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classes believe that the virtual prohibition of the system by the existing law of partnership is an injustice. If the scheme is a good one, a great benefit will be conferred by legalising it; if not, it ought to be given rope enough, and allowed to hang itself. It is no part of the duty of the legislature to prevent people from losing money in illadvised projects-it is its duty to remove every obstacle to all legitimate enterprise, and to abstain from all appearance of injustice towards any class of society.

It will be perceived that we do not regard the labouring population of our cities as a class who suffer any extraordinary injustice at the hands of the legislature. The necessaries of life are untaxed; they are free to sell their labour in the best market; and greater advantages than these merely negative ones, it is our belief that no legislation can confer. But there is a class which is in this country treated with peculiar injustice the smaller capitalists. The advantages of large capitals over small ones appear to be constantly increasing. Those manufactures which require expensive machinery of course require large capital; and large capitals are beginning to be extensively employed in agriculture and in retail trade. The natural counteractive to this is, for the small capitalists to combine, so that a number of them may work one great establishment. But this is in many cases forbidden by the law, which says that no one can partake in the profits of any concern without being liable for all its debts. A little consideration I will show the unfairness of this law. If any one lends money to a trading concern, receiving a fixed rate of interest, in the event of its insolvency, he comes in as a creditor; but if, instead of a fixed annual sum, he receives a remuneration proportioned to the profits, he then is not only unable to claim as a creditor, but is liable to his last shilling for debts contracted, it may be, without his knowledge. The true principle is, as appears to us, not that every one who shares in the profits should be accountable for the debts, but that whoever has the responsibility of management should be accountable for the debts to his last shilling, as at present; and that any one may share in the profits without sharing in the manage

ment, and risk only the sum he has staked in the concern.

We are not advocating the establishment by statute of one system instead of another. We only maintain that people should be allowed to make their own arrangements, with no more legislative control than is necessary for the prevention of fraud; and this may be prevented under the system we speak of, as well as under the present one, by making publicity necessary. It is required by law that the names of the partners in every trading firm shall, at its formation, be advertised in the Gazette; and, under the proposed system, nothing more would be necessary, except to require that any partner, whose liability is limited to the sum staked in the concern, should state in the advertisement the amount of that sum.

Such partnerships as these (technically called "partnerships of limited liability") are already known in France, Holland, and the United States, and in those countries they are found to work well. It is sometimes urged, however, that they would be useless in England, because the great amount of wealth in that country, renders any additional facilities for the employment of capital unnecessary. This, however, is not the question. There is plenty of capital in England, but there are not plenty of ways of investing small capitals. Under the existing law many are deterred from becoming partners in trading concerns where they would obtain a comparatively high rate of profit, and compelled to invest in the national securities or in some other way that yields but a low rate of interest; and at intervals the accumulated savings of the nation, which under a free system would have been invested in a thousand beneficial and profitable ways, seek an outlet in various speculative schemes-railway bubbles, foreign loans, or gold companies. In America, on the contrary, where the law allows people to make their own arrangements, the wealth of the country finds employment as fast as it is produced, and such events as the English railway mania of 1845 are unknown.

There is another way in which the law is unjust to the small capitalists. It is almost impossible in England to purchase a small piece of land profit

ably, in consequence of the enormous legal expenses which attend the making out of a title; and all but large capitalists are thus practically excluded from this most desirable mode of investment. Such a system benefits no one, not even the lawyers; it is quite indefensible, and, indeed, finds no one to defend it. We do not now speak of the law of primogeniture, and the modified power of entailing property that exists in England and Ireland, but only of the legal difficulties in the way of a man doing what he will with his own land.

laws refuse fair play to the smaller capitalists; and when we hear them propose to extend the principle of association, we acknowledge that greater facilities ought to be given to the formation of partnerships, whether of capital or of labour. But the Socialists propose to obtain these ends by Government interference; we believe they are to be sought by the increase of individual freedom. The sound principle is, a fair field to all, and no favour to any; and when this principle has been impartially acted on long enough to have influenced the political education of the whole people, its justice will so commend it that no one will even propose its violation.

