civic officers, the different bodies of the City militia in their rich uniforms, and the noble and gallant firemen in their red shirts, dragging their favorite [indecipherable], which were gayly decked out in ribbons and flowers. The houses on the line of march were handsomely decorated with appropriate flags, floral festoons, and banners worked with designs and motives significant of the occasion.

Stretched across Washington Street (the principal thoroughfare of the City) from the Old South Church was a banneret bearing the announcement that that sacred edifice – the sanctuary of the Most High – during the occupation of Boston by the British troops in the revolutionary war, was used as a stable by the royal dragoons.

Pushing on through the crowd, we made our way to the Common, – the pride and glory of the Bostonians – a small park, forty-four acres in area, and boasting a pond, the breadth of which might be cleared by a vigorous hop, step, and leap.

On Sundays and the evenings of all other days, the Common with its contiguous streets, is the favorite promenade of the citizens, and on public festivals, is the centre of attraction. Its chief ornaments are the "Liberty Tree" – a large and very aged elm – and the "Smokers" Circle", whose precincts are nearly always occupied by loungers. The Common is the bequest of an Irishman to the Corporation of the City of Boston for ever. To admit that one never heard of the existence of the Boston Common would, in the eyes of the natives, betray a gross ignorance of history and geography.

The Common was swarming with both sexes and all ages; and, with with all the exuberance of infantile glee, manhood and even tottering age united with their juvenile companions in forwarding the general hilarity by contributing their share towards increasing the noise.

Now, however came a slight lull, the monster concert was about to commence. Eight brass bands, placed at some distance apart, opened with the national air of "Hail Columbia"; a [indecipherable] of Artillery – Nims’s battery, which afterwards played such a prominent part in that unhappy war between the North and South – keeping time to the notes of the drum with the most exact precision. Besides operatic and other selections, the national anthem of the principal nations of the globe were performed, with the exception of that of England, it being, to my no small surprise and delight, substituted by "St. Patrick’s Day".

(To be continued.) Kappa

Latest News.
By Atlantic Line.
Abyssinia, via Trinidada, Nov. 18. –

It is reported that the Emperor Theodore is willing to treat on the terms of a peace. The British Commander in Chief, with his army, has gone to Ax-um.

Notice.
"Mother Carey’s chickens", in their pursuit of grub, have scratched the outer covering off the Atlantic Telegraph line cable. Insulation destroyed – John Dorey has been engaged to repair it.

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4 The Wild Goose.

Answers to Correspondents.

We gratefully acknowledge the practical answer received to our advertisement of last week.

Peter Simpli. – Your stock of brains is far less than the Anchor’s stock.

Snip. – We don’t understand your essay on dress; how can a man wear straps, with a pair of knee breeches.?

Joby. – There ought not to be many rats in a ship provided with catheads and many ratlins.

Enquirer wants to know what a "Kink" is. We fear our legs will very soon prove an illustration if we have to squat so much at our editorial duties.

Rory. – It is bad policy to strike even when pay is low. Be advised Roar-i,e. – Call the police.

Curious – wants to know why the upper deck is so constantly flooded. How can it be otherwise with swells (from aft) continually dashing along it.

A Rum one. wishes to be informed if he can get potheen in Fremantle. We think not, as she-beings (she beens) are scarce there. You are a Rum one.

Hans. – The "Flying Dutchman" is a native of Rotterdam.
Excessive indulgence in Schiedam Schnapps, spiritualized him to such a degree, that he can only be seen though a double-barrelled glass – of wine.

The Wild Goose.
"They’ll come again when south winds blow."
Saturday, Nov. 23rd, 1867.

Forethought.
Nothing conduces more to man’s success in life, and, consequently, to distinguish him amongst his fellows, than forethought. It is the adjunct of a reasoning mind; and as reason distinguishes man from the lower animals, so it distinguishes him amongst his fellow men, and fits him to adorn and benefit society.

A man may be possessed of genius, bravery, energy, and a host of other estimable qualities; but with all these he will never become successful if he has not also forethought. It is pre-eminently necessary to the political economist, the great Captain, the statesman; and it is quite as necessary to men in the more humble spheres of life, to whom it will prove a giant of strength in all, even their every day undertakings. Nothing tends more to produce a healthy tone of mind, than forethought when joined with reliance on one’s self.

A man possessed of these qualities, has within himself an abiding

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5 The Wild Goose.

strength that overcomes all difficulties, or bends them subservient to him, It is wisdom – It is the opposite to that trusting to others, or to chance, – to that kismet which is the refuge of the weak man – ever ending in his ruin. Its exercise saves from unlooked for disappointments, and from rushing headlong, at first sight, into things that in themselves may seem even good, without first well weighing the after effects.

As a people, it is said that the Irish are deficient in this great quality – that we are a people of more heart than head. Such is the hackneyed charge continually brought against us, spite of the many bright examples to which we can point of Irishmen whose Careers are the best contradiction of this libel. However, the limits of our journal will not permit us to enter in detail into a disproval of the charge; but what is worth whole sheets of such matter, each and every one amongst us, as Irishmen, whose proud privilege it is to represent our people amongst strangers, can, by our exercise of this forethought in the future affairs of our life, more eloquently prove, that, both individually and as a people, we are not inferior to any nation, in this or any other great quality.

From our present prison life will radiate our futures. If we take with us forethought, it will assure our success; however widely we may dispense; and let us ever remember that our individual success in life will conduce to the greatness of our nation and our race.

"What are the Wild Waves saying."
Let us away for a season from the monotonous routine of every day life, and roam o’er the glorious fields of imagination. Let us bury for a moment the trouble and trials of the present, and, as the mind wanders far away, in unchecked freedom, we will listen to and unravel the mystic words that are being spoken around us by the impressive voices of nature. Mighty tones are they, indeed; and we will find that they tell of mighty things.

Every breeze that sweeps over the ocean’s breast is fraught with hidden meaning; and every wave that breaks along our our vessels side will speak to us words of strength and [impost]. Let us watch them as they heave and roll around us – listen to them as they whisper to each other in the soft low tones of the Curling Crests – see what a depth of quiet strength lies buried in their heaving swells as they rise and fall and roll along.

Now loud, bold, and powerful, as the roar of lions is the voice of the mighty ocean, as its billowy mountains sweep past, – now soft and low as the murmuring of lovers are the whisperings of its foam-tipped waves, They are speaking to us all, – and though hearts, and feelings, and positions may be widely diversified, still there is a voice in the waves for everyone; and, whether thundering along in resistless grandeur, or murmuring in gently flowing ripples, those voices are speaking to us of wisdom, and hope and holy things.

"Be strong, be strong", they say to the weak; "Be strong, and heed not the frowns of fortune, storms and tempests last not for ever. The waves of adversity will in time calm down, and the ocean of life be purer, happier and better for their violent commotion."

"Be cheerful", they say to the drooping one; bear your [indecipherable] with a light heart and a smiling face", and the light spray dashes up from the wave into the Sunshine with a merry joyous sparkle,

"Be wise, be wise", they say to the unwary; "Silent and wise", and the whispering curl dies away from the wave, the surface of the deep is unbroken, and it slowly heaves in deep and solemn silence.

"Be humble", they say to the proud one, "Be lowly in thy

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6 The Wild Goose.

heart – be merciful in thy power", and it bears safely along, the slender ship and the helpless raft, whilst men bless the mighty ocean for the comforts and joys it brings them.

"Toil on, toil on", they cry to the student; "dive deep for the richest pearls and farthest down", and the ocean opens a yawning gulf, and, far below shows its priceless stores of treasurers "Hope on, hope ever", they say to the weary ones, and far on the horizon appears an island of beauty and rest, to cheer the drooping way farer,

"Be patient", they say to the struggler; "Be patient and heed my works. Unheeded and contemned, I beat against the towering rock for ages; atom by atom I wear away its strength; and the day comes when my waves are rolling above it, and their white crests are whispering softly as they rise and fall over the spot where once it stood and defied my strength."

"Be true, be true", they say to all. "Love not a falsehood for its sweetness. My waves are salt and rough, but they bear not deceit within their depths, and they roll unchanged for ever and ever."

Such are the voices of the deep – such are the lessons they teach. Far away, round our dear old island home, they are rising and falling and rolling along as they are here around us. They are solemnly murmuring their quaint and mysterious words to the loved ones there, who are thinking and praying for the wanderers. They are bearing their memories away to the scenes of the far past, or painting bright pictures of the visionary future; but, though they bear with them a gentle sadness, they will strengthen and refresh us with courage for the present and hope for the future, if we hearken to their voices, and rightly interpret their meanings. –

During the past week, we sighted several Portuguese men-of-war. Our "devil" signalled them to ascertain longitude, but from his imperfect knowledge of their language. (and indeed of his we may also add, of his own) he failed to read their reply.

Emerald Spray.

Mary.
I see thee Mary now before me
As I saw thee long ago;
Dreams of youth, are rushing o’er me
With resistless rapid flow.

Time and worldly cares have found me,
Each has left its mark behind;
Still those day dreams hover round me –
Saddening treasures of the mind.

Far from childhood’s home I wander,
Sorrows come and disappear;
Still when on the past I ponder
Thou art present, – Mary, dear.

Scenes of boyhood – scenes of gladness –
Parents’ love and friendship’s ties,
Bearing mingled joy and sadness,
Now ‘neath Memory’s wand arise

Crush them not, their spells will render,
Truer, Kinder, every heart;
Crush not feelings, pure and tender –
Scenes of youth, Oh! ne’er depart.

E’en though sad, yet still I’ll cherish
All those dreams as time flies on;
Base ‘twould be to let them perish
Now that all their joys are gone.

May they still my memory fetter,
Still their spells around me cast;
Teach me to grow wiser – better –
‘Till Life’s dream itself is past.

– J. B. O’Reilly.

To –
‘Tis sweet to ride on our fleetwinged ship,
As bird-like she skims away,
Before the wind, all her sails adrip,
With the rainbow-tinted spray.

And sweet it is in the calm to rest;
To gaze on the depths of blue;
To feel the swell of its heaving breast;
And to watch each varying hue,

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7 The Wild Goose.

That deepens, and fades, and faints away; –
As the sun to his azure bed
Sinks slowly, and seems seeming with magic ray
Both ocean and sky to wed

Around him is spread a nuptial veil,
Of varying colors blent,
Turning his golden beams more pale,
As they dart through each gauzy rent –

But sweeter, beloved, to think of thee,
Thou soul of my sweetest hours;
The memory brightens sun, sky, and sea:
– Less bright than this love of ours.

[Binn Cider.]

Two days at Killarney.
We arrived at Ross, where a light boat, with a crew and bugler, were to meet us. After passing over the small bridge that connects Ross Island to the mainland, immediately in front appeared Ross Castle, – an old ruin, still retaining traces of its former beauty and splendour and beauty, towering majestically over wood and lake, and giving a princely air to the surrounding scenery.

Its round watch-tower, on either side, with ramparts between, – the main structure standing on a higher eminence behind, clothed with ivy from base to summit, as if to shield it in its old age from the rude blasts of the winter’s mind, – the rusty cannon peering over the parapets, and commanding the entrance, – must have once formed a formidable defence against the besiegers; but the shattered turrets above tell their own tale of the destroying hand of the conqueror.

We ascended by a circular stone stairs to an arched passage in front, which commanded a magnificent view of the lower lake in all its beauty; its islands mantled in rich green, and forming a beautiful contrast with the silvery waters in which they lay embosomed. Just beneath lay Ross Island, extending nearly half way across the lake, with its picturesque mounds and valleys, some robed in soft moss of a light yellow shade, and others covered with shrubs and trees of different tints of green, all forming a beautiful harmony of colors.

After gazing on this little paradise with rapt admiration, and glancing over the scenes in the distance, which promised a similar treat we retraced our steps by the old stairs to the quay, near the base of the Castle, where the boat was in waiting for us.

After making the necessary arrangements, our boat glided gently over the smooth waters, the bugler playing "The" last Rose of Summer"; its soft notes dying away in the distance, and again sent back in a subdued and softened tone, as if by some fairy mimic. The music was so ingeniously executed in short bars of three or four notes, with an interval of the same time – that the magic performer in the distance, had perfect silence to repeat each bar without interruption, and to illustrate the beauties of this charming air. This I thought was the exquisite reality of what I frequently heard described, and which I often longed to hear; but I was told by the bugler that, in another part of the, lake echo (whom he called "Paddy Blake") might be heard with much finer effect.

We continued on a course by the shores of Ross Island, – sometimes passing under the old yew and arbutus trees, which overhang the water’s edge, – and on, crossing a little bay whose rocky and irregular outline tempted us to a closer inspection, but looked too intricate for our boat to explore. We crossed the lake and passed by Twomy’s mountain on the other side, which stretched out to the west as far as the eye could reach, thickly wooded at its base and gradually thinning to its summit; passed by Glenna under Brickeen Bridge, and entered the Middle lake, with Mucross demesne skirting it all round; Mangerton and Torc mountains forming the background and rearing their lofty summits to the clouds.

Mountain and wood seemed to encompass it giving one the impression that no other lake was farther on; but passing by Dinns Island, we soon came to a rustic bridge which we passed and lay in front of the Old Weir Bridge. Here the boat had to be pulled through, as the current ran too rapidly for rowing; and ‘ere long a new scene opened to our view. This is called the long Range; it connects the middle to the Upper lake; and runs about two miles long, winding round rock and island, with mountains on either side, rising in parts almost out of sight, and thickly wooded.

The Eagle’s Rock lies about half way up the long Range, rising perpendicularly from the water’s edge, and standing out from the mountain’s side. At the end of this pass lies the Upper Lake, surrounded with barren mountains of a purple color, and different in appearance from all the rest. In fact, every object the eye could rest on, from Ross Quay to the termination of the Upper Lake, – which is from ten to twelve miles, – present new beauties too numerous to describe – every island and mountain having its own peculiar crags and peaks, – shrubs and trees and beautiful ferns, which would need a chapter of description to themselves alone.

J.N.

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8 The Wild Goose.

Correspondence.
[We cannot resist the pleasure of giving the following to our readers, even at the sacrifice of our other usual matter. We trust we may be often favored by our valued correspondent. We trust hope our Readers will aid us to reply suitably in our next.]

Mr. Wild Goose, -
You "Wild Goose" folk talk very loud about things; – such things as your readers desire to hear, if not well, at least noisily ventilated. You are a sociable bird, by the way – of steadied habits, – your feathers are beautiful. Come, let us have a flight together. Your wing is strong, – your vision is of microscopic power.

Tell me, my water fowl, you who are next, if not equal, to the snow-white swan in skill to scan the surface of the deep – who so cunningly drop an ear to listen to the rustling of the pearly dew drop, disentangling itself from its fellows in the aqueous body, to lift itself aloft, for no other end than to be shivered to atoms on the point of a ray from the valiant sun, – you, who, with upturned eye, survey the firmament; so gracefully duck your head, and, with due caution discover the tracks of the watery fragments, shaped out to a thousand attractive clouds, bound in woolpack trim for the temperate zones.

Let me ask you, my wild flier, a few plain questions. You know the good-for-nothing capacity of Australian soil and atmosphere, to hold the vapours that envelope your slumbers, as well as the capability of an Australian sun to draw away and dissipate, if it like, all fertilizing humidity, and to restore it again out of the store-houses of space. You have measured in your quondam flights the best shores of the immense island-continent, whither our good ship is bound; and in one glance you have seen how it is belted round by an ocean of foam, whence, by evaporation, ascends numerically more tons of water than we have travelled inches in the voyage.

Tell me, you who hear the whispers of the mighty deep, have you not heard of water [indecipherable] when man and beast in distant parts are exposed to perish of drought?

Tell me "Wild Goose", why is Australia so dry, and our own native island so humid?

Tell me, "Wild Goose", whereas abandoned to sun, and wind and weather, evaporation from the smooth and mirrored surface, – wherein you admire your own beautiful proportions, – so great, to what extent would it be increased if the operation of nature were assisted by the ruffling and agitating, and by flapping of snow-white wings to the breeze?

Tell me, Wild Goose, what you think of brown canvas, spread to the breeze, having one end dipping in the briny element, the other flaunting to the breeze, – but receiving every moment, by capillary attraction, as much moistures it gives off, – placed points to the wind – perpendicular parrallel, or oblique to the rays of the scorching sun?

Tell me, "Wild Goose", are you not able to drain marshes, and remove noxious lakes by a system of accelerated evaporation?

Tell me, Wild Goose, with outstretched wings, whither would you guide, and where collect the golden-edged illumined clouds? Would you assemble them to do homage to the setting sun; and to what favored region would you conduct them to discharge their refreshing showers? Answer ichos "Garden bowers, – The fruits are ours."

Mr. "Wild Goose", I am much obliged for your aerial excursions, I am well steeped in vapour – drenched with brine and rain; when next I have the honor of accompanying you in a fly, I shall come provided with an oil-cloth.

Delta.

"The man behind the mast" once reared a pet shark, but had to part with it, its love of its natural prey – fish – having once induced it to eat the flukes off all the anchors.

"Sweet are the uses of Adversity", but is that any reason why we should have to take our gruel and tea without sugar?

Mat – a love sick swain some time since taking a walk with his fiancee, being greatly concerned at the loss of a bundle of billets- doux, asked his sweet-heart’s opinion as to the best means of recovering his lost treasure, when she replied, with great naivete, Mat-try-money, (matrimony). He took the hint.

Wanted.
A few black lead pencils that were originally made to write not to sell.

Printed and published at the office No. 6 mess, "Intermediate Cabin", for the Editors. Messrs. Jno Flood and J. B. O’Reilly.

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The Wild Goose:
A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Vol.1.] Convict Ship "Hougoumont", Saturday, 30 Nov., 1867. [No. 4.

Queen Cliodhna and the Flower of Erin:
A Tale of our Pagan Ancestors.
By Mushra.

Chapter 4. – Conall Oge.
How genial and refreshing the glow of an autumnal evening in the genial climate of Ireland!

The golden-edged clouds of the west assume shapes and forms which allow the imagination to revel in unbounded freedom, contrasting and comparing them to tower and battlement, mountain and crag; sometimes they assume the faces of long-remembered friends. Now the panorama changes, and they put on the most grotesque and fantastic shapes of beasts and birds. The rich brown foliage of the woods and the yellow tint of the ripened corn contrasts strongly with the emerald sheen of the aftergrass in the fields and meadows.

On such an evening, about an hour before sunset, a young man or boy rather, (for his age might be about eighteen), was crossing one of the fords of the far-famed Munster Blackwater, about midway between the present towns of Mallow and Kanturk. His appearance betokened a youth of uncommon speed and hardihood; tall, lithe, and athletic for his age, with his limbs moulded in the most perfect symmetry, and an incipient black moustache beginning to shade his upper lip, he looked the very embodiment of ripening manly beauty. The twinkle of his hazel eyes and the cheery smile of his sunny lips, as he crossed the river, showed that his heart was light as his step was firm and elastic.

Such was Conall Oge, son to the neighbouring Chieftain of Mount Ellery, who was returning home from the Sunday goal which was held on the Duhallow side of the Blackwater. With his hurly "in his hand, and whistling his favourite air of "The Red Fox," he had not proceeded more than one hundred yards from the river, when his attention was directed to a group before him in his path.

Rapidly coming up, and still whistling his tune, he found them it to consist of an old man, a little girl, and a dead horse. The old man appeared to be plunged in the deepest grief, and gave utterance to his feelings in loud lamentations, whilst the little girl appeared to be no less affected, though her grief partook more of the feelings of anger and impatience than of sorrow.

Conall Oge, after curiously surveying them, asked what was the cause of their great grief. "Oh!" said the old man, "my darling son, Cormac Art, I will never see again." "Who", said the youth, "is Cormac Art? Is he the great Kerry hurler? If so, I know him well; I played goal against him last year at Inch; and though he gained the day at that time, as I was too young to successfully compete with such a noted hurler, I intend shortly to challenge him again. But

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2 The Wild Goose.
tell me what has happened to him; or are you his father?" "Yes," said the old man; and he forthwith narrated to the youth the particulars with which the reader is already acquainted.

"We have journeyed hither from Lough Swilly since Friday morning, and now, having arrived so near our destination, and the time rapidly drawing to a close, how can I be otherwise than overwhelmed with heart-breaking sorrow when I find my gallant steed drop dead from sheer exhaustion and fatigue, As it is impossible for this little girl to reach the Rock in time? Bravely has she borne the fatigues of the journey; and even for her sake I cannot help feeling grieved for our untoward accident."

