great difficulties. He found the Queen besieged in her palace in Madrid, and his influence and popularity saved her from public indignation. Espartero certainly saved O'Donnell from utter ruin, on this occasion. He considered that his co-operation would be advantageous to the country, and he therefore, contrary to the advice of his friends, invited him to form a coalition. O'Donnell consented; his confiscation was forthwith reversed; he was raised to the rank of Marshal, and entrusted with the portfolio of the war department. The Queen, who is said to be endued with a large share of the duplicity of her race, always affected to hate O'Donnell and to love Espartero and the latter placed reliance on her professions. He was suddenly dismissed on the night of the 13th July 1856, and O'Donnell becoming president of the council, signalized his elevation by a coup-de-état. From this time forth Espartero sunk into political non-existence. In 1857 he resigned his dignity of senator.*

O'Donnell's personal appearance is striking: A man of lofty stature and a prepossessing person, with a fair complexion, features expressive of resolution and strength of character, and an aspect decidedly more Irish than Castilian. Such is the appearance of the bold warrior of Irish descent, who is now at the head of affairs in Spain.

It is very curious, that nearly all the newspaper writers have mistaken his pedigree, some stating that he is the son of Don Juan O'Donnell, while others make him the eldest son of the Count of Bisbal. The following notice of him appeared in the Univers in 1856:

"Leopold O'Donnell, author of the last Spanish revolution, belongs to an Irish family, distinguished for its Catholic and Royalist principles. His ancestors settled above a century in Spain, and commanded the Irish guard. His father and his three brothers were victims of the civil war. His father, Don Juan (recte Don Carlos) O'Donnell, General of Artillery, died imprisoned at Segovia by the Christinos. His eldest brother, Don Carlos, Adjutant-general of Zumalacarreguy, was killed before Pampeluna. second brother, Don Juan, a Carlist colonel, was torn to pieces, and eaten by the sovereign people of Barcelona, who dragged him out of the fortress. His third brother, Don

His

Mr.

* It is stated that Espartero received detailed information from his friends of what was plotting against him between the Queen, the King, and O'Donnell, but that he would not believe that O'Donnell would betray him. "What!" said he in reply to one of his friends, "O'Donnell-whom I have pardoned for all the wrongs he has done me; the favourite whom I have advanced, when he much needed advancement; the friend in whom I confided; the colleague whom I trustedto betray me! Impossible! I will not believe it!!" Haverty gives an account of Espartero up to the year 1844, in his "Wanderings in Spain," London, 1844. In vol. ii. p. 128, he writes: "The launching of the papal bull against the anti-catholic measures of the Spanish government, and the universal jubilee for the church of Spain, although events which Espartero pretended to despise, have nevertheless, by a regular coincidence of facts, become matters of paramount importance in the history of his career. Indeed there can be no doubt that in the eyes of a great portion of the catholic world, at the present moment, he is looked upon as a man against whom their invocations to heaven have had effect,as a man blasted by a curse, and hurled from his power by a special judgment from above."

Luis, after being a Carlist officer, followed the lead of LeoHis pold, and perished in a battle against Cabrera. mother and sister, and his sister-in-law, lived long at Toledo on pensions from Don Carlos. When he ravaged Guipuscoa so horribly, his unfortunate mother went to beg mercy of him for her country; Leopold refused to receive her. After his victory over Cabrera, he became intimate with Christina, and received later the captainship of Cuba, in recompense for having twice contributed to the defeat of Espartero. He returned from Cuba, and was eight years the ally of Narvaez. He is fond of ostentation, and departed in a carriage and four to take the head of the last revolution. About the same time, his relative, the faithful aidede-camp of Francis Joseph, exposed his life to save that of his sovereign. The Austrian officer and Spanish soldier represent the armies to which they belong."

His brilliant campaign against the Moors has rendered O'Donnell very popular in Spain, and obtained for him the title of Duke of Tetuan, and it is said that a crown of gold worth 5,000 piastres, and of great artistic skill, has been presented to him by the province of Allicante, as an acknowledgment of his political and military services. A very prejudiced and anti-Catholic writer in the Saturday Review, August 18th, 1860, states that "the queen is now bent on getting rid of her minister, O'Donnell, the only statesman in Spain under whom Constitutional government is likely to be anything else than a pretext for anarchy."

