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 1755, to the colonelcy of the 2nd (Coldstream) foot-guards. He became general on 7 March 1761, and field-marshal on 10 June 1763, and was also governor of Portsmouth.

In 1752 he returned to Portugal as ambassador, and was also governor of Minorca until 1756, when he was sent out on the Gibraltar expedition (, Letters, iii. 19, George II, ii. 190, 216). On 14 Dec. 1757 he was president of the court-martial on Sir John Mordaunt (1697-1780) [q. v.] (, ib. iii. 78), having been relieved at Gibraltar on 16 April 1757. In 1758 an attempt was made by Lord George Sackville and Sir J. Philipps to censure him in the House of Commons for his expenditure on works at Gibraltar. Tyrawley demanded to be heard at the bar, and prepared a memorial, on which Lord George took fright, and procured a secret report. Tyrawley appeared before a committee of the house, which he treated with great freedom, and so browbeat his accusers that the house declared itself satisfied of 'the innocence of a man who dared to do wrong more than they dared to censure him' (ib. iii. 108-9). Walpole characterises him as 'imperiously blunt, haughty, and contemptuous, with an undaunted portion of spirit,' and attributes to him a 'great deal of humour and occasional good breeding.' Tyrawley professed not to know where the House of Commons was; and his 'brutality' was again exhibited when he was president of the court-martial on Lord George Sackville in 1760.

When a Spanish invasion of Portugal was threatened in 1762, Tyrawley was appointed plenipotentiary and general of the English forces (, Letters, iv. 23; Chatham Corresp. ii. 174), but was soon superseded as too old, and returned to England disgusted in 1763 (, George III, i. 44). He does not appear to have held any important post after this, though he was sworn of George III's privy council on 17 Nov. 1762. Lord Chatham, with whom he had long been on friendly terms (Chatham Corresp. i. 218, ii. 174), writes to Lady Chatham to make a 'How-do-you call' on his 'fine old friend Lord Tyrawley' in 1772, and a note acknowledging the visit is preserved (ib. iv. 208). Tyrawley, who had a seat at Blackheath (, l.c), died at Twickenham on 14 July 1773, and was buried at Chelsea Hospital.

Tyrawley married Mary, only surviving daughter of Lieutenant-general Sir W. Stewart, second viscount Mountjoy, but left no legitimate issue. He was considered 'singularly licentious, even for the courts of Russia and Portugal' (, George III, i. 144) ; and 'T——y's crew 'is coupled with 'K[innou]l's lewd cargo' by Pope (Imitations of Horace, Epistles, i. 6, 201). An illegitimate son Charles (1740?-1802) [q. v.], who was much with him, rose to distinction in the army. A large mass of his official despatches of various periods from Ireland, Minorca, Portugal, Russia, and Gibraltar is in the British Museum (Tyrawley Papers, Addit. MSS. 23627-23642; see also Newcastle Papers, 32697-32895).

 O'HARA, KANE (1714?–1782), writer of burlesques, born about 1714, came of an old Sligo stock famous for their musical taste. He was youngest son of Kane O'Hara of Temple House, co. Sligo, who in his will, dated 28 March 1719, named a sum to be expended on his younger sons, Adam and Kane, during their minorities. Kane, the younger, entered Trinity College, Dublin, and graduated B.A. in 1732 and M.A. in 1735. He subsequently resided in Dublin, and interested himself in music. The musical academy at Dublin was founded in 1758 mainly by his exertions. Meanwhile the Italian burletta had been introduced into Ireland by a family of musicians and actors called D'Amici. Dublin ran mad after the new form of entertainment, and in 1759 O'Hara undertook a travesty of it at the instance of Lord Mornington, father of the Duke of Wellington. The result was an English burletta entitled 'Midas,' which he composed at the seat of William Brownlow, M.P., on Lough Neagh.

O'Hara then lived in King Street, Dublin, where the Gaiety Theatre now stands, and John O'Keeffe states that he was present in this house with Lord Momington and Brownlow when the latter, with a harpsichord, helped to settle the music for 'Midas.' The piece was played at Oapel Street Theatre, Dublin, in 1761. It was repeated at Covent Garden, with Shuter as Midas, on 22 Feb. 1764, when it was published. It was constantly revived in London, and was performed at the Haymarket as late as 23 July 1825.

O'Hara followed up this success with a similar effort, entitled 'The Golden Pippin,' a burlesque on the story of Paris and the three goddesses, which was first acted at Covent Garden on 6 Feb. 1773, with Miss Catley in


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 On the outbreak of the revolution in Flanders in 1790, O'Hearn took sides with the popular leader, Van Vonck, but, finding the latter's views too advanced, he gave his support to another leader of the popular party, Van der Noot, whose intimate friend and counsellor he became. Van der Noot sought to enlist the sympathies of the English, German, and Dutch courts, and published a manifesto, which he despatched to those courts, O'Hearn being sent as envoy to the Hague. When the French occupied Belgium in 1792, the members of the Irish College of Louvain became dispersed, and the building was used as a powder-magazine. O'Hearn took refuge in Germany, thence returned to Ireland, and was appointed parish priest of St. Thomas's in Waterford, where he died in 1801.

 O'HELY, PATRICK (d. 1578), Roman catholic bishop of Mayo, called in Irish Ua Heilighe, was a native of Connaught, and early became a Franciscan. Proceeding to Spain in the fifth year after making his profession, he entered the university of Alcala. After making much progress in the study of theology there, he was summoned to Rome by the provincial of his order, and resided in the 'convent of Ara Cœli.' His learning came to the notice of Gregory XIII, who, on 4 July 1576, appointed him to the See of Mayo. O'Hely set out for his diocese almost immediately, with a companion, Conagh O'Rourke; passing through Paris, he landed at Dingle, co. Kerry. He was at once arrested and brought before the Countess of Desmond, in the absence of her husband. She sent him to Limerick to be examined, and after imprisonment there he was conveyed to Kilmallock. There O'Hely and his companion, O'Rourke, were tried by Sir [q. v.], condemned, and hanged, according to Renehan, on 22 Aug. 1578. Other authorities state that at the trial O'Hely summoned Drury to appear before the judgment sent of heaven; and, by deferring the date of the trial till late in 1579, they suggest a close connection between O'Hely's exhortation and Drury's death in October of that year. There is no mention, however, of the trial or execution in the 'State Papers,' Carew MSS., or 'Annals of the Four Masters.' O'Hely was buried in the Franciscan convent at Askeaton, co. Limerick.

 O'HEMPSY, DENIS (1695?–1807), Irish harper, whose name is sometimes written Hempson, was son of Brian O'Hempsy, and was born on his father's farm at Craigmore, near Garvagh, co. Derry. Local tradition assigns his birth to 1695. At three years of age he had small-pox and lost his sight, and at twelve began to learn to play the harp from Bridget O'Cahan, a female harper. He afterwards received instruction from John Garragher, Lochlann O'Fanning. and Patrick O'Connor, all Connaughtmen. When eighteen he lived for a half-year in the house of the Canning family at Garvagh. Mr. Canning, Squire Gage, and Dr. Bacon subscribed and bought him a harp. He then travelled in Ireland and Scotland for ten years. Sir J. Campbell of Aghanhrach and many other Scottish gentlemen entertained him. He paid a second visit to Scotland in 1745, and played before Prince Charles Edward at Holyrood.

Subsequently he travelled all over Ireland, and at last, fourth earl of Bristol and bishop of Derry [q. v.], gave him a house at Magilligan, co. Derry, where he ended hia days. Lord and Lady Bristol came to the house-warming, and their children danced to his harp. In 1791, at the reputed age of eighty-six, he married a woman from the opposite coast of Inishowen, and had one daughter. He attended the Belfast meeting of harpers in 1792. He used to play the harp with his long crooked nails, catching the string between the flesh and the nail. Edward Bunting, who heard him, says that the intricacy and peculiarity of his playing amazed him, and that his staccato and legato passages, double slurs, shakes, turns, graces, &c., comprised as a great a range of execution as has ever been devised by modern improvers. His harp, which was long preserved at Downhill, co. Derry, was made by Cormac Kelly in 1702 of white willow, with a back of fir dug out of the bog. The day before he died O'Hempsy sat up in bed and played a few notes on his harp to the Rev. Sir Harvey Bruce. He was temperate throughout life, drank milk and water, and ate potatoes. He died in 1807, having, according to the current belief in the north of Ireland, attained the age of 112. His portrait was published by Bunting. He

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 is mentioned in Lady Morgan's 'Wild Irish Girl.'  O'HENEY, MATTHEW (d. 1206), Cistercian biographer and archbishop of Cashel, called in Irish Ua Heinni, was a monk of the Cistercian house of Holy Cross in what is now Tipperary. He afterwards became archbishop of Cashel, and was made papal legate for Ireland in 1192 (Ann. Inisfalense, ap., Rer. Hibern. Script. ii. 120). In the same year he held a great synod in Dublin, at which the Irish magnates attended (ib.) His name rarely appears except in official documents, usually undated, relating to the affairs of various Irish churches (Chartularies of St. Mary's Abbey, Dublin, i. 143, 145, ii. 28, 29. 198, Rolls Ser.; Register of St. Thomas, Dublin, pp. 308, 317, Rolls Ser.) In 1195 he is mentioned as one of the prelates who brought the body of Hugh de Lacy, first lord of Meath [q. v.], one of the conquerors of Ireland, to the abbey of Bective on the Boyne in Meath, for re-interment (Annals of Ireland in Chartularies of St. Mary's, Dublin, ii. 307). He is said to have founded many churches, and to have been an able man, a worker of miracles, and religious beyond his fellow-countrymen. Retiring to his old monastery of Holy Cross, he died there, as a humble Cistercian monk, in 1206 (ib. ii. 278; Annals of Loch Cé, i. 235, Rolls Ser.)

O'Heney wrote a life of St. Cuthbert of Lindisfarne, letters to Popes Celestine III and Innocent III, and other tracts, none of which are known to be extant.

