Margaret takes in several French newspapers. We are reading in the Ouvrier, Les Faucheurs de la Mort—the “Mowers of Death”—a historical drama of unhappy Poland. It is heartrending. Poland and Ireland, the two martyrs, understand each other. Will not God raise them up a liberator?
Darling Kate, what benedictions are showered upon you in return for your liberalities! What touching questions are put to me! O these good people! how I love them.
For the first time I am mistress of the house. René calms my scruples, and tells me that he is proud of me. O the evening
prayers in our own tongue! Yesterday I thought I saw you in your old place, and nearly cried out.
Send me your good angel, O best-beloved of sisters! Send him to me in the land of O’Connell—
“First flower of the earth, first gem of the sea.”
Dear Kate, I am going to enclose in my letter some beautiful lines by Marie Jenna, the sweet poetess who delights me so much. This poetry is almost Irish to my heart:
Le Retour.
Oui, je te reconnais, domaine de mon père,
Vieux château, champs fleuris, murs tapissés de lierre,