Conall Oge listened to the old man’s story with eager attention, and at its close began to whistle his "Red Fox," and turned his eyes to examine the little girl more closely than he had done at first. She was dressed as a simple little peasant girl, with a mantle thrown over her head and shoulders’ but he remarked that she always kept her hands covered. She was stamping with her tiny foot on the ground with impatience as he gazed on her.

"Well," said he, when he was satisfied with his scrutiny, "old man, you need not be much grieved at the loss of the horse, as I dare say you have many more besides; and if it is necessary that this young one should reach Cliodhna Rock before seven o’clock, I think that is not impossible, although the distance is seven good miles, and there is but three-quarters of an hour to perform it in. I do not think there is a man in Ireland at present can exceed me in running, except, perhaps, Cormac Art himself, and I am sure the weight of that little girl is not much.

So, if she is willing that I should take her, I will engage to go to the enchantress’ stronghold with her before the time is expired. In the meantime, you can follow at your pleasure, or go to my father’s Castle, which is only two miles distant, and wait there for our return. I would go home for a horse, but I fear too much time would be lost; besides I hope I shall be able to do without him."

The little girl immediately consented to the proposal of the youth; and he, placing his hurly under his arm, with the boss out to his breast, told her to put took her, and placing her pillion-fashion on it, told her to put her arms round his neck to steady her, Then, striking up his favourite tune, he set off rapidly in the direction of the Rock of Queen Cliodhna.

(To be Continued.)

A 4th of July in America.
(Continued from our Last.)

The concert over, the discharge of fireworks was renewed with increased ardour. The din was indescribable. The hoarse and shrill cries of pop-corn, cigar, and other venders, the braying of tin horns, the shrieking of "the ear-piercing pipe", and the springing of rattles, mingled with the continual and stunning explosions of common crackers, double-headed crackers, India crackers, torpedoes, and tourbillons, and all sorts of firearms, would give the indifferent looker-on no bad idea of Pandemonium.

Here an individual, slightly "independent", was haranguing a laughing crowd on the "spirit of ‘76," whilst he exemplified in himself the full effects of the spirits of ’56. There a juggler and acrobat.

"Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around" with feats of legerdemain and strength. And, in another place unsophisticated verdancy was "taken in and done for" by card-sharpers, who, by some mysterious manipulation, invariably made the cards turn up in their own favor.

We created great diversion and some wrath by despatching fire-serpents in amongst the crowd. These igneous messengers performed the most eccentric motions, spitting fire in every direction, their tortuous course governed by no law whatever. Now some individual would be rivetted to the spot compelled to endure the pitiless shower of sparks rained on him, and another ran hotly pursued by the merciless reptile.

Divine service was held in the different churches of the city, and was well attended, despite the allurements outside. The annual oration was eloquently delivered by Oliver Wendall Holmes, a distinguished savant, who expatiated at length on the great blessings conferred on America since it became a free and independent nation.

In the afternoon, the city Authorities and their guests partook of a magnificent banquet. ‘Tis true, we didn’t dine as sumptuously as they, but we certainly did with as much satisfaction. After dinner, we witnessed some exciting boat-races in the Back Bay, a portion of Boston Harbour. Some "crack" oarsmen were there from St. John’s, New Brunswick, the boatmen of which place dispute with the Haligonians the championship of American waters. A Boston boat, called the "Maid of Erin", won the prize contested for by first-class gigs –

The Public Gardens, at the south side of the Common, was the scene of a fete provided for

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the schoolchildren by the corporation. Paying the admission-fee of six cents, we indulged in an hour’s relaxation from the outside Babel among the juvenile community, flying kites – shaped as owls, bats, butterflies, etc. – and balloons, and strolling leisurely through the flowery walks; whilst we occasionally refreshed ourselves with strawberries and cream, peaches, ices, and other tempting luxuries.

Some "Odds and Ends: – imitations of the "Antiques and Horribles" on a youthful scale – were sporting about, performing curious antics. I very imprudently caught hold of one of the nondescripts to ascertain what sort of stuff he was made of, when a stinging rap over the knuckles from one of his companions induced me to release him instantly.

Returning to the Common, we beheld the ascent of a celebrated aeronaut in the "Young America", – a balloon of very large dimensions, and strained our eyes watching it gradually diminishing, till at length it disappeared in the depths of the blue ether.

At six o’clock the immense concourse of people sensibly decreased, as the greater part of them wended their way homewards to partake of some refreshments and a little repose preparatory to witnessing the great event of the day, and the close of the entertainments, – namely, the grand pyrotechnic display on the Common in the evening.

As twilight approached, streams of people set in towards the Common, and my cousin and I, of course, went with the tide. Rockets were despatched roaring to the sky, and then, bursting in their fiery flight into innumerable brilliant stars, returned slowly and sadly to the earth. It was a moonless night; and at nine o’clock a American darkness covered the face of the Common, so that even the ignition of a lucifer match shed a light far and near, which greatly favored the display.

The grand exhibition opened with a flight of a hundred rockets, followed by blue lights, Roman candles, showers of golden rain, bee-hives, pin-wheels, etc., all of shapes and the most brilliant hues. Then appeared various devices appropriate to the occasion such as a crown, scintillating with jewels, mutating to a cap of liberty; George III., in his imperial robes, changing to an equestrian statue of Washington; and a figure of Britannia, at whose feet crouched the lion, resolving into the figure of Columbia, supported by the eagle, and surrounded by thirty-one stars, with the date, 1776, and the legend "E Pluribus Unum", – i.e., many in one, – the motto of the United States.

The crowning piece was the representation of the burning of Charlestown by the British in the war of the revolution. Charlestown and Bunker’s Hill were pretty faithfully modelled. The British fleet moved up in front of the town, and opened a fierce fire of bombs and rockets, to which the Yankee batteries replied. The smoke, brilliant colored fires, starts, etc., produced by the explosions, and the appearance of the ships as they seemed to sail up towards the town, had a most magnificent effect.

Finally, the town took fire, and the houses fell with a crash. One stupendous discharge of bombs, rockets, and Roman candles, and all was over. Then rose one tremendous cheer that rent the sky, and made the very ground shake. Singular as it may seem, the Americans regard the battle of Bunker’s Hill with pride; for, though defeated, they there learned that they could fight, and that they only needed a little experience to enable them to become ultimately victorious.

My first "Fourth" in American filled me with serious reflection. What a glorious privilege, thought I, ‘tis for a people to be able to enjoy themselves with unbounded license! and what unqualified praise is due to them, at the same time, for not abusing this privilege by indulging in excesses that would involve deplorable consequences! Plunging into all kinds of excitement with the zest of schoolboys, they not only enjoy themselves, but do every thing in their power to render every one else joyous and happy. Thus do the Americans commemorate their country’s natal day.

That night, sadly contrasting the position of my own country with that of the proud American republic, I fervently prayed that a happier day might dawn for my own native isle of the sea.

Kappa.

Latest Intelligence.
By South Atlantic Telegraph Line.

Antipodes, via the Poop, Yesterday. –

In answer to the prayer of the petition of the Editor of the "Wild Goose", it has been enacted that any person found intruding on his sanctum, slates, etc., will be forthwith condemned to the "galleys" – on deck.

Nov. 30th. – The political horizon looks very stormy, as Russia, England, and all the Northern Powers, advance claims to the possession of Friesland. – (Query, Freezeland.)

Home Markets. – The Deep Sea Fishery has proved an utter failure. Fresh fish not to be had at any price. It is on the tapis to form a joint-stock Company to fish the masts and spars. – Tobacco – none in market this week; there are rumours of the arrival of an abundant supply, which, we believe, will end in smoke.

Wanted.
An efficient Gardener, to take charge of the "Hougoumont’s" bowers, One who understands grafting will get the preference, as it is the captain’s wish to raise a crop of new haws(e). – Copies of testimonials to be forwarded to the Office of this paper.

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4 The Wild Goose.

Answers to Correspondents.

"Laplander" wants to know what a sledge is, and how it is used for travelling. "Laplander" can see the article any day in a forge; In travelling, the handle is tied to the reindeer’s tail, and the traveller sits on the head.

"Moses Meek" wishes to know how to account for the rather unlimited use of bad language to which most sailors are addicted. Does not "Moses Meek" know that when every sailor when he first goes to sea, must learn to gibe the ship. We suppose the reprehensible habit is thus acquired.

"Phaeton". – Equinox, as its name implies – equine-ox – is a hybrid animal, – a horse, with the horns, hoofs, and tail of an ox. We know not where it is to be found, alive, but we can show preserved specimens of its flesh every other day at dinner-time. We suppose you will next want us to catch one.

"Ben Bolt". – We believe great circle sailing is conducted much on the same principle as a journey home is performed by a man three sheets in the wind. Substitute a ship for a man, and the whole thing is plain.

"Thirsty One". – To make lime-juice, get a very large block of limestone; place on grating; squeeze; catch juice in bucket, or barrel, or buckets if more convenient. Cork up – airtight.

The Wild Goose.
"They’ll come again when south winds blow."
Saturday, Nov. 30, 1867.

Under the Surface.
Manifold are the impressions inspired by the vast deep, to those who look upon its restless, ever-changing surface. To some it is a source of terror, as, in its fury, it thunders and dashes – now black and sullen, anon white with the foam of rage – against the rock-bound shore. A thing of wonder and awe it is as its mountain billows sweep, with irresistible force, across its watery fields – away, column after column, tossing the strong ship from wave-top to wave-top, like the plaything of a child.

To some, indeed, it affords a veritable pleasure when, in its calmer moments, its placid face of green sparkles and ripples in the sun-light, and, murmuring softly, it kisses the golden sand, or playfully flings its laughing spray up into the face of the stern old gray rocks, or when calmer still it rests with its scarcely heaving bosom reflecting the heaven’s azure intensified. –

A thing of wonder, indeed, is the mighty ocean, – as varying as its face are the impressions received by those who merely look upon its surface; but how much more wonderful it is to gaze down into its fathomless abysses, where it presents a fair counterpart of the beauteous earth! What a contrast the stillness of its crystal depths presents to the restless motion of its surface, fretted by the blustering winds. –

Down where diver never dared, lie scenes fair beyond the picturings of the mind. – mountains covered with impenetrable forests of marine trees, taller than the graceful palm, more knotted than the knarled oak, where lurks the sea monster for its prey; dells and fields of delicate sea-ferns and flowers, through which dart and play fish, like beams of green and gold, sapphire and silver light; mossy rocks; with sea-anemones set like beautiful gems; coral caves, where the mermaid decks her waving tresses, with pearls that seem drops of light, and strings together with a thread of her golden hair shells of tint and glow richer and warmer than our fairest flowers. Holy, pure, calm, and beautiful, with its wondrous beauty and countless treasures, is the awful ocean down in its silent depths.

As with the ocean, so it is with our ever-changing life, whether it appears to us dark and ruffled by the tempests of adversity, or calm and smiling in the soft winds of prosperity, down below the surface we must look to find depths holy, pure, calm, and beautiful, – so also with our fellow-man: far below the surface of his troubled, passion-tossed life, if we look into the depths of heart and soul, we shall find things pure, bright, and beautiful – fresh with the impress of the Creator’s hand – the contemplation of which will blot out the memory of all the crosses and roughness of superficial, worldly life.

Be it then our care ever to look below the surface, and we shall there, in the words of the poet, find –

– "Tongues in trees, books in running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything."

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5 The wild Goose.

Emerald Spray.

A Mother’s Love.
Oh! shield her well from every pain;
Her lightest wish obey;
Thou’lt never know such love again
When she has passed away.

God round her heart that fondness tied
No human power can move:
All earthly bonds are weak beside
A mother’s lasting love.

Its priceless worth thou canst not tell;
Its bounds thou canst not trace;
‘Tis like the mighty ocean’s swell, –
‘Tis deep as endless space.

Its holy power will conquer death:
She’ll watch thee from above;
Her spirit pure will guard thy path
With all her mother’s love.

Time cannot break the sacred chain,
But adds a strengthening link;
Nor can the ingrate’s sharpest pain
Those tender feelings sink.

Ah, no! that bond round every chord
Thy infant fingers wove;
Thy mother’s heart is always stored
With deep, undying love.

Then shield her well from every blast,
Let grief not mark her brow;
Nor sorrow’s clouds her heart o’ercast, –
Her days are numbered now.

A source of peace such tender care
To thee will always prove:
Her blessing rich – her dying prayer,
Will seal thy mother’s love.

– J. B. O’Reilly.

Log.
– S. Lat. – W. Long.
Nov. 24 – 25° 42’ – 27° 57’
Nov. 25 – 28 5 – 27 3
Nov. 26 – 30 20 – 24 57
Nov. 27 – 32 29 – 22 36
Nov. 28 – 32 1 – 19 11
Nov. 29 – 33 4 – 19 33
Nov. 30 - 33° 54’ – 17° 46’

Extract translated from the homily of St. Augustin on the Widow’s Son at Naim.
Over that youth restored to life rejoiced the widowed mother: over men daily raised to spiritual life rejoices mother Church. He, indeed, was bodily dead, but they in mind. His visible death was visibly lamented; their invisible death was neither enquired after, nor was it observed.

One sought them out, – One who knew the dead. That One alone knew the dead, who could make the dead live; for, unless He had come to resuscitate the dead, the Apostle would not have said: – "Arise, thou who sleepest, and rise up from the dead, and Christ will enlighten thee."

But we find three dead persons visibly restored to life by our Lord, – thousands invisibly. Who can tell how many dead He restored to life visibly? for not all that He did is written: St. John says so: – "Many other things Jesus did, which, if they were written, I do not think the whole world could contain the books."

Without doubt, therefore, many others were restored to life, but it is not in vain that three only are recorded: for our Lord Jesus Christ wished those things which He did exteriorly to be understood also in a spiritual sense, since those miracles which He did He did not do merely for the sake of Miracles, but that what He did would be admirable to those who saw them, and would convey truths to those who understood them.

As he who sees excellent penmanship, but knows not how to read, praises the hand of the antiquary, admiring the beauty of the strokes; but what these strokes mean, or what they indicate, he knows not: and his eye praises, his mind perceives not.

Another both praises the skill of the artist, and takes up the sense: he, namely, who can not only see (which is common to all), but can also read, which he cannot do who has not learned. Thus they who saw the miracles of Christ, and understood not what they meant and what they indicated to those who understood them, wondered only that they were done; but others both wondered at them when done, and also understood the truths inculcated by them. Such ought we be in the school of Christ.

– Beta.

Two days at Killarney.
(Continued from our Last.)

On the following morning our party, presented on ponies, and furnished with a guide, proceeded to the Gap of Dunlow. The ponies, which are kept for this purpose, are allowed to roam at large on the mountains during the winter and spring; thus prepared for their summer and autumn’s work, they are able to climb over rocks and mounds in perfect safety, and with the agility of a mountain goat. They are also well aware of their daily change of riders, and,

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6 The Wild Goose.

if allowed, will take advantage of it; for when tickled with a touch of the cane, they fall in two deep, but so closely that they place their riders, in rather an awkward position, rubbing their legs together, and in this way sometimes dismounting the inexperienced one: their usual mode of proceeding, when left to their own election, being in a jog-trot, and in single file.

From Killarney to Fussa the scenery is subdued, but picturesque, with Kenmare demesne skirting the road on one side, and occasionally opening to a view of the Lower Lake; Aghadoe on the other, with green fields and orchards gradually rising from the road-side, and a fir-grove at its summit, forming a dark outline to this pretty landscape. Another road, called the New Line, branches off directly to the "Gap", and from which can be seen McGillicuddy’s Reeks, ascending in wild irregular grandeur, ridge over ridge, and finally hiding their summits in the gray clouds above.

As we entered the "Gap", the golden beams of the sun, which, outside, added beauty and splendour to the surrounding scene, was shut out from our view, and the passage in front appeared like the entrance to some mighty cavern. The rugged mountains, rising in some places almost perpendicular to the road, the stupendous rocks above jutting out from their bases, seeming to threaten destruction to all below, and the mountain streams pouring over rock and crag, with ceaseless noise, added to the grandeur of the entire scene.

This wonderful pass extends for miles, in some places widening out and allowing the sun to shed his bright rays on the purple mountain sides, giving a cheering aspect at intervals to this awe-inspiring work of nature. About midway we got a shot fired off from a small cannon, by a mountaineer who kept it on the roadside. At first, it sent a ringing noise through the valley, and then the echo sounded in different places in such quick succession that it resembled distant peals of thunder rolling from mountain to mountain.

Father on, our attention was attracted by a song, which seemed to come from the opposite mountain. It was "The Valley lay smiling before me," accompanied by a violin. We were surprised that no performer appeared in the place where the music seemed to come from, nor could we hear it anywhere else to make us suspect it was an echo.

We listened with astonishment to the mysterious notes; but after advancing about fifty yards, to a turn of the road, the music was suddenly transferred, as if by magic, to a large rock overhanging the road near us, from which which it now, like an enchanted air, swelled forth in beautiful harmony. There stood the performer, singing away in his native pathetic style, and accompanying himself on his violin. This was certainly the strangest and most beautiful echo of all.

At several places on the roadside we met with groups of pretty blue-eyed girls – true specimens of the mountain maiden – with rosy cheeks and fair hair, which fell in natural profusion on their shoulders. They carried goats’ milk in large wooden jugs, which they offered for sale, and, when they satisfied their suspicions as to our appearance, some small bottles were produced, which, they said, contained the real "mountain dew, that never saw the face of a gauger."

Not far from this our ponies halted, I suppose from custom, opposite a neat white-washed cottage, with a square sign-board over the door, on which we read – "Kate Kearney. Licensed to sell Whiskey and Porter." Outside the door was a small table, covered with a white cloth, and temptingly decorated with bottles and decanters.

The far-famed Kate (or rather her daughter) stood at the door with a smiling countenance, and rather inviting appearance. Her dress was a neat tammin gown of native manufacture, and a cotton shawl thrown over her shoulders, a snow-white cap forming her head-dress; which gave her the appearance of a tidy Irish peasant housewife.

Groups of stragglers were about the house, smoking their short black pipes, and jesting in their own witty style, each waiting to be hired as bugler or guide. Inside the door, on a three-legged stool, sat an old piper, playing on his bag-pipes, tempting the youngsters who sat around him to a jig. At our request, they got themselves in motion, and danced the "Irish Washerwoman" in fine style, tipping the floor with heel and toe like so many drumsticks, gracefully. Changing places, and keeping perfect time with the music.

After being helped by Kate to some goats’ milk and whiskey, which was a great boon to us after our long ride, we again mounted our ponies, well-pleased, and rode off over the rugged road which led to the end of the "Gap". At its termination a wide valley opened to our view, clothed in heather of a rich purple Colour, interspersed with swards of new-mown hay; the beautiful perfumes of both were scattered about by the breeze, and wafted along the road, which takes a sweep of about two miles along the valley, and terminates at the entrance to Lord Brandon’s grounds.

(To be continued.) J.N.

In the rose-scented breeze, at the setting of sun,
In some valley’s green bosom, where silver streams run,
Anacreon, when merry with wine, loved to praise
The juice of the grape in harmonious lays.

When Chian and Samian sparkled and gleamed
In goblets of gold, the poet ne’er dreamed
That in ages to come man could make merry
On drink made from beets, jowsely called sherry.

From the world of spirits, if hither he flew
In quest of some nectar or pure "mountain-dew",
Should he take what’s imbibed by the staff of the "Goose",
He’d speed back again with all hast to the deuce!

Isoi.

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7 The Wild Goose.

First Steps.
In the lives of all men there is a certain point – a moment it may be – fraught with influences of the most material importance to our future happiness and well-being. By our appreciation of that critical moment is our future path traced, and our characters formed. Our way through the world will be in the same direction as that in which we cross the Rubicon.

If we launch out bravely and confidently, our eyes fixed on the shore beyond, and with a manly determination to fight against wave and current, and reach the desired point, – then straight onward will be our future course; we will reach the goal with ease, and, from some peaceful haven of rest, we will look back with pride and pleasure o’er the chequered track we traversed.

But if, instead of crossing straight over that opening river of life, we let the eye wander to every inviting point, we will be swept with its tide far from our true landing place, and in the same direction will lie our future path. Every step we take will lead us farther and farther from the Truth and Happiness; and the end will come all dark and despairing, without a solace and without a hope. "There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." Remember, the tide remains at the flood but for a few moments, and then, if ever, the successful step must be taken.

Let us in imagination look back into the past, and behold those whom we have known thro’ life as they stand on the brink of this stream of destiny. Let us watch, their plunge, – their passage, – and their landing: see how, unconsciously almost to themselves, their "first steps" on shore are in the same direction as that in which they crossed the river; follows their various courses – some straight and unswerving, – some wavering and undecided, and others fair and joyous for a time, but leading them with fearful rapidity to a steep and rugged precipice.