Whatever may have been the intrigues by which O'Donnell succeeded in removing Espartero from power, all parties seem now to believe that Spain has continued to improve under his government, in national prosperity, trade, and commerce. The minister being supported at first by the army, soon gained, by the firmness and sound policy of his government, a decided and always increasing majority in the Cortes, and is now admitted to be the only Spanish Premier who for ages has united military strength and firmness of character, with sound principles of Constitutional government. To restore to the Spanish army its prestige in the eyes of Europe, the Morocco war was undertaken, and the result, while it has thoroughly proved the long-tested valour and military capacity of O'Donnell, has also effected the object to be attained, and wiped away the insults which had been repeatedly offered to Spain by the Moors.

HOBSON'S MARRIAGE.

BY FRANK FREEMAN.

ONE day I met an old acquaintance in Dublin. This was worthy Mr. Hobson, the exciseman. I lodged in Camden Street with two old maiden sisters, truly pious Wesleyans, and thither also came Hobson. I never saw a more woful-looking being since I saw a murderer going to be hanged. He had just arrived by the coach which reached town at four o'clock. His black hair and whiskers were unusually lank, his countenance more elongated, and his expression more lachrymose than ever I had seen them. In short, his face would have made an excellent frontispiece for the Book

of Lamentations. When I asked him how he did, he shook my hand with more than Methodistic warmth, and sighed from the bottom of his heart.

"What ails you, my friend ?" said I. "You seem to be ill."

"Oh, yes, dear Mr. Freeman," he replied, "I am the most wretched of mankind on the face of the earth this blessed day. The Spirit has utterly forsaken me!"

"In the name of goodness, man," I said, "tell me what has happened you?-Have you committed murder, or what is it?

"Oh, no!" he answered, with a groan, "No-butI'm going to be married

This drew from me a burst of irrepressible laughter, which made me forget all my own troubles.

"You are not really serious?" I asked—“ Are you ?” "Perfectly serious, brother Freeman" said he; "I am going to be married, and I would as soon go to the grave!"

"Really," said I, "I can't understand you. You must explain this strange paradox. You seem to be going freely. There is no compulsion upon you—is there? You are not a prisoner?-And if you have such a horror of matrimony, why have anything to do with it? Come, sit down and tell me all about it."

"Well, you shall hear it all. When I was stationed in the town of N- the governor of the gaol paid me particular attention. He was a man of some property; but he lost it all by extravagance. He had a penniless sister living with him, well-looking and ladylike enough, and clever, too; and I was induced somehow, through lack of divine grace, to pay her attention. In fact they gave me to understand she had a handsome fortune. At all events, I so committed myself that I was obliged to promise marriage. Six months ago I was removed, as you are aware, to C, not far from your own place, where I met you. Since then we have kept up a correspondence, but she has written three letters for my one, all in the most affectionate strain. At length I received a peremptory communication from her brother, stating that a reasonable time had now elapsed, and that if I did not immediately marry his sister, he would commence an action for breach of promise, and produce all my letters, some of which, I fear, were very foolish."

"Well, Mr. Hobson," I said, "I do not see why this should make you so wretched."

He resumed.—“Ah! wait,—I have not told you all. There is your friend, Miss Kennedy, who keeps the boarding and day school at C. She belongs to our society, I have met her in class, and I must confess that I am deeply and desperately in love with her. Oh, she is an angel, if ever there was one on earth-such good sense, such prudence, such piety, such agreeable features, and such sweet manners-besides, her school brings her in a handsome income, and she has no incumbrance. I adopted every available plan to make her acquainted with the state of my feelings. But she is so reserved and cautious. She kept me in suspense,

VOL. I.

and would give me no encouragement till the last moment."

"And did she then ?" I asked. I knew that Miss Kennedy had felt annoyed by his importunities, and that people had been making a fool of him, by telling him things, as if from her, which she never said.

