stalk of a "royal." Then how pleasant is the onward journey to the northperchance through the Gate of the Highlands by the night garry, past the wooded vale of Killiecrankie, and on towards Inverness, through the lonely moors, where your train frightens herds of grouse, whose flight makes your fingers itch for the trigger of your gun. Ay, those past days of August, what happy days were they!

Dublin. Of all places to arrive at perchance the worst. The desolate wait at Kingstown whilst the steamer is being unladen. (Why will not the company, who have established the most perfect journey in existence, give the little finishing touch which is wanted, by having some system of more rapid unlading?) When your nostrils are still full of the steamer odour of oil and paint; when your head still owns to the rise and fall of the hateful waves, which have been "bounding beneath" you like anything but "a steed that knows its rider." When you are cold and hungry, and yet disinclined to be warm or eat. The ill-omened voice of the boy who cries out "Sh morning's shmail, shmorning's shnews, smorning's shtimes." The offensiveness of the young man who thinks it the right thing to light a cigar, but who evidently does not enjoy it. The pale faces of the dishevelled-looking ladies, whose sufferings have if possible been worse than your own. The slovenly railway carriages, and the slow, dismal journey along the coast to Dublin, ended by the unwelcomed arrival in a town which is but half awake, and not one quarter cleaned. All combine to make a coming to Dublin as chill and cheerless a performance as can well be conceived.

But Dublin brightens up on acquaintance. The chaff of the carmen is not all ideal, and good things are by no means few and far between. Talk to one, open his mouth, not by extra pay, but by a sign of interest in his welfare, by inquiries after his horse, his trade, his employment, and it will be odd if you are not rewarded by at least an

so thoroughly characteristic of Ould Ireland.

Were you ever in Dublin in the season? If so you may have seen a society which in certain respects is unique. The "Viceraygal" lodge has immigrated to the castle, and all the rank, fashion, and beauty of the capital of the Emerald Isle are entertained week after week through the first three months of the year by the Queen's representative. The dingy old rooms, so dismal and dirty in the autumn, are brightened up and painted. Trophies of modern arms, and specimens of older weapons, adorn the staircase, up which pass a crowd of uniformed men and fair ladies to St. Patrick's Hall, where the Viceroy holds what the Fenian newspapers delight in calling his "tinsel court," and dispenses a hospitality which few are not glad to share. Assuredly when the days come that shall know no viceroyalty and the period of that anomalous office without doubt is drawing to a close-Dublin will be not a little the loser, unless indeed it so be that royalty accords to Ireland that amount of personal attention which England and Scotland have so long appreciated, and the men of Wicklow, Kerry, or Kildare have an opportunity of showing for a length of time that loyalty which has hitherto had but spasmodic and occasional outlets.

I see that my poor old hat-box has been with me to Killarney, and I think I shall keep the old label that records the visit as a reminiscence of indeed a pleasant time. To know the full value of lake life, go and spend a fortnight in August at Killarney. Avoid the conventional routes. Do not go through the Gap of Dunloe, which, though pretty, is much exaggerated. But wander over Ross Island, climb Mangerton, and descend round Glen-a-Copple. See Torc waterfall, if you will, and by all means row by Muckross and between the lakes; but rather follow your own bent, and with sketchbook in hand wander about the wild woods, and admire to your heart's content the rich

rocky shores. Then what expeditions you may have in the cool, soft evenings on the lake. When echo-men, with their detestable horns, are wearied of blowing their gamuts; when the wind has dropped, and "not a ripple stirs the tide;" when nothing breaks the silence save the sound of a rich, soft voice from the stern of your boat, or the full, round chorus of the boatmen as they sing "The Cruiskeen Lawn;" in a word, when you feel inclined to say, with the French poet of another lake

"O temps, suspends ton vol, et vous heures propices,

Suspendez votre cours;

Laissez nous savourer les rapides délices

Du plus beau de nos jours.

