I really think that this little series proves that the circle in which these acrostics were considered guessable had a remarkable familiarity with Shakspeare, Pope, Scott, Tennyson, and many miscellaneous departments of knowledge, from the "one bob" of slang to the "Splendid Shilling" of literature.

No. 13 and No. 14 we now transcribe, reserving the answers till October. The first is marked by the initial of the late Randal W. McDonnell, Q.C.; the second by that of a living Lord Justice.

No. 13.
I.

An article of little worth, but still

On some occasions indispensable.

II.

Without my help stern Marmion's dying cheer
Had never reached his charging comrade's ear.

III.

Of old, at call of well-known name,

I sprang responsive forth,

Now when I see the light, it is

To hide some name of worth.

1. 'Mid olives grey I gently steal along.
2. A vot'ress I of wild romance and song.

M.D.

14.

Two little words of letters three
Comprising much in narrow span,
If taken singly, let you see

The direst rage of beast and man.
Reverse the first-you want a fire!
Reverse the last-you see a name
Of one among the sable choir

Whose head and harp have won him fame.
Unite the two, and forth to view

An ancient title next will stand,

When Norman conquest still was new,
The foremost champion of the land.
Now from the whole remove the head,
You wander in a noble wood-

But hush for where you rashly tread,
Creations of the poet stood.
Last from the whole strike off the tail,

And Bramah's labours meet your eyes,

But chubby youth and captive wail
Must also from the word arise.

1. Whether I should a table turn out or a god,
Stood the classical joiner in doubt,

And though times are so changed, still, admit it is odd,
I a statesman or block may turn out.

2. Before me fall sovereigns, commoners, all,

Though at times to the meanest I yield.

3. The fashions have altered since, slender and smail,

I was formed for the Dandy to wield.

F.

THE

THE DEAD AND ONE OF OUR DEAD.

I.

HE thought has sometimes occurred to me, and probably it has somewhere oozed out into print, how desirable it would be to have a great central Museum for the systematic and scientific storing, cataloguing, and indexing of our periodical literature, daily, weekly, quarterly. Such a store would afford a glorious hunting-ground to the historian and archaeologist of the future. This matter has come up before my mind at present because the only number of The Cork Examiner that I have seen for years makes me wish to preserve two extracts, of which the subjects are vaguely indicated by the title of this paper. The Dead! The sacred orator whose tribute to the memory of O'Connell has been preserved in a recent number of this Magazine, spoke more recently at the consecration of a cemetery at Lire, Banteer, in the diocese of Cloyne. Having insisted on the claims that a Catholic buryingground has to receive far greater care than is for the most part bestowed on the dormitories of our dead throughout the land, the preacher continued thus:

"But you will naturally say, Ah, Father dear, if all this be true; if it be true that these bodies of ours, like a cast-off garment, shrivelled and shrunken by age, or tattered and torn by disease, shall be thrown aside to be still further eaten by worms; if after a few years all that remains of us is a few whitened bones, which again after a little time, in the awful chemistry of death, resolve into brown dust undistinguishable from the loam of our graves; and if the breath of affection that we almost felt in our coffins has passed away, and the accents of sorrow are stilled, and even our

names and memories have vanished like a cloud at sunset, wherefore all this pomp and ceremony of to-day? Why is our Bishop brought to consecrate this dormitory of our dead, this earth that swallows its children and heeds them not? Would it not be better to revert to the old paganism and burn what is so worthless and keep from us at least the prospect of the dread process of decay?' Ay, but we must ever remember the sacred consoling truth that our bodies are not merely the caskets of our souls, preserving by their own worthlessness what is most precious, but they are, to use the words of St. Paul, so often turned to vain uses by vain philosophers, "the temples of the Holy Ghost," and that we are members of Jesus Christ, sanctified by a mystical union with our Head. If, therefore, these bodies are consecrated by the in-dwelling of the Holy Spirit, no sacrilegious hands must violate them, no scientific violence must degrade them. If dust to dust' is our sentence, at least let us crumble to dust under the fingers of God. And so our last resting places are hallowed by rite and prayer, and so are they blessed by the affection of the living, and so to-day will the High Priest of the Most High lift his consecrating hand over them, and in all the sacred ceremonies of the Church dedicate them, so that the angels of death shall watch over your dead and all unholy spirits be kept far away.