"Oh, yes," he continued, "she did at last, the heavenly creature! I wrote her a long letter. For days it remained unanswered. I thought she would never answer it, and in the meantime the letter came from the other party, urging on the marriage, so that I fixed the time in despair. But yesterday, when preparing to start, I received a note in her beautiful handwriting, which I must read for you:-'Dear Mr. Hobson, as you are now going to be married, you should feel it to be a time for great searchings of heart. You must not approach the altar with a lie in your right hand. You cannot truly vow to love your wife, if you love another at the same time. This would be to grieve the spirit. Either you have written what is false to me or you will be false to her whom you are bound to love exclusively. Unless, therefore, you dismiss me wholly from your thoughts and affections, there is danger of some divine judgment coming on you. This you cannot do in your own strength. But you know who has said—' My grace is sufficient for thee; my strength is made perfect in weakness.' I feel it to be my duty to write to you at this time, when you have settled everything for your marriage, in order that you may approach the altar with a pure conscience. This, as I said, needs prayer. As you have asked my prayers, you shall have them, unworthy as I am. Let us meet, then, in spirit at the throne of grace, to-night at eleven o'clock; and I trust He that can be touched with a feeling of our infirmities, will not be deaf to the voice of our supplications.

''I am, your affectionate sister in the Spirit, RACHEL KENNEDY.''

Having read the letter with extraordinary unction and watery eyes, the gauger continued :

:

"Was there ever a more beautiful letter! Oh, what a treasure that woman is, now lost to me for ever! I did meet her in spirit at the throne of grace-alas, only in spirit!-precisely at the hour appointed. I prayed that I might forget her, but the more I prayed, the more my heart was drawn to her. I rose from my knees, and proceeded mechanically towards her house. The light was in her chamber. She was praying for me! O could I speak to her, I thought now, at this hour of holy and solemn feeling, perhaps she would consent to be mine! My hand was on the knocker, but the fear that she would be offended, and refuse to see me, restrained me, and at that moment the light was extinguished. I again mechanically returned home. I slept none that night. At five o'clock in the morning, according to appointment, the car was at my door, to take me to meet the coach. I was going to send it back; but everything was arranged for the wedding. Now came the crisis! Miss Kennedy was up, and at the window, looking, oh, so lovely, in her

2 &

morning dress. She kissed her hand and smiled. My heart jumped to my mouth!—I suddenly stopped the car-but she frowned, shook her head, and waved her hand to me to proceed. I obeyed; and felt that my doom was sealed! But ten times before I reached the coach did I resolve to return; yet, spite of all my resolves, I am dragged here, and onward to my doom, by an unaccountable and irresistible fatality. Oh, wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me! Why do I go voluntarily against my will-to marriage and perdition? For I am a lost man, as sure as the sun has gone down this evening! O, Miss Kennedy, my darling, my angel, why did we not meet sooner, or not meet at all?-Ah, no-not even your prayer has availed-the spirit is taken from me, I fear for ever!"

We took tea together, and I did what I could to console the man, for he seemed almost distracted. Before retiring he asked me for some letter-paper, and pen and ink. He took my portfolio into his room, and I saw no more of him, as he started by the early coach in the morning, to keep his fatal appointment. When I went into his room for my portfolio, I found it in a drawer, and on opening it, I saw several pages of his manuscript, on the first of which my own name was conspicuous. He had evidently forgotten the copy of what he had written. It was a letter to Miss Kennedy —an awful mixture of piety and love. "To tear her image from his heart," he said, "was an impossibility. The prayers of all the saints on earth could not accom. plish it. But what a consolation that they could meet together at the throne of grace, in body as well as in spirit, at the preaching, at the prayer-meetings, and in class! How sweet to tell their mutual experience,' their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears! This," he said, was now his only comfort, the only ray of light that could relieve, for a moment, the gloom of the future."

I was certainly disgusted with this mixture of the carnal and the spiritual; but I came to the conclusion that the man was labouring under temporary derange

ment.

