"J» C5 ^flraSQV^ %fl/M^ %Qim^ % wimmi®' BfiPA #UBRARY0^ ^UIBRARY^ ■■■• - »- — *■ r*^i r^— • ^awiwwtf^ ^tawmwo?^ ^OKAUFOfcfe, o u. •3 ^AavaaiH^ ^?Aavaan-# <&i»sqv^ « %. s ^WEUNIVERJ/a ^KUNIVER% i 5 7 9 ii 6 18 ti READINGS FROM IRISH AUTHORS. r r\ PEEFACE. J 35*A> I have much pleasure in placing this little book — a companion volume to Readings from Charles Dickens — before my readers. An Irishman myself, possibly I cannot look at Irish literature in an entirely unprejudiced way; but yet, making due allowance for this fact and privilege, I unhesitatingly assert that for enthusiasm, spirit, and pathos, our poetry is equal to any; and our prose writings display a raciness of humour unequalled by any other nation in this respect — they are uproariously comic, without being in the least coarse or profane. I have endeavoured in the limited space at my disposal to bring together much of what is best for Reading purposes. I have not at all attempted to make a general selection representative of the writings of our country ; and I have tried — while the collection will be found characteristically Irish — to avoid the manifestation of that party spirit which, on either hand, when carried to excess, is so heartily to be deplored. In the poetry of any Nation politics have their place, and therefore in these pages opposing views will be found, though restrained within reasonable limits. It is scarcely necessary for me to say that I do not hold myself responsible for all the sentiments contained in the selections. a, nron^o CONTENTS, Tago The Forging of the Anchor i " - Sir S. Ferguson, 108 The Groves of Blarney, - - Milliken, 110 To-: Hedge Schoolmaster, - - William Carleton, - 112 The Light in the Snow, - - Alfred P. Graves, - 119 Paddy the Piper, - - Samuel Lover, 121 The Legend of Bottle Hill, - - T. Crofton Croker, - 128 Frank "Webber's Wager, - - Charles Lever, 13a The Little Weaver of Duleek G; ite, Samuel Lover, 141 The Exile of Erin, - - T. Campbell, 149 The Hedge Schoolmaster and his English Visitor, - - William Carleton, - 151 Dreaming Tim Jarvis, - - - T. Crofton Croker, - 154 The Pretty Girl of Loch D;i .n, - Sir S. Ferguson, 159 Q'Dempsey and the Duke, - - Samuel Lover, 1G1 The Quare Gander, - - J. S. LeFauu, 103 A Pleasant Journey, - - Charles Lever, 170 The Lord of Dunkerron, - - T. Crofton Croker, - 175 Barny 0'B.eirdon, the Navi, gatoj '; " Samuel Lover, 17S The Fetch, - - - John Banim, 195 Phil Purcel, the Pig-driver, - - William Carleton, - 196 My Father as Sentry, - - - Charles Lever, 207 " Farewell ! " - ' - - - Mrs. Miinater, 211 Paddy Flynn, - - Anon., 212 The Furlough, - - Thomas Hood, 222 The Fairy Thorn, - - Sir S. Ferguson, 224 O'Farrell the Fiddler, - - - Alfred P. Graves, - 226 The Stolen Sheep, - - John Banim, 229 The Cockney in Ireland, - - Charles Lever, 239 The Letter-writer, - - William Carleton, - 242 The Three Advices, ~ - T. Crofton Croker, - :! 1 :; Above the City, - - - John A. Jennings, - 249 My Grave, - - - Thomas Davis, 254 Index, ... - - - 255 IRISH READINGS. A PATRIOT'S REBUKE. Ye sons of Erin ! who despise The motherland that bare you, Who nothing Irish love or prize, Give ear, I will not spare you ! The stranger's jeer I do not fear, But can I pardon ever Those who revile their native Isle, Oh ! never, never, never ! That persons so refined and grand As you are, should belong to This very low and vulgar land Is sad, and very wrong too ! But 'tis too late to mend your fate, Irish you are for ever — You'll wipe that shame from off your name, Oh ! never, never, never ! Well, then, what do you hope to win, In spite of all your labours, By meanly cutting kith and kin And courting prouder neighbours ? Ah no ! dear sirs, he sadly errs Who tries to be too clever ; Mark what I say, it will not pay — Oh ! never, never, never ! From Irish soil you love to roam, But just let me remind you You'll nowhere find a happier home Than what you leave behind you ! 10 IRISH READINGS. The world explore from shore to shore, 'Twill be a vain endeavour, On scenes so bright you'll never light — Oh ! never, never, never ! Go point me out on any map A match for green Killarney, Or Kevins' bed, or Dunlo's gap, Or mystic shades of Blarney, Or Antrim's caves, or Shannon's waves ; Ah me ! I doubt if ever An Isle so fair was seen elsewhere — Oh ! never, never, never ! Where will you meet with lads more true ; And where with truer hisses ? Those genial hearts, those eyes of blue, Pray tell me what surpasses? You may not grieve such joys to leave, Or care such ties to sever, But friends more kind you'll never find — Oh ! never, never, never ! When strutting through some larger town Than your own native city, Some bigger men you may hunt down And bore them — more's the pity ! But 'tis not State that makes men great, And, should you fawn for ever, You'll never rise in good men's eyes — Oh ! never, never, never. And now, my friends, go if you will And visit other nations, But leave your hearts in Erin still Among your poor relations ; The spot of earth that gave you birth Resolve to love for ever, And you'll repent that good intent — Oh ! never, never, never ! The Most Rev. Lord Peunket. [By kind permission of the author.] THE GRIDIRON: PADDY MULLOWNEY'S STORY. (Condensed.) It was the time I was lost in crassin' the broad Atlantic, a-comin home, whin the winds began to blow, and the sae to rowl, that you'd think the Colleen dhas (that was her name) would not have a mast left but what would rowl out of her. Well, sure enough, the masts went by the boord, at last, and the pumps were choak'd (choak them for that same), and av coorse the wather gained an us; and she was sinkin' fast, settlin' down, as the sailors call it (I never was good at settlin' down in my life, and I liked it then less nor ever ;) accordingly we put out the boat, and got a sack o' bishkits, and a cashk o' pork, and a kag o' wather, and a thrifle o' rum aboord, and any other little matthers we could think iv in the mortial hurry we wor in — for my darlint, the Colleen dhas went down like a lump o' lead, afore we wor many strokes o' the oar away from her. Well, we dhrifted away all that night, and next mornin' we put up a blanket an the ind av a pole as well as we could, and then we sailed iligant; — away we wint, and, for more nor a week, not a thing was to be seen but the sae and the sky ; and though the sae and the sky is mighty purty things in themselves, they're no great things when you've nothin' else to look at for a week together. Soon enough our provision began to run low, and, oh ! it was thin starvation began to stare us in the face. " Oh murther, murther, captain darlint," says I ; " I wish we could see land anywhere," says I. "More power to your elbow, Paddy, my boy," says he, "for sitch a good wish, and, sure it's myself wishes the same." " Oh," says I, " supposing it was only a dissolute island," says I, "inhabited wid Turks, sure they wouldn't be such bad Christhans as to refuse us a bit and a sup." "Whisht, whisht, Paddy," says the captain, "don't be talkin' bad of any one," says he; "you don't know how soon you may want a good word put in for yourself, if you should be called to quarthers in the other world all of a suddint," says he. " Thrue for you, captain darlint," says I — I called him darlint, and made free wid him, you see, bekase dishtress makes us all equal. 12 IRISH READINGS. "Well, at the brake o' day the sun riz most beautiful out o' the waves, when all at wanst I thought I spied the land. Och, I thought I felt my heart up in my throat in a minit, and " Thunder an' turf, captain," says I, " look to leeward," says I. "What for?" says he. " I think I see the land," says I. So he ups with his bring-'m- near (that's what the sailors call a spy-glass) and looks out, and, sure enough, it was. " Hurrah," says he, " we're all right now ; pull away, my boys," says he. " Take care you're not mistaken," says I ; " may be it's only a fog-bank, captain darlint," says I. " Oh, no," says he, " it's the land in airnest." " Oh, then, whereabouts in the wide world are we, captain ? " says I ; " maybe it id be in Ruosia, or Proosia, or the Garman Oceant," says I. " Tut, you fool," says he — for he had that consaited way wid him— . thinkin' himself cleverer nor anyone else — " tut, you fool," says he, " that's France" says he. " Tare an ouns," says I, " do you tell me so ? and how do you know it's France it is, captain dear ? " says I. " Bekase this is the Bay o' Bishky we're in now," says he. " Ah thin I was thinkin' so myself," says I, " by the rowl it has ; for I often heerd av it in regard of that same." Well, with that, my heart began to grow light ; and when I seen my life was safe, I began to grow twice hungrier nor ever so, says I, " Captain, jewel, I wish we had a gridiron." "Why, then," says he, "thunder and turf," says he, "what puts a gridiron into your head ? " " Bekase I'm starvin' with the hunger," says I. "And sure," says he, "you couldn't ate a gridiron," says he, " barrin you wor a pelican o' the wildherness" says he. " Ate a gridiron ? " says I ; " och, I'm not sich a yommoch all out as that, anyhow. But sure, if we had a gridiron, we could dress a beefsteak," says I. " Arrah ! but where's the beefstake ? " says he. "Sure couldn't we cut a slice aff the pork," says I. "I never thought o' that," says the captain. "You're a clever fellow, Paddy," says he, laughin. " Oh, there's many a thrue word said in a joke," says I. THE GKIDIKON. 13 " Thruc for you, Paddy," says he. " Well, then," says I, " if you put me ashore there beyant, sure I can ax thim for to lind rne the loan of a gridiron," says I. " Oh, the butther's comin' out o' the stirabout in airnest now," says he ; " you gommoch," says he, " sure I towld you before that's France — and sure they're all furriners there," says the captain. "Well," says I, "and how do you know but I'm as good a furriner myself as any o' thim ? " " What do you mane ? " says he. " I mane," says I, " what I towld you, that I'm as good a furriner myself as any o' thim." "Make me sinsible"* says he. " Maybe that's more nor I could do," says I. " Lave aff your humbuggin'," says he, " I bid you, and tell me v.'hat you mane at all at all." " Parly voofronysay" says I. " Oh, your humble sarvant," says he ; " why, you're a scholar, Paddy." "Indeed you may say that," says I. "Why, you're a clever fellow, Paddy," says the captain, jeerin' like. " You're not the first that said that," says I, "whether you joke or no." " Oh, but I'm in airnest," says the captain ; " and do you tell me, Paddy," says he, " that you spake Frinch ? " " Parly voofronysay" says I. " Och, I never met the likes o' you, Paddy," says he. "Pull away, boys, and put Paddy ashore." So, with that, it was no sooner said than done; they pulled away, and run the boat up into a little creek — with a lovely white sthrand — an illigant place for ladies to bathe in the summer. Out I got, and scrambled on tow'rds a little bit iv a wood that was close to the shore, and the smoke curlin' out of it, quite timptin' like. " By the powdhers o' war, I'm all right," says I : " there's a house there ; " — and, sure enough, there was, and a parcel of men, women, and childher, ating their dinner round a table, quite convaynient. An' so I wint up to the door, and I thought I'd be very civil to thim, as I heerd the Frinch was always mighty p'lite intirely — and I thought I'd show them I knew what good manners was. • That is to say, "make it intelligible to me." 14 IRISH READINGS. So I took off my hat, and making a low bow, says I, " God save all here," says I. Well, to be sure, they all stopt ating at wanst, and began to stare at me — and I thought to myself it was not good manners at all — more betoken from furriners which they call so mighty p'lite ; but I never minded that, in regard o' wanting the gridiron ; and so says I, "I beg your pardon," says I, "for the liberty I take, but it's only bein' in disthress in regard o' ating," says I, " that I make bowld to throuble yez, and if you could lind me the loan of a grid- iron," says I, " I'd be entirely obleeged to ye." It was thin they all stared at me twice worse nor before ; and with that, says I (knowin' what was in their minds), "indeed, its thrue for you," says I : " I'm tatthered to pieces, and dear knows I look quare enough; but it's by raison o' the storm," says I, " which dhruv us ashore here below, and we're all starvin'," says I. So then they began to look at each other agin ; and myself, seeing at wanst dirty thoughts was in their heads, and they tuk me for a poor beggar, comin' to crave charity — with that, says I, " Oh, not at all ! " says I, " by no means ; — we have plenty o' mate our- selves, there below, and we'll dhress it," says I, "if you would be plazed to lind us a loan of a gridiron," says I, makin' a low bow. Well, sir, with that, they stared at me twice worse nor ever — and then I began to think that maybe the captain was wrong, and th.it it was not France at all, at all ; and so, says I, " I beg pardon, sir," says I, to a fine owld man, with a head of hair as white as silver — " maybe I'm undher a mistake," says I ; " but I thought I was in France, sir: aren't you afurriner?" says I — "Parleyvoo frongsay ? " " We, munseer," says he. " Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron," says I, " if you plaze ? " Oh, it was thin that they stared at me as if I had siven heads ; and myself began to feel flusthered like, and onaisy — and so says I, makin' a bow and scrape agin, " I know it's a liberty 1 take, sir," says I, "but it's only in regard of bein' cast away; and if you plaze sir," says I, " Pari;/ voo frongsay ? " "We, munseer," says he, mighty sharp. "Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron?" says I, " and you'll obleege me." Well, sir, the owld chap began to munseer me, but sorra a bit of THE GRIDIRON. 15 a gridiron he'd gi'e me ; and so I began to think they wor all neygars, for all their fine manners ; and, says I, " and if it was you was in dishtress," says I, " and if it was to owld Ireland you kem, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you ax'd it, but something to put an it too, and the dhrop o' dhrink into the bargain, and cead 7nilefailthe." Well, the word cead mile fa'dthe seemed to sthreck his heart, and the owld chap cocked his ears, and so I thought I'd give him another offer, and make him sinsible at last ; and so says I, wanst more, quite slow, that he might undherstand, "Parly — voo— frong- say, munseer ? " " We, munseer," says he. " Then lind me the loan of a gridiron," says I. Well, bad win' to the bit of it he'd gi' me, and the owld chap begins bowin' and scrapin', and said something or other about a long tongs. " Pooh ! — Sweep yourself and your tongs," says I; "I don't want a tongs, at all, at all ; but can't you listen to raison," says I — " Parly voo frongsay ? " "We, munseer." " Then lind me the loan of a gridiron," says I, " and hould )our prate." Well, what would you think, but he shook his owld noddle, as much as to say he wouldn't ; and so says I, " the likes o' that I never seen — if you were in my counthry it's not that away they'd use you ; the curse o' the crows on you, you owld sinner," says I, " the sorra a longer I'll darken your door." So he seen I was vex'd, and I thought as I was turning away, I seen him begin to reliut, and that his conscience throubled him ; and says I, turnin' back, " Well, I'll give you one chance more — you owld thief — are you a Chrishthan, at all at all? Are you a furriner?" says I, "that all the world call so p'lite. Do you undherstand your own language? — Parly voo frongsay V says I. " We, munseer," says he. " Then, thunder and turf," says I, " will you lind me the loan 01 a gridiron ? " Well, sir, sorra a bit of it he'd gi' me — and so with that, " The curse o' the hungry an you, you owld negarly villain," says I : " the back o' my hand and the sowl of my fut to you ; that you may want a gridiron yourself yit," says I; " and wherever I go, high and 16 IRISH READINGS. low, rich and poor, shall hear o' you," says I, and with that I left them there, and kem away — and it's often sence that / thought that it ivas remarkable. Samuel Lover. THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. The joy-bells are ringing In gay Malahide, The fresh wind is singing Along the seaside ; The maids are assembling "With garlands of flowers, And the harp-strings are trembling In all the glad bowers. Swell, swell the gay measure ! Roil trumpet and drum ! 'Mid greetings of pleasure In splendour they come ! The chancel is ready, The portal stands wide, For the lord and the lady, The bridegroom and bride. What years, ere the latter, Of earthly delight The future shall scatter O'er them in its flight ! What blissful caresses Shall fortune bestow, Ere those dark-flowing tresses Fall white as the snow ! Before the high altar Young Maud stands arrayed ; With accents that falter Her promise is made — THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 17 From father and mother For ever to part, For him and no other To treasure her heart. The words are repeated, The bridal is done, The rite is completed — The two, they are one ; The vow, it is spoken All pure from the heart, That must not be broken Till life shall depart. Hark ! 'mid the gay clangour That compassed their ear, Loud accents, in anger, Come mingling afar ! The foe's on the border, His weapons resound Where the lines in disorder Unguarded are found ! As wakes the good shepherd, The watchful and bold, When the ounce or the leopard Is seen in the fold ; So rises already The chief in his mail, While the new-married lady Looks fainting and pale. " Son, husband, and brother, Arise to the strife, For sister and mother, For children and wife ! O'er hill and o'er hollow, O'er mountain and plain, Up, true men, and follow — Let dastards remain ! " 18 IRISH READINGS. Farrah ! to the battle ! They form into line — The shields, how they rattle ! The spears, how they shine ! Soon, soon shall the foeman His treachery rue — On, burgher and yeoman ! To die or to do ! The eve is declining In lone Malahide ; The maidens are twining Gay wreaths for the bride ; She marks them unheeding Her heart is afar, Where the clansmen are bleediiv For her in the war. Hark ! loud from the mountain, 'Tis Victory's cry ! O'er woodland and fountain It rings to the sky ! The foe has retreated ! He flees to the shore ; The spoiler's defeated — The combat is o'er ! With foreheads unruffled The conquerors come — But why have they muffled The lance and the drum ? What form do they carry Aloft on his shield ? And where does he tarry, The lord of the field? Ye saw him at morning, How gallant and gay ! In bridal adorning, The star of the day : THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 19 Now, weep for the lover — His triumph is sped, His hope it is over ! The chieftain is dead ! But, O for the maiden Who mourns for that chief, With heart overladen And rending with grief! She sinks on the meadow — In one morning tide, A wife and a widow, A maid and a bride ! Ye maidens attending, Forbear to condole ! Your comfort is rending The depths of her soul : True — true, 'twas a story For ages of pride ; He died in his glory — But, oh, he has died ! The war- cloak she raises All mournfully now, And steadfastly gazes Upon the cold brow ; That glance may for ever Unaltered remain, But the bridegroom will never Return it acrain. "&■ The dead-bells are tolling In sad Malahide, The death-wail is rolling Along the seaside ; The crowds, heavy-hearted, Withdraw from the green, For the sun has departed That brightened the scene ! 20 IRISH READINGS. Ev'n yet in that valley, Though years have roll'd by, When through the wild sally The sea breezes sigh, The peasant, with sorrow, Beholds in the shade, The tomb where the morrow Saw Hussy convey'd. How scant was the warning, How briefly reveal'd, Before on that morning Death's chalice was fill'd ! The hero who drunk it There moulders in gloom, And the form of Maud Plunket Weeps over his tomb. The stranger who wanders Along the lone vale, Still sighs while he ponders On that heavy tale : " Thus passes each pleasure That earth can supply — Thus joy has its measure — We live but to die ! " Gerald Griffin. [By kind permission of Messrs. James Duffy and Sons] DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC. (Condensed.) I tuck the road, one fine morning in May, from Inchegelagh, an' got up to the Cove safe an' sound. There I saw many ships with big broad boords fastened to ropes, every one ov them saying, " The first vessel for Quebec." Siz I to myself, those are about to run for a wager ; this one siz she'll be first, and that one siz she'll be first. I pitched on one that was finely painted. When I wint on boord to ax the fare, who shou'd come up out ov a hole but Ned Flinn, an ould townsman ov my own. DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC. 21 "Och, is it yoorself that's there, Ned?" siz I; "are ye goin' to Anierrykey ? " "Why, an' to be shure," sez he ; "I'm mate ov the ship." " Meat ! that's yer sort, Ned," siz I ; " then we'll only want bread. Hadn't I betther go and pay my way ? " " You're time enough," siz Ned ; "I'll tell you when we're ready for sea — leave the rest to me, Darby." " Och, tip us your fist," siz I ; " you were always the broath of a boy ; for the sake ov ould times, Ned, we must have a dhrop ov drink, and a bite to ate." Many's the squeeze Ned gave my fist, telling me to leave it all to him, and how comfortable he'd make me on the voyage. Day afther day we spint together, waitin' for the wind, till I found my pockets begin to grow very light. At last, siz he to me, one day afther dinner — " Darby, the ship will be ready for sea on the morrow — you'd betther go on boord, an' pay your way." "Is it jokin' you are, Ned?" siz I; "shure you tould me to leave it all to you." "Ahl Darby," siz he, "you're for takin' a rise out o' me. But I'll stick to my promise ; only, Darby, you must pay your way." " O, Ned," says I, " is this the way you're goin' to threat me afther all ? I'm a rooin'd man ; all I cou'd scrape together, I spint on you. If you don't do something for me, I'm lost. Is there no place where you cou'd hide me from the captin ? " " Not a place," siz Ned. " An' where, Ned, is the place I saw you comin' up out ov? " "O, Darby, that was the hould where the cargo's stow'd." "An' is there no other place? " siz I. " Oh, yes," siz he, " where we keep the wather casks." " An' Ned," siz I, " does anyone live down there ? " "Not a mother's soul," siz he. " An' Ned," siz I, " can't you cram me down there, and give me a lock ov straw an' a bit ? " "Why, Darby," siz he (an' he look'd mighty pittyfull), "I must thry. But mind, Darby, you'll have to hide all day in an empty barrel, and when it comes to my watch, I'll bring you down some prog ; but if you're diskiver'd, it's all over with me, an' you'll be put on a dissilute island to starve." " O Ned," siz I, "leave it all to me." 22 IRISH READINGS. When night cum on, I got down into the dark cellar, among the barrels ; and poor Ned every night brought me down hard black cakes an' salt meat. There I lay snug for a whole month. At last, one night, siz he to me — "Now, Darby, what's to be done? we're within three days' sail ov Quebec; the ship will be overhauled, and all the passengers' names call'd over." "An' is that all that frets you, my jewel," siz I ; "just get me an empty meal-bag, a bottle, an' a bare ham bone, and that's all I'll ax." So, Ned got them for me, anyhow. "Well, Ned," siz I, "you know I'm a great shwimmer ; your watch will be early in the morning; I'll jist slip down into the sea ; do you cry out — There's a man in the wather, as loud as you can, and leave all the rest to me." Well, to be sure, down into the sea I dropt without as much as a splash. Ned roared out with the hoarseness of a brayin' ass — " A man in the sea, a man in the sea ! " Every man, woman and child came running up out of the holes, the captin among the rest, who put a long red barrel like a gun to his eye — I thought he was for shootin' me ! down I dived. When I got my head over the wather agen, what shou'd I see but a boat rowin' to me. When it came up close I roared out — " Did ye hear me at last ? " The boat now run 'pon the top ov me ; I was gript by the scruff ov the neck, and dhragg'd into it. "What hard look I had to follow yees, at all at all — which ov ye is the masther ? " says I. "There he is," siz they, pointin' to a little yellow man in a corner of the boat. " You yallow-lookin' monkey, but it's a'most time for you to think ov lettin' me into your ship — I'm here plowin' and plungin' this month afther you; shure I didn't care a thrawneen was it not that you have my best Sunday clothes in your ship, and my name in your books." "An', pray, what is your name, my lad? " siz the captin. " What's my name ! What id you give to know?" siz I, "ye unmannerly spalpeen, it might be what's your name, Darby Doyle, out ov your mouth — ay, Darby Doyle, that was never afraid or ashamed to own it at home or abroad! " DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC. 23 " An', Mr. Darby Doyle," siz he, " do you mean to persuade us that you swum from Cork to this afther us? " "This is more ov your ignorance," siz I — "ay, an' if you sted three days longer and not take me up, I'd be in Quebec before ye, only my purvisions were out, and the few rags of bank notes I had all melted into paste in my pocket, for I hadn't time to get them changed. But stay, wait till I get my foot on shore, there's ne'er a cottoner in Cork iv you don't pay for leavin' me to the marcy ov the waves." At last we came close to the ship. Everyone on board saw me at the Cove but didn't see me on the voyage ; to be sure, everyone's mouth was wide open, crying out " Darby Doyle."' " It's now you call me loud enough," siz I, " ye wouldn't shout that way when ye saw me rowlin' like a tub in a mill-race the other day fornenst your faces." When they heard me say that, some of them grew pale as a sheet. Nothin' was tawk'd ov for the other three days but Darby Doyle's great shwim from the Cove to Quebeck. At last we got to Ammerykey. I was now in a quare way ; the captin wouldn't let me go till a friend of his would see me. By this time, my jewel, not only his friends came, but swarms upon swarms, starin' at poor Darby. At last I called Ned. "Ned, avic," siz I, " what's the meanin' ov the boords acrass the stick the people walk on, and the big white boord up there ? " " Why, come over and read," siz Ned. I saw in great big black letters — The Greatest Wondher in the World ! ! ! to be seen here, A Man that beats out Nicholas the Diver! He has swum from Cork to Amerrykey ! ! Proved on oath by ten of the Crew and twenty Passengers. Admittance Half a Dollar. " Ned," siz I, " does this mean your humble sarvint ? " " Not another," siz he. So I makes no more ado, than with a hop, skip, and jump, gets over to the captin, who was now talkin' to a yallow fellow that was afther starin' me out ov countenance. "Ye are doin' it well," said I. "How much money have ye gother for my shwimrnin' ? " 24 IRISH READINGS. "Be quiet, Darby," siz the captin, and lie looked very much friekened. "I have plenty, an' I'll have more for ye iv ye do what I want ye to do." " An' what is it, avic ? " siz I. " Why, Darby," siz he, " I'm afther houldin' a wager last night with this gintleman for all the worth ov my ship, that you'll shwim against any shwimuier in the world : an', Darby, if ye don't do that I'm a gone man." " Augh, give us your fist," siz I; "did ye ever hear ov Paddies dishaving any man in the European world yet— barrin' them- selves ? " " Well, Darby," siz he, "I'll give you a hundred dollars ; but, Darby, you must be to your word, and you shall have another hundred." So sayin', he brought me down into the cellar. "Now Darby," siz he, "here's the dollars for ye." But it was only a bit of paper he was handin' me. " Arrah, none ov yer thricks upon thravellers," siz I ; " I had betther nor that, and many more ov them, melted in the sea; give me what won't wash out of my pocket." "Well, Darby," siz he, "you must have the real thing." So he reckon'd me out a hundred dollars in goold. I never saw the like since the stockin' fell out ov the chimly on my aunt and cut her forred. " Now, Darby," siz he, " ye are a rich man, and ye are worthy of it all." At last the day came that I was to stand the tug. I saw the captin lookin' very often at me. At last "Darby," siz he, "are you any way cow'd? The fellow you have to shwim agenst can shwim down watherfalls an' catharacts." " Can he, avic ? " siz I ; " but can he shwim up agenst them ? " An' who shou'd come up while I was tawkin' to the captin but the chap I was to shwim with, and heard all I sed. He was so tall that he could eat bread an' butther over my head with a face as yallow as a kite's foot. "Tip us the mitten," siz I, " mabouchal," siz I. " Where are we goin' to shwim to? What id ye think if we swum to Keep Cleer or the Keep ov Good Hope? " "I reckon neither," siz he. Off we set through the crowds ov ladies an' gintlemen to the DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC. 25 shwimmin' place. And as I was goin' I was thript up by a big loomp ov iron stuck fast in the ground with a big ring to it. " What d'ye call that ?" siz I to the captin, who was at my elbow. " Why, Darby ? " siz he ; that's half an anchor." " Have ye any use for it ? " siz I. "Not in the least," siz he; "it's only to fasten boats to." " Maybee you'd give it to a body," siz I. " An' welkim, Darby," siz he ; " it's yours." " God bless your honour, sir," siz I, " it's my poor father that will pray for you. When I left home the creather hadn't as much as an anvil but what was sthreeled away by the agint — bad end to them. This will be jist the thing that'll match him ; he can tie the horse to the ring, while he forges on the other part. Now, will ye obleege me by gettin' a couple ov chaps to lay it on my shoulder when I get into the wather, and I won't have to be comin' back for it afther I shake hands with this fellow." Oh the chap turned from yallow to white when he heard me say this. An' siz he to the gintleman that was walkin' by his side — " I reckon I'm not fit for the shwimmin' to-day — I don't feel myself." "An', murdher an Irish, if you're yer brother, can't you send him for yerself, an' I'll wait here till he comes. An' when will ye be able for the shwim, avic?" siz I, mighty complisant. " I reckon in another week," siz he. So we shook hands and parted. The poor fellow went home, took the fever, then began to rave. "Shwim up catharacts! — shwim to the Keep ov Good Hope ! —shwim to St. Helena ! — shwim to Keep Cleer ! shwim with an anchor on his back ! — Oh ! oh ! oh ! " I now thought it best to be on the move ; so I gother up my winners ; and here I sit unclher my own hickory threes, as independent as any Yankee. Anonymous. THE BLACK '46. A RETROSPECT. Out away across the river, Where the purple mountains meet, There's as green a wood as iver, Fenced you from the flamin' heat. And opposite, up the mountain, Seven ancient cells ye'll see, And, below, a holy fountain Sheltered by a sacred tree; "While between, across the tillage, Two boreens full up wid broom Draw ye down into a village All in ruin on the coom ; For the most heart-brakin' story Of the fearful famine year On the silent wreck before ye You may read charactered clear. Yous are young, too young for ever To rec'llect the bitter blight, How it crep across the River Unbeknownst beneath the night ; Till we woke up in the mornin', And beheld our country's curse Wave abroad its heavy warnin', Like the white plumes of a hearse. To our gardens, heavy-hearted, In that dreadful summer's dawn, Young and ould away we started Wid the basket and the slan. But the heart within the bosom Gave one leap of awful dread At each darlin' pratee blossom, White and purple, lyin 1 dead. Down we dug, but only scattered Poisoned spuds along the slope ; STEWARD MOORE. 27 Though each ridge in vain it flattered Our poor hearts' revivin' hope. But the desperate toil we'd double On into the evenin' shades ; Till the earth to share our trouble Shook beneath our groanin' spades ; Till a mist across the meadows From the graveyard rose and spread, And 'twas rumoured ghostly shadows, Phantoms of our fathers dead, Moved among us, wildly sharin' In the women's sobs and sighs, And our stony, still despairin', Till night covered up the skies. Thin we knew for bitter certain That the vinom-breathin' cloud, Closin' still its cruel curtain, Surely yet would be our shroud. And the fearful sights did folly, Och ! no voice could rightly tell, But that constant, melancholy Murmur of the passin' bell; Till to toll it none among us Strong enough at last was found, And a silence overhung us Awfuller nor any sound. Alfred Perceval Graves. [By kind permission of the author.] STEWARD MOORE. (Adapted.) One of my fellow-passengers on the steamer was a gentleman holding a high official appointment in the viceregal court in Dublin — one possessed of more courtly manners and more polished address cannot be conceived. The only thing a critic could possibly detect as faulty was a certain ultra-refinement and fastidiousness. The fastidiousness I speak of extended to everything round and about him ; and gave him a kind of horror of chance acquaintances, which made him shrink within himself from persons in every respect his 28 IRISH READINGS. equals. Those who knew Sir Stewart Moore will know I do not exaggerate. The very antithesis to the person just mentioned was another passenger then on board — a Mrs. Mulrooney. She was a short, squat, red-faced, vulgar-looking woman, of about fifty, possessed of a most garrulous tendency, and talking indiscriminately with everyone about her. To me she seemed determined to attach herself, — she was ever at my side, thus frightening anyone else from conversing with me, and rendering me a perfect Pariah among the passengers. By no one were we so thoroughly dreaded as by the refined baronet I have mentioned. I vowed to be revenged. The interesting Mrs. Mulrooney proceeded to narrate to me some of the cautions given by her friends as to her safety when making such a long voyage as that from Dublin to Liverpool, and also to detail some of the antiseptics to that dread scourge — sea- sickness, in the fear and terror of which she had come on board, and seemed every hour to be increasing in alarm about. "Do you think, then, sir, that pork is no good agin the sickness? Mickey — that's my husband, sir — says it's the only thing in life for it, av it's toasted." " Not the least use, I assure you." "Nor sperits and wather?" " Worse and worse, ma'am." "Oh, thin, maybe oatenmail tay would do? It's a beautiful thing for the stomick, anyhow." "Rank poison on the present occasion, believe me." " Oh, thin, what am I to do — what is to become of me? "Go clown at once to your berth, ma'am; lie still and without speaking till we come in sight of land ; or " — and here a bright thought seized me — " if you really feel very ill, call for that man there, with the fur collar on his coat; he can give you the only thing I ever knew of any efficacy; he's the Steward, ma'am — Stewart Moore ; — but you must be on your guard, too, as you are a stranger, for he's a conceited fellow, and has saved a trifle, and sets up for a half gentleman, so don't be surprised at his manner ; though, after all, you may find him very different ; some people I've heard, think him extremely civil." "And he has a cure, ye say?" "The only one I ever heard of: it is a little cordial, of which you take, I don't know how much, every ten or fifteen minutes." STEWARD MOORE. 2d "And the naygur doesn't let the saycret out, bad manners to him?" "No, ma'am ; he has refused every offer on the subject." " May I be so bovvld as to ax his name agin ? " " Stewart Moore, ma'am. Moore is the name, but people always call him Stewart Moore ; just say that in a loud, clear voice, and you'll soon have him." With the most profuse protestations of gratitude, my fair friend proceeded to follow my advice, and descended to the cabin. Some hours after, I also betook myself to my rest, from which, however, towards midnight, I was awoke by the heavy working and pitching of the little vessel, as she laboured in a rough sea. I was about again to address myself to slumber with what success I might, when I started at the sound of a voice in the very berth next to me, whose tones, once heard, there was no forgetting. The words ran, as nearly as I can recollect, thus : " Oh, thin, bad luck to ye for pigs, that ever brought me into the like of this. there it is again." And here a slight interruption to eloquence took place, during which I was enabled to reflect upon the author of the complaint, who, I need not say, was Mrs. Mulrooney. " I think a little tay would settle my stomick, if I only could get it ; but what's the use of talking in this horrid place ? They never mind me no more than if I was a pig. Steward, steward ! — oh, then, it's wishing you well I am for a steward. Steward, I say! Oh, you're coming at last, steward." "Ma'am," said a little dapper and dirty personage in a blue jacket ; " ma'am, did you call? " " Call ! is it call ? no ; but I'm roaring for you this half hour. Come here. Have you any of the cordial dhrops agin the sick- ness ? — you know what I mean." "Is it brandy, ma'am?" "No, it isn't brandy." " We have got gin, ma'am, and bottled porter — cider, ma'am, if you like." " Agh, no ! — sure I want the dhrops agin the sickness." "Don't know, indeed, ma'am." " Ah, you stupid creature ! Maybe you're not the real steward. What's your name ? " " Smith, ma'am." "Ah! I thought so! Go away, man, go away." 30 IRISH READINGS. This injunction was quickly obeyed, and all was silence for a moment or two. Once more was I dropping asleep, when the same voice as before burst out with — " Am I to die here like a hay then, and nobody to come near me ? Steward ! steward ! Steward Moore, I say." " Who calls me ? " said a deep, sonorous voice. " Steward Moore ! " said the lady again. " This is most strange," muttered the baronet, half aloud, his head, surmounted by a tall green silk night-cap, appearing between the curtains of the opposite berth. " Why, madam, you are calling me! " " And if I am, and if ye heerd me, have ye no manuei-s to answer your name, eh ? Are ye Steward Moore ? " " Upon my life, ma'am, I thought so last night when I came on board ; but you really have contrived to make me doubt my own identity." " And is it there ye're lying on the broad of your back, and me as sick as a dog foment ye? " " I concede, ma'am, the fact ; the position is a most irksome one, on every account." "Then why don't ye come over to me?" And this Mrs. Mulrooney said with a voice of something like tenderness, wishing, at all hazards, to conciliate so important a functionary. "Why, really, you are the most incomprehensible person I ever met." "I'm what?" said Mrs. Mulrooney, her blood rushing to her face and temples as she spoke — for the same reason as her fair townswoman is reported to have borne with stoical fortitude every harsh epithet of the language, until it occured to her opponent to tell her that " sorra a better she was nor a pronoun." "I'm what? Repate it av ye dare, and I'll tear yer eyes out ! Ye dirty bla— guard, to be lying there at your ease under the blankets, grinning at me. What's your thrade— answer me that — av it isn't to wait on the ladies, eh? " " Oh, the woman must be mad ! " said Sir Stewart, "Sorra a taste mad, my dear, I'm only sick. Now, just come over to me, like a decent creature, and give me the dhrop of comfort ye have. Come, avick." " Go over to you? " " Ay, and why not ? Or, if it's so lazy ye are, why, then, I'll thry and cross over to your side." LAMENT OF THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE o'NEIL. 31 These words being accompanied by a certain indication of change of residence on the part of Mrs. Mulrooney, Sir Stewart perceived there was no time to lose, and, springing from his berth, he rushed hair dressed through the cabin and up the companion- ladder. / had my revenge. Charles Lever. LAMENT OF THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O'NEIL, COMMONLY CALLED OWEN ROE o'NEIL. Time— 10th November, 1649. Scene— Ormond's Camp, Co. Waterford. Speakers — a Veteran of Owen O'Neil's Clan, and one of the horsemen just arrived with an account of his death. "Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Owen Koe O'Neil?" " Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel." " May God wither up their hearts ! may their blood cease to flow ! May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Roe ! "Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words." " From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords : But the weapon of the Saxon met him on his way, And he died at Cloch Uachtar,* upon Saint Leonard's Day." " Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One ! Wail, wail ye for the Dead ! Quench the hearth, and hold the breath — with ashes strew the head ! How tenderly we loved him ! How deeply we deplore ! Holy Saviour ! but to think we shall never see him more t " Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall : Sure we never won a battle — 'twas Owen won them all. Had he lived — had he lived, our dear country had been free ; But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be. " O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MacMahon, ye are valiant, wise, and true ; But — what, what are ye all to our darling who is gone? The Rudder of our Ship was he — our Castle's corner-stono 1 * Clough Oughter. 32 IRISH READINGS. " Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, weep, for our pride ! Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died ! Weep the Victor of Beann-bhorbh * — weep him, young men and old ! Weep for him, ye women — your Beautiful lies cold ! " We thought you would not die — we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky Oh ! why did you leave us, Owen ? why did you die? " Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neil ! bright was your eye ! Oh ! why did you leave us, Owen ? why did you die ? Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high, But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen! — why did you die?" Thomas Davis. [By kind permission of Messrs. James Duffy and Sons], THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER. (Condensed and Adapted.) Like most persons of the itinerant professions, the old Irish dancing-master was generally a bachelor, having no fixed residence, but living from place to place within his own ivalk, beyond which he seldom or never went. The farmers were his patrons, and his visits to their houses always brought a holiday spirit along with them. When he came, there was sure to be a dance in the evening after the hours of labour, he himself good-naturedly supplying them with the music. In return for this they would get up a little underhand collection for him, amounting probably to a couple of shillings or half-a-crown, which some of them, under pretence of taking the snuff-box out of his pocket to get a pinch, would delicately and ingeniously slip into it, lest he might feel the act as bringing down the dancing-master to the level of the mere fiddler. One of the most amusing specimens of the dancing-master that lever met was Buckram-Back. This man had been a drummer in the army for some time, where he had learned to play the fiddle ; but it appears that he possessed no relish whatever for military life, as * Benburb. THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTEE. 33 his abandonment of it without even the usual form of a discharge or furlough, together with a back that had become cartilaginous from frequent flogging, could abundantly testify. It was from the latter circumstance that he had received his nickname. Buckram-Back was a dapper, light, little fellow, with a rich Tipperary brogue, crossed by a lofty strain of illegitimate English, which he picked up whilst abroad in the army. His habiliments sat as tight upon him as he could readily wear them, and were all of the shabby-genteel class. The house where he kept his school, which was open only after the hours of labour, was an uninhabited cabin ; the roof was supported by a post that stood upright from the floor. Buckram-Back's system, in originality of design, in comic con- ception of decorum, and in the easy practical assurance with which he wrought it out, was never equalled, much less surpassed. Dancing ! why, it was the least part of what he taught or pro- fessed to teach. In the first place, he undertook to teach every one of us — for I had the honour of being his pupil — how to enter a drawing-room " in the most fashionable manner alive," as he said himself. Secondly He was the only man, he said, who could in the most agreeable and polite style teach a gintleman how to salute, or, as he termed it, how to " shiloote, a leedy." This he taught, he said, with great success. Thirdly — He could taich every leedy and gintleman how to make the most beautiful bow or curchy on airth, by only imitating himself — one that would cause a thousand people, if they were all present, to think that it was particularly intended only for aich o' themselves ! Fourthly He taught the whole art o' courtship wid all pelite- ness and success, accordin' as it was practised in Paris durin' the last saison. Fifthly He could taich them how to write love-letthers and valentines accordin' to the Great Macademy of compliments, which was supposed to be invinted by Bonaparte when he was writing love-letthers to both his wives. Sixthly — He was the only person who could taich the famous dance called Sir Roger de Coverly, or the Helter-Skelter Drag, which comprehended widin itself all the advantages and beauties of his whole system — in which every gintleman was at liberty to o± IRISH READINGS. pull every leedy where he plaised, and every leedy was at liberty to go wherever he pulled her. The following is a brief sketch of Buckram-Back's manner of tuition : — " Paddy Corcoran, walk out an' 'hither your drawin'-room ; ' an' let Miss Judy Hanratty go out along wid you, an' come in as Mrs. Corcoran." " I'm afeard, master, I'll make a bad hand of it ; but, sure, it's something to have Judy here to keep me in countenance." '• Is that by way of compliment, Paddy ? Mr. Corcoran, you should ever an' always spaik to a leedy in an alablasther tone ; for that's the cut." [Paddy and Judy retire. " Mickey Scanlan, come up here, now that we're braithin' a little; an' you, Miss Grauna Mulholland, come up along wid him. Miss Mulholland, you are masther of your five positions and your fifteen attitudes, I believe ? " " Yes, sir." "Very well, Miss Mickey Scanlan — ahem — Misther Scanlan, can you perform the positions also, Mickey? " "Yes, sir; but you remember I stuck at the eleventh altitude." "Attitude, sir — no matther. Well, Misther Scanlan, do you know how to shiloote a leedy, Mickey?" " Sure, it's hard to say, sir, till we try ; but I'm very willin' to larn it. I'll do my best, an' the best can do no more." " Very well — ahem ! Now merk me, Misther Scanlan ; you approach your leedy in this style, bowiu' politely, as I do. Miss Mulholland, will you allow me the honour of a heavenly shiloote ? Don't bow, ma'am ; you are to curchy, you know ; a little lower eefyou plaise. Now you say, 'Wid the greatest pleasure in life, sir, an' many thanks for the feevour.' (Smack.) There, now, you are to make another curchy politely, an' say, ' Thank you, kind sir, I owe you one.' Now, Misther Scanlan, proceed." "I'm to imitate you, masther, as well as I can, sir, I believe? " " Yes, sir, you are to imitate vie. But hould, sir ; did you see me lick my lips or pull up my breeches? Ocb, that's shockin' unswintemintal. First make a curchy, a bow I mane, to Miss Grauna. Stop again, sir; are you goin' to sthrangle the leedy? Why, one would think that it's about to teek laive of her for ever you are. Gently, Misther Scanlan ; gently, Mickey. There ! — well, that's an improvement. Practice, Misther Scanlan, practice THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER. 35 will do all, Mickey ; but don't smack so loud, though. Hilloo, gintlemen ! where's our drawin'-room folks ? Go out, one of you, for Misther an' Mrs. Paddy Corcoran." Corcoran's face now appears peeping in at the door, lit up with a comic expression of genuine fun, from whatever cause it may have proceeded. " Aisy, Misther Corcoran ; an' where's Mrs. Corcoran, sir ? " " Are we both to come in together, masther ? " " Certainly : turn out both your toeses — turn them out, I say." " Sure thin, sir, it's aisier said than done wid some of us." " I know that, Misther Corcoran ; but practice is everything. The bow legs are strongly against you, I grant. Hut tut, Misther Corcoran — why, if your toes wor where your heels is, you'd be exactly in the first position, Paddy. Well, both of you turn out your toeses ; look street forward ; clap your caubeen — ahem ! — your castor under your ome (arm), an' walk into the middle of the flure, wid your head up. Stop, take care o" the post. Now, take your caubeen, castor I mane, in your right hand ; give it a flourish. Aisy, Mrs. Hanratty — Corcoran I mane — it's not you that's to flourish. Well, flourish your castor, Paddy, and thin make a graceful bow to the company. Leedies and gintlemen " " Leedies and gintlemen " "I'm your most obadient sarvint" " Pm your most obadient sarwint." " Tut, man alive ! that's not a bow. Look at this : there's a bow for you. Why, instead of meeking a bow, you appear as if you wor goin' to sit down with an embargo (lumbago) in your back. Well, practice is everything, an' there's luck in leisure. Dick Doorish, will you come up, and thry if you can meek any- thing of that treblin' step. You're a purty lad, Dick ; you're a purty lad, Misther Doorish, with a pair o' left legs an yon, to expect to larn to dance ; but don't dispeer, man alive, I'm not afeard but I'll make a graceful slip o' you yet. Can you meek a curchy?" " Not right, sir, I doubt." "Well, sir, I know that; but, Misther Doorish, you ought to know how to meek both a bow and a curchy. Whin you marry a wife, Misther Doorish, it mightn't come wrong for you to know how to taich her a curchy. Have you the gad and suggaun wid you ? " "Yes, sir." 36 IRISH READINGS. " Very well, on wid tliem ; the suggaun on the right foot, or what ought to be the right foot, an' the gad upon what ought to be the left. Are you ready ? " "Yes, sir." " Come, then, do as I bid you. Rise upon suggaun an' sink upon gad ; rise upon suggaun an' sink upon gad ; rise upon . Hould, sir; you're sinkin' upon suggaun an' risin' upon gad, the very thing you ought not to do. But, dear help you ! sure you're left- legged. Ah, Mishter Doorish, it 'ud be a long time before you'd be able to dance Jig Polthogue or the College Hornpipe upon a drum-head, as I often did. However, don't despeer, Misther Doorish ; if I could only get you to know your right leg — but, dear help you, sure you hav'nt such a thing — from your left, I'd make something of you yet, Dick." The Irish dancing-masters were eternally at daggers-drawn among themselves ; but as they seldom met, they were forced to abuse each other at a distance, which they did with a virulence and scurrility proportioned to the space between them. Buckram-Back had a rival of this description, who was a sore thorn in his side. His name was Paddy Fitzpatrick, and from having been a horse- jockey, he gave up the turf, and took to the calling of a dancing- master. Buckram-Back sent a message to him to the effect that " if he could not dance Jig Polthogue on the drum-head he had better hould his tongue for ever." To this Paddy replied by asking if he was the man to dance the Connaught Jockey upon the saddle of a blood horse, and the animal at a three-quarter gallop ? At length the friends on each side, from a natural love of fun, prevailed upon them to decide their claims as follows : Each master, with twelve of his pupils, was to dance against his rival with twelve of his ; the match to come off on the top of Mallybeny hill, which commanded a view of the whole parish. I have already mentioned that in Buckram-Back's school there stood near the middle of the floor a post, which, according to some new manoeuvre of his own, was very convenient as a guide to the dancers when going through the figure. At length they met, and it would have been a matter of much difficulty to determine their relative merits, each was such an admirable match for the other. When Buckram-Back's pupils, however, came to perform, they found that the absence of the post THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER. 37 was their ruin. To the post they had been trained — accustomed ; with it they could dance ; but wanting that, they were like so many ships at sea without rudders or compasses. Of course a scene of ludicrous confusion ensued, which turned the laugh against poor Buckram-Back, who stood likely to explode with shame and venom. In fact, he was in an agony. " Gintlemen, turn the post ! " he shouted ; " leedies, remimber the post! Oh, for the honour of Kilnahushogue don't be bate. The post, gintlemen! leedies, the post, if you love me! Murther alive, the post ! " " Arrah, masther, the jockey will distance us," replied Bob Magawley ; " it's likely to be the winnM -post to him, anyhow." " Any money," shouted the little fellow, " any money for long Sam Sallaghan ; he'd do the post to the life. Mind it, boys dear, mind it, or we're lost. Sorra a bit they heed me ; it's a flock of bees or sheep they are like. Sam Sallaghan, where are you ? The post, you blackguards ! " " Oh, masther dear, if we had even a fishin'-rod or a crow-bar, or a poker, we might do yet. But, anyhow, we had betther give in, for it's only worse we're gettin'." At this stage of the proceedings Paddy came over, and making a low bow, asked him, " Arra, how do you feel, Misther Dogherty ?" for such was Buckram-Back's name. " Sir," replied Buckram-Back, bowing low, however, in return, "I'll take the shine out of you yet. Can you shiloote a leedy wid me — that's the chat ! Come, gintlemen, show them what's betther than fifty posts — shiloote your partners like Irishmen. Kilna- hushogue for ever ! " The scene that ensued baffles all description. The fact is, the little fellow had them trained, as it were, to kiss in platoons, and the spectators were literally convulsed with laughter at this most novel and ludicrous character that Buckram-Back gave to his defeat, and the ceremony which he introduced. The truth is, he turned the laugh completely against his rival, and swaggered off the ground in high spirits, exclaiming, " He know how to shiloote a leedy ! Why the poor spalpeen never kissed any woman but his mother, an' her only when she was dyin'. Hurra for Kilna- hushogue ! " William Carleton. [By kind permission of Messrs. James Puffy and Sons.] THE BELLS OF SHANDON. With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder, Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine ; While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate, But all their music Spoke naught to thine. For memory dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling Old "Adrian's Mole" in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, KING O'TOOLE AND ST. KEVIN. 39 And cymbals glorious, Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. Oh ! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, AVhile on tower and Kiosko, In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer From the tapering summit Of tal-1 minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them, But there's an anthem More dear to me — 'Tis the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. Rev. Francis Mahont. ("Father Prout.") KING O'TOOLE AND ST. KEVIN. (Condensed.) "This, sir," said my guide, putting himself in an attitude, "is the chapel of King O'Toole — av coorse y'iv often heered o' King O'Toole, your honour?" " Never," said I. "Musha, thin, do you tell me so! " said he ; " I thought all the 40 IRISH READINGS. world, far and near, heered o' King O'Toole. Well ! well ! but the darkness of mankind is ontellible. Well, sir, there was wanst a king, called King O'Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago ; and it was him that owned the Churches in the airly days." "Surely," said I, "the Churches were not in King O'Toole' s time?" "Oh, by no manes, your honour — it's yourself that's right enough there ; but you know the place is called ' The Churches,' bekase they wor built aflher by St. Kavin, and wint by the name o' the Churches ivermore ; and, therefore, av coorse, the place bein' so called, I say that the king owned the Churches ; — and why not, sir, seein' 'twas his birthright, time out o' mind, beyant the flood ? Well, the king was the rale boy, and loved sport — huntin' in par- tic'lar ; for the deer was far plintyer thin than the sheep is now. "Well, you see, in the coorse o' time the king grewn owld, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got sthriken in years he was lost entirely for want o' divarshin ; and he was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him ; and the way the goose divarted him was this-a-way : you see, the goose used for to swim acrass the lake, and go down divin' for throut, and cotch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake divartin' the poor king, that you'd think he'd break his sides laughin' at the frolicsome tricks av his goose ; and he was as happy as the day was long. So all went on mighty well antil the goose got sthricken in years as well as the king, and couldn't divart him no longer ; and then it was that the poor king was lost com- plate, and didn't know what in the wide world to do, seein' he was gone out of all divarshin, by raison that the goose was no more in the flower of her blame. " Well, the king was walkin' one mornin' by the edge o' the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, and thinkin' o' drownin' himself, when all of a suddint, turnin' round the corner beyant, who .should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin' up to him. " ' God save you,' says the king to the young man. " ' God save you kindly,' says the young man to him back again ; ' God save you,' says he, ' King O'Toole.' " ' Thrue for you,' says the king; ' I am King O'Toole,' says he, 4 prince and plennypennytinchery o' these parts,' says he ; ' but how keni ye to know that? ' says he. KING o'TOOLE AND ST. KEVIN. 41 " ' Oh, never mind,' says St. Kavin. For you see, it was St. Kavin, sure enough — the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. ' Oh, never mind,' says he, ' I know more than that,' says he, ' nor twice that.' '"And who are you?' says the king, 'that makes so bowld; who are you, at all at all ? ' " ' Oh, never you mind,' says St. Kavin, ' who I am ; you'll know more o' me before we part, King O'Toole,' says he. " ' I'll be proud o' the knowledge o' your acquaintance, sir,' says the king, mighty p'lite. "'You may say that,' says St. Kavin. 'And now, may I make bowld to ax, how is your goose, King O'Toole ? ' says he. " ' Arrah, how kem you to know about my goose?' says the king. " ' Oh, no matther ; I was given to understand it,' says St. Kavin. " ' Oh, that's a folly to talk,' says the king ; ' bekase myself and my goose is private frinds,' says he, 'and no one could tell you, says he, ' barrin' the fairies.' " ' Oh, thin, it wasn't the fairies,' says St. Kavin ; ' for I'd have you know,' says he, ' that I don't keep the likes o' sitch company.' " ' You might do worse, then, my gay fellow,' says the king ; ' for it's they could show you a crock o' money as aisy as kiss hand, and that's not to be sneezed at,' says the king, ' by a poor man,' says he. " ' Maybe I've a betther way of making money myself,' says the saint. " ' Barrin' you're a coiner,' says the king, ' that's impossible.' " ' I'd scorn to be the like, my lord ! ' says St. Kavin, mighty high ; ' I'd scorn to be the like,' says he. "'Then what are you?' says the king, 'that makes money so aisy, by your own account ? ' " 'I'm an honest man,' says St. Kavin. " ' Well, honest man,' says the king, ' and how is it you make your money so aisy ? ' " ' By makin' ould things as good as new,' says St. Kavin* " ' Is it a tinker you are ? ' says the king. " ' No,' says the saint ; ' I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole ; I've a betther thrade than a tinker,' says he ; — ' what would you say,' says he, ' if I made your ould goose as good as new ? ' " My dear, at the word o' making his goose as good as new, you'd think the poor ould king's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head; and says he, ' thin, I'd give you more money nor you could count,' D 42 IRISH READINGS. says he, ' if you did the like ; and I'd be behoulden to you into the bargain.' " ' I scorn your dirty money,' says St. Kavin. " ' Thin, I'm thinkin' a thrifle o' change would do you no harm,' says the king, lookiu' up sly at the ould caubeen that St. Kavin had on him. " ' I have a vow agin it,' says the saint ; ' and I am book-sworn,' says he, ' never to have goold, silver, or brass in my company.' " ' Barrin' the thrifle you can't help,' says the king, mighty cute, and lookin' him straight in the face. '"You just hot it,' says St. Kavin; 'but though I can't take money,' says he, ' I could take a few acres o' land, if you'd give them to me.' " ' With all the veins o' my heart,' says the king, ' if you can do what you say.' " ' Thry me,' says St. Kavin. ' Call down your goose here,' says he, ' and I'll see what I can do for her.' " With that the king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin' up to the poor ould cripple, her masther, and as like him as two pays. The minute the saint clapped his eyes an the goose, 'I'll do the job for you,' says he, ' King O'Toole.' "'If you do,' says King O'Toole; 'bud I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the siven parishes.' " ' Oh,' says St. Kavin, 'you must say more nor that ; my horn's not so soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your ould goose for nothin'; what'll you gi' me, if I do the job for you? — that's the chat,' says St. Kavin. " ' I'll give you whatever you ax,' says the king ; ' isn't that fair ? ' " ' Sorra a fairer,' says the saint ; ' that's the way to do business. 'Now,' says he, 'this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole : will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over the first offer, afther I make her as good as new? " " 'I will,' says the king. " ' You won't go back o' your word ? ' says St. Kavin. " ' Honour bright ! ' says King O'Toole, howldin' out his fist. " ' Honour bright,' says St. Kavin, back agin, • it's a bargain,' says he. ' Come here,' says he to the poor ould goose ; ' come here, you unfort'nate ould cripple,' says he, 'and it's/ that 'ill make you the spcrtin' bird.' " With that, my dear, he tuk up the goose by the two wings — KING O'TOOLE AND ST. KEVIN. 43 ' Criss o' my crass an you,' says he, and throwin' her up in the air. ' Whew ! ' says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her ; and with that, My jewel, she tuk to her heels, flyin' like one o' the aigles themselves, and cuttin' as many capers as a swallow before a shower o' rain. Away she wint down there, right forninst you, along the side o' the clift, and flew over St. Kavin's bed — on with her undher Lugduff, and round the ind av the lake there — and on with her thin right over Luganure. She flew, stout and studdy, and round the other ind av the little lake, by the Churches and over the big hill here over your head where you see the big clift — and fluttherin' over the wood there at Poulanass. Well, as I said, af ther flutterin' over to plaze herself, the goose flew down, and lit at the fut o' the king, as fresh as a daisy, afther flyin' roun' his dominions, just as if she hadn't flew three perch. "Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin' with his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a lark and betther nor ever she was ; and when she lit at his fut, he patted her an the head, and ' Mavourneenf says he, ' but you are the darlint o' the world.' " ' And what do you say to me,' says St. Kavin, ' for makin' her the like ? ' " 'I say nothin' bates the art o' man, barrin' thebees,' says the king. " ' And do you say no more nor that ?' says St. Kavin. 11 ' And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the king. "'But will you g'ie me all the ground the goose flewn over?' says St. Kavin. " ' I will,' says King O'Toole, ' and you're welkim to it,' says he, ' though it's the last acre I have to give. " ' But you'll keep your word thrue ? ' says the saint. " ' As thrue as the sun,' says the king. " 'It's well for you' (says St. Kavin, mighty sharp) — 'it's well for you, King O'Toole, that you said that word,' says he ; ' for if you didn't say that word, sorra bit o' your goose id ever fly agin,'' says St. Kavin. " Well, whin the king was as good as his word, St. Kavin was plazed with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the king. ' And,' says he, ' King O'Toole, you're a dacent man,' says he ; ' for I only kem here to thry you. ' You don't know me,' says he, ' bekase I'm disguised.'* * A person in a state of drunkenness is said to be disguised, 44 IKISH READINGS. " 'Thin, you're right enough,' says the king, 'I didn't perceave it,' says he ; ' for indeed I never seen the sign o' sper'ts an you.' " ' Oh, that's not -what I mane,' says St. Kavin ; ' I mane I'm deceavin' you all out, and that I'm not myself at all.' '"Musha, thin,' says the king, 'if you're not yourself, who are you ? ' " ' I'm St. Kavin,' says the saint, blessin' himself. " ' Oh,' says the king, fallin' down an his knees before the saint, ' is it the great St. Kavin,' says he, ' that I've been discoorsin' all this time without knowin' it,' says he — ' all as one as if he was a lump iv & gossoon? — and so you're a saint ?' says the king. " ' I am,' says St. Kavin. " 'I thought I was only talkin' to a dacent boy,' says the king. " ' Well, you know the differ now,' says the saint. ' I'm St. Kavin,' says he, ' the greatest of all the saints.' " For St. Kavin, you must know, sir," added the guide, " St. Kavin is counted the greatest iv all the saints, bekase he wint to school with the prophet Jeremiah. " Well, my dear, that's the way that the place kem, all at wanst, into the hands of St. Kavin ; for the goose flewn round every individyial acre o' King O'Toole's property you see, beiii 1 let into the saycret by St. Kavin, who was mighty 'cute ; and so, when he done the ould king out iv his property for the glory of God, he was plazed with him, and he and the king was the best o' frinds iver more afther (for the poor ould king was doatin\ you see), and the king had his goose as good as new, to divart him as long as he lived ; and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, antil the day iv his death — and that was soon afther ; for the poor goose thought he was ketchin' a throut one Friday ; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made — and instead of a throut, it was a thievin' horse-eel ; and, instead iv the goose killin' a throut for the king's supper, the eel killed the king's goose — and small blame to him ; but he didn't ate her, bekase he darn't ate what St. Kavin laid his blessed hands on. " Ilowsumdever, the king never recovered the loss iv his goose, though he had her stuffed and presarved in a glass-case for his own divarshin ; and the poor king died on the next Michaelmas- day, which was remarkable." Samuel Lovek. PHADRIG CROHOORE. Oh ! Pkadrig Crohoore was a brotli of a boy, And he stood six feet eight ; And his arm was as round as another man's thigh, — Tis Phadrig was great. His hair was as black as the shadows of night, And it hung over scars got in many a fight ; And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud, And his eye flashed like lightning from under a cloud — And there wasn't a girl from thirty-five under, Sorra matter how cross, but he could come round her ; But of all whom he smiled on so sweetly, but one Was the girl of his heart, and he loved her alone. As warm as the sun, as the rock firm and sure, Was the love of the heart of young Phadrig Crohoore. He would die for a smile from his Kathleen O'Brien, For his love, like his hatred, was strong as a lion. But one Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as well As he hated Crohoore — and that same I can't tell. And O'Brien liked him, for they were all the same parties — The O'Hanlons, O'Briens, O'Ryans, M'Carthies ; And they all went together in hating Crohoore, For many's the bating he gave them before. So O'Hanlon makes up to O'Brien, and says he : " Pll marry your daughter if you give her to me." So the match was made up, and when Shrovetide cams on The company assembled—three hundred if one ; The O'Hanlons, of course, turned out strong on that day, And the pipers and fiddlers were tearing away ; There was laughing, and roaring, and jigging, and flinging, And joking, and blessing, and kissing, and singing, And they were all merry ; why not, to be sure, That O'Hanlon got inside of Phadrig Crohoore ; And they all talked and laughed, the length of the table, Aiting and drinking while they were able 46 IRISH READINGS. With the piping, and fiddling, and roaring like thunder, Och ! you'd think your head fairly was splitting asunder ; And the priest shouted, " Silence, ye babblers, again," And he took up his prayer-book and was going to begin, And they all held their funning, and jigging, and bawling, So silent, you'd notice the smallest pin falling ; And the priest was beginning to read, when the door Was flung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore. Oh ! Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy, And he stood six feet eight ; His arm was as big as another man's thigh — 'Tis Phadrig was great. As he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye, As a dark cloud moves on through the stars in the sky — None dared to oppose him, for Phadrig was great, Till he stood, all alone, just in front of the seat Where O'Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride, Were seated together, the two side by side. He looked on Kathleen till her poor heart near broke, Then he turned to her father, O'Brien, and spoke, And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud, And his eye flashed like lightning from under a cloud :— " I did not come here like a tame, crawling mouse ; I stand, like a man, in my enemy's house. In the field, on the road, Phadrig never knew fear Of his foemen, and God knows he scorns it here. I ask but your leave, for three minutes or four, To speak to that girl whom I ne'er may see more." Then he turned to Kathleen, and his voice changed its tone, For he thought of the days when he called her his own ; And said he, " Kathleen, bawn, is it true what I hear — Is this match your free choice, without threat'ning or fear? If so, say the word, and I'll turn and depart— Cheated once, but once only, by woman's false heart." Oh ! sorrow and love made the poor girl quite dumb ; She tried hard to speak, but the words wouldn't come, For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her, Struck cold on her heart, like the night-wind in winter, PHADRIG CROHOORE. 47 And the tears in her blue eyes were trembling to flow, And her cheeks were as pale as the moonbeams on snow. Then the heart of bold Phadrig swelled high in its place, For he knew, by one look in that beautiful face, That though strangers and foemen their pledged hands might sever, Her heart was still his, and his only, for ever. Then he lifted his voice, like the eagle's hoarse call, And cried out — " She is mine yet, in spite of ye all." But up jumped O'Hanlon, and a tall chap was he, And he gazed on bold Phadrig as fierce as could be ; And says he — " By my fathers, before you go out, Bold Phadrig Crohoore, you must stand for a bout." Then Phadrig made answer — " I'll do my endeavour ; " And with one blow he stretched out O'Hanlon for ever! Then he caught up his Kathleen, and rushed to the door, He leaped on his horse, and he swung her before ; And they all were so bothered that not a man stirred Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard. Then up they all started, like bees in a swarm, And they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm ; And they ran, and they jumped, and they shouted galore; But Phadrig or Kathleen they never saw more. But those days are gone by, and his, too, are o'er, And the grass is growing over the grave of Crohoore, For he wouldn't be aisy or quiet at all ; As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall, So he took a good pike — for Phadrig was great — And he died for old Ireland in the year ninety-eight. J. S. Lefanu. WILLY REILLY, " Oh, rise up, Willy Reilly, and come along with me, I mean for to go with you and leave this counterie, To leave my father's dwelling-place, his houses and free land," And away goes Willy Reilly and his dear Colleen Bawn. 48 IRISH READINGS. They go by hills and mountains, and by yon lonesome plain, Through shady groves and valleys, all dangers to refrain ; But her father followed after with a well-arm'd band, And taken was poor Reilly and his dear Colleen Bawn. It's home then she was taken and in her closet bound, Poor Reilly all in Sligo jail lay on the stony ground, Till at the bar of justice before the Judge he'd stand, For nothing but the stealing of his dear Colleen Bawn. " Now in the cold, cold iron, my hands and feet are bound, I'm handcuffed like a murderer, and tied unto the ground ; But all the toil and slavery I'm willing for to stand, Still hoping to be succoured by my dear Colleen Bawn." The jailer's son to Reilly goes, and thus to him did say : " O, get up William Reilly, you must appear this day, For great Squire Foillard's anger you never can withstand : I'm afeared you'll suffer sorely for your dear Colleen Bawn.*' " This is the news, young Reilly, last night that I did hear, The lady's oath will hang you, or else will set you clear." " If that be so," says Reilly, " her pleasure I will stand, Still hoping to be succoured by my dear Colleen Bawn." Now Willy's dressed from top to toe all in a suit of green, His hair hangs o'er his shoulders most glorious to be seen : He's tall and straight and comely as any to be found, — He's fit for Foillard's daughter, was she heiress to a crown. The Judge he said, " This lady being in her tender youth, If Reilly has deluded her, she will declare the truth." Then like a moving beauty bright before him she did stand, "You're welcome there, my heart's delight, and dear Colleen Bawn." " O gentlemen," Squire Foilliard said, " with pity look on me ! This villain came amongst us to disgrace our family, And by his base contrivances this villany was planned ; If I don't get satisfaction, I'll quit this Irish land." The lady with a tear began, and thus replied she : "The fault is none of Ri-illy's, the blame lies all on me; TWO IRISH IDYLLS. 49 I forced him for to leave his place and come along with me, I loved him out of measure, which wrought our destiny." Out bespoke the noble Fox, at the table he stood by : " O gentlemen, consider on this extremity ! To hang a man for love is a murder, you may see ; So spare the life of Iteilly, let him leave this counterie." " Good my lord, he stole from her her diamonds and her rings, Gold watch and silver buckles, and many precious things, Which cost me in bright guineas more than five hundred pounds I'll have the life of Iteilly should I lose ten thousand pounds." " Good my lord, I gave them him as tokens of true love, And when we are a-parting I will them all remove. If you have got them, Iteilly, pray send them home to me." 11 1 will, my loving lady, with many thanks to thee." " There is a ring among them I allow myself to wear, With thirty locket diamonds well set in silver fair, And as a true-love token wear it on your right hand, — That you'll think on my poor broken heart when you're in a foreign land." Then outspoke noble Fox : " You may let the prisoner go, — The lady's oath has cleared him, as the jury all may know ; She has released her own true love, she has renewed his name, May her honour bright gain high estate, and her offspring rise to fame ! " Anonymous. TWO IRISH IDYLLS. I. — Riding Double. Trottin' to the fair, Me and Moll Malony, Sated, I declare, On a single pony ; How am I to know that Molly's safe behind, Wid our heads, in oh ! that Awk'ard way inclined? 50 IRISH READINGS. By her gintle breathin', Whispered past my ear, And her white arms wreathin' Warm around me here. Trottin' to the fair, Me and Moll Malony, Sated, I declare, On a single pony. Yerrig! Masther Jack, Lift your fore-legs higher, Or a rousin' crack Surely you'll require. "Ah!" says Moll, "I'm frightened That the pony '11 start," And her hands she tightened On my happy heart; Till, without reflecting 'Twasn't quite the vogue, Somehow, I'm suspcctin' That I snatched a pogue. Trottin' to the fair, Me and Moll Malony, Sated, I declare, On a single pony. II — Riding Treble. Joultin' to the fair, Three upon the pony, That so lately were Me and Moll Malony. "How can three be on, boy? Sure, the wife and you, Though you should be ivan, boy, Can't be more nor two." Arrah, now, then may be You've got eyes to see That this purty baby Adds us up to three. THE CORONATION. 51 Joultin' to the fair, Three upon the pony, That so lately were Me and Moll Malony. Come, give over, Jack, Cap'rin' and curvettin', All that's on your back Foolishly forgettin' ; For I've tuk the notion Wan may cant'rin' go, Trottin' is a motion I'd extind to two; But to travel steady Matches best wid three, And we're that already, Mistress Moll and me. Joultin' to the fair, Three upon the pony, That so lately were Me and Moll Malony. Alfred Perceval Graves. [By kind permission of the author.] MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION. Ocii ! the Coronation ! what celebration For emulation can with it compare? When to Westminster the Royal Spinster, And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair! 'Twas there you'd see the new Polishemen Making a skrimmage at half after four, And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys All standing round before the Abbey door. Their pillows scorning, that selfsame morning Themselves adorning, all by the candle-light, With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies, And gould, and jewels, and rich di'monds bright. 52 IRISH READINGS. And then approaches five hundred coaches, With General Dullbeak — Och ! 'twas mighty fine To see how asy bould Corporal Casey, With his sword drawn, prancing, made them kape the line. Then the guns' alarums, and the King of Arums, All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes, Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors, The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews ; 'Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy All jool's from his jasey to his di'mond boots, With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer The famale heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts. And Wellington, walking with his sword drawn, talking To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame : And Sir de Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey, (They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed his name,) Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair, And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello, The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair. Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians, In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs, And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians, And Everytkingarians all in furs and muffs. Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker, All in the Gallery you might persave ; But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing, Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave. There was Baron Alten himself exalting, And Prince Von Schwartzenberg, and many more, Och! I'd be bother'd and entirely smother'd To tell the half of 'em was to the fore ; With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses, And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works, But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly, "I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks!" THE COKONATION. Do Then the Queen, Heaven bless her ! — och ! they did dress her In her purple garaments and her goulden crown ; Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby, With eight young ladies houlding up her gown. Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow, And Sir George Smart ! Oh ! he play'd a Consarto, With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row! Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up, For to resave her bounty and great wealth, Saying, " Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory ! Ye'll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health ! " Then his Riverence retrating, discoorsed the mating : " Boys ! here's your Queen ! deny it if you can ! And if any bould traitour, or infarior crayth'ur, Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man ! " Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow'rs appealing, "Heaven send your Majesty a glorious Reign! " And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her, All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain. The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair, too, But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry, For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry, Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye. Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching, With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee : And they did splash her with raal Macasshur, And the Queen said, "Ah! then thank ye all for me!" — Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing, And sweet trombones, with their silver tones ; But Lord Rolle was rolling; — 'twas mighty consoling To think his Lordship did not break his bones ! Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard, All on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop ; With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats, And wine and nagus, and Imperial Pop ! 54 IRISH READINGS. There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels, With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough, The sly ould chicken, undernathe the stairs. Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd, Crying, " God save Victoria, our Royal Queen ! "_ Och ! if myself should live to be a hundred, Sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen! And now I've ended what I pretended, This narration splendid in swate poe-thry, "Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, Och ! it's myself that's getting mighty dhry." [By kind permission of Messrs. Bentley and Sons.] DEATH OF KING CONOR MACNESSA. 'Twas a day full of sorrow for Ulster when Conor MacNessa went forth To punish the clansmen of Comiaught who dared to take spoil from the North ; For his men brought him back from the battle scarce better than one that was dead, With the brain ball of Mesgedra* buried two-thirds of its depth in his head. His royal physician bent o'er him, great Fingen, who often before Staunched the war-battered bodies of heroes, and built them for battle once more, And he looked on the wound of the monarch, and heark'd to his low-breathed sighs, And he said—" In the day when that missile is loosed from his forehead, he dies. * The pagan Irish warriors sometimes took the brains out of champions whom they had slain in single combat, mixed them up with lime, and rolled them into balls, which hardened with time, and which they preserved as trophies. It was with ono of these balls, which had been abstracted from his armoury, that Conor MacNessa was Wounded, as described in the text. DEATH OF KING CONOR MAC NESSA. 00 lt Yet long midst the people who love him King Conor Mac Nessa may reign, If always the high pulse of passion be kept from his heart and his brain ; And for this I lay down his restrictions :— No more from this day shall his place Be with armies, in battles, or hostings, or leading the van of the chase ; At night, when the banquet is flashing, his measure of wine must be small, And take heed that the bright eyes of woman be kept from his sight above all ; For if heart-thrilling joyance or anger awhile o'er his being have power, The ball will start forth from his forehead, and surely he dies in that hour." Oh! woe for that valiant King Conor, struck down from the summit of life While glory unclouded shone round him, and regal enjoyment was rife — Shut out from his toils and his duties, condemned to ignoble repose, No longer to friends a true helper, no longer a scourge to his foes ! He, the strong-handed smiter of champions, the piercer of armour and shields, The foremost in earth-shaking onsets, the last out of blood-sodden fields — The mildest, the kindest, the gayest, when revels ran high in his hall — Oh, well might his people who loved him feel gloomy and sad for his fall ! The princes, the chieftains, the nobles, who met to consult at his board, Whispered low when their talk was of combats, and wielding the spear and the sword ; The bards from their harps feared to waken the full-pealing sweetness of song, To give homage to valour or beauty, or praise to the wise and the strong ; 56 IRISH READINGS. The flash of no joy-giving story made cheers or gay laughter resound, Amidst silence constrained and unwonted the seldom-filled winc- cup went round ; And, sadder to all who remembered the glories and joys that had been, The heart-swaying presence of woman not once shed its light on the scene. He knew it, he felt it, and sorrow sank daily more deep in hi? heart ; He wearied of doleful inaction, from all his loved labours apart. He sat at his door in the sunlight, sore grieving and weeping to see The life and the motion around him, and nothing so stricken as he Above him the eagle went wheeling, before him the deer gal- loped by, And the quick-legged rabbits went skipping from green glades and burrows a-nigh — The song-birds sang out from the copses, the bees passed on musical wing, And all things were happy and busy, save Conor Mac Nessa, the King ! So years had passed over, when, sitting midst silence like that of the tomb, A terror crept through him as sudden the moonlight was blackened with gloom. One red flare of lightning blazed brightly, illuming the land- scape around, One thunder-peal roared through the mountains, and rumbled and crashed underground ; He heard the rocks bursting asunder, the trees tearing up by the roots, And loud through the horrid confusion the howling of terrified brutes. From the halls of his tottering palace came screamings of terror and pain, And he saw crowding thickly around him the ghosts of the foes he hud slain ! DEATH OF KING CONOR MAC NESSA. 57 And as soon as the sudden commotion that shuddered through nature had ceased, The King sent for Barach, his druid, and said : " Tell me truly, O priest, What magical arts have created this scene of wild horror and dread ? What has blotted the blue sky above us, and shaken the earth that we tread ? Are the gods that we worship offended ? what crime or what wrong has been done ? Has the fault been committed in Erin, and how may their favour, be won ? What rites may avail to appease them '? what gifts on their altars should smoke? Only say, and the offering demanded we lay by your consecrate oak." u O King," said the white-bearded druid, "the truth unto me has been shown, There lives but one God, the Eternal ; far up in high Heaven is his throne. He looked upon men with compassion, and sent from his king- dom of light His Son, in the shape of a mortal, to teach them and guide them aright. Near the time of your birth, O King Conor, the Saviour of mankind was born, And since then in the kingdoms far eastward he taught, toiled, and prayed, till this morn, When wicked men seized him, fast bound him with nails to a cross, lanced his side, And that moment of gloom and confusion was earth's cry of dread when he died. " O King, he was gracious and gentle, his heart was all pity and love, And for men he was ever beseeching the grace of his Father above ; He helped them, he healed them, he blessed them ; he laboured that all might attain To the true God's high kingdom of glory, where never comes sorrow or pain 5 58 IRISH READINGS. But they rose in their pride and their folly, their hearts filled with merciless rage, That only the sight of his life-blood fast poured from his heart could assuage : Yet while on the cross-beams uplifted, his body racked, tortured, and riven, He prayed — not for justice or vengeance, but asked that his foes be forgiven." With a bound from his seat rose King Conor, the red flush of rage on his face, Fast he ran through the hall for his weapons, and snatching his sword from its place, He rushed to the woods, striking wildly at boughs that dropped down with each blow, And he cried : " Were I midst the vile rabble, I'd cleave them to earth even so ! With the strokes of a high King of Erin, the whirls of my keen- tempered sword, I would save from their horrible fury that mild and that merci- ful Lord." His frame shook and heaved with emotion ; the brain-ball leaped forth from his head, And commending his soul to that Saviour, King Conor MacNessa fell dead. T. D. Sullivan. [By kind permission of the author.] THE PRESENT TO THE PRIEST. Rory transacted his business in Dublin satisfactorily; and having done so, he mounted his outside place on one of the coaches from town, and found himself beside a slight, pale, but rather handsome young gentleman. He was perfectly accommodating to his fellow- travellers while they were shaking themselves down into their places, and on the journey he conversed freely with Rory on such subjects as the passing occurrences of the road suggested. This unaffected conduct won him ready esteem and liking from his humble neighbour; but its effect was heightened by the contrast THE PRESENT TO THE PRIEST. 59 which another passenger afforded, 'who seemed to consider it a great degradation to have a person in Rory's condition placed beside him ; and he spoke in an offensive tone of remark to the person seated at the other side, and quite loud enough to be heard, of the assurance of the lower orders. To all this Rory, with a great deal of tact, never made any reply, and to a casual observer wonld have seemed not to notice it. But an occasion soon afforded for this insolent and ill-bred fellow to make an open aggression upon Rory, which our hero returned with interest. After one of the stoppages on the road for refreshment, the passengers resumed their places, and the last to make his appearance was this bashaw. On getting up to his seat, he said, " Where's my coat? " To this no one made any answer, and the question was soon repeated in a louder tone : " Where's my coat? " "Your coat, is it, sir? " said the coachman. " Yes — my coat ; do you know anything of it ? " "No, sir," said the coachman; "maybe you took it into the house with you." "No, I did not; I left it on the coach — And by-the-bye," said he, looking at Rory, " you were the only person who did not quit the coach — did you take it? " "Take what?" said Rory, with a peculiar emphasis and intona- tion on the ichat. "My coat," said the other, with extreme effrontery. " I've a coat o' my own," said Rory, with great composure. " That's not an answer to my question," said the other. "I think you ought to be glad to get so quiet an answer,'" said Rory. " I think so too," said the pale traveller. "I did not address my conversation to you, sir," said the swaggering gentleman. "If you did, sir, you should have been lying in the middle of the road now," was the taunting rejoinder. At this moment a waiter made his appearance at the door of the inn bearing the missing coat on his arm : " You left this behind you in the parlour, sir." The effect was what any one must anticipate: indignant eyes were turned on all sides upon the person making so wanton an aggression. He scarcely knew what to do. After much stammering, and hemming and hawing, he took the coat from the waiter, and GO IRISH READINGS. turning to Rory, said— " I see— I forgot — 1 thought that I left it in the coach ; — but — a — I see 'twas a mistake." " Oh, make no apologies," said Rory, " we were both undher a mistake." u How both? " said the don. "Why, sir,*' said Rory, "you mistuk me for a thief, and I mistuk you for a gintleman." The conversation soon slackened on all sides, for it began to rain. At last the passengers seated on the top began to feei their seats invaded by the flood that deluged the roof of the coach. The moment the coach stopped, Rory O'More jumped off, and said to the coachman, " I'll be back with you before you go ; but don't start before I come: " and away he ran down the town. At last all was ready for starting, and Rory had not yet returned. The horn was blown, and the coachman's patience was just worn out, when Rory hove in sight, splashing his way through the middle of the street, flourishing two gridirons over his head. " Here I am," said he, panting, and nearly exhausted ; " I'd a brave run for it ! " " Jist give me a wisp o' sthraw, and God bless you," said he to one of the helpers who was standing by ; and having got it he scrambled up the coach, and said to his pale friend, "Now, sir, we'll be comfortable." "I don't see much likelihood of it," said the fellow-traveller. ■■ Why, lock what I've got for you," said Rory. " Oh, that straw will soon be sopped with ruin, and then we'll be a?- badly off as before." ■• Hut it's not on sthraw I'm depindin'," said Rory; "look at this ! " and he brandished one of the gridirons. "I Lav- beard of Btopping the tide with a pitchfork," said the traveller, smiling, "but never of keeping out rain with a gridiron." "Thin I'll show you how to do thai same," said Rory. "Here — Bij up elap this gridiron undher you, and you'll be walker wather no longer. Stop, sir. stav a minit — don't sit down on the bare bars, and In makin 1 a beefatakeo' yourself; here's a wisp o' sthraw to put betune you and tb'e cowld iron — and not a dhryer sate in all Ireland than the same gridiron." The young traveller turned to Rory and said, "What was it made you think of a gridiron V " THE PRESENT TO THE PRIEST. 61 "Why, thin, I'll tell yon," said Rory. " I promised my mother to bring a present to the priest from Dublin, and I could not make up my mind rightly what to get all the time I was there. I thought of a pair o' top-boots ; for, indeed, his reverence's is none of the best, and only you know them to be top-boots, you would not take them to be top-boots, bekase the bottoms has been put in so often that the tops is wore out intirely, and is no more like top-boots than my brogues. So I wint to a shop in Dublin, and picked out the purtiest pair o' top-boots I could see — whin I say purty, I don't mane a flourishin' tarin' pair, but sitch as was fit for a priest, a respectable pair o' boots — and with that, I pulled out my good money to pay for them, whin jist at that minit, remembering tricks o' the town, I bethought o' myself, and says I, ' I suppose these are the right things?' says I to the man. 'You can thry them,' says he. ' How can I thry them? ' says I. ' Pull them on you,' says he. 'I'd be sorry,' says I, 'to take sitch a liberty with thim,' says I. ' Why, aren't you going to ware thim? ' says he. ' Is it me?' says I — 'me ware top-boots? do you think it's takin' lave of my sinses I am ? ' says I. ' Then what do you want to buy them for? ' says he. ' For his reverence, Father Kinshela,' says I; 'are they the right sort for him? ' ' How should I know? ' says he. 'You're a purty boot-maker,' says I, 'not to know how to make a priest's boots ! ' ' How do I know his size ? ' says he. ' Oh, don't be comin' off that a-way,' says I ; ' there's no sitch differ betune priests and other min ! ' " " I think you were very right there," said the pale traveller. " To be sure, sir," said Rory ; " and it was only j ist a come off for his own ignorance. 'Tell me his size,' says the fellow, ' and I'll fit him.' 'He's betune five and six fat,' says I. 'Most men are,' says he, laughin' at me — he was an impidint fellow. 'It's not the five, nor six, but his two feet I want to know the size of,' says he. So I persaived he was jeerin' me, and says I, ' Why, thin, you disrespectful vagabone o' the world, you Dublin jackeen! do you mane to insinivate that Father Kinshela ever wint barefutted in his life, that I could know the size of his fut? ' says I; and with that I threw the boots in his face. ' Take that,' says I, ' you dirty thief o' the world ! you impidint vagabone o' the world ! you ignorant citizen of the world ! ' And with that I left the place." "It is their usual practice," said the traveller, "to take the measure of their customers." 