Worcester daily spy. [volume] (Worcester [Mass.]) 1850-1888, 1863-09-03

over his head, and fired in the air. Captain
HEREFORD took deliberate aim, ard fired two
seconds afterwards. The instant he had done
so, Lord Charles leapt a foot of the ground,
and then bringing his heels sharply down up
on the turf, t0ppled over headlong on his left
shoulder, and lay perfectly still.
Austin was beside him in an instant, but he
was quite dead. Austin turned the heavy
head over and saw the last sign of life which
appeared in that beautiful face. Two nerves
in the holiows beneath his eyes quivered and
throbbed for half second, and then stopped
forever.
If were to pile Pelion upon Ossa with
grand words, l could give you no idea of the
catastrophe more terrible than this. Lord
Charles Barty was shot through the heart, and
was lying stone-dead at the feet OF Austin FL
hot
Austin's whole life was changed by this duel
1t sent him to prison, and condemned Inn to
''social and political DEATH but nobler ca
reer than any public one opened for him, in
soothing the misrries and relieving the mis-
fortunes Of the suffering and starving victims
of the famine that followed the failure of the
potato crop in England and Scotland. Then
with his wife, (won at last, he settled himself
down in the midst OF the unfortunate people,
and the years flowed quietly away IN the prac-
tice of that manhood which trial had formed
and perfected.
Some Of the scenes of that terrible blight
and famine are well described In one of the
Scotch islands we have this picture =
Sweet summer settled down upon the island.
The old tolkS had tlair f.hronif
Rheumatism; the young men stayed late on
the quay, and the young women stayed with
them. ElSpeth, the beauty of the island, did
not bring the COWS home by herself now;
when she came down the glen there was IA!
ways some one with her.
"a voice talked with her meath the shadows cool
More sweet TO her than song.'
The potatoes throve bravely. Before you
were prepared for it, the plants were foot
high, covered with purple and white blossom.
And the children gathered them; the purple
ones were my L ddy Mac ravish's roses, and
the white ones were the lilies which the saints
in heaven carried in their hands before the
throne We ken.
1t was pleasant summer, and the pOtatoe
harvest promised bravey. For years the
island had not been so merry; there was but
one anxious face on it, and that was Mr.. Mon
roes. He had been warned of something
which the others knew not of.
One day III July he went to see one Of the
oldest of his flock,-a very old woman, with
very quiet, beautiful face; a woman who
was calmly assured of her salvation, that
heaven had begun with her in this world. l
talked with such a woman in the west last
year and very awful and beautiful that talk
was, although the doctricns which she held
were as far apart from my own as are the
poles.
Mr.. Monroe found the old woman sitting
in the sun, knitting, and looking at the po-
tatops.
'God save you, minister" said the old w0-
man in Gaelic. evil this brave weather not
serve to raise the cloud from your brow?
Am | not worthy to share the secret trou-
bic which makes wrinkles on the forehead
of one whom | shall wait 10 welcome heav-
en?"
"Why should you share it !" said Mir. Mon
roe, i'll the same language: "why should |
darken the glorious evening of such a life as
yours, before the sunset comes? | will not.
For sixty years you have known nothing but
poverty and hard work; your husband, your
son, and two OF your grandsons, have sailed
away, and the sea has deyoured them. Shall
throw II shadow over the few days which re-
man between you and your rest? No"
There is a cloud in the heaven some
where, said the old woman; your eyes are
younger than mine, and you see it, though |
do not. 1t will burst over Ronadsay know
that by your face. Minister, would be sorry
to take my reward before my labor was done.
Let me share your sorrow. The tide flows
up and down the Kyle, as of old, and the full
moon floods the creeks and caves under the
cape. Ben More stands firm in the west
What is your sorrow, minister?
81 cannot tell you"
''See the brave potatoes. Raise the cloud
from your brow, minister, and look at them.
The bravest crop for many years. Raise the
cloud from yonr brow, and thank the Lord
with me. See, they are harvesting already"
'Harvesting!''
$50 and see"
He went in among the potatoes. The chill
dren had done wedding, and were making
nosegays Of the potato-iowerS
''here's minister! See here, sir, these
ones are the French roses from my lady's
garden at Glenstora, and these white ones are
the lilies of heaven lis Il Draw game min
lister, is it MOP"
Mr.. Monroe looked at the potato hahn. The
potatoes were harvesting with vengeance;
the leaves were getting yellow and curling up
black at the edges. He clasped his hands
together and said; ''Thy will be done, o
Lord!"
Mr. Monroe had been warned of this. He
had hoped and hoped, and even now he con-
tnued to hope. They dug their potatoes up.
One half of them were rotten, the rest rotted
in the places where they were stored;
''graves," as we call them in England At
first they hoped that they might pull through
the winter, and have seed for next year. The
hope soon left them; in the first week in No.
vember potatoes were cheaper in Ronaldsay
than any one could recollect. They were all
in their little market at once. But at the end
of the month"; when the leading Protectionist
was trying to deny the whole business, there
were no potatoes whatever. The potato crop
had failed.
The old folks died first. That was as it
should be. One could not complain at that
one might envy them, but one could not COM
plain. They had had sixty years of this sort
of thing, and it was hard if they were not to
enter into their rest before the misery grew to
its full head. The loss Of the dear old faces
at the fireside was very sad, and the hearts OF
those who were left behind starving ached
sorely; but God had taken them from the
misery which grew more terrible as the win
ter went on, and he knew best.
Then the children began to die, and this
was very bitter,-very. very hard to bear.
The bonny, bare-legged little things, who had
done no wrong; who had padded in the surf,
that made wreatls of those internal potato
flowers, and called them the lilies OF heaven
Twas weary Halloween for the poor souls.
ne men who dug the graves noticed that day