 O'HIGGIN, TEAGUE (d. 1617), Irish poet, known in Irish writings as Tadhg dall Ua hUiginn, the most famous of his family of hereditary poets, was son of Cairbre O'Higgin, and brother of Maelmuire O'Higgin, catholic archbishop of Tuam (State Papers, Eliz. clix. No. 44). He was born in Magh Nenda, the plain bt'tween the rivers Erne and Drobhais, on the southern boundary of Ulster, and was blind most of his life, whence his Irish sobriquet of 'dall.' His earliest extant poom was written before 1554, an address of fifty stanzas to Eoghan óg MacSuibhne na dtuath, urging him to make friends with Manns O'Donnell [q. v.] and Shane O'Neill [q. v.] He wrote, between 15660 and 1589, a poom of thirty-three stanzas, urging the fusion under Cucbonnacht Maguire of the tribes called, from their ancestor Colla DaChrioch, Sil Colla, and including Maguire, MacMahon, and O'Kelly, beginning 'Daoine saora siol gColla' ('Noble folk the seed of Colla'); In 1573 he addressed a verse panegyric on the O'Neills in fifty-two stanzas to Turlough Luineach O'Neill [q. v.], 'Imda sochar ag cloinn Neill' ('Many the privileges belonging to the children ot Niall'). In another poem of eighteen Quatrains, 'Lios greine as Emhain dUlltaibh' ('A sunny fort is an Emania to Ulstermen'), he praises Shane O'Neill's residence, comparing it to Emhain Macha, or Emania, the residence of the most ancient race of the kings of Ulster (Addit. MS. 29614 in Brit. Mus.) At Christmas 1577 he wrote a poem of seventy-seven stanzas describing a party at which he was a guest at Turlough Luineach O'Neill's house of Craoibhe at the mouth of the Ban, 'Nodhlaig do chuamar do'n chraoibh' ('At Christmas we were at the Craoibh') (Egerton MS. 111, in British Museum). Between 1670 and 1578 was composed his poem of sixty-eight stanzas in praise of Sir Shane MacOliver MacShane MacWilliam Burke, 'Ferainn cloidhim crioch Bhanba' ('Swordland, the realm of Ireland'), in which Burke's descent from Charlemagne is traced. Five texts of this poem are extant: in the British Museum (Egerton MS. 111), in Trinity College, Dublin (F.4.13). in the Royal Irish Academy (28. L. 17 and 23 N. 11), and one in Mr. S. H. O'Grady's collection. A poetical address to Richard MacOliver Burke of sixty stanzas, 'Mar ionghabail anma rig' ('Great circumspection to the name of king'), was written about 1580. It asserts that chiers right to be inaugurated Mac William, the Irish title corresponding to the marquisate of Clanricarde. After 1581 he wrote a poem of forty-two stanzas, 'Tanac oidhche go heas coilie' ('One night I came to Eascoille'), which describes a night which he spent in the house of Maelmora MacSuibhne in the north of Donegal. He was at Drumleene in the parish of Clonleigh, co. Donegal, in June 1588, and there wrote 'Maighen dioghla druim lighen' ('A field of vengeance is Drumleene'), a poem of forty-five stanzas, lamenting the battle about to take place between Sir Hugh O'Donnell and Turlough Luineach O'Neill, then encamped on the other side of the river Finn. He advises O'Donnell to go home and dismiss his clansmen. In 1587 he composed a feeling lament of thirty-seven stanzas for Cathal óg O'Connor Sligo, his patron, 'Derram cuntas a chathail' ('Let us balance our account, Cathal!'); and


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admitted that she was badly frightened. She was afraid of the crossed wires, and would have been in any case. The spurting blue flames she knew would savagely burn her and Ida Bellethorne if they touched them, and the wires might give a shock that would kill either girl or horse.

But seven miles or so beyond those sputtering flames was Dr. Pevy's office. And Dr. Pevy was needed right away at Candace Farm.

A picture of poor Hunchie lying white and moaning in the bed rose in Betty's memory. She could not return and report that it was impossible for her to reach the doctor's office. Afraid as she was of the crossed wires, she was more afraid of showing the white feather.

If Bob Henderson were here in her situation Betty was sure he would not back down. And if Bob could overcome difficulties, why couldn't Betty? The thought inspired the girl to do as Bob would do—come through.

"I must do it!" Betty choked, holding the mare


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Rh firmly headed toward the writhing, crackling wires. "Ida! Get up! You can jump it. You—just—must!"

The black mare crouched and snorted. Betty would have given a good deal for tiny spurs in the heels of her shoes or for a whip to lay along the mare's flank. Spirited as the creature was, and well trained too, her fear of fire made her shrink from the leap.

There was a width of six feet of darting flames. The electricity in the heavy cables was melting the other wires, and from the broken end of each wire the blue light spurted. The snow was melting all about, turning black and yellow in streaks. Betty did not know how long this would keep up; but every minute she delayed poor Hunchie paid for in continued suffering.

"We must do it!" she shrieked to the horse. "You've got to—there!"

She whipped off her velvet hat and struck Ida Bellethorne again and again. The mare crouched, measured the distance, and leaped into the air. Well for her and for Betty that Ida Bellethorne had a good pedigree; had come of a long line of forebears that had been taught to jump hedges, fences, water-holes and bogs. None of them had ever made such a perilous leap as this!

The mare landed in softening snow, for the scathing flames were melting the drifts on either


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168 side. Betty had felt the rush of heat rising from the cables and had put her hat over her face.

Ida Bellethorne squealed. Without doubt she had been scorched somewhere. And now secure on her feet she darted away through the ravine, running faster than she had run while Betty had bestrode her.

Betty could not glance back at the sputtering wires. She must keep her gaze fixed ahead. Although at the speed the mare was now running it is quite doubtful if the girl could have retarded her mount in any degree.

They came to the forks that Mrs. Candace had told her of, and Betty managed to turn the frightened mare up the steeper road to the left. There were few landmarks that the snow had not hidden; but the way to Dr. Pevy's was so direct that one could scarcely mistake it.

Ida Bellethorne began to cool down after a while and Betty could guide her more easily. She had begun to talk to the pretty creature soothingly, and leaned forward in her saddle to pat the mare's neck.

"I don't blame you for being scared, Ida Bellethorne," crooned Betty. "I was scared myself, and I'm scared yet. But don't mind. Just be easy. Your pretty black apron in front is all spattered with froth, poor dear! I wonder if this run has done your cough any harm—or any


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Rh good. Anyway, you haven't coughed since we started."

But Betty knew that if the mare stood for a minute she must be covered and rubbed down. She had this in her mind when she came to the blacksmith shop and the store, directly opposite each other. Dr. Pevy's, she had been told, was the second house beyond on the blacksmith side of the road.

It proved to be a comfortable looking cottage with a barn at the back, and she urged Ida Bellethorne around to the barn without stopping at the house. The barn door was open and a man in greasy overalls was tinkering about a small motorcar. He was a pleasant-looking man with a beard and eyeglasses and Betty was sure he must be the doctor before he even spoke to her.

"Hullo!" exclaimed the amateur machanicmechanic [sic], rising up with a wrench in one hand and an oil can in the other. "Whew! That mare has been traveling some. And such a beauty! You're from Bill Candace's I'm sure. Did she run away with you? Here, let me help you."

But Betty was out of the saddle and had led the mare in upon the floor, although Ida Bellethorne looked somewhat askance at the partly dismantled car.

"Needn't be afraid of the road-bug, my beauty," said Dr. Pevy, putting out a knowing


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 hand to stroke the mare's neck. "She must be rubbed down and a cloth put on her"

"I know," said Betty hastily. "I'll do it if you'll let me. But can you go back with me, Doctor?"

"To the Candace Farm?"

"Yes, sir. A man has been seriously hurt and there was nobody else to come."

"Wonder you got here without having a fall," said Dr. Pevy.

"She is sharpened. And she is a dear!" gasped Betty. "But I hope you can start right away. Hunchie is suffering so."

"Can't use the road-bug, that's sure," said Dr. Pevy, glancing again at the car. "That's why I was doctoring her now while the snow is too deep. But I still have old Standby and the sleigh. I'll start back with you in a few minutes and we'll lead the mare. The exercise will do her good. My! What a handsome creature she is."

"Yes, sir. She is quite wonderful," said Betty; and while they gave Ida Bellethorne the attention she needed Betty told the doctor all about Hunchie and her ride through the forest. When Dr. Pevy heard about the broken wires in the road, he went to the house and telephoned to the Cliffdale power house to tell them where the break was. The linemen were already searching for it.

"That peril will be averted immediately," he said coming back with his overalls removed, a coat


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Rh over his arm and carrying his case in his other hand. "That's it, my dear. Walk her up and down. Such a beauty!"

He got out his light sleigh and then led Standby, a big, red-roan horse, out on the floor to harness him.

"These automobiles are all right when the snow doesn't fly," Dr. Pevy remarked. "But up here in the hills we have so much snow that one has to keep a horse anyway or else give up business during the winter. You were a plucky girl to come so far on that mare, my dear. A Washington girl, you say?"

"We just came from Washington," Betty explained. "But I can't really claim to belong there. I—I'm sort of homeless, I guess. I do just love these mountains and this air."

"This air," commented Dr. Pevy, "smells just now of a storm. And I think it may drizzle again. Now, if you are ready, my dear."

He unbuckled Ida Bellethorne's bridle rein and made it a leading rein. He helped Betty into the sleigh and gave her the rein to hold. The mare led easily, and merely snorted when Standby leaned into the collar and started the sleigh.

The roan was heavy footed, and his shoes, too, were calked. They started off from the village at a good jog with the blanketed black mare trotting easily behind the sleigh.


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172 Betty tried to mould her velvet hat into shape. It had been a hat that she very much prized, and was copied after one Ada Nansen wore, and Ada set the fashions at Shadyside. But that little hat would never be the same again after being used as a goad for Ida Bellethorne. Betty sighed, and gave up her attempt.

When they came to the place in the ravine where the wires were down Dr. Pevy drew up Standby. The mare snorted, recognizing the spot. But the electrical display was over, for the power had been turned off.

"You certainly must have had a narrow squeak here," remarked the physician, as he looked at the fallen wires.

"Oh, Doctor, it was awful!" breathed Betty. "I thought sure that we were going to have the worst kind of accident."

"The company ought really to put up a new line of poles, so many of these are getting rotten," was the doctor's reply. "But I suppose they are hard up for money these days, and can afford only the necessary repairs."

The sleigh climbed the mountain after that to the Candace Farm. As they came in sight of it Betty saw the troop of young stock being driven in through the lane, and saw Bob and Tommy with the stock farmer and his men. It was well she had ventured for the doctor on the black mare,


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Rh or poor Hunchie Slattery would have suffered much longer without medical attention.

Bobby ran out to meet them when the sleigh came into the yard. Mrs. Candace stood at the back door explaining to the red-faced man, her husband. It was Bob who came to take the leading rein of the black mare from Betty's hand.

"Cricky!" he exclaimed. "What have you been up to now, Betsey? Is this that English mare? Isn't she a beauty! And you've been riding her?"

"I've been flying on her," sighed Betty. "Don't talk, Bob! I never expect to travel so fast in the saddle again unless I become a jockey. And I know I am growing too fat for that."


text: Betty Gordon at Mountain Camp/Chapter 21


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Ford, Richard


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three girls and their boy friends remained at the farm until Dr. Pevy had set the bad fracture that Hunchie had suffered and the poor little man had been made as comfortable as he could be made at the time. He had been badly shaken in falling so far at the barn, and the surgeon declared he would be confined to his bed for some weeks.

