winter evenings, they are diligently read | to point a moral and adorn a tale. Murty and often learned by heart. Meantime was a farmer, who took a farm from which the vocalists, with their pockets well-lined another man had been evicted, but when with coppers, set off for the next fair or a deputation from the Land League was race-course, to pursue their vocation and sent to him, he owned his misdeeds, gave to dispose of the remainder of their stock. up the farm, and promised never to offend It would be impossible to over-estimate any more. His good deeds are thus celethe influence of these ballads on the ex-brated in the ballad that bears his name : citable Celtic mind. They stir up the passions, and make all the right appear to be on one side. For an example of a Land League ballad, pur et simple, we give one called "The Plan of Campaign." It is sung to the air of "The Young May Moon, and details the principles of the "Plan" with much gusto and spirit: Than a conscience so awfully thin, me boy. So go in for the Plan of Campaign,' me boy; Save your land! Every stone These defiant verses, incorporated with a number of other songs, old and new; one or two of Lover's, two or three of Moore's, and some relics of '98, are printed on a broad sheet, decorated with a coarse wood-cut of John Dillon, and sold for a penny at the office of Young Ireland. Foremost in popularity amongst Land League ballads stands that of " Murty Hynes." The very name, Murty Hynes, never fails to call up a burst of applause at a Nationalist meeting, and is often used Come all true sons of Erin, I hope you will draw near, A new and true narration I mean to let you hear; 'Tis for your information I pens these simple Concarnin' of the Land League, likewise of The place that Murty lives in is handy to He did what every Christian man must call a burnin' shame, A gloomier key is struck in "The Evic tion," by Michael Segrave. Evictions were always a tempting subject for the enthusiastic Leaguer; it is almost impossible for him to adopt a moderate tone in speaking of them. He can see only one side of the shield, and that the darkest. In this ballad the blackest shadows are used to give effect to the picture, and the tragical termination of the last verse is a scene with which we are unhappily only too familiar. The ballad of "The Eviction" begins as follows: A wretched quilt and bed of straw, A shrunken frame and hoary hair; Full eighty winters' snows she saw, Now famine's fever laid her there. And Malachi, her boy, is gone Across the broad Atlantic wave; A daughter of her oldest son Is left to see her in her grave. | Now daylight bounds with happy speed, The hounds are panting for the chase; His lordship on a prancing steed Comes forth. Hal who said, "Villain The dreaded voice rings in his ear, base!"' 66 Vile murderer! thy day is o'er." Thy tyrant shakes with rage and fear, And groans, and falls to rise no more. It is a relief to turn from this gloomy picture of hatred and revenge. Many similar ones might be found, "The Dirge of Hate," "The Felons of Our Land," "The Memory of the Dead," etc., etc., but it is pleasanter to pass on from these threats of revenge and bursts of patriotic enthusiasm to something of a lighter description. A great deal has been said about the decay of Irish humor. We wel come, therefore, in some of the lighter ballads, a stray glimpse of what may be called humor, though it resembles the jovial rollicking humor of former days as the cold glitter of steel bars resembles the flashing light of a diamond. The humor which we find in "The Peeler and the Goat" is of a decidedly grim description. This ballad may not be well known in England; in Ireland it is tolerably famil iar. The speakers at political meetings are frequently interrupted by shouts of "The Peeler and the Goat!" Without a knowledge of the ballad, the allusion is unintelligible, so it is worth while to give one, the over-zeal of the police in arresting it in full. The subject is that ever-fertile suspicious characters. The ballad is partly cast in the form of a dialogue. It begins thus: As some Bansha Peelers were out wan night, On duty and patrollin', O, They met a goat upon the road, And tuck her to be a sthroller, O. Wid baynets fixed they sallied forth, And caught her by the wizzen, O; And then they swore a mighty oath, "We'll send you off to pris'n, O." 66 Goat. "Oh, mercy, sir," the goat replied, Of petty or high thraison, O; "It is in vain for to complain, Or give your tongue such bridle, O; You're absent from your dwelling-place, Disorderly and idle, O. Your hoary locks will not prevail, "No penal law did I transgress