This brings us round to Socialism again. We often hear dangerous doctrines with respect to the right of the landowner to the land, and the "duties of property." Such doctrines are not to be put down by argument. They arise, like all other wild and subversive notions about property and society, in a defective social state, and are to be eradicated by setting the social state right. We live in a system of unnaturally large landed properties, which arose in feudalism, and have been perpetuated by lawyerism, but will rapidly be broken down to a natural size as soon as all legal impediments are removed. This process is going on every day in the Incumbered Estates' Court, where properties, when large, are divided for the purpose of sale. When landed properties, under the influence of freedom, have found their natural size, we shall hear no more of that pernicious error of land being essentially different from all other property (which notion, it is only just to say, originated with the feudal lords and their legal servants, not with political agitators); for when men see land possessed, not by an aristocratic class exclusively, but by every class that has money, and see it bought, sold, and held, like any other kind of property, they will never think of regarding it as something held by a peculiar title. If legislators wish the people to look on land as on other property, let them treat it as they do other property. We propose no violent changes. We are against all interference with property. But when we hear the Socialists complain of the tyranny of the rich, we cannot deny that our

But, notwithstanding our faith in the principle of freedom, we do not believe that the best Government is that which assumes the fewest functions. Justice must be tempered by mercy, and the rule of no legislative interference with private affairs must be limited by the duty of taking care that no member of the community shall suffer the extreme of misery. And, since man does not live for himself alone, but also for society, it is certainly a legitimate function of the State to provide education for all. The best Government is, after all, only à necessary evil; but it is a less evil for the Government to multiply its functions than for any one to grow up in ignorance or die of starvation. There are also many branches of administration, especially the postoffice, which are highly beneficial to society. But governing too much is the bane of Governments. Its mischief is double; it oppresses the people, and it makes them form an exaggerated and false idea of the duties and powers of a Government, believing that all good is to be sought by legislative changes. It was in consequence of such a system that the French monarchy fell so ingloriously in 1848; and our tranquillity at that time was neither owing to the Anglo-Saxon character nor to Whig statesmanship, but to the opposite system of freedom, and to the well-founded conviction of the working classes that they were treated by their rulers with justice.

THE BAY OF ERMAIL.

A LEGEND OF INISFALLEN.

TIME has chanted the requiem of many years since I visited the scene of the following legend, but its prospect of transcendent loveliness is yet associated with my dreams of memory-it was to me a vision of repose and surpassing rapture

“A gem, indeed, of Nature's purest thought."

Inisfallen is a small island, lying to the north of Ross Bay in the lower lake of Killarney. Its trees cast their shadows with a dreamy beauty over the crystal waters sweeping around their centuried roots, and its green slopes, blended in alternate hill and dale, and glowing with wild flowers, lie sleeping in the sunlight, like blossoms of infant summertime, on the fair bosom of the lucid lake. At the far extent of its embowered recesses, the ivy-clad ruins of an abbey, said to have been founded in the seventh century by St. Finian Lobhar (the Leper) are indicated by a few crumbling walls-the relics of a time passed away, and of an institution which has long lost its palm. Its old, grey walls-each stoue a record and tradition of the past, lie deeply embedded in the remains of their fallen grandeur on an eminence where the island at one side rises in rocky magnificence, and slopes forward in gentle hillocks, tufted with thickets and shelving vistas to the verge of the murmuring waters. On the evening of my visit to this fairy island, my feelings I cannot easily describe. I had pondered over many of the legends which the old chroniclers assign to the place, and my imagination longed to traverse the same realms of airy nothing, in the hope that perchance I might cull from the fields which had already yielded so grand a harvest of romance some shrinking flower, as yet unnoticed by the passing stranger. Methought I then stood among those ruins as though I existed in the shades of other years, while the breath of by-gone centuries still fanned my brow. The stillness and desertion of the solitary little region fastened upon my soul, and my kindred imagination wandered with the romance