"And oo's to take care of Ida Bellethorne, I ask you?" demanded Hunchie faintly. "Mr. Bolter hexpects me to give hundivided hattention to 'er."

"She shall have the best of care," said Candace, the farmer, warmly. "A mare like her ought to be bedded down in roses. The way she took this little girl over the drifts was a caution. She is some horse, she is! We will give her the best of attention, Hunchie, never you fear."

The cockney was so much troubled about his charge that he seemed to have forgotten Ida Bellethorne, the girl. But Betty heard him say one thing to Ida before they left.


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Rh "You ought to be 'appy, Miss Ida, even if the mare was sold. She brought a good price, and ev'rybody about Bellethorne Park knows as Mr. Bellethorne give 'er to you when she was a filly. I 'ope you'll come to see us again—me and the mare."

"I surely will, Hunchie," said the English girl. But when they came out of the house and bade the family good-bye, Betty saw that Ida was very grave. Hunchie's words seemed to have been significant.

It was late in the afternoon when the quintette arrived at Mountain Camp. Mrs. Canary had expressed some anxiety about them, but Uncle Dick had scouted any peril that might threaten the young folks. He admitted that he had overlooked some possibilities when he heard the full account of their adventures—and especially of his niece's adventures—at the dinner table.

"I declare, Betty," he said with some little exasperation, "I believe if you were locked inside a trunk with only gimlet holes to breathe through you would manage to get into trouble."

"I think I'd be in trouble fast enough in that case," answered Betty, laughing.

"I don't know," said Louise thoughtfully. "Locked up in a box, you really couldn't get into much harm, Betty."

"Sure she could get into trouble," declared


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176 Bobby. "Bees could crawl in through the gimlet holes and sting her."

"I'd like to have seen her jumping that fire on horseback," sighed Libbie. "It must have been wonderful!"

Mr. Gordon looked rather disturbed as he stared at his niece.

"That's exactly what I shouldn't want to see her do," he said. "I do not know what I am going to do if, as she gets older, she grows more energetic," he added to Mr. and Mrs. Canary. "Betty is more than a handful for a poor bachelor uncle, I do believe!"

He forbade any more excursions away from the camp after that unless the excursionists took some adult person with them. He went himself to Candace Farm to see Hunchie Slattery; but he took only Ida Bellethorne with him. They went on their snowshoes. During this trip Mr. Gordon won the abiding confidence of the girl.

Meanwhile the youthful visitors at Mountain Camp allowed no hour to be idle. There was always something to do, and what one could not think of in the way of fun another could.

Mr. Canary's men had smoothed a coasting course down the hillside to the lake not a quarter of a mile from the Overlook. There was a nest of toboggans in one of the outhouses. Tobogganing afforded the nine young people much sport.


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Rh For the others insisted that Ida Bellethorne share in all their good times. She declared she never would get Libbie's blouse done in time; but Libbie said that she could finish it afterward and send it on to Shadyside. Just now the main thing was to crowd as much fun as possible into the remaining days of their vacation.

The young folks from Fairfields were paired off very nicely; but they did not let Ida feel that she was a "fifth wheel," and she really had a good time. These snow-sports were so unfamiliar to her that she enjoyed them the more keenly.

"I do think these boys are so nice," she said to Betty as they climbed the hill from the lakeshore, dragging the toboggan behind them by its rope.

"Of course they're nice," said the loyal Betty. "Especially Bob Henderson. He's just like a brother to me. If he wasn't nice to you I should scold him—that I should, Ida."

"I never can repay you for your kindness," sighed the English girl, quite serious of visage. "And your uncle, too."

Betty flashed her a penetrating look and was on the verge of speaking of something that she, at least, considered of much importance. Then she hesitated. Ida had never mentioned the possibility of Betty's having dropped anything in Mrs. Staples' store. Betty shut her lips tight


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178 again and waited. If Ida did know anything about her lost locket, Betty wanted the English girl to speak of it first.

They went in to dress for dinner that afternoon just before a change in the weather. A storm had been threatening for some hours, and flakes of snow began to drift down before they left the slide.

"Let's dress up in our best, girls," Louise said gaily. "Put on our best bibs and tuckers. Make it a gala occasion. Teddy, be sure and scrub behind your ears, naughty boy!"

"I feel as though I ought to be in rompers the way you talk," said the Tucker twin, but he laughed.

The boys ran off to "primp," and what the girls did to make themselves lovely, Libbie said "was a caution!" One after the other they came into Betty's and Bobby's room and pirouetted to show their finery. Ida had been decked out very nicely by her friends, and her outfit did not seem shabby in the least.

But the English girl noted one thing about Betty, and it puzzled her. The other girls from Shadyside School wore their pieces of jewelry while Betty displayed not a single trinket. As the other girls were hurrying out to join the boys and descend to the big hall, Ida held Betty back.

"Where is it, Betty?" she asked. "Don't you


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Rh wear it at all? Are you afraid of losing it again?"

"What do you mean?" asked Betty, her heart pounding suddenly and her eyes growing brighter.

Ida Bellethorne placed her hand upon Betty's chest, looking at her closely as she asked the question:

"Didn't Mrs. Staples give it to you? That beautiful locket, you know. Aren't you allowed to wear it?"


text: Betty Gordon at Mountain Camp/Chapter 22


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" me!" exclaimed Betty. "How curious you are. I am not allowed to wear my diamond earrings that Doctor and Mrs. Guerin gave me, of course. They are the old-fashioned kind for pierced ears, and would have to be reset, and diamonds are too old for me anyway. But Uncle Dick lets me wear any thing else I own"

"That locket," questioned Ida. "That pretty locket. It did fall out of your bag in the shop, didn't it, Betty?"

"My goodness!" stammered Betty, "did you find it?"

"I picked it up," said Ida soberly. "Mrs. Staples would not let me run after you with it. But she promised to give it to you when you came and asked for it."

"She did? She never"

Then Betty hesitated a moment. She remembered clearly just what had been said in the little neighborhood shop when she and Bobby had called there to get Bobby's blue over-blouse.

"It's a fact, I never asked her for it," she said


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 slowly. "No, I never. I just asked her if she had found anything, and she said 'No.'"

"She would! That would be like her!" cried Ida Bellethorne. "She is a person who prides herself upon being exactly honest; and I guess that means barely honest. Oh, Betty Gordon!"

"Well, now what's the matter?" asked Betty.

"Did—did you know you lost it in Mrs. Staples' shop?"

"No. I didn't know where I lost it. I only thought"

"That I might have picked it up and said nothing about it?" demanded Ida Bellethorne.

"Why Ida! I would not have hurt your feelings by saying anything about it for the world," said Betty honestly. "That was why I didn't tell you. You see, if you really had known nothing about the locket when I asked you, all the time you would be afraid that I suspected you. Isn't that so?"

"You dear, good girl!" gasped Ida, dabbling her eyes with her handkerchief. "And I didn't say anything because I thought you would think I wanted a reward for returning it."

"So, you see, I couldn't speak of it. But now, of course, we'll get it away from Mrs. Staples. I think she's horrid mean!"

Betty expressed her opinion of the shopwoman vigorously, but she put her arms around the


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182 English girl at the same time and kissed her warmly.

"You're a dear!" repeated Ida.

"You're another!" cried Betty gaily. "Now come on! Maybe those boys will eat up all the dinner, and I am so hungry!"

One of the men arrived formfrom [sic] Cliffdale during dinner with the mail and the information that another cold rain was falling and freezing to everything it touched.

"The whole country about here will be one glare of ice in the morning," said Mr. Canary. "You young folks will have all the sledding you care for, I fancy. I have seen the time when, after one of these ice storms, one might coast from here to Midway Junction on the railroad, and that's a matter of twenty miles."

"What a lark that would be," cried Tommy Tucker. "Some slide, eh, Bob?"

"How about walking back?" asked the other boy promptly, grinning.

Letters and papers were distributed. There was at least one letter for everybody but Ida, and Betty squeezed her hand under the table in a comforting way.

When they all retired from the table and gathered in groups in the big living room where the log fire roared Uncle Dick beckoned Betty to him. He put a letter from Mrs. Eustice into


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 the girl's hand and at one glance she "knew the worst."

"Oh Betty!" gasped Louise, "what's the matter?"

For Betty had emitted a squeal of despair. She shook the paper before their eyes.

"Come on, Betty!" cried Bob. "Get it out—if it's a fishbone."

"It's all over!" wailed Betty. "Measles don't last as long as we thought they did. Shadyside opens two days from to-morrow, and we have got to be there. That's Monday. Oh, dear, dear, dear!"

"Say a couple more for me, Betty," growled Teddy Tucker. "I suppose Salsette will open too. Back to Major Pater and others too murderous to mention."

"And the Major's got it in for you Tucker twins," Bob reminded him wickedly.

"That's Tom's fault," grumbled Teddy. "If he hadn't sprung that snowball stuntOh, well! What's the use?"

"Life, Ted believes," said Louise, "is just one misfortune after another. But I do hate to leave here just as we have got nicely settled. My goodness! what's the matter with Ida? Something's happened to her, too."

Ida had sprung to her feet with one of the recently arrived New York papers in her hand.


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184 Actually she was pale, and it was no wonder the company stared at her when her cheeks were usually so ruddy.

"What is the matter, dear?" asked Mrs. Canary.

Betty went to the English girl at once and put an arm about her shoulders.

"Did you see something in the paper that frightened you, Ida?" she asked.

"It doesn't frighten me," replied the girl, with trembling lips. "See. Read it. This time I am sure it is my aunt. See!"

Uncle Dick joined the group about the excited girl. Her color had come back into her cheeks now and her eyes shone. She was usually so self-contained and quiet that Mr. Gordon now thought perhaps they had not really appreciated how much the hope of joining her aunt meant to Ida.

"Read it aloud, Betty," said her uncle quietly.

"Oh! Here's her name! It must be right this time!" cried Betty; and then she obeyed her uncle's request:

"'The Toscanelli Opera Company, Salvatore Toscanelli manager, which has made a very favorable impression among the music lovers of the East and Middle West during the last few months, will sail for Rio Janeiro on Sunday on the San Salvador of the Blue Star Line. The


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 has been augmented by the engagement of several soloists, among them Madam Ida Bellethorne, the English soprano, who has made many friends here during the past few years.'"

"Day after to-morrow!" exclaimed Bobby, the first to speak. "Why! maybe if you can go to New York you will see her, Ida."

"Day after to-morrow," repeated Ida, anxiously. "Can I get to New York by that time? I—I have a little money"

"Don't worry about the money, honey," Betty broke in. "You will have to start early in the morning, won't she, Uncle Dick?"