On the third day he returned with his wife. I happened to be in the house when they arrived. In a short time he came into my sitting room. His first words were:

"My dear brother, my ruin is consummated. I am undone !I am married! When I arrived at N, her brother was waiting for me at the coach office. They had a dinner party to meet me. They were all merry but myself. As to me, I thought my whole heart would exhale in sighs. My intended was as playful as a kitten; but nothing could tune a harp whose master-chords were broken, which was just the case with my heart. When I returned to the hotel, I was going to order a car to post it back to Dublin. After much resolving and re-resolving, I went to bed. But an hour after I rose and rang the bell, intending to order a car, and be off. Boots came, and asked what I wanted. I told him I had changed my mind, and wanted nothing. The image of Miss Kennedy at the

window, smiling and kissing hands, never left me for a single moment during the night. I got some broken sleep towards morning, but I had such a horrid dream-such a nightmare in the shape of my bride, magnified into a grim giantess, and dragging me down-down, into the bottomless pit!-Oh, it was horrible! I made another attempt to escape after breakfast, but the invisible chain that bound me, kept me fastened to the fatal spot. The hour of sacrifice came! With fainting heart, and feeble step, I approached the church. The bride was there as gay as a butterfly. When the question was put-whether I would take this woman to be my wedded wife? and I was expected to give the irrevocable answer, my frame shook, and my voice faltered, but just at that moment the lady, who was perfectly selfpossessed, gave my hand a gentle, reassuring pressure, so that I could not avoid answering in the affirmative. From that moment I was unconscious of the objects

around me. I did everything mechanically, and heard only the knell of perdition sounding in my ears, and the laughter of demons exulting over their prey. He has given me a bond for five hundred pounds, but the man is not worth five hundred pence! And see what a fine income Miss Kennedy has!"

I could not avoid smiling at this reference to income, like the postscript of a lady's letter, and which seemed after all, the burden of his lamentation, though he had deluded himself into the persuasion that earthly considerations had nothing to do with the present state of his mind.

"It is certainly an unfortunate marriage, Mr. Hobson," I said, "whether you view it temporally or spiritually. But it is your duty now to make the best of it. Mrs. Hobson may prove a much better wife than you think, and, at all events, it is your duty to give her fair play. I fear you have acted both dishonestly and sinfully in this whole business. You must repress your feelings, and, of course, you will make no allusion whatever to Miss Kennedy in your wife's presence. No one is more sensible of that lady's merits than I am; but I am quite sure she would be dreadfully displeased if you mentioned her name as a rival to your wife. Of course you could not do anything so barbarous, though you speak your mind freely to me as a friend. Will you be kind enough to introduce me to Mrs. Hobson, that is, if you think it right?"

"Oh, certainly," said he, "you must take tea with us this evening. We shall be off by the coach in the morning."

I found the bride quite a superior, lady-like person, at the wrong side of thirty certainly, but strong-minded, intelligent, and amiable, and, though not handsome, by no means disagreeable. My opinion on seeing her was, that nothing but the want of a home could have induced her to take such a man. I endeavoured to keep up general conversation on cheerful topics, but it was with the utmost difficulty I could divert him from his lamentations, and from whining allusions to Miss Kennedy. When I took leave for the night, I said—“" I have been so low-spirited these few days past, that I must take a

they stood the cross fires of Cohorn and King William's batteries for full seven days; and, on the eighth, rushed in, with the conquerors, to plant the fleur de lys on the hitherto impregnable fortress of Namur. Their valor helped to wreath the brow of King Louis with the laurels of victory, but how much of their life-blood also helped to tinge the waters of the Meuse, during the terrible week that beheld no less than three hundred thousand men locked in deadly conflict? And how many of them fell a few months after at Steinkirk, when Luxemburg, and Sarsfield, and Berwick again defeated the conqueror of the Boyne, and forced him to retreat, with a loss of three thousand picked men, including Mackay, who had fought at Limerick; Douglas, and Lanier, also conspicuous for their bravery in the wars of Ireland? Thousands of the Wild Geese perished in these two engagements, but their death was sweetened by victory. They thought of Luimneach, and the signal vengeance they had wreaked on the authors of its "violated treaty."