"Assez de malheureux ici bas vous implorent Coulez, coulez pour eux.

Prenez avec leurs jours les soins qui les devorent

Oubliez les heureux.

"O lac, rochers muets, grotte, forêt obscur, Vous que le temps épargne, ou qu'il peut rajeunir,

Gardez de ce beau jour, gardez belle nature, Au moins le souvenir.

It was once my fate to have a day's woodcock shooting in some woods close by the lower lake, and for combination of scenery and sport I doubt if that day could be equalled. One wood in especial was on a high bank overlooking the lake, on which a winter sun was shining with all its frosty brilliance.

"Frost in the air till every spray

Stands diamond set with rime, Which falls a while at mid of day, With tiny tinkling chime." An unusual thing for Killarney. But this winter sun lit up the waters of the lake and the old ruined castle of Ross, and left in shade the shores on the further side, and the towering hills which in the gloom seemed sheer and precipitous. In the distance the Macgillicuddy Reeks (don't emphasize the second syllable, by the way) loomed as a severe background, and beneath our feet was the diamond-set wood which we were beating. It was a sight for sore eyes, and I confess that I stood enjoying the scene so long that "the

passed by me utterly unheeded, till I was recalled to a sense of my neglect by the jeers of the gun next me—an utterly prosaic Englishman, by the way, who cared nothing for nature except as regarded pheasants, rabbits, and, above all, "cocks." Killarney is beautiful in all seasons, but in spite of the manifold attractions of the winter, August-rich, gorgeous August—is the month in which a visit will be most repaid.

The lake, however, can be wroth as well as smiling, and its anger is by no means to be despised. It happened to me once to have a very mauvais quart d'heure one afternoon. We were a largish party, in not a very large boat, and some of us were children. Suddenly, with little warning, a violent squall came on, when we were some distance from any island, and about as far as we could be from the mainland. I had seen squalls on the Swiss mountain lakes, but was by no means prepared for like violence in the fair but smaller Killarney. As a matter of course the women became frightened, and the older ladies issued all sorts of contradictory orders. The girls, as an equal matter of course, were the bravest of the party, and the children rather enjoyed the fun. I saw, however, by the head boatman's face that it was no matter for joking, and as I had luckily some influence over the steeress, the boat's head was turned for the nearest island. As it happened, we had to row almost across the wind, a whispered consultation with Danny McFlinn having convinced me that that was the wisest, if the boldest, course; and at one time it really seemed as though we should be swamped before we reached the shore. The wind howled about us in fury; the lake spat and foamed like an angry tiger-cat; rain hissed about our ears, and every moment the waves grew larger and more threatening. We shipped one or two, one which rose over the stern of the boat and frightened her of the helm so that she dropped the ropes. Luckily the pulling was very even, and we were near the shore; but

knew, had to pull the boat's head round and to put on an extra spurt. The boat rocked and rolled till her gunwale was close to the water. One of our party quietly took off his coat and waistcoat; but our swimming capacity was not to be tried, for by great exertions on the rowers' part they succeeded in reaching the lee of the island, where we waited till the squall had passed by and the lake had assumed again the smile of one who can ne'er be aught but pleasant. You may imagine that even when safe under the island we had a badish time. Censure was freely bandied about, she receiving not a little who had counselled the expedition. But we men lent the children what dry garments we had, and the younger women did not mind the wet; so that at last, when safe at tea on shore, we looked back on the incident with rather a pleasant interest.

There are but few more labels on my hat-box, but one recurs with considerable frequency. This frequency took its rise from a beautiful spring day in the early part of one June. I came, I saw, I-was-conquered. The latter process, of course, was not done all at once; but the wound which caused my final overthrow was sudden and severe. How shall I describe the weapon? Do I know it myself? Was it the fair Was it the fair young face, with its marvellous combination of gravity and merriment ? Was it the blue English eyes, able alike to pour forth glances of thoughtfulness, tenderness, or wit? Was it the strong, full figure, tall yet not magnificent, slender and graceful, yet rich enough for a sculptor's admiration? Was it the tout petit pied which peeped out occasionally from the muslin gown, and then scuttled back to its hiding-place like a rabbit? Or was it not the sunny laugh alternating with the intelligent interest, as the talk passes

"From grave to gay, from lively to severe !"

