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to all, the message of repentance; to none, the message of worldly ambition.
"Who is this man?" asked the Pharisee, half in interest, half in contempt, as he and his followers took their journey toward Jerusalem.
"He is of the Priests," answered a scribe. "His father was Zacharias, of the course of Abia. Why she not in his priestly office, instead of making turmoil by his strange preaching?"
"Is he not this John?" asked another, "whose birth set the hill country of Judea in commotion?" "He is," answered the Pharisee. "And how ridiculous the fulfilment of a braggart prophecy! We thought a new Maccabeaus was coming to dispute the rule of the alien." He laughed aloud. "And now he says he is 'a voice,' crying the way before another! Out upon such puny claims. What hope has Israel with no better leader than this?"
As he spoke,the party came to
a turn in the road and overtook two travelers journeying in the same direction. It was Marcus and Joseph. They overheard the remark of the Pharisee, and at once became interested in the discussion.
"The fame of this prophet has penetrated into the palace of Herod Antipas," said Marcus. "What are your hopes of him? What is his message?"
The Pharisee answered him; and as the party journeyed toward Jerusalem they discussed the personality of the man, his message of repentance, his censure of Jews and Romans alike.
And the light of faith grew brighter and brighter in the eyes of the maiden, intensified by the dark background of her father's unbelief. As her face glowed with the spiritual hope which John's teachings inspired, Joseph was transfixed with admiration. He thought he had never seen a face more beautiful.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Valeria DeMude Kelsey
Ice-bound and sternly cold is earth; the trees
Some hearts are so: landlocked and proudly cold.
Which, greatly flowing, frees the hard and cold:
Irish Village and McKinley's Cottage
at the Franco-British Exposition.
"Bally Maclinton" is the elastic, Gaelic title over a castellated entrance-gate of one the most important and facinating features of the great Exhibition, which, under other auspices, re-opens its doors to the world's visitors to London the coming spring. Its ultimate object is to aid the crusade promoted by the Duchess of Aberdeen against that scourge in Ireland of recent years, tuberculosis. To this the whole proceeds of the exhibit are devoted. Thoroughly organized and picturesque as it is it will have the wide effect of increasing towards Ireland and its people that kindly feeling which nearly always results from the better understanding of a thing with increase of knowledge. To all who are in any degree attracted to Ireland by some sociation of poetry or song, or by its troubled romantic history, a stroll through this "town of the Maclintons" will afford more insight into various features of the country than it would be possible otherwise to obtain save by a visit to the Emerald Isle itself. Ireland, of to-day, with its tangible hopes for the future, and Ireland of the legendary past, are represented through what is genuine and typical. Much of the impressively natural effect results from there being no overcrowding of what is exhibited. Each of the arts and industries represented has a special place allotted, and the model houses and replicas of ancient buildings loom in relative
juxtaposition where they seem to belong.
The massive entrance-gate, with its portcullis, dates from the sixteenth century, and takes us to the nerce times of the doughty Earl of Essex and "Red Hugh O' Neill." Next to attract attention is one of those Round Towers frequently found in Ireland, built of rough stone in such fashion as to have withstood time's ravages for a thousand years. No man knows their ancient uses, but archaeologists suggest that they were the abodes of the anchorite brethren of St. Simeon Stylites who probably flourished on "The Isle of Saints" at a certain period, or that the towers, 90 feet high, were used as places of retreat from enemies, the entrance being always several feet from the ground. Alongside the tower are the ruined walls of an ancient church, with a beautiful surmounted archway, adorned with scroll-work, a fine specimen of Hibernian-Romanesque architecture. Inside the archway is a stone slab, oval at the head, marked with a cross, and inscribed with the name Patric. This is an exact reproduction of the boulder erected over the traditional grave of Ireland's missionary saint, reminding us of the means whereby the country was once "a land of light and learning." Against an outer wall of the roofless church is an upright memorial tablet, upon which is a device representing the early form of scissors. This is emblematic of womanhood, and
is said to betoken the tomb of a lady of rank. One has to journey through the village street, past a glowing forge, and straw-roofed buildings with busy interiors to reach "the Blarney Stone," which is of the same durable material as the Round Tower. Midway of Midway of the village is a beautiful Celtic cross with steps, a replica of that standing in the home-village of the McClintons-the promoters of "Ballymaclinton-in Tyrone, landmark as eloquent as the wayside shrines of Italy or France.