"If she is to reach the steamer in time, yes," said the gentleman rather doubtfully.

"Oh! if I don't get there what shall I do?" cried Ida. "Rio Janeiro, why, that is in South America! It would cost hundreds of your dollars to pay my passage there. I must get to Aunt Ida before she sails. I must!"

"Now, now!" put in Mrs. Canary soothingly. "Don't worry about it, child. That will not help. We will get you to the train to-morrow"

"If we can," interrupted her husband softly. He beckoned Uncle Dick away and they went out through the hall to look at the weather, leaving the young folks and Mrs. Canary to encourage the English girl.


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186 Outside the two men did not find much in the appearance of the weather to encourage them. It was raining softly, for there was no wind; and it was freezing as fast as it fell.

"And that old shack-a-bones I keep here during the winter isn't sharpened. Ought to be, I know. But he isn't," grumbled Jonathan Canary.

"No use to think of snowshoes if it freezes, Jack," rejoined Mr. Gordon. "It is too far to the railroad anyway. I doubt if these children get to school on time."

"Telephone wires are down again. I just tried to get Cliffdale before dinner. This is a wilderness up here, Dick."

"I am sorry for that young English girl," mused Mr. Gordon. "She is fairly eaten up with the idea of getting in touch with her aunt. Good reason, too. She has told me all about it. She carries a letter from her dead father to the woman and he begged the girl to be sure to put it into his sister's hands. Family troubles, Jack."

"Well, come on in. You're here without your hat. Want to get your death of cold?" growled Mr. Canary.

The young folks did not dream at this time that nature was doing her best to make it impossible for Ida Bellethorne to reach New York by Sunday morning when the steamship San Salvador would leave her dock. It was, however, the general topic


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Rh of conversation during the evening. When bedtime came they went gaily to bed, not even Betty doubting the feasibility of their getting to the train on the morrow.

Her uncle, however, put his head out of the door again when the others had gone chamberward and seeing the shining, icy waste of the Overlook, muttered with growing anxiety:

"Can it be done?"


text: Betty Gordon at Mountain Camp/Chapter 23


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slept in the room with Betty and Bobby that night. Betty had confided to her chum, as well as to Uncle Dick, the outcome of the mystery of her locket. Because of Ida's information, Uncle Dick had assured his niece they would recover the trinket.

"If Mrs. Staples is not a dishonest woman, she shades that character pretty closely. There are people like that—people who think that a found article is their own unless absolutely claimed by the victim of the loss. A rather prejudiced brand of honesty to say the least."

The two Shadyside girls made much of Ida Bellethorne on this evening after they had foregathered in the bedroom. Just think! her Aunt Ida might take her to South America. Ida already had traveled by boat much farther than even Betty had journeyed by train.

"Although I am not at all sure how my aunt will meet me," the English girl said. "She was very angry with my father. She wasn't fair to


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Rh him. She is impulsive and proud, and maybe she will think no better of me. But I must give her father's letter and see what comes of it."

The main difficulty was to get to New York in time to deliver the letter before the San Salvador sailed. When the girls awoke very early and saw a sliver of moon shining low in the sky, they bounced up with glad if muffled cries, believing that everything was all right. The storm had ceased. And when they pushed up the window a little more to stick their heads out they immediately discovered something else.

"Goodness me!" gasped Bobby. "It's one glare of ice—everything! And so-o cold! Ugh!" and she shivered, bundled as she was in a blanket robe.

First Betty and then Ida had to investigate. The latter looked very mournful.

"The horse can never travel to-day," she groaned. "You saw how he slipped about in the soft snow the other day when they had him out. He is not shod properly."

"If you only had Ida Bellethorne here!" cried Betty.

"But she is a long way off, and in the wrong direction. Why, none of us could walk on this ice!"

"How about skating?" cried Bobby eagerly.

"Mr. Canary says it is all downhill—or mostly


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190 to the railroad station," Betty said. "I would be afraid to skate downhill."

They dressed quickly and hastened to find Uncle Dick. He had long been up and had evidently canvassed the situation thoroughly. His face was very grave when he met his niece and her friends.

"This is a bad lookout for our trip," he said. "I don't really see how any of you will get to school on Monday, let alone Ida's reaching New York to-morrow morning."

"Oh, Uncle Dick, don't say that!" cried Betty. "Is it positive that we cannot ride or walk?"

"Walk twenty miles downhill on ice?" he exclaimed, "Does it seem reasonable? We can neither ride nor walk; and surely we cannot swim or fly!"

"We could fly if we had an aeroplane. Oh, dear!" sighed Bobby. "Why didn't we think of that? And now the telephone wires are down."

But Betty was thoughtful. She only pinched Ida's arm and begged her to keep up her courage—perhaps something would turn up. She disappeared then and was absent from the house, cold as the morning was, until breakfast time.

The whole party had gathered then, excited and voluble. It was not only regarding Ida's need that they chattered so eagerly. In spite of the fun they were having at Mountain Camp, the thought that Shadyside and Salsette might begin


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Rh classes before they could get there was, after all, rather shocking.

"Measles is one thing," said Bob. "But being out of bounds when classes really begin is another. The other fellows will learn some tricks that we don't know."

"And somebody else may be put in our room, Betty!" wailed Bobby, as her chum now appeared.

Betty was very rosy and full of something that was bound to spill over at once. As soon as she had bidden Mr. and Mrs. Canary good morning she cried to all:

"What do you think!"

"Just as little as possible," declared Tommy Tucker. "Thinking tires me dreadfully."

"Behave, Tommy!" said Louise admonishingly.

"There's a big two-horse pung here. I found it in the barn. Like Mr. Jaroth's. It has a deep box like his. And a tongue. It's like a doublerunner sled, Bob—you know. The front runners are independent of the rear."

"I know what it is, Betty," said Bob, while the others stared at her. "I've seen that pung."

"Your observations are correct, Miss Betty," said Mr. Canary, smiling at the girl. "I own such a pung. But I do not own two horses to draw it. And I am sorry to say that the horse I have got cannot stand on this ice."

"Gee!" exclaimed Teddy, "if we got old


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192 Bobsky started down that hill he'd never stop till he got to the bottom. How far do you say it is to the station, Mr. Canary?"

"It is quite twenty miles down grade. Of course there are several places where the road is level—or was level before the snow fell. But once started there would not be many places where you would have to get out and push," and the gentleman laughed.

Betty's mind was fixed upon her argument. Her face still glowed and she scarcely tasted her breakfast.

"I believe we can do it," she murmured.

"What under the sun do you mean, Betty?" asked Louise.

"I hope it is something nice we can do," said Libbie dreamily. "I looked out the window and it is all like fairyland—isn't it, Timothy?"

"Uh-huh!" said Timothy Derby, his mouth rather full at the moment. "It is the most beautiful sight I ever saw. Will you please pass me another muffin?"

But Bob gave Betty his undivided attention. He asked:

"What do you believe we can do, Betty?"

"Make use of Mr. Canary's pung."

"Cricky! What will draw it? Where is the span of noble steeds to be found? Old Bobsky would break his neck."


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Rh "One horse. One wonderful horse, Bob!" cried Betty clapping her hands suddenly. "I am sure I'm right. Uncle Dick!"

"What do you mean, Betty?" cried Bobby, shaking her. "What horse?"

"Gravitation," announced Betty, her eyes shining. "That's his name."

"Great goodness!" gasped Bob. "I see a light. But Betty, how'd we steer it?"

"The front runners are attached to the tongue. Tie ropes to the tongue and steer it that way," Betty said, so eagerly that her words tumbled over each other. "Can't we do it, Uncle Dick? We'll all pile into the pung, with a lot of straw to keep us warm, and just slide down the hills to the railroad station. What say?"

For a while there was a good deal said by all present. Mr. and Mrs. Canary at first scouted the reasonableness of the idea. But Mr. Gordon, being an engineer and, as Bob said, "up to all such problems," considered Betty's suggestion carefully.

In the first place the need was serious. Especially for the much troubled Ida. If she could not reach the dock on New York's water-front by eleven o'clock the next morning, her aunt would doubtless sail on the San Salvador, and then there was no knowing when the English girl would be able to find her only living relative.


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Rh annual return of net profit for the King of Denmark of ten thousand dollars! How many nations of this modern day do better? And, with this fact before us, why shall not the same occur (adopting the same plan) in the land of the Esquimaux on the west side of Davis's Straits? Let my countrymen look to it whenever the first opportunity arrives.

On the 27th day of September (1860) there broke upon us that fearful gale which caused the loss of my expedition boat and the far-famed Rescue, drove the Georgiana on shore, and came near proving the destruction of the George Henry and all on board. As it was of so serious a character, I will here give the particulars in detail.

Wednesday, the 26th, commenced with light winds from the N.E. At noon it began to snow, with an increasing breeze. At 1 all the boats came on board from their cruising-ground, and preparations were made for bad weather. The wind now rapidly increased to a gale, and at 8 the second anchor was let go, with all the cable given that could be allowed without letting the George Henry get too near the rocky island astern of us. The schooner Rescue, at this time, was about fifty fathoms distant on our starboard bow, and the brig Georgiana a little more easterly. At 9 the gale was still increasing, and a heavy sea rising. At this time the deck watch came in the cabin and reported that the Rescue was dragging her anchors, and as we looked upon her dark form through the thick darkness of the night, it seemed, as she kept moving by, that her destruction was inevitable and immediate. But, when abeam of us, she held on, though pitching and surging heavily. The Georgiana was seen but faintly, and it appeared as if she, too, was in great danger.

At 11 it was blowing a perfect hurricane, with thick snow, and just then we could perceive the brig driving astern toward the island. She had, as we afterward learned, broken her small anchor, and dragged her large one. On she went, driving heavily, amid the wild stir of the elements, and the awful darkness of that snow-storm night—on and on, with nothing to save her, until presently we could see she had


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194 The party had ridden over the mountain road in coming to Mountain Camp, and Uncle Dick remembered the course pretty well. Although it was a continual grade, as one might say, it was an easy grade. And there were few turns in the road.

Drifted with snow as it was, and that snow crusted, the idea of coasting all the way to the railroad station did not seem so wild a thought. The road was fenced for most of the way on both sides. And over those fences the drifts rose smoothly, making almost a trough of the road.

"When you come to think of it, Jack," Uncle Dick said to Mr. Canary, "it is not very different from our toboggan chute yonder. Only it is longer."

"A good bit longer," said Mr. Canary, shaking his head.

However, it was plain that the idea interested Uncle Dick. He hastened out to look at the pung. Bob followed him, and they were gone half an hour or more. When they returned Bob was grinning broadly.

"Get ready for the time of your lives, girls," he whispered to Betty and Bobby. "The thing is going to work. You wait and see!"