62 IRISH READINGS. " Is it, thin ?" " It really is." " See that now ! " said Rory, with an air of triumph. " You would think that they wor cleverer in the town than in the country ; and they ought to be so, by all accounts ; but in regard of what I towld you, you see, we're before them intirely." " How so ? " said the traveller. 11 Arrali ! bekase they never trouble people in the country at all with takin' their measure ; but you jist go to a fair, and bring your fut along with you, and somebody else drives a cartful o' brogues into the place, and there you may sarve yourself ; and so the man gets his money and you get your shoes, and every one's plazed." •■ Well, sir, on laving the shop, as soon as I kem to myself afther the fellow's impidince, I begun to think what was the next best thing I could get for his reverence; and with that, while I was thinkin' about it, I seen a very respectable owld gintleman goin' by, with the most beautiful stick in his hand I ever set my eyes on, and a goolden head to it that was worth its weight in goold ; and it gev him such an illigant look altogether, that says I to myself, 'It's the mtv tiling for Father Kinshela, if I could get sitch another.' And so I wint lookin' about me every shop I seen as I wint by, and at last, in a sthreet they call Dame-sthreet — and, by the same token, I didn't know why they called it Dame-sthreet till I ax'd ; and I was towld they called it Dame-sthreet bekase the ladies were so fond o' walkin' there ; — and lovely craythurs they wor! and I can't b'lieve that the town is such an onwholesome place to live in, for most o' the ladies I seen there had the most beautiful rosy cheeks I ever clapt my eves upon — ami the beautiful rowliif eyes o' them! Well, it was in Dame-sthreet, as 1 was savin', that I kem to a shop where there was a power <>' Micks, and so I wint in and looked at thim; and a man in the place kem to me, and ax'd me if I wanted a cane? ' No,' says I, 'I don't want a cane ; it's a stick I want.,' I. 'A cane you mane,' 1 says he. ' No,' says I, 'I don't want a cane ; it's a stick ' — for I was detannined to have no cane, but to stick to the stick. 'Here's a nate one,' says he. 'I don't want a note one,' says I, • hut a responsible one,' says I. Says he, 'If an Irishman's stick was responsible, it would have) a great dale to answer tor' — md he laughed a power. I didn't know myself what lie meant, hut that's what he said." THE PRESENT TO THE PRIEST. 63 " It was because you asked for a responsible stick," said the traveller. " And wy wouldn't I," said Rory, " when it was for his reverence I wanted it ? Why wouldn't he have a nice-lookin', responsible stick?" " Certainly," said the traveller. " Well, I picked out one that looked to my likin' — a good, substantial stick, with an ivory top to it — for I seen that the goold-headed ones was so dear that I could'nt come up to them; and so says I, ' Give me a howld o' that,' says I — and I tuk a grip iv it. I never was so surprised in my life. I thought to get a good, brave handful of a solid stick, but, my dear, it was well it didn't fly out o' my hand a'most, it was so light. ' Phew ! ' says I, 'what sort of a stick is this? ' 'I tell you it's not a stick, but a cane,' says he. ' I b'lieve you,' says I. ' You see how good and light it is,' says he. Think o' that, sir ! — to call a stick good and light — as if there could be any good in life in a stick that wasn't heavy, and could sthreck a good blow ! ' Is it jokin' you are ? ' says I. ' Don't you feel it yourself ? ' says he. ' I can hardly feel it all,' says I. ' Sure that's the beauty of it,' says he. Think o' the ignorant vagabone ! — to call a stick a beauty that was as light a'most as a bulrush ! ' And so you can hardly feel it ! ' says he, grinnin '. ' Yis, indeed,' says I ; ' and what's worse, I don't think I could make any one else feel it either.' ' Oh ! you want a stick to bate people with ! ' says he. ' To be sure,' says I ; ' sure that's the use of a stick.' ' To knock the sinses out o' people ! ' says he, grinnin' again. ' Sartinly,' says I, ' if they're saucy ' — lookin' hard at him at the same time. ' Well, these is only walkin'-sticks,' says he. 'You may say nmm/i'-sticks,' says I, 'for you daren't stand before any one with sitch a thraneen as that in your fist.' ' Well, pick out the heaviest o' them you plaze,' says he ; ' take your choice.' So I wint pokin' and rummagin' among thim, and, if you believe me, there wasn't a stick in their whole shop worth a kick in the shins — sorra one ! " " But why did you require such a heavy stick for the priest?" " Bekase there is not a man in the parish wants it more," said Rory. " Is he so quarrelsome, then ? " asked the traveller. " No, but the greatest of pacemakers," said Rory. " Then what does he want the heavy stick for ? " 64 IRISH READINGS. "For wallopin' his flock, to be sure," said Rory. "Walloping! " said the traveller, choking with laughing. " Oh ! you may laugh," said Rory ; " but you wouldn't laugh if you wor undher his hand, for he has a brave heavy one, God bless him and spare him to us ! " " And what is all this walloping for ? " " Why, sir, when we have a bit of a fight, for fun, or the regular faction one, at the fair, his reverence sometimes hears of it, and comes av coorse." "Does the priest join the battle? " " No, no, no, sir ! I see you're quite a sthranger in the counthry. The priest join it ! — Oh ! by no manes. But he comes and stops it ; and, av coorse, the only way he can stop it is to ride into thim, and wallop thim all round before him, and disparse thim — scatther thim like chaff before the wind, and it's the best o' sticks he requires for that same." "But might he not have his heavy stick on purpose for that service, and make use of a lighter one on other occasions ? " "As for that matther, sir," said Rory, "there's no knowin' the minit he might want it, for he is so often necessiated to have recoorse to it. It might be, going through the village, the public- house is too full, and in he goes and dhrives them out. Oh ! it would delight your heart to see the style he clears a public-house in — in no time ! " "But wouldn't his speaking to them answer the purpose as well?" " Oh, no ! he doesn't like to throw away his discoorse on thim ; and why should he?— he keeps that for the blessed althar on Sunday, which is a fitter place for it : besides, he does not like to be sevare on us."' w Severe ! " said the traveller in surprise ; " why, haven't you said that he thrashes you round on all occasions ? " " Yis, sir ; but what o' that ? — sure that's nothing to his tongue his words is like swoords or razhors, I may say : we're used to a lick of a stick every day, but not to sitch language as his reverence sometimes murdhers us with whin we displaze him. Oh! it's terrilile, bo it is, to have the weight of his tongue on you ! I'd rather let him bate me from this till to-morrow, than have one angry word from him." M I see. then, he must have a heavy stick," said the traveller. THE PRESENT TO THE PRIEST. 65 " To be sure he must, sir, at all times ; and that was the raison I was so particular in the shop ? and afther spendin' over an hour — would you b'lieve it ; — sorra stick I could get in the place fit for a child, much less a man — all poor, contimptible things." " But about the gridiron ? " said the traveller. •'Sure I'm tellin" you about it," said Rory; "only I'm not come to it yet." " You see," continued he, " I was so disgusted with thim shopkeepers in Dublin, that my heart was fairly broke with their ignorance, and I seen they knew nothin' at all about what I wanted, and so I came away without anything for his reverence, though it was on my mind all this day on the road ; and comin' through the last town in the middle o' the rain, I thought of a gridiron." " A very natural thing to think of in a shower of rain," said the traveller. " No, 'twasn't the rain made me think of it — I think it was God put a gridiron in my heart, seem' that it was a present for the priest I intended ; and when I thought of it, it came into my head, afther, that it would be a fine thing to sit on, for to keep one out of the rain, that was ruinatin' my cordheroys on the top o' the coach ; so I kept my eye out as we dhrove along up the sthreet, and sure enough what should I see at a shop half way down the town but a gridiron hanging up at the door ! and so I went back to get it." " But isn't a gridiron an odd present ? — hasn't his reverence one already?" " He had, sir, before it was bruk, — but that's what I remembered^ for I happened to be up at his place one day, sittin' in the kitchen, when Molly was brillin' some mate an it for his reverence ; and while she jist turned round about to get a pinch o' salt to shake over it, the dog that was in the place made a dart at the ' tlic Rabertson's," sez he, "an' she leeves doon in Kilwuddy." Sez I, " I think I did notis a strange lass at the meetin'." "Ay, 1 think ye did," sez he, "but this is my road," sez he, ■'an' I suppose ye'll be at the concert on Tuesday nieht in the Bchool-hoose? " " I'm no shair that, 1 widl," sez I. ■oh. ye maun cum," sez he, "an' ye'll see Maggie there." PADDY M'QUILLAN'S COURTSHIPS. 71 That was eneuch ! Sez I tae mysel, " I'll gang tae the concert, an' hae anither luk at her." Weel, Davey Duncan was coortin' Sarah Ann Rabertson, an' I had a purty strong notion they wud be a' cumin' in tegither. It was jist as I thocht. I was at the school -hoose gae an' early, an' whun I went in, there they wur, Davey, Sarah Ann, an' the strange lass. Davey wagged his finger at me, an' I went an' sut doon aside them. " Here's a sweetheart for you, Maggie," sez Davey, an' the wee dear shuk hand wae me. I thocht tae mysel I wud nivir wesh my hands ony mair ! Whun the singin wuz nearly ower Davev whuspered tae me that Maggie was gaun hame tae her ain hoose that nicht, an' sez he, " I'm gled yer here, Paddy : it'll save me the trouble o" gaun wae her, for I want tae hae a crack * wae Sarah Ann the nicht." u Wull she no object? " sez I. " Nae fear o" that," sez he. " Man, she was axin Sarah Ann wha the nice fellow wae the Jenny Lind hat wuz — meanin' you, Paddy. Xoo, I believe there's sich a thing as deein' wae happiness, an' I wus very near it then ! It cum sae unexpected, ye see, an' there was like a lump got in my throat, an' very near chokit me. Davey managed it nicely, an' we wur suin on the road for Kilwuddy. Maggie had a big shawl ower her erm, an' she made me rowl myself up in it, for fear I wud catch cowld. It wuz a' gae long walk, an' when we got tae the hoose Maggie invited me in. I shud tell ye here that in oor country side whun we gang hame wae a lass we may sit an' crack at the fireside as lang as we like, nae matter hoo late it is. We're no sae stuk-up in the country as you boys ir in the toon, liftin yer hat tae yer lass whun ye meet an' mebbe her clean oot o' sicht whun ye dae that. Weel, I nivir was as much put aboot in my life as I was whun I went inside the hoose. Maggie tuk a wee creepie stool an' sut doon at yin side o' the fire, an' I sut doon on yin at the tither. I tried to speak, but I declare my tongue wuz tied. Maggie lukit at me, an' I lukit at Maggie ; then I cleered my throat. " Ye hae got a cowld? " sez she. u I hae that," sez I. Then we sut a while langer. I pickit up a stray that was lyin' on the hearthstane, an' begood to chew it. * Conversation. 72 IRISH READINGS. " It's bad wather for the prittaes," says Maggie. " It is that," sez I, " ter'ble bad wather for the craps in general." " Wur ye in the fair on Seturday ? " sez she. Sez I, " I wuz." u Hoo wuz the hay a sellin' ? " sez she. Sez I " It was twa or three prices, and frae that doon." Then there was anither lang quate spell, an' I tuk up the tangs an' begood to poke amang the greesugh. " Ye'll be hungry," sez Maggie. "No yin bit," sez I; "I et neer a griddle foo o' pritta breed tae my tay the nicht." She went awa an' brocht me a bowl o' sweetmilk, an' a big plate o' breed, an' a gless sasser foo o' wather an wee yellow things aboot the size o' merbles sweemin' in it. " What dae ye ca' that ? " sez I. "Butter," sez she. " Weel," sez I, " I niver saw butter dressed that way afore. I suppose," sez I, " ye sup it wi' a spoon." Puir Maggie lauched at me and sez she, " Diz Miss Norris no dress her butter that way ? " " Oh, baud yer tongue about her," sez I, "I ken naething about her." "Why," sez she, "I'm tell't its gaun tae be a match atween " Weel," sez I, " there was a tay drinkin' match atween us yince, but I think I'll no bother her a^ain." Weel, Maggie cleared aff the things, an' we drew oor stools up tae the fin- again an' crackit awa like crickets, till about twa o'clock in the nioniin.' " Xoo," sez Maggie, " its time ye wur steppin' hame, for I hae tae rise at six o'clock tae churn, an' I'll no be fit for my wark if I dinna get a sleep." " Weel," sez I, "I suppose I maun gang; but 1 think I'll hae a ki-s first." Wae that up she jumpit an' made aff tae the tither side o' the hoose, an' I made efther her, but in my hurry I knockit doon the wee table that the candle was sittin' on an' there we wur in the derk. Weel, of course, Maggie kenned whaur she wuz; but me i.em a strung.!-, I had tae gang creepin' aboot, wae my hands spreed out afore me, for fear I wud brek my nose again somethin'. PADDY M'QUILLAN'S COURTSHIPS. 73 I had nathin' tae guide me but the gigglin' o' Maggie, an' she did giggle wae a vengence. I ketched her at last, an' my shockin ! if she didnae kick au' squeal an' struggle. I thocht she wud wauken up the hale hoose. " Ah, Maggie wuman ! Maggie wuman ! " sez I, an' I hel' her ticht in my arms, an' kissed her half a dizen o' times. " Oh, Maggie, wumon, but that's guid. Wait till I pit them back whaur I got them." Jist wae that I heerd a match streckin. Weel, as ye may imagine, I glowered wae baith eeh, an' hel' on by Maggie a' the time. What dae ye think I saw ? There was Maggie at the far side o' the hoose lichtin' the candle, an' lauchin as if she wud split. Of course my nixt luk was tae see wha I had been huggin' an' kissin ; an' wha was it but Maggie's ma, that had cum doon stairs tae get a drink. Weel, I gruppit my hat an' tuk oot, an' I didnae stap rinnin till I was hame an' in bed. Maggie niver let that drap on me, but we got tae be great friens, an' yin day I tell't her I cudnae leev withoot her. She lauched an' hung doon her heed, an' of coorse I kenned the meanin' o' that. Yin day whun I wanted tae ax her fether's consent, she sez tae me : " Ye neednae bother, Paddy, for he'll refuse ye. He wants me tae merry Jack Slouthers, an' I hate him in my heart, for he's a drunkin niver-dae-weel." So she tell't me tae let her work her fether her ain way. For a guid while ef ther that I went back an' forrit tae her hoose, an' whun I cudnae get tae see her I wud stan' glowerin' through the trees nixt her side o' the country, or I wud sit an' write letters an' sangs tae her. I wush ye had heerd them. I fun yin o' the sangs the tither day in Maggie's band-box, an' I may as weel let ye hear it : — Oh, Maggie, darlin, my love, my starlin', My ain wee Maggie wae the lauchen' een, Yer the sweetest crature, wae yer saft guid nature, That ould Kilwuddy has ever seen. Oh, my heart it's burnin', an' my heed it's turnin', I'm no worth leevin', nor fit tae dee ; I'll kill yer daddy, or my name's no Paddy, If he'll no consent tae yer merryin' rue. 74 IRISH READINGS. I feel a' quer noo, an' my very hair noo Wae doonricht trouble is turnin' white; My mind's tormented — och, I'm half demented, An' I've lost my yince noble appetite. An' noo I maun tell ye hoo we got red o' Jack Slouthers. Maggie's fether wuz very fond o' Jack, but be did not like bis drinkin' bebits. Weel, yin nicbt tbere wuz a perty at Maggie's bouse ; Jack wuz invited an' so wuz I. Wbun Jack made bis appearance we saw be wuz " gie an' far on," as tbe savin' is ; so Maggie's fether tuk him ootside tae see if tbe fresh air wud sober him. He left him stanin' doon aside the pighoose, an' sez he, " Noo, Jack, stan' there fur about ten minits, an' I'll cum back fur ye." He hadnae lang left him whun we heerd a dreadfu' squealin' amang the pigs, an' a wheen o' us run oot tae see what wuz wrang. Puir Jack had been lyin' ower the wall, an' had tumiled in amang the pigs. There he wuz, lyin' on the braid o' his back, the auld soo was lickin' his face an' gruntin', an' the young yins wur rinnin' amang his legs an' squealin' like mad. I suppose Jack tbocht he was amang a wheen o' his drunkin companions, fur he wuz shootin' as hard as he wuz able — " Fair play, boys ! fair play ! Wait till I get aff my coat, for I can lick the best man amang ye." I thocbt Davey Duncan wud a went into fits lauchin'. " Weel, Jack," sez he, " by the time ye wud lick that ould soo ye wud be tired." That spree finished Jack's coortin' there, an' left the road clear fur me. It wuznae lang till we got it a' settled, and the day fixed fur the weddin' I begood tae think that it wuz time I bad tell't my ma about it, for the puir ould buddy tbocht a' this time that I wuz coortin Miss Norris. So yin mornin', jist as I wuz guun oot efther my brekfast, I sez tae her — " I hae din that at last, ma." " Din what '? " quo' she. "I hae axed her tae merry me," sez I. ,k Weel? "sez she, an' she put on her specs an' glowered fair doon my throat. " Oh, weel," sez I, " she'll tak me." " Oh, Paddy," sez she, "yer a darlin' ! Xoo I'm prood o' ye, an the hale country side wull envy ye ; min' ye the like o' Miss Norris is no tae be catched ivery day." PADDY M'QUILLAN'S COURTSHIPS. 75 " Ma, dear," sez I, an' I felt the tug o' war wuz comin' noo, "Ma, dear," sez I, "I niver tried tae catch her." " What dae ye mean, boy? " sez she. " Didn't ye tell me this minit that she wud tak ye ; ye dinnae mean tae say that she did a' the coortin' herseP ! " Sez I, " I niver coorted ony at her, an' it wuznae her I wuz talkin' aboot ava." " An' wha then ? " sez she. Sez I, " a lass that deserves a far better man than me — Maggie Patten, o' Kilwuddy." I declare I was scared at the change that cum' ower that auld buddy's face. As shure as yer stanin' there but I cud see the hair turnin' far whiter on her head — she tried tae speak twa or three times, but the words cudnae cum.' "Wud ye like a moothfoo' o' cauld water? " sez I. " I shud tak you an' throw ye in the horse hole," sez she, " ye low, unmennerly hound ye. Didn't I think ye wur coortin' Miss Norris a' this time." " Ah, baud yer tongue ! " sez I, " what use wud that wuman be tae me unless I wud set her up tae scar craws aff the prittaes ? Is it her," sez I, " the cross-lukin, lanky, flet-fitted crater." "She's nathing o' the sort," sez my ma. " Isn't she ? " sez I, " why if she wud only luk into the crame crock it wud soor it ; an she's that thin that whun she turns side- ways I canna see her." " Weel, she's no flet-fitted," sez my ma. " Why," sez I, " her feet's as flet as flukes, an' whun she pits them doon — oh, sudden daith tae a' creepin' things." She sut doon on a wee stool an' begood a rockin' hersel' back an' forrit. "Noo," sez I, "ye neednae say anither word, for my mind's made up, an' if ye dinna let me tak Maggie I'll gang an' list." She said nae mair, an' the nixt day she started till tae mak pre* parations for the weddin'. Kobest. [By kind permission of the author. — From Humorous Headings.] WILLY GILLILAND. (An Ulster Ballad.) Up in the mountain solitudes, and in a rebel ring, He has worshipp'd God upon the hill, in spite of church and king ; And seal'd his treason with his blood on Bothwell bridge he hath ; So he must fly his father's land, or he must die the death ; For comely Claverhouse has come along with grim Dalzell, And his smoking rooftree testifies they've done their errand well. In vain to fly his enemies he fled his native land ; Hot persecution waited him upon the Carrick strand ; His name was on the Carrick cross, a price was on his head, A fortune to the man that brings him in alive or dead ! And so on moor and mountain, from the Lagan to the Bann, From house to house, and hill to hill, he lurk'd an outlaw'd man. At last, when in false company he might no longer bide, He stay'd his houseless wanderings upon the Collon side ; There in a cave all underground he lair'd his heathy den, Ah, many a gentleman was fain to earth like hill fox then ! With hound and fishing-rod he lived on hill and stream by day ; At night, betwixt his fleet greyhound and his bonny mare he lay. It was a summer evening, and mellowing and still, Glenwhirry to the setting sun lay bare from hill to hill ; For all that valley pastoral held neither house nor tree, But spread abroad and open all, a full fair sight to see, From Slemish foot to Collon top lay one unbroken green, Save where, in many a silver coil, the river glanced between. And on the river's grassy bank, even from the morning grey, He at the angler's pleasant sport had spent the summer day : Ah ! many a time and oft I've spent the summer day from dawn, And wonder'd, when the sunset came, where time and care had gone, Along the reaches curling fresh, the wimpling pools and streams, Where he that dav his cares forgot in those delightful dreams. ■ .^ His blithe work done, upon a bank the outlaw rested now, And laid the basket from his back, the bonnet from his brow; "WILLY GILLILAND. 77 And there, his hand upon the Book, his knee upon the sod, He fill'd the lonely valley with the gladsome word of God ; And for a persecuted kirk, and for her martyrs dear, And against a godless Church and king he spoke up loud and clear. And now, upon his homeward way, he cross'd the Collon high, And over bush, and bank, and brae, he sent abroad his eye ; But all was darkening peacefully in grey and purple haze, The thrush was silent in the banks, the lark upon the braes — When suddenly shot up a blaze, from the cave's mouth it came ; And troopers' steeds and troopers' caps are glancing in the same ! He couch'd among the heather, and he saw them, as he lay, With three long yells at parting, ride lightly east away : Then down with heavy heart he came, to sorry cheer came he, For ashes black were crackling where the green whins used to be, And stretch'd among the prickly coomb, his heart's blood smoking round, From slender nose to breast-bone cleft, lay dead his good grey- hound ! " They've slain my dog, the Philistines ! they've ta'en my bonny mare ! " — He plung'd into the smoky hole — no bonny beast was there- He groped beneath his burning bed (it burn'd him to the bone), Where his good weapon used to be, but broadsword there was none ; He reel'd out of the stifling den, and sat down on a stone, And in the shadows of the night 'twas thus he made his moan : — o " I am a houselesss outcast ; I have neither bed nor board, Nor living thing to look upon, nor comfort save the Lord : Yet many a time were better men in worse extremity ; Who succour'd them in their distress, He now will succour me, — He now will succour me, I know ; and, by His holy Name, I'll make the doers of this deed right dearly rue the same ! " My bonny mare ! I've ridden you when Claver'se rode behind, And from the thumbscrew and the boot you bore me like the wind ; And, while I have the life you saved, on your sleek flank, I swear, Episcopalian rowel shall never ruffle hair ! 78 IRISH READINGS. Though sword to wield they've left me none — yet Wallace wight, I wis, Good battle did on Irvine side wi' waur weapon than this." — His fishing-rod with both his hands he griped it as he spoke, And, where the butt and top were spliced, in pieces twain he broke j The limber top he cast away, with all its gear abroad, But, grasping the tough hickory butt, with spike of iron shod, He ground the sharp spear to a point ; then pull'd his bonnet down, And, meditating black revenge, set forth for Carrick town. The sun shines bright on Carrick wall and Carrick Castle grey, And up thine aisle, St. Nicholas, has ta'en his morning way, And to the N orth-Gate sentinel displayeth far and near Sea, hill, and tower, and all thereon, in dewy freshness clear, Save where, behind a ruin'd wall, himself alone to view, Is peering from the ivy green a bonnet of the blue. The sun shines red on Carrick wall and Carrick Castle old, And all the western buttresses have changed their grey for gold ; And from thy shrine, Saint Nicholas, the pilgrim of the sky Has gone in rich farewell, as fits such royal votary ; But, as his last red glance he takes down past black Slieve-a-true, He leavcth where he found it first, the bonnet of the blue. Again he makes the turrets grey stand out before the hill, Constant as their foundation rock, there is the bonnet still ! And now the gates are open'd, and forth in gallant show Prick jeering grooms and burghers blythe, and troopers in a row ; But one has little care for jest, so hard bested is he, To ride the outlaw's bonny mare, for this at last is she ! Down comes her master with a roar, her rider with a groan, The iron and the hickory are through and through him gone ! I !'• lies a corpse ; and where he sat, the outlaw sits again, And once more to his bonny mare he gives the spur and rein ; Then some with sword, and some with gun, they ride and run amain ; But sword and gun, and whip and spur, that day they plied in vain ! Ah ! little thought Willy Gilliland, when he on Skerry side Drew bridle first, and wiped his brow after that weary ride, GLBNAEIFP, CO. ANTRIM. 79 That where he lay like hunted brute, a cavern'd outlaw lone, Broad lands and yeoman tenantry should yet be there his own : Yet so it was ; and still from him descendants not a few Draw birth and lands, and, let me trust, draw love of Freedom too. Sir Samuel Ferguson. [By kind permission of the author.] GLENARIFF, CO. ANTRIM. Visited Sept. 15th. On the hills a blue haze lingered, the September skies were clear With the melancholy beauty of the slowly waning year ; And those skies of softest azure saw no fairer sight that day Than Glenariff's wooded hill-sides, where the golden sunlight lay. Foaming, flashing, far above us, leaping on from rock to rock, Fell the spray-enshrouded waters with a pealing thundershock ; Ash and rowan, birch and privet, waved along the ravine side, And the hazels bent and quivered o'er the dark impetuous tide. Purple bloomed the waves of heather on the mountains dark and lone, Autumn's hectic tinged the branches with a glory all her own, And the soft breath of the noontide, and the voice of bird and stream, Floated up the quiet valley, like the music of a dream. Where the hills in gorges parted, like a cloud far, far away, Seeming part of the blue distance, gleamed the broad and tranquil bay, And my glad heart whispered softly, " Earth has nought more fair for thee Than those cliffs, and groves, and waters, and that sunny glimpse of sea. " When the wintry snows are falling in the dim and waning light, I shall think of thee, Glenariff, many a dark and stormy night ; I shall see thy green boughs waving in the balmy autumn air, And the mellow light that rested like a glory everywhere." 80 IRISH READINGS. la the rain-drift and the tempest, still my thoughts shall travel back To the hills where many a torrent foams down its stony track ; Scenes as bright I yet may gaze on, days as happy be in store, But that day of light and beauty can come back to me no more. Mrs. Alfred M. Munster. [By kind permission of the author.] THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. Old Teddy O'Rourke kept a nice little school at a place called Clarina, in the South of Ireland ; he hadn't many scholars because the folks in those parts were for the most part too poor to send their children to school, and they picked up their learning as pigs do their meat ; still Teddy had some pupils, though they were a roughish lot, in spite of their having to pay a penny a week extra to be taught manners. Teddy's school-room was a bit of a shed, and the boys couldn't complain of bad ventilation, seeing that there was a hole in the roof which left it open to the blue sky, and the rain too, for in those parts, when the rain does pour, it comes down mightily. Well, one morning, says Ted, " My boys, since all of you are here, I'll just call over your names to see that none of you are missing. Gerald Mc Shaa ? " " I'm here, sir." » Paddy O'Shaughnessy." " Here, but my brother Barney ain't." " Where is your brother Barney then ? " " He's dead, sir, and they are going to wake him." " Are they ; well, you go and sit down by the fire, and larn your task, and don't be falling asleep, or I'll be waking you. "Paddy Mac Shane, my darling, come here and bring your ugly face wid you, and spell me Constantinople." "I can't, sir." " Can't you ? then by the powers I'll teach you ; first of all you see there's C. H — " C." " O."— u O." "Con."— "Con." THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 81 "That's the Con."— " That's the Con." «S."— "S." u T£ " It r£ »> 11 A," "A." "N."_"N." "Stan."—" Stan." "That's the Stan."— " That's the Stan." "And the Constan."— " And the Constan." U r£ >» u iji u U T" "J," (I IJ"j " U !JJ " " That's the Ti."_" That's the Ti." " And the Stanti."— " And the Stanti." "And the Constanti."— " And the Constanti." "N."_"N." "O."— "O." "No."— "No." " That's the No."— "That's the No." " And the Tino."— " And the Tino." " And the Stantino."— " And the Stantino." " And the Constantino." — " And the Constantino." it p» (( p" " L."— " L." "E."— "E." "Pie."— "Pull." "That's the Pie."—" That's the Pull." " And the Nople."— " And the Nopull." "And the Tinople."— " And the Tinopull." " And the Stantinople." — " And the Stantinopull." " And the Constantinople." — " And the Constantinopull.' " Now," said Teddy to Felix O'Brian, " before you go down come up and say your letters. What is the name of the first letter in the Alphabet ? " "X, sir." " No, sir ; what does your father give the donkey to eat, sir ? " " Nothing, sir." "And what else, sir? " " Hay, sir." " Aye, that's a good boy ; and what's next to A ? " " Don't know, sir." 82 IRISH READINGS. " What is the name of that great bird that flies about the garden and stings the people ? " " A wasp, sir." " No, sir. What is it that makes all the honey ? " 11 Bee, sir." " B that's right ; B A good boy, and mind what I say, and you'll be a beautiful scholar. Now the next letter to B, what is it?" " I don't know, sir." " What do I do when I turn up my eyes ? " " You squint, sir." " And what else, sir ? " " You see." « C that's right ; now what's next to C ? " » W, sir." " What is your grandmother's name ? " " Judee, sir." " Arrah, can't you say D without the Ju ? " " Yes, sir, D and no Jew." "Well, sir?" » E, F." " Well, what do you stop for ? " " Because I can't go no further." " What do the waggoners say when they want their horses to go faster ? " "Gee ho, dobbin." " G, and no ho dobbin." "H." " Well, that's right, and what follows H ? " '•Don't know." "What has your mother got by the side of her nose? " "A pimple, sir." "A pimple!" " Yes, sir, and one eye." " I — that's a good boy, you're my head scholar, and will soon be a man ; well, go on." "J." "What's next to J?" " I'm sure I don't know." •• Wli.it does your mother open the decline; A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg, Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg When the blithe bagpipe blew — but, soberer now, She douOfk/ span her flax and milk'd her cow. THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS. 95 John Bull, -whom in their years of early strife, She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life, Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbour, Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labour, Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon, And was real close in making of a bargain. The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg, And with decorum curtsv'd sister Pes;: She bade him "Sit into the fire," and took Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the nook ; Ask'd him " about the news from Eastern parts ; And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts ! If peace brought down the price of tea and pepper, And if the nitmugs were grown ony cheaper ; — Were there nae speerings of our Mungo Park — Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark? If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinnin', I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen." Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle In search of goods her customer to nail, Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle, And hollo'd "Ma'am that is not what I ail. Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen ? " — " Happy? " said Peg ; " What for d'ye want to ken ? Besides, just think upon this by-gane year. Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh." — " What say you to the present? " — " Meal's sae dear, To mek' their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh." — "Oh! bother take the shirt," said Solimaun, "I think my quest will end as it began Farewell, ma'am ; nay, no ceremony, I beg " " Ye'll no be for the linen then ? " said Peg. Now, for the land of verdant Erin, The Sultaun's royal bark is steering, The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells, The cousin of John Bull, as story tells. For a long space had John, with words of thunder, Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under, Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd unduly, 96 IRISH READINGS. Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. Hard was his lot and lodging you'll allow, A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow ; His landlord, and of middlemen two brace, Had screw'd his rent up to the starving-place; His garment was a top-coat, and an old one, His meal was a potato, and a cold one ; But still for fun or frolic, and all that. In the round world was not the match of Pat. The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, Which is with Paddy still a jolly day : Then is Pat's time to caper fair and free, And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. " Mahomet ! " said Sultaun Solimaun, " That ragged fellow is our very man ! Kush in and seize him — do not do him hurt, But, will he nill he, let me have his shirt.'''' — Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulking, (Much less provocation will set it a-walking,) But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy Whack ; They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him — Alack ! Up-bubbo ! Paddy had not — a shirt to his back ! ! ! And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame, Went back to Serendib as sad as he came. Sir Walter Scott. DANIEL O'ROURKE. (Condensed). People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O'Rourke, but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Phooka's tower. I knew the man well : he lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, lie told me his story thus : — " I am often axed to tell it, sir," said he, " so that this is not the first time. The master's son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts ; and sure enough there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and DANIEL O'ROURKE. 97 poor. Well, we had everything of the best, and plenty of it ; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost. And so as I was crossing the stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyasheenogb, I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the water. 'Death alive! ' thought I, ' I'll be drowned now ! ' However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island. " I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shinning as bright as day, or your fair lady's eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning her), and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog. I began to scratch my head, and sing the Ullagone — when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face ; and what was it but an eagle ? So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, ' Daniel OTtourke,' says he, 'how do you do?' 'Very well, I thank you, sir,' says I; ' 1 hope you're well ; ' wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. ' What brings you here, Dan ? ' says he. ' Nothing at all, sir,' says I : ' only I wish I was safe home again.' ' Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan ? ' says he. 'Tis sir,' says I. 'Dan,' says he, 'though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day, yet as you are a decent sober man, who 'tends mass well, and never flings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields — my life for yours,' says he, ' so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you'd fall off, and I'll fly you out of the bog.' 'I am afraid,' says I, 'your honour's making game of me ; for who ever heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before ? ' ' Ton the honour of a gentleman,' says he, putting his right foot on his breast, ' I am quite in earnest : and so now either take my offer or starve in the bog — besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.' "It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute going from under me. 'I thank your honour,' says I, 'for the loan of your civility; and I'll take your kind offer.' I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him tight 98 IRISH READINGS. enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the thrick he was going to serve me. Up — up — up, dear knows how far up he flew. ' Why then,' said I to him thinking he did not know the right road home — very civilly, because why ? I was in his power entirely; 'sir,' says I, 'please your honour's glory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you'd fly down a bit, you're now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your worship.' " ' Arrah, Dan,' said he, ' do you think me a fool ? Look down in the next field, and don't you see two men and a gun ? By my word it would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken black- guard that I picked up off a cowld stone in a bog.' Well, sir, up he kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. ' Where in the world are you going, sir ? ' says I to him. 'Hold your tongue, Dan', says he: 'mind your own business, and don't be interfering with the business of other people.' "At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can't see it from this, but there is, or there was in ray time, a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way [drawing the figure thus X^\ on the ground with the end of his stick]. i "'Dan,' said the eagle, ' I'm tired with this longily; I had no notion 'twas so far.' ' And, my lord, sir,' said I, ' who in the world axed you to fly so far — was it I ? did not I beg and pray and beseech you to stop half an hour ago ? ' ' There's no use talking, Dan,' says he; 'I'm tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest myself.' ' Is it sit down on the moon ? ' said I ; ' is it upon that little round thing, then ? why, then, sure I'd fall off in a minute, and be kilt and split, and smashed all to bits ; you are a vile deceiver, so you are.' ' Not at all, Dan,' said he; 'you can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that's sticking out of the side of the moon, and 'twill keep you up.' ' I won't then,' said I. ' May be not,' said he, quite quiet. ' If you don't, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one slap of pay wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage- leaf in the morning.' 'Why, then, I'm in a fine way,' said I to myself, 'ever to have come along with the likes of you;' and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he'd know what I said, DANIEL o'eOURKE. fl ( J I got off his back with a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping- hook, and sat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that. " When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, 'Good morning to you, Daniel O'Hourke,' said he; 'I think I've nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year' ('twas true enough for him, but how he found it out is hard to say), ' and in return you are freely welcome to cool your heek dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.' " ' Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you ? ' says I, ' You ugly unnatural haste, and is this the way you serve me at last ? ' 'Twas all to no manner of use ; he spread out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after him to stop ; but I might have called and bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this — sorrow fly away with him ! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before — I suppose they never thought of greasing 'em, and out there walks — who do you think, but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by his bush. " ' Good morrow to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he ; ' how do you do?' 'Very well, thank your honour,' said I. 'I hope your honour's well.' ' What brought you here, Dan? ' said he. So I told him how it was. " ' Dan,' said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was done, 'you must not stay here.' 'Indeed, sir,' says I, ' 'tis much against my will I'm here at all ; but how am I to go back ? ' ' That's your business,' said he ; ' Dan, mine is to tell you that here you must not stay, so be off in less than no time.' 'I'm doing no harm,' says I, ' only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.' ' That's what you must not do, Dan,' says he. 'Pray, sir,' says I, 'may I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller lodging : I'm sure 'tis not so often you're troubled with strangers coming to see you, for 'tis a long way.' ' I'm by myself, Dan,' says he ; ' but you'd better let go the reaping-hook.' ' And with your leave,' says I, ' I'll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I won't let go ; — so I will.' 'You had better, Dan,' says he again. 'Why, then, 100 IRISH READINGS. my little fellow,' says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, ' there are two words to that bargain ; and I'll not budge, but you may if you like.' ' We'll see how that is to be,' says he ; and back he went giving the door such a great bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it. " Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a word he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was keeping me up, and w hap 1 it came in two. ' Good morning to you, Dan,' says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand ; 'I thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.' I had not time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and rolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt. ' This is a pretty pickle,' says I, ' for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night : I am now sold fairly.' The word was not out of my mouth when, whiz ! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese ; all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenogh, else how should they know me? The ould gander, who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, ' Is that you, Dan ? ' ' The same,' said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of hedevilment, and, besides, I knew him of ould. ' Good morrow to you,' says he, 'Daniel OTtourke ; how are you in health this morning?' 'Very well, sir,' says I, 'I thank you kindly,' drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some. ' I hope your honour's the same.' 'I think 'tis falling you are, Daniel,' says he. ' You may say that, sir,' says I. ' And where are you going all the way so fast ? ' said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. ' Dan,' said he, ' I'll save you : put out your hand and catch me by the leg, and I'll fly you home.' ' Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,' says I, though all the time I thought within myself that I don't much trust you ; but there was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops. "We ilew, and we Hew, and we flew, until we came right over DANIEL O'ROURKE. 101 the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking up out of the water. ' Ah ! my lord,' said I to the goose, for I thought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, 'fly to land if you please.' 'It is impossible, you see, Dan,' said he, 'for a while, because you see we are going to Arabia.' ' To Arabia ! ' said I ; ' that's surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh ! Mr. Goose : why then, to be sure, I'm a man to be pitied among you.' ' Whist, whist, you fool,' said he, ' hold your tongue ; I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a little more sand there.' " Just as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful before the wind; 'Ah! then, sir,' said I, 'will you drop me on the ship if you please?' 'We are not fair over her said he, ' We are,' said I. ' We are not,' said he ; ' if I dropped you now you would go splash into the sea.' ' I would not,' says I; 'I know better than that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.' 'If you must, you must,' said he; 'there take your own way;' and he opened his claw, and 'deed he was right — sure enough I came down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea ! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself after his night's sleep, and looked me full in the face, and never the word did he say, but lifting up his tail, he splashed me all over again with the cold salt water till there wasn't a dry stitch on my whole carcase ; and I heard somebody saying — 'twas a voice I knew too — ' Get up, you drunken brute, off o' that ; ' and with that I woke, up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing all over me — for, rest her soul ! though she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own. ' Get up,' said she again : ' and of all places in the parish would no place sarve your turn to lie down upon but under the ould walls of Carrigaphooka ? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.' And sure enough I had : for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If I was in drink ten times over. Ions would it be before I'd lie down in the same spot again, I know that." T. Ckofton Croker. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mo-rain' long ago, When first you were my bride. The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak. ' Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, — The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, — For I've laid you, darling ! down to sleep. With your baby on your breast. I "m very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends ; But, oh, they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pridel There's nothin' left to care lor now, .sine my poor Mary died. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 103 Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow, — I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile, When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake ! I bless you for the pleasant word When your heart was sad and sore, — Oh, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more ! I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary kind and true ! But I'll not forget you, darlin', In the land I'm goin' to. They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there, But I'll not forget Old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit and shut my eyes, And mv heart will travel back arrain To the place where Mary lies ; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. Lady Dufferix. ORANGE AND GREEN. The night was falling dreary In merry Bandon town, "When in his cottage, weary, An Orangeman lay down. The summer sun in splendour Had set upon the vale, And shouts of "No Surrender" Arose upon the gale. Beside the waters, laving The feet of aged trees, The Orange banners waving Flew boldly in the breeze — In mighty chorus meeting, A hundred voices join, And fife and drum were beating The Battle of the Boyne. Ha! tow'rd his cottage hieing, "What form is speeding now, From yonder thicket flying, With blood upon his brow? "Hide — hide me, worthy stranger, Though green my colour be, And in the day of danger May heaven remember thee! "In yonder vale contending Alone against that crew, My life and limbs defending, An Orangeman I slew. Hark! hear that fearful warning! There's death in every tone— Oh, save my life till morning, And heav'n prolong your own.'" ORANGE AND GREEN. 