Here is a youth, brave, trustful, generous, but bending beneath the crushing weight of poverty and its accompanying ills. Observe him as he faces the stream and prepares to plunge in. Does his eye wander – does his heart quail, – or his mind waver? No; clear and bright is the glance – straight before him the look – calm and determined the mind: the dash is made, and the brave youth is struggling with the waves of the world – battling bravely, on he goes – now raised on a wave, now buried in a gulf; but on still, with that fixed determined look, and that brave heart, until the shore is gained, and forward he speeds with a bright hope in the future, and the prayers of those who love him and watch him hovering o’er him with protecting wings. Onward, & gathering strength as he goes, with a holy trust that peace and rest will reward him when the race is o’er –

But back again to that surging stream. On its bank stands on whose past has been amidst sunshine and flowers. Friends are watching him, dear ones are praying for him, too; no cloud or weight ever rested on him, And life is gay and smiling before him. But see! The eye wanders o’er every bright spot, as he launches forth; and little by little he is drawn down the stream; far away, amidst ephemeral beauties he reaches the shore, and on through the bright fields he wanders – sipping their sweets and lingering o’er their pleasures – till night Comes with a piercing blast – the sunshine is gone – the melody has ceased – the flowers are dead, – and the thoughtless wanderer stands alone and friendless in the darkness and the desert.

Enough of allegory. We stand now on the brink of such a stream – let us not blindly be led away by deceptive appearances. Necessity compels us to begin life anew amid strange faces and strange scenes. The end will certainly be in accordance with the beginning. If our "first steps" are straight on, so shall our life be. Every act and every word is a step – a step right onward or aside.

Let us take the tide at the flood – "watch for opportunity and seize it." If we waver at first, we will fail before we reach the goal. There are prayers from our dear ones hovering o’er us as we go; and a firm trust in a manly heart – a strong hand, – and an honourable purpose, will guide and cheer us on, and, in the end, bring us a full and enduring reward –

Boyne.

How to make Whiskey. – Take a large-sized key, whisk it rapidly through the air for about two hours; place in a hogs head; add a proportionate quantity of water; let it ferment, then bottle, cork, and seal up for use. A wine glass full every morning, fasting, good for lockjaw.

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8 The Wild Goose.

Correspondence.

To the Editors of the "Wild Goose."
November the 28, 1867.

Gintlemen, –
I have made bould to take up me pen in me hand, and rite yez letther, tho’ I’m in dhread yez may be too grand to prent annything from a simple boy like meself. The boys takes grate pride out of yez intirely. Yez is able to rite pothry and purty stories wid anny one – I don’t care who’s his father – this side o’ the Galtees.

We – that is, the boys and meself – feel quite thankful to yez for the intherest yez takes in us, in pointin’ out how we should conduct ourselves, that we mite hould up our heads as grand as anny one else in the world, and niver reflect disgrace on the ould counthry.

‘Tis very thrue, gintlemen, that I haven’t much o’ the larnin, but what with lookin’ in the spellin’ book, and getting’ a boy o’ the Learys, who knows a power o’ larnin’, – his uncle havin’ ped 21 shillins a quarther for his schoolin’, for he was intinded for a priest, – to help me out wid the big words, I don’t doubt but yez’ll say I’ve rote a mity clever letther.

Now, gintlemen, I spelled out, afther a grate dale o’ throuble, the fine letther yez prenthed last week from your "valuable correspondint" as yez call him; and, gintlemen, yez not only say yez would like to hear from him agen, but yez would like to have your readers aser the abshruse (that’s a nate word – I manes anny thing mity hard to find out) questions he axes.

Now, thin, gintlemen, whin a man dars me to tread on the tale of his coat, I niver could find it in me hart to resist the timtation: so, if I can aser the letther rote by Misther "Deltha" – I suppose he must be a Gracian – I shall only be doin what the sperrits move me to do, as the Qwakers say, though, gintlemen, yez’ll admit its very little moving power the sperrits can have that we get – God be good to us!

First, thin, he wants to know if yez heard about the wather famin: lave he wather out, and I’ll go bail anny Irishman could tell a grate dale about the famin. Who can ever forget it but the spalpeen whose hart has grown dead and cowld to the janial influences of home, and whose natheral feelins have been vishiated and corrupted by the false tachins and golden bribes of the stranger, whose hart is not so false or black as his own. As for distant parts, where man and baste perish of the drowt, may the grate God grant that we can niver be able to tell anny thing about that!

Secondly, why is Australia so dhry, and the ould land so humid? – which, I’m tould, manes moist or damp. Australia is dhry because of the grate hate of the sun, and the hot winds that blow there, which scarcely laves anny wather in the very few rivers – comparatively spakin’ – that flow there. It is aisy to see that, even without the assistance of what I call natheral causes, the tears shed by the unhappy children of mother Erin for her misforthins would keep the ould counthry humid –

Thirdly, whin your flock flies homewards – which yez will, soon and sudden, plase God – the flapping of your wings will cause all the pearly dhrops that fall from the lovely blue and black eyed craythers of colleens, and all who grieved afther your sad fate, to evaporate; and to that extent would evaporation be incrased.

Fourth, I think it a sad thing to see the brown canvas dipped in the say, and urgin on a noble vessel, bearin’ on board exiles from Erin (condemned as common felons for loving their native land) to a far-off counthry, where even the very sky is sthrange, and from whince they may niver return to visit the home of their childhood; but I also think that God is just and merciful, and hope whispers that He may be plased to place us once more on board some gallant bark, with brown or white canvas gayly spread to the breeze, bound homeward.

Fifth, – whisper, gintlemen, yez ought to spake up bould, and tell him yez are able to do anny mortial thing undher the sun.

Sixthly and lastly (as grate scholars say), if I was able to collect the gorjious clouds, tipt with rose and silver and gold and blue, and all sorts of butiful shades and colors, – where would I take thim? – where would yez? Why to that little green isle far over the say, where the hart is warmer, the sun is brighter, and the sky dearer than anny other place in the wide, wide world.

The visions of my fancy – my all – my life, I would offer up at the althar of the land of my birth, – the queen of my affections, my soul’s love. And he tells us, gintlemen, be the powers! that Echo sez, "Garden bowers, – the fruits are ours." Echo may know a grate dale, and praps they’re his and his chums; but they’re not ours, as we know to our grief. Larned gintlemen like yez can refer him to what was sed by the ould ancient Latin poet called Vergil, who lived ever so long ago.*

I now close, gintlemen, and wish yez and all your staff and your readers success and prosperity wherever yez may go, and a speedy return on wings of love to the dear ould land, which yez may niver lave agen till God calls yez to a happier and betther world; and axin’ yez to join me in prayin’ God be wid thim at home. I remain, gintlemen,

Your most obadient servent,
Paddy from Cork.
*[We presume our correspondent refers to the lines commencing, "Not for yourselves, ye birds, ye build your nests". In the original –
"Sic vos non vobis, nidificates aves;
Sic vos non vobis, mellificates apes," etc.]

Printed and published at the Office, No. 6 Mess, Intermediate Cabin, for the Editors, Messrs. John Flood and J. B. O’Reilly.

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The Wild Goose:
A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Vol.1.] Convict Ship "Hougoumont", Saturday, Decr. 7th, 1867. [No.5.

An Incident in the Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald.
We can entertain no doubt that anything in connection with this patriotic nobleman, whose memory is regarded by Irishmen with the deepest affection and esteem, as one of Erin’s most devoted sons, would be heartily welcome to our readers; and presuming, also, that that the fact of his having been created a chief of a North American Indian tribe is not generally known, we call the following from the "Anecdotes of Enterprise and Adventure," by Ralph and Chandos Temple: –

"Lord Edward Fitzgerald, whose end Constitutes one of the most tragic episodes of the Irish rebellion of 1798, conceived, when a young man, a romantic passion for the wild and rough life of the far settlements of America; And, having started for Canada, spent a considerable time in those parts. Sometimes he extended his wanderings far beyond the limits of civilized life, and, sojourned for a while with the wild tribes of Indians, who treated him with kindness.

Pictures of these experiences are drawn by him in his letters, chiefly written to his mother, for whom he always cherished a remarkable affection. Much of his time was spent in rowing his canoe up the rivers into parts of the country, which were then unexplored. Having induced several friends to join him, he started on a trial journey, in order to inure himself to the hardships of the Canadian winter, from New Brunswick to Quebec, a distance of 175 miles.

It was in the coldest season, with the snow lying deep upon the ground, and their way lay through the woods, and by a route altogether new, or which had never been traversed by any but the Indians. Perilous as such a journey might appear, Fitzgerald states that life in the Canadian woods in the rigorous winter of that climate, was far from being without is charms.

The party consisted of five persons, including Lord Edward himself, a friend and brother military officer, a servant named Tony, and two woodmen. Their baggage was trifling and consisted chiefly of blankets and provisions, which they hung in canvas, slung on poles. The party kept a reckoning, steering by compass as at sea.

At night they found themselves in some degree sheltered from the winds by the leafless woods; and by clearing away the snow, banking it up around, and making a fire in the middle of the space, they found themselves even warmer than in the Canadian houses in that rigorous season. ‘Three of the coldest nights yet,’ says the enthusiastic young nobleman, ‘I slept in the woods on a bed of spruce fir, with only one blanket, and was just as comfortable as in a room.’ All the rivers had long been completely frozen, and undistinguishable in the snow (which lay four feet deep upon the ground) from the land.

The party were always on foot two hours before day, to load, and get ready to march. At three or four in the afternoon they halted, and were then occupied till night in shovelling out the snow, cutting wood, and getting ready for the bivouac. Immediately after supper, they were generally asleep; and it was the rule that anyone waking in the night should put wood on the fire, eat something – for much food was essential to maintain warmth – and then sleep again. By day their journey was enlivened by hunting the moose, which they followed in their snow-shoes, till the animal, impeded by the frozen snow, turned upon his pursuers, and was thus quickly despatched.

"In this way they passed, in the worst season of the Canadian year, through a wide tract of country which the colonists had always considered impassable. In spite of their compass they diverged considerably from their direct path, and were thirty days on their journey, twenty-six of which were passed in the woods.

During this time they saw no human beings but those of their own party; but, after making the bank of the river, they fell in with some Indians, who travelled with them to Quebec. The Indians provided the travellers with food during the time they were with them, and otherwise treated them kindly, saying, ‘We are all one brother – all one Indian.’ Lord Edward gallantly burdened himself with the pack of one of the squaws, which was so heavy that he could hardly struggle onward with it in the deep snow.

‘When we arrived,’ says Fitzgerald in his letter to his mother, ‘You may guess what figures we were. We had not shaved or washed during the journey, and our blankets, coats, and trousers were all worn out and pieced. We went to two or three houses, but they would not let us in. There was one old lady exactly like the hostess in "Gil Blas," who told us

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2 The Wild Goose.

there was one room – it was without stove or bed – which I might have if I pleased. I told her we were gentlemen. She very quietly said, "I dare say you are," and left us. At last they obtained lodgings in an alehouse, and became objects of considerable curiosity among the settlers.

"Inured by excursions of this kind, the adventurous Lord Edward subsequently set out on a much longer journey; his intention being to pass from Quebec, through the country of the Indians, to Detroit and Fort Pitt, and thence to New Orleans, thus traversing the whole length of the North American continent, his intention being then to extend his journey through Mexico, to the silver mines of Spanish America.

The celebrated Indian chief, who had visited England under the name of Joseph Brant, but whose true name was Thayendanegea, accompanied him, and assisted him in all his canoe journeys up and down the rivers in their course. Between Thayendanegea and Lord Edward a strong friendship had sprung up, and the Indian proved a faithful friend.

They crossed the great Lake Ontario together, and passed through a number of Indian villages.
Everywhere the wild tribes treated them with kindness and respect with the Bear Tribe at Detroit they stayed some time, and Fitzgerald gives a glowing account of their happy lives and the simplicity of their manners. So strong, indeed, was the attachment that sprang up between them, that the Indians determined to adopt the stranger into their tribe, and make him one of their chiefs.

This Ceremony was accomplished through the medium of the Chief of the Six Nations, whom the Americans knew under the name of David Hill. The document by which this wild honor was conferred upon him was found, after Lord Edward’s death, among his papers, written in the Eng- Indian language, of which the following is a translation: -

"I, David Hill, Chief of the Six Nations, give the name of Eghindal to my friend, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, for which I hope he will remember me as long as he lives.

"The name belongs to the Bear Tribe".

"After eight months’ wanderings, Lord Edward arrived at New Orleans, by the way of the Mississippi. Here, having announced to the authorities his intention of proceeding to the silver mines of Spanish America, permission was refused him, and he was compelled to return to Europe."

Log. – Saturday, 1st Dec. 35° O’S.; 15° 15’W.
2nd 36° 40’S.; 11° 40’W.
3rd 38° 53’S.; 7° 42’W.
4th 40° 06’S.; 5° 00’W.
5th 40° 39’S.; 3° 46’W.
6th 41° 25’S.; 2° 01’W.
7th 40° 50’S.; 0° 02’E.

Musings.
Away across the wild ocean, from Erin of the Streams, we still pursue our compulsory flight to the shores of the southern continent, now cleaving the air with strong and swift pinion, and now gliding easily along on the scarcely ruffled surface of the vast watery expanse. Scarce twenty years have elapsed since others winged their way over nearly the same path, some of whom, after a short sojourn under the austral sky, sought more congenial climes; some returned to their favorite haunts; and others, pluming themselves for a last flight, shaped their course for spheres beyond the grave.

Farther back in the past, we see the "Wild Geese" spreading their pinions for the sunny land of France, and, in gratitude for their kindly reception by its chivalrous people, freely shedding their blood to uphold the honor of the fleur-de-lis. Others again, escaping from the net of the fowler, found their way to the free shores of Columbia, and have been ever amongst the foremost to respond to her call to arms in defence of her liberties; in the late unhappy struggle for pre-eminence between the Federal and Confederate States, cementing the Union with their life-blood.

But a little time ago, we wandered light-hearted and free o’er hill and dale, or sported luxuriously in the bright waters of our island home. Our banished flock, collected together from the shores of the charming Lakes of Killarney, whose exquisite scenery might well induce the Queen of Fairyland to establish her elfin court within their precincts, whilst Naiads and Nereids disported themselves in the pellucid waters, on summer eve, to the ravishing strains of enchanted harps; from the lovely vales of the murmuring Lee, the broad, glistening Shannon, and the historic Boyne; or from the sternly picturesque coasts of our sea-girt isle – speed on, still on upon the bosom of the storm-winds, o’er the boisterous Atlantic, to our far prison-home.

As we list to the hoarse war of the wild waves, or watch the icthyic monsters as they chase each other sportively through the briny element, sad thoughts come over us. We wonder if the mighty sea contains within its unfathomable depths more mysteries than the heart of man. We try to discover if those who have gone before us have left any trace on its surface, that we might mark and learn.

We ask the weird winds, as they fold us in their rough embrace, if they have passed over the place of our future exile, and, if so, what tidings they bring from it. We ask, Does the sun shine as bright, and is nature as generous to the soil, as in our own home? Will the kindly fruits of the earth beat our disposal? Will the sunshine for us in that strange land? Is the atmosphere of such nature that it can ever change our hearts, and estrange us from one another or the land of our sires? Is the climate conducive to health and long life? or is it calculated to shorten the existence

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3 The Wild Goose.

of the young and tender bird, – to crush the egg before it is hatched? Shall we ever retrace our flight? and, if so, in what state shall we find our old home, and how shall we be received?

Mournfully the winds wail in response: – "Alas! sad is your fate. We would answer your questions satisfactorily, if it were in our power; but we are unable to do so. The secrets of the future cannot be read by us. One only can reveal them, and in due season He will disclose all that is fit to be known. Trust Him, and believe us, messengers of His will, that hereafter, when all is known, you will worship Him in admiration and awe, and despise your own shortsightedness that could not perceive the wisdom of His way."

Silently we drink in the admonition of the winds, and resolve that we shall be calmly resigned to whatever man befall conscious that our destiny is in the hands of an All-Wise and Beneficent Being. Then the fierce winds, mollified by our submissive aspect, gradually subside, and softly whisper, "Courage! every cloud has a silver lining – Murmur not at the decrees of the Most High.

"Judge not the Lord by feeble sense;
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning Providence,
He hides a smiling face."

We then ask them if they will tell us whither they are bound – Mildly they reply, as they gently fan us, "We will sweep the broad ocean, tempering the burning heat of the tropic sun to the half-fainting voyager as he passes through the torrid zone, and bearing aloft the ocean-spray to the clouds, convey it as refreshing dew to the arid soil of Africa, and to the islands and mainland of Europe to saturate the ground in preparation for forthcoming fruits and flowers."

Wooing them to linger a space, we ask them to bear kisses of love to a golden-haired and blue-eyed damsel, whose prayers we hear in fancy as they ascend to heaven for our welfare; and beg them to steal the pearly tears that moisten her fair round cheek at thought of use, and waft them, "ere the leviathan can swim a league," to our yearning lips.

We send words of love and cheer to the dear friends we left behind, assuring them that we ever take with us the impress of their fond features and the recollection of their deep affection; that though our snow-white plumage may be slightly soiled by foul association, – not of our own choosing, – we can maintain our dignity unruffled, – our honor unstained; and that the memory of the dear land of our birth shall never fade from our souls –

So the sympathizing winds, bidding us farewell, speed homeward with our heart-messages; and, as they dally with maiden tresses, will breathe into her joyful ears the welcome tidings, –

"They’ll come again when south winds blow."

Kappa.

Laudable Ambition.
Laudable ambition stimulates a man to endeavour to do well himself, and rejoice to see his neighbour do better. To delight in, and take every opportunity of exerting all the powers of which he may be possessed towards honoring our Creator, and serving our fellow-beings, is not only laudable, but the highest and and most noble use to which human ambition can be applied; it is indeed the very end for which it was given.

Whenever we see a man exerting his powers to these purposes, nothing would be more unjust to him, or more detrimental to society, than to attribute them to ostentation. We are too apt to judge of others by ourselves; when we see another possess such qualifications as would make us proud, we, without farther evidence, conclude him to be so. Thus superior excellence always attracts envious eyes; and what virtue will not envy construe into vice? That ambition can never be justly blamed which produces, or endeavours to produce, public good; but some are so envious that they cannot see any shining talent in another without snarling at it, like dogs barking at the moon.

To curb such ambition, and check our unjust censures, we should look well into, and study that living book, – our own hearts; for nothing will so effectually suppress ostentation as to know ourselves. He that most clearly perceives his own imperfections will be the last to seek out and condemn those of others – Extract.

Continental people say the English are so arrogant, that they expect their own language to be understood by everybody. The following is given as an instance: at a table d’hote in Baden-Baden, a milord, when dessert had been served, politely asked a German lady, in his own vernacular, if he could help her to some peaches. Understanding his question rather by his manner than his language, the lady replied, "Nein" (No). – "Nine!" ejaculated the astonished Englishman, "there are only six on the plate, but here they are all for you!" rolling them towards her.

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4 The Wild Goose.

Answers to Correspondents.

"Epicure." – We do not profess to give lessons on cookery. The art of collaring is not understood by us: apply forward.

"A Timid Man" suggests that we should keep the captain and crew in good humour during our voyage to Fremantle; otherwise it may prove very difficult to get ashore if we arrive and they’re cantankerous (and there can’t anchor us). What reason has "A timid Man" to suppose that all hands will not get jolly when we reach Fremantle? But a man capable of making such an atrocious attempt at a jeu-de-mot, is base enough to think anything.

"Starveling" wishes to know how to preserve fruits, vegetables, meat, etc. – Place them in a room, with a very strong door; double lock and bar the said door; keep a close eye to them, and don’t give any to anybody. Thus preserved they will last a very long time.

"Spooney." – Rejected.

The Wild Goose.
Saturday, Dec. 7, 1867.
"They’ll come again when south winds blow."

Little Things.
It is said that the happiness and misery, – the sweets and bitterness of life are chiefly, if not entirely, made up of small things; and a very slight reflection will convince us of the truth of the aphorism. In the every-day intercourse of society, if we examine, we shall find its pleasures and pains are nearly, if not always the result of small causes. How often does a thoughtless, ill-natured word, lightly spoken, engender dislike, which eventually ends in hatred.