Where I was bred and born, O; That's all the trade I've learned, O." Peeler. "I will chastise your insolence And violent behavior, O; To sign your condemnation, O; "This parish and this neighborhood My jury will be gintlemin, To grant me my acquittal, O." Peeler. "Let the consequince be what it will, And march you off to Bridewell, O. Goat. "I make no doubt but you were dhrunk To treat you to a potheen glass; Oh! it's thin I'd be the dandy, O." Stepped forth and said, "To whistle so is treason-felony; A sheaf of summonses you'll get, then, for to You'll whistle for your liberty three weeks in The more the sergeant prated, less heed they They whistled at his angry words until his face grew grim; They whistled underneath his nose a most rebellious air, That made the Peelers dance with rage that day in County Clare. The landlord folk may whistle for rents they never get, And Sandy Row on William's Day its whistle it may wet; And Balfour, he may whistle to dissipate his But whistlin' is a mortal sin within the County Then all ye ramblin' bouchals, take warning Whistle at your ease you can in Chili or Hong But put a bridle on your tongues, be mum as You meet a Peeler, cheek by jowl, within the The "Wearin' of the Green," the Irish "Marsellaise" as it may be called, is too well known to be given here. The 'green," in various forms and shapes, figures prominently amongst the Nationalist ballads. We have "The Green Flag,” The Green above the Red," but the most no. ticeable of all is "God save the Green," a new version of "God save the Queen," and sung to the same air. A few years ago, after a public banquet, the uninitiated were startled to hear the strains of the National Anthem, which is generally conspicuous by its absence, but the words sung to it were not those to which we are accustomed, but ran as follows: Let it ring o'er every steeple, God save the Green! From the throats of all the people, God save the Green! Another song on the same subject, and in the same spirit, is called "An Anti-Let the swelling chorus roll Whistling Ditty," by Eugene Davis. A few verses may be given here: Once seventeen Newmarket men by Fergus waters strayed, They met three bould policemen in all their might arrayed: The spirit of the seventeen rose at the sight so high, They whistled at the Royal force just as they passed them by. o'er the earth from pole to pole; God save the Green! Fearlessly our fathers bore it, God save the Green! We shall raise it high as they, God save the Green! that there are hundreds of these so-called "songs " is no exaggeration. There are more probably thousands of them, thrown off almost daily, and scatGreentered broadcast through the country. The inferior ones perish, but those of a better class, such as Murty Hynes," are reprinted in various forms, and become part of the stock literature of the National Raise it high on every steeple, God save the Green! League, widely disseminated and carefully preserved. Those who watch the current The ballads that have been given are of popular opinion in Ireland ought to favorable specimens of their class. The study the ballad literature of the last ten large proportion merely set forth some years. It is well worth a study. Along incident or doctrine, strung together in a with much that is violent and intemper sort of sing-song, with only a few haphaz-ate, there is also much that is sad and ard rhymes to give the whole a spice: pathetic to the highest degree. They seem to be written on the spur of the moment, and printed directly after they are written. About two years ago I happened to be walking through the slums of Dublin-what dirty slums they are! C. J. HAMILTON. CLARET. IN the new number of the Universal Review Mr. Lucy gives a description of some of the actual castles which have on a Sunday afternoon, when my attention was arrested by the monotonous voice of a ballad-singer drawling out the last new song. A priest the Rev. Father Keller had been arrested the night before, and given their names to the most familiar straightway some unknown bard had made clarets. Château-Margaux, he says, stands it the subject of his verse. The singer at a short distance from the little town of was surrounded by a crowd of ragged Margaux, built at a careful distance from boys, and "shadowed "by two policemen. the sometimes turbulent Gironde. The I invested a halfpenny in a slip of coarsely printed paper, with a portrait of Father Keller on the top (certainly not very tering to him), and I read as follows: Come all you true-bred Irishmen, It is on you now I call, Concerning Father Keller, An Irish priest of fame, And lodged in Kilmainham Jail. Long