In the finely-cut features of the brother, who retained at eighty years of age much of the early beauty of his youth, we fancied we must see a resemblance to his sister, of whom there exists no portrait.

It was delightful to us to hear him speak of “Jane,” and to be brought so near the actual in her daily life.  Of his sister’s fame as a writer the Admiral spoke understandingly, but reservedly.

We found the old Admiral safely moored in that most delightful of havens, a quiet English country-home, with the beauty of Nature around the mansion, and the beauty of domestic love and happiness beneath its hospitable roof.

There we spent a summer day, and the passing hours seemed like the pages over which we had often lingered, written by her hand whose influence had guided us to those she loved.  That day, with all its associations, has become a sacred memory, and links us to the sphere where dwells that soul whose gift of genius has rendered immortal the name of Jane Austen.

* * * * *

THE PROCLAMATION.

“I order and declare that all persons held as slaves in the said designated States and parts of States are and hereafter shall be free,... and I hereby enjoin upon the people so declared to be free to abstain from all violence, unless in necessary self-defence.”

    ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

  Saint Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herds
  Of Ballymena, sleeping, heard these words: 
      “Arise, and flee
  Out from the land of bondage, and be free!”

  Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven
  The angels singing of his sins forgiven,
      And, wondering, sees
  His prison opening to their golden keys,

  He rose a man who laid him down a slave,
  Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave,
      And outward trod
  Into the glorious liberty of God.

  He cast the symbols of his shame away;
  And passing where the sleeping Milcho lay,
      Though back and limb
  Smarted with wrong, he prayed, “God pardon him!”

  So went he forth:  but in God’s time he came
  To light on Uilline’s hills a holy flame;
      And, dying, gave
  The land a saint that lost him as a slave.

  O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb
  Waiting for God, your hour, at last, has come,
      And freedom’s song
  Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong!

  Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraint
  Of ages! but, like Ballymena’s saint,
      The oppressor spare,
  Heap only on his head the coals of prayer!

  Go forth, like him! like him, return again,
  To bless the land whereon in bitter pain
      Ye toiled at first,
  And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed!

* * * * *

THE LAW OF COSTS.