It is the continual petty fret to one’s feelings, and a disregard to the small courtesies of daily life, that we find more galling and more difficult to bear than the open insult: the latter may be atoned for and forgiven, but the former grows like a canker, spreading over and destroying all social relations.

It is harder to bear a continual speck of dust in the eye, or a perpetual toothache, than a broken leg or arm. It is the kind word, the cheerful smile of sympathy, and the small devoirs of life that cement together our friendship, strengthen that bond of brotherhood that should exist amongst all men, and smooths over the path of life.

How often has a kind word, – a look, a tone, turned away wrath, and soothed us into forgetfulness of the most disagreeable troubles? A kind encouraging word, and the current of a man’s life is changed. He takes courage – the desponding one is rendered self-confident, and hope takes the place of despair.

One rash judgment, – a suspicion unguardedly expressed, – and a character is blasted – It may be, a soul lost. A cold look – a frown – and a heart is blighted. A loving glance – a smile – and the destiny of two hearts is fixed forever. A tear – "One touch of nature makes the world akin."

If we examine why it is that certain men and nations are distinguished for their cultivation and polish, we will invariably find their excellence to consist or to rest in a much greater extent than at first sight appears, upon small things; and the surest mark, – the test of a higher state of civilization, and elegance – consists not so much of things that strike us at first sight, but rather in small things, that diminish to almost a microscopic importance as we ascend to the more polished state of refinement.

We know a gentlemen not by the costly richness or peculiar cut of his dress, or by the value of his jewelry, – not by his keeping his face and hands clean and his hair brushed – these traits are common to all; – but rather, he is distinguished by his attention to much more minute things. So it is with perfection in any branch of trade or the Arts, and in all the diverse occupations of life, – when a man excels his competitors, we find it not the result of anything more extraordinary and striking than the possession of, or attention to, some small thing that gives him his pre-eminence

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5 The Wild Goose.

We cannot perceive the delicate touches by which the artist and sculptor daily cause to shine out the life and mind from the canvas or the marble, yet these imperceptible touches are perfection.

What great results arise from small things! The fall of an apple lead to the discovery of the laws of attraction and gravitation. In war, plans are conceived and matured upon which may depend the fate, not of an individual, but of a nation, – of nations. The time arrives to put them in execution, and owing to some apparently trivial negligence, – to some unforeseen trifle – the plan, matured at a cost of so many sleepless nights and so much treasure, ends in disaster, and, it may be, in the ruin of a people.

A complicated machine or engine, of almost invaluable worth, by a fault in the smallest of its screws, the slightest inaccuracy in the smallest cog of its most diminutive wheel – an imperceptible flaw – is rendered useless, or totally wrecked, carrying destruction to all around.

Thus we see the almost paramount importance of what are often termed trifles. Upon them is based our judgment of men and things – Upon them, nearly, if not always, depends the success or failure – the happiness or misery of life. Their study is the true philosopher’s otone of the man of the world, vive la bagatelle!

Past. – Present. – Future.
Words of mighty import, small in themselves, but suggestive of things so immense that finite human reason is stunned at the contemplation. They contain everything – they are in themselves everything. Two of these words represent realities – or (if we may say so) at least, abstract realities. These two words are – Past and Future. The third – the Present – which at first sight appears most real – is, on consideration a fraud – a deception.

The Past! Oh! the past is a reality indeed! a sad, stern reality. Our first emotion on seeing that word is naturally one of sorrow. The past is a vast picture – now painted in glowing tints – now sunk in blackest night – varying in scene and color, in light and shade for everyone: but in the very brightest there is a saddening tinge mingled with the its shading; and those who can only see its darkness and gloom are indeed deserving of compassion. But even in the darkest there are bright spots to be found, if we will only search for them; and but for ourselves these would be many more.

We look back at the past, and therefore we imagine it is a something shaped of itself into its present aspect. – This is a mistake. We made the past as it is. – We painted the picture – and if it causes pain we alone are to blame. If dark and cheerless, why linger on it? Learn what it teaches, and cast it aside – Remember, we are adding to it day by day – tomorrow we will look back on today, – and so on to the end. Turn from it, look boldly to the future, and determine to make the remainder of the picture all the more bright and cheerful, and you will forget its sadness and its gloom.

The Present is only a name, – a combination of letters representing – nothing: and still it has a strange power of affecting us in various ways: – it cheers, it amuses, and anon it drowns us in despair – and all is deception – nothing real! The Present is sometimes an angel – often a fiend: and even under the bright wings of the angel there is concealed a shadowy horror that should deter us from drinking too deeply of the pleasures it offers. Shun the angel: shrink not from the fiend. It is only the brush moving over the blank sheet of the future and tracing the indelible panorama of the past.

But of greatest import to us now is the dim blank field of the Future. Swiftly and steadily is the unstained page being filled in: thought, word, and act, are being stamped there for ever as the ponderous cylinder of Time revolves. It is vain to attempt to pierce its hazy veil, – it is futile to endeavour to read what has not yet been written: but we may, and we ought, to picture to ourselves that future bright and happy as we would wish it to be. – The Past is gone from us – unalterable. The Future is in our hands now, pliant and impressible as wax, and we are moulding it into form day by day. Will that form shed a cheering beam on our path, or will it cast around us a web of despondency? The end will reveal.

Look back – far back into the past; and, although strange, we will find our position is no anomaly. From our little island home, at different periods, have "The Wild Geese" winged their flight – Some into voluntary exile – others driven over the wide world by the unsparing hand. They, too, looked forward into the future, and tried in vain to send the mysterious page: but what was their future is now our past: and we can look back and trace their chequered wanderings, learning wisdom and gaining strength as we look on their trials, their struggles, and their end.

Their dearest affections were surely snapped asunder; their home ties were severed, and they wandered over the world – fighting the battles and aiding in the Councils of Strangers: but one grand memorial shines out from their various ways to cheer us on and stir us to emulation: – wherever they went, or in whatever duty engaged, they nobly upheld the unstained name, honor, and bravery of their race. Scattered far and wide are the graves of the "Wild Geese": they lie wherever fields were fiercely fought; and the halo of light which memory and love sheds over their graves will be a beacon guiding us on through whatever scenes the future may have in store for us.

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6 The Wild Goose.

Emerald Spray.

Live it down.
When in life’s battle onward fighting,
Struggling bravely day and night,
One only ray your rough path lighting –
Inward consciousness of right.
Be true and trustful – never falter –
E’en though Fate may seem to frown;
Your purpose let her frown not alter:
Courage, brother! live it down.

Should Calumny’s sharp tongue assail you
Breathing venom, – undismayed,
Let not heart nor courage fail you,
At its hiss be not afraid.
When cynic Envy, coward sneering,
Would the voice of conscience drown,
Still on – unswerving and unfearing:
Courage, brother! live it down.

Still forward – calm and self-reliant,
Disdainful of the little mind;
Of scoffing ignorance defiant,
Aside not looking, nor behind.
Still persevere in right for ever:
Perseverance wins the crown.
Right ever conquers – Wrong will never:
Courage, brother! live it down.

[Binn Cider.]

Prison Thoughts. – II.
Next Memory turns to free Columbia’s shore,
And conjures up the blissful hours spent there
‘Mongst cherished friends whom I may meet no more;
But Hope, soft whispering, bids me not despair.

And thou, dear friend, whose genial nature drew
All hearts to thee in Friendship’s flowery bonds,
‘Art ever near, and still, in Fancy’s view,
Thy willing smile to my fond wish responds.

How sweet upon our prospects to converse,
And proudly prophesy for each success!
We, light and careless, thought not on reverse,
But fondly dreamed of love and happiness.

Foul Discord through the land dissension sowed,
And bloody War spread horror far and wide;
And he pursued the path that duty showed,
And fought and bled and for his Country died.

Sleep, soldier of the North! and take thy rest,
Thy tombstone wreathed with glory’s laurel crown,
Thy sword in honor laid across thy breast,
Unheeding the false words, cold smile or frown.

Soft spirit – whispers fall upon my ear,
By orange-scented gales borne o’er the foam:
"Thy friend in glory lives; be of good cheer!
Thou yet shalt meet him in a happier home".
Isoi.

Memory.
I love in memory to recall those days of peace and joy,
To blot out worldly wiles and cares, and feel again a boy;
To play along the Boyne’s green banks, or through the wild wood roam;
To paint in Fancy’s eye once more my dear old childhood’s home.

Ah, Time! thy hand may sear the face and sow the wintry hair;
But from my heart those tender thoughts thou shalt not – cans’t not – tear.
Though far removed from that dear spot, yet still I love to trace
The river winding through the vale – each bright young school-mates face.

To roam bird-nesting far from home, – to hear the noisy Mill, –
Yes, all are dear! but one loved thought is brighter, dearer still.
‘Twas down beside the Boyne’s green banks, beneath the leafy shade,
I told my boyish love tale to a little brown-haired maid.

‘Twas there I heard the whispered words that filled my soul with bliss,
‘And planted first on Mary’s lips a lingering lover’s kiss.
– All past and gone those dreams of joy! all fled and nought remains!
But Memory’s potent spell recalls their pleasures and their pains.

I pray that God may guard thy steps, and bless thee, Mary, dear;
I’ll never see thee more; but yet I know thou’lt drop a tear
For him who loved thee first of all – who first thy lips impressed,
And told thee how he loved thee, with thy cheek upon his breast.

Oh, Memory! blest gift of God, continue still to pour
Thy softening influence on my heart till this short life is o’er.
Some crush thy spells, because thy joys may leave a trace of pain, –
But Wisdom, – purest brightest gem, – We oft through sorrow gain.

J. B. O’Reilly.

Friendship
When bleak misfortune’s frown I feel,
And painful thoughts my brain oppress,
‘Tis then in friendship’s sweet appeal
I find relief for lost caress

Of loving wife, whose soothings tender
So oft my weary spirits cheered,
Or lisping child, whose laugh would render
A blissful balm when grief appeared.

Though far away from my heart’s treasure, –
Far, far, from all on earth I love, –
I find in friendship’s hand a pressure
That cheers my path where e’er I rove.

Oft pausing, when the deck I pace,
Strange forms I see around me thronging;
No genial smile lights up a face
To greet me: then with ardent longing

For sympathetic friend I sigh, –
For one whose words my heart would brighten,
To whom I’d talk of days gone by,
And try my bosom’s load to lighten.

Again I look with anxious glancing,
And seek one friend amongst them all:
Ah! now a dear friend is advancing, –
He saw and understood the call.

Oh, Friendship! thou’art a priceless gem; –
Aye! dearer far than brightest gold:
Thy rays can glad the heart of him
Whom worldly riches n’eer consoled.

Yiur.

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7 The Wild Goose.

Two Days at Killarney.
(Concluded from our last.)

As we passed along this road, which descended in its circuit, a view of the Upper Lake presented itself to our gaze, gradually increasing as we advanced. Its bright waters, speckled with islands of a deep green, and its irregular boundary indented with miniature bays, reposed between the picturesque mountains which almost surrounded them.

Dismounting at Lord Brandon’s demesne, we gave the ponies in charge to a boy, and walked to the lake, where our boat was lying in wait for us; and stepping in, we set off for Killarney, our bugler playing at several places where an echo could be heard. We glided down through the Long Range to the Old Weir Bridge, where the current runs at a furious rate and at this time was greatly increased by the previous night’s rain.

It was suggested by some of our party that we should put to shore and go by land to the other side of the bridge, whilst the crew would take down the boat by a chain, in the same manner that they had brought her up; but an old boatman pulling the stroke oar, jokingly said that there was no fear of an accident whilst there was an O’Donoghue in the boat; that he had the good luck to be of that name, and was rowing on the lakes for the last forty years, in all sorts of weather, and neither he nor his boat ever met with an accident.

This tempted me to ask him to relate some legend of the lakes, as I could judge by his unaffected tone that he could do it in an interesting way. He promised to do so when we got clear of the "cross" places which we had to pass. We trusted to the old veteran’s experience, and felt satisfied as to our safety.

Some distance above the bridge, the oars were lifted from their rowlocks, and two of them taken in; the other two were kept slung from the side of the boat for the purpose of guiding her through, should the helm be knocked out of its place. The boat moved smoothly and rapidly to the bridge, and then plunged with great velocity into the gurgling stream, sinking her bows under the water, Then, rising again, swept thro’ the rough current which curled and tossed in its rocky course, and gradually decreased as it entered the back channel; in passing through which we saw some fine specimens of the red deer, which are wild on the mountains. They were lying in the brushwood, not far from the water’s edge; but at the appearance of our boat, they bounded away, and soon disappeared.

When we got to the Lower Lake, the old boatman, after indulging himself with a whiff from a short black pipe, from which he puffed volumes of smoke, – and a drink of "the hard stuff", as he called it, thus commenced the legend of O’Donoghue’s enchantment: –

"Long ago, O’Donoghue was lord of all these mountains and lakes, and of as much land as the best race-horse in the country couldn’t run around in a day – from Glenflesk to Castle Island. He was very fond of stag hunting on the mountains, and used to have The O’Sullivans of Twomeys, the McCarthy Mores, and all the great men of the country hunting with him.

At that time the gintlemin used to follow the stag through the mountains no matther where he went to; for they wouldn’t give a traneen to sit here in a boat, like the sportsmin that hunt here now, listening to the dogs howling on the mountains, and can’t see the stag at all, unless he’s jaded out, and must take the water.

One day, O’Donoghue and his party started a fine stag on the Purple Mountains, and chased him along by the lake, through Twomeys, then out through the Gap of Dunloe, and on through Magillicuddy’s Reeks, over mountains and valleys. He was swifter than any deer they ever before hunted; so that dogs and huntsmen were all obliged to give up, except O’Donoghue, who followed him everywhere he turned, until night came on, when he found himself just at the place from which he started, and couldn’t chase him any farther, as it was dark.

As he was sitting on a rock, resting himself, and thinking of the stag that baffled him, he heard the sweetest music ever he heard before, at some distance from him. He walked towards it, and as he was turning around a rock, behind which he heard the music, he saw a fine young lady, dressed in white, and her hair decked with mountain roses. He was at once ‘taken’ with her great beauty, and was not able to speak to her for some time. At length, he advanced and spoke to her; and after some conversation, he invited her to a ball which was to be held at his Castle on May-eve, and she promised that she would go.

Well, the time of the ball came, and the young lady was as good as her word: she was there that night and charmed the whole party with her accomplishments. As O’Donoghue was dancing with her at day-break, suddenly both of them fled through a window, across the lakes, and was never seen at the castle since.

Every seven years since, at May-eve, they cross the lake by moonlight, and the grandest music that was ever heard playing after them. That was well and good, but no one knew where all his money went to; for it was known that he had a mighty lot of it. Some people said that he took it with him, and others said it was buried at the bottom of the lakes. However, there was one Tim O’Donoghue, who lived on Twomeys, dhramed twice of a man of his own name never to be drowned, in the lakes, and also of crocks of goold that was buried somewhere. Tim was full sure if he could drame the Third time about it, that he would surely make out where the goold was.

One evening he came across to Killarney with his little boat, and when he wanted to go back again at night, he found he couldn’t as the lake was very rough,

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8 The Wild Goose.

and he didn’t like to try it, as he had a small drop taken; so he tied his boat to a tree, in a cosy little nook, near Ross Island, and fell asleep in it.

Sometime coming on morning he woke up, and to his great surprise the lake was as smooth as a sheet of glass. He rubbed his eyes to see that they were not deceiving him, but they were not; and more than that, he saw a man mounted on a white horse, with goolden shoes, riding across towards him on the top of the water.

"As sure as I live," says Tim, "this is O’Donoghue;" and true enough for him, for very soon he spoke to him, calling him by his name, and asked him how he was, and what kept him out from his wife and children the whole night. "Plase yer honor," sez Tim, "I’m very well; but I was afraid to cross the lake last night, it was so rough, altho’ I’m sure Nelly will be uneasy about me." "Well, now," sez O’Donoghue, "don’t you know that no man of my name will be drowned in these lakes as long as I’m enchanted."

"Begorra, I dramed twice about that," sez Tim; "and about some crocks of goold that was hid in some place, and I was sure if I dramed the third time about it I’d surely make it out." "Well," sez O’Donoghue, "that goold is buried" – and he had only just time to finish that word when the sun began to shine over Mangerton; then he sunk into the lake, and the horse turned into stone where he was.

"Be me sowl," sez Tim, "me drames were right; but wasn’t it a pity the sun got up just at the time when he was going to tell me where the goold was." So Tim went home as mad with himself as ever he could be, but was never afterwards in dread, or any of his name, to go on the lakes in the worst weather.

Nelly, nor any of the neighbours couldn’t believe what he told them about O’Donoghue; but when they saw the stone horse standing in the water they said he must be right. And, gintlemin, said the old boatman, "there is the horse yonder as true an image of a horse as ever you saw; but his head fell off a few years ago."

As he had the interesting legend finished, our boat was passing that well-known rock, called "The O’Donoghue Horse", on our way to Ross Quay, where we landed, well pleased with our "two days in Killarney."

J. N.

Many of the inhabitants of the "Hougoumont" display a wonderful love for flours. They have had several nice little plots to bring them up, And already one or two have succeeded in getting a good blow-out.

There is a man on board so fond of milk that he has several times attempted to milk the ship, but failed, as he could not get at her (r)udder.

Correspondence.

To the Editor of the "Wild Goose".
Dear Sir, – I have derived great pleasure from the weekly perusal of your paper, since its first issue, and I avail myself of its extensive ocean circulation – a circulation of unlimited latitude – to place prominently before the public a fact which, I presume, I am the first to discover – at least which I am the first to ventilate.

But this is not to be wondered at, as it is seldom such an extraordinary smart and observant man – possessing such a wonderful genius for speculation of all sorts-travels in these parts. I allude to the astounding fact that the principle of trades’ unions is entirely unknown in these latitudes. Near the equator (north and south) I was happy to find the principle established. The trade winds there work well, as any Captain who traverses those regions must acknowledge.

Now, sir, I suggest to all concerned, that at once this co-operative system should be extended to these latitudes; and, through the columns of your invaluable paper, I offer my invaluable services, to organize a Trade Wind Society on a most effective basis.

I therefore trust that you will take steps to convene a public meeting to take the matter into consideration. Of course, should a Company be formed, I expect to be appointed secretary, and to receive from a grateful public a material acknowledgement of my disinterested services.

Yours, speculatively, – Jeremy Diddler.

The excessively unpleasant weather of the past week has damped not alone the clothes, but the spirits of our staff. We trust, therefore, that our readers and correspondents will wait with becoming patience till next week for many things which they may have expected to see this.

Printed and published at the Office, No. 6 Mess, Intermediate Cabin, for the Editors, Messrs. John Flood and John B. O’Reilly.

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The Wild Goose:
A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Vol.1.] Convict Ship "Hougoumont," Saturday, Dec. 14, 1867. [No. 6.

Nora Daly’s Christmas Gift:
A Tale of the South of Ireland.
By Isoi.
Chapter 1.

One fine afternoon about the middle of October, in the year 1859, a hooker was wearing around Roche’s Point towards the small fishing village of Guileen, situated on a cliff of about thirty feet high between the Point and the bold promontory of Power Head. The little beach at the foot of the cliff presented a lively scene. Men were busily engaged in unlading boats of newly caught fish, whilst women assisted in preparing them to be salted, selecting a few for home use.

On the top of the cliff, a row of houses faced the sea, forming one of the two streets of the village; the other with a row on either side, running at right angles to it in towards the country. Women were busy making nets, washing, and knitting in front of their doors; an exasperated mother occasionally diversifying her occupation, by administering a gratuitous cuff to some too demonstrative child, who, perchance, was clung in the hair of one of its’ fellows, or lay sprawling in the mud, screaming with all the power of its lungs.

Just on the edge of the height, in front of one of the houses, a young fair-haired girl, in a blue merino dress, stood waving a handkerchief towards the in-coming vessel. Her light-blue eyes sparkled joyously, and her full fair features glowed with the warm tint of pleasure. As she stood there, with her unconfined tresses of gold, through which the amorous zephyrs wantonly frolicked, and unconscious of the etiquette that requires her delicately moulded feet to be encased from the vulgar view, she appeared like the realization of a poet’s dream, or Beauty personified.

Certain it is, that, for miles round, – though many fair flowers bloom in that region, – none could equal Nora Daly in elegance of person, or – what is better still – in vivacity and amiableness of disposition. To her signal of welcome, a form, standing on the gunwale of the hooker, and holding on a stay by one hand, waved a hat with the other in response. Soon, to the maiden’s evident satisfaction, the sails of the hooker were taken in, and her anchor dropped in the little bay. A boat was then lowered, and put off from her side, containing a man and a boy.