The village hall, a modern model of such, is the scene of a continuous entertainment, consisting of songs, dances, plays and instrumental music, each item being typically Irish in character. The stage on which the performances take place represents the interior of an Irish cottage, with a little realistic scenery such as a stone hearth, fender and shovel, surmounted by a mantelpiece on which a duster is carelessly flung beside a convivial-looking bottle. Against this background stand thoroughbred Irish men, women, and girls, the latter attired in the bright red cloak and short green skirt of "the colleens," over 160 of whom, variously employed, give life and color to the village. The dances are such as could only have originated with a quickpulsed, sprightly people. An Irish jig, danced by a man, is an amazing performance of agile movement, emphasized at intervals by the rhythmic tapping of the heels on the floor. Skirt dances by two young girls are hardly less fraught with physical exertion. The wildly stirring music of the Irish bag-pipes seems an aggressive version of these excited dances put into sound. And the songs-one could listen to song after song sung with natural ex
pression in the freshly melodious voices. These songs, grave and gay, are an eloquent epitome of a nation's history. Phases of dire oppression, brooding, hot-headed rebellion, exile, the tragedy of poverty, with its heart-breaking sequel of leave-take, and the irrepressible sparkle of a people's wit are all given vent in them. In some cases the play of facial expression and the natural charm of manner of the red-cloaked colleen adds much to the effect. "Rory O'More," for instance, is sung with inimitable archness and modesty, while a jolly Irish priest among the audience applauds with
a face that shines like the full moon. "Off to Philadelphia" is sun by a baritone with gray Irish eyes. Sung in such manner that the stone heart becomes the scene of the leave-take, and we have to brush away the brimming tears.
On emerging from the concerthall, the sun's golden beams have given place to illuminated night, and the jaunting car, laden with sight-seers, is being driven through the village by a cheery Andy who has a plenteous stock of witty brogue at his tongue's end. The form of perpetual motion a ride in this car realizes, together with the company of its driver, would be the best antidote imaginable for a pessimistic theory of the universe.
Ballymaclinton has its own art exhibit. Herein are hung over sixty pictures, all by artists who are Irish or of Irish descent. Some of these pictures are lent by the Dublin corporation, while others have been brought from the Luxumborg. Two of the latter are by Mr. John Lavery, "Spring" and its companion picture, "Summer," representing two lissome women, delightful in contrast of mood. Spring is a high-bred maiden with
glossy ringlets, clad in shimmering white, caressingly holding an armful of May blossoms, while she ponders with visionary inward. gaze at the wonders of the world around her. Summer is a genial Bohemian. With a gown loosely thrown over a tight-fitting bathing-suit, a Japanese parasol tilted over her shoulder, she smiles in frank delight at the light and warmth of mere existence. Yet there is something visionary in her smile.
The courteous manager accompanied me through the various buildings devoted to national industries. How interesting to watch the weaver of home-spun cloth, before his large frame, which differs little, perhaps, from that used by Silas Marner, while his pile of guineas grew until they were enchanged for the golden ringlets of a little child. The deft
movements are repeated with unceasing regularity, and the wool is transformed into warm, close tweed to withstand wind and weather, before our eyes. In another building tulip-cheeked colleens with black or auburn hair falling over their shoulders are busy at a somewhat simpler frame weaving bright-patterned rugs. Other colleens decorate dainty articles with effective colored pokerwork, or preside over the various articles sold in the bazaar. Everything here is of Irish workmanship, and amongst the useful and ornamental things displayed are claret-colored hooded cloaks, such as the colleens wear, rosary-beads, sacred statues in plaster, blackthorns or shillelahs, and china embellished with the Celtic scroll.
Maclinton's Soap Works, where greenish, waxy-looking material is being compressed between great