105 The Orange heart was melted, In pity to the Green ; He heard the tale, and felt it, His very soul within. "Dread not that angry warning, Though death be in its tone I'll save your life till morning, Or I will lose my own." Now, round his lowly dwelling, The angry torrent pressed, A hundred voices swelling. The Orangeman addressed "Arise, arise, and follow The chase along the plain! In yonder stony hollow Your only son is slain ! " With rising shouts they gather Upon the track amain, And leave the childless father Aghast with sudden pain. He seeks the righted stranger In covert where he lay " Arise ! " he said, " all danger Is gone and passed away! " I had a son — one only, One loved as my life, Thy hand has left me lonely In that accursed strife. I pledged my word to save thee Until the storm should cease; I keep the pledge I gave thee Arise, and go in peace!" The stranger soon departed From that unhappy vale; The father, broken-hearted, Lay brooding o'er the tale. 106 IRISH READINGS. Full twenty summers after To silver turned his beard ; And yet the sound of laughter From him was never heard. The night was falling dreary In merry Wexford town, When in his cabin, weary, A peasant laid him down. And many a voice was singing Along the summer vale, And Wexford town was ringing With shouts of "Granua Uile." Beside the waters, laving The feet of aged trees, The Green flag, gaily waving, Was spread against the breeze; In mighty chorus meeting, Loud voices filled the town, And fife and drum were beating, Down, Orangemen, lie down. Hark ! 'mid the stirring clangour That woke the echoes there, Loud voices, high in anger, Rise on the evening air. Like billows of the ocean He sees them hurry on — And, 'mid the wild commotion, An Orangeman alone. "My hair," he said, "is hoary, And feeble is my hand, And I could tell a story Would shame your cruel band. Full twenty years and over Have changed my heart and brow, And I am grown a lover Of peace and concord now. ( ORANGE AND GREEN. 107 51 It was not thus I greeted Your brother of the Green, When, fainting and defeated, I freely took him in. I pledged my word to save him From vengeance rushing on I kept the pledge I gave him, Though he had kill'd my son." That aged peasant heard him, And knew him as he stood ; Remembrance kindly stirr'd him, And tender gratitude. With gushing tears of pleasure He pierced the listening train— "I'm here to pay the measure Of kindness back again ! " Upon his bosom falling, The old man's tears came down, Deep memory recalling That cot and fatal town "The hand that would offend thee, My being first shall end — I'm living to defend thee, My saviour and my friend ! H He said, and slowly turning, Addressed the wondering crowd ; With fervent spirit burning, He told the tale aloud. Now pressed the warm beholders Their aged foe to greet — They raised him on .their shoulders, And chair'd him through the street. As he had saved that stranger From peril scowling dim, So in his day of danger Did Heav'n remember him. 108 IRISH READINGS. * By joyous crowds attended, The worthy pair were seen, And their flags that day were blended Of Orange and of Green. Gerald Griffin. [By kind permission of Messrs. James Duffy and Sons.] THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. Come see the Dolphin's anchor forged — 'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased — though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leather panoply, their broad hands only bare : Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe : It rises, roars, rends all outright — 0, Vulcan, what a glow ! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high sun shines not so ! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show, The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe, As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil : — all about the faces fiery grow ; "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out — leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go : Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low — A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant " ho ! " Leap out, Leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! Let's forge a goodly anchor — -a bower thick and broad ; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode : I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road — THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 109 The low reef roaring on her lee — the roll of ocean pour'd From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast by the board, The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains ! But courage still, brave mariners — the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high ; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing — here am I." Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time ; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime : But, while you sling your sledges, sing — and let the burthen be, Tbe anchor is the anvil-king, and royal craftsmen we ! Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their rustling red ; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the sighing sea- man's cheer ; When, weighing slow, at eve they go — far, far from love and home ; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last : A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast : O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea ! O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as thou ? The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plump plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails. Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn, And send him foil'd and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn : To leave the, subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn : To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd miles ; Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; Meanwhile to swing, a buffeting the far astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply, in a cove, Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, To find the long-hair'd mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the Sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. HO IRISH READINGS. O broad- arm'd Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line ; And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white the giant game to play — But shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave — A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving waves, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend — Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou'dst leap within the sea ! Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland— Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave- On, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honour him for their memory whose bones he goes among ! Sir Samuel Ferguson. [By kind permission of the author.] THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. The groves of Blarney, they are so charming, All by the purling of sweet silent streams ; Being banked by posies that spontaneous grow there, Planted in order by the sweet rock close. 'Tis there's the daisy and the sweet carnation, The blooming pink and the rose so fair ; The dafiydowndilly besides the lily, — Flowers that scent the sweet, fragrant air. Oh, Ullagoane. 'Tis Lady Jeffreys that owns this station, Like Alexander or Queen Helen fair ; There's no commander throughout the nation For emulation can with her compare. THE GROVES OP BLARNEY. Ill She has castles round her that no nine-pounder Could dare to plunder her place of strength ; But Oliver Cromwell he did her pummel, And made a breach in her battlement. Oh, Ullagoane. There's gravel walks there for speculation, And conversation in sweet solitude ; 'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or The gentle plover, in the afternoon, And if a young lady should be so engaging As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 'Tis there her courtier he may transport her In some dark fort or under ground. Oh, Ullagoane. For 'tis there's the cave where no daylight enters, But bats and badgers are for ever bred ; Being mossed by nature, that makes it sweeter Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. 'Tis there's the lake that is stored with perches, And comely eels in the verdant mud ; Besides the leeches, and groves of beeches, All standing in order for to guard the flood. Oh, Ullagoane. 'Tis there',s the kitchen hangs many a flitch in, With the maids a stitching upon the stair ; The head and biske, the beer and whiskey, Would make you frisky if you were there. 'Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter, A washing praties forenent the door, With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy, All blood relations to my Lord Donoughmore Oh, Ullagoane. There's statues gracing this noble place in, All heathen goddesses so fair, — Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus, All standing naked in the open air. 112 IRISH READINGS. So now to finish this brave narration, Which my poor geni could not entwine, But were I Homer or Nebuchadnezzar, In every feature I 'd make it shine. Oh, Ullagoane. R. A. MlLLIKKN. THE HEDGE SCHOOLMASTER. (Adapted). The first step a hedge schoolmaster took on establishing himself in a school was to write out, in his best copperplate hand, a flaming advertisement, detailing, at full length, the several branches he professed himself capable of teaching. Mat Kavanagh's document was as follows : — " Education. " Mr. Matthew Kavanagh, Philomath and Professor of the Learned Languages, begs leave to inform the Inhabitants of Findramore and its vircinity, that he Lectures on the following Branches of Education, in his Seminary at the above-recited place : — " Spelling, Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic, upon altogether new principles, hitherto undiscovered by any excepting himself, and for which he expects a Patent from Trinity College, Dublin; or, at any rate, from Squire Johnston, Esq., who paternizes many of the pupils: Book-keeping, by single and double entry — Geometry, Trigonometry, Stereometry, Mensuration, Navigation, Gauging, Surveying, Dialling, Astronomy, Astrology, Austerity, Fluxions, Geography, ancient and modern — Maps, the Projection of the Spear — Algebra, the Use of the Globes, Natural and Moral Philo- sophy, Pneumatics, Optics, Dioptics, Catroptics, Hydraulics, iEro- statics, Geology, Glorification, Divinity, Mythology, Midicinality, Physic, by theory only, Metaphysics, practically, Chemistry, Electricity, Galvanism, Mechanics, Antiquities, Agriculture, Venti- lation, Explosion, &c. " In Classics — Grammar, Cordery, vEsop's Fables, Erasmus' Colloquies, Cornelius Nepos, Phcedrus, Valerius Maximus, Justin, Ovid, Sallust, Virgil, Horace, Juvenal, Persius, Terence, Tully's Offices, Cicero, Manouverius Turgidus, Esculapius, Regerius, Satanus Nigrus, Quinctilian, Livy, Thomas Aquinas, Cornelius Agrippa, and Cholera Morbus. "Greek Grammar, Greek Testament, Lucian, Homer, Sophocles, Eschylus, ThucydiJes, Aristophanes, Xenophon, Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, and the Works of Alexander the Great ; the manners, THE HEDGE SCHOOLMASTER. 113 habits, customs, usages, meditations of the Grecians; the Greek digamma resolved, Prosody, Composition, both in prose-verse, and oratory, in English, Latin, and Greek ; together with various other branches of learning and scholastic profundity— quos enumerare langum est— along with Irish Radically, and a small taste of Hebrew upon the Masoretic text. "Matthew Kavanagh, Philomath." Having posted this document upon the chapel-door, and in all the public places and cross roads of the parish, Mat considered himself as having done his duty. He now began to teach, and his school continued to increase to his heart's content, every day bringing him fresh scholars. We will now proceed, however feebly, to represent him at work with all the machinery of the system in full operation. "Come, boys, rehearse — (buz, buz, buz) — I'll soon be after calling up the first spelling lesson — (buz, buz, buz) — then the mathematician — book-keepers — Latinists and Grecians, success- fully. (Buz, buz, buz.) Silence there below! — your pens. Tim Casey, isn't this a purty hour o' the day for you to come into school at ; arrah, and what kept you, Tim ? "Walk up wid yourself here, till we have a confabulation together ; you see I love to be talking to you." " Sir, Larry Branagan, here ; he's throwing spits at me out of his pen." — (Buz, buz, buz.) " By my word, Larry, there's a rod in steep for you." " Fly away, Jack — fly away Jill ; come again, Jack " " I had to go to Paddy Nowlan's for tobaccy, sir, for my father." (Weeping, with his hand knowingly across his face — tone eye laughing at his comrades.) " You lie, it wasn't." "If you call me a liar agin, I'll give you a dig in the mug." "It's not in your jacket." "Isn't it?" "Behave yourself; ha! there's the masther looking at you — ye'll get it now." "None at all, Tim? And she's not after sending an excuse wid you ? What's that undher your arm ? " " My Gough, sir." — (Buz, buz, buz.) "Silence, boys. And you blackguard Lilliputian, you, what kept you away till this? " 114 IRISH READINGS. " One bird pickin', two men thrashin' ; one bird pickin', two men thrashin' ; one bird pickin' " " Sir, they're stickin' pins in me here." "Who is, Briney?" " I don't know, sir ; they're all at it." "Boys, I'll go down to yous." " I can't carry him, sir ; he'd be too heavy for me. Let Larry Tool do it, he's stronger nor me ; any way, there he's putting a corker pin in his mouth." — (Buz, buz, buz.) " AVhoo-hoo-hoo-hoo ! I'll never stay away agin, sir; indeed I won't, sir. Oh, sir dear, pardon me this wan time ; and if ever you cotch me doing the like agin" (Buz, buz, buzj " Behave yourself, Barny Byrne." "I'm not touching you." " Yes, you are ; didn't you make me blot my copy." " Ho, I'll pay you goiu' home for this." " Hand me the taws." " Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo — what'll I do, at all at all ! Oh, sir dear, sir dear, sir dear — hoo-hoo-hoo ! " " Did she send no message, good or bad, before I lay on ?" " Oh, not a word, sir, only that my father killed a pig yestherday, and he wants you to go up to-day at dinner-time." — (Buz, buz, buz.) " It's time to get lave ; it isn't— it is ; it isn't— it is," &c. " You lie, I say ; your faction never was able to fight ours. Didn't we lick all your dirty breed in Bulliagh-battha fair? " "Silence there." — (Buz, buz, buz.) "Will you meet us on Sathurday next, and we'll fight it out clane?" " " Ha, ha, ha ! Tim, but you got, a big fright, anyhow. Whist, ma bouchal, sure I was only jokin' you; and sorry I'd be to bate your father's son, Tim. Come over and sit beside myself at the fire here. Get up, Micky Donoghue, you big burnt-shinn'd spal- peen you, and let the daeent boy sit at the fire." " Hullabaloo hoo-hoo-hoo— to go to give me such a welt only for sitting at the fire, and me brought turf wit me." "To-day, Tim?" " Yes, sir." "At dinner-time, is id?" "Yes, sir." THE HEDGE SCHOOLMASTER. 115 " Och, the dacent strain was always in the same family." — (Buz, buz, buz.) "Horns, horns, cock horns: oh, you up'd wid them, you lifted your fingers — that's a mark, now — hould your face till I blacken you." "Do you call thim two sods, Jack Lanigan? why 'tis only one long one broke in the middle ; but you must make it up to-morrow, Jack. How is your mother's tooth? — did she get it pulled out yet?" "No, sir." " Well, tell her to come to me, an' I'll write a charm for it that'll cure her What kept you till now, Paddy Magouran?" " Couldn't come any sooner, sir." "You couldn't, sir; and why, sir, couldn't you come any sooner, sir ?" "See, sir, what Andy Nowlan done to my copy? — (Buz, buz, buz.) " Silence ! I'll massacree yees if yees don't make less noise."— (Buz, buz, buz.) " I was down with Mrs. Kavanagh, sir." " You were, Paddy — an' Paddy, ma bouchal, what war you doing there, Paddy?" " Masther, sir, spake to Jem Kenny here ; he made my nose bleed." "Eh, Paddy?" " I was bringin' her a layin' hen, sir, that my mother promised her at mass on Sunday last." " Ah, Paddy, you're a game bird yourself, wid your layin' hens ; you're as full o' mischief as an egg's full o' mate — (omnes, ha, ha, ha, ha!) Silence, boys — what are you laughin' at? — ha, ha, ha! Paddy, can you spell Nebachodnazure for me ?" "No, sir," " No, nor a better scholar, Paddy, could not do that, ma bouchal ; but Vll spell it for you. Silence, boys — whist, all of yees, till I spell Nebachodnazure for Paddy Magouran. Listen; and you yourself, Paddy, are one of the letthers : — A turf and a clod spells Nebachod — A knife and a razure spells Nebachodnazure — Three pair of boots and five pair of shoes Spells Nebachodnazure, the King of the Jews. 116 IRISH READINGS. Now, Paddy, that's spelling Nebachodnazuie by the science of Ventilation ; but you'll never go that deep, Paddy." "I want to go out, if you plase, sir." " Is that the way you ax me, you vagabone?" "I want to go out, sir" — (pulling down the forelock). u Yes, that's something dacenter; — wait till the pass comes in." Then comes the spelling lesson. " Come, boys, stand up to the spelling lesson." "Micky, show me your book till I look at my word. I'm fifteenth." " Wait till I see my own." "Why do you crush for." " That's my place." " No, it's not." "Sir, spake to I'll tell the masther." "Wbat's the matther there?" " Sir, he won't let me into my place." " I'm before you." "No, you're not." " I say I am." " You lie, pug-face. Ha ! I called you pug-face ; tell now, if you dare." "Well, boys, down with your pins in the book ; who's king?" " I am, sir." " Who's queen ?" "Me, sir." "Who's prince?" "I am prince, sir." "Tag-rag and bob-tail, fall into your places." "I've no pin, sir." " Well, down with you to the tail — now, boys." Having gone through the spelling task, it was Mat's custom to give out six hard words, selected according to his judgment, as a final test, but he did not always confine himself to that. Some- times he would put a number of syllables arbitrarily together, forming a most heterogenous combination of articulate sounds. " Now, boys, here's a deep word, that'll thry yees : come, Larry, spell me-mo-man-dran-san-ti-ji-can-du-ban-dan-ti-al-i-ty, or mis-an- thro-po-mor-pld-ta-ni-a-nus-mi-ca-li-a-tion ; — that's too hard for you, is it? Well, then, spell phthisic. Oh, that's physic you're THE HEDGE SCHOOLMASTER. 117 spellin'. Now, Larry, do you know the difference between physic and phthisic ? " " No, sir." " Well, I'll expound it ; phthisic, you see, manes — whisht, boys ; will yees hould yer tongues there — phthisic, Larry, signifies — that is, phthisic — mind, it's not physic I'm expounding, phthisic — boys, will yees stop your noise there — signifies but, Larry, it's so deep a word in larnin' that I should draw it out on a slate for you ; and now I remimber, man alive, you're not far enough on yet to undher- stand it : but what's physic, Larry? " " Isn't that, sir, what my father tuck the day he got sick, sir? " " That's the very thing, Larry : it has what larned men call a medical property, and resembles little rickety Dan Reilly there — it retrogrades. Och ! och ! I'm the boy that knows things — you see now how I expounded them two hard words for yees, boys — don't yees ? " » Yes, sir." " So, Larry, you haven't the larnin' for that either : but here's an 'asier one — spell me Ephabridotas (Epaphroditas) — you can't ! hut, man — you're a big dunce entirely, that little shoneen Sharkey there below would sack. God be wid the day when I was the likes of you ; it's I that was the bright gorsoon entirely — and so sign was on it, when a great larned traveller — silence, boys, till I tell yees this (a dead silence) — from Thrinity College, all the way in Dublin, happened to meet me one day — seeing the slate and Gough, you see, undher my arm, he axes me, ' Arrah, Mat,' says he, ' what are you in? ' says he. ' I'm in my waistcoat, for one thing,' says I, off-hand — silence, childhre, and don't laugh so loud — (ha, ha, ha !) So he looks closer at me : 'I see that,' says he, ' but what are you reading ? ' ' Nothing, at all at all,' says I ; ' bad manners to the taste, as you may see, if you've your eyesight.' ' I think,' says he, ' you'll be apt to die in your waistcoat ;' and set spurs to a fine saddle mare he rid — he did so — thought me so cute — (pmnes : ha, ha, ha !) Whisht, boys, whisht ; isn't it a terrible thing that I can't tell yees a joke, but you split your sides laughing at it — (ha, ha, ha !) — don't laugh so loud, Barney Casey" — (ha, ha, ha !). Barney : " I want to go out, if you plase, sir." " Go, avick ; you'll be a good scholar yet, Barney. Sure, Barney knows whin to laugh, anyhow. " Well, Larry, you can't spell Ephabridotas ! — thin here's a 118 IRISH READINGS. short weeshy one, and whoever spells it will get the pins ; — spell a red rogue wid three letters. You, Micky ? Dan ? Jack ? Natty ? Alick? Andy? Pether? Jim? Tim? Pat? Rody ? you? you? you? Now, boys", I'll hould ye my little Andy here, that's only beginning the Rational Spelling Book, bates you all; come here, Andy, alanna. Now, boys, if he bates you, you must all bring him a little miscaivn of butter between two kale blades, in the mornin', for himself. Here, Andy avourneen, spell red rogue wid three letthers." Andy: "M a t— Mat." "No, no, avick, that's myself, Andy; it's red rogue, Andy hem! F " "Fo x— fox." "That's a man, Andy. " Thady Bradly, will you come up wid your slate till I examine you in your figures ? Go out, sir, and blow your nose first, and don't be after making a looking-glass out of the sleeve of your jacket. Now that Thady' s out, I'll hould you, boys, that none of yees know how to expound his name — eh ? do yees ? But I needn't ax — well, 'tis Thadeus ; and, maybe, that's as much as the priest that christened him knew. Boys, you see what it is to have the larnin' — to lade the life of a gintleman, and to be able to talk deeply wid the clargy ! Now, I could run down any man in arguin', except a priest ; and if the bishop was afther consecratin' me, I'd have more larnin' than the most of them ; but you see I'm not consecrated — and — well, 'tis no matther — only I say that the more's the pity. " Well, Thady, when did you go into subtraction?" " The day beyond yesterday, sir ; yarra musha, sure 'twas your- self, sir, that shet me the first sum." " Masther, sir, Thady Bradly stole my cutter — that's my cutter, Thady Bradly." " No it's not" (in a low voice). " Sir, that's my cutter — an' there's three nicks in id." " Thady, is that his cutter ? " " There's your cutter for you. Sir, I ound it on the flure, and didn't know who own'd it." " You know'd very well who own'd it ; didn't Dick Martin see you liftin' it off o' my slate when I was out? " " Well, if Dick Martin saw him it's enough : an' 'tis Dick that's THE LIGHT IN THE SNOW. 119 the tindher-hearted boy, an' would knock you down wid a lump of a stone if he saw you murtherin' but a fly ! " Well, Thady— .throth Thady, I fear you'll undherstand sub- traction better nor your tacher : I doubt you'll apply it to ' Prac- tice' all your life, ma bouchal, and that you'll be apt to find it ' the Rule of False ' at last. Well, Thady, from one thousand, no shillings and no pince, how will you subtract one pound? Put it down on your slate — this way — 1000 00 00 1 00 00 " " I don't know how to shet about it, masther." " You don't ? an' how dare you tell me so, you shingawn, you — you Cornelius Agrippa, you — go to your sate and study it, or I'll— ha! be off, you " Pierce Mahon, come up wid your multiplication. Pierce multiply four hundred by two — put it down — that's it, 400 By 2." " Twice nought is one." (Whack, whack.) " Take that as an illustration — is that one ? " " Sure, masther, that's two, anyhow ; but, sir, is not wanst nought nothin' ? now, masther, sure there can't be less than nothin'." " Very good, sir." " If wanst nought be nothin', then twice nought must be some- thin', for it's double what wanst nought is — see how i'm sthruck for nothiri, an' me knows it — hoo ! hoo ! hoo ! " William Carleton. THE LIGHT IN THE SNOW. Oh Pat, the bitter day when you bravely parted from us, The mother and myself on the cruel quays of Cork : When you took the long kiss and you gave the faithful promise That you'd soon bring us over to be wid you at New York. But the times they grew worse through the wild, weary winter, And my needle all we had to find livin' for us two ; While the mother drooped and drooped till I knelt forenint her And closed her dyin' eyes, dear, — but still no word of you. 120 IRISH READINGS. Then the neighbours thought you false to me, but I knew you better, Though the bud became the leaf, and the corn began to start ; And the swallow she flew back, and still sorra letter, But I sewed on and on, Pat, and kep' a stout heart. Till the leaves they decayed, and the rook and the starlin' Returned to the stubble, and I'd put by enough To start at long last in search of my darlin' Alone across the ocean so unruly and rough. Until at the end, very weak and very weary, I reached the overside, and started on my search ; But no account for ever of Patrick for his Mary, By advertisin' for you, dear, or callin' you in church. Yet still I struggled on, though my heart was almost broken And my feet torn entirely on the rough, rugged stone ; Till that day it came round, signs by and by token, The day five year that we parted you, mavrone. Oh ! the snow it was sweepin' through the dark, silent city, And the cruel wind it cut through my thin, tattered gown. Still I prayed the good God on his daughter to take pity ; When a sudden, strange light shone forenint me up the town. And the light it led on till at last right opposite A large, lonely house it vanished as I stood ; Wid my heart axing wildly of me, was it, oh, was it A warnin' of ill or a token of good. When the light kindled up agin, brighter and bigger, And the shadow of a woman across the windy passed ; While close, close, and closer to her stole a man's figure, And I fainted, as you caught me in your true arms at last. Then Pat, my own Pat, I saw that you were altered To the shadow of yourself by the fever on the brain ! While " Mary, Mary darlin','' at last your lips they faltered, " You've given your poor Patrick his mem'ry back again." PADDY THE PIPER. 121 And the good, gentle priest, when he comes, is never weary Of sayin', as he spakes of that light in the snow, " The Lord heard your prayer, and in pity for you, Mary, Restored Pat the raison that he lost lonsr a^o." Alfred Perceval Graves. PADDY THE PIPER. An Irish Peasant relates the following story in the richest brogue, and most dramatic manner : — " 'Twas afther nightfall, and we wor sittin' round the fire, and the praties wor boilin', and the noggins of butthermilk was standin' ready for our suppers, whin a nock kem to the door. " ' Whisht ! ' says my father, ' here's the sojers come upon us now,' says he ; ' the villians ! I'm afeared they seen a glimmer of the fire through the crack in the door,' says he. " ' No,' says my mother, * for I'm afther hangin' an owld sack and my new petticoat agin it a while ago.' " ' Well, whisht, anyhow,' says my father, ' for there's a knock agin ; ' and we all held our tongues till another thump kem to the door. " ' Oh, it's a folly to purtind any more,' says my father — ' they're too cute to be put off that a-way,' says he. ' Go, Shamus,' says he to me, ' and see who's in it.' " ' How can I see who's in it in the dark ? ' says I. " ' Well,' says he, 'light the candle thin, and see who's in it, but don't open the door, for your life, barrin' they brake it in,' says he, exceptin 1 to the sojers, and spake thim fair, if it's thim.' " So with that I wint to the door, and there was another knock. " ' Who's there ? ' says I. " ' It's me,' says he. " ' Who are you,' says I. " ' A frind,' says he. " ' Baithershin\ says I, ' who are you at all ? ' " ' Arrah ! don't you know me ? ' says he. " ' Sorra a taste,' says I. " 'Sure Pm Paddy the Piper,' says he. I 122 IRISH READINGS. " ' Oh, thunder an turf,' says I, ' is it you, Paddy, that's in it? ' " ' Sorra one else,' says he. " 'And what brought you at this hour? ' says I. " ' Oh,' says he, ' I didn't like goin' the roun' by the road,' says he, 'and so I kem the short cut, and that's what delayed me,' says he. " ' Oh, murther ! ' says I. ' Paddy, I wouldn't be in your shoes for the king's ransom,' says I ; 'for you know yourself it's a hangin' matther to be cotched out these times,' says I. " ' Sure I know that,' says he, ' and that's what I kem to you for,' says he •, ' so let me in for owld acquaintance sake,' says poor Paddy. " ' Oh, by this and that,' says I, ' I darn't open the door for the wide world; and sure you know it; and if the Husshians or the Yeos ketches you,' says I, ' they'll murther you, as sure as your name's Paddy.' " ' Many thanks to you,' says he, ' for your good intintions ; but plaze the pigs, I hope it's not the likes o' that is in store for me, anyhow.' " ' Thin,' says I, ' you had betther lose no time in hidin' yourself,' says I ; ' for, I tell you, it's a short thrial and a long rope the Husshians would be afther givin' you — for they've no justice and less mercy, the villians ! ' " ' Thin, more's the raison you should let me in, Shanius,' says poor Paddy. " ' It's a folly to talk,' says I, ' I darn't open the door.' " ' Oh, thin, millia murther,' says Paddy, ' what'll become of me at all at all,' says he. " ' Go aff into the shed,' says I, ' behin' the house, where the cow is, and there there's an iligant lock o' straw, that you may go sleep in,' says I, 'and a fine bed it id be for a lord, let alone a piper.' " So off Paddy set to hide in the shed, and it wint to our hearts to refuse him, and turn him away from the door, more by token when the praties was ready — for sure the bit and the sup is always welkim to the poor thraveller. Well, we all wint to bed, and Paddy hid himself in the cow-house ; and now I must tell you how it was with Paddy : — "You see, afther sleeping for some time, Paddy wakened up, thinkin' it was mornin', but it wasn't mornin' at all, but only the PADDY THE PIPER. 123 light o' the moon that desaved him ; but at all evints he wanted to be stirrin' airly, bekase he was going off to the town hard by, it bein' fair day, to pick up a few hapence with his pipes — for sorra betther piper was in all the counthry round nor Paddy ; and every one gave it up to Paddy that he was iligant on the pipes, and played ' Jenny bang'd the Weaver ' beyant tellin', and the ' Hare in the Corn', that you'd think the very dogs was in it, and the horsemen ridin' like mad. " Well, as I was sayin', he set off to go to the fair, and he wint meandherin' along through the fields, but he didn't go far, antil climbin' up through a hedge, when he was comin' out at t'other side, his head kem plump agin somethin' that made the fire flash out iv his eyes. So with that he looks up — and what do you think it was — be merciful to uz ! — but a corpse hangin' out of a branch of a three. " ' Oh, the top o' the mornin' to you, sir,' says Paddy, ' and is that the way with you, my poor fellow ? thin you tuk a start out o' me,' says poor Paddy ; and twas thrue for him, for it would make the heart of a stouter man nor Paddy jump, to see the like, and to think of a Chrishthan crathur being hanged up, all as one as a dog. " Says Paddy, eyin' the corpse, ' Oh, thin, but you have a beautiful pair o' boots an you,' says he, 'and it's what Pm thinkin' you won't have any great use for thim no more; and sure it's a shame for the likes o' me,' says he, ' the best piper in the sivin counties, to be trampin' wid a pair of owld brogues not worth three traneens, and a corpse with such an iligant pair o' boots that wants some one to wear thim.' So, with that, Paddy lays hould of him by the boots, and began a pullin' at thim, but they wor mighty stiff ; and whether it was by raison of their bein' so tight, or the branch of the three a-jiggin' up and down, all as one as a weighdee buckettee, an not lettin' Paddy cotoh any right hoult o' thim he could get no advantage o' thim at all — and at last he gev it up, and was goin' away, whin lookin' behind him agin, the sight of the iligant fine boots was too much for him, and he turned back, determined to have the boots anyhow, by fair means or foul ; and I'm loath to tell you now how he got them — for indeed it was a dirty turn, and it was the only dirty turn I ever knew Paddy to be guilty av ; and you see it was this a-way ; he pulled out a big knife, and, by the same token, it was a knife with a fine buck- handle and a murtherin' big blade — well, he outs with his knife, 124 IEISH READINGS. and what does he do, but he cuts off the legs of the corpse ; ' and, says he, ' I can take off the boots at my convaynience ; ' and it was, as I said before, a dirty turn. " Well, sir, he tuck'd the legs undher his arms, and at that minit the moon peeped out from behind a cloud—' Oh ! is it there you are ? ' says he to the moon, for he was an impidint chap—and thin, seem' that he made a mistake, and that the moon-light deceaved him, and that it wasn't the early dawn, as he conceaved ; and bein' freken'd for fear himself might be cotched and thrated like the poor corpse he was afther a malthreating, if he was found walking the counthry at that time — he turned about, and walked back agin to the cow-house, and hidin' the corpse's legs in the sthraw, Paddy wint to sleep agin. But what do you think? Paddy was not long there antil the sojers came in airnest, and by the powers, they carried off Paddy — and sure it was only sarvin' him right for what he had done to the poor corpse. "Well, whin the mornin' kern, my father says to me, 'Go, Shamus,' says he, ' to the shed, and bid poor Paddy come in, and take share o' the praties, for I go bail, he's ready for his breakquest by this, anyhow ? ' "Well, out I wint to the cow-house, and called out 'Paddy!' and afther callin' out three or four times, and gettin' no answer, I wint in, and called agin, and dickins an answer I got still. ' Tatthar-an-agers ! ' says I, ' Paddy, where are you at all at all ? ' and so, castin' my eyes about the shed, I seen two feet sticking out from undher the hape o' straw — ' Musha ! thin,' says I, ' Paddy, but you're fond of a warm corner, and maybe you haven't made yourself as snug as a flay in a blanket? but I'll disturb your dhrames, I'm thinkin', says I, and with that I laid hould of his heels (as I thought, dear help me), and givin' a good pull to waken him, as I intinded, away I wint, head over heels, and my brains was a'most knocked out agin the wall. " Well, whin I recovered myself, there I was, an the broad o' my back, and two things stickin' out o' my hands like a pair o' Husshian's horse-pist'ls — and I thought the sight id lave my eyes when I seen they wor two mortial legs. "My jew'l, I threw them down like a hot pratee, and jumpin' up, I roared rut millia murther. ' Oh, you murtherin' villian,' says I, sliakin' my fist at the cow—' Oh, you unnath'ral lasted says I, ' you've ate poor Paddy, you thievin' cannible, you're worse PADDY THE PIPER. 125 than a neygar,' says I ; ' and how dainty you are, that nothin' 'id sarve you for your supper, but the best piper in Ireland. Weiras- tliru ! toeirasthru ! what'll the whole counthry say to such an unnath'ral murther? and you lookin' as innocent there as a lamb, and atin' your hay as quiet as if nothin' happened.' With that, I ran out — for I didn't like to be near her — and, goin' into the house I tould them all about it. " ' Arrah ! be aisy,' says my father. " ' Not a lie I tell you,' says I. " ' Is it ate Paddy ? ' says they. " ' Sorra doubt of it,' says I. " ' Are you sure, Shamus ? ' says my mother. " ' I wish I was as sure of a new pair o' brogues,' says I. ' Not a bit she has left iv him but his two legs.' '"And do you tell me she ate the pipes too? ' says my father " ' I b'lieve so,' says I. " ' Oh, fly away wid her,' says he, ' what a cruel taste she has for music ! ' " Arrah ! ' says my mother, ' don't be cursin' the cow, that gives the milk to the childher.' "Yis, I will,' says my father, 'why shouldn't I curse sich an unnath'ral baste ? ' " ' You oughtn't to curse any livin' thing that's undher your roof,' says my mother. " ' By my word, then,' says my father, 'she shan't be undher my roof any more ; for I'll sind her to the fair this minit,' says he, ' and sell her for whatever she'll bring. Go aff ' says he, ' Shamus, the minit you've ate your breakquest, and dhrive her to the fair.' " ' I don't like to dhrive her,' says I. " ' Arrah, don't be makin' a gommagh of yourself,' says he. " ' Ah, thin, I don't,' says I. " ' Well, like or no like,' says he, 'you must dhrive her.' " ' Sure, father,' says I, ' you could take more care iv her yourself.' "'That's mighty good,' says he, 'to keep a dog, and bark myself — I rec'llected the sayin' from that hour; — 'let me have no more words about it,' says he, ' but be aff wid you.' " So, aff I wint — and it's no lie I'm tellin', whin I say it was sore agin my will I had any thing to do with such a villian of a baste. But, howsomever, I cut a brave long wattle, that I might 126 IRISH READINGS. dhrive the man-ater iv a thief, as she was, without bein' near her, at all at all. "Well, away we wint along the road, and mighty throng it wuz wid the boys and the girls — and, in short, all sorts, rich and poor, high and low, crowdin' to the fair. " ' God save you,' says one to me. " ' God save you kindly,' says I. " ' That's a fine baste you're dhrivin,' says he. '"Ah, thin, she is,' says I; though it went agin my heart to say a good word for the likes of her. " 'It's to the fair you're goin', I suppose,' says he, 'with the baste?' (He was a snug-lookin' farmer, ridin' a purty little gray hack.) "'Thin, you're right enough,' says I, 'it is to the fair I'm goin'.' " ' What do you expec' for her? ' said he. " ' Mysel dosen't know,' says I — and that was thrue enough, you see, bekase I was bewildhered like about the baste entirely. " ' That's a quare way to be goin' to market,' says he, ' and not to know what you expec' for your baste.' " ' Och,' says I — not likin' to let him suspect there was anything wrong wid her — ' Och,' says I, in a careless sort of a way, ' sure no one can tell what a baste 'ill bring, antil they come to the fair,' says I, 'and see what price is goin'.' " ' Indeed, that's nath'ral enough,' says he. ' But if you wor bid a fair price before you come to the fair, sure you might as well take it,' says he. " ' Oh, I've no objection in life,' says I. " ' Well, thin, what 'ill you ask for her ? ' says he. "'Well, thin, I wouldn't like to be onraysonable,' says I — (for the thruth was, you know, I wanted to get rid of her) — ' and so I'll take four pounds for her,' says I, 'and no less. Why, shure that's chape enough,' says I. " ' Deed it is,' says he ; ' and I'm thinking it's too chape it is,' says he ; ' for if there wasn't somethin' the matter, it's not for that you'd be sellin' the fine milch cow, as she is to all appearance.' " ' Indeed, thin,' says I, ' she is a fine milch cow.' " ' Maybe,' says he, ' she's gone off her milk, in regard that she dosen't feed well.' " ' Och, by this and that,' says I, ' in regard of feedin' there's not the likes of her in Ireland ; so make your mind aisy — and if you like her for the money, you may have her.' PADDY THE PIPER. 127 " • Why, indeed, I'm not in a hurry,' says he, ' and I'll wait to see how they go in the fair.' " ' With all my heart,' says I, purtendin' to be no ways consarned — but I began to be afeard that the people was seem' somethin' unnath'ral about her,"and that we'd never get rid of her, at all at all. At last we kem to the fair, and a great sight o' people was in it — you'd think the whole world was there, but I never minded them at all, but detarmint to sell the thievin' rogue av a cow afore I'd mind any divarshin in life ; so an I dhriv her into the thick av the fair, when all of a suddint, as I kem to the door av a tent, up sthruck the pipes to the tune av ' Tather- Jack-Welsh,' and my jew'l, in a minit the cow cock'd her ears, and was makin' a dart at the tint. " ' Oh, murther ! ' says I, to the boys standin' by, ' hould her,' says I, ' hould her — she ate one piper already, the vagabone, and, she wants another now.' " ' Is it a cow for to ate a piper ? ' says one o' thim. " ' Not a word o' lie in it, for I seen his corpse myself, and nothin' left but the two legs,' says I, ' and it's a folly to be sthrivin' to hide it, for I see she'll never lave it aff — as poor Paddy Grogan knows to his cost, be merciful to him.' " ' Who's that talkin' av me,* says a voice in the crowd ; and with that, shovin' the throng a one side, who should I see but Paddy Grogan, to all appearance. "'Oh, hould him too,' says I; 'keep him av me, for it's not himself at all, but his ghost,' says I, ' for he was kilt last night to my sartin knowledge, every inch av him, all to his legs.' "Well, sir, with that, Paddy — for it ivas Paddy himself, as it kem out af ther — fell a laughin,' that you'd think his sides 'ud split ; and whin he kem to himself, he ups and he tould uz how it was, as I towld you already ; and the likes av the fun they made of me was beyant tellin,' for wrongfully misdoubtin' the poor cow, and layin' the blame iv atin' a piper Jan her. And av coorse the poor slandhered cow was dhruv home agin, and many a quiet day she had wid us afther that ; and whin she died, my father had sitch a regard for the poor thing, that he had her skinned, and an illigant pair of breeches made out av her hide, and they're in the family to this day. And it's very remarkable what I'm goin' to tell you now, but it's true as I'm standin' here, that any one that has thins breeches on, wheniver he hears the pipes goin', can't keep aisy in 128 IRISH READINGS. his sate, but goes jiggin, and jiggin, and jiggin, and thim's the very breeches on me now, an' a fine pair they are this minit. Samuel Lover. THE LEGEND OF BOTTLE HILL. (Condensed.) It was in the good days when the little people, most impudently called fairies, were more frequently seen than they are in these unbelieving times, that a farmer, named Mick Purcell, rented a few acres of barren ground in the neighbourhood of the once celebrated preceptory of Mourne, situated about three miles from Mallow, and thirteen from " the beautiful city called Cork." Mick had a wife and family. They all did what they could, and that was but little, for the poor man had no child grown up big enough to help him in his work ; but with all they could do, 'twas hard enough on them to pay the rent. Well, they did manage it for a good while, but at last came a bad year. "Why, then, Molly," says he, ".what'll we do? " "Wisha, then, mavournene, what would you do but take the cow to the fair of Cork and sell her," says she ; " and Monday is the fair day, and so you must go to-morrow, that the poor beast may be rested again the fair." "And what'll we do when she's gone?" says Mick, sorrowfully. "Never a know I know, Mick; but sure God won't leave us without Him, Mick ; and you know how good He was to us when poor little Billy was sick, and we had nothing at all for him to take, — that good doctor gentleman at Ballydahin come riding and asking for a drink of milk ; and how he gave us two shillings ; and how he sent the things and bottles for the child, and gave me my breakfast when I went over to ask him a question, so he did ; and how he came to see Billy, and never left off his goodness till he was quite well?" "Oh! you are always that way, Molly, and I believe you are right after all, so I won't be sorry for selling the cow ; but I'll go to-morrow, and you must put a needle and thread through my coat, for you know 'tis ripp'd under the arm." THE LEGEND OF BOTTLE HILL. 129 Molly told him he should have everything right ; and about twelve o'clock next day he left her, getting a charge not to sell his cow except for the highest penny. Mick promised to mind it, and went his way along the road. He drove his cow slowly through the little stream which crosses it, and runs under the old walls of Mourne. As he passed he glanced his eye upon the towers and one of the old elder trees, which were only then little bits of switches. " Oh, then, if I only had half the money that's buried in you, 'tisn't driving this poor cow I'd be now ! Why, then, isn't it too bad that it should be there covered over with earth, and many a one besides me wanting? Well, if it's God's will, I'll have some money myself coming back." So saying he moved on after his beast. 'Twas a fine day, and the sun shone brightly on the walls of the old abbey as he passed under them. He then crossed an extensive mountain tract, and after six long miles he came to the top of that hill — Bottle-hill 'tis called now, but that was not the name of it then, and just there a man overtook him. " Good morrow," says he. " Good morrow, kindly," says Mick, looking at the stranger, who was a little man — you'd almost call him a dwarf only he wasn't quite so little neither ; he had a bit of an old wrinkled, yellow face, for all the world like a dried cauliflower, only he had a sharp little nose, and red eyes, and white hair, and his lips were not red, but all his face was one colour, and his eyes never were quiet, but looking at every- thing, and although they were red they made Mick feel quite cold when he looked at them. Mick drove his cow something faster, but the little man kept up with him. Mick didn't know how he walked. Yet he thought his fellow-traveller did not seem to walk like other men, nor to put one foot before the other, but to glide over the rough road like a shadow, without noise and without effort. " Where are you going with the cow, honest man ? " " To the fair of Cork, then," says Mick, trembling. " Are you going to sell her ? " said the stranger. "Why, then, what else am I going for but to sell her?" " Will you sell her to me? " Mick started — " What'll you give for her ? " at last says he. "I'll tell you what— I'll give you this bottle." 