The young girl was about to descend the narrow path that wound down to the beach to welcome the new-comers, when her attention was diverted by the appearance of the lithe and graceful figure of a young gentleman, fashionably attired, and sporting a hot-house rose in his button-hole. His handsome countenance was lighted up with a smile, and, raising his hat, he saluted Nora with polished courtesy: "Good morrow, Nora, I am extremely delighted to meet with you this afternoon."

"Thank you kindly, Master James," replied the fair girl, "an’ I hope you are well."

"And if I were not," he returned, "the sight of your lovely face, my dear Nora, would restore me to full health. I do not know another the whole country round it would give me such pleasure to meet. Your presence acts upon me as the genial rays of the sun upon the flower which has been drooping and pining away in the unfriendly shade."

"It’s makin’ game of me you are, I can see plain enough, Master James."

"Now, by this sweet little hand! I" – But the hand that he caught within his own was quickly snatched away.

"No, no, Master James," said the little fairy, shaking her head," it may all do very well for fine ladies; but a simple country girl like myself can’t understand these fine speeches."

"Nora," he said, vexed rather at her manner than her words, "you are unkind. There are very few fine ladies I know that merit half the devotion I feel for you, and there is certainly not one that could share it with you."

The blushing girl saw, with no little anxiety, a young sailor coming quickly towards them from the path that led to the beach. He was a fair-haired, ruddy-featured youth of about eighteen years of age, strong and active in appearance – In all the exhuberance of adolescence, he, unheeding the presence of another, caught the not unwilling girl in his arms; but the bashful maiden successfully evaded his kiss he attempted to bestow on her rosy cheek.

"Ah, John, asthore! she said, as she released herself from his embrace, "welcome back! it seemed as if you niver would come home."

"Well, in truth, though we weren’t any longer than usual, I thought it an age myself. ‘Tis a fine day, Mr. Cotter," he said, condescendingly turning towards the young gentleman. "And ‘tis a great pity that the gintlemen of the country don’t take as much intherest in stoppin’ at home, as you do in this little miserable hole of a village."

The other, with a haughty stare, said coldly, "Ah, John O’Regan! I hope you disposed of your cargo to advantage. The girls of Queenstown were loth to part with their handsome sailor-boy, I’ll be bound.

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"Well, Mr. Cotter," was the reply, "the few girls I know there are always glad to see me, I’ve no doubt; but it’s little thought o’me throubles thim, whin I’m not present. But we’re delayin’ you. You must excuse us. Come, Nora, I have somethin’ to spake to you about."

The other, frowning, bit his lip. "Good by, Nora, for the present," he said, gallantly kissing his ungloved hand to the young girl; "I shall see you again;" and, without farther speech, he turned on his heel, whistling as he walked off.

"Nora," said John O’Regan," what was that young shoneen sayin’ to you?"

"Nothin’, avic, but biddin’ me ‘good morrow,’ whin you just come up. An’ I must say his absence is betther company than his presence."

"Well, niver mind him, darlin’; but let’s take a turn to the end of the cliff, as I have somethin’ to tell you."

And side by side the young pair walked up the street. When they arrived at the end which terminated in a turn of the cliff, – "Nora, my hearts’ treasure," said the young sailor, "I’m goin’ to lave you."

"Goin’ to lave us, John!" she exclaimed, catching him by the arm, and gazing at him with her astonished eyes, – "goin’ to lave us!"

"Yes, my darlin’," he iterated, "I am goin’ to lave you. I engaged this blessed day with one Captain Barry to go sailorin’ with him to New York."

"O John! John! an’ what will take you across the wide say? And what will your poor mother do?"

"And what will my poor Nora do?" he asked, deeply affected. "It’s the will of God, asthore, an’ I must go. My poor father is unable to pay his rint; and the agent – the father of that young angashore, Cotter – threatens to turn him out, and the landlord won’t listen to raison. An’ of what use would I be to my poor father in his throuble? Wouldn’t it be betther for me – for us all – that I should go where I can earn heaps of money, that I may be able to repay the kindness of my mother an’ father to me whin I was a helpless craythur, an’ not be a burthen on thim. It won’t be long before I’m home again, – in six weeks maybe. Besides, don’t I want to lay aside a penny for a future day?" And, as he said this, he archly stole his arm around the fair girl’s waist, and suddenly kissed her soft, blooming cheek.

This time, as no rude observer was standing near, the young girl offered no resistance to the prerogative of Love, and feelingly said, "Well, John, the will of God must be done; and I can only hope that the ragin’ says will be calm and gentle to you; and I shall always be prayin’ the merciful God to have you in His keepin’, and to soften the hearts of the black sthrangers to you. Whin you are far away, mavourneen, you will think of me whin you see this cross, which you must wear for my sake;" taking off, at the same time a necklace of coral, to which a silver crucifix was pendant. "It was the gift of my poor father. God be merciful to his Soul, come next Christmas two years, just two months before his death." Tears were fast streaming down her lovely cheeks; whilst the lad, scarce able to conceal his own emotion, pressed her tenderly to his bosom.

"Don’t darlin’, don’t!" he cried, "or my heart will burst. God knows I need strength to give me courage to take lave of you all, and this smiling land where I have spent so many happy hours with those I love. Nora, I will wear this for your sake; and, every time I look at it, it will not only remind me of all our blessed Lord did for us, but of the love my Nora feels for me. What I can give you in return to keep for me is but a small thing, – this neck-kerchief made for me by my mother. It is all I have. God knows I would give you my heart; but," added he slyly, "it isn’t in my keepin’, as a little girl, called Nora Daly, has taken it from me, an’ kep’ it this many a long day. But, come, darlin’, dry your eyes, an’ let’s be goin’. My mother must be comforted, as I dare say my father’s hard set to do it, though he wint home before me to try."

The pair retraced their steps, and, stopping at the door of the cabin of Widow Daly – Nora’s mother – they went in. The good woman was making a cup of tea, to which she cordially invited John O’Regan; but, declining, he explained to her why he had delayed Nora. "May the great God," in His mercy, watch over you, child, and bring you home safe! and my prayers and blessings follow you wherever you go." Promising the widow to be sure to come and spend an evening with her before he took his final leave, and embracing Nora once more, he hastened home.

Outside the entrance to the village was situated the cottage of Michael O’Regan. It was one of the most respectable in Guileen, and had attached to it about twenty acres of average land. O’Regan had a large share in a fishing vessel; but of late his business had been attended with ill fortune, and he fell in arrears for rent. Mr. Cotter, the agent for the landlord, Mr. Molloy, of Cove (at present called Queenstown), had pressed O’Regan for the balance due, and threatened him with eviction. In vain, the unfortunate man protested; the agent was inexorable.

The day before, O’Regan, with his son John and a couple of men, went to Queenstown to dispose of a cargo of fish. With his own share of the proceeds, he went to the landlord to pay up the balance, which the landlord refused to grant, declining to interfere with his agent’s arrangements, as, he said, "if I do it for one, I must do I for all, and then I might as well be my own agent." Michael O’Regan left him with a heavy heart; and an hour later, when he fell in with an old acquaintance, Captain Barry, of the ship "Black Eagle", his consent was obtained, without much difficulty, to the departure of his son much to John’s satisfaction – as a sailor before the mast in that gallant vessel.

When John, after leaving Nora, reached home, he found his mother in an agony of tears. She drew her boy to her bosom. "Wirasthrue! wirasthrue!" she cried," and has it come to this, that the boy of my heart is goin’ to lave his poor old mother, to be tossed about on the stormy says, and perhaps to find a wathery grave. O Johnny, darlin’! stop at home; betther for us to beg by the roadside together than that the light of my eyes should be thrown among cold-hearted strangers."

"Whisht, Mary!" said her husband, who had just been relating to her all that had happened, "don’t unman the boy. He needs comfort, as we all do, God help us!"

Reconciled to what she became at last wasconvinced was a necessity, his mother set about preparing such things for his comfort as their limited means would allow, trusting that God would preserve her boy from the dangers of the deep and the wiles of the world.

The day for John’s departure at length arrived. The leave-taking with his family was tender and affectionate. His father with great difficulty repressed his grief; but his distracted mother could scarce be prevailed upon to release the boy from her arms. His parting with Nora was heart-rending "Nora," he said, as he kissed her passionately, "when I return at Christmas, I shall bring you a present worth keepin’, that will show you how I value your love." At the beach, renewed blessings and prayers for his safety were freely poured out.

Springing into the boat that waited for him, he shouted a last farewell, and was soon on board a hooker bound for Queenstown. His parents and Nora watched the vessel till it rounded Roche’s Point, and then turned sadly towards home; each feeling as if a heartstring had been sent in sunder

(To be Continued.)

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3 The Wild Goose.

Erring Ones.
What power, next the holy word which God to man has given,
Can guide the wayward heart from sin and lead the path to heaven?
Or when the soul is deeply plunged in Error’s seething flood,
What holy feeling still remains to lure it back to good?

What is it – even Crime and shame can drive it not away?
‘Tis the memory and the love of her who taught us how to pray.
Oh! ‘tis powerful and holy – he who feels it is not lost,
Tho’ dark may be the sea on which his wandering soul is tossed.

He who still looks back to childhood – still her loving face recalls –
On whose ear again in memory her gentle warning falls,
Whose heart those tender thoughts enshrine – tho’ of all else bereft,
And harsh to outward eye – has something good and noble left.

Where’er his mother’s spirit is, a suppliant voice is there,
And God will hear before aught else a mother’s earnest prayer.
But some there are – alas! not few – the erring path have trod,
For whom no mother’s voice is raised to plead their cause with God;

No gentle warning voice to them, nor tender thoughts can come;
They have no fond remembrances of childhood or of home.
In want and vice – uncared for – thro’ life they wander on;
God help them! they have nothing when Thy holy grace is gone.

Oh, judge them not too harshly, ye who dwell in happier spheres:
Were your spirits, think you, spotless, had your lot been like to theirs?
Help them, cheer them, and with gentle words supply a mother’s place;
‘Tis the truest act of Christian love to win them back to grace.

Think of Him who came on earth to call the sinners from their way;
Help the erring ones – His children – and thou shalt not pass away:
He who e’en "a cup of water" to His little ones has given
Shall be paid by endless treasure and eternal rest in Heaven.

J. B. O’Reilly.

Biology.
Doubtless most, or all, of my readers have at some period of their lives witnessed the very amusing experiments in biology with which it is the custom of its professors to entertain their audiences, and, after leaving enjoyed a hearty laugh, have asked themselves if the professor were not a charlatan and his science a hoax. It is on the latter point I wish to "offer a few remarks."

Biology, then is not a cheat, but is as real as any of the other respectable "ologies." It is one of the phases of animal magnetism, acting by impression, as Mesmerism does by sympathy. Its different professors profound different theories as to its laws; but none of them pretend to infallibility.

All that is certainly known is, that, by certain processes, certain results are obtained. Once initiated, any person can practise it successfully, and with perfect safety. In a first sitting of from five to ten minutes, on an average one out of every four or five persons will be found to be impressible – some much more so than others; but all are found to be impressible, but require additional time and trouble before they can be acted upon, – some not being found susceptible until after a second or third sitting.

Unlike in mesmerism, the operator cannot have the faintest knowledge beforehand who are or are not impressible; but, as a rule, workers in metal – particularly iron, – soldiers, and others accustomed to discipline give a higher average of impressible subjects than any other class. Neither strength of swill nor of constitution have ought to do with enabling a man to resist the biologist – persons possessed of both being found the best subjects.

Of the many experiments performed, that of depriving the eyes, when open, of all power of seeing, is perhaps the most wonderful; and medical men have convinced themselves of the reality of this fact by examining the eyes of the subjects thus performed upon, and have found them to present the usual appearances of blindness.

It is not to be supposed that the amusing experiments of the public performances are the only effects produced by Biology. It is found to be still more useful than amusing: in very many instances coming to the aid of the medical practitioner when medicine has totally failed; and

It is quite commonly employed to give immediate relief to persons suffering from toothache and even to enable them to have teeth extracted without the slightest pain, and also to cause warts and other unsightly disfigurements to disappear.

In connection with this branch of the science of magnetism, there is a theory which goes far to explain the magic of the water-finder’s divining rod, and to account for the appearance of ghosts in the vicinity of Churchyards, etc.; but in the infancy of the science itself will not allow us, with any certainty, to receive deductions that the advance of knowledge may prove illusory and false.

Log for week
Dec. 9 – S.40°.16’ E 2.10
Dec. 10 – S.41.06 E 5.57
Dec. 11 – S.42.21 E10.19
Dec. 12 – S.43.46 E 15.17
Dec. 13 – S.44°.51’ E 20°.04’
Dec. 14 – S.46.15 E 23.20
Cape of Good Hope
Lat S. 34° 28’. E 18° 25’

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4 The Wild Goose.

Answers to Correspondents.

"Beta", – Held over until next week.

"One who keeps a diary". – Asks us to enumerate some of the principal reefs. There are single reefs and double reefs in the sails of a ship, Coral reefs in the sea, the Irishman’s reef generally in his coat or breeches, Teneriffe and we suppose many others; but for further information, we refer him to the Nautical Almanac.

"Wooloomooloo". – We believe the principal export of Western Australia is black wool. One house has a monopoly in this article; the supply is derived from the wool of the heads of the aborigines, who are caught and shorn by some desperate men commonly called hair oh’s! – hence the derivation of the word "hero".

"Nelson". – Yes: when a ship falls away about the waist, they tighten her stays.

"Enqurir". – It is of course the Captain’s and officer’s duty to attend to the education of all on board, and they take a great interest in having all taut.

"Captain Kidd" wishes to know if every ship runs into the wind’s eye when she goes to see, and if any bad consequences ensue from such an occurrence. We don’t answer frivolous questions.

The Wild Goose.
"They’ll come again when south winds blow."
Saturday, Dec. 14, 1967.

A Look Within.
To men so unhappily placed as we are – undergoing a long monotonous voyage, with the full consciousness of being shut out from Life, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, – nothing is more natural than that we should calmly try to look within this, now to us, abstract thing; nothing more natural than that we should try to analyse it, and it necessarily follows that to do this we must also look within ourselves – the best of all studies.

What is life? However difficult it may seem of definition, we believe we may simply define it as the pursuit of pleasure or happiness – for in this instance both may be regarded as synonymous terms; and whether we regard it in connection with an individual man or with men in general, the definitions will hold good.

If we look within our own individual lives in the first instance, and next within life in its more extended sense, we shall find it to be nothing more or less than an endless pursuit of happiness, – or quite the same thing, the means of attaining it. From the cradle to the grave we are ever pursuing this phantom, never obtaining it; for "man never is, but always to be, blessed".

Happiness the iquis fatums of life that leads us ‘oer hill and dale, through brake and briar; still alluring us on, sometimes by paths that lead through pleasant places, sometimes through ways strewn with thorns. The paths followed by men in their pursuit after happiness are as numerous and as different as the men themselves; and often a man tries many different ones in the span of his short life.

This pursuit is carried on by two great highways – the Intellectual, and the Material, or Animal, – from which branch off the thousand different by-paths by which individual men diverge in the pursuit. Men place their hopes of its attainment in, amongst other things, Riches, Power, the Ideal, Science, Art, Philanthropy, Ambition, Avarice, and in sensual indulgence of the mere Animal propensities, and some even in causing misery to others, according to their different idiosyncracies; and they attain a comparative success according as their path is selected from the highways of Intellectuality or Materialism. – the former affording a purer and more exalted pleasure to those who pursue it; that afforded by the latter being on a par with that of the brute creation; whilst of the demoniacal pleasure sought after by some in causing the misery of others, – whether by calumny, envy, jealously, or any of the numerous evil propensities of the heart – we know not what to say.

It is a melancholy trait in human nature that men are forned who try to build up their own happiness, by pulling down something that is the happiness of another – often his reputation.

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If we pursue our analysis farther, we shall find that the men who mould society are not the brilliant ones, but rather those who, in a wordly sense, understand the science of life; i.e., who best understand themselves and their fellow-men.

But it is not our province nor intention to enter further into the subject, nor to point out the best way of attaining happiness; but simply to suggest that much instruction may be gained by all from an occasional look within – that we may understand ourselves, and, comparing the paths by which we seek happiness with those pursued by others, we may draw a useful inference from the comparison; and that this learning to know ourselves and Life, we may become the better for the "look within".

Gentle Words.
Many men, as if to show how little they really care for living in peace with their fellows, openly cast aside the truest means of doing so. There are innumerable things belonging to every-day life, which, if we take them in their true and proper light, will most certainly give to us what wealth, power, and their concomitants will fail to give, – namely, true peace of mind, and a more real and enduring happiness than we can ever derive from any material advantage.

Amongst all the many ways of acquiring and conferring enjoyment, there are none which more simply or more effectually conduce to this end than the constant and kindly habit, of speaking "gentle words".

To the generality of men, the word poverty implies a want of wealth – a want of material comforts, on the possession of which depends our happiness and enjoyment of life. If this, be the true definition of happiness, then, at present, we are poor indeed. Gold we have none – Comforts and pleasures to us are "few and far between"; and even in the future, there is more than a probability that, for some years at least, the position of many will not change for the better.

A short time since, many of us might have believed, and no doubt did believe, that in those material possessions were included the only real good. Now we know better. A great teacher – Adversity – has taught us. We know now that without gold, or power, or position we may be rich and powerful: rich in better things, – rich in the possession of a means of becoming happy ourselves – powerful in being able to confer happiness on others.

Gentle words are boons which we all possess and have in our power to bestow: and here, under the dark clouds of misfortune, they constitute our wealth and our power. We know, from our experience of life, how keen is the edge of an unkind word; we know also that when addressed to any one dear to us, it has a double edge, and inflicts a wound upon ourselves as well as on those to whom it is spoken.

All round us there are sensitive hearts, and our unkind words wound also with a double edge, and cut as keenly as those of others. Harsh words have a scorpion sting to pain and wound the heart: gentle words have an angel’s power to give and to bring peace; they sink on the disturbed mind of the afflicted as oil on the troubled waters; and even on the unsettled heart of the erring one they fall with a grateful and soothing tone.

Gentle words give pleasure to the speaker, and their power does not cease even there. No. No – gentle words are immortal; – slight they may be and unheeded even by ourselves, – they may have been called forth by trivial matters that have left no trace in our memories – but the good words – the gentle words – will live and last for ever.

It is certain that we can by attention and perseverance, acquire a habit of doing almost anything – even things which are most disagreeable at first. Would it not be deserving of some little exertion could we acquire a habit of giving pleasure to ourselves, and to others at the same time? Gentle words will do this for us: they will make those around us happy; and the smile beaming from their eyes will intensify our enjoyments of this life, and change the clouds that may linger above us into bright and golden tints.

The Useful.
The useful is the trunk and bough of the tree, the ornamental the leaves: the most useful man is the most valuable member of society. We are fast approching, and about to become denizens of, a colony as

Our Columns are open to any suggestion or instruction from our friends, and we will be most happy to know that they have taken the matter into practical consideration.

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7 The Wild Goose.

The Old School Clock.
Old memories rush o’er my mind just now
Of faces and friends of the past,
Of that happy time when life’s dream was all bright,
Ere the clear sky of youth was o’ercast.

Very dear are those mem’ries – they’ve clung round my heart,
And bravely withstood times’ rude shock;
But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now
Than the face of the Old School Clock

‘Twas a quaint old clock, with a quaint old face,
And great iron weights and chain;
It stopped when it liked, – and before it struck,
It creaked as if ‘twere in pain;

It had seen many years, and it seemed to say,
– "I’m one of the real old stock,"
To the youthful fry, who with reverence looked
On the face of the old School Clock.

How many a time have I labored to sketch
That yellow and time-honored face,
With its basket of flowers, its figures and hands,
And the weights and the chains in their place!

How oft have I gazed with admiring eye
As I sat on the wooden block,
And pondered and guessed at the wonderful things
That were inside that old school Clock!

What a terrible frown did the old clock wear
To the truant who timidly cast
An anxious eye on those merciless hands
Which for him had been moving too fast!

But it lingered not long, for it loved to smile
On that noisy thoughtless flock,
And it creaked and whirred and stuck with glee –
Did that genial, good humoured old Clock

Well, years had passed, and my mind was filled
With the world’s cares and ways,
When again I stood in that little school
Where I passed my boyhood’s days:

My old friend was gone! and there hung a thing
Which my sorrow seemed to mock,
As I gazed with a throbbing and softened heart
On a new fashioned German Clock!