of ages that hallowed its hoary walls to the solemn mementoes and shadowy grandeurs of the past. I fancied that I looked upon the hoary pile in that Romanesque and venerable beauty which once it wore. The ivy-clustered portals rose up before me, enriched with sculptured tracery and detail; and the blythe abbot and the jovial knight passed through in the garb of those bygone days, whose picturesque shadowings in story spoke softly to my heart. Where now was the inspiration of my boyish dreams? Surely, I thought, this was an hour to realize them all; and then I essayed to speak-my soul was speaking, but my tongue was hushed in voiceless reverence-for, the revival of memories, such as those which moulder in the dust of an earlier time, can never be perfectly embodied in mortal syllables. Where I stood I could hear the rude mountain notes of a deeply labouring cataract rolling upon my ear, as it were, in huge billows of sound. Yet, it did not rob me of the storied and poetical associations which fil. led my memory, but rather enhanced the resurrection of such visions by its deeply solemn music. I could also see its silvery stream of water gliding, at first, in a broad sheet from the shelving bank, till, breaking on a ledge of shaggy rocks, it rushed foaming from the mountain sides, and the feathery spray bounded from the vexed wave in tortured wrath; while a hundred radiations of light were imparted by the sunbeams to a cloud of hoary haze, dashed from the resounding gorge below. I sat for some time on an old moss-grown stone, lost in that kind of reverie which such recollections are generally apt to inspire. The sultriness and toil of day were gradually yielding to the cool rest of evening, and the old walls began to cast their deepening shade over the velvet turf as the inconstant sun waned from their ruined pinnacles. Then I rose and prepared to leave the place. As I walked slowly down to the lake, my eye was attracted by an aged peasant, sitting on a little hillock and leaning pensively on his staff. I intro

duced myself to the old man by a few remarks, and finding him communicative on most subjects, soon directed our conversation to what was uppermost in my own mind-the legendary lore of the place. In this I found him particularly well versed; so I seated myself on a green knoll by his side, and with that lovely scene spread before me, listened with delight as he unlocked his heart in some of the wild traditions with which it overflowed. From among these I select the tale of the "Bay of Ermail." In the meantime, however, it is requisite that I should make a short digression, to remind the reader of the Legend of the O'Donaghue, the most popular superstition of the Killarney Lakes, and one in a great measure connected with our subject.

Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall observe, "Wander where you will in this delicious neighbourhood, either up the mountain, along the valleys, upon the water, or in any one of the islands, you are sure to find some object connected with the legend; every rock of unusual form is forced into an illustration of the story; the guides and boatmen will point out to the tourist O'Donaghue's house, O'Donaghue's prison, his stable, his library, his pigeonhouse, his table, his cellar, his honeycombs, his pulpit, and his broom." Like every other legend, that of the O'Donaghue has numerous variations. The one told me by the old peasant says that, in ages long gone by, the lord of Ross Castle (the ruins of which receive from all tourists the distinction of being one of the most interesting attractions among the lake islands), was a branch of the great family of the O'Donaghue, and inherited, along with the pride of his ancestors, the huge mass of their property. The latter consisted of the lake, its numerous islands, and the surrounding lands, as well as the liege homage of their inhabitants, who upheld his feudal sway in the generous spirit of the good old times. In his early enthusiasm he was a warrior of great distinction, but, when still young, his career as fierce leader of the fight was abandoned for the seclusion of the closet, and rumour whispered that it was the attraction of magic, or alchemy, which had led him into this unsocial path. Among other unholy endowments attributed to him, he pos

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sessed, they say, the power of assuming any form, and, on a certain occasion, he was requested by his wife to exhibit himself to her in some of his many metamorphoses. He forewarned her of the folly of this request, lest, in the result, she should betray any symptoms of fear, the consequence of which would be their eternal separation. With that curiosity and self-confidence which are often characteristic of the sex, she persisted in her request, and, on his assuming some "horned and horrible" transformation, she burst out into a shriek of dismay.

Immediately resuming his original appearance, Õ'Donaghue walked to a window commanding a view of the lake, in the depths of which strange forms were dimly seen, waving him to the portals of a magnificent palace thrown open and brilliantly illuminated below the waves. Then casting a last look on his beloved spouse, as if stung by sudden pain, he tossed his arms aloft, and, with the spring of a wounded tiger, leaped from the window of the castle: a sepulchral noise filled the depths of the funereal chamber, while the ponderous tomes and books of enchantment, scattered about the shelves, flew after him, and are pointed out, at the present day, in O'Donaghue's library, with the exception of being now turned into stone. The general opinion is, that he still exists in his palace below the waters, and every May morning may yet be seen arrayed in glittering panoply, and mounted on a milk-white charger gorgeously accoutred, while strains of ravishing symphony float on the passing breeze, and nymphs and naiads scatter his way with flowers. It is said that he has often been known to visit the earth at other times, to recompense the unjustly oppressed, and punish their oppressors. Lucky, indeed, is the fate of the happy mortal considered, who encounters the waterking at any time.

