upon the conclusion of which, we take our
departure, deeply and favorably impressed with our visit to this
monastery, which stands alone, in the Maritime Provinces of the Canadian
Dominion, and sincerely grateful, for being enabled to see with our own
eyes the works of those much-abused monks, who in general are so
frequently defamed by the thoughtless boys who write for the secular
press, and by the equally empty-headed old women--of both sexes--who
write for that class of periodical which by a curious misnomer is
designated _religious_. These are the people, who, it is to be feared,
shut their eyes to the truth, lest they should be compelled to
acknowledge it.

In the face of so much prejudice, it is pleasant to be able to record
that quite recently some Protestant clergymen visited the monastery, and
did not refrain from expressing their honest and undisguised admiration
for what they beheld.

J. W. O'RYAN.

Gladstone at Emmet's Grave.

HOW THE UNMARKED TOMBSTONE OF THE MARTYR LOOKED.

The day Mr. Gladstone went to Dublin to receive the freedom of the city,
which the town council had unanimously agreed to confer upon him, he
spent a day in the docks and courts and in visiting St. Michael's
Church--a place full of historical interest. On the vestry table lie two
casts of the heads of the brothers Shears, who were beheaded in the
rebellion of 1798. Such are the properties of the soil in the cemetery
that the bodies of those are as perfect as the day on which they were
hanged.

The church itself is eight hundred years old, having been built by a
Danish bishop during the ascendency of his race.

Mr. Gladstone examined the communion plate, some of which came out of
the spoils of the Spanish Armada.

But these were light trivialities! The grave of Robert Emmet is here.
"Let no man mark my tomb," said he, "until my country takes her place
among the nations of the earth."

Mr. Gladstone stood beside the rough granite, unchiselled, unlettered,
silent slab. No name, no date, no word of sorrow, of hope. The sides are
clipped and hacked, for emigrants have come from afar to take to their
home in the new world bits of the tomb of Robert Emmet. How he comes to
lie here is simply said. When his head was cut off in Thomas Street,
his body was taken to Bully's Acre,--what a name!--and buried.

Rev. Mr. Dobbyn, a sympathizer in the cause, was then Rector of St.
Michael's; he ordered the body to