‘Twas a gaudy thing with bright painted sides,
And it looked with an insolent stare
On the desks and the seats and on everything 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 mem’ry, 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.

Yes, dear are those mem’ries – they’ve clung round my heart
And bravely withstood Time’s rude shock;
But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now
Than the face of that old School Clock.

J. B. O’Reilly

The Boyne.
There are few, if any, amongst the beautiful scenes of our beautiful Island that present a fairer picture than the valley of the Boyne; and its rarest beauty lies in that part which history has made famous.

In this sketch the writer does not intend to sketch the "ill-fated river" along its whole course; but, beginning at Slane, merely to follow its windings to the sea below Drogheda. No justice could be done to the noble river in such a brief sketch as this must be, were the attempt made to show its beauties as it winds along through the rich rolling valleys of Meath.

At Slane, then, we begin. It is a spot full of romantic as well as historic interest. On a noble lawn, sweeping up from the river, stands Slane Castle, the seat of the Marquis of Cornyngham, – one of those grand old battlemented structures that bring back to the mind the days of mail-clad Knights of tournaments and chivalry. High over the river it rises in its pride, and its gray massive outlines show clear and sharp against the dark background of wood that lines the opposite side. There sheer from the water’s edge rises Beaupare wood, spreading a dark shadow over the river beneath.

Above the little town rises the celebrated hill of Slane, commanding an extensive view all round; and on its summit is the hoary ivy-clad ruins of an old Abbey, the tower of which stands yet with a broken winding stone stairs winding to the top. It is neither easy nor safe to attempt the ascent, but they who brave the toil and the danger are are amply repaid for the toil and the trouble.

To the hill of Slane it was that Saint Patrick proceeded, after landing at Colp below Drogheda: here on its summit he boldly lighted his fire on the night when pagan superstition commanded, under pain of death, that all fires should be extinguished with the exception of that of the

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8 The Wild Goose.

monarch’s on the hill of Tara, from whence the fire lighted by the courageous christian was plainly visible. Having thus broken one of the most sacred laws of the land, Saint Patrick was immediately carried to Tara to the presence of the incensed monarch, who was anxious to see the daring man who braved is power.

Having been brought into his presence by the pagan priests, the good saint, like another Paul, began to speak in his own defence, and so forcibly and eloquently, that when he had concluded, the pagan King and his greatest warriors in court acknowledged his right and his power, and embraced with eagerness the pure doctrines, of Christianity. But we will leave Slane and follow the Boyne’s winding course.

For some miles now, it flows through rich level plains, devoid of any striking scenery until we come to Dowth wood rising almost perpendicularly from the water’s edge. From the tableland above rises a fine specimen of the old monumental cairns, or moats, of our pagan ancestors. There are two caves beneath it – one easy of entrance, and running under the centre of the hill; the other a dark low opening running in the direction of the river.

Of the latter cave the old and oft-claimed legend is told of an unfortunate piper who entered it and was never seen again: but, although lost to view, he made himself heard, far far away thro’ the wood and under the river he can be heard to this day playing "the Rakes of Mallow" on his pipes.

There is a very fine view from the moat of Dowth – Slane and Tara behind, rising one on the left, the other on the right side of the river; on the left a rich valley stretches away and meets the Boyne as it sweeps round at Oldbridge: on the right the river itself glistening and winding amongst the meadows and losing itself amid the dark woods on each side: in front of two miles off is Oldbridge with its tall gray obelisk marking the battle-field, and which has a strange out-of-place look in the midst of the fields and woods; farther off still can be seen the spires of Drogheda; and on clear days the sea is visible far away in the distance.

Not far from the moat, in the centre of a fine park, is a majestic oak-tree called "King William’s oak," under which it is said the monarch slept the night before the battle of the Boyne. The park in which it stands rises high above the river, and this is perhaps the most beautiful of all the Boyne scenery.

The river runs through a deep narrow valley, the steep sides of which are covered with mighty forest trees, that stretch their arms far o’er the river below. Seldom does the sun ever greet the deep water here, flowing along without a ripple and looking as black as ink. Here in the solitude at the foot of a hill on the Dowth side is a holy well called "Saint-Shanaghan’s Well," famed far round for its miraculous healing-power.

For a mile the river runs thus beneath the trees; and both above and below there is a sudden sweep, so that the whole scene is shut out from the world, and the deep dark river appears as calm and motionless as a lake. Proceeding to the end of the valley the view gradually opens on the left, and on the right a rich meadow lines its banks.

We are now in Oldbridge – on the field of the battle on that meadow on the right stood James’s Army; and above them from the hill of Donore the pusillanimous monarch viewed the fortunes of the fight ere he fled from the scene.

Boyne.
(To be continued.)

Botanical. – Several new plants of an entirely new order, – entirely leave-less – have been lately discovered by the Police.

It is not generally known that sea Captains are sometimes well pleased with accidents at Sea. We know one ourselves who derived the greatest pleasure during a three month’s voyage after having fowled his ship. Queer people these sailors –

Printed and published at the Office, No. 6 Mess, "Intermediate Cabin", for the Editors, Messeiurs John Flood and J. B. O’Reilly.

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Christmas Number of The Wild Goose:
A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
The right of translation and reproduction is reserved.
Vol. 1.] Convict Ship "Hougoumont," Saturday, December 21, 1867 [No.7.

Adieu!
With feelings of regret I come, the last of the "Wild Geese", to bid you adieu. Week by week, one of our flock has tracked you across the ocean, and flown to you, if not welcome visitors, at least with an earnest wish to be both agreeable and welcome; and though few our number, and our visits having come to a premature end in consequence of the swift approach of the termination of your voyage, I hope that, if not to all, at least to some, our appearance has been a source of some little pleasure, and that we did not entirely fail in our efforts or our aims.

I fain would linger over this adieu – fain would say what my sister "Wild Geese" proposed to themselves the pleasure of saying, (but Wild Geese, like men, propose – and God disposes) had the length of your voyage permitted them to make their appearance.

The end of your uneventful but rapid passage quickly approaches, and already your heats are beginning to quicken with anticipation at what may be your future in the new land you are fast nearing. I know not what may be in store for you: I cannot pierce the inexorable veil of the future – drawn alike for me and you; but on bidding you a long farewell, most likely, however we may wish it, never to meet again, I say to you –

Courage, and trust in Providence. You have in your keeping things the most precious to the heart of man – things that no power can wrest from you, no matter whether your position be that of convicts, exiles, or freemen – your own honor – further to preserved unsullied; and remember, that the honor of any one is not a thing belonging to him alone, to be kept bright or stained at pleasure; but that the honor of each is the honor of all – a sacred trust, which it is your duty to keep pure and untarnished.

Follow bravely the path of unswerving uprightness, clearing the thorns from each other’s footsteps, like brothers: by failures not discouraged, always remembering that "There is a Providence that shapes all our ends, roughen them how we may."

You are sadly

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2 The Wild Goose.

placed; but I know that your hearts are strong, and that you will not be degraded by the dross with which you may be placed in contact; but that, like the better metal, you will come through the fire refined, strengthened, and purified – that with you trust above, and your eye fixed on honor’s star, you will not permit yourselves to be dragged down to the level of those beneath you – those with whom necessity may force you in contact, but cannot in association. Use your trials to the end that you may "know what a sublime thing it is to suffer and be strong."

Christmas comes to greet you with a new face – not the old familiar one of bygone and happier years, but Christmas still, bringing with it sacred memories of home and friends: your only consolation, to know that they miss you at home; your only hope that your next and each successive one will be still brighter.

You need no Christmas story – each of you has one in his own heart; and He who gave you Christmas time will cause the holy influence of the day to fall as sweetly on you here, on the desolate ocean, as under happier skies and auspices. You will find the bond of sympathy that binds you all together can give you a pleasure second only to the ties of home.

I bear you the prayers of those that are dearest, for your happiness and welfare, mingled with a hope that the time may soon come when they can again wish you a "Merry Christmas" and a "happy new year". Hearts are beating for you, from which time or space cannot separate you. Prove worthy of their interest in you, and for the rest – Courage, and trust in God. Adieu.

The Future.
It is very proper, at this moment, that those good qualities of our nature on which we have always been inclined to dwell with favour, should prove themselves, and that we should now patiently review our good resolutions, with a desire that nothing may be wanting to the wisdom and soundness of our views, or the prudence of our steps: and to confirm and strengthen our resolves to persevere to the last in the honorable and orderly course of conduct which reflects such a brilliant lustre on all that belongs to us.

Nothing is more common than to see persons of a refined tone of mind and feeling, when driven to arguments in self-defence, and urged to bring forward the very best they can, at once seize upon the one that is nearest to them, and, as the blush of honorable pride rises to their cheek, protest they should never be suspected of anything unbecoming a Christian and a gentleman.

But let us recollect that we are going to a country where nothing whatever will be taken for granted, outside our own breasts, of the distinguished qualities which we prize so highly and so justly; but the number of the men lately arrived in the colony and their names will be sufficient introduction for the work of actually observing who amongst them will pass through the crucible the true Christian and the true gentleman.

You should never forget that it is not those who begin well, but those who end well, who will be crowned; we must, therefore, be on our guard against actions which are bad, or which, if not bad, are devoid of merit, because performed without any particular motive; for if we have not in view the intention of pleasing God, some sinister motive will very probably creep in and spoil our best deeds.

The first thing we should have in our minds is, indeed, the last thing we shall attain to – namely, our End. We are not created to attend to the comforts and the follies of life: God places His glory in being loved by us and receiving our good actions as a tribute from our free choice. No one

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3 The Wild Goose.

can fail to admire the force of the famous aspiration of St. Augustine – "Oh, Lord! Thou hast made us for Thyself, and the heart of man cannot rest till it rest in Thee."

The end of a Christian is to bear a resemblance in meekness and humility to Jesus Christ crucified; and for this end we must labor and toil and endure many things which, however, are all summed up in the words – renunciation of self-will.

Entering our new homes in Australia, one of the earliest admonitions of our consciences will be to beware of the abuse of God’s graces and blessings, in which are comprehended all those copious means afforded us by God of attaining to sanctity and perfection: external, such as reading, exhortations, corrections, and good examples; internal, such as good thoughts, inspirations, and desires. All these are the most precious treasures and gifts from God in heaven.

We will be reminded that men degraded by vice are said to efface in themselves the image of God to which they were created. As for us, we know that our souls are endowed with three most noble faculties, and we will not fall into the error of some who do not use the superior powers of their minds at all, or use them badly. We will charge our memory never to forget the consoling thought of the holy presence of God; – our intellect, to discern real good; and our will, to execute our duty. Alas! for the base souls that grovel upon earth! How can their neglected and uncultivated understandings demonstrate to them what is solidly and lastingly good, or the sweetness of the pure pleasure of conversing with the Creator, with His angels and with His saints, in fervent prayer?

The predominant inclination forms particular characters, and produces in each individual a second nature, as we may say, in addition to what is possessed in common by all mankind: we should root out of it all that is vitiated with whatever clogs the soul and throws the most frequent impediments in the way of virtue. "Am I distressed at the refusal of a request?"

If so, then my ruling passion is independence," and so on. It is usual to strike the fear of God into the wicked; but to whisper filial confidence in God into the ears and hearts of those who have commenced to aim at perfection – as the good friends have happily done who will read these lines.

Let us not be disheartened when we find, contrary to our intentions, we have done wrong; we have in the good God powerful means to repair our losses, and a forging father. Yes! my friends! confidence in God is never so perfectly practised and exercised as when we are in great dangers and great afflictions.

Let us reanimate our constancy, and persevere. A strong resolution should be formed never to be discouraged at our want of success; but steadily to continue to fight against our passions, being persuaded that the grace of God will not be wanting to us if we do what lies in our power.

There is another thing to be particularly attended to, which we all have deeply at heart, and my readers will agree with me when I disclose to them that it is the watchfulness required to note down and to endeavour to dry up the sources of our daily faults. My friends, believe me, to retrench faults is to advance.

Everyone will feel an interest in observing that, for the most part, the occasions of daily faults are some of the six following: – first, forgetfulness of God, and the Christian who is not attentive to the presence of God soon grows dissipated, distracted, and tepid; second, either a want of intention in performing our actions, or else a mixed intention, vitiated with self-love, and then follow actions either dead, void of merit, or perhaps vicious; third, the neglect of regular established discipline, and to this may be traced careless preparation for morning and evening prayer, omission or shortening of that or other prescribed duty, disgust of good, aversion to painful duties: but let us be persuaded, my friends, that no mortification is more precious than that which subjects to exact order; fourth, a culpable languor of mind, and indifference about our progress; the fifth source of our daily

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4 The Wild Goose.

faults, and, perhaps, the most general of all, is the fondness of self-ease and convenience.

A Christian, by seeking self-ease, renounced the first Gospel maxim – self-denial, by which he is ordered to renounce himself and to take up his cross; the sixth is the neglect of the custody of our own senses. On the contrary, perfection does not consist in doing extraordinary actions, but in doing ordinary every-day actions, namely, daily duties of our state of life extraordinarily well.

There is nothing more conspicuous in the demeanour and comportment of an Irish gentleman, of true Milesian blood, than the extreme moderation and even modesty of his desires and manners. This appears in his air, his carriage, his looks, his tone of voice, his manner of expressing himself; in a word, in the composition of his whole exterior. It is a mistake to suppose that by giving way to boisterous gaiety and mirth, or by adopting the manners of others, he makes himself agreeable to the world. Every one expects to find a man in his place: it is wrong to think anyone can be pleased who meets you out of it.

The conversation of a gentleman should be always instructive, solid, and useful: it need not always turn upon learned subjects, but it is never frivolous or puerile. A gentleman is well proved in conversation: he is never uncharitable or offensive, and always expresses himself in moderate and gentle terms, to inferiors as well as to superiors.

The love of God comes from a high appreciation of Him above all things, and this naturally leads to a depreciation of all inferior things, but especially of one’s self: None, then, but the humble, truly love God. All the blessings which we enjoy through the incarnation of Jesus Christ spring from the humility of the Redeemer.

I am deeply impressed with the importance of the future to every one of us; I make no apology to my readers for writing so gravely, since we all know there is but one way to become a good man.

– Beta

Nora Daly’s Christmas Gift: A Tale of the South of Irelande.
By Isor.
Chapter 2.

Weeks had elapsed since the departure of John O’Regan, without bringing any tidings of him to his disconsolate parents. Poor Nora Daly, who surely needed consolation herself, – for all her young heart’s affections were centered in the absent sailor-boy, – used her best endeavors to comfort them, reminding them that the Almighty God watched over him, and suggested that, in all probability, he only delayed writing in order to surprise them by a speedy return. To add to the afflictions of the O’Regans, the agent had served them with a notice to quit.

Young James Cotter continued to pay the most assiduous attention to Nora, to whom his courtesies were distasteful in the extreme. Much to the pain of Nora’s mother, he called too frequently at their humble dwelling, which, though the widow could not actually prevent without infringing on the rules of hospitality, she did every thing in her power to discourage that did not involve rudeness.

One day, about a week before Christmas, he called at the cabin. Nora was alone. In return to a gallant compliment regarding her looks, she thanked him, and informed him that her mother was out, but that she would at once go in quest of her if he wished; or he might call again in an hour, when she would be at home.

"No, no, my dear Nora", he rejoined, as he divested himself of his overcoat and hat, "it is your sweet self that I wish to see and converse with. Can you not understand how I feel towards you? Why will you be so coldhearted? Ah, Nora! Nora! I love you, and it is you I want to see, and you only." As he said this, the young man stood gazing earnestly at her, his cheeks all aglow with heat, and his hands held out to her imploringly.

"Masther James," said Nora, determinedly, "I do not understand you, and I do not think it becomin’ a young gintleman to conduct himself in that way to a poor girl like me; an’ I must tell you once for all it’s not plasin’ to me. I’m willin’ to respect you as a gintleman till you give me rason not to do so, an’ no more."

"Girl!" said the other fiercely, nettled that he should meet with so sudden a rebuke, "there is many a lady would be proud to know that I entertained the least regard for her; and can it be disagreeable to you to learn that I love you?"

Then modulating his voice, he said more tenderly, "Dear Nora, can you not have pity on me? I love you as no one else can love you. I would make you my wife; and instead of living in a pauper’s cabin, slaving away your precious life for a mere morsel of bread, you would be the equal of any lady in the land, and live in a fine house, and have servants to attend your slightest wish."

"I tell you, Masther James" –

"Then, too, as you take so much interest in these O’Regans, I shall use my influence with my father

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to let them retain their holding. I shall do my utmost to gratify any of my Nora’s wishes."

"Yes, Masther James," said the young beauty, with flashing eye, "I am proud of takin’ an intherest in honest people; an’ I’m sure they don’t want your or my intherfarence in their business. Plase God, they will have their own again widout your help. And let me tell you, sir, I’d be obliged to you, if you wouldn’t come here in my own house to insult me."

Just at this juncture, Nora’s mother made her appearance. She saluted young Cotter with, "God bless you, Masther James! I hope you are well." The mortified young man mumbled in return that he had just dropped in for a bit, and was about going. Resuming his hat and coat, he bade them adieu.

On Christmas Eve, he again paid them a visit, bearing with him, as a Christmas box to Nora, a magnificent watch. The astonished widow declined it, in her daughter’s name, with every protestation of gratitude, telling him it was "too grand entirely" for Nora, and would only turn her head if she accepted it, and would fill her brain with such fancies, that "she would hardly condescend maybe to notice her dacint neighbors."

Nora, to whom a sprig of fern from the absent John would be invaluable, felt deeply offended at this token of Cotter’s persistent passion; and she haughtily and decidedly rejected his proffered gift. Burning with resentment at what appeared to him an inconceivable rebuff from a mere peasant-girl, he abruptly took leave, – premeditating some deep scheme of vengeance for this deliberate insult.

Christmas Day dawned, – that glorious day, celebrated as the anniversary of the advent of the Saviour of the world, and which brings to all in Christendom – rich and poor alike – "glad tidings of great joy;" when the united members of a family gather round the festive board, and drink their fill of the cup of happiness; and when the more opulent open their hearts and purses, under the operation of the genial influences exercised by the holy season, to their less fortunate brothers, infusing peace and joy all round.

It was a sad day for Michael O’Regan and his family. John was still unheard of, and the vacancy created by his absence filled his poor parents’ hearts with grief. O’Regan had managed to pay all his rent; but it left his means nearly exhausted. And though for three or four generations his family had held possession of the holding, never at any time being in arrears for rent, the fiat had gone forth that he must give up possession in one week more, and commence the new year in a new home.

Home! – how could he call a strange house "home"? The house where his fathers, he, and his children were born, to be given up to a stranger! It was an intolerable but an inevitable fact. Sadly the bright, cold Christmas dawned on the O’Regans, – the last Christmas they were to spend in their old and once happy home. And their feasting? Let us not look in on their poverty that blessed day.

What was the most sumptuous banquet in the land to them on that holy day, and the darling of their hearts tempest-tossed on the raging sea; perhaps – oh, horrible thought! – his precious body the prey of the voracious monsters of the deep? Nevertheless, the fond mother managed to have some delicacies for the children, – Paddy, a boy of ten, and Ellen and Mary, of five and six years respectively.

The hearts of the expectant parents beat high with hope that morning when the letter-carrier knocked at the door, and delivered them a letter bearing the New York postmark. Of course, it was from John, and explained that his vessel had been delayed by adverse winds, and announced that he would leave New York on the 20th of December, and sincerely regretted that he should be unavoidably absent from home at Christmas.

He begged them not to grieve, as it could not certainly be long before he should be in the midst of his family and friends. He concluded with his filial regards and expressions of tender solicitude for the welfare of all at home; and did not omit, by any means sending his love to Nora, and a repetition of the promise to present her with some token of his affection, excusing himself for being so far unable to fulfil it.

Nora fortunately dropped in while the letter was being read, to bring some confectionery to the children, which had been sent to her from Cork as a Christmas box. The letter was of more value to them than the most costly Christmas present, and acted as a solace to their sorrows; and the day was passed in contentment.

On New Year’s Day, O’Regan moved with his family into one of the small cabins on the cliff. Having been obliged to sell out his share in the "Seabird," he was reduced to the necessity of hiring himself as a common hand on board a fishing-smack, the remuneration for his labor being very small, and barely sufficing to provide his family with the absolute requirements of life. But, cheered by his fond and faithful wife, he bore up manfully.

Chapter 3.
Some few years had passed since the Christmas on which the O’Regans had received the letter from John, without bringing any further tidings of him, and the sorrowing parents had long given up their darling as dead; but Nora, as they had received no actual account of his death, still retained a fond belief that he was alive.