130 IRISH READINGS. Mick looked at him and the bottle, and, in spite of his terror, he could not help bursting into a loud fit of laughter. " Laugh if you will," says the little man, " but I tell you this bottle is better for you than all the money you will get for the cow in Cork — ay, than ten thousand times as much." Mick laughed again. " Why, then," says he, " do you think I am such a fool as to give my good cow for a bottle — and an empty one, too ? indeed, then, I won't." " You had better give me the cow, and take the bottle — you'll not be sorry for it." "Why then and what would Molly say? I'd never hear the end of it ; and how would I pay the rent ? and what should we all do without a penny of money ? " " I tell you this bottle is better to you than money ; take it, and give me the cow. I ask you for the last time, Mick Purcell." Mick started. " How does he know my name ? " thought he. The stranger proceeded : " Mick Purcell, I know you, and I have regard for you ; therefore do as I warn you, or you may be sorry for it. How do you know but your cow will die before you go to Cork? And how do you know but there will be much cattle at the fair, and you will get a bad price, or may be you might be robbed when you are coming home ? but what need I talk more to you, when you are determined to throw away your luck, Mick Purcell." " Oh ! no, I would not throw away my luck, sir," said Mick ; " and if I was sure the bottle was as good as you say, though I never liked an empty bottle, although I had drank the contents of it, I'd give you the cow in the name " "Never mind names," said the stranger, "but give me the cow ; I would not tell you a lie. Here, take the bottle, and when you go home do what I direct exactly." Mick hesitated. " Well, then, good-bye, I can stay no longer: once more, take it, and be rich ; refuse it, and beg for your life, and see your children in poverty, and your wife dying for want — that will happen to you, Mick Purcell ! " said the little man with a malicious grin, which made him look ten times more ugly than ever. "May be, 'tis true," said Mick, still hesitating: he could hardly help believing the old man ; and at length, in a fit of desperation, he seized the bottle. "Take the cow," said he, "and if you are telling a lie, the curse of the poor will be on you." THE LEGEND OP BOTTLE HILL. 131 "I care neither for your curses nor your blessings, but I have spoken truth, Mick Purcell, and that you will find to-night, if you do what I tell you." " And what's that ? " says Mick. " When you go home, never mind if your wife is angry, but be quiet yourself, and make her sweep the room clean, set the table out right, and spread a clean cloth over it ; then put the bottle on the ground, saying these words: 'Bottle, do your duty,' and you will see the end of it." " And is this all? " says Mick. " No more," says the stranger. " Good-bye, Mick Purcell — you are a rich man." " God grant it ! " says Mick, as the old man moved on after the cow, and Mick retraced the road towards his cabin ; but he could not help turning back his head, to look after the purchaser of his cow, who was nowhere to be seen. " Lord between us and harm ! " said Mick. " He can't belong to this earth ; but where is the cow ? " She too was gone, and Mick went homeward muttering prayers, and holding fast the bottle. " Oh ! Mick, are you come back? Sure you weren't at Cork all the way! What has happened to you? Where is the cow? Did you sell her? How much money did you get for her? What news have you? Tell us everything about it?" " Why, then, Molly, if you'll give me time, I'll tell you all about it. If you want to know where the cow is, 'tisn't Mick can tell you, for the never a know does he know where she is now." " Oh ! then, you sold her ; and where's the money ? " " Arrah ! stop awhile, Molly, and I'll tell you all about it." "But what is that bottle under your waistcoat?" says Molly, spying its neck sticking out. " Why, then, be easy now can't you," says Mick, " till I tell it to you : " and putting the bottle on the table, " That's all I got for the cow." His poor wife was thunderstruck. " All you got ! and what good is that, Mick? Oh! I never thought you were such a fool; and what'll we do for the rent, and what " "Now, Molly," says Mick, "can't you hearken to reason? Didn't I tell you how the old man, or whatsomever he was, met me no, he did not meet me neither, but he was there with me — on 132 IRISH HEADINGS. the big hill, and how he made me sell him the cow, and told me the bottle was the only thing for me." "Yes, indeed, the only thing for you, you fool!" said Molly, seizing the bottle to hurl it at her poor husband's head ; but Mick caught it, and quietly (for he minded the old man's advice) loosened his wife's grasp, and placed the bottle again in his bosom. Poor Molly sat down crying, while Mick told her his story. His wife could not help believing him, particularly as she had much faith in fairies. She got up, without saying one word, and began to sweep the earthen floor with a bunch of heath ; then she tidied up everything, and put out the long table, and spread the clean cloth — for she had only one — upon it ; and Mick, placing the bottle on the ground, looked at it and said, " Bottle, do your duty." "Look there! look there, mammy! " said his chubby eldest son, a boy about five years old ; " look there ! look there ! " and he sprang to his mother's side, as two tiny little fellows rose like light from the bottle, and in an instant covered the table with dishes and plates of gold and silver, full of the finest victuals that ever were seen ; and when all was done went into the bottle again. Mick and his wife looked at everything with astonishment ; they had never seen such plates and dishes before, and didn't think they could ever admire them enough, the very sight almost took away their appetites ; but at length Molly said, " Come and sit down, Mick, and try and eat a bit ; sure you ought to be hungry after such a good day's work." "Why, then, the man told no lie about the bottle." Mick sat down, after putting the children to the table, and they made a hearty meal, though they couldn't taste half the dishes. "Now," says Molly, "I wonder will those two good little gentlemen carry away these fine things again? " They waited, but no one came ; so Molly put up the dishes and plates very carefully, saying, "Why, then, Mick, that was no lies sure enough — but you'll be a rich man yet, Mick Purcell." Mick and his wife and children went to their bed, not to sleep but to settle about selling the fine things they did not want, and to take more land. Mick went to Cork and sold his plate, and bought a horse and cart, and began to show that he was making money ; and they did all they could to keep the bottle a secret ; but for all tha* their landlord found it out, for he came to Mick one THE LEGEND OP BOTTLE HILL. 133 day and asked him where he got all his money — sure it was not by the farm ; and he bothered him so much that at last Mick told him of the bottle. His landlord offered him a deal of money for it, but Mick would not give it, till at last he offered to give him all his farm for ever. So Mick, who was very rich, thought he'd never want any more money, and gave him the bottle ; but Mick was mistaken — he and his family spent money as if there was no end of it ; and to make the story short, they became poorer and poorer, till at last they had nothing left but one cow; and Mick once more drove his cow before him to sell her at Cork fair, hoping to meet the old man and get another bottle. It was hardly daybreak when he left home, and he walked on at a good pace till he reached the big hill — when, just as he reached its summit and cast his eyes over the extensive prospect before and around him, he was startled and rejoiced by the same well-known voice : " Well, Mick Purcell, I told you you would be a rich man." "Indeed, then, sure enough I was, that's no lie for you, sir. Good morning to you, but it is not rich I am now — but have you another bottle, for I want it now as much as I did long ago; so if you have it, sir, here is the cow for it." "And here is the bottle," said the old man, smiling; "you know what to do with it." " Oh ! then, sure I do, as good right I have." " Well, farewell for ever, Mick Purcell ; I told you you would be a rich man." "And good-bye to you, sir," said Mick, as he turned back; " and good luck to you, and good luck to the big hill — it wants a name, Bottle-hill — good-bye, sir, good-bye." so Mick walked back as fast as he could, never looking after the white-faced little gentleman and the cow, so anxious was he to bring home the bottle. Well, he arrived with it safely enough, and called out as soon as he saw Molly, " Oh ! sure I've another bottle ! " " Arrah, then, have you ? why, then, you're a lucky man, Mick Purcell, that's what you are." In an instant she put everything right ; and Mick, looking at his bottle, exultingly cried out, "Bottle, do your duty." In a twinkling two great stout men with big cudgels issued from the bottle (I do not know how they got room in it), and belaboured poor Mick and his wife and all his family, till they lay on the floor, when in they went again. Mick, as soon as he recovered, got up 134 IRISH READINGS. and looked about him. He thought and thought, and at last he took up his wife and his children ; and, leaving them to recover as well as they could, he took the bottle under his coat and went to his landlord, who had a great company. He got a servant to tell him he wanted to speak to him, and at last he came out to Mick. " Well, what do you want now ? " " Nothing, sir, only I have another bottle." " Oh ! ho ! is it as good as the first ? " " Yes, sir, and better ; if you like, I will show it to you before all the ladies and gentlemen." " Come along then." So saying, Mick was brought into the great hall, where he saw his old bottle standing high up on a shelf " Ah ! ha ! " says he to himself, " maybe I won't have you by-and- by-" "Now," says his landlord, "show us your bottle." Mick set it on the floor, and uttered the words. In a moment the landlord was tumbled on the floor ; ladies and gentlemen, servants and all, were running, and roaring, and sprawling, and kicking, and shrieking. Wine cups and salvers were knocked about in every direction, until the landlord called out, "Stop those two devils, Mick Purcell, or I'll have you hanged." "They never shall stop," said Mick, " till I get my own bottle that I see up there at top of that shelf." "Give it down to him, give it down to him, before we are all killed ! " says the landlord. Mick put his bottle in his bosom ; in jumped the two men into the new bottle, and he carried them home. I need not lengthen my story by telling how he got richer than ever — how his son married his landlord's only daughter — how he and his wife died when they were very old — and how some of the servants, fighting at their wake, broke the bottles; but still the hill has the name upon it; ay, and so 'twill be always Bottle-hill to the end of the world, and so it ought, for it is a strange story. T. Crofton Choker. FRANK WEBBER'S WAGER. (Adapted.) I was sitting at breakfast with Webber, when Power came in hastily. " Ha, the very man ! " said he. " I say, O'Malley, here's an invitation for you from Sir George to dine on Friday. He desired me to say a thousand civil things about his not having made you out, regrets that he was not at home when you called yesterday, and all that." "By the way," said Webber, "wasn't Sir George Dashwood down in the West lately ? Do you know what took him there? " " Oh," said Power, " I can enlighten you. He got his wife West of the Shannon — a vulgar woman. She is now dead, and the only vestige of his unfortunate matrimonial connexion is a correspondence kept up by a maiden sister of his late wife's with him. She insists upon claiming the ties of kindred upon about twenty family eras during the year, when she regularly writes a most loving and ill-spelled epistle, containing the latest infor- mation from Mayo, with all particulars of the Macan family, of which she is a worthy member. To her constant hints of the acceptable nature of certain small remittances the poor General is never inattentive ; but to the pleasing prospect of a visit in the flesh from Miss Judy Macan the good man is dead." "Then he has never yet seen her? " "Never, and he hopes to leave Ireland without that blessing? " " I sav, Power, and has your worthy General sent me a card for his ball?" " Not through me, Master Frank. Sir George must really be excused in this matter. He has a most attractive, lovely daughter, just at that budding, unsuspecting age when the heart is most susceptible of impressions ; and where, let me ask, could she run such a risk as in the chance of a casual meeting with the redoubted lady-killer, Master Frank Webber? " " A very strong case, certainly," said Frank ; " but still, had he confided his critical position to my honour and secrecy, he might 136 IRISH READINGS. have depended on me ; now, having taken the other line, he must abide the consequences. I'll make fierce love to Lucy." "But how, may I ask, and when? " "I'll begin at the ball, man." "Why, I thought you said you were not going? " "There you mistake seriously. I merely said that I had not been invited." "Then, of course," said I, "Webber, you can't think of going, in any case, on my account." " My very dear friend, I go entirely upon my own I not ouly shall go, but I intend to have most particular notice and attention paid me. I shall be prime favourite with Sir George — kiss Lucy " " Come, come ! this is too strong." "What do you bet I don't? There, now, I'll give you a pony a-piece, I do. Do you say done? " " That you kiss Miss Dashwood, and are not kicked down-stairs for your pains ; are those the terms of your wager ? " inquired Power. "With all my heart. That I kiss Miss Dashwood, and am not kicked down-stairs for my pains." "Then I say, done." "And with you too, O'Malley?" " I thank you," said I, coldly ; " I'm not disposed to make such a return for Sir George Dashwood's hospitality as to make an insult to his family the subject of a bet." "Why, man, what are you dreaming of? Miss Dashwood will not refuse my chaste salute. Come, Power, I will give you the other pony." "Agreed," said he. "At the same time, understand me dis- tinctly — that I hold myself perfectly eligible to winning the wager by my own interference ; for, if you do kiss her, I'll perform the remainder of the compact." " So I understand the agreement," said Webber, and off he went I have often dressed for a storming party with less of trepidation than I felt on the evening of Sir George Dashwood's ball. It was long since I had seen Miss Dashwood ; therefore, as to what pre- cise position I might occupy in her favour was a matter of great doubt in my mind, and great import to my happiness. Our quadrille over, I was about to conduct her to a seat, when PRANK WEBBER S WAGER. 137 Sir George came hurriedly up, his face greatly flushed, and betraying every semblance of high excitement. " Read this," said he, presenting a very dirty-looking note. Miss Dashwood unfolded the billet, and, after a moment's silence, burst out a-laughing, while she said, " Why, really, papa, I do not see why this should put you out much, after all. Aunt may be somewhat of a character, as her note evinces ; but after a few days " " Nonsense, child ; there's nothing in this world I have such a dread of as this — and to come at such a time ! O'Malley, my boy, read this note, and you will not feel surprised if I appear in the humour you see me." I read as follows : — "Dear Brother, — When this reaches your hand I'll not be far off. I'm on my way up to town, to be under Dr. Dease for the ould complaint. Expect me to tea ; and, with love to Lucy, believe me yours, in haste, "Judith Macan. " Let the sheets be well aired in my room ; and if you have a spare bed, perhaps you could prevail upon Father Magrath to stop too." I scarcely could contain my laughter till I got to the end of this very free-and-easy epistle, when at last I burst forth in a hearty fit, in which I was joined by Miss Dashwood. " I say, Lucy," said Sir George, " there's only one thing to be done. If this horrid woman does arrive, let her be shown to her room, and for the few days of her stay in town, we'll neither see nor be seen by anyone." Without waiting for a reply he was turning away, when the servant announced, in his loudest voice, "Miss Macan." No sooner had the servant pronounced the magical name than all the company present seemed to stand still. About two steps in advance of the servant was a tall, elderly lady, dressed in an antique brocade silk, with enormous flowers gaudily embroidered upon it. Her hair was powdered and turned back, in the fashion of fifty years before. Her short, skinny arms were bare, while on her hands she wore black silk mittens ; a pair of green spectacles scarcely dimmed the lustre of a most piercing pair of eyes, to whose effect a very palpable touch of rouge on the cheeks certainly added brilliancy. There she stood holding before her a fan about the size of a modern tea-tray, while at each repetition of her name by the servant she curtseyed deeply. K 138 IRISH READINGS. . Sir George, armed with the courage of despair, forced his way- through the crowd, and taking her hand affectionately, bid her welcome to Dublin. The fair Judy, at this, threw her arms about his neck, and saluted him with a hearty smack, that was heard all over the room. "Where's Lucy, brother? let me embrace my little darling,'' said the lady, in a decided accent. " There she is, I'm sure ; kiss me, my honey." This office Miss Dashwood performed with an effort at courtesy really admirable ; while, taking her aunt's arm, she led her to a sofa. Power made his way towards Miss Dashwood, and succeeded in obtaining a formal introduction to Miss Macan. " I hope you will do me the favour to dance next set with me, Miss Macan ? " " Really, Captain, it's very polite of you, but you must excuse me. I was never anything great in quadrilles ; but if a reel or a jig " " Oh, dear aunt, don't think of it, I beg of you ! " " Or even Sir Roger de Coverley," resumed Miss Macan. "I assure you, quite equally impossible." " Then I'm certain you waltz," said Power. " What do you take me for, young man ? I hope I know better. I wish Father Magrath heard you ask me that question ; and for all your laced jacket " " Dearest aunt, Captain Power didn't mean to offend you ; I'm certain he " " Well, why did he dare to — [nob, sob] — did he see anything light about me, that he — [sob, sob, sob] — oh, dear ! oh, dear ! is it for this I came up from my little peaceful place in the west? — [sob, sob, sob~\ — General, George, dear; Lucy, my love, I'm taken bad. Oh, dear! oh, dear! is there any whiskey negus?" After a time she was comforted. At supper, later on in the evening, I was deep in thought, when a dialogue quite near me aroused me from my reverie. " Don't now ! don't, I tell ye ; it's little ye know Gal way, or ye wouldn't think to make up to me, squeezing my foot." " You're an angel, a regular angel. I never saw a woman suit my fancy before." " Oh, behave now. Father Magrath says " frank webber's wager. 139 " Who's he? " " The priest ; no less." " Oh ! bother him." " Bother Father Magrath, young man ? " "Well, then, Judy, don't be angry ; I only meant that a dragoon knows rather more of these matters than a priest." "Well, then, I'm not so sure of that. But, anyhow, I'd have you to remember it ain't a Widow Malone you have beside you." " Never heard of the lady," said Power. " Sure, it's a song — poor creature — it's a song they made about her in the North Cork, when they were quartered down in our county." "I wish you'd sing it." "What will you give me, then, if I do ? " "Anything — everything — my heart — my life." " I wouldn't give a trauneen for all of them. Give me that old green ring on your finger, then." "It's yours," said Power, placing it gracefully upon Miss Macan's finger ; " and now for your promise." " Well, mind you get up a good chorus, for the song has one, and here it is." "Miss Macan's song!" said Power, tapping the table with his knife. " Miss Macan's song ! " was re-echoed on all sides ; and before the luckless General could interfere, she had begun : — " THE WIDOW MALONE. "Did ye hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone! Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone? Oh! she melted the hearts Of the swains in them part*, So luvely the Widow Malone, Otione! So lovely the Widow Malone. "Of lovers she had a full score, Or more; And fortunes they all had galore, In store; 140 IRISH READINGS. From the minister down To the clerk of the crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone ! All were courting the Widow Malone. "But so modest was Mrs. Malone, 'Twas known No one ever could see her alone, Ohone! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone! So bashful the Widow Malone. "Till one Mr. O'Brien, from Clare,— How quare, It's little for blushing they care Down there, — Put his arm round her waist, Gave ten kisses at laste, — 'Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone. My own; ' Oh,' says he, ' you're my Molly Malone. "And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh For why? But ' Lucius,' says she, ' Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone ! You may marry your Mary Malone.' "There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong; And, one comfort, it's not very long, But 3trong: If for widows you die, Larn to kiss, not to sigh, For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone! Oh! they're very like Mistress Malone." THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 141 Never did song create such a sensation as Miss Macan's. " I insist upon a copy of ' The Widow,' Miss Macan," said Power. " To be sure ; give me a call to-morrow — let me see — about two. Father Magrath won't be at home," said she, with a coquettish look. " Where, pray, may I pay my respects ? " Power produced a card and pencil, while Miss Macan wrote a few lines, saying as she handed it — "There, now, don't read it here, before the people ; they'll think it mighty indelicate in me to make an appointment." Power pocketed the card, and the next minute Miss Macau's carriage was announced. When she had taken her departure, "Doubt it who will," said Power, " she has invited me to call on her to-morrow written her address on my card — told me the hour she is certain of being alone. See here ! " At these words he pulled forth the card, and handed it to a friend. Scarcely were the eyes of the latter thrown upon the writing, when he said, " So, this isn't it, Power ! " " To be sure it is, man. Read it out. Proclaim aloud my victory." Thus urged, his friend read : — " Dear P., — Please pay to ray credit — and soon, mark ye — the two ponies lost this evening. I have done myself the pleasure of enjoying your ball, kissed the lady, quizzed the papa, and walked into the cunning Fred Power. — Yours, " Frank Webber. " 'The Widow Malone, ohone ! ' is at your service." Charles Lever. THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. (Condensed). There was a waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in Duleek here, hard by the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was. He had a wife, and av coorse they had childhre, and small blame to them, so that the poor little waiver was obleeged to work his fingers to the bone a'most to get them the bit and the sup, and the loom never standin' still. Well, it was one mornin' that his wife called to him, " Come here," says she, "jewel, and ate your brekquest, now that it's ready." 142 IRISH READINGS. But he never minded her, but wint an workin. " Arrah, lave off slavin' yourself, my darlin', and ate your bit o' brekquest while it is hot." " Lave me alone," says he, "I'm busy with a patthern here that is brakin' my heart," says the waiver ; " and antil I complate it and masther it intirely I won't quit." " You're as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady," says the poor wife ; " and it's a heavy handful I have of you when you are cruked in your temper ; but stay there if you like, and let your stirabout grow cowld, and not a one o' me 'ill ax you agin ; " and with that off she wint, and the waiver, sure enough, was mighty crabbed, and the more the wife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know, is only nath'ral. Well, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the stirabout ; and what would you think but whin he looked at it, it was as black as a crow — for you see, it was in the hoighth o' summer, and the flies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered with them. u Why, thin," says the waiver, " would no place sarve you but that? and is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you dirty bastes? " And with that, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o' stirabout, and killed no less than three score and tin flies at the one blow, for he counted the carcases one by one, and laid them out an a clane plate for to view them. Well, he felt a powerful sperit risin' in him, when he seen the slaughther he done, at one blow ; and not a sthroke more work he'd do that day, but out he wint, and was fractious and impident to every one he met, and was squarin' up into their faces and sayin', " Look at that fist ! that's the fist that killed three score and tin at one blow — Whoo ! " With that all the neighbours thought he was crack'd, and the poor wife herself thought the same when he kern home in the eveniif, afther spendin' every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggerin' about the place, and lookin' at his band every minit. " Indeed, an' your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady, jewel," says the poor wife. " You had betther wash it, darlin'." " How dar' you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland ? " says he, going to bate her. " Well, it's nat dirty," says she. *' It is throwin' away my time I have been all my life," says he ; "livin' with you at all, and stuck at a loom, nothin' but a poor THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 143 waiver, when it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two of the siven champions o' Christendom." "Well, suppose they christened him twice as much," says the wife, " sure what's that to uz ? " " Don't put in your prate," says he, " you ignorant sthrap," says he. " You're vulgar, woman — you're vulgar — mighty vulgar; but I'll have nothin' more to say to any dirty snakin' thrade again — sorra more waivin' I'll do." " Oh, Thady, dear, and what'U the children do then ? " " Let them go play marvels," says he. " That would be but poor feedin' for them, Thady." "They shan't want for feedin'," says he, "for it's a rich man I'll be soon, and a great man too." " Usha, but I'm glad to hear it darlin', — though I dunna how it's to be, but I think you had betther go to bed, Thady." " Don't talk to me of any bed, but the bed o' glory, woman," says he, lookin' mortial grand. " I'll sleep with the brave yit," says he. *' Indeed, an' a brave sleep will do you a power o' good, my darlin'," says she. " And it's I that will be the knight ! " says he. " All night, if you plaze, Thady," says she. " None o' your coaxin'," says he. " I'm detarmined on it, and I'll set off immediately, and be a knight arriant." " A what ? " says she. " A knight arriant, woman." " What's that ? " says she. " A knight arriant is a rale gintleman," says he ; " going round the world for sport, with a swoord by his side, takin' whatever he plazes for himself ; and that's a knight arriant," says he. Well, sure enough he wint about among his neighbours the next day, and he got an ovvld kittle from one, and a saucepan from another, and he took them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o' tin clothes like any knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and that he was very partic'lar about bekase it was his shield, and he went to a frind o' his, a painther and glazier, and made him paint an his shield in big letthers : — u I'm the max of all min, That kill'd three score and tin At a blow." 144 IRISH READINGS. "When the people sees that" says the waiver to himself, "the sorra one will dar for to come near me." And with that he towld the wife to scour out the small iron pot for him, " for," says he, " it will make an illigent helmet ; " and when it was done, he put it an his head, and his wife said, " Oh, murther, Thady, jewel ; is it puttin' a great heavy iron pot an your head you are, by way iv a hat ? " " Sartinly," says he, " for a knight arriant should always have a woight an his brain.' 1 '' " But, Thady, dear," says the wife, " there's a hole in it, and it can't keep out the weather." " It will be the cooler," says he, puttin' it an him ; " besides, if I don't like it, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o' sthraw, or the like o' that." " The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin' up," says she. " Every helmet has a spike stickin' out o' the top of it," says the waiver, "and if mine has three, it's only the grandher it is." " Well," says the wife, getting bitther at last, " all I can say is, it isn't the first sheep's head was dhress'd in it." " Your sarvini, ma'am" says he ; and off he set. Well, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by, where the miller's horse was grazin', that used to carry the ground corn round the counthry. " This is the idintical horse for me," says the waiver ; " he is used to carryin' flour and male, and what am I but the Jlovjer o' shovelry in a coat o' mail ; so that the horse won't be put out iv his way in the laste." So away galloped the waiver, and took the road to Dublin, for he thought the best thing he could do was to go to the King o' Dublin (for Dublin was a grate place thin, and had a king iv its own). Well, when he got to Dublin, he wint sthrait to the palace, and whin he got into the eoortyard he let his horse go and graze about the place, for the grass was growin' out betune the stones ; everything was flourishin' thin in Dublin, you see. Well, the king was lookin' out of his dhrawin'-room windy, for divarshin, whin the waiver kem in ; but the waiver pretended not to see him, and he wint over to a stone sate, undher the windy — for, you see, there was stone sates all round about the place, for the accommodation o' the people — for the king was a dacent obleeging man ; well, as I said, the waiver wint over and lay down an one o' the sates, just undher the king's windy, and purtended to go asleep ; but he took THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 145 care to turn out the front of his shield that had the letthers an it. Well, my dear, with that, the king calls out to one of the lords of his coort that was standin' behind him, howldin' up the skirt of his coat, accordin' to rayson, and says he : " Look here," says he, " what do you think of a vagabone like that, comin' undher my very nose to sleep ? It is thrue I'm a good king," says he, " and I "commodate the people by havin' sates for them to sit down and enjoy the raycreation and contimplation of seem' me here, lookin' out a' my dhrawin'-room windy, for divarshin ; but that is no rayson they are to make a hotel o' the place, and come and sleep here. Who is it at all ? " says the king. " Not a one o' me knows, plaze your majesty." "I think he must be a furriner," says the king, " bekase his dhress is outlandish." " And doesn't know manners, more betoken," says the lord. "I'll go down and circumspect him myself," says the king; "folly me," says he to the lord, wavin' his hand at the same time in the most dignacious manner. Down he wint accordingly, followed by the lord ; and when he wint over to where the waiver was lying, sure the first thing he seen was his shield with the big letthers an it, and with that, says he to the lord, " This is the very man I want." " For what, plaze your majesty? " says the lord. u To kill the vagabone dhraggin, to be sure," says the king. 41 Sure, do you think he could kill him," says the lord, " when all the stoutest knights in the land wasn't aiquil to it, but never kem back, and was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver? " " Sure, don't you see there," says the king, pointin' at the shield, "that he killed three score and tin at one blow ; and the man that done that, I think, is a match for anything." So, with that, he wint over to the waiver and shuck him by the shouldher for to wake him, and the waiver rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and the king says to him, " God save you," said he. " God save you kindly," says the waiver, purtendin he was quite onknowst who he was spakin' to. " Do you know who I am," says the king, " that you make so free, good man ? " "No, indeed," says the waiver, "you have the advantage o' me." "To be sure I have," says the king, moicjhty high; "sure ain't I the King o' Dublin ? " says he. 146 IRISH READINGS. The waiver dhropped down on his two knees forninst the king, and says he, " I beg your pardon for the liberty I tuk ; plaze your holiness, I hope you'll excuse it." "No offince," says the king; "get up, good man. And what brings you here ? " says he. " I'm in want o' work, plaze your riverence," says the waiver. " Well, suppose I give you work ? " says the king. " I'll be proud to sarve you, my lord," says the waiver. " Very well," says the king. " You killed three score and tin at one blow, I understan'," says the king. "Yis," says the waiver; "that was the last thrine o' work I done, and I'm afeard my hand 'ill go out o' practice if I don't get some job to do at wanst." " You shall have a job immediately," says the king. " It is not three score and tin or any fine thing like that ; it is only a blaguard dhraggin that is disturbin' the counthryand ruinatin' my tinanthry wid aitin' their powlthry, and I'm lost for want of eggs," says the king. " Och, thin, plaze your worship," says the waiver, " you look as yollow as if you swallowed twelve yolks this minit." " Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed," says the king. " It will be no throuble in life to you ; and I am only sorry that it isn't betther worth your while, for he isn't worth fearin' at all ; only I must tell you that he lives in the county Galway, in the middle of a bog, and he has an advantage in that." " Oh, I don't value it in the laste," says the waiver, "for the last three score and tin I killed was in a soft place." " When will you undhertake the job, thin ? " says the king. " Let me at him at wanst," says the waiver. " That's what I like," says the king ; " you're the very man for my money," says he. "Talkin' of money," says the waiver, "by the same token, I'll want a thrifle o' change from you for my thravellin' charges." "As much as you plaze,"' says the king; and with the word, he brought him into his closet, where there was an owld stockin' in an oak chest, burstin' wid goolden guineas. " Take as many as you plaze," says the king ; and sure enough, my dear, the little waiver stuffed his tin clothes as full as they could howld with them. " Now I'm ready for the road," says the waiver. THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 147 " Very well," says the king ; " but you must have a fresh horse," says he. " With all ray heart," says the waiver, who thought he might as well exchange the miller's owld garron for a betther. And maybe it's wondherin' you are that the waiver would think of goin' to fight the dhraggin afther what he heerd about him, when he was purtendin' to be asleep, but he had no sich notion ; all he intended was — to fob the goold, and ride back again to Duleek with his gains and a good horse. But you see, cute as the waiver was, the king was cuter still ; for these high quolity, you see, is great desaivers ; and so the horse the waiver was an was learned on purpose; and sure, the minit he was mounted, away powdhered the horse, and the sorra toe he'd go but right down to Galway. Well, for four days he was goin' evermore, until at last the waiver seen a crowd o' people runnin' as if owld Nick was at their heels, and they shoutin' a thousand murdhers, and cryin' — " The dhraggin, the dhraggin!" and he couldn't stop the horse nor make him turn back, but away he pelted right forninst the terrible baste that was comin' up to him ; and there was the most nefaarious smell o' sulphur, savin' your presence, enough to knock you down ; and, faith, the waiver seen he had no time to lose ; and so he threwn himself off the horse and made to a three that was growin' nigh-hand, and away he clambered up into it as nimble as a cat ; and not a minit had he to 6pare, for the dhraggin kem up in a powerful rage, and he devoured the horse body and bones, in less than no time ; and then he began to sniffle and scent about for the waiver, and at last he clapt his eye an him, where he was, up in the three, and says he, " You might as well come down out o' that," says he, " for I'll have you as sure as eggs is mate." " Sorra fut I'll go down," says the waiver. " Sorra care I care," says the dhraggin ; " for you're as good as ready money in my pocket this minit, for I'll lie undher this three," says he, " and sooner or later you must fall to my share ;" and sure enough he sot down, and began to pick his teeth with his tail, afther the heavy brekquest he made that mornin'(for he ate a whole village, let alone the horse), and he got dhrowsy at last, and fell asleep ; but before he wint to sleep he wound himself all round about the three, all as one as a lady windin' ribbon round her finger, so that the waiver could not escape. Well, as soon as the waiver knew he was dead asleep, by the 148 IRISH READINGS. snorin' of him — and every snore he let out of him was like a clap o' thunder — that minit the waiver began to creep down the three, as cautious as a fox ; and he was very nigh hand the bottom, when a thievin' branch he was dipindin' an bruk, and down he fell right a top o' the dhraggin ; but if he did, good luck was an his side, for where should he fall but with his two legs right acrass the dhraggin's neck, and, my jew'l, he laid howlt o' the baste's ears, and there he kept his grip, for the dhraggin wakened and endayvoured for to bite him ; but, you see, by rayson the waiver was behind his ears he could not come at him, and, with that, he endayvoured for to shake him off ; but not a stir could he stir the waiver ; and though he shuk all the scales an his body, he could not turn the scale agin the waiver. " Och, this is too bad intirely," says the dhraggin ; " but if you won't let go," says he, " by the powers o' wildfire, I'll give you a ride that 'ill astonish your siven small senses, my boy ;" and, with that, away he flew like mad ; and where do you think he did fly ? — he flew sthraight for Dublin. But the waiver bein' an his neck was a great disthress to him, and he would rather have had him an inside passenger; but, anyway, he flew and he flew till he kem slap up agin the palace o' the king; for, bein' blind with the rage, he never seen it, and he knocked his brains out — that is, the small thrifle he had, and down he fell spacheless. An' you see, good luck would have it, that the King o' Dublin was looking out iv his dhrawin'-room windy, for divarshin, that day also, and whin he seen the waiver ridin' an the fiery dhraggin (for he was blazin' like a tar barrel), he called out to his coortyers to come and see the show. " Here comes the knight arriant," says the king, " ridin' the dhraggin that's all a-fire, and if he gets into the palace, viz must be ready wid the fire ingines" says he, "for to put him out" But when they seen the dhraggin fall outside, they all run down stairs and scampered into the palace-yard for to circumspect the curosity ; and by the time they got down, the waiver had got off o' the dhraggin's neck ; and runnin' up to the king, says he — "Plaze, your holiness, I did not think myself worthy of killin' this facetious baste, so I brought him to vourself for to do him the honour of decripitation by your own royal five fingers. But I tamed him first, before I allowed him the liberty for to dor to appear in your royal prisince, and you'll oblige me if you'll just THE EXILE OF ERIN. 149 make your mark with your own hand upon the onruly haste's neck." And with that, the king, sure enough, dhrew out his swoord and took the head aff the dirty brute, as clane as a new pin. Well, there was great rejoicin' in the coort that the dhraggin was killed ; and says the king to the little waiver, says he — "You are a knight arraint as it is, and so it would be no use for to knight you over agin ; but I will make you a lord," says he, " and as you are the first man I ever heer'd tell of that rode a dhraggin, you shall be called Lord Mount Dhraggin," says he. " And where's my estates, plaze your holiness ? " says the waiver, who always had a sharp look-out afther the main chance. "Oh, I didn't forget that," says the king. "It is my royai pleasure to provide well for you, and for that rayson I make you a present of all the dhraggins in the world, and give you power over them from this out," says he. " Is that all ? " says the waiver. "All!" says the king. " Why, you ongrateful little vagabone, was the like ever given to any man before ? " " I b'lieve not, indeed," says the waiver ; " many thanks to your majesty." "But that is not all I'll do for you," says the king; "I'll give you my daughter too, in marriage," says he. Now, you see, that was nothin' more than what he promised the waiver in his first promise; for, by all accounts, the king's daughter was the greatest dhraggin ever was seen. Samuel Lover. THE EXILE OF ERIN. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh. 150 IRISH READINGS. "Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger, " The -wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee ; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours ; Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragli. "Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! O cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me ? Never again shall my brothers embrace me ! They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! " Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Ah, my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. "Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; Erin! an exile bequeathes thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers ! Erin-go-bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh ! " Thomas Campbell. THE HEDGE SCHOOLMASTER AND HIS ENGLISH VISITOR. (Condensed.) Sometimes the neighbouring gentry used to call into the hedge schoolmaster, Mat Kavanagh, moved probably by a curiosity excited by his character and the general conduct of the school. On one occasion Squire Johnson and an English gentleman paid him rather an unexpected visit, at a time when another school- master happened to be with him. The Englishman said — " Isn't this Mister 1 forget your name, sir." "Mat Kavanagh, at your sarvice." " Very well, my learned friend, Mr. Mat Kavanagh, isn't this precisely what is called a hedge school?" "A hedge school ! " replied Mat, highly offended ; " my siminary a hedge school ! No, sir ; I scorn the cognomen in toto. This, sir, is a Classical and Mathematical Siminary, under the personal superintendence of your humble servant." " Sir," replied the other master, who till then was silent, wishing perhaps to sack Mat in presence of the gentleman, " it is a hedge school ; and he is no scholar, but an ignoramus, whom I'd sack in three minutes, that would be ashamed of a hedge school." " Ay," says Mat, changing his tone, and taking the cue from his friend whose learning he dreaded "it's just, for argument's sake, a hedge school ; and, what is more, I scorn to be ashamed of it." "And do you not teach occasionally under the hedge behind the house here?" " Granted," replied Mat ; " and now, where's your vis con- sequently ? " "Yes," subjoined the other, "produce your vis consequents." The Englishman himself was rather at a loss for thevis consequential, and replied, " Why don't you live, and learn, and teach like civilised beings, and not assemble like wild asses — pardon me, my friend, for the simile — at least, like wild colts, in such clusters behind the ditches?" 152 IRISH READINGS. "A clusther of wild coults!" said Mat; "that shows what you are ; no man of classical larnin' would use such a word." "Permit me, sir," replied the strange master, " to ax your honour one question — did you receive a classical education? Are you college-bred?" " Yes," replied the Englishman; "I can reply to both in the affirmative. I'm a Cantabrigian." " You're what ? " asked Mat. " I am a Cantabrigian." " Come, sir, you must explain yourself, if you plase. I'll take my oath that's neither a classical nor a mathematical tarm." The gentleman smiled. " I was educated in the English College of Cambridge." " Well," says Mat, " and maybe you would be as well off if you had picked up your larnin' in our own Thrinity ; there's good pick- ing in Thrinity for gintlemen like you, that are sober and harmless about the brains, in regard of not being overly bright." " You talk with contempt of a hedge school," replied the other master ; " did you never hear, for all so long as you war in Cambridge, of a nate little spot in Greece, called the Groves of Academus ? Inter lucos Academi, qurerere verum. What was Plato himself but a hedge schoolmaster? and, with humble submission, it casts no slur on an Irish tacher to be compared to him, I think. You forget also, sir, that the Dhruids taught under their oaks." " Ay," added Mat, " and the Tree of Knowledge too. Faith, an' if that same tree was now in being, if there wouldn't be hedge schoolmasters, there would be plinty of hedge scholars, anyhow — particularly if the fruit was well tasted." " I believe, Millbank, you must give in," said Squire Johnson. " I think you have got the worst of it." " Why," said Mat, " if the gintleman's not afther bein' sacked clane, I'm not here." " Are you a mathematician," inquired Mat's friend, determined to follow up his victory ; " do you know Mensuration ? " " Come, I do know Mensuration," said the Englishman, with confidence. "And how would you find the solid contents of a load of thorns ? " said the other. THE HEDGE SCHOOLMASTER. 153 " Ay, or how will you consther and parse me this sintince ? " said Mat : — Regibus et clotibus solemus stopere windous, Nos numerus sumus fruges consumere nati, Stercora flat stire rara terra-tantarro bungo." " Aisy, Mister Kavanagh," replied the other, " let the Canta- brigian resolve the one I propounded him first." "And let the Cantabrigian then take up mine," said Mat, " and if he can expound it I'll give him a dozen more to bring home in his pocket for the Cambridge folk to crack after their dinner along wid their nuts." " Can you do the ' Snail ' ? " inquired the stranger. " Or, ' A and B on opposite sides of a wood,' without the Key ? " said Mat. "Maybe," said the stranger, who threw off the frieze jock, and exhibited a muscular frame of great power, cased in an old black coat — " maybe the gintleman would like to get a small taste of the 'Scuffle?'" " Not at all," replied the Englishman ; " not the least curiosity I have for it — I assure you I have not. What do they mean, Johnson ? I hope you have influence over them." " Hand me down that cudgel, Jack Brady, till I show the gintleman the ' Snail ' and the ' Maypole,' " said Mat. " Never mind, my lad ; never mind, Mr. a Mr. Kavanagh. I give up the contest, I resign you the palm, gentlemen. The hedge school has beaten Cambridge hollow." " One poser more, before you go, sir," said Mat. " Can you give Latin for a game-egg in two words ? " " Eh, a game-egg ? No, by my honour, I cannot — gentlemen, I yield." " Ay, I thought so," replied Mat ; bring it home to Cam-bridge, anyhow, and let them chew their cuds upon it, you persave ; and it will puzzle the whole establishment, or my name's not Kavanagh." " It will, I am convinced," replied the gentleman, eyeing the herculean frame of the strange teacher, and the substantial cudgel iu Mat's hand; "it will, undoubtedly. But who is this most miserable naked lad here, Mr. Kavanagh ? " " Why, sir," replied Mat, with his broad Milesian face expand- ing with a forthcoming joke, "he is, sir, in a sartin and especial particularity, a namesake of your own." L 154 IRISH READINGS. " How is that, Mr. Kevanagh ? " " My name's not Kevanagh," replied Mat, " but Kavanagh ; the Irish A for ever ! " " Well, but how is the lad a namesake of mine ? " said the Englishman. " Bekase, you see, he's a poor scholar, sir." William Carxeton. DREAMING TIM JARVIS. (Condensed). Timothy Jarvis was a decent, honest, quiet, hard-working man, as everybody knows that knows Balledehob. He was thriving enough to be able to give his daughter Nelly a fortune of ten pounds ; and Tim himself would have been snug enough besides but that he loved the drop sometimes. However, he was seldom backward on rent day. His ground was never distrained but twice, and both times through a small bit of a mistake ; and his landlord had never but once to say to him, " Tim Jarvis, you're all behind, Tim, like the cow's tail." Now it so happened that, being heavy in himself, through the drink, Tim took to sleeping, and the sleep set Tim dreaming, and he dreamed all night, and night after night, about crocks full of gold and other precious stones. The grey dawn of the morning would see Tim digging away in a bog-hole maybe, or rooting under some old stone walls like a pig. At last he dreamt that he found a mighty great crock of gold and silver — and where, do you think? Every step of the way upon London Bridge itself! Twice Tim dreamt it, and three times Tim dreamt the same thing ; and at last he made up his mind to transport himself, and go over to London, in Pat Mahoney's coaster — and so he did ! Well, he got there, and found the bridge without much difficulty. Every day he walked up and down looking for the crock of gold, but never the find did he find it. One day, however, as he was looking over the bridge into the water, a man, or something like a man, with great black whiskers, like a Hessian, and a black cloak that reached down to the ground, taps him on the shoulder, and says he, " Tim Jarvis, do you see me ? " DREAMING TIM JARVIS. 