How well I remember a curious sensation on the evening of that day that

which I was hardly conscious and could by no means explain, had happened to me! I felt a sort of mental indigestion, as though my mind had had too many good things; a sort of pain which is not all pain, like a toothache which is passing off. I did not analyse it; I knew not its cause then, and indeed not till my eyes were wider opened did I fully realise that this feeling had existed. But it was there, and it made me to be called all manner of bad and unsociable names at the club, where my conversation was monosyllabic and my whist subject to the demon of misplay.

The summer that followed was like a dream. Those days in Windsor Park when we wandered about under the stately trees and revelled in the luscious sunshine without and within. Those evenings on the Thames, when we floated from Cleveden down towards Windsor, and uncertainty was sweet. The afternoons in the playing-fields at Eton, where I gathered from the sister's love I saw what the wife's might be that I hoped for. The quiet Sundays, when I rested from the flare and heat and worry of the busy city, and in grave and thoughtful talk found in the mind I loved a richness and depth of which at first I wotted not. And then that happy day when a sweet doubt gave place to a sweeter certainty, when the tale which is ever old yet ever new, was poured into a little pink and white ear that absorbed it not unwillingly. When the answer for which I longed was given rather by the clear, deep eyes than by the trembling lips. And later, when the latter whispered that their owner thought Juliet was right when she said

"My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. Then followed many happy days, when we two wandered about the rich English country and drank in the summer happiness mingled with the exquisite pleasure of each other's presence; while as they passed I learned that high

the jewel I possessed was of more value still. I traced one by one the founts of noble thoughts and generous actions; I found depths where I had feared shallows, knowledge where I had looked for ignorance; and I gradually came to know that I should have by my side a counsellor upon whose help and sustenance I could lean. After that again there came a badish time. Fussy ladies insisted on my boring myself in shops; I was made to advise on all sorts of mysterious colours and patterns of which I knew nothing, and then, at least, cared less. I had to hurry from furniture dealers to lawyers, from Lincoln's Inn to Regent Street. I wrote cheques till my wrist ached, pored over settlements and law deeds till my eyes ached, and argued with tradesmen and workmen and gasmen till my jaws ached. I was accused of heartlessness because I did not care two straws whether the trimmings of a muslin gown should be blue or pink, and considered it a matter of utter indifference whether a travelling dress had better be dark blue or grey. I was looked upon as almost an outcast because I said I did not in the least mind whether we went to Wales or Switzerland after that day was passed which I thought would never come. And I only was admitted into favour when I proved myself to have a certain amount of taste in reference to a pearl necklace, which the authorities were graciously pleased to approve.

And one time I had serious difficulty. It arose in some way which I could not understand, but something about a letter appeared to have given great offence, and severe glances were flashed indignantly at poor me as I vainly endeavoured to assert innocence. The difficulty might not have been cleared up had it not turned out that a curious complication had arisen, in consequence of a letter intended for some one having been retarded in some corner of the post-office, and a letter intended for me from some one having been put in a wrong envelope.