Michael O’Regan had struggled for a long time in vain to maintain his family respectably, and secure them from indigence. But of late matters began to prosper with him; and, as his ordinary avocation of a fisherman kept him out very often at night, his unsuspecting family never dreamt that he might be otherwise occupied.

It had come to the knowledge of the authorities that, for some time past, numbers of contraband articles were being smuggled into the country through the medium of fishermen on the south coast, and further that respectable parties were connected with the trade. Though government spies were set diligently to work, their efforts to discover the smugglers were unavailing.

Michael O’Regan, whose heart was sore distressed at the poverty of his family and his inability to render them comfortable by his exertions, was easily induced, by the prospect of gain, to join the band of smugglers.

Cotter, the agent to his landlord, was one of the principal consignees for the contraband goods; and O’Regan was led, by the insinuations and fair speeches of the agent, to overlook his conduct in the last transaction they had had together, especially as Cotter accompanied his expressions of regret for the occurrence with a douceur of a few pounds, and promised to reinstate him in his old homestead as soon as the present tenant’s lease should have expired.

Late one night, just exactly six years from the date of the commencement of this story, Michael O’Regan sat by his fire smoking. All the rest of the family were in bed fast asleep. He evidently did not design to retire to rest; for he had on a tarpaulin and great coat.

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"I wish this night was well over," he yawned. A slight tap summoned him to the door. "Who’s there?" he inquired.

"It’s me," was the reply, "and the night’s dark."

"Is all well, Thade?" was O’Regan’s next query, as he opened the door, and permitted the fire-light to fall on the figure of a man well muffled up.

"Yes, Mike," the man answered, "and the lights showed at the Head. I gave thim the sign, an’ so we must be movin’. But, I’ll just take a bit o’fire for my dhudeen, as I want to have a shaugh."

Thade having lit his pipe, the two left the cabin, and went to summon all who were to attend them in the enterprise that was on foot. A messenger was also despatched to Cotter’s residence for young James, who had given instructions to that effect.

In about half an hour, James Cotter, O’Regan, and fifteen others were assembled on the beach, launching their boats. When all was ready, two torches were lit, and a corresponding signal from Power Head having satisfied them that all was well, they extinguished their lights, and, springing into their boats, pulled away in the direction of the Head.

Rounding the Head, they saw to the south, through the gloom, a dark hull showing a red and blue light. Pulling towards the lights, they were soon alongside the French schooner "L’Oiseau". They were immediately hailed in French: "Qu’ a-t-il en vent?" James Cotter returned, "L’Oiseau est sur mer." "Tout va bien," was the reply.

The boats were secured to the vessel’s sides; and Cotter and most of his men were soon on the deck of the schooner. The hatches were open, and bales and boxes were speedily transferred to the boats, the men working with might and main. The boats plied two or three times between the vessel and the shore, were carts were ready to convey the goods to different depots.

Young Cotter, in the interim, remained in the cabin conversing with the captain. His object was to induce the latter to take himself and Nora Daly as passengers to France, for which a large sum of money would be given. The captain eagerly closed with his offer, and it was arranged that Nora should be brought on board that very night.

With a few of the French crew, Cotter returned in a boat to Guileen. When he arrived there, he found a young lad waiting for him. He sent him at once to the cottage of the Widow Daly, with instructions to bid Nora hasten down to the beach, as Michael O’Regan had become suddenly ill, and desired to see her.

The lad went and knocked at the cabin door. Nora, aroused from sleep, dressed herself; and, when she heard the message, the unsuspecting girl, telling her mother, who was awakened also, not to be alarmed, as she would soon return, followed the boy to the beach. She was instantly seized, and forced into the seat at the stern of the boat. James Cotter placed himself alongside of her, and the boat was pulled off.

The terrified girl was speechless. "Nora," he said maliciously, "you see that at least I am likely to have my own way. You have treated me with contempt for the sake of one who is long-since dead, and you have rendered me desperate, so that I have adopted this means of getting you into my power. We shall soon be where you will be only too glad to have me by your side."*

[The following is a reference at the bottom of the page]
*Our readers will not suppose us to have any admiration for the crime of James Cotter, above depicted by the writer. Of course no honorable marriage could take place and, if attempted, it would be null and void under these circumstances. – [Editor "W.G."

"James Cotter," said Nora, fairly roused, "you will repent this conduct, as sure as there is a God on high. I feel and know it’s no use to appale to you and these hirelings of yours for mercy; but there is One who can relase me from your power, an’ who will, an’ to Him I confidently appale for deliverance from this outrage."

The other scornfully replied, "You will see presently the vessel that waits to take you to your future home, and nothing can now part us till I desire it."

The night was rapidly giving place to day; and as they neared the Head, to the astonishment of all in the boat but Nora, they could plainly discern, in the gray dawn, the schooner fast bearing seaward, and the smugglers’ boats pulling swiftly in shore. "Diable!" Sacre tonnere!" and like ejaculations, were freely uttered by the astounded Frenchmen.

The cause of this unlooked-for incident was soon apparent. A British gunboat hove in sight from Roche’s Point side. The fishing boats had by this time approached Cotter’s boat, and shouted to him to return. The gunboat seemed undecided whether to give chase to the schooner or the boats; but at length, concluding to favor the latter, she fired a couple of blank shots at them, without eliciting any acknowledgement that she was observed other than that the rowers strained every nerve to reach the shore.

Incensed that no notice was taken of this mild way of requesting them to cease rowing, the commander of the gunboat ordered two or three charges of grape to be sent after them. One shot only took effect. James Cotter was mortally wounded.

The boats soon reached the beach, and the dying man was removed with all celerity to his father’s house; Nora, with all her tender womanly instinct, having endeavored to soothe him and assuage his pain, heartily granting his prayers for forgiveness.

The crew that put off from the gunboat failed to find anything that would establish the charge of smuggling against any one in the village, and returned disappointed to their vessel. James Cotter died the next day; and the Frenchmen that assisted him in his attempted abduction of Nora, made their way to Cork, from where they took shipping to France.

Subsequent investigations by the police in Guileen and its neighborhood proved that Cotter the agent, was largely concerned in the contraband trade; but, receiving notice in time from a friendly quarter, he quitted the country. Suspicion, moreover, was attached to a number of parties; but warrants were issued for the arrest of Michael O’Regan and three others. Getting information of this, they eluded the police and escaped, O’Regan concealing himself in a friend’s house, a few miles from Guileen.

It would be very hard to describe the position and feelings of Mary O’Regan, now that she had to endure this additional affliction. Her husband dared not visit her; and her only assistance was that rendered by Paddy, now but sixteen years of age. Nora (who, by the way, was in her twentieth year, and whose charms had ripened with her years) was a source of great consolation to her, cheering her with the hope that all would be well yet, and inspiring her with a half belief that John would one day return, and make them all happy.

Time wore on, and Christmas Eve once more came round. Michael O’Regan had ventured to his own house, determined to spend the Christmas in the bosom of his loving family. He was disguised, however, as much as possible, so that no one could recognize him readily; and his presence in Guileen was unknown to all but his family and a trusted few.

The day was dark and tempestuous. The wind howled dismally, and the waves raged with the utmost fury. "God be merciful to those who are on the wild says this blessed day!" said O’Regan. "Amen!" piously responded his wife. A knock at the door announced Nora to their practised ears. She was admitted without delay. "God save you all!" was her hurried greeting.

"And you, too, Nora alanna."

"Oh, but it’s a terrible sight to see on the eve of a holy day like to-morrow! I don’t know what makes me feel so, but my heart is batin’ awfully," said the excited girl.

"What is the matther wid you, asthore?" they both solicitously inquired in a breath.

"Why, right, under our very eyes this blessed minute, a noble ship is goin to the bottom! You can see from the door."

The whole family crowded to the door. Looking towards Power Head, they beheld a dismasted vessel pitching wildly about. A couple of boats were leaving her side crammed

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with people. Struggling manfully with the fierce waves, they at last reached the shore in safety, where they were received with cheers by the assembled villagers, and were hospitably invited to share such humble shelter as they could afford to accommodate them with, till such time as they could arrange to set out for their destination.

The occupants of O’Regan’s cabin observed a young man, accompanied by a lad bearing a valise, stop at the Widow Daly’s door. The widow came out; and he, taking the valise from the hands of the lad, dismissed him with some gift, which was gratefully acknowledged. Then he and the widow approached O’Regan’s door. "Now God be praised!" said Mrs. Daly, entering, "Mary, asthore, this gintlemen, whom God in His mercy has just saved from shipwreck, brings you news of Johnny. He is alive and well."

The young man stepped in, laying the valise that he carried on a chair. "Mother! Nora!" he cried, and was clasped, dripping wet as he was to Mrs. O’Regan’s heart. "Johnny! Johnny, darlin’!" she sobbed aloud, "Almighty God be thanked for bringing you back safe to my arms!" kissing him wildly again and again.

It was, indeed, John O’Regan drenched to the skin, just escaped from the wreck of the ship "Margaret", bound to Queenstown from New York. His long absence was thus accounted for: the "Black Eagle", Captain Barry, in which he first went to sea, was wrecked on its way back from New York. Succeeding in getting back to that city, he took shipping from thence to India.

Returning, he found that war had broken out between the North and South, and enlisted in the Federal navy. He distinguished himself in that service, and was promoted to a lieutenancy. In an engagement with a Confederate war-steamer, his vessel was captured, and he was detained a prisoner for about twelve months, when an exchange of prisoners was effected.

He had three times written to his parents and Nora, enclosing some money (which, we need scarcely remind our readers, they were in utter ignorance of); but, receiving no reply, concluded that they must have left Guileen, and so came in propria persona to ascertain how matters stood at home. His brother and sister received him with every demonstration of delight; and his father, in cordially embracing him, brushed a tear of joy from his eye.

Nora blushed deeply, as he wound his arm round her waist, and whispered, "At last, darling, I can redeem my promise. This is my Christmas gift." And he placed in her hands a lady’s gold watch, with a portrait of himself in naval uniform set inside the case. Turning to her mother, he said, "I am going to take Nora from you; and please God in three weeks she will be my wife."

"An’ my blessin’ be on you," replied the widow, "for a more desarvin’ boy couldn’t have her."

The situation of his father was explained to him. He comforted them by declaring it was his intention to marry Nora as soon as practicable, and then take them all to America, where they should be well provided for, as he was rich enough to keep them all; and there they would be safe from further anxiety.

That Christmas was the happiest the two families ever remembered spending. United, their joy was unalloyed, and they enhanced their own enjoyment by administering to that of their poorer neighbors. Next day, Michael O’Regan returned to his place of concealment, where he remained till everything was prepared for their departure.

In three weeks, the faithful and loving Nora was united to John O’Regan; and, accompanied by their families, they started on a honeymoon to America, where they are at present living happily together.

Emerald Spray.

Cinderella.
More graceful than the bounding fawn,
More loving than the dove,
More fresh and bright than morning’s dawn,
Art thou, my treasured love.

No wealth is thine, nor courtly grace,
To dazzle with their glare;
But heaven is breathing from thy face,
And on thy golden hair.

Agra machree! my darling one!
The love I bear for thee
More fervid is than summer sun,
And deeper than the sea.

And deeper in my soul it glows
With every passing breath,
The life-pulse of my heart it flows,
To cease alone in death.

What destiny is thine, asthore!
Disdain – Contumely:
The fair sweet girl of fairy lore
Less hapless seems than thee;

‘Tis crime to love thee – darkest crime
‘Gavist those who hate thee so;
Thy sisters’ envy grows with time
As hers did long ago.

I would have dried thy tearful eyes
And shielded thee from scorn
And wore thee honor’s brightest prize
Thy beauty to adorn:

For this I braved the frown of hate,
The law’s harsh dark decree;
Mavrone! thine is a bitter fate. –
A felon’s doom for me.

I still unceasing pray for thee
To the Almighty Throne, –
Pray that I once again may see
My darling one – my own, –

To see her once before I die;
Oh, sweet would be my rest;
Could I but breathe my latest sigh
Upon my darling’s breast!

[Binn Cider.]

[Page 57]
8 The Wild Goose.

Answers to Correspondents.

We regret that the indisposition of the Author of our first tale "Queen Cliodhna", has deprived us of the pleasure of giving its conclusion to our readers. The unavoidable length of the article "The Boyne", has also prevented us from inserting it in this our last number.

"Pat." – We are unable to inform you whether or not you may expect a new series of visits from another flock of Wild Geese in Australia.

We give the following extract from a piece received rather late this week, the length of which precluded insertion: -

Three thousand leagues across the foam,
And speeding still away,
Are we from friends, beloved, and home, -
And this is Christmas Day!

Our place is vacant by the hearth;
Loved eyes for us are wet,
And none who love us upon earth
Today will we forget.

In spirit back to them we’ll fly,
And sweet communion hold,
And eyes that weep will strive to dry,
And hearts that droop make bold;

And hope with us will sweetly sing
Into each dear one’s ear,
"Soon Time to us again will bring
Bright Christmas and New Year."

The Wild Goose.
"They’ll come again when south winds blow."
Saturday, Dec.21,1867.

Farewell.
The time of my departure has arrived; and now, ere I wing my flight from amongst you, let me take a perspective glance at my sojourn, and see if I have well performed my mission: let me recall my promises in the beginning, and my words and works in the meanwhile.

The first one of my flock who greeted you brought with her the assurance that her sisters would "bring you memories of home and friends, of wives and sweethearts, and of scenes and songs of fatherland, ever dear to the wanderer" – "to console you for the past, to cheer you for the present, and to strengthen you for the future."

These words include much – almost everything; and if the "Wild Goose" has failed in the fulfilment of these promises, she trusts that the kindly feelings entertained by your countrymen for her name and race will cause you to judge leniently of her failings, and take the "intention for the act."

Did she stir within your hearts tender and holy feelings when she spoke to you of "Home Thoughts"? She did not intend to pain wantonly by recalling the lost joys and blessings of your old homes: No, she recalled them, believing that all hearts are bettered by being touched and softened by pure affections, and that the pain inflicted is more than compensated for by the good and gentle feelings which result from it.

When noble "Self-Reliance" was her theme, were her words thrown away? Will you not "Call it to your aid" "when toiling together beneath the burning sun of Australia, or singly scattered far through the wide, wide world, or back again in the old homes?" Do so, and "you will grow daily stronger in its strength, and be enabled to fight life’s battles bravely out."

Like a sage bird, she spoke of "Forethought," and she told you that "a man may be possessed of genius, bravery, energy, and a host of other estimable qualities, but with all these he will never become successful if he has not also forethought. Time will show you all hereafter whether the assertion was true or false.

She told you the good words which the "Wild Waves are saying" to you: again she says, if you listen throughout life to the voices of nature, they will strengthen and refresh you with courage for present and hope for the future. "Look below the surface," she says; "look into the depths of heart and soul, and you will find things pure, bright, and beautiful, fresh with the impress of the Creator’s hand – the contemplation of which will blot out the memory of all the crosses

[Page 58]
9 The Wild Goose.

and roughnesses of superficial, wordly life."

She told you to direct your "First Steps" in the right way, and the remainder of the journey of life would be bright and cheerful; to be careful of "Little Things," for in them is discovered the principle of the man and the gentleman; to look with pride on the way of the "Wild Geese" of the "Past", with contempt on the darkness of the "Present", and to gaze with courage into the mists of the "Future".

She advised you to "Look Within," and thereby to "learn to know yourselves and Life," that your way may be smooth and its end bright.

She told you to speak "Gentle Words", which constitute the riches and power you possess at present, the "boons which you have in your power to bestow," and that you should not be niggardly of such gifts. Were her words good? Were her warnings wise?

Has she not dashed her "Emerald Spray", around you, bringing back to your memories the sparkling waters and fair valleys of your own emerald island?

Has she not answered the various questions of her correspondents with profound wisdom and erudition, and collected for your gratification the "waifs and strays" that are passing and repassing on the innumerable telegraph lines of ocean and air?

Has she not – but enough; the "Wild Goose". has exerted all her energies and all her abilities to amuse, instruct, and please you, and she trusts that she has not entirely failed in her exertions.

And now – farewell! – in all probability the "Wild Goose" will never speak to you again; but it alleviates the pain of parting to be able at this holy time to assure you all that there are fond prayers being wafted after your ship from the old land, and to wish you, even here, a merry, merry Christmas, with a prayer to Him who directs our way, that, ere the blessed day returns again, you may be all free and happy men.

Christmas Garland.
Come, banish care and dull despair,
‘Tis Merry Christmas time;
Then close around, and hear resound
A story told in rhyme.
A Christmas story, of fame and glory,
That ne’er will fade, of The Brigade:"
For us, to-night ‘twill sound as bright
As merry Christmas chime –

And when ‘tis told, we will unfold
An ocean legend true,
Of dreadful spell that erst befell
"The Dutchman" and his Crew.

No Christmas tree grows on the sea
No berries bright, of red or white,
And ill retrieves their loss, the "leaves
Around we strew.

But ever still, through good or ill,
We welcome Christmas Day.
No loved are near, nor cup to cheer,
And brighten up our way;

Yet banish care and dull despair,
For Christmas cheer we’ll each draw near,
And let to-night, our hearts grow bright,
In friendship’s ray.

Cremona.
All dark and sullen was the night, and red the sun went down
Behind the towers and battlements of Old Cremona’s town;
Sullen the blust’ring march wind swept the waters of the Po,
French, ravelin, and parallel of France’s baffled foe –

Austria’s legions and their chief, the gallant Prince Eugene,
Who Had tried for months the town to take by storm, but tried in vain,
Upon the walls the fleur-de-lis still waved in haughty joy
Above its brave defenders and their Marshal Villeroy –

Waved oer the sons of Sunny France, her bravest and her best –
Waved o’er the men of the "Brigade" – the "Wild Geese" of the West.
Full oft the walls high oer the fight had rung with Irish Cheers,
As fiercely on the foe dashed Burke’s and Dillon’s grenadiers;

For ever where in fiercest fight her banner France unrolled,
Her Irish allies still were found the bravest to uphold
Her honor, and on many a field, in many a bloody fray,
Those foster sons of France have turned the fortunes of the day,

Nor grudged to their adopted land their dead so thickly strown,
But fiercely dealt her vengeance out whilst waiting for their own.
– Tonight – within Cremona’s walls, all silent as the dead,
Nought heard is but the plashing rain, the sentry’s measured tread

Is muffled by the gusty winds in eddying blasts that sweep,
All else is hushed, the garrison is weary and asleep:
Divided by the river Po, their force lay thus arrayed –
The southern town held by the French, the north by the Brigade.

[Page 59]
10 The Wild Goose.

A narrow bridge connects the town: and whilst their comrades slept,
By thirty-seven of the Gael a watchful guard was kept –
And many a heart is winging back, away across the main,
To that dear land they loved so well, but ne’er may see again;

They dreamed of homes by Shannon’s side, where they so often played
Bright happy carless boys, before they donned the white cockade,
Of heart loved scenes that smiling lie by Leinster’s vales and rills,
By Ulster’s glens, and Connaught’s plains, and Munster’s lakes & hills;

They dream of friendship and of love, – they dream of bliss and woe,
Of Glory’s fields where the "Brigade" was charging on the foe,
But dream not that, by traitor led, the Austrians now creep,
With bated breath and stealthy step, upon them while they sleep.

The sentry, too, is musing, as before the northern gate,
With measured step and piercing eye, and hero-heart elate,
He paces thro’ the rain and gloom, but on the muttering blast
Hears not the foe whose serried ranks are gathering thick & fast.

A curse upon the traitor-wretch who to the wily foe
For sordid gold the town betrayed! A sewer that ran below
The walls – its bed had long been dried – and save to him alone
It hidden lay, unused, unsuspected and unknown,

Thro’ this he led the Austrians, and now thick thro’ the night
Their column sudden break upon the startled sentry’s sight.
His warning cry rings up into the very vault of heaven,
As rush the legions of Eugene around the Thirty-Seven;

And ere his cry had died away, their Irish bullets tore
A yawning gap right thro’ their ranks – their steel was red with gore
As with one cry – as when in wrath the lion from his lair
Enraged springs – they dash upon the foeman’s closing square;

Again and still again they charge with cheers upon their ranks,
But columns, massing denser still, are closing on their flanks.
Then inch by inch, before the foe, outnumbered back they fell,
Yet high above their muskets’ peal uprose their maddened yell

As fast they fired, reloaded, and then fired and charged cheered again,
Marking the bloody way they went, with heaps of foeman slain.
Their numbers now are thinning fast, but still they bravely fight,
As wolf dog ‘gainst the howling wolves defends the flock at night.