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Such is the story of the O'Donaghue, and now to proceed to its sequel in The Bay of Ermail," or the Bay of a Sign-the tale related by my casual friend the old Kerry peasant.

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In an humble apartment of a little cottage in the neighbourhood of the lakes, sat a fair-haired daughter of Kerry. She was just bidding a linger

ing farewell to the sunny days of childhood; her countenance was mild and clear as a sunbeam, her large liquid eyes blue as the heaven of an Italian summer, and her golden tresses, flowing without a braid, fell in silken ringlets on her snowy neck.

It was a bright, beauteous evening in the depths of the glad summertime, and the beams of the departing sun shone through the window in clear shafts of ambient light, exhibiting to the naked eye those millions of countless atoms that are reflected within the compass of its mild radiance. The attitude of the fair maiden, as she sat at the well-swept hearth, moodily looking into the fire, was one of thoughtfulness and dejection. Tears stood in her large blue eyes, but ere they fell from the fringed lid to the cheek, she turned to the window and wiped them away, whilst the fresh air lifted her sunny locks, and fanned her throbbing temples gratefully. Sorrow was rioting in her young bosom. That day an open rupture between her father and Redmond O'Sullivan, a young man of equal station with her own, whose farm stood on the same "march," had rendered a suspension of his visits absolutely necessary. For this she pined; because on him she had centred her fondest hopes, and was reciprocated by a love of truth and tenderness. They had grown up together, side by side, from early childhood, and many a time had they assisted each other in their little school-day tasks. The same wind had lisped its music in their ear as they sat at play, and the same sunshine had smiled upon their path. Then why need we question the strength of their attachment, or wonder that this childish friendship had ripened into the deathless love of maturity? The father of our gentle friend fearing the existence of some bond between them, spoke to his daughter on the subject, and peremptorily required her to break it off if it did exist. She replied with candour and simple truth; and he desired her to recall her love for a more wealthy suitor, who, in the person of Valentine Shinkwin, a man of many years and many landed possessions, had offered to devote his fortune and his life to her. Burdened with those thoughts, she wandered out into the open air. Evening was now melting into night, and a few

bright stars already twinkled in the azure dome of heaven. She seated herself in a little nook, beneath the overhanging branches of an old fairy hawthorn, whose milk-white bloom seemed faintly blushing at the decay that mouldered in its hoary brauches. No sound stirred the air save the whisperings of the night-wind among the leaves and branches. She listened, and was silent. At length a rustling of the branches stirred the deep serenity of that calm evening, and she throbbed to hear a well-known voice.

"Una!" was the word spoken.

"Redmond!" she replied, as O'Sullivan made his appearance; but at that moment she could say no more.

They seated themselves side by side, and for a time the low, sweet voice of Una, breathing her tale of ruffled hope, alone broke the silence. Scarcely did Redmond interrupt her story with a word of question; he might have been stricken powerless from emotion; his breath came thick and hard, and the laboured throbbing of his heart was almost audible in every pause of that broken narrative.

"Your father desired you thenceforth to refuse to see or speak to me?" he said; but his voice was low and husky, and it died away in his throat. "Yes," replied Una, "he did." "And will you obey that command?" asked Redmond.

"Alas! I must," she said; and while she spoke her bosom heaved with a respiration which escaped slowly from her lips as if she had surrendered, in one single breath, all the golden-hearted prospects ever treasured in her breast.

Redmond bowed his lips to her forehead and murmured, in a voice choked with emotion, "Farewell for ever!"

"For ever!" repeated Una, with startling vehemence, as she sprung from the mossy couch, and the fire of her bright eyes flashed with a divine lustre. "For ever!"—and her very soul seemed wrapped up and borne away in those solemn words-for there was a feeling resembling death in their very tonedeath to the blissful expectancy of her young heart, and darkness and desolation to her "for ever."

How strange is the meeting of friends when they feel that they look upon each other for the last time on earth! Tender recollections, virtue and gentleness,

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