155 " Surely I do, sir," says Tim, wondering that anybody should know him in the strange place. "Tim," says he, "what is it brings you here in foreign parts, so far away from your own cabin by the mine of grey copper at Balledehob?" " Please your honour," says Tim, " I'm come to seek my fortune." " You're a fool for your pains, Tim, if that's all," remarked the stranger in the black cloak ; " this is a big place to seek one's fortune in to bp sure, but it's not so easy to find it." Now Tim, after debating a long time with himself, and con- sidering, in the first place, that it might be the stranger who was to find the crock of gold for him, and, in the next, that the stranger might direct him where to find it, came to the resolution of telling him all. u There's many a one like me comes here seeking their fortunes," said Tim. " True," said the stranger. "But," continued Tim, looking up, " the body and bones of the cause for myself leaving the woman, and Nelly, and the boys, and travelling so far, is to look for a crock of gold that I'm told is lying somewhere hereabouts." " And who told you that, Tim? " " Why, then, sir, that's what I can't tell myself rightly — only I dreamt it." "Ho, ho! is that all, Tim?" said the stranger, laughing; "I had a dream myself ; and I dreamed that I found a crock of gold in the Fort field, on Jerry Driscoll's ground at Balledehob ; and by the same token, the pit where it lay was close to a large furze bush, all full of yellow blossom." So saying, the stranger disappeared, and Tim Jarvis made the best of his way back to Ireland. A few days afterwards Tim sold his cabin, and his garden, and bought the Fort field of Jerry Driscoll. The first night that Tim could summon courage to begin his work he walked off to the field with his spade upon his shoulder; and away he dug all night by the side of the furze bush till he came to a big stone. He struck his spade against it, and he heard a hollow sound. So as day was dawning he went away till the next night came on. Then he stood beside the furze bush spade in hand. 156 IBISH READINGS. The moment he jumped down into the pit he heard a strange rumbling noise under him, and so, putting his ear against the great stone, he listened, and overheard a discourse that made the hair on his head stand up like bulrushes, and every limb tremble. " How shall we bother Tim ? " said one voice. M Take him to the mountain, to be sure, and make him a toothful for the old serpent ; 'tis long since he has had a good meal," said another voice. Tim shook like a potato-blossom in a storm. " No," said a third voice ; " plunge him in the bog, neck and heels." Tim was a dead man, barring the breath. " Stop ! " said a fourth ; but Tim heard no more, for Tim was dead entirely. In about an hour, however, the life came back into him, and he crept home to Norah. When the next night arrived the hopes of the crock of gold got the better of his fears, and taking care to arm himself with a bottle of potheen, away he went to the field. Jumping into the pit, he took a little sup from the bottle to keep his heart up — he then took a big one — and then, with a desperate wrench, he wrenched up the stone. All at once up rushed a blast of wind, wild and fierce, and down fell Tim — down, down, and down he went — until he thumped upon what seemed to be, for all the world, like a floor of sharp pins, which made him bellow out in earnest. Then he heard a whisk and a hurra, and instantly voices beyond numbers cried out — "Welcome, Tim Jarvis, dear! Welcome, down here! " Though Tim's teeth chattered like magpies with the fright, he continued to make answer, "I'm he-he-har-ti-ly ob-ob-liged to- to you all, gen-gen-tlemen, fo-for your civility to-to a poor stranger like myself." But though he had heard all the voices about him, he could see nothing, the place was so dark and so lonesome in itself for want of the light. Then something pulled Tim by the hair of his head, and dragged him, he did not know how far, but he knew he was going faster than the wind, for he heard it behind him, trying to keep up with him, and it could not. On, on, on he went, till all at once, and suddenly, he was stopped, and somebody came up to him, and said, " Well, Tim Jarvis, and how do you like your ride? " DREAMING TIM JARVIS. 157 " Mighty well ! I thank your honour,'" said Tim ; " and 'twas a good beast I rode, surely ! " There was a great laugh at Tim's answer ; and then there was a whispering, and a great cugger-mugger, and coshering; and at last a pretty little bit of a voice said, " Shut your eyes, and you'll see, Tim." u By my word, then," said Tim, "that is the queer way of seeing ; but I'm not the man to gainsay you, so I'll do as you bid me, anyhow." Presently he felt a small warm hand rubbed over his eyes with an ointment, and in the next minute he saw himself in the middle of thousands of little men and women, not half so high as his brogue, that were pelting one another with golden guineas and lily-white thirteen?,* as if they were so much dirt. The finest dressed and the biggest of them all went up to Tim, and says he, "Tim Jarvis, because you are a decent, honest, quiet, civil, well-spoken, man," says he, "and know how to behave yourself in strange company, we've altered our minds about you, and we'll find a neighbour of yours that will do just as well to give to the old serpent." "Oh, then, long life to you, sir!" said Tim, "and there's no doubt of that." "But what will you say, Tim," inquired the little fellow, " if we fill your pockets with these yellow-boys? What will you say, Tim, and what will you do with them." "Your honour's honour, and your honour's glory," answered Tim, "I'll not be able to say my prayers for one month with thanking you — and indeed I've enough to do with them. I'd make a grand lady, you see, at once of Norah — she has been a good wife to me. We'll have a nice bit of pork for dinner, and, maybe, I'd have a glass, or maybe two glasses ; or sometimes, if 'twas with a friend, or acquaintance, or gossip, you know three glasses every day ; and I'd build a new cabin ; and I'd have a fresh egg every morning, myself, for my breakfast; and I'd snap ray fingers at the squire, and beat his hounds if they'd come coursing through my fields ; and I'd have a new plough ; and Xorah, your honour, should have a new cloak, and the boys should have shoes and stockings as well as Biddy Leary's brats — that's my sister that was ; and Nelly should marry Bill Long of Affadown ; and, your honour, I'd have some corduroy for myself to make breeches, and * An English shilling was thirtoen-pence Irish currency. 158 IRISH READINGS. a cow, and a beautiful coat with shining buttons, and a horse to ride, or maybe two. I'd have everything," said Tim, " in life, good or bad, that is to be got for love or money — hurra-whoop ! — and that's what I'd do." "Take care, Tim," said the little fellow; "your money would not go faster than it came, with your hurra-whoop." But Tim heeded not this speech — heaps of gold were around him, and he filled and filled away as hard as he could, his coat and his waistcoat and his breeches pockets ; and he thought himself very clever, moreover, because he stuffed some of the guineas into his brogues. When the little people perceived this they cried out — " Go home, Tim Jarvis, go home, and think yourself a lucky man/' "I hope, gentlemen," said he, "we won't part for good and all; but maybe ye'll ask me to see you again, and to give you a fair and square account of what I've done with your money." To this there was no answer only another shout, "Go home, Tim Jarvis — go home ; fair play is a jewel ; but shut your eyes, or ye'll never see the light of day again." Tim shut his eyes, knowing now that was the way to see clearly ; and away he was whisked as before — away, away he went, till he stopped all of a sudden. He rubbed his eyes with his two thumbs — and where was he V Where but in the very pit in the field that was Jerry Driscoll's, and his wife Norah above with a big stick ready to beat " her dreaming blackguard." Tim roared out to the woman to leave the life in him, and put his hands in his pockets to show her the gold; but he pulled out nothing but a handful of small stones mixed with yellow furze blossoms. The bush was under him, and the great flag-stone that he had wrenched up, as he thought, was lying, as if it was never stirred, by his side ; the whiskey-bottle was drained to the last drop; and the pit was just as his spade had made it. Tim Jarvis, vexed, disappointed, and almost heart-broken, followed his wife home ; and, strange to say, from that night he left off* drinking, and dreaming, and delving in bog-holes, and rooting in old caves. He took again to his hard-working habits, and was soon able to buy back his little cabin and former potato- garden, and to get all the enjoyment he anticipated from the fairy gold. T. Ckoi-tox Choker. THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN. The shades of eve had cross'd the glen That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, We stopp'd before a cottage door. " God save all here," my comrade cries, And rattles on the raised latch-pin ; " God save you kindly," quick replies A clear sweet voice, and asks us in. We enter ; from the wheel she starts, A rosy girl with soft black eyes ; Pier fluttering court'sy takes our hearts, Her blushing grace and pleased surprise. Poor Mary, she was quite alone, For all the way to Glenmalure Her mother had that morning gone, And left the house in charge with her. o But neither household cares, nor yet The shame that startled virgins feel, Could make the generous girl forget Her wonted hospitable zeal. She brought us in a beechen bowl Sweet milk that smack'd of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll Of butter — it gilds all my rhyme ! And, while we ate the grateful food, (With weary limbs on bench reclined,) Considerate and discreet, she stood Apart, and listen'd to the wind. Kind wishes both our souls engaged, From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought — we stood and pledged The Modest Rose above Loch Dan. 160 IRISH READINGS. " The milk we drink is not more pure, Sweet Mary — bless those budding charms ! Than your own generous heart, I'm sure, Nor whiter than the breast it warms ! " She turn'd and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen ; But, Mary, you have nought to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger men. Not for a crown would I alarm Your virgin pride by word or sign, Xor need a painful blush disarm My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. Her simple heart could not but feel The words we spoke were free from guile ; She stoop'd, she blush'd — she fix'd her wheel, 'Tis all in vain — she can't but smile ! Just like sweet April's dawn appears Her modest face — I see it yet — And though I lived a hundred years, Methinks I never could fonret o^ The pleasure that, despite her heart, Fills all her downcast eyes with light, The lips reluctantly apart, The white teeth struggling into sight, The dimples eddying o'er her cheek, — The rosy cheek that won't be still ! — Oh ! who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill ? For such another smile, I vow, Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I'd take the mountain-side e'en now, And walk to Luggelaw again ! Sir Samuel Ferguson. [By kind permission of the author.] O'DEMPSY AND THE DUKE. O'Dempsy was comin' home from Dublin, and the money was getting fine-dhrawn with him, and he wanted to see if he had enough left to pay for the coach home; and the change was so scarce that he was obliged to hunt it up in his pocket into the corner, like a contrairy cowlt, before he could lay howld of it at all ; and when he did get it in the pawm of his fist, it was a'most ashamed to see the light, it looked so contimptible ; and my bowld O'Dempsy seen the coach was out o' question, or even a lift in the canal-boat, and so he put his thrust in Providence. The next day off he set home, with a short stick in his hand, and a pair o' good legs undher him ; and he met nothin 1 remarkable until he came to betune Kilcock and Maynooth : and it was thin that he heered the thramp of horses gallopin' afther him, and he turned round and seen three gintlemen comin 1 up in great style : one o' them, a fine, full handsome man, the picthur of a gintleman, and a fine baste undher him, and the gintlemen along with him very nice too ; one in particular, a smart, nate-made man, with a fine, bright eye and a smilin' face, and a green handkicher round his neck, and a sportin' aisy sate on his horse : and Dempsy heered him say, as they dhrew up jist behind him — "Look what a fine step that fellow has! " (manin' O'Dempsy; and, indeed, a claner boy isn't in all Ireland than himself, and can walk with any man). So when they came up with him, the small gintleman said — ■' God save you ! " " God save you kindly, sir! " says O'Dempsy. " You don't let the grass grow undher your feet, my man," says the gintleman. "Nor com neither, sir," says O'Dempsy. " So I see by the free step you have," says the gintleman, laughin', and the others laughed too, the full gintleman in particular ; and says he — " Well, Ned, you got your answer." Now the minit that O'Dempsy heered the word " Ned," and it bein' in the neighbourhood of Cartown, which is the Juke o' 162 IRISH READINGS. Leinsther's place, the thought jumped into his head that it was Lord Edward Fitzjaral' was in it ; for he always heered he was small, and handsome, and merry, and that the juke, his brother, was a fine-lookin' man ; and so with that he made oock-sure in his own mind that the full gintleman was the Juke o' Leinsther, and the little one Lord Edward. So hearin' that Lord Edward liked a joke, O'Dempsy never let on to suspect who they wor ; and they walked along beside him, and had a great dale o' discoorse and jokin', and the answers passing betune them as fast as hops. At last says the juke (for it was himself) — " You're a very merry fellow," says he ; " where do you come from ? " "From Dublin, sir," says O'Dempsy. "Oh, I know that by the road you're goin'," says the juke; "but I mane, where is your place?" "Thin I have no place," says O'Dempsy; "I wish I had." "That's a touch at you" says the juke to the third gintleman, whoever he was. " But where are you goin' to ? " says the juke. "I'm goin' home, sir," says O'Dempsy. "And where are you when you're at home?" says the juke. " I'm at home everywhere," says O'Dempsy. Well, Lord Edward laughed at his brother, seem' he couldn't force a straight answer out of O'Dempsy. "Will you tell me, thin," says the juke, "which are you Ulsther, Leinsther, Munsther, or Connaught ? " "Leinsther, sir," says O'Dempsy, though it was a lie he was tellin' ; but it was on purpose to have a laugh agin the juke, for he was layin' a thrap for him all the time. "You don't spake like a Leinsther man," says the juke. " Oh, the tongue is very desaitful sometimes," says O'Dempsy. Lord Edward laughed at his brother agin, and said he'd make no hand of him. Says he, "That fellow would bate Counsellor Curran ! " " Well, I'll thry him once more," says the juke ; and with that says he to O'Dempsy, " What's your name ? " Now that was all O'Dempsy wanted for to nick him, and so says he — "My name is O'Shaughnessy, sir." " I've cotch you now," says the juke ; "you can't be a Leinsther man with that name." THE QUAKE GANDER. 163 " I see you're too able for me, sir," says O'Dempsy, leading him on. "Well, Mr. O'Shaughnessy," says the juke, "it's somewhere out of Munsther you come." "No, sir," says O'Dempsy, "I am a Leinsther man in airnest ; but I see you couldn't be desaived about the name, and so I'll tell you the thruth, and nothin' but the thruth, about it. I am a Leinsther man ; but I whit to live in Munsther, and I was obleeged to change my name, bekase they had no respect for me there with the one I had." "And what was your name? " says the juke. "My name was Fitzjarl', sir," says O'Dempsy; "but they thought me only an upstart down in Munsther, so I changed it into O'Shaughnessy." With that the juke and Lord Edward laughed out hearty, and the third gentleman says to the juke, " I think yviCve got your hit now." Well, sir, the juke pulled a guinea out of his pocket, and put it into O'Dempsy's hand, and says to him, laughin', "Take that, you merry rascal, and dhrink my health ! " "Long life to your Grace!"" says O'Dempsy, taking off his hat, "you desarve to be an O'Shaughnessy I " " More power to you, Paddy ! " says Lord Edward as they put spur to their horses ; and away they powdhered down the road, laughin' like mad. t Samuel Lover. THE QUARE GANDER. (Condensed.J Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well to do — an' he rinted the bigest farm on this side iv the Galties, an' bein' mighty cute an' a sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest ; but unluckily he was blessed with an' ilegant large family iv daughters, an' iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin' to make up fortunes for the whole of them — an' there wasn't a conthrivance iv any soart or discription for makin' money out iv the farm but he was up to. Well among the other ways he had iv gettin up in the world, he always kep a power iv turkies, and all 164 IRISH READINGS. soarts iv poultry ; an' he was out iv all rason partial to geese — an' small blame to him for that same — for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand — an' get a fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizable eggs— an' when they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an' sell them to the gintlemen for gozlings, d'ye see,— let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out. Well it happened in the coorse iv time, that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin' to Terence, an' sorra a place he could go serenadin' about the farm, or lookin' afther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an' rubbin' himself agin his legs, and lookin' up in his face just like any other Christian id do ; and the likes iv it was never seen, Terence Mooney an' the gandher wor so great. An' at last the bird was so engagin' that Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more ; an' kept it from that time out, for love an' affection ; just all as one like one iv his childhren. But happiness in perfection never lasts long ; an' the neighbours bigin'd to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher ; an' some iv them said it was the divil, and more iv them that it was a fairy. Well Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin', and you may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an' from one day to another he was gettin' more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarrained to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an' it's he was the ilegant hand at the business, and sorra a sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest ; an' moreover he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, this man's father that was. So without more about it, he was sent for; an' sure enough not long he was about it, for he kem back that very evenin' along wid the boy that was sint for him ; an' as soon as he was there, an' tuck his supper, an' was done talkin' for a while, he bigined of coorse to look into the gandher. Well he turned it this away an' that away, to the right, and to the left, an' straight-ways an' upside down, an' when he was tired handlin' it, says he to Terence Mooney : " Terence," says he, " you must remove the bird into the next room," says he, " an' put a pettycoat," says he, " or any other convaynience round his head," says he. " An' why so ? " says Terence. " Becase," says Jer, says he. " Becase what ? " says Terence. " Becase," says Jer, " if it isn't done— you'll never be asy agin," THE QUARE GANDER. 165 says he, " or pusilanimous in your mind," says he ; " so ax no more questions, but do my biddin'," says he. " Well," says Terence, " have your own way," says he. An' wid that he tuck the ould gandher, and giv' it to one iv the gossoons. " An', take care," says he, " don't smother the crathur," says he. Well as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, " Do you know what that ould gandher is, Terence Mooney ? " " Sorra a taste," says Terence. " Well then," says Jer, " the gandher is your own father," says he. " It's jokin' you are," says Terence, turnin' mighty pale ; " how can an ould gandher be my father? " says he. " I'm not funnin' you at all," says Jer, " it's thrue what I tell you — it's your father's wandhrin' sowl," says he, " that's naturally tuck pissession iv the ould gandher's body," says he ; "I know him many ways, and I wondher," says he, " you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself," says he. " Oh ! " says Terence, " what will I ever do at all at all," says he ; " it's all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste," says he. " That can't be helped now," says Jer, " it was a sevare act surely," says he, M but it's too late to lamint for it now," says he ; " the only way to prevint what's past." says he, " is to put a stop to it before it happens," says he. " Thrue for you," says Terence, " but how did you come to the knowledge iv my father's sowl," says he, "bein' in the ould gander ? " says he. "If I tould you," says Jer, u you would not undherstand me," says he, " without book-larnin' an' gasthronomy," says he ; " so ax me no questions," says he, " an' I'll tell you no lies ; but b'lieve me in this much," says he, " it's your father that's in it," says he, u an' if I don't make him spake to-morrow mornin'," says he, "I'll give you lave to call me a fool," says he. w Say no more," says Terence, " that settles the business," says he ; u an' oh ! is it not a quare thing," says he, " for a dacent respictable man," says he, "to be walkin' about the counthry in the shape iv an ould gandher," says he ; " and oh murdher, murdher ! is it not often I plucked him," says he ; " an' tundher and turf might not I have ate him," says he ; and wid that he fell 166 IRISH READINGS. into a could parspiration, savin your prisince, an' was on the pint iv faintin' wid the bare notions iv it. Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him quiet an' asy — "Terence," says he, "don't be aggravatin' your- self," says he, " for I have a plan composed that 'ill make him spake out," says he, " an' tell what it is in the world he's wantin," says he ; " an' mind an' don't be comin' in wid your gosther an' to say agin anything I tell you," says he, " but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back," says he, " how that we're goin' to sind him to-morrow mornin' to market," says he ; " an' if he don't spake to-night," says he, " or gother himself out iv the place," says he, " put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart," says he, " straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aiting," says he, " along wid the two gossoons," says he ; " an' my name isn't Jer Garvan," says he, " off he dosen't spake out before he's half way," says he ; " an' mind," says he, " as soon as ever he says the first word," says he, " that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty," says he, " an' if his raverince dosen't make him ratire," says he, "like the rest iv his parishioners," says he, " there's no vartue in my charums," says he. Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an' they all bigined to talk iv sindin him the nixt mornin' to be sould for roastin in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled ; but not a notice the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord Lieutenant ; an' Terence desired the boys to get ready the kish for the poulthry "an" to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug," says he, " for it's the last jauntin' the poor ould gandher 'ill get in this world," says he. Well, as the night was getting late, Terence was growin' mighty sorrowful an' down- hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was goin' to happen. An' as soon as the wife an' the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some illigant potfeen, an' himself an' Jer Garvan sot down to it, an' the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart bctune them : it wasn't ar» imparial though, an' more's the pity, for them wasn't anvinted antil short since; but sorra a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew begin'd to give the pledge, an' wid the blessin' iv timperance to deginerale Ireland. An' sure I have the medle myself; an' its proud T am iv f hat same, for abstamiousness is a fine THE QUARE GANDER. ]67 thing, although it's mighty dhry. Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop, " for enough is as good as a faste," says he, " an' I pity the vagabond," says he, " that is not able to conthroul his licquor," says he, " an' to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure," says he, an' wid that he wished Jer Gar van a good night, an' walked out iv the room. But he wint out the wrong door, being a thrifle hearty in himself, an' not rightly knowin' whether he was standin' on his head or his heels, or both iv them at the same time, an' in place iv gettin' into bed, where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin' ; an' sure enough he sunk down soft an' complate through the hay to the bottom ; an' wid the turnin' an' roulin' about in the night, not a bit iv him but was covered up as shnug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin'. So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that war to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary ; an' they cotched the ould gandher, an' put him in the hamper and clapped a good wisp iv hay on the top iv him, and tied it down strhong wid a bit iv a coard, and med the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an' put the hamper up on the car, wontherin' all the while what in the world was makiu' the ould burd so surprisin' heavy. Well, they wint along quite anasy towards Tipperary ; wishin' every minute that some iv the neigh- bours bound the same way id happen to fall in with them, for they did'nt half like the notions iv havin' no company but the bewitched gandher, an' small blame to them for that same. But, although they wor shaking in their shkins in dhread iv the ould bird biginiiv to convarse them every minute, they did not let on to one another, bud kep singin' and whistlin', like mad, to keep the dhread out iv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half an hour, they kern to the bad bit close by Father Crotty's, an' there was one rut three feet deep at the laste ; an' the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin' through it, that it wakened Terence within the basket. " Oh ! " says he, " my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what are ye doin' wid me ? " " Did ye hear anything quare, Thady ? " says the boy that was next to the car, turnin' as white as the top iv a musharoon ; " did ye hear anything quare soundin' out iv the hamper V " says he. "No, nor you," says Thady, turnin' as pale as himself, "it's 168 IRISH READINGS. the ould gandher that's gruntin' wid the shakin he's gettin'," says he. " Where have ye put me into." says Terence, inside ; " let me out," says he, " or I'll be smothered this minute," says he. " There's no use in purtending," says the boy ; " the gandher's spakin', glory be to God! " says he. " Let me out, you murdherers," says Terence. " In the name iv all the holy saints," says Thady, " hould yer tongue, you uunatheral gandher," says he. " Who's that, that dar to call me nicknames," says Terence inside, roaring wid the fair passion ; " let me out, you blasphamious infiddles," says he, " or by this crass I'll stretch ye," says he. " Who are ye ? " says Thady. " Who would I be but Terence Mooney," says he. " It's myself that's in it, you unmerciful bliggards," says he ; " let me out, or I'll get out in spite iv yez," says he, u an' I'll wallop yez in arnest," says he. " It's ould Terence, sure enough," says Thady ; " isn't it cute the fairy doethor found him out," says he. " I'm on the pint iv snuffication," says Terence ; " let me out I tell you, an' wait till I get at ye," says he, " for sorra a bone in your body but I'll powdher," says he ; an' wid that he bigined kickin' and ningin' inside in the hamper, and dhrivin' his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a wondher he did not knock it to pieces Well, as soon as the boys seen that, they skelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest's house, through the ruts, an' over the stones ; an' you'd see the hamper fairly flyin' three feet up in the air with the joultin; so it was small wondher, by the time they got to his raverence's door, the breath was fairly knocked out iv poor Terence ; so that he was lyin' speechless in the bottom iv the hamper. Well, whin his raverince kem down, they up an' they tould him all that happened, an' how they put the gandher into the hamper, an' how he bigined to spake, an' how he confissed that he was ould Terence Mooney ; and they axed his honour to advise them how to get rid iv the spirit for good an' all. So says his raverince, says he, " I'll take my booke," says he, " an I'll read some rale sthrong holy bits out iv it," says he, " an' do you get a rope and put it round the hamper," says he, " an' let it swing over the runnin THE QUARE GANDER. 169 wather at the bridge," says he, " an' it's no matther if I don't make the spirit come out iv it," says he. Well, wid that, the priest got his horse, an' tuck his booke in undher his arum, an' the boys follied his raverince, ladin' the horse down to the bridge, an' sorra a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it was no use spakin', an' he was afeard of he med any noise they might thrait him to another gallop an' finish him intirely. Well, as soon as they war all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the rope they had with them, an' med it fast to the top iv the hamper an' swung it fairly over the bridge ; lettin' it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather ; an' his raverence rode down to the bank iv the river, close by, an' bigined to read mighty loud and bould intirely. An' when he was goin' on about five minutes, all at oust the bottom iv the hamper kern out, an' down wint Terence, falling splash dash into the water, an' the ould gandher a-top iv him ; down they both went to the bottom wid a souse you'd hear half a mile off ; an' before they had time to rise agin, his raverence, wid the fair astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, an' before he knew where he was, in he went, horse and all, a-top iv them, an' down to the bottom. Up they all kern agin together, gaspin' an' puffin', an' off down wid the current wid them, like shot in undher the arch iv the bridge, till they kem to the shallow wather. The ould gandher was the first out, an' the priest and Terence kemnext,pantin' an' blowin' an' morethanhalf dhrounded; an' his raverence was so freckened wid the dhroundin' he got, and wid the sight iv the sperit as he consaved, that he wasn't the better iv it for a month. An' as soon as Terence could spake, he said he'd have the life iv the two gossoons ; but Father Crotty would not give him his will ; an' as soon as he was got quiter they all endayvoured to explain it, but Terence consayved he went raly to bed the night before, an' his raverince said it was a mysthery, an' swore if he cotched anyone laughin' at the accident, he'd lay the horsewhip across their shouldhers ; an' Terence grew fonder an' fonder iv the gandher every day, until at last he died in a wondherful ould age, lavin' the gandher afther him an' a large family iv childher ; an' to this day the farm is rinted by one iv Terence Mooney's lineal and legitimate posteriors. J. S. Le Faxu. m A PLEASANT JOURNEY. (Adapted.) I, Harry Lorrequer, was awaiting the mail coach anxiously, in the Inn at Naas, when at last there was the sound of wheels, and the driver came into the room, a spectacle of condensed moisture. " Going on to-night, sir," said he, addressing me ; " severe weather, and no chance of its clearing ; — but, of course, you're inside." " Why, there is very little doubt of that," said I. " Are you nearly full inside? " "Only one, sir; but he seems a real queer chap; made fifty inquiries at the office if he could not have the whole inside for himself, and when he heard that one place had been taken — yours, I believe, sir — he seemed like a scalded bear." " You don't know his name, then ? " "No, sir, he never gave a name at the office, and his only luggage is two brown paper parcels, without any ticket, and he has them inside: indeed he never lets them from him, even for a second." Here the guard's horn sounded. As I passed from the inn-door to the coach, I congratulated myself that I was about to be housed from the terrific storm of wind and rain that railed without. " Here's the step, sir," said the guard ; " get in, sir ; two minutes late already." "I beg your pardon, sir," said I, as I half fell over the legs of my unseen companion. "May I request leave to pass you?" While he made way for ma for this purpose, I perceived that he stooped down towards the guard, and said something, who, from his answer, had evidently been questioned as to who I was. "And how did he get here if he took his place in Dublin?" asked the unknown. " Came half an hour since, sir, in a chaise-and-four," said the guard, as he banged the door behind him, and closed the interview. " A severe night, sir," said I. A PLEASANT JOUKNET. 171 " Mighty severe," briefly and half -crustily replied the unknown, in a strong Cork accent. " And a bad road, too, sir," said I. "That's the reason I always go armed," said the unknown, clinking at the same moment something like the barrel of a pistol. Wondering somewhat at his readiness to mistake my meaning, I felt disposed to drop any further effort to draw him out, and was about to address myself to sleep as comfortably as I could. "I'll just trouble ye to lean off that little parcel there, sir," said he, as he displaced from its position beneath my elbow one of the paper packages the guard had already alluded to. In complying with this rather gruff demand one of my pocket- pistols, which I carried in my breast-pocket, fell out upon his knee, upon which he immediately started, and asked, hurriedly: "And are you armed, too ? " " Why, yes," said I, laughingly ; " men of my trade seldom go without something of this kind." "I was just thinking that same," said the traveller, with a half sigh to himself. I was once more settling myself in my corner when I was startled by a very melancholy groan. " Are you ill, sir '? " said I, in a voice of some anxiety. "You may say that," replied he, "if you knew who you were talking to, although maybe you've heard enough of me, though you never saw me till now." "Without having that pleasure even yet," said I, "it would grieve me to think you should be ill in the coach." "Maybe it might. Did ye never hear tell of Barney Doyle? " said he. " Not to my recollection," "Then I'm Barney," said he, "that's in all the newspapers in the metropolis. I'm seventeen weeks in Jervis-street Hospital, and four in the Lunatic, and the sorra bit better, after all. You must be a stranger, I'm thinking, or you'd know me now." " Why, I do confess I've only been a few hours in Ireland for the last six months." " Aye, that's the reason ; I knew you would not be fond of travelling with me if you knew who it was." " Why, really, I did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting you." " It's pleasure ye call it ; then there's no accountin' for tastes, 172 IRISH READINGS. as Dr. Colles said, when he saw me bite Cusack Rooney's thumb off." " Bite a man's thumb off ! " "Aye," said he, with a kind of fiendish animation, " in one chop. I wish you'd see how I scattered the consultation ; — they didn't wait to ax for a fee." U A very pleasant vicinity," thought I. "And may I ask, sir," said I, in a very mild and soothing tone of voice — " may I ask the reason for this singular propensity of yours ? " " There it is now, my dear," said he, laying his hand npon my knee familiarly, " that's just the very thing they can't make oat. Colles says it's all the ceribellum, ye see, that's inflamed and combusted, and some of the other's think it's the spine ; and more the muscles ; but my real impression is, not a bit they know about it at all." " And have they no name for the malady ? " said I. " Oh, sure enough, they have a name for it." "And may I ask " "Why I think you'd better not, because, ye see, maybe I might be throublesome to ye in the night, though I'll not, if I can help it ; and it might be uncomfortable to you to be here if I was to get one of the fits." "One of the fits! Why it's not possible, sir," said I, "you would travel in a public conveyance in the state you mention ; your friends surely would not permit it ? " "Why if they knew, perhaps," slyly responded the interesting invalid " if they knew, they might not exactly like it ; but, ye see, I escaped only last night, and there'll be a fine hubbub in the morning when they find I'm off ; though I'm thinking Rooney's barking away by this time." " Rooney barking ! — why, what does that mean ? " "They always bark for a day or two after, they're bit, if the infection comes first from the dog." "You are surely not speaking of hydrophobia?" said I, my hair actually bristling with horror and consternation. "Ain't I," replied he; "maybe you've guessed it, though." " And you have the malady on you at present? " said I, trembling for the answer. " This is the ninth day since I took to biting," said he, gravely. "And with such a propensity, sir, do you think yourself warranted in travelling in a public coach, exposing others " A PLEASANT JOURNEY. 173 " You'd better not raise your voice that way If I'm roused it'll be worse for ye, that's all." " Well, but, is it exactly prudent, in your present delicate state, to undertake a journey ? " " Ah," said he, with a sigh, " I've been longing to see the fox- hounds throw off near Kilkenny ; these three weeks I've been thinking of nothing else ; but I'm not sure how my nerves will stand the cry ; I might be throublesome." " Well," thought I, " I shall not select that morning for my debut in the field." " I hope, sir, there's no river or watercourse on this road ; anything else I can, I hope, control myself against ; but water — running water particularly — makes me throublesome." Well knowing what he meant by the latter phrase, I felt the cold perspiration settling on my forehead as I remembered that we must be within about ten or twelve miles of a bridge, where we should have to pass a very wide river. I strictly concealed this fact from him, however. He now sank into a kind of moody silence, broken occasionally by a low, muttering noise, as if speaking to himself. How comfortable my present condition was I need scarcely remark, sitting vis-a-vis to a lunatic, with a pair of pistols in his possession, who had already avowed his consciousness of his tendency to do mischief, and his inability to master it — all this in the dark, and in the narrow limits of a mail-coach, where there was scarcely room for defence, and no possibility of escape. If I could only reach the outside of the coach I would be happy. What were rain and storm, thunder and lightning, compared with the chances that awaited me here? — wet through I should inevitably be; but, then, I had not yet contracted the horror of moisture my friend opposite laboured under. Ha ! what is that ? — is it possible he can be asleep ; — is it really a snore ? Ah, there it is again ; — he must be asleep, surely ; — now, then, is my time or never. I slowly let down the window of the coach, and stretching forth my hand, turned the handle cautiously and slowly ; I next disengaged my legs, and by a long, continuous effort of creeping, I withdrew myself from the seat and reached the step, when I muttered something very like a thanksgiving to Providence for my rescue. With little difficulty I now climbed up beside the guard, whose astonishment at my appearance was indeed considerable. Well, on we rolled, and very soon, more dead than alive, I sat a mass of wet 174 IRISH READINGS. clothes, like a morsel of black and spongy wet cotton at the bottom of a schoolboy's ink-bottle, saturated with rain and the black dye of my coat. My hat, too, had contributed its share of colouring matter, and several long black streaks coursed down my " wrinkled front," giving me very much the air of an Indian warrior who had got the first priming of his war paint. I certainly must have been a rueful object, were I only to judge from the faces of the waiters as they gazed on me when the coach drew up at Rice and Walsh's Hotel. Cold, wet, and weary as I was, my curiosity to learn more of my late agreeable companion was strong as ever within me. I could catch a glimpse of his back, and hurried after the great unknown into the coffee room. By the time I entered, he was spreading himself comfortably, a VAnglais, before the fire, and displayed to my wondering and stupefied gaze the pleasant features of Dr. Finucane. "Why, Doctor— Dr. Finucane," cried I, "is this possible? Were you, then, really the inside in the mail last night ? " " Not a doubt of it, Mr. Lorrequer ; and may I make bould to ask were you the outside ? " " Then, what, may I beg to know, did you mean by your story about Barney Doyle, and the hydrophobia, and Cusack Kooney's thumb— eh ? " "Oh!" said Finucane, "this will be the death of me. And it was you that I drove outside in all the rain last night ? Oh, it will kill Father Malachi outright with laughing when I tell him." And he burst out into a fit of merriment that nearly induced me to break his head with the poker. " Am I to understand, then, Mr. Finucane, that this practical joke of yours was contrived for my benefit, and for the purpose of holding me up to the ridicule of your acquaintances? " "Nothing of the kind," said Fin, drying his eyes, and endeavouring to look sorry and sentimental. "If I had only the least suspicion in life that it was you, I'd not have had the hydrophobia at all — and, to tell you the truth, you were not the only one frightened — you alarmed me too." " I alarmed you ! Why, how can that be ? " "Why, the real affair is this : I was bringing these two packages of notes down to my cousin Callaghan's bank in Cork fifteen thousand pounds, and when you came into the coach at Naas, I thought it was all up with me. The guard just whispered in ray THE LORD OF DUNKERRON. 175 ear that he saw you look at the priming of your pistols before getting in. Well, -when you got seated, the thought came into my mind that maybe, highwayman as you were, you would not like dying a natural death, more particularly if you were an Irishman ; and so I trumped up that long story about the hydrophobia, and the gentleman's thumb, and dear knows what besides; and, while I was telling it, the cold perspiration was running down my head and face, for every time you stirred I said to myself — Now he'll do it. Two or three times, do you know, I was going to offer you ten shillings in the pound, and spare my life ; and once, God forgive me, I thought it would not be a bad plan to shoot you by ' mistake,' do you perceive? " " Why, I'm very much obliged to you for your excessively kind intentions; but, really, I feel you have done quite enough for me on the present occasion. But, come now, doctor, I must get to bed, and, before I go, promise me two things — to dine with us to-day at the mess, and not to mention a syllable of what occurred last night: it tells, believe me, very badly for both. So keep the secret ; for if these fellows of ours ever get hold of it I may sell out, and quit the army ; — I'll never hear the end of it ! " " Never fear, my boy ; trust me. I'll dine with you, and you're as safe as a church mouse for anything I'll tell them ; so now you'd better change your clothes, for I'm thinking it rained last night." Charles Lever. THE LORD OF DUNKERRON. The lord of Dunkerron — O'Sullivan More, Whv seeks he at midnight the sea-beaten shore? His bark lies in haven, his hounds are asleep ; No foes are abroad on the land or the deep. Yet nightly the lord of Dunkerron is known On the wild shore to watch and to wander alone ; For a beautiful spirit of ocean, 'tis said, The lord of Dunkerron would win to his bed. When, by moonlight, the waters were hushed to repose, That beautiful spirit of ocean arose ; 176 IRISH READINGS. Her hair, full of lustre, just floated and fell O'er her bosom, that heaved with a billowy swell. Long, long had he loved her — long vainly essay'd To lure from her dwelling the coy ocean maid ; And long had he wander'd and watch'd by the tide, To claim the fair spirit O'Sullivan's bride! The maiden she gazed on the creature of earth, Whose voice in her breast to a feeling gave birth ; Then smiled ; and abash'd as a maiden might be, Looking down, gently sank to her home in the sea. Though gentle that smile, as the moonlight above, O'Sullivan felt 'twas the dawning of love, And hope came on hope, spreading over his mind, As the eddy of circles her wake left behind. The lord of Dunkerron he plunged in the waves, And sought, through the fierce rush of waters, their caves ; The gloom of whose depths, studded over with spars, Had the glitter of midnight when lit up by stars. Who can tell or can fancy the treasures that sleep Intombed in the wonderful womb of the deep ? The pearls and the gems, as if valueless thrown To lie 'mid the sea-wreck conceal'd and unknown. Down, down went the maid, — still the chieftain pursued ; Who flies must be follow'd ere she can be woo'd. Untempted by treasures, unawed by alarms, The maiden at length he has clasped in his arms ! They rose from the deep by a smooth-spreading strand, Whence beauty and verdure stretch'd over the land, T'was an isle of enchantment ! and lightly the breeze, With a musical murmur, just crept through the trees. The haze-woven shroud of that newly-born isle, Softly faded away from a magical pile, A palace of crystal, whose bright-beaming sheen Had the tints of the rainbow — red, yellow, and green. THE LORD OF DUNKERRON. 177 And grottoes, fantastic in hue and in form, Were there, as flung up — the wild sport of the storm ; Yet all was so cloudless, so lovely, and calm, Itseem'd but a region of sunshine and balm. " Here, here shall we dwell in a dream of delight, Where the glories of earth and of ocean unite ! Yet, loved son of earth! I must from thee away; There are laws which e'en spirits are bound to obey ! " Once more must I visit the chief of my race, His sanction to gain ere I meet thy embrace. In a moment I dive to the chambers beneath : One cause can detain me — one only — 'tis death ! " They parted in sorrow, with vows true and fond ; The language of promise had nothing beyond. His soul all on fire, with anxiety burns : The moment is gone — but no maiden returns. What sounds from the deep meet his terrified ear — What accents of rage and of grief does he hear? What sees he? what change has come over the flood — What tinges its green with a jetty of blood? Can he doubt that the gush of warm blood would explain? That she sought the consent of her monarch in vain ! — For see all around, in white foam and froth, The waves of the ocean boil up in their wrath ! The palace of crystal has melted in air, And the dyes of the rainbow no longer are there ; And grottoes with vapour and clouds are o'ercast, The sunshine is darkness — the vision has past! Loud, loud was the call of his serfs for their chief; They sought him with accents of wailing and grief; He heard, and he struggled — a wave to the shore, Exhausted and faint, bears O'Sullivan More! T. Crofton Croker. BARNY O'REIRDON, THE NAVIGATOR. (Condensed.) Barny O'Reirdon was a fisherman of Kinsale. Seated one night in a public-house, the common resort of himself and other marine curiosities, he got entangled in debate with what he called a strange sail — that is to say, a man he had never met before, who, upon nautical matters, was inclined to assume the high hand over him, till at last the new-comer made a regular outbreak by exclaiming, "I niver bragged out o' myself yit, but I say, that a man that's only a fishin' aff the land all his life has no business to compare in the regard o' thracthericks wid a man that has sailed to Fingal." This silenced any further argument on Barny's part. Where Fingal lay was all Greek to him. A day or two after, Barny sauntered about in the sun, thinking. He knew he should never hear the end of that hateful place, Fingal ; and he felt Kinsale was no place for him, if he would not submit to be flouted every hour out of the four-and-twenty, by man, woman, and child, that wished to annoy him. What was to be done? At last, after turning himself over in the sun several times, a new idea struck him. Couldn't he go to Fingal himself? and then he'd be equal to that upstart new-comer. But where was Fingal? — there was the rub. The plain-dealing reader will say, " couldn't he ask ? " No, no ; that would never do for Barny ; that would be an open admission of ignorance his soul was above. He strode along the shore; and jostled against u the long sailor from the Aysthern Injees." The two were in close companionship for the remainder of the day. On the next morning Barny bent his course to the house of Peter Kelly, the owner of the big farm, in order to put into practice a plan he had formed for the fulfilment of his determination of rivalling the strange traveller. He thought it probable that Peter Kelly, being one of the "snuggest" men in the neighbourhood, would be a likely person to join him in a " spec." To make a long story short, Barny prevailed on Peter Kelly to make an export ; but in the nature of the venture they did not BARNY O'REIRDON, THE NAVIGATOR. 