Uncle Dick called them all into the living room and told them to pack at once and prepare for a cold ride. There was plenty of time, for the train


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Rh they had to catch did not reach the station until noon.

"If our trip is successful—and it will be, I feel sure—it will not take an hour to reach the station. But we shall give ourselves plenty of time. Now off with you! I guess Mrs. Canary will be glad to see the last of us."

But their hostess denied this. The delight of having young people at the lonely camp in the hills quite counterbalanced the disturbance they made. But she bustled about somewhat anxiously, aiding the girls and the boys to make ready for departure. The Canarys, being unused to roughing it, even if they did live in the Big Woods, were much more afraid of the possibility of an accident arising out of this scheme Betty had conceived than was Uncle Dick.

A little after ten o'clock they all piled out of the bungalow with their baggage. The two men working at the camp had filled the box of the pung with straw and had drawn it out to the brow of the hill where the road began. The tongue was raised at a slant, as high as it would go, and half of it had been sawed off. Ropes were fastened from this stub of the tongue to ringbolts on either side of the pung-box.

"It will take two of us to steer," said Uncle Dick, and we must work together. Get in here, Bob, and I'll show you how it works."


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196 It worked easily. The girls and the baggage were piled into the pung. The Tucker twins were each handed an iron-shod woodsman's peavey and were shown how the speed of the pung might be retarded by dragging them in the crust on either side.

"You boys are the brakes," sang out Uncle Dick, almost as excited as the young people themselves. "When we shout for 'Brakes!' it is up to you twins to do your part."

"We will, sir!" cried Tommy and Teddy in unison.

"And don't hang your arms or legs over the sides," advised Uncle Dick. "Farewell, Jack! Take care of him, Mrs. Canary. And many, many thanks for a jolly time."

The boys and girls chorused their gratitude to the owner of Mountain Camp and his wife. The men behind gave the pung just the tiniest push. The runners creaked over the ice, and the forward end pitched down the slope. They had started.

And what a ride that was! It is not likely that any of them will ever forget it. Yet, as it proved, the danger was slight. They coasted the entire down-grade to the little railroad station where Fred Jaroth was telegraph operator with scarcely more peril than as though they had been riding behind the Jaroth horses.


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Rh But they were on the qui vive all the time. Bobby declared her heart was in her mouth so much that she could taste it.

There were places when the speed threatened disaster. But when Uncle Dick shouted for "Brakes!" the twins broke through the crust with their peaveys and the hook broke up the thick ice and dragged back on the pung so that the latter was brought almost to a stop. The handles of the peaveys were braced against the end staffs of the pung, and to keep them in position did not exceed the twins' strength.

Once Ted's peavey was dragged from his hands; but he jumped out and recovered it, and then, falling, slid flat on his back down the slippery way until he overtook the slowly moving pung again amid the delighted shouts of his chums.

Otherwise there were no casualties, and the pung flew past the Jaroth house a little before eleven to the great amazement of the whole family, who ran out to watch the coasting party.

"I don't know how Jonathan Canary will recover his pung," said Mr. Gordon when they alighted on the level ground. "But I will leave it in Jaroth's care, and when the winter breaks up, or before, it can be taken back to Mountain Camp.

"Now how do you feel, young folks? All right? No bones broken?"


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198 "It was delightful," they cried. But Ida added something to this. "I feel rather—rather dazed, Mr. Gordon," she said. "But I am very thankful. And I know whom I have most to thank."

"Who is that, my dear?" asked Uncle Dick smiling.

"Betty."


text: Betty Gordon at Mountain Camp/Chapter 24


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sent several telegrams before the train arrived, and they were all of importance. One recovered Betty's locket, for, informed of the circumstances by this telegram, the lawyer in Washington sent his clerk to Mrs. Staples and showed her in a very few words that she was coasting very close to the law by keeping the little platinum and diamond locket.

"So," said Betty to Bobby, "if the lawyer gets it—and Uncle Dick says he will—I can wear the locket to parties at the school."

"If Mrs. Eustice allows it," said her chum grimly. "You know, she's down on jewelry. Remember how she got after Ada Nansen and Ruth Gladys Royal for wearing so much junk?"

"My goodness!" giggled Betty, "what would she say to you if she heard you use such an expression? Anyway, I am going to show her Uncle Dick's present and ask her. I know the beautiful diamond earrings Doctor and Mrs. Guerin sent me can't be worn till I grow up a bit. But my locket is just right."


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200 It was a noisy crowd that boarded the train; and it continued to be a noisy crowd to the junction where it broke up. All the young folks would have been glad to go with Uncle Dick and Ida Bellethorne to New York; but he sent all but Betty and Bob on to school. They would reach the Shadyside station soon after daybreak the next morning, and Mr. Gordon had telegraphed ahead for the school authorities to be on the lookout for them.

Betty and Bob, with Uncle Dick and the English girl, left the train at the junction and boarded another for New York City in some confidence of reaching their destination in good season.

The train, however, was late. It seemed merely to creep along for miles and miles. Luckily they had secured berths, and while they slept the delayed train did most of its creeping.

But in the morning they were dismayed to find that they were already two hours late and that it would be impossible for the train to pick up those two hours before reaching the Grand Central Terminal in New York City.

"Now, hold your horses, young people!" advised Mr. Gordon. "We are not beaten yet. The San Salvador does not leave her dock until eleven at the earliest. It may be several hours later. I have wired to Miss Bellethorne aboard the ship and in care of the Toscanelli Opera Company as


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 well. I do not know the hotel at which Miss Bellethorne has been staying."

"But, Uncle Dick!" cried Betty, who seemed to have thought of every chance that might arise, "suppose Ida's aunt wants to take her along to Brazil? Her passport"

"Can be viséd at the British consulate on Whitehall Street in a very few minutes. I have examined Ida's passport, and there is no reason why there should be any trouble over it at all. She is a minor, you see, and if her aunt wishes to assume responsibility for her no effort will be made to keep her in the country, that is sure."

"Then it all depends upon Ida's aunt," sighed Betty.

"And our reaching the dock in time," amended Uncle Dick. "I would not wish to interfere with Miss Bellethorne's business engagement in Rio Janeiro; but I am anxious for her to authorize me, on behalf of her niece, to get legal matters in train for the recovery of that beautiful mare. I believe that she belongs—every hair and hoof of her—to our young friend here. There has been some trickery in the case."

"Oh, Uncle Dick!" shrieked Betty.

"When I went to see that poor little cripple Hunchie Slattery he told me that the very papers that were given to Mr. Bolter with the horse must prove Ida's ownership at one time of the


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202 mare. There was some kind of a quit-claim deed signed by her name, and that signature must be a forgery.

"The horse could never have been sold in England, for the Bellethorne stable was too well known there. The men who grabbed the string of horses left when Ida's father died are well-to-do, and Mr. Bolter will be able to get his money back, even if he has already paid the full price agreed upon for Ida Bellethorne.

"I am convinced," concluded Uncle Dick, "that the girl has something coming to her. And it may even pay Miss Bellethorne to remain in the United States instead of going to Rio Janeiro until the matter of the black mare's ownership is settled beyond any doubt."

When the train finally reached New York, Uncle Dick did not even delay to try to reach the dock by telephone. He bundled his party into a taxicab and they were transported to the dock where the San Salvador lay.

A steward seemed to be on the look-out for the party, and addressed Uncle Dick the moment he alighted from the cab.

"Mr. Gordon, sir? Yes, sir. Madam Bellethorne has received your wire and is waiting for you. I have arranged for you all to be passed through the inspection line. The steamship, sir, is delayed and will not sail until next tide."


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 "And that is a mighty good thing for us," declared Mr. Gordon to his charges.

His business card helped get them past the inspectors. It is not easy to board a ship nowadays to bid good-bye to a sailing friend. But in ten minutes or so they stood before the great singer.

She was a tall and handsome woman. Betty at first glance saw that Ida, the niece, would very likely grow into a very close resemblance to Madam Bellethorne.

The woman looked swiftly from Betty to Ida and made no mistake in her identification of her brother's daughter. Ida was crying just a little, but when she realized how close and kindly was her aunt's embrace she shook the drops out of her eyes and smiled.

"Father wanted I should find you, Aunt Ida," she said. "He wrote a letter to you and I have it. I think it was the principal thing he thought of during his last illness—his misunderstanding with you."

"My fault as much as his," Madam Bellethorne said sadly. "We were both proud and high-tempered. But no more of this now. Something in this gentleman's long telegram to me"

She bowed to Mr. Gordon. He quickly stated the matter of the black mare's ownership to the singer.

"If you will come to the British consulate where


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204 Ida's passport must be viséd, and sign there a paper empowering me to act in your behalf, you assuming the guardianship of Ida, I can start lawyers on the trail of this swindle."

Miss Bellethorne was a woman of prompt decision and of a business mind, and immediately agreed. She likewise saw that her niece had made powerful friends during the weeks she had been in America and she was content to allow Mr. Gordon to do the girl this kindness.

It was a busy time; but the delay in the sailing of the San Salvador made it possible for everything necessary to be accomplished. Uncle Dick and Betty and Bob accompanied the Bellethornes aboard the ship again and had luncheon with them. Ida cried when she parted with Betty; but it would be only for the winter. When the opera company returned to New York it was already planned that the younger Ida Bellethorne should join the friends of her own age she had so recently made at Shadyside School.

It was an astonishing sight for Betty and Bob to see the great ship worried out of her dock by the fussy little tugs. It was growing dark by that time and the great steamship was brilliantly lighted. They watched until she was in midstream and was headed down the harbor under her own steam.

"There! It's over!" sighed Betty. "I feel as


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Rh if a great load had been lifted from my mind. Dear me, Bob! do you suppose we can ever again have so much excitement crowded into a few hours?"

As Betty was no seeress and could not see into the future she of course did not dream that in a very few weeks, and in very different surroundings, she would experience adventures quite as interesting as any which had already come into her life. These will be published in the next volume of this series, entitled: "Betty Gordon at Ocean Park; or, Gay Doings on the Boardwalk."

Bob shook his head at Betty's last observation. "Does seem as though we manage to get hooked up to lots of strange folks and strange happenings. Certain metals attract lightning, Betty, and I think you attract adventures. What do you say, Uncle Dick?"

Mr. Gordon only laughed. "I say that you young folks had better have supper and a long night's rest. I shall not let you go on to school until to-morrow. For once you will be a day late; but I will chance explaining the circumstances to your instructors."

They got into the taxicab again and bowled away up town. The lights came up like rows of fireflies in the cross streets. When they struck into the foot of Fifth Avenue at the Washington Arch the globes on that thoroughfare were all


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206 alight. It was late enough for the traffic to have thinned out and their driver could travel at good speed save when the red lights flashed up on the traffic towers.

