But still, young Trescott made no advance
in her good opinion. He and his playing
were somehow quite separate and distinct from
each other, in her mind. Her nature was too
true and earnest to sympathise with his
shallowness and egotism. He sometimes, with
an idea of ingratiating himself with her, assumed
a false enthusiasm, which Mabel's truthful
instinct never failed to detect for what it
was, and which caused a revulsion in her mind
that made her hate the very name of art for
the moment. At such times the recollection of
Clement Charlewood's simple manliness would
recur to her, and she would feel how high above
this vapouring sensuous egotist rose the moral
nature of the Hammerham "money-grinder."

"After all, there is nothing good but goodness!"
Mabel would say to herself. And then
the work would fall from her fingers, or the
little yellow play-book would drop into her lap,
and she would sit musing, musing, for an hour
together.

FENIANS ON TRIAL.

IT is the 26th of April—a raw, chilly, dismal
day. A keen east wind sweeps down the streets
and handsome quays of Dublin, dashing small
drifts of gravel in the faces of those abroad.
Well-clad passengers walk faster to give the
blood some life and warmth. There are many
poorly clothed; these clasp and fold their hands,
or beat them against their shoulders. All have
a dry, pinched, withered look, and you hear
more than once the old Irish saying, "When the
wind is from the east, 'tis good for neither
man nor beast." The sun breaks out fitfully
from leaden clouds, but the river, Anna Liffey,
cold and grey, is fringed here and there with
white where the fast ebbing tide rushes against
a reef of limestone. Pale-faced, anxious-looking
men, who have not slept last night, rush to
the car-stands and dart away regardless of the
cold. They have that on hand which must be
done—"hail, rain, or snow." They look like
lawyers' clerks, over-worked and worn,
hurrying to "refresh" counsel, or hunt down
a witness who has stolen away. Police are
placed thickly in the streets, two together: they
carry swords to-day, and have, I am told,
revolvers ready capped and loaded. I meet a
long line of them, tall, strong, and resolute-
looking men, in dark blue tunics, moving slowly
in Indian file upon the outer edge of the flagway.
A bugle sound from the barracks close
at hand tells us that the troops are on parade.
The Castle gates are closed and covered with
iron plates, loopholed for musketry. Over the
black armour I see the brass helmets and flowing
plumes of dragoons; higher still, but some
way behind, the wind plays among the fluttering
pennons of the Lancers. From the windows
of houses opposite the gates, the Fenians, if
there were any there, could see into the Castle
Yard and witness all these preparations. A volley
would tell with deadly effect upon the troops.
But there are no Fenians, and if there were,
not one would desire to become a martyr. The
house formerly occupied by Hopper, "merchant
tailor"—the recipient of drafts for large
amounts transmitted from American "leaders"
—stands close by at the corner of a narrow lane.
Hopper was imprisoned, and the house is let to
others now.

On St. Patrick's night a second Fenian rising
was expected, and then the authorities warned
the dwellers in these houses that they might be
required to remove at once and make room for
troops. No second rising took place, and the
occupiers pursue their trades as usual. We
pass down Parliament-street, and over Essex-
bridge, and here we shiver under the blight of
the bitter wind. The corners of the bridge are
strongly guarded by police, for the prisoners
coming from Kilmainham must pass this way.
Down Capel-street, the left side of which seems
blighted or in Chancery. Two houses have been
burned down, or they have fallen in upon their
own ruins, and no effort is made to build them
up. You see the outlines of queer-shaped rooms
marked out by the colouring or torn paper
hanging from the walls, or broken lines of
plaster where the floors once stood. Dark closets
and narrow passages these old houses had.
But near them is a gin-palace, with sheets of
plate-glass and bright brass mouldings hung
with prismatic crystals, and bearing countless
gas-jets. It flourishes, we should say. Then
we reach the entrance to Mary's Abbey, now a
narrow street, but once the site of a great
monastery well endowed. They show you still,
a vaulted crypt here and a holy well. At the
next turn, still upon the left, we enter Green-
street. High in the air, looms the dark steeple
of St. Michan's, whose vaults preserve and
mummify the bodies of the dead. Close in front
I see a fragment of a flanking tower still
retaining a few loopholes. This, and a long dark
wall, are the remains of Newgate, and to this
spot flow the streams of life from many points
to-day.

Two years since, Newgate rose a huge square
pile, bearing an ominous resemblance to the
Bastille. Four round flanking towers projected
from the angles. Built of dark Irish limestone,
the pile had grown black with age and grimed
with the city's reek. Through narrow loopholes,
barred and grated, stole the stray rays
which lit up the cell within, and told the
criminal the hour as it moved slowly along the
floor. Years ago, from these eyelet-holes hung
cords with little bags attached to collect alms
for the poor prisoners within. In the great central
wall, between two towers, gaped the gloomy
portal, protected by heavy portcullis and
ponderous grating. Overhead, the scaffold originally
frowned. The street is narrow, and the houses are
mean and low. Here, in olden times, were the
sheriff's offices and  sponging-houses. The
abolition of the "Black Dog" Prison—a den of
despair and crime even worse than this—made
fortunes for the holders of houses here. The
laws were sanguinary then, and death was the