However, all these worries, as all

others do, came to an end at last; and there passed over my head a day of which even now I have a hazy conception. A restless, feverish night ended by a deep sleep in the morning. An unusual amount of new clothes brought in by my servant, including a bran-new pair of boots, with the soles discreetly blackened by the thoughtful Thomas. "Attend to that, ye churchgoing Benedicts!" Continued restlessness through breakfast and afterwards, when I had not the slightest idea what the leaders in the Times, which I attempted to read, were about; but I made a sort of vague effort to see whether there was anything in the Post about anyone being married. Fuss till dear old Roberts appeared in his brougham, with an orange-blossom as big as a half-crown in the hole of his dear little frock-coat. When I was carried off still fussily, and had to wait about half-an-hour in the church, with a sort of notion that every one was looking at me as if I ought to be ashamed of myself; and I was ashamed of myself without knowing why. Then a movement, which brought my heart into my mouth and set me trembling all over, as I advanced a few steps to meet a tall advancing figure clad all in white, and veiled by a fall of lace which but half hid a downcast face, raised but once with a look of love as the quivering fingers closed on mine. A dreamy ceremony, a burst of glorious music, a few happy moments of solitude in the homeward carriage; then an odious assemblage of people whom at any other time both of us would have welcomed heartily, but whose demonstrative kindness we both found wearying. A taste of stodgy cake, and a sip of champagne which might have been seltzer water for all I knew; an idea of some one saying something, and my having to say something else; my servant with a coat and hat, some one with a travelling-bag and shawl which I took from her and all-but left behind; and then a whirl away to Euston Square, where my poor old hat-box was impressed by a grinning porter with its last label.

III. FROM 1850 TO THE VATICAN COUNCIL.

THE freedom accorded to the Roman Catholic Church, in common with other religious communities, by the Prussian Constitution of 1850, and the use made of that freedom by the Roman Curia, are landmarks of primary importance in the history of which we are treating.

The ten years which preceded 1850 were highly propitious to the growth of a good understanding between the Hierarchy and the State, and paved the way to that strange offensive and defensive alliance between the two which, after lasting uninterruptedly for twenty years, has now come to so sudden and disastrous a termination.

The close of Frederick William III.'s reign, as we showed in our preceding paper, was embittered by the conflict respecting mixed marriages which burst forth so suddenly at Cologne, and revealed the temper and attitude of a portion, at least, of the Episcopacy established and endowed in virtue of the Bull of Circumscription. The lesson was, however, lost on Fred erick William IV., who, in 1840, succeeded to his father. Both father and son, it should be noted, combined with many Hohenzollern virtues a quality foreign to the Hohenzollern race, and of very doubtful advantage to absolute rulers called upon to administer the affairs of a State embracing rival Confessions. They both dabbled in theology, but from the most opposite points of the theological compass. Frederick William III. was a Protestant of Protestants, in whose eyes all shades of difference between the two Confessions which had grown out of the Reformation, paled before the mighty quality which they had in common of protesting against the errors of Rome. Alone of the

Hohenzollern sovereigns he reminds us, though in a very mild form, of Henry VIII. With him the Jus Majestaticum circa sacra swells out to a prerogative investing the crown with the right of determining the faith of the lieges, of drawing up creeds, and of personally superintending the composition of liturgies and hymn-books. He establishes for his Protestant subjects a new State Church-the United Lutheran and Reformed; and the tyrannical manner in which in many cases this Church was sought to be imposed upon stanch Lutheran congregations, forms a painful contrast to the otherwise just and mild character of his reign. But these matters concerned his Protestant subjects only. In his official dealings with Rome, as the negotiations for the bull De Salute Animarum amply show, he followed the tolerant traditions of his house, and earned from the Curia the title of a second Theodosius. It was only when the pretensions of the hierarchy touched on ground which he considered as belonging to his civil prerogative that the old Hohenzollern impatience of ecclesiastical interference burst forth in misapplied energy.

Frederick William IV., the Romanticist on the throne, as Strauss in his celebrated pamphlet 1 described him, was on every point connected with religious and ecclesiastical matters the reverse of his father. The great forms of the Middle Age from an early period filled his imagination, and in no small degree influenced his views as an absolute monarch at the beginning of his reign

1 "Julian der Abtrünnige; oder, der Romantiker auf dem Throne der Cæsaren." In this fine specimen of psychological analysis and historical criticism Strauss draws a picture of Julian the Apostate, which, when finished, presents us with a faithful and striking portrait of Frederick William IV., without, however, once directly alluding to him.