"Isn't this wonderful?" said Betty. "Libbie is always enthusing about pretty views and fairylike landscapes. What would she and Timothy say to this?"

"Something silly, I bet," grumbled Bob. "Cricky! but I'm hungry," proving by this speech that he had a soul at this moment very little above mundane things.

Uncle Dick chuckled in his corner of the car, and made no comment. And Betty said nothing further just then. The brilliant lights of the avenue were shining full in her face, but her thoughts were far away, with Ida Bellethorne on that ocean-going steamer bound for South America. What a wonderful winter of adventures it had been!

"And the best of it is, it all came out right in the end," murmured the girl softly to herself.


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Latinizing of northern Italy, Spain, and Gaul was part of the expansion of Roman dominion. Throughout these lands, alien peoples submitted to the Roman order and acquired new traits from the training of its discipline. Voluntarily or under compulsion they exchanged their institutions and customs for those of Roman Italy, and their native tongues for Latin. The education and culture of the upper classes became identical with that gained in the schools about the Forum, and Roman literature was the literature which they studied and produced. In a greater or less degree their characters were Latinized, while their traditions were abandoned for those of Rome. Yet, although Romanized and Latinized, these peoples were not Roman. Their culture was acquired, their characters were changed, yet with old traits surviving. In character and faculties, as in geographical position, they were intermediate, and in rôle they were mediatorial. Much of what they had received, and what they had themselves become, they perforce transmitted to the ruder humanity which, as the Empire weakened, pressed in, serving, plundering, murdering, and finally amalgamating with these provincials. The surviving Latin culture passed to the mingled populations which were turning to inchoate Romance nations in Italy, Spain, and Gaul. Likewise Christianity, Romanized, paganized, barbarized, had been accepted through these countries. And now these mingled peoples, these inchoate Romance nations, were to accomplish a broader mediation in extending

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  1588 an address of forty-five stanzas to Mór, wife of Domhnall MacTadhg MacCathail óg O'Connor Sligo, 'A mhor cuimnig in cumonn' ('Mor, remember the affection'). About 1588 he wrote a warlike address of seventy stanzas urging Sir Brian na Murtha O'Rourke [q. v.] to organise a great attack on the English; it begins, 'D'fior chogaid chomaillter sithchain senfhocal nach saroighter' ('With a man of war it is that peace is observed, the proverb cannot be overcome'). Between 1566 and 1589 he wrote a poem of thirty-nine stanzaa, 'Mairg fhechus ar inischeithleann' ('Woe for him that looks on Enniskillen.'), telling of a visit paid by him to Cuchonnacht óg, chief bf the Maguires, and containing an admimirable description of the daily life and surroundings of a powerful Irish chief in his castle. Other poems, undoubtedly his, but of uncertain date, are 'Ionmhuin baile brugh Leithbhir' ('Dear town of Lifford'), forty-four verses in praise of the county town of Donegal; 'Dia do bheatha a mheic Mhagnuis' ('God save you, son of Manus'), an address of 124 verses to Aedh MacMaghnuis O'Donnell; an epigram on the sept of Mac an Bhaird; 'Fuaras fein im maithn o mhnaoi' ('I myself got good butter from a woman'), a poem against bad butter (copies of these four poems exist in the library of the Royal Irish Academy); 'Fear dana an fear so shiar' ('A man of song this western man'), printed, with a translation of Theophilus O'Flanagan, in 1808 (Tranactions of Gaelic Society of Dublin). His last poem,' Sluagseisir tainic dom thig' ('A Oil of six men came into my house has printed, with a translation by S. H. O'Grady (Catalogue of Irish Manuscripts in the British Museum). There is a copy in the library of Trinity College, Dublin (H. l. 17. f. 116 b). The poem is a satire on six O'Haras who had plundered his house.

O'Higgin's verses are written in natural and not pedantic language, and most of them show a genuine vein of poetry, while they give a complete view of the learning, the habits, the lands, and the political views of an Irish hereditary poet, and of the rewards and dangers of his calling. He consistently advocated the laying aside of old feuds, the union of the Irish nations or clans, and the expulsion or extermination of the English. Sixteen other men of letters of his family are mentioned in the chronicles, of whom the most important were:

Tadhg Mór O'Higgin (d. 1316), poet, described by the chroniclers as 'a universal proficient in every branch of art appertaining to poetry.' He was tutor to Mughnus O'Connor Connacht, who died in 1293, He instructed him in warlike exercises, as well as in letters, and taught him to despise any bed-clothes but a shirt of mail. O'Higgin wrote 'Cach én mar a adhba' ('Every bird after his nest'), a poem of forty-two four-line stanzas, in the hectasyllabic metre known as rinnard, addressed to his pupil.

Tadhg óg O'Higgin (d. 1448), poet, son of Tadhg, son of Oillacolumb, the elder O'Higgin, was trained in the poetic art by his brother, Ferghal ruadh, chief of the O'Higgins, and became bard to Tadhg O'Connor Sligo, and afterwards from 1403 to 1410 to Tadhg MacMaelsbeachainn O'Kelly, chief of Ui Maine in Connaught. In 1397 he wrote 'Da roinn comhthroma ar chrich Neill' ('Two equal ports in the territory of Nial'), a poem of forty-seven stanzas, on the inauguration as O'Neill of Nial óg O'Neill, in which he explains that Ulster alone is equal to Connaught, Leinster, Munster, and Meath combined. He wrote another poem of thirty-six stanzas to the same chief, 'O naird tuaid tic in chabair' ('Help comes from the north'). In 1403 he wrote 'Mor mo chuid do chunnaid Thaidg' ('Great my share in the grief for Tadhg') on the death of O'Connor Sligo, and in 1410 one of forty stanzas on the death of Tadhg O'Kelly, 'Anois do tuigfide Tadhg' ('Now Tadhg might be understood'). He also wrote forty-one stanzas, 'Fuilngidh bar len a leth Chuinn' ('Endure your woe, O northern half of Ireland!'), on the dimth of Ulick Mac William lochtair, or Burke; a religious poem of thirty-one stanzas, 'Atait tri comhraic im chionn' ('Three combatants are before me'); and a lament of twenty-eight verses, 'Anocht sgaoiledh na scola' ('To-night the schools are loosed'), for his elder brother, Ferghal ruadh. This last was written when he was thirty years old. Domhnall O'Higgin (d. 1603), poet, born in Sligo, was son of Brian (J'lliggin, and is described in the 'Annals of the Four Masters' us 'professor of poetry to the schools of Ireland.' He wrote a poem of thirty-three stanzas in praise of Ian MacDonald, 'Misde nach édmar Eire' ('So much the worse that Ireland is not jealous'). He died on his return from a pilgrimage to Compostella.

Matbghamhain O'Higgin (fl. 1584), poet, was bard to the O'Bymea of Wicklow. He wrote a poem of 120 verses in praise of Leinster, and of Feidhlimidh O'Byme, 'Cred do chosg cogadh Laigheann' ('What has checked the war of Leinster?'); and a devotional poem, 'Naomhtha an obair iomradh De' ('A holy work it is to hold


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 discourse of God’), of which there is a copy in the British Museum (Egerton MS. 111).

Cormac O'Higgin (fl. 1591), poet, son of Gillacolumb O'Higgin, wrote a lament of forty-five stanza on the death of Sir Donnehadh óg O'Connor Sligo, ‘Sion choitchenn ohumaidh Ghsoidhel' ('Common blast of Irish sorrow').

Maolmuire O‘Higgin (d. 1591), poet, brother of Tadhg dill O‘Higgin, became archbishop of Tuam, was a friend of O'Connor Sligo, and died at Antwerp, alter visiting Rome, early in 1591. He wrote a touching poem of twelve verses on the uncertainty of life, even in the time between sowing corn and eating bread, ‘A fhir threbas in tulaig’ (‘O man that ploughest the hillside’), of which there is a copy in the British Museum (Egerton Ms. 111). He also wrote ‘A mir theidh go Iiodh funnidh’ (‘O man who goest to the land of sunset’), a poem in praise of Ireland, of 136 verses; and some religious poems.

Domhnall O'Higgin (fl. 1600), poet, son of Thomas O'Higgin, wrote a poem of 164 verses on the inauguration of Turlough Luineach O‘Neill, 'Do thog Eire fear gaire' (‘Ireland has chosen a watchman').

 O'HIGGINS, AMBROSIO,  (1720?–1801), viceroy of Peru, originally, was born about 1720, of humble parents, on the Summerhill estate, near Dangan Castle, co. Meath, and as s small boy used to carry letters to thepost for Lady Bective. He was sent to an uncle, a jesuit, in Cadiz, but, having no inclination for the church, went out with a small reel of rods to South America to try his fortune. On landed at Buenos Ayres, made his way across the pampas and cordilleras to Santiago, and thence to Lima, where he set up a stall under the platform of the cathedral, and hawked his goods as a pedlar, with little success. Subsequently he got leave to construct casuchas, or rest-places, in the cordillera, so as to open up a route between Chili and Mendoza, in which work he was employed about 1760. Ten years later the vieeroy of Chili sent him as a captain of cavalry against the Araucanian Indians, whom he defeated, and founded the fort of San Carlos, which still exists. He gained the goodwill of the Indians by his justice and humanity, and recovered some territory which the Spaniards had lost. In recognition of his services he was made a colonel 7 Sept. 1777, and soon after become a brigadier-general. In 1786 the viceroy Croix appointed him intendant of Concepcion. He entertained the French circumnavigator Galaup de la Pérouse with great courtesy when he visited Concepcion on his last voyage, He appears to have romanced to La Pérouse about his origin, as the Frenchman records that ‘Monsr. Higuins’ was one of those who suffered for their devotion to the Stuart cause. He founded the city of Sun Ambrosio do Ballenar, and constructed the road from Santiago to Valparaiso. In 1789 he became a major-general, and was appointed viceroy of Chili. At this time he prefixed the O' to his patronymic of Higgins. He sent home a sum of money to a London banking house for his relatives, and appointed as his almoner Father Kellet, the Irish priest of Summerhill, who reported that his kinsfolk were very poor and very improvident. In 1792 he rebuilt the city of Osorno, which had been burned by the Indians, and was created a marquis. In 1794 he became a lieutenant-general, and the year after viceroy of Peru. On 18 May 1796 he handed over the government of Chili to Rezabal y Ugarte, proceeded to Callao, and entered Lima in state on 24 July 1796. The eulogy pronounced at his public reception in the theatre of Lima, 10 Aug. 1796, was published (Brit. Mus.) Early in his vice-royalty he befriended his fellow-countrymen John or Juan Mackenna [q. v.], who thus commenced a distinguish career under his auspices.