And now, putting aside the past and even the present, let us cast a glance into the future. You will separate to-day unto your homes; but you will come again. And you will come, not as you come to-day, but you will be brought, in the mystery of eternal sleep, to take your places with the dead. The old who are listening to me to-day will soon take the chalice from the hands of Death, drink it, and whilst their souls pass out into the unknown, their remains shall be gathered with their fathers. The young who are listening and dreaming of far-off death will soon come close to that awful figure, will mutely take the chalice from his hands, and be gathered unto the dead. Little children will grow old, and God's merciful messenger will come to them and give them the cup to drink, which no mortal may refuse, and they shall be gathered unto the dead. Unborn generations will come forth, breathe and grow, and stare around them, as we are staring at the unsolved mystery of life, and their lips will touch one day the fatal cup of death, and they shall be numbered with the undreaming sleepers; for they shall sleep and no one shall awaken them. The little

Empires

The future

drama of this world shall go on, but they shall sleep. shall be built up and dissolve, but they shall sleep. destinies of Ireland shall be unravelled by Divine Providence; but they shall sleep. The winter winds shall come wailing up the valleys, and bend the tall rank grasses, and send their melancholy moan through pine and fir; but the dead shall sleep on. The winter rains shall wash the graves and pour their deluge on celtic cross and iron railings and marble or limestone monument; but the dead sleep on. The spring will come and deck their graves with violet and daisy and fresh young grasses; but the dead sleep on. The summer sun shall parch their graves, and the autumn wind shall send down the showers of dead leaves; but the dead sleep on. And time will come with stealthy footsteps and eat away the strong iron railing, and blot out with his finger the names of the dead, and crush the limestone and marble with his strong bony fingers until they are dust like the bodies beneath; but the dead shall sleep undisturbed. And the day will come when no man shall know that a graveyard ever existed here, and the very name of this church and hillside will be forgotten; but the dead shall sleep. And no voice of man or revolution of nature shall rouse them from the sleep of all mortals. Dead and forgotten. What do I say? Forgotten? Nay, treasured in the memory of God, written in the Book of Life, their names are preserved unto immortality; and the same omniscience that numbers the hairs on our heads, hath counted the very particles of our dust and will save them for the final Resurrection. No voice of man or nature shall wake the dead; but they shall hear the voice of God one day and burst the iron fetters of death to obey it.

II.

The same number of The Cork Examiner which thus vindicated the rights of the Dead, commemorated also one of our own dead. The memory of Denny Lane has a special right to be cherished in the pages of a Magazine which was sometimes enriched by the thoughts of his mature years. Amongst the various influences that he exercised was his encouragement of youthful artists. Cork has already employed one of these, Mr. J. Murphy, to execute a memorial bust of their distinguished fellow-citizen, who greatly

served in many ways the city of his birth.

At the unveiling of this memorial, Mr. Thomas Crosbie said these things among many others about the Author of "Kate of Araglen."

"Our departed friend was intellectually and morally what the Germans have characterised as a many-sided man. If we take the latter division first, you know that he was a type of all that was charitable and amiable. He gave in public largely, and in secret yet more bountifully. The weak found in him a helper; so also did the strong--especially the young and daring, who were pluming their wings for flight, but needed a hand to lift them from the ground. He had none of the good-nature which tells kindly falsehoods; rather, he was one of the frankest of men; yet such was his thorough amiability that his candid criticism carried no offence in it. His patriotism was of a high and unselfish order. It had little connection with party and aimed in all things and in all ways at the elevation of his country and the welfare of his countrymen. Wealthy by inheritance, he lavished a fortune in the endeavour to avert some of the direful consequences of the Irish famine, and though his zeal may have been tempered in later years by the moderation and discretion which are born of experience, his disposition was unchanged, and his purse and his brains were always available in any effort for the advantage of the Irish people.

Intellectually, he was a man of most varied gifts. Such, indeed, was their profusion that one was tempted to believe they hindered each other's perfect development. He was eloquent in speech and in writing. His ordinary conversation sparkled with the play of a light wit, but was often rendered valuable by drafts from the store of a capacious memory, wide observation and clear judgment. His few poetical remains suggest the regret that he had so little cultivated the muse of song. He was neither an artist nor a musician, yet his knowledge of art and music was extensive, and in acquaintance with fundamental principles he possibly surpassed many who were capable of producing excellent work. In literature, ancient and modern, he was thoroughly versed. Classic beauty and the immense variety of the later day appealed to him alike. Yet with tastes so gracious-it will to some, perhaps, seem almost incongruous-his pet studies were scientific. And his aptitude took in the widest range, the most abstract and the most decidedly concrete, the exact and the applied.