The same year, 1692, beheld another band of the "exiles"-we thank Lord Macaulay for the term, which we shall henceforth use-toiling up the rugged heights, and piercing the mountain fastnesses of Piedmont. "Twas the "Old Brigade"-Mountcashel's-following Catinat in his march against Victor Amadeus and Prince Eugene. For three days two hundred of them kept Duke Amadeus and his myrmidons at bay before the shattered walls of Guillestre, and it was only when most of the Irish lay dead in the trench, and Catinat had garrisoned Briançon, Embrun, and Grenoble, that Guillestre passed into the hands of the Austrian veterans, bronzed and scarred in the wars of Hungary. next death-scene was at Embrun, where they fought under Larré, till their muskets grew hot, and their last cartridge was exhausted. The remnant marched from the town with colours flying, drums beating, and matches lighted, leaving thirteen hundred of their assailants dead on the field, and as many more, including Prince Eugene, wounded in hospital. The capitulation of Embrun was alike creditable to the gallantry of Eugene, and the bravery of its defenders. The latter fought nobly, and the former, respecting their valor, suffered them to depart with all the honors of war, when that fickle dame Victory declared against them.

Their

Their next feat of arms was a terrific one-a regular stand-up bayonet fight, foot to foot, and breast to breast, at Marsiglia. "This battle is memorable," says the distinguished English writer already referred to,* *as the first of a long series of battles, in which the Irish troops retrieved the honour lost by misfortune and misconduct in domestic war. Some of the exiles of Limerick showed, on that day, under the standard of France, a valour which distinguished them among many thousands of brave men." We quote these words as an involuntary testimony borne to Irish valour, by a writer not generally in the habit of praising them, and one who, had the vanquished troops of Eugene been all his own countrymen, and not partly composed of the foreign

*Macaulay. Hist. of England.

mercenaries of Wurtemburg, Saxe, Milburg, and Lorraine, would, we are quite certain, be more chary of his praise. Of his inaccuracy as a historian-strictly so called-we have here, as in many other parts of his beautifully-written work, a signal proof. Marsiglia was not the first of the "long series of battles in which the Irish troops retrieved the honour lost by misfortune." We have already seen how the troops of the "New Brigade" demeaned themselves at Namur and Steinkirk. Be this, however, as it may, Marsiglia was a dearly-purchased victory to the Irish. They were terrible sufferers, and left dead on the battle-field O'Carrol, of the Queen's dismounted dragoons, Maxwell, who fought at Athlone, Wauchop, one of the defenders of Limerick, Fordun, of the King's, and a host of inferior officers. Viscount Clare, colonel of Clare's regiment, was mortally wounded, and died soon after of his wounds, at Pignerol, In 1694 part of the brigade was in Spain, under De Lorges; and hundreds of them lost their lives fighting in the waters of the Ter-the capture of Gerona and Palamos being the result of their valour. In 1696 we find them in Flanders, under Marshal Bouflers, in Germany under Choiseuil, in Spain under the Duke de Vendôme, where their blood flowed freely at Valency and Colfilla. In 1697 they were at the capture of Barcelona, where the French lost ten thousand men; and Dillon's regiment was foremost in entering the breach of the beleagured city. The peace of Riswick, at the close of the year, at length afforded them an opportunity of grounding their arms, after six years of incessant warfare.

This respite from active service was, however, of no lengthened duration, for in the very opening year of the next century, we find them again under arms in Italy, alternately victorious and vanquished, as victory smiled or frowned on the arms of France. But whether conquered or conquerors, it here matters not. We write merely to bear out our own impressions of the immense loss of Irish life in the service of France, from the year 1691 to the final dismemberment of the Brigade, a loss which, though set down at nearly half a million, Mr. Newinham, in his "Inquiry into the Population of Ireland," thinks we are not sufficiently warranted in considering an exaggeration. In 1701 the Irish contributed a more than proportionate quota, including two general officers, to the five thousand French troops sacrificed at Chiari by the incapacity and obstinacy of Villeroy; and no Irish reader can be ignorant of the glorious deeds of his fellow-countrymen at the far-famed rescue of Cremona, on St. Bridget's Day, 1702. In this "brilliant affair," to use a favourite military expression, they lost eight officers and ninety-one men, and had one hundred and twenty-four badly wounded, out of a force not exceeding six hundred. The next year found them besieging Caneto, and, after a hard fight, capturing it; again victoriously crossing blades with three thousand of Visconti's cavalry, at Santo Vittoria, and finally leaving most of their officers killed or wounded among the ten thousand that lay dead or dying, after the midnight fight of Luzara. In 1704, they fought side by side