When the was broke out between England and Spain in 1797, O'Higgins took active measures for the defence of the coast, strengthening Callao and erecting a fort at Pisco. During his brief administration he devoted his chief attention to the improvement of the lines of communication. He died suddenly st Lima, after a short illness, on 18 March 1801. He felt a natural son, Bemardo O'Higgins, born in 1780, and educated in England, who served on the popular side in Chili during the war of liberation, and became liberator of Chili and president of the congress. After passing many years in retirement, he died in 1846 (see, Historia General de Chile, 1891, and Brit. Mus. Cat.)


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 OHTHERE (fl. 880), maritime explorer, was a Norseman by birth, who entered the service of Ælfred the Great probably soon after the peace of Wedmore (878), or the frith of 886. He was rich, he tells us, when he came to seek King Alfred, in what was the chief wealth of the Northmen. For he had six hundred reindeer, all tamed by himself, a score of sheep, and one of swine; he even did a little tillage; 'and what he ploughed, he ploughed with horses.' He may possibly have been connected with the house of Ottar (Ohthere) Heimscé, mentioned in the 'Icelandic Land-nama-bok,' or Settler's Register. What we know of him for certain comes entirely from the account of himself and his Toyages that he gave 'his lord King Alfred.' This account appeared in the West-Saxon king's version of the universal history of Paulus Orosius, completed between 878 and 901, the year of Æfred's death. In it reference appears to be made to two distinct journeys made by Ohthere at the bidding of King Ælfred — one to the north, the other to the south. Both were probably undertaken between 880 and 900.

On his first journey, which he undertook for the objects of discovery and trade, Ohthere .started from his native district of Halogaland, the furthest of the Norse settlements towards Lapland, 'by the West Sea.' He wished to 'find out how far the country went on to the north, and whether any one lived north of the waste' that lay beyond Halogaland; he also went to find the walrus or 'horse whale,' because of the 'good bone in its teeth' and the usefulness of its hide for ship ropes.

To begin with, he sailed due north for three days, ' as far as the whale hunters «ver go,' and then beyond this for three days more, round the North Cape of Europe. Now the land began to turn eastward, and he stayed a little, waiting for a western wind, with the help of which he went eastward, Along the north coast of Lapland, for four days; and then, as the land began to run south, 'quite to the inland sea,' he sailed five days more before the north wind. Crossing what we now call the White Sea, he entered the mouth of the Dwina, close to the spot where Archangel was built in 1583, and where even then he found the country inhabited. Beween Halogaland and this point all was waste, except for a few hunters and fishers. Ohthere traded, as no English sailors and few Norsemen had done, with these 'Biarmians of the Dwina — Russians of 'Permia,' a district in the north-east of Russia — and they told him many stories about the country, which he leaves as doubtful, 'because he could not see the things they spoke of with his own eyes.' But he thought the language of these people was the same as that of the Finns. Beyond the White Sea he does not seem to have gone.

On his second voyage he started from Halogaland, north of Trondhjem, and reached a port on the south of Norway, called Sciringesheal, apparently in the fiord of Christiania, and thence sailed on to Haddeby, near Sleswick, 'where the English dwelt before they came into this country ' (Britain). The chief interest of the second journey is in relation to Ælfred's 'Description of Europe; 'for it helped the king to fix with remarkable accuracy, for the time, the localities of the people and countries of the European 'Northland.'

 O'HURLEY, DERMOT (1519?–1584), archbishop of Cashel, called in Irish Diarmait Ua Hurthuile, the son of William O'Hurley, by his wife, Honora O'Brien of the O'Briens of Thomond, was born about 1619. His father, a well-to-do farmer at Lycodoon in the parish of Knockea, near Limerick, also acted as agent for the Earl of Desmond. Being destined for a learned profession, he was sent, after receiving what education was possible for him in Ireland, to Louvain, where he took his degree with applause in the canon and civil law. Afterwards he appears to have gone to Paris, and about 1559 he was appointed professor of philosophy at Louvain. Subsequently he held the chair of canon law for four years at Rheims, where he acquired an unhappy notoriety for contracting debts. He then proceeded to Rome, where he became deeply engaged in the plans of the Irish exiles against Elizabeth's government. On 11 Sept. 1581 he was appointed by Gregory XIII to the see of Cashel, vacant since 1578 by the death of Maurice Fitzgibbon, and on 27 Nov. he received the pallium in full consistory. He was a mere layman at the time, and a contemporary congratulates him on the triple honour thus conferred on him: — Quid dicam? vel quid mirer? nova culmina? mirer Uno te passu tot saliisse gradus! Una sacerdotem creat, una et episcopon bora, Archiepiscopon et te facit bora simul. In the following summer he set out from Rome to take possession of his diocese, proceeding by way of Rheims, where he discharged his debts 'recte et gratiose,' and where he was in August detained for a time


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 by a severe illness. He embarked at Cherbourg, and landed at Skerries, a little to the north of Dublin, about the beginning of September. His baggage and papers he had sent by another vessel, which was captured by pirates, and in this way government was apprised of his intentions, and caused a sharp outlook to be kept for him at the principal ports. Disguising himself, and attended by only one companion. Father John Dillon, he made his way to Waterford; but being recognised there by a government agent, he retraced his steps to Slane Castle, where he lay for some time concealed in a secret chamber. Becoming more confident, he appeared at the public table, where his conversation aroused the suspicions of the chancellor. Sir Robert Dillon. Finding himself suspected, he proceeded by a circuitous route to Carrick-on-Suir, where, with Ormonde's help, he was shortly afterwards, about the beginning of October, captured. He was taken to Dublin, and committed to prison. Being brought before the lords-justices Archbishop Loft us and Sir Henry Wallop for examination, little of importance was elicited from him, though he admitted that he was 'one of the House of Inciuisition,' and his papers revealed his correspondence with the Earl of Desmond and viscount Baltinglas. Walsingham recommended the use of 'torture, or any other severe manner of proceeding to gain his knowledge of all foreign practices against her majesty's state;' but the lords justices, especially Loftus, were loth, out of respect for his position and learning, to resort to such extreme measures, and, on the ground that they had neither rack nor other instrument of terror, advised that he should be sent to London. Walsingham, however, impressed with the dangerous nature of his mission, suggested toasting his feet against the fire with hot boots, and a commission having been made out to Waterhouse and Fenton for that purpose, O'Hurley was subjected to the most excruciating torture, He bore the ordeal with extraordinary patience and heroism, and was taken back to 'prison more dead than alive. Torture having failed, and government being advised that ' an indictment for treason committed abroad would not lie, and fearing to run the risk of a trial by jury, O'Hurley, after nine months' imprisonment, was condemned by martial law. The warrant for his execution was signed by Loft us and Wallop on 20 June 1584, and next day, very early in the morning, he was executed, being hanged for greater ignominy with a withen rope, at a lonely spot in the outskirts of the city, probably near where the Catholic University Church now stands in St. Stephen's Green. His remains were interred at the place of execution, but were privately removed by William Fitzsimon, a citizen of Dublin, who placed them in a wooden urn, and deposited them in the church of St. Kevin. His grave became famous among the faithful for several miracles reputed to have taken place there. According to Stanihurst (Descript. of Ireland, ch. vii.), one Derby Hurley, 'a civilian and philosopher,' wrote 'In Aristotelis Physica.'

 O'HUSSEY, EOCHAIDH (fl. 1630), Irish poet, in Irish Ua hEodhasa, belonged to a northern family of hereditary poets and historians, of which the earliest famous member was Aenghus, who died in 1360. Another Aenghus died in 1480, and in 1518 Ciothruadh, son of Athairne O'Hussey, whose poem, 'Buime na bhfileadh fuil Ruarcach' ('Nurse of the poets, the blood of the O'Rourkes'), is still extant. Soon after his time the family became chief poets to Maguire of Fermanagh. Eochaidh began to write when very young (in 1593), and his earliest poem is on the escape of Aedh ruadh O'Donnell from Dublin Castle in 1592. It contains 228 verses. He wrote four poems, of 228 verses in all, on Cuchonacht Maguire, lord of Fermanagh, and seven poems on his son, Hugh Maguire [q. v.] He travelled and, like all the poets, wrote panegyrics on his hosts. Of this kind are his poems, of two hundred verses, on Tadhg O'Rourke of Breifne; on Eoghan óg MacSweeny of Donegal; on Feidhlimidh O'Beirne, and on Richard de Burgo Mac William of Connaught. He wrote a poetic address of 152 verses to Hugh O'Neill, the great earl of Tyrone [q. v.], and


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 OKE, GEORGE COLWELL (1821–1874), legal writer, born at St. Columb Major, Cornwall, on 8 Feb. 1821, was son of William Jane Oke. He commenced life as a solicitor's accountant, but by 1848 was acting as assistant-clerk to the Newmarket bench of justices. In 1855 he became assistant-clerk to the lord mayor of London, and in 1864 succeeded to the chief clerkship. Oke's knowledge of criminal law and of its practical application brought him a high reputation. He died on 9 Jan. 1874 at Rosedale, St. Mary's Road, Peckham, and was buried on the 15th at Nunhead cemetery. He married first Eliza Neile Hawkins (d. 1868), and secondly, on 20 April 1870, Georgiana Percy, stepdaughter of G. M. Harvey, of Upper Norwood.

Oke was author of many standard legal works, including: He wrote also 'The Magisterial Laws of London,' which was announced in 1863 to be published by subscription, but it never appeared.
 * 1) 'The Synopsis of Summary Convictions,' 8vo, 1858, better known by the title of its second edition (1849) as ‘Oke's Magisterial Synopsis' (14th edit. by Mr. H. L. Stephen, 1898).
 * 2) 'An Improved System of Solicitors’ Book-keeping,' 8vo, 1848.
 * 3) 'Oke's Magisterial Formulist,’ 8vo, 1850; (7th edit. by Mr. H.L. Stephen, 1893).
 * 4) 'The Laws of Turnpike Roads,' 12mo, 1854 (and 1860).
 * 5) 'The Friendly Societies’ Manual,' 12mo, 1855; withdrawn from circulation owing to its infringing the copyright of another work.
 * 6) ‘A Handy Book of the Game and Fishery Laws,' 12mo, 1861 (enlarged editions by J. W. Willis Bund).
 * 7) 'Justices' Clerks Accounts,' 8vo., 1863.
 * 8) 'London Police and Magistracy,' 8vo, 1863.
 * 9) 'Friendly Societies' Accounts,' 12mo, 1864.
 * 10) ‘The Laws as to Licensing Inns,’ 8vo, 1872 (2nd edit, by W. Cunningham Glen, 1874).

O'KEARNEY or CARNEY (O'CEARNUIDH), JOHN (d. 1600?), Irish divine. [See .]