live Father Keller, Our patriot so true, present structure is a massive pile, that dates back not further than the second or flat-third year of the century. It stands on Who's struggling hard for Ireland's rights When he was taken into custody, The country was upset; For the loss of their parish priest, Bishop Croke he came in view, This precious effusion concludes thus: the site of an ancient castle built in the fifteenth century, which played its part in any little war going forward in the neigh borhood. It was only in the middle of the eighteenth century that the then proprietor discovered in the pebbly black earth peculiarly favorable conditions for the culture of the vine. He began to plant, and gradually, through a hundred. years, the wines of the Château-Margaux grew in fame. In 1802, when châteaux were going cheap, this was bought by one of the new emperor's new marquises, who pulled down the old château and built the modern-looking pile which now stands in its place. In 1879 the château and the vineyard came into the possession of Count Pillet-Will. Château-Lafite is near Pauillac, a quaint old port on the Garonne, whence is shipped the produce of the teeming vineyards divided by the marsh of Pibran. It has escaped the hand of the demolisher, and stands as it did in pre-revolutionary days. When Louis XVI. | temperature has not been maintained at a was parleying with the angered populace Whilst vast quantities of wine in the Médoc are bottled at the end of the second year, the fine wines are kept in casks until the third or fourth year. Once in bottle, well corked, the mind of man may be at rest about his wine, which, up to a certain limit of time, goes on improving. Where occasion for care again presents itself is in getting the wine out of the bottle without shaking. Most wine-pantries are furnished with a small basket in which the wine-bottle may rest whilst the wine is drawn into the decanter. Wine-merchants, wine-tasters, and experienced winedrinkers in the Médoc do not trouble themselves about these contrivances. They carefully lift the bottle from a horizontal to an upright position some three or four hours before it is wanted for the table. At the same time they carefully mark the side of the bottle that has lain uppermost, and in decanting pour out the wine from that, as it is sure to be free from crust. With steady hand they draw from a bottle a maximum quantity of absolutely clear, bright wine. Any one who desires to drink a good glass of Médoc or Burgundy will not decant it till almost the moment it is required, thus preserving the freshness of the aroma. Good wine needs no bush; but in our climate (which, by the way, the experts of the Médoc declare to be the best possible for storing fine wines) it is better for a little warmth. Rather than drink red wine in the winter months drawn from a cellar in which the The best wine year in the records of the Gironde is the year which saw the battle of Waterloo and the downfall of Napoleon. 1864 and 1875 are the wines now in bottle which stand highest in the appreciation of the wise men of Médoc. It is not always that a good year for champagne turns out a favorable season for red wines. But the year 1874-a year spoken of revnot less happy for red wines. The proprietors were fortunate in enjoying a time of peace, and got big prices for their products. 1877 and 1878 were excellent years for the Médoc. 1880, another fine year for champagne, was, for the Médoc, a season of only ordinary vintage. The 1881 crop was well harvested, and on the whole a good year. 1884 was not so good for red wine as for champagne; and 1887 was on the whole fair, but not likely to be memorable. The 1888 crop, I hear upon highest authority, "has come on splendidly since the vintage." Contemporary interest in these dates is sorely limited. It is said that some wines of Médoc, notably those of the Château La Lagune, a wine little known in this country, preserve all their virtues after being forty years in bottle. But for the best wines and the ordinary palate, thirty years in bottle is long enough. A bottle of Château-Margaux of 1869, Château-Lafite 1864, or Château-Latour 1875, may be warranted to fulfil the highest aspirations of the nicest and most exigeant palate. From The Saturday Review. SWORD-FISH FISHING. THE first requisite for sword-fishing is the "pulpit." A wide piece of wood is fastened to the end of the bowsprit, making a platform. A semi-circular iron railing is erected on this, and a swinging seat is hung from this railing. Here the fisher. man sits, armed with his harpoon. This has a long handle of light, tough wood, to |