ghty-five as the minimum strength
of the National party. Mr. Gladstone will now be gratified to learn that
in response to his late Midlothian addresses, this nation has spoken out
in a manner which cannot be falsified or gainsaid, demanding the
restoration of its stolen Parliament. The loyalists, with all the power
of England at their back, and money galore at their command, can point
to only one whole county out of the thirty-two which has remained solid
for the Union. Antrim alone sends up a solid Tory representation, and
with it the only vestige that is left of the "Imperial Province" is
some fragments of Down, Derry and Armagh--in all of which the
Nationalists also have won a seat. On the other hand, in four Northern
counties--Monaghan, Cavan, Fermanagh and Donegal, the loyalists have not
carried a single division, and won only one out of four in Tyrone. How
much more "unity" do the English want? The excuse hitherto has been that
Home Rule could not be granted because Ireland was itself divided on the
subject; but even that wretched pretence is now forever at an end, for
almost since the dawn of history no such practical unanimity was ever
shown by any nation.

Rapidity of Time's Flight.

Swiftly glide the years of our lives. They follow each other like the
waves of the ocean. Memory calls up the persons we once knew--the scenes
in which we were once actors. They appear before the mind like the
phantoms of a night vision. Behold the boy rejoicing in the gayety of
his soul. The wheels of Time cannot move too rapidly for him. The light
of hope dances in his eyes; the smile of expectation plays with his
lips. He looks forward to long years of joy to come; his spirit burns
within him when he hears of great men and mighty deeds; he longs to
mount the hill of ambition, to tread the path of honor, to hear the
shouts of applause. Look at him again. He is now in the meridian of
life; care has stamped its wrinkles upon his brow; disappointment has
dimmed the lustre of his eye; sorrow has thrown its gloom upon his
countenance. He looks backward upon the waking dreams of his youth, and
sighs for their futility. Each revolving year seems to diminish
something from his little stock of happiness, and discovers that the
season of youth, when the pulse of anticipation beats high, is the only
season of enjoyment. Who is he of aged locks? His form is bent and
totters, his footsteps move but rapidly toward the tomb. He looks b