O'KEEFE, EOGHAN (1656–1726), Irish poet, was born at Glenville, co. Cork, in 1656. He married early, and had a son, whom he brought up to be a priest, but who died at Rochelle in France in 1709 while studing theology. He wrote a poem of fifty-six verses, 'An tan nach faicim fear’ (‘When I do not see a man'), on the death of this son. His wife had died in 1707, and Eoghan himself entered the church and became parish priest of Doneraile, co. Cork. He was president of the bardic meetings held at Charleville co. Cork, till his ordination. He wrote ‘Ar treasgradh i nEacdhruim do shiol Eibhir' (‘All that at Aughrim are laid low of the seed of Eber’), a poem of eight stanzas, lamenting the defeat and denouncing the victors. It has been printed, with a translation, by S. H. O'Grady. He also wrote many other poems which were current in the south of Ireland as long as Irish was generally read there. He died on 5 April 1726, and was buried at Oldcourt near Doneraile. A local stonecutter named Donough 0'Daly carved an epitaph on his tombstone, which states that he was a wise and amiable man, an active parish priest, and a learned scholarly poet ‘a bpriomhtbeangadh a dhuithche agus a shinnsear' (‘in the original language of his country and his ancestors’). Dr. John O'Brien, bishop of Cloyne, also wrote a short epitaph in verse.

O'KEEFFE, JOHN (1747–1833), dramatist, descended from an old catholic stock which had gradually sunk under the burden of the penal laws, was born in Abbey Street, Dublin, on 24 June 1747. His father was a native of King's County, his mother an O'Connor of co. Wexford. He was educated by Father Austin, a jesuit, who kept a school in Saul's Court. He afterwards studied art in the Dublin school of design, together with a brother Daniel. The latter exhibited fourteen miniatures at the Royal Academy, London, between 1771 and 1786 (, Catalogue). But John had meanwhile been attracted to the stage by a perusal of Farquhar's plays. At fifteen he attempted a comedy—‘The Gallant,’ in five acts—and he afterwards obtained an engagement as an actor with [q. v.], the Dublin lessee, after reciting to him some passages from Jaffier's part. He remained a member of Mossop's stock company for twelve years. In the season of 1770–1 he played Gratiano at the Capel Street Theatre to Macklin's Shylock. But when he had reached his twenty-third year his eyesight began to fail, an affliction against which he long struggled, but, as in the case of his dramatic contemporary, [q. v.], it ended in complete blindness about 1797.

While still an actor, O'Keeffe tried his hand at playwriting, and in 1773 his farce ‘Tony Lumpkin in Town,’ founded on


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THE DIARY OF A NOBODY. off, and took it down to the office for Mr. Perkupp to see, but he again repeated that he could trust me.

Gowing called in the evening, and I was obliged to tell him about Lupin and Mr. Perkupp; and, to my surprise, he was quite inclined to side with Lupin. Carrie joined in, and said she thought I was taking much too melancholy a view of it. Gowing produced a pint sample-bottle of Madeira, which had been given him, which he said would get rid of the blues. I dare say it would have done so if there had been more of it; but as Gowing helped himself to three glasses, it did not leave much for Carrie and me to get rid of the blues with.

15.—A day of great anxiety, for I expected every moment a letter from Mr. Crowbillon. Two letters came in the evening one for me, with "Crowbillon Hall" printed in large gold-and-red letters on the back of the envelope; the other for Lupin, which I felt inclined to open and read, as it had "Gylterson, Sons, and Co. Limited," which was the recommended firm. I trembled as I opened Mr. Crowbillon's letter. I wrote him sixteen pages, closely written; he wrote me less than sixteen lines. 220

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THE DIARY OF A NOBODY. His letter was: "Sir,—I totally disagree with you. Your son, in the course of five minutes' conversation, displayed more intelligence than your firm has done during the last five years. Yours faithfully, Gilbert E. Gillam O. Crowbillon."

What am I to do? Here is a letter that I dare not show to Mr. Perkupp, and would not show to Lupin for anything. The crisis had yet to come; for Lupin arrived, and, opening his letter, showed a cheque for £25 as a commission for the recommendation of Mr. Crowbillon, whose custom to Mr. Perkupp is evidently lost for ever. Cummings and Gowing both called, and both took Lupin's part. Cummings went so far as to say that Lupin would make a name yet. I suppose I was melancholy, for I could only ask: "Yes, but what sort of a name?"

16.—I told Mr. Perkupp the contents of the letter in a modified form, but Mr. Perkupp said: "Pray don't discuss the matter; it is at an end. Your son will bring his punishment upon himself." I went home in the evening, thinking of the hopeless future of Lupin. I found him in most extravagant spirits and in evening dress. He threw a letter on the table for me to read. 221

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THE DIARY OF A NOBODY. To my amazement, I read that Gylterson and Sons had absolutely engaged Lupin at a salary of £200 a year, with other advantages. I read the letter through three times and thought it must have been for me. But there it was—Lupin Pooter—plain enough. I was silent. Lupin said: "What price Perkupp now? You take my tip, Guv.—'off' with Perkupp and freeze on to Gylterson, the firm of the future! Perkupp's firm? The stagnant dummies have been standing still for years, and now are moving back. I want to go on. In fact I must go off, as I am dining with the Murray Poshs to-night."

In the exuberance of his spirits he hit his hat with his stick, gave a loud war "Whoo-oop," jumped over a chair, and took the liberty of rumpling my hair all over my forehead, and bounced out of the room, giving me no chance of reminding him of his age and the respect which was due to his parent. Gowing and Cummings came in the evening, and positively cheered me up with congratulations respecting Lupin.

Gowing said: "I always said he would get on, and, take my word, he has more in his head than we three put together."

Carrie said: "He is a second Hardfur Huttle." 222

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 CHAPTER XXII

.—We went to Sutton after dinner to have meat-tea with Mr. and Mrs. James. I had no appetite, having dined well at two, and the entire evening was spoiled by little Percy—their only son—who seems to me to be an utterly spoiled child.

Two or three times he came up to me and deliberately kicked my shins. He hurt me once so much that the tears came into my eyes. I gently remonstrated with him, and Mrs. James said: "Please don't scold him; I do not believe in being too severe with young children. You spoil their character."

Little Percy set up a deafening yell here, and when Carrie tried to pacify him, he slapped her face.

I was so annoyed, I said: "That is not my idea of bringing up children, Mrs. James."

Mrs. James said: "People have different 223

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THE DIARY OF A NOBODY. ideas of bringing up children even your son Lupin is not the standard of perfection."

A Mr. Mezzini (an Italian, I fancy) here took Percy in his lap. The child wriggled and kicked and broke away from Mr. Mezzini, saying: "I don't like you you've got a dirty face."

Master Percy Edgar Smith James.

224

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THE DIARY OF A NOBODY. A very nice gentleman, Mr. Birks Spooner, took the child by the wrist and said: "Come here, dear, and listen to this."

He detached his chronometer from the chain and made his watch strike six.

To our horror, the child snatched it from his hand and bounced it down upon the ground like one would a ball.

Mr. Birks Spooner was most amiable, and said he could easily get a new glass put in, and did not suppose the works were damaged.

To show you how people's opinions differ, Carrie said the child was bad-tempered, but it made up for that defect by its looks, for it was—in her mind—an unquestionably beautiful child.

I may be wrong, but I do not think I have seen a much uglier child myself. That is my opinion.

30.—I don't know why it is, but I never anticipate with any pleasure the visits to our house of Mrs. James, of Sutton. She is coming again to stay for a few days. I said to Carrie this morning, as I was leaving. "I wish, dear Carrie, I could like Mrs. James better than I do."

Carrie said: "So do I, dear; but as for years I have had to put up with Mr. Gowing. who is vulgar, and Mr. Cummings, who is kind but most uninteresting, I am sure, dear, you won't 225

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THE DIARY OF A NOBODY. mind the occasional visits of Mrs. James, who has more intellect in her little finger than both your friends have in their entire bodies."

I was so entirely taken back by this onslaught on my two dear old friends, I could say nothing, and as I heard the 'bus coming, I left with a hurried kiss—a little too hurried, perhaps, for my upper lip came in contact with Carrie's teeth and slightly cut it. It was quite painful for an hour afterwards. When I came home in the evening I found Carrie buried in a book on Spiritualism, called There is no Birth, by Florence Singleyet. I need scarcely say the book was sent her to read by Mrs. James, of Sutton. As she had not a word to say outside her book, I spent the rest of the evening altering the stair-carpets, which are beginning to show signs of wear at the edges.

Mrs. James arrived and, as usual, in the evening took the entire management of everything. Finding that she and Carrie were making some preparations for table-turning, I thought it time really to put my foot down. I have always had the greatest contempt for such nonsense, and put an end to it years ago when Carrie, at our old house, used to have séances every night with poor Mrs. Fussters (who is now dead). If I could see any use in it, I would 226

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THE DIARY OF A NOBODY. not care. As I stopped it in the days gone by I determined to do so now.

I said: "I am very sorry Mrs. James, but I totally disapprove of it, apart from the fact that I receive my old friends on this evening."

Mrs. James said: "Do you mean to say you haven't read There is no Birth?" I said: "No, and I have no intention of doing so." Mrs. James seemed surprised and said: "All the world is going mad over the book." I responded rather cleverly: "Let it. There will be one sane man in it, at all events."

Mrs. James said she thought it was very unkind, and if people were all as prejudiced as I was, there would never have been the electric telegraph or the telephone.

I said that was quite a different thing.

Mrs. James said sharply: "In what way, pray—in what way? "

I said: "In many ways."

Mrs. James said: "Well, mention one way."

I replied quietly: "Pardon me, Mrs. James; I decline to discuss the matter. I am not interested in it."

Sarah at this moment opened the door and showed in Cummings, for which I was thankful, for I felt it would put a stop to this foolish table-turning. But I was entirely mistaken; for, on the subject being opened again, 227

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THE DIARY OF A NOBODY. Cummings said he was most interested in Spiritualism, although he was bound to confess he did not believe much in it; still, he was willing to be convinced.

I firmly declined to take any part in it, with the result that my presence was ignored. I left the three sitting in the parlour at a small round table which they had taken out of the drawing-room. I walked into the hall with the ultimate intention of taking a little stroll. As I opened the door, who should come in but Gowing!

On hearing what was going on, he proposed that we should join the circle and he would go into a trance. He added that he knew a few things about old Cummings, and would invent a few about Mrs. James. Knowing how dangerous Gowing is, I declined to let him take part in any such foolish performance. Sarah asked me if she could go out for half an hour, and I gave her permission, thinking it would be more comfortable to sit with Gowing in the kitchen than in the cold drawing-room. We talked a good deal about Lupin and Mr. and Mrs. Murray Posh, with whom he is as usual spending the evening. Gowing said: "I say, it wouldn't be a bad thing for Lupin if old Posh kicked the bucket."

My heart gave a leap of horror, and I rebuked 228

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