anxious friend, he said: "The state of Ireland is
very greatly improved." Ardent Liberals on both sides of the Channel
shared this sanguine faith, but they were doomed to a cruel
disappointment. On the 6th of May, the Queen performed the public
ceremony of dedicating Epping Forest, then lately rescued from
depredation, to the service of the public. It was a forward spring; the
day was bright, and the forest looked more beautiful than anything that
Dore ever painted. I was standing in the space reserved for the House of
Commons, by W. H. O'Sullivan, M.P. for the County of Limerick. He was an
ardent Nationalist, but recent events had touched his heart, and he
overflowed with friendly feeling. "This is a fine sight," he said to
me, "but, please God, we shall yet see something like it in Ireland. We
have entered at last upon the right path. You will hear no more of the
Irish difficulty." Within an hour of the time at which he spoke, the
newly-appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland--the gallant and high-minded
Lord Frederick Cavendish--and the Under Secretary, Mr. Burke, were
stabbed to death in the Phoenix Park at Dublin, and the "Irish
difficulty" entered on the acutest phase which it has ever known.

At that time Lord Northbrook was First Lord of the Admiralty, and on
Saturday evening, the 6th of May, he gave a party at his official
residence. The Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh were among the guests, and
there was some music after dinner. In the middle of the performance, I
noticed a slight commotion, and saw a friend leading Mrs. Gladstone out
of the room. The incident attracted attention, and people began to
whisper that Gladstone, who was not at the party, must have been taken
suddenly ill. While we were all wondering and guessing, a waiter leaned
across the buffet in the tea-room, and said to me, "Lord Frederick
Cavendish has been murdered in Dublin. I am a Messenger at the Home
Office, and we heard it by telegram this evening." In an incredibly
short time the ghastly news spread from room to room, and the guests
trooped out in speechless horror. That night brought a condition more
like delirium than repose. One felt as though Hell had opened her mouth,
and the Powers of Darkness had been let loose. Next day London was like
a city of the dead, and by Monday all England was in mourning. Sir
Wilfrid Lawson thus described that awful Sunday: "The effect was
horrifying--almost stupefying. No one who walked in the streets of