?"

Irish Soldier.--"For some years Ireland has been, improving, sire."

Don Carlos.--"That is well. She deserves better fortune, for she has a
noble, faithful people."

Don Carlos drew back a pace and made a stiff military nod; the Irishman
brought his rifle to the "present arms," turned on his heel, and marched
back to the ranks, and thus the interview terminated.

The valley in which the little town of Vera nestles might have been that
where Rasselas was brought up, so secluded, smiling, and peaceful it
looks. The Bidassoa, famous in tales of the Peninsular War, flows
through it, no doubt; but the Bidassoa here is a trout stream winding
through meadows and fields of maize, and thoughts of bloodshed are the
last that would occur to anyone contemplating its mild current. The
mountains walling in the vale are lined with growths of heather, fern,
and blossoming furze to their very crests, and the verdurous picture
they hem is one of poetic calm and plenty. Labourers are digging away in
the fields below, the tinkle of cow-bells is heard from the pastures,
and anon blends with their Arcadian music the soft chiming of
church-bells summoning to prayer; there is a mill with its clacking
wheel, and a foundry with a tuft of smoke curling from its chimney;
orchards and vineyards lie side by side with patches of corn, and along
the high-road peasants pass and repass, shortening their way with song
and laughter, and strings of mules or droves of swine scamper by.
Another Sweet Auburn of Goldsmith, in another Happy Valley of Johnson,
this cosy Vera with its river and trees would seem to any English
tourist ignorant of its history; but how the English tourist would be
misled! Though the peasants laugh and sing, and the labourers dig, and
there are outer tokens of peace, there is no peace in the valley or
town; there are sights and sounds there of war, and that of the worst
kind--civil war. The mill is grinding corn for the commissariat stores,
the foundry turns out shot instead of ploughshares, the boxes on the
mules' backs are packed with ammunition. If you listen, you will hear
the roll of drums and the shrill blowing of bugles more often than the
soothing bells; if you watch, you will notice that not one man in ten is
unprovided with a firearm, for this quiet-looking place is the very
hotbed of Carlism; the insurrectionary headquarters for the province of
Navarre; the arsenal and recruiting depot for all the provinces in
revo