179 agree. Barny had proposed potatoes ; Peter said there were enough of them already where he was going; and determined upon a cargo of scalpeens (which name they give to pickled mackerel) as a preferable merchandise. Accordingly, the boat was laden and all got in readiness for putting to sea. On the following Saturday, Barny came, running in a great hurry down to the shore, and, jumping aboard, he gave orders to make all sail, and taking the helm of the hooker, he turned her head to the sea, and the hooker soon passed to windward of a ship that left the harbour before her ; for Barny had contrived, in the course of his last meeting with the " long sailor," to ascertain that this ship, then l^ing in the harbour, was going to the very place Barny wanted to reach. He had now nothing to do but to watch the sailing of the ship and follow in her course. Here was, at once, a new mode of navigation discovered. He went to windward of the ship and then fell off again, allowing her to pass him, as he did not wish even those on board the ship to suppose he was follow- ing in their wake. The next morning dawned, and found the hooker and ship companions still ; and thus matters proceeded for four days, during the entire of which time they had not seen land since their first losing sight of it, although the weather was clear. " The channel must be mighty wide in these parts," thought Barny, " and for the last day or so we've bein' goin' purty free with a flowin' sheet, and I wondher we aren't closin' in wid the shore by this time ; or maybe it's farther off than I thought it was." His companions, too, began to question Barny on the subject, but to their queries he presented an impenetrable front of composure, and said, " it was always the best plan to keep a good bowld offin'." In two days more, however, the weather began to be sensibly warmer, and Barny and his companions remarked that it was " goin' to be the finest sayson, God bless it, that ever kem out o' the skies for many a long year ; and maybe it's the whate wouldn't be beautiful, and a great plenty of it." It was at the end of a week that the ship which Barny had hitherto kept a-head of him, showed symptoms of bearing down upon him, as he thought ; and, sure enough, she did. He was hailed and ordered to run under her lee, and the captain, looking over the quarter, asked Barny where he was going. " Thin, I'm goin' an my business," said Barny. 180 IRISH READINGS. " But where ? " said the captain. " Why, sure, an' it's no matther where a poor man like me id be goin'," said Barny. " Only I'm curious to know why you've been following my ship for the last week ? " Follyin' your ship! Why, thin, do vou think it's follviu' viz 1 am?" " It's very like it." " Why, did two people niver thravel the same road before ? " " I don't say they didn't ; but there's a great difference between a ship of seven hundred tons and a hooker." " Oh, as for that matther," said Barny, " the same highroad sarves a coach-and-four and a low-back car, the thravellin' tinker an' a lord a' horseback." " That's very true, but the cases are not the same, Paddy ; and I can't conceive what brings you here." " And who ax'd you to consay ve anything about it ? " asked Barny, somewhat sturdily. " I can't imagine what you're about, my fine fellow," said the captain ; " and my own notion is, that you don't know where you're going yourself." " O baitherslrin" said Barnv, with a laugh of derision. "Why, then, do you object to tell," said the captain. "Arrah, sure, captain, an' don't you know that sometimes vessels is bound to sail under saycret ordher ! Ye're laughin' ! Oh, it's a thrifle makes fools laugh," said Barny. "Take care, my fine fellow, that you don't be laughing at the wrong side of y r our mouth before long, for I've a notion that you're in the wrong box, as cunning a fellow as you think yourself. Can't you tell what brings you here? " "Why, thin, one id think the whole say belonged to you, you're so mighty bold in axin' questions on it. Sure I've as much right here as you, though I haven't as big a ship nor so fine a coat ; but, maybe I can take as good sailin' out o' the one, and has as bould a heart under th' other." "Very well," said the captain; "I see there's no use in talking to you." And away bore the ship, leaving Barny in indignation and his companions in wonder. " An' why wouldn't you tell him? " said they to Barny. " Why, don't you see," said Barny, whose object was now to BARNY o'kEIKDON, THE NAVIGATOR. 181 blind them, " don't you see, how do I know but maybe he might be goin' to the same place himself, and maybe he has a cargo of scalpeens as well as us, and wants to get before us there." " Thrue for you, Barny," said they. " Sure enough, you're right." And their inquiries being satisfied, the day passed, as former ones had done, in pursuing the course of the ship. In four days more, however, the provisions in the hooker began to fail, and they were obliged to have recourse to the scalpeens for sustenance, and Barny then got seriously uneasy at the length of the voyage, and the likely greater length for anything he could see to the contrary ; and, urged at last by his own alarms and those of his companions, he was enabled, as the wind was light, to gain on the ship, and when he found himself alongside he demanded a parley with the captain. The captain, on hearing that the "hardy hooker," as she got christened, was under his lee, came on deck ; and as soon as he appeared, Barny cried out : — " Why, thin, captain dear, do you expec' to be there soon? " " Where? " said the captain. " Oh, you know yourself," said Barny. " It's well for me I do," said the captain. " Thrue for you, indeed, your honour, but whin will you be at the ind o' your voyage, captain jewel? " " I daresay in about three months," said the captain. " Oh, three months ! — arrah, it's jokin' you are, captain dear, and only want to frcken me." " How should I frighten you? " "Why, thin, your honour, to tell God's thruth, I heerd you were goin' there, an' as I wanted to go there too, I thought I couldn't do better nor to folly a knowledgeable gintleman like yourself, and save myself the throuble iv findin' it out." "And where do you think I am going?" said the captain. "Why, thin," said Barny, "isn't it to Fingal? " "No," said the captain, "'tis to Bengal.'" " Oh ! " said Barny, " what'll I do now at all at all ? " The captain ordered Barny on deck. Puzzling question, and more puzzling answer, followed in quick succession between the commander and Barny, who in the midst of his dilemma stamped about, thumped his head, squeezed his caubeen into all manner of shapes, and vented his despair. 182 IRISH READINGS. " Oh, my heavy hathred to you, you thief iv a long sailor, it's a purty scrape yiv led me into. I thought it was Fingal he said, and now I hear it is Bingal. Oh ! sweep you for navigation ; why did I meddle or make with you at all at all ! An' so its £" " By no means, my dear sir ; I shall be delighted if you dine with me, and I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to Mrs. Beamish." H In throth, sir, to be plain wid you, I'd rather dine at home." " Oh, come, come, Mr. Flynn, you must make yourself at home with me. Indeed you must dine with me to-day." M And what time do you dine, sir? " " At six o'clock." ''Oh, murdher! I'd never be able to howld out till six. I couldn't go, sir. 1 never get my dinner later than two o'clock. Does Tom keep such bad hours? — though I daar say he does. When he was at home he was just as outlandish ; for he wouldn't be done his breakfast till he'd be near going to bed, though he used to begin it when he'd get up, and he made but the one male in the day, but it lasted from morning till night." "But about dinner to-day, Mr. Flynn? I really will take no excuse. You must dine with us at six." u Arrah, Betty, jewel, d'ye hear all this ? " " You can't refuse the jintleman's politeness, Pat. [Said Betty aside, in a whisper]— Go, Paddy, mavourneen ; it will sarve Tom-" 216 IRISH READINGS. " Maybe so. Well, sir, as you won't be put off, I'll go dine with you at six." " Agreed, then, Mr. Flynn. At six, remember, we shall expect you. Good-bye ! " And here Mr. Beamish made his bow and withdrew. As the subsequent part, however, of my narration cannot be well given in the third person, I must leave it to Mr. Flynn him- self to describe the memorable events of the evening. His own account of the dining-out part of the affair was as follows : — "Whin Misther Baymish left the shop, I wint and brushed up my duds, and polished my pumps, and brightened my buckles, and thin, whin at last I put them on, didn't I look clane and dacent. ' You're looking young again, Paddy, dear,' says Betty, wid a tear in her eye as big as a gooseberry. But when two o'clock came, I felt something inside of me crying ' cupboard.' At three I felt morthal hungry. At four I couldn't stand it out much longer. Howsomdever, says I to myself, ' Paddy Flynn, avich, you must bear it all for the sake of your son Tom and his mother ; ' so I passed over the mighty inconvaynience as well as I could, although I thought it was a week long, till Betty tould me that it was a quarter to six. Thin I jumped off the chest, and says I to myself ' Paddy Flynn, it's time for you to be off, for you have a good mile of ground to walk to the Parade.' Well, then, I took my cane in my fist, and rowled up my bran new pair of gloves in the other for fear of dirtying them. I had the number of the house reckoned on my fingers, so I couldn't be mistaken. At last I made it out, and a finer house I never laid my two morthal eyes upon than that same, wid beautiful clane steps that you could take your tay off, illigant hall- doore, big enough for an archbishop, and the full of your fist of a brass wrapper upon it, not to say nothing at all of a purty little plate that was on it, with a beautiful printed b and an e, and an A, agus an M, says I, and that makes Beam, all the world over; ' and thin an i, and an s, agus an h — 'right,' says I, ' agus a Beam, agus an ish, Beamish, to be sure.' Whack wint the wrapper in a minute, wid a single pelt that would* astonish a twintypenny nail, if it only got it fair on the head. The doore flew open. 'D'ye mayne to knock down the house, Misther Impudence?' said a mighty fine-looking gintleman, wid a green coat and red breeches, popping out his powdered pate, and putting up his fat chops up to my face. ' No, sir, I don't,' says I, quite politely ; ' I wouldn't PADDY FLYNN, 217 hurt a hair of its head, honey, or a dog belonging to it.' ' Thin what do you want? ' says he to myself, quite snappishly entirely. 'I want Mr. Baymish,' says I, just as indepindently. 'You can't see him,' says Saucepan, slapping the doore in my face. 'Maybe so,' says I. ' Isn't this purty tratement I'm suffering for you, Tom, avich ? ' Well, I scratched my head, and waited a bit, and wrapped again for Tom's sake. The same nice man opened in a jiffey. 'You're a smart chap, I don't think,' says I, winking at him good-humour'dly ; and, in spite of his angry looks, I made bowld just to step past him into the hall. ' I believe this is the house,' says I, ' and this is the right side of the doore.' ' D'ye think so ? ' says he. ' You'd betther get out again, thin, as quick as you came in,' says he. ' Not immaydiately,' says I, and thin I ris my voice like a counsellor's, and says I, ' I'm come to dine wid Mr. and Mrs. Baymish at six, and, begging your pardon, sir, I think this is a mighty quare welcome.' ' What's your name? ' savs he. ' Pat Flynn,' says I. ' Beg your pardon, sir,'' says he. ' No ofiince,' says I, as I thought he looked frightened. ' Walk this way,' says he, bowing and scraping towards the stairs like a Frenchman at a fiddle. 'Will you show me your hat, sir?' says he. 'And welcome, sir,' says I; 'it was made by my own cousin jarmin, Pat Beaghan, of Patrick-street, and cost but twelve-and-sixpence ; rale bayver, your soul, and as honest a man as ever you dealt with — indeed he is a mighty dacent man.' ' Oh, sir, I beg your honour's pardon,' says he, tittering wid the laughing ; ' you mistake me, sir, entirely,' says he; 'playse to give me your hat.' 'For what? would you have me to go home in the night air to Betty without a hat ? ' says I. ' Oh, no, sir, you don't understand me,' says he ; ' I merely want to put by your hat for you till you are going home.' 'How mighty polite you are,' says I; 'can't I take care of it myself?' 'Oh, sir,' says he, thrusting his hand out for it, 'every gintleman that dines here layves his hat with me.' ' Thin if I must, I must,' says I ; ' there it is for you ; but if you don't put it in a clane place, I'll give you the lingth and breadth of this,' says I, shaking my cane, which was whipt out of my hand by another powdered gintleman ; and before I could say trapstick it was in safe keeping. ' Take care of it for you, sir,' says he, grinning at me. ' Thank'ee, sir,' says I, grinning back at him. ' Your gloves, sir,' says the black footboy. ' O,' says I, ' has your mother many more of you, Snowball ? Can't I put my own eloves in my own p 218 IRISH READINGS. pocket ? ' says I. ' Oh, no, sir,' says the naygur, ' dat's not de way in dis house, massa.' Well, I gave him my gloves, and the first chap, he that opened the doore and looked like a drum-major, beckoned me after him up the stairs, wid a shamrogue carpet on them as green as Nature's own petticoat of a May-day morning, and as soft as the daisies, and so delicate and illigant that you wouldn't hear a robin's foot if he hopped on it, much less the sound of your own. Up thin I climbed for high life and for Tom's sake. The man in the red breeches flung open a shining mahogany doore, and shouted out as loud as a tinker at a fair ' Mr. Flynn ! ' says he. ' Here I am, sir,' says 1, quite angry ; ' and what do you want wid me in such a hurry?' But he never minded me a pin's point, only stepped into the room another step or two, and roared out as if there was an evil sperrit within him — ' Mr. Flynn!' ' Och, thin, you have assurance,' says I ; 'is it for this that yez made me lave my cane below stairs, for fear I'd make you know your distance, you set of spalpeens?' says I, looking about me to try was there any more of them at my heels. But the fellow was only laughing at me in his cheek, when out walked Mr. Baymish himself. ' Mr. Flynn, you're welcome, sir,' says he. 'Thank'ee, sir,' says I. 'I hope there's nothing the matter with you, sir ? ' says he. ' Nothing particklar, sir,' says I, ' barring the liberty that gintleman in the red breeches is taking wid my name.' ' Pooh, pooh, Mr. Flynn,' says he, ' we must only laugh at those trifles,' says he, taking me under the arm and gintly shoving me in before a whole lot of beautiful ladies, who sat tittering and laughing, and stuffing their little muslin aprons and redicules into their mouths the moment they put their eyes upon poor Paddy Flynn. ' Your sarvint, ginteels,' says I, in rale quality form, bowing down to the ground. ' My dear,' says Mr. Baymish to the misthress, who stood up — God bless her pretty face ! — to meet us, ' this is Mr. Thomas Flynn's worthy father, and my very particular friend — allow me to introduce him to you, and to all of you, ladies and gentlemen,' says he, taking me by the hand and bowing with me. Well, d'ye see, they all arose like a congregation to get the priest's blessing after Mass, and kept bowing at me till they nearly bothered me. So, says I, in return, ' God save all here, barring the cat,' not forgetting my manners. But the quality said nothing, but nodded at me, which I thought was anything but ginteel or daeem.. 'Well,' says I to myself, 'the poor craythurs may be PADDY FL.YNN. 219 rich and proud, but good manners is another thing ; and I don't think they are so much to be blairned, seeing that they never took lessons from Pat Flynn, taycher of dancing, good manners, and all other kinds of music' "Mr. Baymish at last made me sit down, and I thin began to admire at the beautiful pictures, and the mighty big looking- glasses, and the varnished tables, that you could see your phiz- mahogany in, and the foreign tay-pots full of flowers, and the carpets, and, oh, the darlings — the ladies ! But the sorra a sign of dinner myself saw, although I thought all as one as if the Frinch and English were fighting within me, wid the downright famishing hunger. k Oh, Tom, Tom, avich machree,'' says I, ' isn't this cruel tratement intirely I'm suffering for your sake?' But there was no use in complaining, so I turned up my phiz-mahogany to look at the beautiful window-curtains, and there were two beautiful goolden sarpints over them peeping out at us, and ready to pounce down on us, when all of a sudden in pops my gintleman in the red breeches, and roars out, to my great joy, ' Dinner's on the table.' Thin it was that they took a start out of Paddy Flynn, for on looking about sorra a sign of a wall was there but what was whipt away by enchantmint, and there stood the dinner on the bran new table-cloth, as white and as beautiful as a corpse at a wake. All the ladies and gintlemen stood up, and, of coorse, so did myself. 'Mr. Flynn,' says Mr. Baymish. 'Sir?' says I. 'Will you take Mrs. Beamish's hand ? ' says he. ' For what, sir? ' says I: ' what call have I to Mrs. Baymish's hand ? It's yourself, that's her husband, has the best right to it, sir,' says I. ' Oh, do, Mr. Flynn ; be good enough to take Mrs. Beamish's hand ; we are only going to dinner, and it is merely to lead her to her chair,' says he. ' Indeed, sir,' says I, ' if it wasn't to oblige your honour it would be contrary to my religion to do the likes wid any man's wife, while Betty's alive and kicking.' But they all fell a-laughing at me, while I took Mrs. Baymish's hand and led her to her sate. When everybody had taken their places, Mr. Baymish said to me, ' Mr. Flynn, will you sit next me ? ' says he. ' Thank'ee, sir,' says I, quite glad to be axed ; for I was afeard of my life to sit among the young ones in the petticoats, that were all tittering and bursting their sides at me. ' Let me give you some soup,' says he. k Broth, if you playse,' says I, winking at him. 'Well, no matter, Mr. Flynn,' says he, smiling at myself; and he helped me to two 220 IRISH READINGS. big spoonfuls of the turreen that was afore him. The first sup I took scalded ray mouth, until I thought my two eyes would leap out of my head ; so I blew into the remainder, and thin made it leave that. Whin Mr. Baymish saw that my hollow plate was empty, ' Mrs. Beamish is looking at you, Mr. Flynn,' says he. 'For what, sir?' says I. 'She's looking at you,' says he, laying his hand on a decanter. 'She's welcome, sir,' says I. 'Oh, she only wants you to pledge her Tim,' says he, ' help the wine.' ' Thank you and her a thousand times, sir,' says I ; but the stingy fellow in the red breeches only helped us each to a thimblefull. Says I to myself — the masther, I suppose, orders her to be helped, as he likes her. So I was determined to watch my opportunity ; and when I thought no one was looking, I nodded to the misthress, and pointed to a decanter that stood near her, and lifted my glass at the same time, which she understood, for the women always understand you, and she smiled and nodded to me in return. But she was so much afeard of him, that not a toothful she put into it, in spite of all my nods and winks, and shrugging my shoulders, and pointing to my full glass, that I could throw at her. ' Tundher and turf,' says I to myself, ' hasn't he her under great controwl ? ' — and I thought of somebody who used to clap her wings and crow at home. ' What fish do you choose, Mr. Flynn,' says his honour. 'I never take none but on Fridays, and then bekaise I can't help it, sir,' says I. ' You will find that turbot delicious, sir,' says Mrs. Baymish. ' I prefer mate, ma'am,' says I. 'Well, look round the table, Mr. Flynn, and say what you will have,' says Mr. Baymish. ' Some of that pork, sir, foment that gintleman in the specs,' says I. 'It's ham, sir,' says ould goggles, quite snappish. 'Ham's pork, Mr. Fore-sight,' says I ; and the whole company roared out laughing ; and as I didn't like them to have all the laugh to themselves, I laughed louder and longer than any of them. 'You're quite right,' says he, making the best of what he didn't bargain for, and sending me a plateful well bowlstered on cabbage ; and I stuck into it like a hungry hawk. ' Mr. Flynn,' says his honour. 'Sir,' says I, laying down my knife and fork quite ginteely on the plate, and looking him full in the face. ' I hope you are helped to your liking,' says he. ' Mighty well, I thank you ; ' but not a plate I had, for the thief in the red breeches had whipt it away while I was talking to his masther. ' Oh, murther, murther,' says I to myself, ' isn't this purty tratement I am suffering, PADDY FLYNN. 221 and ail for your sake, Tom, avich ! But before I could say another word, the ugly black-faced fellow popped down afore ine a dish of chopped nettles ; so seeing I could do no better, I began bowlting them, when he runs back and whipt it again from afore me, and said, ' The missus wants some spinich,' says he. ' Oh, Tom, Tom,' says I again, • isn't this too bad ? ' Well, they gave me something else, which was so hot with red pepper that I couldn't eat three bits of it, and afther that a bit of sweet starch, so that I was as hungry as whin I sat down. It would vex a saint all the while to see the fellows in the red breeches whipping and snapping everything while T was dyin' with hunger and vexation. ' Oh,' says I, in my teeth, ' you murdering villains, if I had ye at home, under my tobacky press, wouldn't I make you remember Paddy Flynn ! ' But there was no use in talking, for up they came as impudent a3 ever, and put before every lady and gintleman, including myself, a glass bowl of cowld water. Not knowing what to do with such cowld comfort, I was looking about for the first move, when Mr. Baymish said to me ' Mr. Flynn,' says he, ' make use of that water ; we'll have the claret immediately.' 'Yes, sir,' says I, thinking of Tom ; so I took up the bowl betwane my two hands, and threw myself back in the chair with my mouth wide open, and gulped the water down in one big swallow, till I thought I had swallied two feet of it But, oh ! och, mavourneen ! the cowld water began to give me a oh! — och! — rumbling, an' grumbling, an' tumbling, an' shivering, an' quaking, an' shaking, that Mr. Baymish an' the ladies laughed at me. ' Oh ! I hope you're not unwell, Mr. Flynn,' says Mrs. Baymish, with the soft, sweet voice of an angel. ' Oh, no, mavourneen machree,' says I, 'but something mighty quare's the matter wid me. Mr. Baymish, jewel, you must excuse me, for I can't stay. Oh, Tom, Tom,' says I, ' what cruel usage I'm suffering for your sake ! ' I don't know how I got down the stairs, but when I did, a fellow at the foot says to me, ' Your hat, sir,' giving it a nate touch wid his sleeve. ' Thank you for my own,' says I, taking it from him. ' Hope you won't forget me, sir ; always get a shilling or two,' says the spalpeen. ' Oh, murther,' says I, drawing forth a shilling like a tooth from my breeches- pocket, ' what I suffer for your sake, Tom, honey ! ' ' Your gloves, sir,' says another gintleman, ' nicely aired ; hope you won't forget me, sir.' ' Oh, Tom, Tom!' says I, pulling out another shilling. 'Your cane, sir,' says Snowball, who robbed me of the dish of 222 IRISH READINGS. spinich ; ' took great care of it ; hope you won't forget me, sir.' 'Indeed and I won't,' says I, laying it across his showlders an' his shins, until I astonished his wake intellect so much that he screeched with the pain ; ' forget ye, indeed, I'll never forget ye, ye set of thieving, whipping, snapping villains ! Let me out ! ' says I, roaring out like a lion — for I felt my stick in my fist ; so they bowed and scraped, and kept their distance till I got into the street. So as soon as I heard them shut the door, I said to myself, ' Paddy Flynn,' says I, ' 'twill be a long time afore you give two shillings again for a mouthful of chopped nettles an' a bowl full of cowld wather.' " Anonymous. THE FURLOUGH- I WAS standing one morning at the window of " mine inn," when my attention was attracted by a scene that took place beneath. The Belfast coach was standing at the door, and on the roof, in front, sat a solitary passenger, a fine young fellow in the uniform of the Connaught Rangers. Below, by the front wheel, stood an old woman, seemingly his mother, a young man, and a younger woman, sister or sweetheart 5 and they were all earnestly entreating the young soldier to descend from his seat on the coach. " Come down wid ye, Thady" — the speaker was the old woman. "Come down now to your ould mother. Sure it's flog ye they will, and strip the flesh off the bones o' ye. Come down, Thady, darlin I " " It's honour, mother," was the short reply of the soldier ; and with clenched hands and set teeth he took a stiffer posture on the coach. " Thady, come down, come down, ye fool of the world, come along down wid ye ! " The tone of the present appeal was more impatient and peremptory than the last ; and the answer was more promptly and sternly pronounced — " It's honour, brother ! " and the body of the speaker rose more rigidly erect than ever on the roof. " O Thady, come down ! sure it's me, your own Kathleen, that bids ye. Come down, or ye'll break the heart of me, Thady, jewel; come down then!" The poor girl wrung her hands as THE FURLOUGH. 223 she said it, and cast a look upward, that had a visible effect on tie muscles of the soldier's countenance. There was more tenderness in his tone, but it conveyed the same resolution as before — " It's honour, honour bright, Kathleen ! " and, as if to defend himself from another glance, he fixed his look steadfastly in front, while the renewed entreaties burst from all three in chorus with the same answer. " Come down, Thady, my honey ! " — " Thady, ye fool, come down ! " — " O Thady, come down to me ! " "It's honour, mother! — It's honour, brother! — Honour bright, my own Kathleen ! " Although the poor fellow was a private, this appeal was so public that I did not hesitate to go down and inquire into the particulars of the distress. It appeared that he had been home, on furlough, to visit his family ; and having exceeded, as he thought, the term of his leave, he was going to rejoin his regiment, and to undergo the penalty of his neglect. I asked him when the furlough expired. " The first of March, your honour — of all the black days in the world ; and here it is, come sudden on me like a shot ! " " The first of March ? why, my good fellow, you have a day to spare then ; the first of March will not be here till to-morrow. It is leap year, and February has twenty-nine days." The soldier was thunderstruck. " Twenty-nine days is it ? You're sartin of that same ! O mother, mother ! fly away wid yere ould almanack ; a base cratur of a book, to be deceavin' one afther living so long in a family of us ! " His first impulse was to cut a caper on the roof of the coach, and throw up his cap, with a loud hurrah ! his second was to throw himself into the arms of Kathleen ; and the third, was to wring my hand off in acknowledgment. " It's a happy man I am, your honour, for my word's saved, and all by your honour's manes. Long life to your honour for the same ! May ye live a long hundred, and lape years every one of them." Thomas Hood. THE FAIRY THORN. An Ulster Ballad. " Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel ; For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep : Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland reel Around the fairy thorn on the steep." At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried, Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green ; And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, The fairest of the four, I ween. They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare ; The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave, And the crags in the ghostly air: And linking hand and hand, and singing as they go, The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way, Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey. The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee ; The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head grey and dim, In ruddy kisses sweet to see. The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row, Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem, And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go, Oh, never caroll'd bird like them ! But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze That drinks away their voices in echoless repose, And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted braes, And dreamier the gloaming grows. THE FAIRY THORN. 225 And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw, Are hush'd the maidens' voices, as cowering down they lie In the flutter of their sudden awe. For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath, And from the mountain-ashes and the old White-thorn between, A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe, And they sink down together on the green. They sink together silent, and stealing side to side, They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks su fair, Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, For their shrinking necks again are bare. a Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads together bow'd. Soft o'er their bosoms' beating — the only human sound — They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, Like a river in the air, gliding round. No scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say, But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three — For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, By whom they dare not look to see. They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, And the curls elastic felling, as her head withdraws ; They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold, But they may not look to see the cause : For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze ; And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes Or their limbs from the cold ground raise. a Till out of night the earth has "roll'd her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below ; When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide, The maidens' trance dissolveth so. 226 IRISH READINGS. Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain— They pined away and died within the year and day, And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again. Sir Samuel Ferguson. [By kind permission of the author.] O'FARRELL THE FIDDLER. Now, thin, what has become Of Thady O'Farrell? The honest poor man, What's delayin' him, why? O, the thrush might be dumb, And the lark cease to carol, Whin his music began To comether the sky. Three summers have gone Since we've missed you, O'Farrell, From the weddin', and pattern, And fair on the green. In an hour to St. John We'll light up the tar-barrel, But ourselves we're not flatter'n' That thin you'll be seen. O Thady, we've watched And we've waited for ever, To see your ould self Steppin' into the town — Wid your corduroys patched So clane and so clever, And the pride of a Guelph In your smile or your frown- Till some one used say, 41 Here's Thady O'Farrell ;" And " God bless the good man ! Let's go meet him," we cried; o'farrell the fiddler. 227 And wid this from their play, And wid that from their quarrel, All the little ones ran To be first at your side. Soon amongst us you'd stand, Wid the ould people's blessing A3 they lean'd from the door To look out at you pass ; Wid the colleen's kiss^hand, And the childer's caressin', And the boys fightin', sure, Which'd stand your first glass. Thin you'd give us the new9 Out of Cork and Killarney — > Had O'Flynn married yet? — Was ould Mack still at work?— Shine's political views — Barry's last bit of blarney — And the boys you had met On their way to New York. And whin from the sight Of our say-frontin' village The far-frownin' Blasquet Stole into the shade, And the warnin' of night Called up from the tillage The girl wid her basket, The boy wid his spade. By the glowin' turf-firc, Or the harvest moon's glory, In the close-crowded ring That around you we made, We'd no other desire Than your heart- thrillin' story, Or the song that you'd sing, Or the tune that you played. 228 IRISH READINGS. Till you'd axe, wid a leap From your seat in the middle, And a shuffle and slide Of your foot on the floor, " Will we try a jig-step, Boys and girls, to the fiddle?" " Faugh a ballagh ! " we cried, "For a jig to be sure." For whinever you'd start Jig or planxty so merry, Wid their caperin' twirls And their rollickin' runs, Where's the heel or the heart In the kingdom of Kerry Of the boys and girls Wasn't wid you at once? So you'd tune wid a sound That arose as delightin' As our own colleen's voice, So sweet and so clear, As she coyly wint round, Wid a curtsey invitin' The best of the boys For the fun to prepare. For a minute or so, Till the couples were ready. On your shoulder and chin The fiddle lay quiet ; Then down came your bow So quick and so steady, And away we should spin To the left or the right ! ■-> Thin how Micky Dease Forged steps was a wonder, And well might our women Of lloseen be proud — THE STOLEN' SHEEP. 229 Such a face, such a grace, And her darlin' feet under. Like two swallows skimmin' The skirts of a cloud. Thin, Thady, ochone ! Come back, for widout you We are never as gay As we were in the past. * * * * O Thady, mavrone, Why, thin, I wouldn't doubt you. Huzzah! boys, huzzah! Here's O'Farrell at last ! Alfred Perceval Graves. [By kind permission of the author.] THE STOLEN SHEEP. (Condensed.) The Irish plague, called Typhus Fever, raged in its terrors. In almost every third cabin there was a corpse daily. In every one, without an exception, there was what had made the corpse — hunger! It need not be added that there was poverty too. The poor could not bury their dead. From mixed motives of self-protection, terror, and benevolence, those in easier circumstances exerted themselves to administer relief in different ways. Money was sub- scribed (then came England's munificent donation — God prosper her for it !) — wholesome food, or food as wholesome as a bad season permitted, was provided ; and men of respectability, bracing their minds to avert the danger that threatened themselves, by boldly facing it, entered the infected house, where death reigned almost alone, and took measures to cleanse and purify the close- cribbed air, and the rough bare walls. In the early progress of the fever, before the more affluent roused themselves to avert its career, let us cross the threshold of an individual peasant. His young wife lies dead ; his second child is dying at her side; he has just sunk into the corner himself, under the first stun of disease, long resisted. The only persons of his family who have escaped contagion, and are likely to escape it, are 230 IRISH READINGS. his old father, who sits weeping feebly upon the hob, and his first- born, a boy of three or four years, who, standing between the old man's knees, cries also for food. We visit the young peasant's abode some time after. He has not sunk under " the sickness." He is fast regaining his strength, even without proper nourishment ; he can creep out of doors, and sit in the sun. But in the expression of his sallow and emaciated face there is no joy for his escape from the grave, as he sits there alone silent and brooding. His father and his surviving child are still hungry — more hungry, indeed, and more helpless than ever. "I wish Mr. Evans was in the place," cogitated Michaul Carroll, " a body could spake forn'ent him, and not spake for nothin', for all that he's an Englishman ; and I don't like the thoughts o' goin' up to the house to the steward's face ; it wouldn't turn kind to a body. May be he'd soon come home to us, the masther himself." Another fortnight elapsed. Michaul's hope proved vain. Mr. Evans was still in London ; though a regular resident on a small Irish estate since it had come into his possession, business un- fortunately — and he would have said so himself — now kept him an unusually long time absent. Thus disappointed, Michaul over- came his repugnance to appear before the "hard" steward. He only asked for work, however. There was none to be had. He walked homeward without having broken his fast that day. He left his house again, and walked a good way to beg a few potatoes. He did not came back quite empty-handed. His father and his child had a meal. He ate but a few himself, and when he was about to lie down in his corner for the night, he said to the old man, across the room. " Don't be a crying to-night, father, you and the child there ; but sleep well, and ye'll have the good break' ast afore ye in the mornin'." " The good brcak'ast, ma bouchal ? a then, an' where 'ill id come from ? " "A body promised it to me, father." " Avich ! Michaul, an' sure its fun you're makin' of us, now at any rate ; bud the good night, a chorra, an' my blessin' on your head, Michaul ; an' if we keep trust in the good God, an' ax his blessin', too, mornin' an' evenin,' gettin' up an' lyin' down, He'll be a friend to us at last ; that was always an' ever my word to you, poor boy, since you was at the years o' your weenock, now fast Sep at my side ; and its my word to you now, ma bouchal, an' you THE STOLEN SHEEP. 231 won't forget id ; an' there's one sayin' the same to you, out o' heaven, this night — herself, an' her little angel in glory by the hand, Michaul, avowneen." Having thus spoken, old Carroll soon dropt asleep, with his arms round his little grandson. In the middle of the night he was awakened by a stealthy noise. Without moving, he cast his eyes round the cabin. A small window, through which the moon broke brilliantly, was open. He called to his son, but received no answer. He crept to the corner where Michaul had lain down. It was empty. He called again and again ; all remained silent. He arose and looked out through the window into the moonlight. The figure of a man appeared at a distance, just about to enter a pasture-field belonging to Mr. Evans. The old man leaned his back against the wall of the cabin, trembling with sudden and terrible misgivings. With him the language of virtue, which we have heard him utter, was not cant. In early prosperity, in subsequent misfortunes, and in his late and present excess of wretchedness, he had never swerved in practice from the spirit of his own exhortations to honesty before men, and love for, and dependence upon God. Hitherto, that son had, indeed, walked by his precepts. Was he now about to turn into another path ? And then came the thought of the personal peril incurred by Michaul. He was sitting on the floor shivering like one in an ague-fit, when he heard steps outside the house. He listened, and they ceased ; but the familiar noise of an old barn door, creaking on its crazy hinges, came on his ear. It was now day-dawn. He dressed himself, stole out cautiously, peeped into the barn through a chink of the door, and all he had feared met full confirmation. There, indeed, sat Michaul, busily and earnestly engaged, with a frowning brow, and a haggard face, in quartering the animal he had stolen from Mr. Evans's field. The sight sickened the father ; the blood on his son's hands, and all. He was barely able to keep himself from falling. A fear, if not a dislike, of the unhappy culprit, also came upon him. His unconscious impulse was to re-enter their cabin unperceived, to undress, and to resume his place beside his innocent grandson. About an hour afterwards Michaul came in cautiously, and also undressed and reclined on his straw, after glancing towards his father's bed, who pretended to be asleep. At the usual time 232 IRISH READINGS. for arising, old Carroll saw him suddenly jump up, and prepare to go abroad. He spoke to him, leaning on his elbow. " And what hollg* is on you, ma bouchal! " " Going for the good break'ast I promised you, father dear."' " An' whose the good Christhin '11 give id to us, Michaul? " " Oh ! you'll know that soon, father ; now, a good bye." He hurried to the door. " A good bye, then, Michaul ; bud tell me, what's that on your hand ? •' "No nothin','' stammered Michaul, changing colour, as he hastily examined the hand himself ; " nothing is on id ; what could there be? " (Nor was there, for he had very carefully removed all evidence of guilt from his person ; and the father's question was asked upon grounds distinct from anything he then saw.) " Well, avich, an' sure I didn't say any thing was on it wrong, or any thing to make you look so quare, an' spake so sthrange to vour father, this mornin' ; only I'll ax you, Michaul, over agin, who has took such a sudd'n likin' to us to send us the good break'ast? an' answer me sthraight, Michaul, what is id to be, that you call it so good ? " " The good mate, father." He was again passing the threshold. " Stop ! " cried his father, " stop, an' turn foment me. Mate? — the good mate? What ud bring mate into our poor house, Michaul ? Tell me, I bid you again an' again, who is to give id to you?" "Why, as I said afore, father, a body that" " A body that thieved id, Michaul Carroll ! " added the old man, as his son hesitated, walking close up to the culprit — " a body that thieved id, an' no other body. Don't think to blind me, Michaul. I am ould, to be sure, but sense enough is left in me to look round among the neighbours, in my own mind, an' know that none of 'em that has the will 1ms the power to send us the mate for our break'ast in an honest way. An' I don't say, outright, that you had the same thought wid me, when you consented to take it from a thief; I don't mean to say that you'd go to turn a thief 's recaiver at this hour o' your life, an' af'ther growin' up from a boy to a man without bringin' a spot o' shame on yourself, or on your weenock, or on one of us. No, I won't say that. Your heart was scalded, Michaul, an' your mind was darkened, for a start; an' the thought * What are you about ? THE STOLEN SHEEP. 233 o' getting comfort for the ould father, an' for the little son, made you consent in a hurry, widout lookin' well afore you, or widout lookin' up to your good God." " Father, father, let me alone ! don't spake them words to me," interrupted Michaul, sitting on a stool, and spreading his large and hard hands over his face. "Well, thin, an' I won't, avich; I won't; nothing to trouble you, sure; I did'nt mean it — only this, avourneen, don't bring a mouthful o' the bad, unlucky victuals into this cabin. The pyatees, the wild berries o' the bush, the wild roots o' the arth, will be sweeter to us, Michaul — the hunger itself will be sweeter ; an' when we give God thanks afther our poor meal, or afther no meal at all, our hearts will be lighter, and our hopes for to-morrow sthronger, avich, ma chree, than if we faisted on the fat o' the land but couldn't ax a blessing on our faist." "Well, thin, I won't either, father — I won't; an' sure you have your way now. I'll only go out a little while from you, to beg ; or else, as you say, to root down in the ground, with my nails, like a baste brute, for our break'ast." " My vourneen you are, Michaul, an' my blessin' on your head. Yes, to be sure, avich, beg, an' I'll beg wid you ; sorra a shame is in that — no, but a good deal, Michaul, when it's done to keep us honest. So come, we'll go among the Christians together; only, before we go, Michaul, my own dear son, tell me — tell me one thing." " What, father ? " Michaul began to suspect. "Never be afraid to tell me, Michaul Carroll, ma bouchal ; I won't — I can't be angry wid you now. You are sorry ; an' your Father in heaven forgives you, and so do I. But you know, avich, there would be danger in quittin' the place widout hiding every scrap of any thing that could tell on us ? " " Tell on us ! what can tell on us ? " demanded Michaul, " what's in the place to tell on us? " " Nothin' in the cabin, I know, Michaul ; but " "But what, father?" " Have you left nothin' in the way, out there? " whispered the old man, pointing towards the barn. " Out there? — where? — what? What do you mean at all, now, father? Sure you know it's your ownself has kept me from as much as layin' a hand on it." Q 234 IRISH READINGS. "Ay, to-day-mornin' ; bud you laid a hand on it last night, avich, an' so " " Curp an duoul!'" imprecated Michaul, "this is too bad, at any rate; no I didn't — last night— let me alone, I bid you, father." "Come back again, Michaul," commanded old Carroll, as the son once more hurried to the door; and his words were instantly obeyed. Michaul, after a glance abroad, and a start, which the old man did not notice, paced to the middle of the floor, hanging his head, and saying in a low voice, " Hushth, now, father — it's time." " No, Michual, I will not hushth, an' it's not time ; come out with me to the barn." " Hushth ! " repeated Michaul, whispering sharply. He had glanced sideways to the square patch of strong morning sunlight on the ground of the cabin, denned there by the shape of the open door, and saw it intruded upon by the shadow of a man's bust leaning forward in an earnest posture. "Is it in your mind to go back into your sin, Michaul, an' tell me you were not in the barn, at day-break, the mornin' ? " asked his father, still unconscious of a reason for silence. " Arrah, hushth, old man ! " Michaul made a hasty sign towards the door, but was disregarded. " 1 saw you in id," pursued old Carroll, sternly — " aye, and at your work in id, too." " What's that you're sayin', ould Peery Carroll?" demanded a well-known voice. . " Enough to hang his son ! " whispered Michaul to his father, as Mr. Evans's land-steward, followed by his herdsman and two policemen, entered the cabin. In a lew minutes afterwards the policemen had in charge the dismembered carcass of the sheep, dug up out of the floor of the barn, and were escorting Michaul, handcuffed, to the county gaol, in the vicinity of the next town. They could find no trace of the animal's skin, though they sought attentively for it. This seemed to disappoint them and the Steward a good deal. From the moment that they entered the cabin, till their departure, old Carroll did not speak a word. When Michaul was about to leave bis wretched al><>-im. THE COCKNEY IN IRELAND. One morning my door was suddenly burst open, and Sir Marry Boyle rushed into the room, a broad grin upon his honest features, and his eyes twinkling in a way that evidently showed me some- thing had occurred to amuse him. " Charley, I mustn't keep it from yon, it's too good a thing not to tell you ; do you remember that very essenced young gentleman who accompanied Sir George Dashwood from Dublin, as a kind of electioneering friend ? " "Do you mean Mr. Prettyman?" "The very man; he was, you are aware, an under-secretary in some government department. Well, it seems that he had come down among us poor savages as much from motives of learned research and scientific inquiry, as though we had been South Sea Islanders; report had gifted us humble Galwayans with some very peculiar traits, and this gifted individual resolved to record them. Whether the election week might have sufficed his appetite for wonders I know not, but he was peaceably taking his departure from the west on Saturday last, when Phil Macnamara met him, and pressed him to dire that day with a tew friends at his house. You know Phil ; so that when I tell you Sam Burke of Greenmount, and lioger Doolan were of the party, I need not say that the English traveller was not left to his own unassisted imagination for his facts ; such anecdotes of our habits and customs as they crammed him with, it would appear, never were heard before — nothing was too hot or too heavy for the luckless cockney, who, when not sipping his claret was faithfully recording in his tablet the mems. for a very brilliant and verv original work on Ireland. " ' Fine country — splendid country — glorious people — gifted — brave— intelligent — but not happy — alas! Mr. Macnamara, not happy. But we don't know you, gentlemen — we don't indeed, at the other side of the Channel ; our notions regarding you are far, very far from just.' " ' I hope and trust,' said old Burke, ' you'll help them to a better understanding ere long.' " ' Such, my dear Sir, will be the proudest task of my life. The facts I have heard here this evening have made so profound an 240 IRISH READINGS. impression upon me, that I burn for the moment when I can make them known to the world at large. To think — just to think, that a portion of this beautiful island should be steeped in poverty — that the people not only live upon the mere potatoes, but are absolutely obliged to wear the skins for raiment, as Mr. Doolan has just mentioned to me.' " ' Which accounts for our cultivation of lumpers,' added Mr. Doolan, ' they being the largest species of the root, and best adapted for wearing apparel.' " ' I should deem myself culpable, indeed I should, did I not inform my countrymen upon the real condition of this great country.' '"Why, after your great opportunities for judging,' said Phil, ' you ought to speak out. You've seen us in a way, I may fairly affirm, few Englishmen have, and heard more.' " ' That's it — that's the very thing, Mr. Macnamara. I've looked at you more closely, I've watched you more narrowly, I've witnessed what the French call your " vie intime" ' " 'That you have,' said old Burke, with a grin, 'and profited by it to the utmost.' " ' I've been a spectator of your election contests — I've partaken of your hospitality — I've witnessed your popular and national sports — I've been present at your weddings, your fairs, your wakes ; but no, I was forgetting, I never saw a wake.' " ' Never saw a wake ? ' repeated each of the company in turn, as though the gentleman was uttering a sentiment of very dubious veracity. " ' Never,' said Mr. Prettyman, rather abashed at this proof of his incapacity to instruct his English friends upon all matters of Irish interest. " ' Well, then,' said Macnamara, ' with a blessing, we'll show you one. Dear forbid that we shouldn't do the honours of our poor country to an intelligent foreigner when he is good enough to come amongst us.' " ' Peter,' said he, turning to the servant behind him, ' who's dead hereabouts? ' •■'Sorra one, yer honour. Since the scrimmage at Portumna the place is peaceable.' " ' Who died lately in the neighbourhood? " 'The widow Macbride, yer honour.' THE COCKNEY IN IRELAND. 