Their cry grows weaker as they fall, and all are bleeding fast,
When to their ears a thrilling shout comes ringing on the blast;
And in their shirts rush thro’ the night – a tempest on the sea,
Their comrades of the "Old Brigade", by O’Mahony.

When in the night the fierce typhoon, sweeps white upon a fleet
That turns and flies before its scream, afraid its wrath to meet:
So in their shirts those grenadiers rushed screaming thro’ the blast
Upon the panic-stricken foe that fled before them fast.

Back, back they drove, before their wrath, a shattered, struggling wreck,
And vainly strove with hurried fire that hurricane to check
But fast the foe come pouring in: Eugene in the Town Hall
Commands, and thirty thousand men are rushing to his call.

But numbers had not the Brigade, as like avenging fates
In that fierce Irish tempest rush, they drive them to the gates;
There, cheering high above the fight, outnumbered ten to one,
They hand to hand still held their own, still gallantly fought on –

They fought, like tigers for their young, as oft they fought before,
But higher into Glory’s skies did "Wild Geese" never soar.
God’s blessing fall upon their name, their race, and on their land!
Where’er they strike, may Heaven guide and strengthen still each hand

Still hand to hand they fiercely fought, and steel and bullet sped
Bright deeds of valor doing till their shirts with blood were red,
But fast they’re falling – faster – as the bullets shower like rain:
Now thro’ the gates the Austrians are surging back again;

Before their massing columns they retired, but did not yield.
But turned at bay and charged them back, until their columns reeled
Back step by step, across the bridge, with care already mined,
With serried ranks they face the foe, and blow it up behind –

But now the French rush to their aid – they hear their rapid tramp;
Again they cheer and charge the foe, and drive them to their Camps
Bright deeds of chivalry were done that night by the "Brigade";
But with the Austrians fought one whose name will never fade,

McDonnell! he was Irish, too! We hail his name with joy,
Who charged that night thro’ thickest fight, and captured Villeroy.
He scorned the bribe to set him free, – still yet brighter grow his fame!
A soldier still to honor true and to "his Irish name. –

The morning broke, and in the air the Oriflamme still waved
Proud over Old Cremona’s walls – by Irish valor saved;
But dear they bought that victory, – those sons of Innisfail,
And while Te Deum swells in France for victory – a wail

Went up to heaven from their own land – a death wail for her brave,
Who fell beneath a foreign flag, so far beyond the wave,
And with the wail of agony, a fervent prayer arose
to Heaven for one such victory at home o’er Ireland’s foes.

[Binn Cider.]

The Flying Dutchman.
Long, long ago, from Amsterdam, a vessel sailed away,
As fair a ship as ever rode amidst the dashing spray;
Fond loving hearts were on the shore, and scarfs were in the air,
As to her o’er the Layder Lee they waft adieu and prayer.

Her gaudy pennant streamed aloft, and as she skimmed the seas
Each taper mast was bending like a rod before the breeze.
Within her there were gallant hearts, tho’ filled with sadness now,
For still the lingering parting kiss was fresh on lip and brow.

Her captain was a stalwart man – an iron heart had he;
From childhood’s days he sailed upon the rolling Layder Lee.
He nothing feared upon the earth, nor scarcely Heaven feared
He would have dared and done whatever mortal man had dared.

[Page 60]
He turned him from the swelling sail, and [indecipherable] upon the shore –
Ah! little thought the skipper [indecipherable] ‘twould meet his eye no more,
He dreamt not that an awful doom was hanging o’er his ship, -
That Vanderdecken’s name would yet make pale the speaker’s lip.

The vessel bounded on her way, and spire and dome went down:
Ere darkness fell, beneath the wave had sunk the distant town.
No. more, no more, ye hapless crew, shall Holland meet your eyes
In lingering hope and keen suspense maid, wife, and child shall die.

Away, away, the vessel speeds, – but sea and sky alone
Is round her as her course she steers across the torrid zone.
Away, away! The north star fades, the Southern Cross is high,
And myriad stars of brightest beam are sparkling in the sky.

The tropic winds are left behind – she nears the Cape of Storms,
Where awful Tempest sits enthroned in wild and dread alarms:
Where Ocean in his fury heaves aloft his foaming crest,
And dashes round the helpless ship that rides upon his breast.

Fierce raged the mountain billows round the Dutchman’s gallant craft,
But Vanderdecken to their rage a loud defiance laughed.
Tho’ wave and tempest barred his way, he braved them in his pride,
As onward still his course he held, and wind and wave defied.

He struggled madly forward in the weird unearthly fight;
His brow was black, his eye was fierce; but looks of wild affright
Were passed amongst the silent crew as still they onward steered:
They did not dare to question, but they whispered what they feared.

They knew their black-browed captain – ‘neath his darkened eye they quailed
And in a grim and sullen mood their bitter fate bewailed.
He never swerved, but day and night the deck he sternly paced,
As ‘fore the hurricane the ship like some fleet courses raced.

He fought the tempest inch by inch, and conquered – so he thought –
But ah! he little dreamt how dear that victory was bought.
Again his loud defiant laugh he shouted to the blast –
The placid ocean smiled beyond – the dreaded Cape was passed.

Away across the Indian main the gallant vessel glides,
And gentle murmuring ripples break along her graceful sides.
The perfumed breezes waft her on – her destined port she nears:
The Dutchman’s brow has lost its frown – the mariners their fears.

"Land ho!" at length the welcome sound the watchful sailor sings,
And soon within an Indian bay the ship at anchor swings.
Not idle then the busy crew – ere long the spacious hold
Is emptied of its western freight, and stored with India’s gold.

Again the ponderous anchor’s weighed – the shore is left behind
The snowy sails are bosomed out before the favouring wind;
The mighty deep around her seems a calm and mirrored lake,
And [indecipherable] trains of sparkling light are gleaming in her wake

For home she steers! She seems to know and answer to the word,
And swifter skims the burnished deep like some fair ocean bird.
"For home! for home!" the joyous crew, with gladsome voices cry,
And e’en the dark-browed skipper has a mild light in his eye;

He looks above, where streaming high, the pennant cuts the blue,
And every rope, and spar, and sail is firm, and strong and true.
He pictures to himself the day when once again he’ll see
The spires and domes of Amsterdam rise o’er the Layder Lee.

Away across the burning zone the vessel southward flies,
Again the northern beacons fade and southern stars arise.
Oh! hapless crew, you little dream, as onward still you go,
That o’er your fair ill-fated ship is hung a doom of woe.

Again the stormy Cape draws near, and furious billows rise
And once again the Dutchman’s laugh both wind & wave defies,
But fiercely swept the tempest ere the scornful laugh had died,
A warning to the daring man to curb his impious pride.

A crested mountain struck the ship, and like a frighted bird
She trembled ‘neath the awful shock, – then Vanderdecken heard
A pleading voice within the gale – his better angel spoke,
But fled before his scowling look; then fierce the billows broke

Upon the trembling helpless ship – the crew with terror paled,
But still the captain never flinched, nor ‘neath their fury quailed.
With arms folded o’er his breast, and fiercely flashing eye,
He answered back the angry frown that lowered o’er the sky.

He seized the helm in his grasp, and fiercely dashed aside
The trembling wretch who held it, then with heart of scornful pride,
All heedless of the warning blast or lightning’s lurid flame,
He spoke – and thus with impious words blasphemed God’s holy name.

"Howl on, ye winds! ye tempests, howl! your rage is spent in vain;
Despite your strength, your frowns, your hate, I’ll ride upon the main;
Dash on, ye waves! across your foam I’ll sail upon my path:
I care not for thy Maker’s smile – I care not for His wrath!"

He ceased – a deathlike stillness silence reigned – the tempest and the sea
Were hushed in sudden stillness by their Ruler’s dread decree.
All motionless the vessel rode within the gathering gloom;
The Dutchman stood upon the poop and heard his awful doom;

The mariners were on the deck, in swooning error prone;
Their heart’s blood froze – they, too, were doomed; in angered mighty tone,
The awful words swept o’er the deep – "Go, wretch! accursed! condemned!
Go sail for ever on the deep, by angry tempests hemmed!

No home, no port, no calm, no rest, no gentle fav’ring breeze,
Shall ever greet thee. Go, accursed! and battle with the seas.
Go, braggart! struggle with the storm, nor ever cease to live,
But bear a million times the pangs that death and fear can give.

Away, and hide thy guilty head! a curse to all thy kind
Who ever see thee struggling, wretch! with ocean and with wind.
Away, presumptuous worm of earth! Go, teach thy fellow-worms,
The awful doom that waits on him who braves the King of Storms!

‘Twas o’er! One lurid gleam of wrath lit up the sea and sky
Around and o’er the fated ship: then rose a wailing cry
From every heart within her of wild anguish and despair;
But mercy was for them no more – it died away in the air.

Again the lurid light gleamed out – the ship was still at rest,
The crew were standing at their posts: with arms across his breast
Still stood the captain on the poop – but bent and crouching now
He bowed before that fiat dread, and o’er his swarthy brow

[Page 61]
12 The Wild Goose.

Came lines of anguish, as if he a thousand years of pain
Had lived and suffered – then across the heaving angry main
The tempest shrieked triumphant, and the waves in madness dashed
And hissed their scorn o’er the ship round which their fury lashed.

And ever, ever, ever thus, that doomed crew will speed,
They try to round the stormy cape, but never can succeed.
And oft when storms are fiercest, ‘mid the lightning’s vivid sheen,
Against the tempest struggling, still the phantom ship is seen

Across the billows dashing; and ‘tis said that every word
Of her captain’s awful blasphemy upon the gale is heard.
But Heaven help the hapless crew that impious sentence hears!
The doom of those is sealed to whom that fatal ship appears:

They’ll never reach their destined port – they’ll see their homes no more:
They who see the flying Dutchman never, never, reach the shore.

J. B. O’Reilly.

"A Merry Christmas!"
A "Merry Christmas!" each one sends
To-night across the foam,
To all the loved ones – all the friends
Who think of us at home.

From them a "Merry Christmas!" flies
On angel’s pinions bright;
‘Tis heard upon the breeze that sighs
Around our ship to-night.

Though on our ears no voices fall,
Our hearts – our spirits hear –
"A Merry Christmas to you all, -
And happy, bright New Year!"

Then, brothers! though we spend the day
Within a prison ship,
Let every heart with hope be gay, –
A smile on every lip.

Let’s banish sorrows – banish fears,
And fill our hearts with glee,
And ne’er forget in after years
Our Christmas on the sea.

J. B. O’Reilly.

Holly Leaves.
What flower so gay as the holly spray,
With berries so red and bright,
In the frosty rime of the Christmas time,
Hearts gladdened are at the sight.

‘Tis the rarest tree in all Christendie!
When recalling old Christmas time,
We link the sheen of its leaves so green
With the merry joybells’ chime.

Oh! dear to me is the holly-tree –
Dear the robin’s carolled song,
And the mystic bough of the mistletoe,
That to Christmas times belong

When the earth is white, and the sky is bright,
On the silent frosty air,
From the holly bush, how sweet the gush
Of the robin’s song of prayer.

When with wassail bowl we cheer the soul,
While the yule-logs cheery glow,
We kiss our girls beneath the pearls
Of the mystic mistletoe.

When hearts are light and eyes are bright,
And lips like the berries shine,
And draughts of joy, without alloy,
We quaff with the rich red wine.

Oh! red and white are the berries bright
Of holly and mistletoe;
When winter’s breath breathes frozen death
On all else – still bright they glow,

To gladden the walls of princely halls,
And the peasant’s cottage hearth,
In the happy time when the joyous chime
Rings "Peace to men on earth!"

No holly have we, nor revelry,
Nor robin’s song to cheer;
From the mistletoe away we go,
To a distant hemisphere,

Where all is strange and full of change
But still wheree’er we roam,
My heart still yet clings to the hallowed things
Of Christmas time at home.

[Binn Cider.]

[Page 62]
13 The Wild Goose.

Welcome Merry Christmas.

Tune your voices full of laughter,
Dash away the dark hereafter,
Fling the cup of sorrow down, boys;
Laugh tonight at Fate’s dark frown, boys;
Banish sorrow,
And joy borrow,
To welcome merry Christmas time.

Quaff of mirth a brimming measure, –
Mirth tonight’s our only treasure;
It will warm our hearts like wine, boys;
None tonight should weep or pine, boys.
Not with sadness,
But with gladness,
We’ll welcome merry Christmas time.

What are all life’s joys and troubles, [indecipherable]
Nought but empty fleeting bubbles;
But Heaven lends a joy divine, boys;
More bright and warm than ruddy wine, boys
– Joy that fires us,
And inspires us,
To welcome merry Christmas time.

[Binn Cider.]

Kate.
I dream of thee, my bonny Kate,
And bow my heart.
And mourn the bitter, bitter fate
That did us part.

As Autumn leaves, when the sun is gone,
My heart is sere;
The sun of my life most brightly shone
When thou wert near.

Dreams of thy beauty, darling Kate,
So fresh and bright,
Come floating, and my soul elate
Wakes from its night.

A graceful lily in the wind,
I see thy form;
A lily’s incense is thy mind:
Shed in the storm,

With heaven’s best, holiest balm
It fills each sense, –
Like prayer, – with a holy calm, –
Love’s recompense.

Dreams of thy beauty, darling mine,
Thine eyes dark night, –
Those orbs from which doth calmly shine
Thy soul so bright.

Thine arched brow, and drooping lid, –
Where wily Love
His heart-enslaving bonds has hid, –
Thine eyes above;

Thy pouting lips, and laughing face,
And auburn hair,
Thy snowy neck – thy every grace
Beyond compare.

And in my dreams thy hand I kiss,
And search thine eyes
For the old, old look of love and bliss –
My heart’s best prize.

The pressure of thy hand I feel,
So soft and warm:
To worship that fair hand I kneel,
My heart a storm

Of Love and anguish, bliss and pain, –
For ah! I deem
I’ll never press thy hand again
Save in a dream.

I dream, my Kate, how bright thou art,
And when I wake
The thorn is deeper in my heart,
That will not break.

[Binn Cider.]

And thus he spoke, as he onward sped – "Truly every heart is light;
In merry England, from the east to the West, no mortal is sad tonight!"

[Page 64]
15 The Wild Goose.

Then the Old Wind heaved a mighty sigh; "Oh! woe is me!" did he say,
"That I must return with such saddening thoughts from such a cheerful day."
As thus he mused from a window sill, he gazed o’er the dismal place;
Then turning, he looked within the cell and beheld an upturned face,

All rigid and pale, and with lowering brow looking out on the gathering night,
The Old King gazed through the mortal’s soul, and with pity was moved at the sight.
He looked in the depths of the troubled heart, and an Evil Spirit was there:
"Ah!" said he, as he gazed at the stony eye, "’tis the work of grim Despair,
Who is seeking his prey on this blessed night, but I swear by my crown of snow
That I’ll thwart his plan ‘gainst this wretched man ere I back to my ice-caves go!"

Then a cheering note did the Old Wind blow; as he entered the gloomy cell:
But all in vain were his cheering tones – still the restless footstep fell.
Again he blew in a stronger key, till at length his loudest roar
He had tried in despair: still the wretched man was heedless as before,

And with hasty step his dungeon paced with a fevered throbbing brain,
And the Spirit of Evil triumphant laughed at the Old Wind’s efforts vain.

But once more he paused in his weary walk to gaze with abstracted eye
Through the massive bars that in bold relief stood out ‘gainst the wintry sky.
Again as the Old Wind scanned that face his courage revived; and now
Like Zephyr, soft as an Angel’s wing, he played o’er that troubled brow,
He gently fanned the fevered cheek and cooled the throbbing brain,
Till at length the weary soul he lured from the grasp of dark Despair.

The troubled heart was now at rest, and borne on the cadence mild
Came long-forgotten scenes of youth when he played a happy child;
But softer still the Old Wind blew, and recalled his father’s death,
And his mothers voice, – and a sob burst forth, for he felt her loving breath
Again on his brow: then he bowed his head ‘neath the Father’s chastening rod,
And the penitent tears gushed freely forth as he raised his soul to God.

Then as he prayed, a heavenly voice brought peace to his heaving breast,
Saying – "Come to me all you weary ones, and I will give you rest."
"Oh! how glad I am!" said the Old North Wind; "now back again I’ll go
To my own loved north, ‘mid the icebergs vast and the pure eternal snow."
Ah! well might he sing his boisterous song on his rapid homeward flight,
For a stricken soul made its peace with God on that blessed Christmas Night.

J. B. O’Reilly.

[Page 65]
16 The Wild Goose.

Christmas Eve.
With holly branch, and ivy bough,
And mistletoe is gaily dight
Each homestead, and old Christmas’ brow
Is crowned with evergreen tonight.
A snowy mantle’s on the grass –
Old frozen Winter placed it there.
And trooping to the midnight mass,
Our hearts are filled with holy prayer
To welcome blessed Christmas.

The church is all ablaze with light,
And pious hands have placed there
Festoons of brilliant green and white:
The Crib arrayed with holy care,
From God’s high altar there ascends
A light, like glory’s brightest beam;
The organ’s peal, that melting blends
Our souls into a blissful dream,
To welcome holy Christmas.

The acolytes and priest arrayed –
The "Gloria" breaks up on the ear,
The grosser thoughts of earth then fade,
And falls a bliss from holier sphere.
Oh! there are souls so pure and bright
That hear the angel host that sings
His praise, and "peace to men" tonight,
And hear the rustle of their wings,
This holy blessed Christmas.

Then homeward through the frosty night,
With kindly hearts and eyes aglow;
With spirits buoyant, and stepping light,
We crunch the white and frozen snow;
And hands with cordial grasp are pressed,
And laughing voices cheerful greet
Each other, and in every breast
A kindred heart doth warmly beat,
To wish "a merry Christmas."

[Binn Cider.]

News has just reached us that the Grand Llama of Thibet has broken the awful stillness of the Hall of Silence by a sneeze. The Oracle, having been consulted, sentenced him to remain on his knees (sneeze) for one year. This comes via the Thracian Chers’nese.

Our passage. – We congratulate our readers on our rapid voyage since leaving England. It is probable that, with the continuance of such weather as we have had for some days, we may arrive in Fremantle on or about the 8th January 1868. The following is the log for the past week, and the number of miles run: -

15th Decr. S 47°.5 E 28.29.
16th S. 48.8 E 34.20.
17th S. 48.18. E 39.29.
18th S. 48.49. E 44.44.
19th S. 49.8. E 49.25
20th S. 48.45. E 54.48
21st S. 48.37. E 58.54
Total miles: – 1426

To be disposed of by Private Treaty the good will and interest in the Copyright and [indecipherable] of the "Wild Goose," together with a valuable mass of unpublished m.s.s. – Apply to the Editors.

[Page 66]
[Inside back cover]

[Page 67]
Conditional Pardon

Whereas Reg: No. 9735. John Flood was convicted of Treason Felony at Dublin in Ireland in the month of April one thousand eight hundred and sixty seven, and sentenced to Fifteen Years Penal Servitude

And whereas Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria issued a Warrant under Her Sign [Manual] and Signet, given at the Court of St. James’s on the Twenty Ninth day of December one thousand eight hundred and seventy in the Thirty fourth Year of Her Reign and directed to the Governor of Her Majesty’s Territory of Western Australia,

Whereby Her Said Majesty was graciously pleased to grant to the said John Flood a Pardon for the crime of which he stands convicted, on condition that the said John Flood shall not return to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland during the remainder of the said abovementioned term of Penal Servitude

Now I Frederick Aloysius Weld, Governor and Commander in Chief of the Territory of Western Australia aforesaid, Do hereby certify and make known to all whom it may concern that the said John Flood has become entitled to the abovementioned Conditional Pardon of Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria

Given under my Hand and the Public Seal of the said Territory at Government House Perth, this Thirteenth day of March in the Year of our Lord, one thousand eight hundred and seventy one

[Public Seal]
H.W. Exc. J.S. 10.5.71

[Signature of Fred A Weld]
Governor and Commander in Chief

[Page 68]
Description

Ref. No. and Name – 9735 John Flood
Age – 35 years
Height – 5 feet 10 inches
Hair – Light Brown
Eyes – Grey
Visage – Full
Complexion – Fresh
Appearance – Middling Stout
Single Married or [indecipherable] – Single
Number of Children – None
Marks – Small cut on lower joint of left fore-finger

Certified that this Description was taken in my presence the Fourteenth day of March 1871.

[Signature]
Magistrate

[Transcribed by Sandra Mutton for the State Library of New South Wales]