241 " ' Couldn't they take her up again, Peter ? My friend here never saw a wake.' M ' I'm afeered not, for it was the boys roasted her, and she wouldn't be a decent corpse for to show a stranger,' said Peter, in a whisper. " Mr. Prettyman shuddered at these peaceful indications of the neighbourhood, and said nothing. " ' Well, then, Peter, tell Jemmy Divine to take the old musket in my bedroom, and go over to the Clunagh bog — he can't go wrong — there's twelve families there that never pay a halfpenny rent, and when it's done, let him give notice to the neighbourhood, and we'll have a rousing wake.' " ' You don't mean, Mr. Macnamara— you don't mean to say ,' stammered out the cockney, with a face like a ghost. u ' I only mean to say,' said Phil, laughing, ' that you're keeping the decanter very long at your right hand.' " Burke contrived to interpose before the Englishman could ask any explanation of what he had just heard — and for some minutes he could only wait in impatient anxiety — when a loud report of a gun close beside the house attracted the attention of the guests ; the next moment old Peter entered, his face radiant with smiles. " ' "Well, what's that ? ' said Macnamara. " ' 'Twas Jimmy, yer honour. As the evening was rainy, he said he'd take one of the neighbours, and he hadn't to go far, for Andy Moore was going home, and he brought him down at once.' "'Did he shoot him?' said Mr. Prettyman, while cold perspi- ration broke over his forehead. ' Did he murder the man ? ' " ' Sorra murder,' said Peter, disdainfully ; but why wouldn't he shoot him when the master bid him? ' "I needn't tell you more, Charley; but in ten minutes after, feigning some excuse to leave the room, the terrified cockney took flight, and, offering twenty guineas for a horse to convey him to Athlone, he left Galway, fully convinced that they don't yet know us on the other side of the Channel." Charles Lever. THE LETTER-WRITER. A hedge schoolmaster was the general scribe of the parish, to whom all who wanted letters or petitions written, uniformly applied — and these were glorious opportunities for the pompous display of pedantry. The remuneration usually consisted of a bottle of whisky. A poor woman, for instance, informs Mat Kavanagh, the school- master, that she wishes to have a letter written to Ler son, who is a soldier abroad. " An' how long is he gone, ma'am ? " " Och, thin, masther, he's from me goin' an fifteen years; an' a comrade of his was spakin' to Jim Dwyer, an' says his ridgment's lyin' in the Island of Budanages, somewhere in the back parts of Africa." " An' is it a letther or petition you'd be af ther havin' me to indite for you, ma'am ? " " Och, a letther, sir — a letther, master; an' may the Lord grant you all kinds of luck, good, bad, an' indifferent, both to you an' yours : an' well it's known, by the same token, that it's yourself has the nice hand at the pen entirely, an' can indite a letther or perti- tion that the priest o' the parish mightn't be ashamed to own to it." •■ Why, then, 'tis I that ud scorn to deteriorate upon the super- iminence of ray own execution at inditin' wid a pen in my hand: but would you feel a delegability in my superseriptionizin' the epistolary correspondency, ma'am, that I'm about to adopt?" " Eagh *? och, what am I sayin' ! — sir — masther — sir ? — the noise of the crathurs, yon see, is got into my ears: and, besides I'm a bit bothered on both sides of my head, ever since I had that weary weed." " Silence, boys; bad manners to yees, will ye be aisy, you Lilli- putian Boeotians — upon my credit, if I go down to that corner, I'll castigate yees in dozens: I can't spake to this dacent woman, with your insuperable turbulentiality." " Ali, avourneen. masther, but the larnin's a fine thing, anyhow; an 1 maybe 'tis yourself that hasn't the tongue in your head, an' can spake the tali, high-flown English; a-wurrah, but your tongue hangs well, anyhow — the Lord increase it! " •• Lanty ( Jassidy, are you gettin' on wid yer Stereometry? festina, THE THREE ADVICES. 24H miclitcipuli; vocaho Homerum, mox atque mox. You see, ma'am, I must tache thim to spake an' effectuate a translation of the larned languages sometimes." " Arrah, masther dear, how did you get it all into your head, at all at all ? " " Silence, boys — face — ' conticaere omnes intentique or a tenebant.'' Silence, I say agin." " You could slip over, maybe, to Doran's, masther, do you see? You'd do it betther there, I'll engage : sure an' you'd want a dhrop to steady your hand, anyhow." "Now, boys, I am goin' to indite a small taste of literal corres- pondency over at the public-house here; you literati will hear the lessons for me, boys, till afther I'm back agin ; but mind, boys, absente. domino, strepuunt servi — meditate on the philosophy of that; and, Mick Mahon, take your slate and put down all the names ; and, upon my credit, I'll castigate any boy guilty of fnislp manners on my retrogadation thither; ergo momenlote, cave ne titubes munda- taque frangas." " In throth, sir, I'd be long Barry to throuble yon, but he's awav fifteen years, and I wouldn't thrust it to another; and the corplar that commands the ridgment would regard your hand-write and your inditin'." " Don't, ma'am, plade the smallest taste of apology." " Eagh ? " " I'm happy that I can sarve you, ma'am." " Musha, long life to you, masther, for that same, anyhow — but It's yourself that's deep in the larnin' and the langridges; the Lord incrase yer knowledge — sure, an' we all want his blessin', you know." William Carletox. THE THREE ADVICES. (Condensed.) There once came, what of late happened so often in Ireland, a hard year, and a great many poor people had to quit the country from want of employment and through the high price of pro- visions. Among others, John Carson was under the necessity of going over to England, to try if he could get work. John was a smart young fellow, handy at any work, from the 244 IRISH READINGS. hay-field to the stable, and willing to earn the bread he ate ; and he was soon engaged by a gentleman. He was to have twelve guineas a -year wages, to be paid at the end of the year. The term of his agreement being expired, he determined on returning home, notwithstanding his master, who had a great regard for him, pressed him to remain, and asked him if he had any reason to be dissatisfied with his treatment. " No reason in life, sir," said John ; " you've been a good master, and a kind master to me ; the Lord spare you over your family : but I left a wife with two small children of my own at home, after me in Ireland, and your honour would never wish to keep me from them entirely — the wife and the children ! " " Well, John," said the gentleman, " you have earned your twelve guineas, and you have been, in every respect, so good a servant that, if you are agreeable, I intend giving you what is worth the twelve guineas ten times over, in place of your wages. But you shall have your choice — will you take what I offer, on my word ? " John saw no reason to think that his master was jesting with him, or was insincere in making the offer : and, therefore, after slight consideration, told him that he agreed to take as his wages whatever he would advise, whether it was the twelve guineas or not. " Then listen attentively to my words," said the gentleman. " First — I would teach you this — ' Never to take a by-road when you have the highway.' " Secondlv — l Take heed not to lodge in the house where an old •J O man is married to a young woman.' " And thirdly — ' Remember that honesty is the best policy.' " There are the Three Advices I would pay you with ; and they are in value far beyond any gold ; however, here is a guinea for your travelling charges, and two cakes, one of which you must give to your wife, and the other you must not eat yourself until you have done so, and I charge you to be careful of them." It was not without some reluctance on the part of John Carson that he was brought to accept mere words for wages, or could be persuaded that they were more precious than golden guineas. His faith in his master was, however, so strong, that he at length became satisfied. John set out for Ireland the next morning early ; but he had not proceeded far before he overtook two pedlars who were travel- THE THREE ADVICES. 245 ling the same way, who proved excellent company on the road. Now it happened, towards the end of their day's journey, that they came to a wood, through which there was a path that shortened the distance to the town they were going towards by two miles. The pedlars advised John to go with them through the wood ; but he refused to leave the highway, telling them, at the same time, he would meet them again at a certain house in the town, where travellers put up. John was willing to try the worth of the advice which his master had given him, and he arrived in safety, and took up his quarters at the appointed place. While he was eating his supper, an old man came hobbling into the kitchen, and gave orders about different matters there, and then went out again. John would have taken no particular notice of this ; but, imme- diately after, a young woman, young enough to be the old man's daughter, came in, and gave orders exactly the contrary of what the old man had given, calling him at the same time a great many hard names — such as old fool, and old dotard, and so on. When she was gone, John inquired who the old man was. " He is the landlord," said the servant, " and, heaven help him ! a dog's life he has led since he married his last wife." " What ! " said John, with surprise, u is that young woman the landlord's wife! I see I must not remain in this house to-night ; " and, tired as he was, he got up to leave it, but went no farther than the door before he met the two pedlars, all cut and bleeding, coming in, for they had been robbed and almost murdered in the wood. John was very sorry to see them in that condition, and advised them not to lodge in the house, telling them, with a signifi- cant nod, that all was not right there; but the poor pedlars were so weary and so bruised that they would stop where they were, and disregarded the advice. Rather than remain in the house, John retired to the stable, and laid himself down upon a bundle of straw, where he slept soundly for some time. About the middle of the night he heard two persons come into the stable, and, on listening to their con- versation, discovered that it was the landlady and a man laying a plan how to murder her husband. In the morning John renewed his journey ; but at the next town he came to, he was told that the landlord in the town he had left had been murdered, and that two pedlars, whose clothes were found all covered with blood, had been taken up for the crime, and were going to be hanged. 246 IRISH READINGS. John, without mentioning what he had overheard to any person, determined to save the pedlars if possible, and so returned in order to attend their trial. On going into the court, he saw the two men at the bar; and the young woman and the man, whose voice he had heard in the stable, swearing their innocent lives away. But the judge allowed him to give his evidence, and he told every particular of what had occurred. The man and the young woman instantly confessed their guilt ; the poor pedlars were at once acquitted ; and the judge ordered a large reward to be paid to John Carson, as through his means the real murderers were brought to justice. John now proceeded towards home, fully convinced of the value of two of the advices which his master had given him. On arriving at his cabin, he found his wife and children rejoicing over a purse full of gold which the eldest boy had picked up on the road that morning. Whilst he was away, they had endured all the miseries which the wretched families of those who go over to seek work in England are exposed to. With precarious food, without a bed to lie down on, or a roof to shelter them, they had wandered through the country, seeking food from door to door of a starving popula- tion : and when a single potato was bestowed, showering down blessings and thanks on the giver, not in the set phrases of the mendicant, but in a burst of eloquence too fervid not to gush direct from the heart. " And where did Mick, my boy, find the purse ? " inquired John Carson. '' It was the young squire, for certain, who dropped it," said his wife ; " for he rode down the road this morning, and was leaping his horse in the very gap where Micky picked it up ; but sure, John, he has money enough besides, and never the halfpenny have I to buy my poor childer a bit to eat this blessed night." '• Never mind that," said John ; " do as I bid you, and take up the purse at once to the big house, and ask for the young sauire. I have two cakes which I brought every step of the way with me from England, and they will do for the children's supper. I ought surely to remember, as good right I have, what my master told me for my twelvemonth's wages, seeing I never, as yet, found what he said to lie wrong." " And what did he say? " inquired his wife. " That honesty is the best policy," answered John. THE THREE ADVICES. 247 u ' r 'Tis very -well, and 'tis mighty easy for them to say so that have never been sore tempted, by distress and famine, to say otherwise ; but your bidding is enough for me, John." Straightways she went to the big house, and inquired for the young squire; but she was denied the liberty to speak to him. "You must tell me your business, honest woman,"' said a servant, with a head all powdered and frizzled like a cauliflower, and who had on a coat covered with gold and silver lace and buttons, and everything in the world. " If you knew but all," said she, " I am an honest woman, for I've brought a purse full of gold to the young master, that my little boy picked up by the roadside ; for surely it is his, as nobody else could have so much money." " Let me see it," said the servant. " Ay, it's all right — I'll take care of it; you need not trouble yourself any more about the matter;" and so saying, he slapped the door in her face. When she returned, her husband produced the two cakes which his master gave him on parting ; and breaking one to divide between his children, how was he astonished at finding six golden guineas in it ; and when he took the other and broke it, he found as many more! He then remembered the words of his generous master, who desired him to give one of the cakes to his wife, and not to eat the other himself until that time; and this was the way his master took to conceal his wages, lest he should have been robbed, or have lost the money on the road. The following day, as John was standing near his cabin-door, and turning over in his own mind what he should do with his money, the young squire came riding down the road. John pulled off his hat, for he had not forgot his manners through the means of his travelling to foreign parts, and then made so bold as to inquire if his honour had got the purse he lost. " Why, it is true enough, my good fellow," said the squire, " I did lose my purse yesterday, and I hope you were lucky enough to find it ; for if that is your cabin you seem to be very poor, and shall keep it as a reward for your honesty." " Then the servant up at the big house never gave it to your honour last night after taking it from Nance — she's my wife, your honour — and telling her it was all right '? " u Oh, I must look into this business," said the squire. 248 IRISH HEADINGS. "Did you say your wife, my poor man, gave my purse to a servant — to what servant? " "I can't tell his name rightly," said John, "because I don't know it ; but never trust Nance's eyes again if she can't point him out to your honour, if so your honour is desirous of knowing." " Then do you and Nance, as you call her, come up to the hall this evening, and I'll inquire into the matter, I promise you." So saying, the squire rode off. John and his wife went up accordingly in the evening, and he gave a small rap with the big knocker at the great door. The door was opened by a grand servant, who, without hearing what the poor people had to say, exclaimed, "Oh, go! go—what business can you have here? " and shut the door. John's wife burst out crying—" There," said she, sobbing as if her heart would break, "I knew that would be the end of it." But John had not been in merry England merely to get his twelve guineas packed in two cakes. ^ " No," said he firmly, " right is right, and I'll see the end of it." So he sat himself down on the step of the door, determined not to go until he saw the young squire ; and, as it happened, it was not long before he came out. "I have been expecting you some time, John," said he; "come in and bring your wife in;" and he made them go before him into the house. Immediately he directed all the servants to come up stairs ; and such an army of them as there was ! It was a real sight to see them. " W hich of you," said the young squire, without making further words, " which of you all did this honest woman give my purse to? "—but there was no answer. "Well, I suppose she must be mistaken, unless she can tell herself." John's wife at once pointed her finger towards the head footman— "There he is," said she, "if all the world were to the fore— dargyman, magistrate, judge, jury, and all— there he is, and I'm ready to take my bible-oath to him— there he is who told me it was all right when he took the purse, and slammed the door in my lac-, without as much as thank ye for it." • What is this 1 hear V " said his master. " If this woman gave yuu my purse, William, why did you not give it to me? " The Bervant stammered out a denial; but his master insisted on his being searched, and the purse was found in his pocket ! ABOVE THE CITY. 249 "John," said the gentleman, turning round, "you shall be no loser by this affair. Here are ten guineas for you ; go home now, but I will not forget your wife's honesty." Within a month John Carson was settled in a nice new-slated house, which the squire had furnished and made ready for him. What with his wages and the reward he got from the judge, and the ten guineas for returning the purse, he was well to do in the world, and was soon able to stock a small farm, where he lived respectable all his days. On his deathbed he gave his children the very Three Advices which his master had given him on parting : — " Never to take a by-road when they could follow the highway." " Never to lodge in the house where an old man was married to a young woman." " And, above all, to remember that honesty is the best policy." T. Crofton Croker. ABOVE THE CITY. [ These verses are supposed to be spoken by one who is viewing the City of Dublin from the face of " the Three-Rock" Mountain.~\ The week's appointed task is duly done, And from the city's smoke my steps have sped. O'er the far mountain-crest the cheering sun Has framed a glory round the rugged head. Along its breast I climb. By wild winds fed, As on strong wings, I rise in upper air : And lying on the purple-blowing bed Drink deep the distant scenes so wholly fair — Familiar sights to soothe the weekly draught of care. Beneath, and close at hand, the little wood, The wand'rmg-place of early, primrose spring : The dear abode of peaceful solitude. No voice to hurt with praiseful-seeming sting, No shout to mar the hours with jarring ring: One spot to seek when weary of those cries — Earth's choking sobs — A lull amid the swing Of rushing days. Ah, surely a glad prize The leafy shade where a sweet healing spirit lies. 250 IRISH READINGS. Yet not all peace ; even here apart from din, For in its heart the levelled walls now tell Of storm that struck those dwellers far within, Of sadd'ning ruin that upon them fell When cruel Want rung out its hopeless knell. Then from the cherished hearth, a dreary band, They left the quiet of the shady dell, An exiled race upon a foreign strand, With lifelong hunger for their sea-girt Fatherland. Here, too, Strife shows his ever-present face. A fort disused proclaims — in bygone days The fear that Envy would o'ercloud the place With thund'rous smoky roar from stranger-ways, And dark-faced sailors out of Eastern bays Possess the home for generations theirs ! All Nature pours a perfect hymn of praise : But Man enshrouded in his cautious cares At best can give lame love, in weak but trusting prayers. To-day the hill-slope with its mountain breeze Suits best to brace the stirrings of the mind. Nought freer than this air from off the seas, Nought purer can the fettered thoughts unbind. Blow o'er my forehead bare, fierce Eastern Wind ! Bring breath of freedom from mighty roll Of restless waves ! Dispel the fears that blind ! Lift high the clouds, far from the groping soul ! And let me drink strong draughts of thy health -granting bowl! The freshness of the sea is wafted here Across the miles of green and purple space. Clear is the air what time the mellow year Begins to change the lightness of its face : To ripen, fade, and fall. Then end its race. Yon almost-island gleaming bright with gold* Brings back to me past time of childhood's grace. How often have I climbed its headlands bold, And rambled o'er high cliffs in faded days of old : * The Hill of Howth, — a promontory near Dublin. ABOVE THE CITY. 251 O'er all its hills with one now dead to me, Ah, hidden be that mournful, lonely tale ! We knew the very soundings of the sea ; The distant look of each old seaman's sail Fast speeding home. Else shall the tempest's wail Howl o'er the little ship. Amid the waves Drear drowning cries, and hands whose strength must fail Ere from the boat is heard the shout that saves. Too late ! Wild sea-mews' scream, the dirge raised o'er their graves So clear-determined is each point around, That can be seen the favourite, chosen rest, Where oft a happy dream to brooklet's sound Has calmed the fever of an aching breast : Where thoughtful hours have been most wholly blest. But midway 'twixt the sharp-defined green One space as tho' some evil spirit prest. A cloudy vapour floating o'er the scene To cloak dark, loathsome deed ; to hide all golden sheen. YVell may it hang in dreary folds of grey ! The city scarcely seen, a spirit-world O'er which wild country winds refuse to play. In smoky foulness all the streets are furled. Their storm — fierce passions ever swiftly hurled From heart to heart, throughout the busy throng. All days rush on in racing eddies curled. Small pause for hope. Scant breathing-time for song. Much trampling of the right. Faint censure of the wrong. Yet there is life, not here in sunny fields. I love the city's lanes time-vorn with age. The meadow-plot a glorious pleasure yields ; But dear to me the soiled and dusty page That shows man's strife — the noble pilgrimage. Deep life be mine, and stirring ! tho' the eyes Be often filled ; the heart with righteous rage Be kindled into flame ; the soul with sighs Bewail the bitter race that gains no earthly prize. 252 IRISH READINGS. Ah me ! my school-days and the faces gone ! Some lying 'neath an Irish daisied sod Who once with me upon this mountain lone In sportive play the heather gaily trod : Their journey o'er. Their resting is with God. I chance on others in the thronging street Nor stay to speak : — cold is our distant nod. But some there are, dear friends to gladly greet And hold for aye, till we may kiss the Master's feet. Beneath that fog good men enough remain To save the city from a judgment just : Good men and true, whose working is not vain, Whose arms not idly hang on walls to rust : Believing they are more than present dust, And that beyond these hours of moan and tears Strong towers are reared, whose stones shall never crust. With Time's sad weeds, nor touch of earthly years. Where boundless is all age, and banished foolish fears. Sin has its throne, its mighty throne of woe : And many are the pilgrims to that shrine Where flaunting tinsel stares, and rivers flow That hide 'neath smiling face the deadly mine. Where Vice, Disease, Plague, Pest, and Want entwine Poor silly souls who hear their solemn knell Unconscious all. The golden-gleaming shine Most plausive calls, a merry-chiming bell, Nor tells the simple sheep the downward path to Hell. Yet not all blame is theirs, nor past reclaim The souls which once were free as those of ours. His be the curse ! His be the utter shame That drew the girlish steps from Virtue's bowers ! And plagued be he thro' all his cursed hours ! Tiny may return, they may repent tho' late. The man is pardoned. O'er the woman lowers An ice-cold glance, her ever-worldly fate, Tho' she may long for God outside the wicket-gate. ABOVE THE CITY, 253 The life-throb beats. Beneath the steaming air Houses sad stories of their own conceal. Alone, mankind their lonely burdens bear, Upon their silent heart is set a seal ; Nor can they speak, tho' speaking were to heal. Friends honest-true, God-given helps to men, Not e'en to these can lips tell all they feel ; Some thoughts too hidden-deep for tongue or pen, Life-longings unexpressed, almost beyond our ken. Such are the dreamings viewing from afar The place where all most dear, most tender stays. Work points an onward path — a shining star To lead the soldier over stony ways : To cheer the striver thro' the coming days. Work — for the good of friends, of self, of kind, To quench some fears ; a line to thread the maze Of mists that rise, of parching dusts that blind, Of dreary devil doubts that well-nigh sap the mind. Homeward I turn below the darkening wood, And in the West I see a shaded space Where lowly lies the one so wholly good, Who, when I came, then left her earthly place. Nor mine remembrance of that gentle face Whose reflex now my glory is to wear. Too swift she gained the crowning of her race. Ever thy guardian spirit in the air Around my soul be near, until I see thee there ! John A. Jennings. [From " Wayside Restin-s."] MY GRAVE. Shall they bury me in the deep, Where wind-forgetting waters sleep? Shall they dig a grave for me, Under the green-wood tree? Or on the wild heath, Where the wilder breath Of the storm doth blow ? Oh, no ! oh, no ! Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs, Or under the shade of Cathedral domes? Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore ; Yet not there — nor in Greece, though I love it more. In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find? Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind? Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound, Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground? Just as they fall they are buried so — Oh, no ! oh, no ! Xo ! on an Irish green hill-side, On an opening lawn — but not too wide; For I love the drip of the wetted trees — I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze, To freshen the turf — put no tombstone there, But green sods decked with daisies fair ; Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew The matted grass-roots may trickle through, Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind, •Hi: SERVED his country, and loved his kind." Oh ! 'twere merry unto the grave to go, If one were sure to be buried so. Thomas Davis. [By kind permission of Messrs. James Duffy and Sons.] INDEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. Anonymous: — Darby Dovle's Voyage to Quebec, . Willy Reiily, The Irish Schoolmaster, Paddy Flynn, .... Banim, John: — The Fetch, ..... The Stolen Sheep, .... Barham, R. H. : — Mr. Barney Maguire's Account of the Coronation, Campbell, T. : — The Exile of Erin, .... Car let on, William : — The Country Dancing-Master, The Hedge Schoolmaster, The Hedge Schoolmaster and his English Visitor, Phil Purcel, the Pig-driver, . The Letter-writer, .... Croker, T. Crofton: — Daniel O'Rourke, The Legend of Bottle Hill, . Dreaming Tim Jarvis, The Lord of Dunkerron, The Three Advices, . Dav'is, Thomas: — Lament of the Death of Eoghan Ruadh O'Nei The Sack of Baltimore, My Grave, ..... Dufferin, Lady : — Lament of the Irish Emigrant, Ferguson, Sir S. : — Willy Gilliland, The Burial of Kint* Cormac, The Forging of the Anchor, The Pretty Girl of Loch Dan, The Fairy Thorn, . Graves, Alfred P. : — The Black '46, Two Irish Idylls, . Page 20 47 80 212 195 229 51 149 32 112 151 196 242 96 123 154 175 243 31 84 254 102 76 87 108 159 224 26 49 256 INDEX. Graves, Alfred P. : — The Wreck of the Aideen, . The Light in the Snow, O'Farrell the Fiddler, Griffin, Gerald: — The Bridal of Malahide, Orange and Green, . Hood, Thomas: — The Furlough, Jennings, John A. : — Above the City, Le Fanrt, J. S. : — Phadrig Crohoore, . The Quare Gander, . Lever, Charles: — Steward Moore, Frank Webber's Wager, A Pleasant Journey, My Father as Sentry, The Cockney in Ireland, Lover, Samuel: — The Gridiron : Paddy Mullowney's King O'Toole and St. Kevin, The Present to the Priest, . Paddy the Piper, The Little Weaver of Duleek Gate, O'Dempsey and the Duke, . Earny O'lleirdon, the Navigator, Mahony, Francis : — The Bells of Shandon, Milliken : — The Groves of Blarney, Miinsler, Mrs.: — Glenariff, Co. Antrim, " Farewell ! " Plunket, Most Rev. Lord: — A Patriot's Rebuke, . " Robin " .-_ Paddy M'Quillan's Courtships, Scott, Sir W. :— The Search after Happiness, Sullivan, T. D. :— Death of King Conor MacNessa, Story, Page 86 119 226 16 104 222 249 45 163 27 135 170 207 239 11 39 58 121 141 161 178 . 38 . 110 . 79 . 211 9 . 66 . 90 . 54 New and Revised Edition. Price Three Shillings and Sixpence. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST, DEDICATED BY SPECIAL PERMISSION TO im\ m ran* ihq Sunless of :fl[arlborour)h COMPILED AND EDITED JOHN A. JENNINGS, M.A., TTUNITV COLLEGE, DUBLIN. DUBLIN: CARSON BROTHERS, 7, GRAFTON STREET. LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. HAMILTON, ADAMS, & CO. A Selection of Press Opinions icill be found in the following pages. NOTE. Two additional features may be noticed in this New and Rei-ised Edition — the extracts selected from various prose worki having proved to acceptable, Condensations axd Adaptations arc now introduced; also a selection of New Poems, together with Notes on such passage* as seemed to require elucidation. This work has been already adopted in the following, amongBt other, Educational Establishments in Dublin : — Rathmines School. The Church of Ireland Young Men's Christian Association. Alexandra College. Rutland School. Queen's Institute. Mrs. Beatty's Ladies' School. Wesley College. Adelaide Hall School, Merrion. Incorporated Society's Train- ing, Scientific, and Commer- cial Institution, Santry. And in the — High School, Queen's College, Birmingham. Methodist College, Belfast. Academical Institution, Cole- raine. Farra College, Co. Westmeath. Many schools throughout England and Scotland also use it as a text-book. Very commendatory letters have been received from numerous Fellows and Professors in the University of Dublin, and from the Principals of Schools. Subjoined is a specimen : — "March, 10th, 1879. " I regard the publication of Mr. Jennings' Modern Elocutionist with extreme satisfaction. Such a work was much needed, as the former selections were worn threadbare by constant repetition. Here all is new ground. The choice made is such as might be expected when the editor's long scholastic experience was brought to bear on the subject. The introductory remarks are admirably clear, sound, and practical. Simplicity is aimed at, and help- fulness is the result. I can cordially commend the volume as an eminently desirable one for use in schools — the best proof of my approval being, that 1 have adopted it here. " Maxwf.t r. M'Intosh, LL.D., " Head Master, Wesley College, Dublin." A SELECTION FROM THIS OPINIONS OF THE PRESS, LONDON. " The author, who is a member cf Trinity College, Dublin, has here revived, with no little success, a kind of work which used to be very popular. It appears as if the interest now taken in the drama is gradually leading to an improvement in the art of elocution, and certainly not before it was needed. There is another feature connected with this movement which cannot be overlooked, and of this Mr. Jennings has availed himself with great taste and judgment. We allude to the many new forms of literature which have been brought forward of late years. The old high sounding, mouthy school of piece which used to be popular with our forefathers has given place to a class of literature requiring greater variety on the part of the speaker, and Mr. Jennings, perceiving this, has given the reciter a choice of some of the finest modern pieces, including several excellent specimens of American authors. A poem of extraordinary fascination, which will be new to most readers, is entitled 'The Children,' and was said to be found in Charles Dickens' desk after his death. The collection does the editor credit, and the book will be found very useful to the student of elocution."— The Era. " Lovers of readings and recitations, whether for purposes of education or of entertainment, will find in The Modern Elocutionist, by John A. Jennings (Carson Brothers, Dublin), a volume much to be commended for good arrangement, and still more for a copious selection of comparatively unhackneyed pieces, humorous or pathetic, from the most popular moderc writers of England and America." — The Graphic. " Mr. John A. Jennings' Modern Elocutionist will be welcomed by all who give so-called ' readings,' or who teach elocution, or who desire to possess a book containing some of the less-known and hackneyed quotations, but also some of he most interesting, from our best authors. It is on admiiable compilation."— The Hornet. A SELECTION FROM THE OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. " The Modern Elocutionist, compiled and edited by Mr. J. A. Jennings, of Trinity College, Dublin, claims to 'differ from other collections in its freshness of selection." This description is fairly borne out by its contents, which comprise pieces from English and American authors, well chosen and adapted for tie purpose of the book."— The Daily Kews. " The Modern Elocutionist, compiled and edited by John A. Jennings, of Trinity College, Dublin, seems more carefully and judiciously selected than is usually the case with books of ' Readings.' All who have had to do with elocutionary entertainments know the difficulties of controlling the pro- gramme, and of keeping back what offends good taste, if not morality or religion. The Introduction contains some good remarks on reading in public." — The Record. "The Modern Elocutionist.— This is one of the best selections of pieces for reading and recitation we have seen. The compiler evidently knows what is suited for platform delivery and what is m t, and he has chosen just those which are sure to go well with almost any audience. Another merit of the work is that the selections are, as a whole, much less worn and familiar than usual. Anyone who is in the habit of taking part in penny readings and similar entertainments will find this volume very useful"— We Rock. DUBLIN. "This volume will be recognised with pleasure as the work of a gentleman who has won a high reputation as an elocutionist and reader. It was gene- rally felt that, for the purpose of cultivating a taste for correct and expressive reading — a branch of education too long neglected— it was desirable that a new set of examples, taken out of the beaten track, should be collected. Mr. Jennings has made a perfectly fresh and attractive selection, embracing a great variety of subjects in poetry and prose, extracted from a host of authors, and illustrating every phase of passion and humour. They have been chosen, with scholarly taste and discrimination, chiefly from modern authors, but also from the old standard works. The volume is brought out in the best style."— The Daily Express. A SELECTION FROM THE OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "For the first time Mr. Jennings, the well-known Dublin reader, comes be- fore us for notice as a compiler. His work has j ust left the press, and appears under the above title in a well-bound, sensible volume, light for the hand and pleasant to the eye. Its contents are characterised by a novelty as agreeable as it is rare in such compilations, and the judgment proved by the selection made is undoubtedly the result of sympathy. To enter into an enumeration of the extracts and complete pieces is not our intention. For the present purpose it will be sufficient to note that they are remarkable for both earnest beauty and genuine worth. The names of the first literary stars in the United Kingdom are many in the list of authors, and amongst them, shining with no borrowed light, but with an effulgence self-created, we find the best of our own city poets. The humorous division is highly nineteenth century, and strongly American, and the serious selections are tinged with advanced philosophy and modern German realism. In conclusion, taken from the school-literature point of view, or looked at as a culling of beautiful poems made by a loving hand, we regard The Modern Elocutionist secure of success, and, in wishing it what it deserves, we recommend it in good faith to our readers." — The Freeman's Journal. "The well-won reputation of Mr. Jennings as a ' Reader' has qualified him in an eminent degree for the production of the volume before us. Tho selections are such as commend the book to the attention of teachers as well as that of the general reader. Although freshness and novelty are found tho distinguishing character of the contents, gems of English classic literature from Shakspere, Goldsmith, Macaulay, Dickens, Jerrold, Lamb, Sheridan, Rogers, r, - 177 Marco Bozzuris, - - - J. F. Ilulleck, 180 The Leper, - - - Willi*, - 182 Grandmother's Story, - - - 0. W. Holme.-', 186 The Changeling, - - Lowell, - 192 Punch, Brothers, Punch, - - Murk Twain, 194 In Schooldays, - - J. G. Whittier, 199 The Legend Beautiful, - - - Longfellow, - 200 Mrs. Mayton Interviewed, - - John Habherton, 203 The Black Regiment, - - - George H. Boker, - 206 Parhassius, - - - - - N. P. Willis, 206 My Editing, - - Mark Twain, 211 Sorrow for the Dead, - - Washington Irving, - 215 An Old Man's Idyl, - - Richard Realf, 217 Absalom, - - - N. P. Willis, 219 The Western Emigrant, - - Lydia II. Sigourney, 221 Concerning Chambermaids ''i - - Mark Twain, 223 The Old Sergeant, - - B. F. Willson, 225 Little Bessie, - - Anson D. F. Randolph 228 The Danger of Lying in Bed - Mark Twain, 230 On the Landing, - - - Bret Harte, - 233 Mr. Flutter goes to a Tea- party, - Anonymous, - 235 The First Dog, - - - James M. Bailey, - 239 Death-doomed, - - Will Carleton, 242 Judge Twiddler's Cow, - - Max Adeler, - 244 Avery, - - - W. D. Howells, 247 The Doorstep, - - Edmund C. Stedman, 249 Across the River, - - - Lucy Larcom, 250 A Turkish Legend, — " T. B. Aldrich 252 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. " . . . . Amateur elocutionists will be anxious to know of suitable collections of readings and recitations for parochial and other entertainments. With this view wo can cordially recommend a volume of ' Readingsjiom American Authors,' compiled by the Rev. J. A. Jennings, and recently published by Messrs. Carson Brothers, Dublin. The collection includes both humorous and pathetic readings, which have been chosen with much care. With one or two exceptions, they will be fresh to English audiences — a feature which at once commends the took. Where necessary they have been condensed or adapted, so as not to prove wearis ime."— ii< " Mr. Jennings is so well known as an accomplished elocutionist and the editor of an admirable selection of literary extracts for educational reading that we need say but little to recommend this little work. It is in many respects a worthy sequel to his Readings, and will, we have no doubt, receive, as it deserves, a hearty welcome. He explains in his preface that the great difficulty he experienced was in culling judi- ciously from the widely diversified field of American literature. Many considerations have to be given their due weight in fulfilling such a task, but, although he modestly claims indulgence, we do not think he need apprehend any unfriendly criticism. This little volume bears internal evidence of the great care and thought bestowed upon its preparation. He aims at the illustration of two salient qualities which especially dis- tinguish American literature— namely, pathos and humour. As in the case of our own national literature in days when it possessed a high intellectual character, and was passionate and enthusiastic without being fierce and extravagant, these qualities are often intertwined with those of a more serious nature which reflects at least in pass- ing glimpses a greater depth of feeling, if not of philosophic thought. It would be futile to attempt within the compass of a tiny volume to give examples of a graver class. He has contrived to select nearly 100 specimens of poetry and prose which are highly instructive and entertaining. They will serve to excite an interest in the literature of the New "World, to remove prejudice, and to show that although the intellectual soil of America may want the depth of its magnificent prairies, it is not wanting in fertility, and is capable of yielding many valuable and beautiful products. The ' Readings ' are brought out in very creditable style, and an index is prefixed which will be found a useful guide in the selection of subjects." — Freeman. ■ o^— >M— »*- READINGS FROM THE WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS, IRISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS. Three Vols., strongly hound in One Vol., 3s. 6d. Gaze's Circular Tours in Ireland. GRAND BRITISH TOUR, No. 2. Dublin (North Wall) to Edinburgh by above route, rail to Stirling, Bridge of Allan, Dunblane, Perth, Dunkeld, Pitlochry, Blair Athole, Inverness, thence by steamer on Caledonian Canal, calling at Falls of Foyers, Fort Augustus, Banavie, Fort William, Ballachulish (for Glencoe), Oban, Crinan Canal, Kyles of Bute tr Greenock, thence by steamer to Dublin. First Class Throughout, . . . . . £7 10b. Od Second Class and Saloon of Steamer, . . . £6 7e. 6d. Third Class as far as Edinburgh, Second beyond and Saloon of Steamer, Glasgow to Dublin, . £5 Is. 9d. GRAND BRITISH TOUR (INCLUDING THE NORTH OF IRELAND), No. 3. Dublin (North Wall) to Edinburgh by above route, Stirling, Bridge of Allan, Dun- blane. Callander, coach through the Trossachs, steamer on Loch Katrine, coach to Inversnaid, steamer on Loch Lomond to Balloch, rail to Glasgow, Greenock, mail steamer to Belfast, rail to Lame, thence by car along the coast road via Glenarm, Carnlough, Garren Point, Cushendall, Ballycastle, Carrick-a-Rede, Giant's Causeway. Dunluce Castle to Portrush, by rail to Belfast, then by rail to Newcastle (County Down). By car the tourist passes along the Mourne Shore, through a singularly wild-featured and sublime landscape, on the left the broad expanse of the Irish Sea. on the right a grand Alpine region of mountains overhanging the road to Carlingford Lough, Rostrevor, and Warrenpoint. rail to Dublin. First Class Throughout, . . . . £7 14s. 6d. Second Class and Saloon of Steamer, . . £6 9s. Od. Third Class to Edinburgh and Second and Saloon of Steamer, Greenock to Belfast, . . . £5 Is. Od. The following round of travel has been specially prepared for our American clients, commencing from Dublin and terminating in London (tickets for all parts of the Continent of Em-ope can also be supplied by our Dublin office in continuation of the tour) : Dublin, rail to Dundalk. Belfast, Portrush, Giant's Causeway, back to Belfast, then by Burns Mail Steamer to Greenock, rail to Glasgow. Balloch. steamer on Loch Lomond to Inversnaid, coach to Stronachlacher, steamer on Loch Katrine, coach through the Trossachs to Callander, rail to Dunblane, Bridge of Allan, Stirling, Edin- burgh, Carstairs (for Lanai k and Falls of the Clyde), Lockerbie (for Dumfries), Carlisle, Penrith (for Keswick and the Lake District), Lancaster, Preston, Wigan, Crewe, Stafford, Birmingham, Kenilworth. Leamington (for Stratford-on-Avon). Rugby, Bletchley (for Oxford or Cambridge) to London. First Class Throughout . . . . . £6 19s. Od. Second Class and Saloon of Steamer, . . . £5 12s. 3d. Second Class Saloon of Steamer on Outward Journey, and Third Class Edinburgh to London, . £4 18s. 9d. Gaze's Tourist Office : Carson Brothers, 7 Grafton-street, Dublin. All Letters of Inquiry must he accompanied by a Stamped Envelope. Jiuzes {yircular loui\_ CONNEMARA AND THE WEST OP IRELAND. Dublin to Galway, Westport, Ballina, or Sligo; or to Sligo, Ballina, or Westport and back from Galway:— One Passenger, First Class, 45s. Second Class, 39s. 6d. Two Passengers. ., 84s ,, 73s. 6d. Three , * 121s- » K* 68 - Four m - * 54s - »» 136s - Including Car Fare— Galway, Clifden, and Westport— one journey. A Public Car leaves Galway at 9 30 a.m. for Clifden via Oughterard and Glendalough. Tourists can visit in easy stages, by Hired Cars, the various points of interest in Connemara, Lough Inagh, Roundstone, Clifden. Letterfrack, Kylemore, Sal Ruck, Delphi, Ac. ; and, having made the circuit of the Twelve Pins Mountains, proceed from Leenane to Westport (for Clew Bay and the Isle of Achill). CONNEMARA, KILLARNEY, CORK, AND THE SOUTH OP IRELAND. Dublin to Sligo, Ballina, Westport, or Galway ; and from Galway, via Athenry, to Limerick; thence via Limerick Junction, or via Patrick's Well and Charleville Junction, or via Newcastle and Tralee to KiUarney, and returning to Killarney direct to Kingsbridge Station, Dublin, or vice versa. For One Passenger, First Class, 63s. Second Class, 42s. „ Two Passengers, „ 113s. 6d. „ 75s. 6. >>clQ$ANGEl£j> »*3* J I ^ojnvDio^ VJ ^OFCAUFO% ^ ^Aavaan-^ ^ ^UMW-SOl^ 4*\EUM% IWaiH^ ^ftllDNVSOV^ ^%T30NVSO# %a3AINfl-2¥^ %MnVDJO^ ^•UN!VER% ^10$-Ml£f£ ^OF-CAUFO^ ^ ^•IIBRARY^ ^l-UBRARYOc. ^EUNIVERS/a §1 \c& £i \r% §\^r^ ^AHvaan-^ r\ Q IE a 5 II 006 177 210 9 5 ^\IEUNIVER% ^lOSANCH^ ^QFCA11F0% ^OF-CAl MM